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“And I say to our country, our great country, don't be afraid! Don't be afraid of those who tell us that we cannot run our affairs; that we have not got the ingenuity to mobilise our resources and overcome our economic problems.

Of course we have! We can do that and save the freedom of our country at the same time"​



One
1977


The Admiral waited patiently in the ante-room. He'd sat in this same room many years before. In fact it, and the whole suite, had almost been his at one time. Back when Butler had offered him Defence, in '55. They called the building Admiralty Arch back then, and the walls had been covered in oils of various capital ships and long dead officers. Not any more though. Now you couldn't even see the walls. They were obscured from floor to ceiling by laden bookshelves, each filled by a multitude of dense tomes. Now the place was more like a University library, or some bookish scholar's covetous fantasy. The Admiral squinted to make out the names on the spines opposite. Swift. Hazlett, Bevan…

Twenty years nearly! Twenty years since he'd last been in London. In hindsight it was really rather fortunate that he'd turned down Rab's offer. A "poisoned chalice" his nephew Phillip had called it, perhaps accurately. If he had taken the position, well, he probably wouldn't have been here today. Why was he here today?

An aide interrupted this internal train of thought. "His Highness will see you now."

The Admiral rose, all too aware that he neither knew or much liked anything about the formalities he was apparently now expected to follow. Certainly he'd met Lady Elizabeth in Ottawa - the legitimist's choice, though she sailed rather close to the wind as a "moderniser". By virtue of his pedigree he'd also moved in those circles before the revolution; even while his family had never quite shaken off the taint of Germany, the establishment still held them close. As such he remembered also the old court of King Edward. How many of the old trappings had the new regime appropriated?

Panelled wooden doors opened inwards. Attendants dressed in the formalwear of civil servants bowed in deference. A once-denounced "collaborator" could probably have expected a cooler welcome. He approached the desk. Behind it sat the Lord Protector, casually reclining in an office chair; his head topped by an unruly shock of receding white hair, round-framed spectacles perched upon his nose - itself in turn buried in a hardback book. In one hand a half-forgotten cigarette slowly burned away. From the corner of the office Test Match cricket played on an old black and white portable. The Lord Protector scarcely seemed to notice the Admiral's approach.

"Excellency..?" the Admiral began uncertainly.

The Lord Protector's head tilted backwards, his eyes slowly fixing on his visitor, as if only now aware of his presence. He nodded, before turning back to his book and carefully marking his place. He set the book down, without haste, before turning at last to the Admiral.

"Louis - good of you to make it. Please, do sit down. What brings you here?"
The Admiral lowered himself slowly, before replying in a neutral tone "You summoned me."

"Well you can put it like that, yes...” the Lord Protector conceded dryly, “But I'd rather like to think that I invited you."

"Yes Lord Protector."

The Lord Protector flapped his palms dismissively. "Please, please… 'Michael' will do. I've really never much cared for formality, as I'm sure you know - you do get the newsreels in Ottawa don't you? Can I call you 'Louis'?"

The Admiral strained to fight back growing indignation. "Lord Mountbatten would be more appropriate" he declared, eyes fixed firmly ahead.

"Well, yes, if you prefer - I myself can't say that I care much for the hereditary privileges - and we've done much to eradicate them here as I hope you'll learn - but I won't begrudge you a family name. Even one from Bavaria."

The Admiral bristled. "Why did you bring me here? Was it just to make cheap jokes at my expense?"

The Lord Protector ignored the accusation. "To serve your country” he replied levelly.

"I left this country in 1958."

"Yes. And now you've come home."

“Is that how you see it?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Mountbatten sat in silent consideration. His eyes locked with those of the Lord Protector. They looked genuine, open, and even reasonable. But the Lord Protector was always a genial man - that was the profile that always came through, over and above all the propaganda that flew back and forth between London and the Exiles. He was the devil incarnate yes, but he was very polite. It was almost farcical.

"Do you trust me?" he asked eventually.

"Why shouldn't I?" The Lord Protector looked shocked, even hurt, though perhaps this was entirely affected.

"Lord Protector,” Mountbatten began, adopting the vocal tone used for outlining information clearly already known to both parties, but which apparently nonetheless requires restating, “I sailed on the HMS Renown with King Edward in 1920. I followed him on the Repulse to Japan in 1921. We were friends before you had even first picked up a pen."

"Yes,” the Lord Protector continued in a similar tone, “and you backed him and the National Government to the hilt in the 1930s and 1940s, so I could perhaps be expected to bear a grudge."

"Indeed."

The Lord Protector shifted to a more conciliatory tone. "Louis, you were not one of the ‘Guilty Men’ - that should always have been obvious. When they were cosying up to Hitler and praising the New World Order, you instead went east and fought fascism in Asia. That alone should vindicate you!"

"And do your juniors see it like that?" Mountbatten countered, “I thought that the latest thinking on the campuses and in the workers’ councils was that we were fighting for the perpetuation of Imperial rule and the colonialist system?”

“I would suggest that Ottawa has convinced itself of a somewhat simplistic image of our intellectuals – we don’t mourn the Empire Mountbatten – but we recognise that what it fought against was often even worse. And the people of the Commonwealth will come around to you. Why shouldn't they? You weren't an appeaser, or a dilettante Prince. And as for your self-imposed exile – well it was England's loss."

There was a pause, as the Admiral began to relax, albeit by the smallest of increments. This relaxation remained tempered by the apprehension of what was yet to come.

"Louis" the Lord Protector continued, "I'd like you to join my Government."

A long silence followed, broken only by the overexcited commentary of Alan Gibson.

While the Lord Protector's expression remained one of sincere openness, the Admiral struggled to collect his thoughts. At last he spoke.

"With respect Lord Protector, your frankly bizarre archaic title aside you are the left-wing head of a revolutionary regime, a regime viewed by the exiles as an isolationist dictatorship. I am an aristocratic naval officer of Greco-German royal stock. I cannot say that our goals are entirely aligned."

The Lord Protector leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and tilting his head towards the ceiling. He sighed in disappointment.

"I was rather worried you'd say that."


A few seconds of silence passed. Mountbatten made to rise from his seat, the meeting apparently at an end, but before he could the Lord Protector was leaning forward across his desk, reaching for his telephone. He dialled a short internal number and after a pause, spoke into the receiver: "I appear to be having some difficulty in convincing our guest... Yes... I think it would be best if you did..." The receiver was returned to its holder. "You don't mind waiting a while do you Louis?"

That "while" amounted to the matter of a few minutes, after which the big panelled doors were once again flung open. The figure who strode purposefully towards them was, while similar in age to the Lord Protector, of an entirely different bearing and style. He wore an immaculate suit, complete with striped tie and pocket square. His hair, though thinning, was black and neatly combed and Brylcreemed. While the Lord Protector's eyes were soft and welcoming, those of his Deputy possessed a harsh intensity. Soon they were fixed resolutely upon the figure of the Admiral.

"Good afternoon Sir." Strangely strangled vowels again contrasting with the Lord Protector’s Devonian burr, as did the greeting which carried its own familiarity, yet one distinct from the uninvited use of Christian names.

The Admiral's reply was one of genuine confusion "Have we met?"

"Burma. 1943."

An old solider, Mountbatten considered approvingly "Oh. I'm terribly sorry, I don't recall your name."

"Brigadier Powell, Military Intelligence."

"Ah yes, I remember now - you were the fellow who read Classics before the Pacific War. Held tenure in… Sydney, was it?”

"That is correct, Sir"

The Admiral smiled "And they say that there is no room for military men in the New Commonwealth!"

"That is not so, Sir" The Deputy's reply was curt, accompanied by the flaring of nostrils. It was apparent that now was not the time for levity. "True Britons will always fight for this country. Now more than ever we must be mindful of her defence. We lie between the twin pincer of America and Europe - only in Asia do we find allies. We need you, Sir. Britain needs you."

"As what?" the Admiral scoffed, "a figurehead? An old man to grant legitimacy to a crumbling dictatorship? I won't grant credence to a plot so transparent."

"We want you in the Cabinet" the Lord Protector interjected.

"Where in Cabinet? Ireland? Industry? Economic Planning? Which role have your own acolytes now given up as being too difficult?"

"Defence."

The Admiral rose from his seat, adopting the upright stance unmistakeably conditioned by seven decades of military habit. "Your Highness" - he stated the title with none of the deference the words implied - "I can only assume that you have drawn me here all the way from Singapore for the purpose of mockery - to destroy my reputation-"

He was interrupted again by the flapping hand of the Lord Protector "Louis! Louis! Listen to us! We're asking you to serve this country - your country! And we mean it with all sincerity."

Powell nodded in agreement. “You cannot turn down the appeal of your country, Sir.”

The Admiral looked from Lord Protector to Deputy and back. The former he could - just - be minded to trust. The latter, well, there was something cold about him. But damn them both, they truly appeared sincere. Just what desperation had driven them to this? At last he spoke again.

"I'm not going to say yes - yet."

The Lord Protector smiled encouragingly

Mountbatten continued "Just brief me on the situation. You would be prepared to do that, wouldn't you? For a prospective Defence Secretary?"

The Deputy cleared his throat, before embarking on a geo-political overview.

"Europe and the Reich hate us. Russia is our friend but their position is as ever hopeless. America does not trust us - the Boy Prince Edward and the rest of the exiles stir up too much trouble there. Canada is long lost to us as an ally. Ireland is a mess, but co-operation is at last bearing fruit. Our one strong and true ally is in Delhi."

"Do you have no friends in Europe?” Mountbatten countered, “I thought that Madrid was warm to the anti-fascist cause."

"Warm sentiments don't count for much against a continent of razor wire and pillboxes."

That, Mountbatten acknowledged, was true.

“So where are you, after two decades of isolation?”

“Better isolation than appeasement” the Lord Protector piped up.

“Yes, but what cost your isolation? Even in exile we hear of the social upheavals – the labour shortages, the high inflation, the technological backwardness, the collapse in standards. Global opinion holds that the Commonwealth is a nation in decline.”

“When you consider what we inherited, I think we have achieved quite a prosperous and consensual society.” The Lord Protector began.

Powell nodded in agreement, before continuing. “We have none of the permissiveness and racial trouble which imperils the United States, and we still protect those essential liberties of Englishmen. We keep them safe from the dangers of the world.”

“But”, Mountbatten interrupted, picking up a theme, “you must feel some renewed threat from Germany, or from the United States? From the Exiles? Why else would you be seeking to recruit me?”

Lord Protector and Deputy looked to each other in silent consultation. Then, the former pulled open a desk drawer. From inside he retrieved a ribbon-bound heavy folder. It was dark pink in colour, almost… lilac? He passed it across the table. “Here, you had better take a look at this.”

Mountbatten reached across and took the folder. Returning to his seat he began to examine the contents. Ten minutes passed. He flicked through page after page, skim reading as necessary, inspecting plans and deciphering hand-scrawled annotations. The other two men waited patiently. It was all so confusing – orbital weapons platforms, infiltration by the agents of other nations, incursions by nuclear submarines, spy satellites. For the man who’d earned his greatest glory when aircraft carriers were still cutting edge technology, it was a lot to digest. What was clear though, was imminent national peril.

But, after all these years, was it still his nation?

Admiral Louis Mountbatten looked from Lord Protector to Deputy, from over-promoted propagandist to asocial classicist. Both men looked back at him, expectantly… hopefully… desperately…

How? He wondered. How had it come to this?”
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