User Tools

Site Tools


stories:dancing_the_shadows

This is an old revision of the document!


Dancing the Shadows

A story series started by Grey Wolf in the days of the Old Board. This page displays an archived version of the series, due to the Old Board undergoing a gradual shutdown.

All of the text below the following line is copyright of Grey Wolf.


Dancing the Shadows - Introduction

1900, Berlin

The Kaiser was dying. Sombre courtiers padded softly around the palace. Government ministers came by more frequenly than at any time since the Syrian Crisis. A myriad of princes and princesses came to pay their final visits to the great man.

At nine o'clock that evening he received his final visitors, the Kronprinz, his son and heir, the Imperial Chancellor and the Archbishop of Berlin. By ten o'clock he was dead.

The bells tolled across the city. Halting in their evening ablutions, Berliners praised the memory of the great man, and wondered just what the morrow would hold.

In the old man's bedroom, Frederick looked one last time at the body of his father. He heaved his shoulders, “Emperor Frederick III” he tried it for size. It did not not seem to fit. Maybe he would grow into it. He rather doubted it…

1905, Moscow

Grand Duke Nikolai looked down at the twitching body of his elder brother, “What….what is happening ?” he whispered, hoarsely. The Tsesarevitch stirred his father's body with his boot, “He is dying.” he said simply. “Alexi !” his uncle used the familiar form, “That is no way to speak of the emperor.” Aleksandr Aleksandrovich met his eyes, cold steel seeming to lance from out of the blackness oif his pupils, “It is the truth, uncle.” “And you will soon be Tsar…” The two turned towards the door. The woman standing there was young, barely out of her teens. “Yes Theodora, I shall soon be Tsar.” The woman tossed her mane of dark brown hair. “That is good, brother; it is very good indeed.” Nikolai turned away from his niece, venom on his tongue. He bit down. It was true… Soon, too soon, Aleksandr IV would be dead… It would do him well to start minding what he said. He said nothing. Brother and sister exchanged a glance. Theodora sneered behind her uncle's back, “I will be back when I hear the bells.” she said. The Tsesarevitch turned back to the barely living body of his father, “Fetch a priest.” he intoned.

1910, Berlin

“I am glad that that is over”, Karl II heaved his bulk into an armchair and lit his pipe from the match a servant proferred. Across the expanse of deep red carpet, the Russian emperor nodded as if in sympathy, “Burying one's father is very hard.” he said softly. “Yes”, Karl looked up at the younger man, his face warm and open, “Sit, sit” he indicated the chair across from him, “Let us talk as fellow rulers.” “Indeed” Aleksandr V took his seat, “Thank you, your majesty.” “Nothing, it is nothing” Karl waved airily in front of him. “Indeed”, the young Tsar said again. Karl paused, frowned, then shrugged. No doubt it was a linguistic slip. After all, German was not even the second language of the young Russian. “I see a great future for our nations” the German emperor rumbled, “Do you not agree ?” “The future…” Aleksandr smiled as if at some private joke, “Yes, the future should indeed be interesting.”

1915, Barcelona

The British ambassador stared dumbfounded for a moment, then found his tongue, “I am sure that I speak for all my countrymen in offering you our sincere condolences.” he stammered, “There will be great shock at this news.” “Yes, I am sure” The young Spaniard turned his back on the British aristocrat and gazed out through the window across the vast lawns of the palace, “The Prince of the Asturias… No !” he snapped at himself, angry at the slip, “The King will be here tonight. He comes directly from Madrid.” “Has the…I mean, did the police…?” “No” Prince Jaime knew what was being asked, “Our mother's assassin escaped into the crowd.” He turned back towards the ambassador, “But be sure he will be found. And when he is…” “Yes” When he is… Lord Cecil knew exactly what the apprehension of Queen Mercedes II's assassin would mean for Europe…

1920, Alexandria

“No, it shall not be !” Mustafa Ali threw the ultimatum down upon the floor. Another cannonade shook the royal palace, throwing more dust into the air. “Where is Orkhan Pasha ?!” he rose furious to his feet, “The empire promises aid and yet…and yet the British Navy sails into our harbours !” “He is dead.” For a moment the Egyptian Sultan turned his wrath-filled face upon the voice from the darkened doorway. Then he nodded; the Grand Mufti could address him as he saw fit. “Fetch my horse” he whispered to an aide. “Yes, your majesty” “You mean to fight, cousin ?” The speaker this time was his kinsman, Abdullah. “I mean to fight” he snapped, then waved a hand in the air, “Look about you - use your eyes !” “We should not have come to El Iskandryia” the other said. “Hmph.” Mustafa Ali turned his back on him. He would wait for his horse and then… And then it was in the hands of Allah. As ever, but perhaps this time more than ever.

1925, Berlin

“I have not forgiven you for the death of my father.” On the surface, to outside eyes the two men walked in step, in harmony. Born in the same year and allies by a long-standing agreement, Wilhelm I and Aleksandr V seemed like any two royal cousins would be as they walked into the palace from the courtyard. “You had better forgive his stupidity”, the Russian retorted, “My army was not bound to relieve Prague. He had been better never to have gone there at all.” “The final assault on Vienna need not have been delayed.”, Wilhelm spoke with all the pent-up anger of the last few years, “You could have spared Prokofiev's army if you had so wished.” “There is little point to this line of talk.” the Tsar stared into the eyes of the other. Wilhelm shuddered and looked away. It was true what they said about Aleksandr. “There are more immediate matters to talk of”, the Russian continued, “Your daughter first and foremost.” The German Emperor shivered to his boots. To imagine his beautiful Louisa married to a brute like this… But there was no avoiding it now.

1930, London

One year since… Just one year had passed but it already felt like an eternity. William V had waited so long to be king that by the time his father finally passed away he had grown old - and tired. The past year had been one of toil, relentless and never ending. “Cheer up father.” It was Prince Richard, his youngest, who spoke, “Christmas should be a time for joy. Grandpapa had had a good life and a long one. He would not want us still to be moping twelve months on.” “The sprat is right.”, Princess Sophie never missed an opportunity to tile the only one of her six siblings who was younger than she was, “Let us celebrate grandpapa's memory not mourn it.” Tenderly, King William looked from his youngest daughter to his wife, and felt his blood run cold. There was something distinctly odd about Maria these days. She was staring intently at their daughter, her eyes almost bulging as if in an attempt to bore into her skull. “Um, yes” William coughed and looked away, “We should, ah, celebrate indeed.” He staggered to his weary feet and padded across to the great bay window, “And here is Ernie !” He thought he had heard hooves, even through the snow that blanketed the courtyard outside. “Oh God” Sophie hung her head, “I do hope we do not have to suffer more of his tiresome tales of Paris.” The king frowned and looked to his wife. Marie was usually ever ready to scold their daughter for blasphemy. Instead he found her staring intently into the light of a candle. “Hmm…” he said, “Er, my dear, have some understanding of what happens when a man falls in love.” Sophie only stared at him. How crazy the older generation could be. She knew love. She just did not wish to hear about the Prince of Wales' tiresome bride to be ! As the king moved towards the door to greet his eldest son, Sophie met her mother's eyes and girnned a triumphal grin. Queen Marie looked down at the floor, her shoulders visibly shaking in an effort to control herself. “I think we shall have some fun this Christmas.” the young girl said. “Oh yes !” Prince Richard beamed in his innocence, “Let's do, what !”

1935, Alexandria

The Asar-i Tewfik sailed magnificently upon the azure sea, her six turrets trained fore and aft, a spotter kite flying in the air above, tethered to the mainmast. “The Sultan names a ship for himself ?”, Prince Richard of Great Britain, recently created Duke of Albany, asked his brother. Ernest II laughed, that good-natured throaty sound that always won his listeners over. “I am told the ship's name can be translated as 'God's Favour'. Whether that means our host is Favourable Ali, I do not know.” Prince Richard laughed at the joke.

A short way away upon the viewing platform, Tsar Aleksandr V frowned at the levity of the British. Egypt had suffered mightily at their hands in the 1915-1921 war. Indeed, the completion of this first Egyptian battleship of the modern era marked a turning point in her reconstruction. Tewfik Ali was at last able to say that his nation could stand proud where it once had stood. As Egypt remained an ally of the Russian Empire that was important to Aleksandr. The attitude of the British was unacceptable. He made a mental note to do something about it later…

It was cold - surprisingly cold. Alphonso XIV could not concentrate, could not get that thought from out of his mind. Truth, it was almost Summer, but standing up here amidst the spray and in this wind… He tried not to shiver… He tried not to shiver. At twenty, youngest of the monarchs present, he did not wish to give them any further ammunition to use against him. Concentrating hard, he gritted his teeth and tried desperately to focus solely on the display of Egyptian naval might before him

Grey Wolf

http://pub188.ezboard.com/balternatehistoryfictory

As a note, this story began life as an Excel spreadsheet of statistics, all made-up etc, so that I could practice my rusty formula skills !

(Message edited by 1time_wolf on October 18, 2003)

Do note the 5 year intervals between snippets - that means that in the 35 year timespan covered by this, the number of dead monarchs is

Germany The First Kaiser (Karl) Frederick III Karl II Wilhelm I - ALIVE

Britain King George VII William V Ernest II - ALIVE

Russia Tsar Alexander IV Alexander V - ALIVE

Spain Mercedes I Mercedes II ALphonso XIII Alphonso XIV

I think France and Austria either have the same monarch for the whole period, or see only one death

Things are really only a bit dire in Germany (2 old guys, 1 killed in battle) and Spain

Thanks for reading and commenting

Grey Wolf

(Message edited by 1time_wolf on October 19, 2003)


Dancing The Shadows - Chapter 1

May 1937

London

“Turfed out on our ear.” Andrew Farraday sank down into the plush blue armchair. He held his head in his hands, “We fought 1932 as the 'Guardians of Empire' ”, he seemingly addressed the carpet, “Now the Liberals use that to goad us with.” “I would like to see THEM do any better !”, the serious young man sitting opposite him spoke with venom. Farraday looked up and laughed a grim sharp laugh, “Mayhap we will. I doubt that Lewis, for all his Pacificist youth, will let the Russians get away with something like this a second time. Once bitten, twice shy, and the king still smarts from that bite.” “Lewis !”, the other could barely keep his contempt from out of his voice, “I never thought to see his type in Number Ten !” The First Lord of the Admiralty did not respond to the barb. Instead he looked around the sitting room, normally a bustling centre of life at the Carlton Club. Tonight perhaps it still bustled, but a more apt word would be shuffled, and where usually there was life there was now a feeling of death, as if at a funeral they were. Defeat had hit them hard. Confirmation had only come in the last half hour, and shock still rebounded round the hallways. Groups of men stood silently, unsure of what to say, or of when to say it. Farraday looked across to the younger man who was watching him intently; Lawrence Basset, last of an old breed of youth, first of a new breed of adult, “Salisbury will resign the leadership of the party. Harcourt will retire also, I have no doubt. For all his protestations the public blames him as much as it does the French.” “Will you let your name be put forward ?” the younger man asked. Farraday ran his tongue around the inside of his lips, “Derby will stand, Holmes too I should not wonder, but” he shrugged, “it can do no harm, I think.” “There are at least a dozen of us who will back you right now” Lawrence said fiercely, “I could have words…” He petered off as Farraday shook his head. “Let it wait.”, he said, “At least until all this is done with.” Lawrence hardly needed to ask what he meant.

Aberdeen

Oleg looked up from the dockside and nodded to himself. The Okhrana's files had been right indeed; this trully was 'Granite City' “Mr McMillan ?” the voice before him said, the a moment later, “Here are your papers, Mr McMillan.” Oleg blinked, then smiled. He took the papers back from the customs inspector and walked along the gangway onto the quayside. He stood back as a steam tram rattled along the rails, crowded and no doubt stuffy inside. After his journey across the North Sea he could feel his stomach telling him that a smoother journey in a more pleasant environment would suit him better. Walking across the cobbled roadway, his keen sense noted the bustle around the goods sheds to the right, the cars and vans passing slowly as they manoevred around the horses and carts, and the goods wagons that a tank engine was hauling towards a loading bay. Across the roadway, in front of the Harbour Office, a number of automobiles were drawn up, their drivers smoking their pipes or reading the newspaper. Oleg recognised a rank of private charabancs when he saw them. Smiling, satisifed, he waited for an old van to rattle past, then made his way across to the foremost vehicle. “Passage into the city, sir ?”, the driver was alert and deferential to his prospective customer. Dress and aspect counted wherever you were. “The railway station” Oleg made his own entrance into the rear, and took a seat facing forwards. Only once he was seated did the driver start the engine, and roll forward into the lane of traffic. “If we go up Shore Brae we can get to Union Street much quicker.”, he explained. Oleg nodded. Two weeks ago, before he was detailed for this assignment, he would not have understood what the man had said, in fact he would not have recognised it as English. But the reason he had risen so quickly in the Okhrana was his gift for languages. In just two weeks he was now able to pass himself off as a perfect Scotsman…or at least what the Russian Empire considered a perfect Scotsman to be. “Did you know Union Street is built on a series of huge arches ?”, the driver threw over his shoulder. “Why is that ?”, Oleg asked. He, ofcourse, knew both the fact and the reason for it. The Okhrana did not send agents into foreign countries without a detailed briefing. “Before it was completed in 1805, the valley to the West bordered Aberdeen.”, he laughed, “The city was trapped, it couldn't grow - it was just the docks and the hills behind it.” Oleg sat back and let the charabanc's driver continue regaling him with his local knowledge. As they the stream of traffic heading into the city centre, Oleg sat back and watched the cars go by. His target was nearby, this was the best entry point into the territory. There would be no failure. Not from him. He may not get them all, but he would get the principle target. And, he was sure, he would get out. It was no good being in his line of work if you could not extract yourself.

London

“I suppose that you have heard the news ?” Princess Sophia looked up from where she was playing with one of the palace dogs, teasing the spaniel with a ball tied to a length of silk ribbon. “The news ? Oh”, she nodded, her long brown hair bouncing on her head, “What of it ?” Prince Richard, Duke of Albany, frowned deeply, “I cannot see the Liberals appointing an Official Censor as compliant as old Tovey was.” “You are afraid that your infatuation with that fat Wurttemberger will come out ?” she laughed, a beautiful yet at the same time mocking sound. Richard's frown did not go away, “Katherine has said she would convert if we married, it is not the issue that it once would have been.” “What then, brother ?”, Sophia at last tired of toying with the dog. Letting the fevered mutt have the ribbon, she turned her attention to toying with her younger brother, “Do you have secrets that even I do not know ?” Richard blushed. Perhaps that meant that he did. But it was not what he was on about, and his sister knew it. “Over the last year alone, Tovey had nipped in the bud how many stories about your…escapades ?”, he chose a more delicate word at the last moment, fearing to anger her. She did not answer him, but her gaze hardened and the fingers on her left hand clenched into a fist. Somewhat nervously Richard continued, “I know of at least ten different occasions… I am suire there are ones I do not know of.” “Nor will you.” her voice was stone to his ears, “My life is my business and mine alone.” “The public may not see it that way… Your expenses are after all paid for by parliamentary grant.” “Then we will have to make sure that the Censor understands his job, Liberal or no.” “Oh ?”, her brother tried not to sound too incredulous, “And how would we go about doing that ?! A smile suddenly animated her face, a dangerous light shining from her eyes, “Well” she said, licking her lips, “I can certainly think of one way.” Richard just stared at his sister. Surely she did not mean…? What else COULD she mean ?

Aberdeen

The railway station was not what he had expected. He knew it from photographs that he had seen in Moscow, knew it from the copy of the designer's plans he had also seen. But somehow, in reality, it seemed smaller and more dirty, as if the photographs, by manipulating the angles, had tried to exaggerate. Such things did not bother Oleg - he noted them, he filed them away in the tidy boxes of his mind. But it was not something to knock him off his assigned track. He passed across the concourse, noting the time from the giant clock hanging over the centre. He was early, but of course he was not really - he was here deliberately at this time. Only that way could he be sure. The station tavern did not seem to have a name. He had been puzzled not to see one on the photographs, but now he assumed that was because it just did not have one. Whether that made it unique - or even interesting - or whewther it was common to all Scottish railway stations he did not know. His training told him not to make any mention of it. Even if Aberdden was the only place in the whole of the British Isles with such a phenomenon, as a Scotsman he might be assumed to already know. He made his way across the floor to the bar - noticing things. The absence of sawdust upon the flor. The spitoons discreetly in the corner. The empty ashtrays which showed that the patron took a care with his premises. The old men in the corner, perhaps the only regulars this place had. The individuals, alone at their tables, luggage piled beside them, newspapers spread open upon the flat surfaces. “Yes sir ?”, the patron was a florid white-haired man, his Scottish accent bearing the unmistakeable overlay of the regimental Seargant Major. Ex-army, no doubt that went a long way towards keeping order in a place like this…or in place like this could have been with a weaker character in charge. “Ahh…” Oleg made a brief show of studying the pumps upon the bar, the heavily-polished and uncluttered bar, “A pint of pale, please.” While the patron pulled the pump, Oleg made a show of searching through his pockets. Let the pickpockets wonder if he were not in fact poor, let the better quality folk wonder if he was so rich he did not carry loose change. He found two shillings, one from King George VII's reign and one minted that very year, and placed them on the bar. The patron settled his pint down and nodded at the money, “Its two and six now sir. We had to put our prices up after last month's run.” “Oh, I am sorry.” Oleg was genuinely embarassed. How had the Okhrana missed that ? He paid the extra sixpence, then took one of the newspapers from the rack. “Its quite a turn-up for the books.!” the patron commented. For a moment Oleg was confused; surely no one had expected the Conservatives to survive. He opened the newspaper up, “Oh !” he said in some surprise. The Midday Edition it declared itself to be, 'Absolute Majority !' it declared the main item of news to be. That was certainly a shock. “Mr Lewis can appoint whomsoever he wants”, the patron opined, “They don't need to rely on the Radicals. I should not but wonder that it means he can also do away with the Socialist wing of his own party.” he laughed, “It states that Bellingham has already been asked to be Foreign Secretary. The Tsar is not going to find any walkover in THIS administration.” “No, indeed.” said Oleg. Well, that would make things interesting, would it not…

London

“I don't believe it.” The whisper was hoarse, was hard with despair. Although it was daylight, had been for many hours now, the heavy curtains remained closed from the night before. Perhaps no one should be permitted to gaze in upon their misery. The day that had started with joy was now ending more heavily laden with doom than anyone could have predicted. He gazed upon the brown envelope by his side upon the chaise long, 'Arthur Mulligan, Party Leader' it was addressed simply. Party leader, he nodded grimly, but what a party… Beside the envelope was its contents, strewn carelessly where he had thrown them down, the few type-written sheets of paper which so irked his heart. A heavy hand lifted the topmost one, upon which was the summary; the percentages told a cleaner story than did the numbers of seats won. 'The Liberal Party - 52% of seats' That was the only one that mattered. An absolute majority ! And where did that leave the Radicals ? He dd not have an answer to that question. His party had more seats than before the election - but less relevance. It had been assumed that Lewis would need him to be able to rule. But not with an absolute majority. There would be no coalition now, none of his men in government, no Deputy Prime Ministership for himself. Just five long heart-breaking years of opposition - again. It hardly bore thinking about… He blinked…well, what if he DIDN'T think of it ? A growing anger exploded inside him. What if Walter Buckmaster was right ? What if…? He was on his feet now, pacing the wreck of his office, kicking over piles of papers, piles of books, folders and reports. This was NOT politics ! This was shit. Kick it over, kick it away. Were they not called the RADICAL Party ?! Well, then, let them BE radical ! He would talk with Buckmaster. He reached for the telephone, then paused. It would probably be best not to involve his secretary - Ellie might be a fierce sufragette, but this might be too much for her. Yes, there was a better way of doing this. He picked up the telephone, cradled the bulk in his arm and placed the receiver under his chin. Dialling the number dragged from the depths of his memory he moved to the window, pulling the curtains slightly apart. Blinking into the sunlight he smiled as the device on the other end was picked up. “New Model Army” came the reply. “This is Mulligan. Your people and my people, we need to talk.” There was a pause, the sense of a hurried whispered exchange, then “Name the place. We will be there.”

Aberdeen

He looked up. The train for the Highlands was coming in. Among the places listed amongst its stops - Balmoral. Oleg smiled a happy smile.

Grey Wolf



Dancing The Shadows - Chapter Five

Madrid

Count Serrano indicated that they be seated. Since the crisis of the previous year he had taken the Foreign Minister portfolio as his own, in addition to the Prime Minister-ship. Hence, this was formally a meeting of the Foreign Ministers of the Alliance. But he was host, and by dint of his position he was most senior. Unwilling to give up the rare advantage, the Spaniard remained seated behind his desk whilst his visitors sat on chairs before it. The Duc de Guise looked slowly from his British counterpart to the imperious Spaniard, then sighed, “The Russian fleet is halfway across the Pacific.” he pointed out, “There is a certain urgency to this conversation.” Hector Bellingham frowned, “Whilst I agree”, he said slowly, “There is time enough observe the formalities.” Serrano failed to pick up on the hostility between the two allies, and simply smiled, “The Grand Tour continues”, he shrugged, “The fleet will pass close to Spanish possessions in the North Pacific. But our intelligence tells us it heads solely for Port Arthur.” “Why ?”, Bellingham was sharp and to the point, “Why is it going there ?” “I agree”, the Duc de Guise sounded loathe to admit it, “We must put the most worrying perspective on these actions. The fleet should not be there if it were on its way home.” “Which quite plainly it is not.”, after their first visit Bellingham had learnt that only brusque directness got him anywhere with his French counterpart, “As it is going to Port Arthur we must assume that its presence there is part of the plan.” “What plan ?” Serrano began to wonder if he had been absent from some important discussions. “Why would the Russians double their strength in the Far East ?”, the Duc de Guise asked the obvious question. “Because it serves their needs to do so.”, Bellingham's response was not so much an answer as a reinforcement of his counterpart's question. “What needs are these ?”, the Spaniard still felt somewhat excluded from the topic of the current conversation. “that is exactly the question”, the duc responded, “Why does Aleksandr need a fleet of twenty-five first class battleships at Port Arthur.” “In addition to half a dozen second class”, Hector made sure that the numbers game was accurate, “Twice the number of cruisers, twice the number of destroyers. This does not speak of a peaceable intent.” “Not peace” Serrano licked his lips, “What exactly does that mean ?” “The opposite of peace is usually war”, the French royal pointed out. “War ?” Serrano fairly squeaked, “In the East ? With whom, why ?” “Those are the right questions.” Bellingham allowed. The count looked down at the papers on his desk. Anything for a moment's thought. Why had he not been briefed as well as his French and British counterparts ? He knew the answer to that one. Damn the sloth of bureaucracy !

- - - - - - -

Washington DC

The newspaper performed a somersault, spread its wings upon the air, and crashed to the hearth rug in disarray. “How…” the senator was literally speechless. Across the room, his colleague, one of the Congressmen from his state of Chihuahua, struggled for an explanation that would calm the outraged septegenarian, “Hubertus…” he tried the soft and calm and approach, “The Congressional National Security Committee” he spread his hands out in front of him, ”- it is hardly a body to question Prouse on anything.“ “But it should be !” Hubertus Pope was adamant, “After Fillmore's misuse of the Emergency Powers Act in 1873, the committee was established to ensure that the constitution was being adhered to.” “Prouse still has the executive authority to negotiate with foreign powers.”, Congressman Samuel Philips was as certain in his facts as the senator was in his, “The constitution says that any treaty needs congressional consent. By the interpretation of the law upheld by the Supreme Court in 1912, the National Security Committee fulfills that duty.” “We both know that is a fabrication”, Hubertus was beginning to sound more glum than angry now that the initial burst of outrage was dying down, “The Committee is hardly representative. Prouse knows as well as we do that if the treaty with the Russians was ut to a vote in the House or in the Senate it would fail to pass as it stands. At best it would get through with heavy amendments, ” he paused and heaved a deep breath, “It certainly would not tie us to that beast Aleksandr.” “What we have is intended to be a halfway house”, Samuel pointed out, “It seats between allowing the president to do as he pleases, and making everything go through a full congressional vote.” “I know that”, Hubertus snapped, “Heck, it might even work if Prouse didn't control the appointments to it.” “There is that” Samuel allowed. He bent down and recombined the dishevelled newspaper. On the front page was a photograph of President Prouse together with Everett Lodge, the National Party leader on the Committee, and the man supposedly charged with putting limits on the power of the Republican president. But that was theory. Practice worked out differently. “Prouse's people would never let someone like myself, or Ignatio Holme, be elected to the Committee. Only those who can be bought are paid for.” Samuel frowned, “That is a good line. You had better be advised not to speak outside of this room.” For a moment Hubertus glowered at his colleague, then he nodded and turned away. On the wall behind him was a painting of Thomas Jefferson, “I wonder what he would have done, to see the Constitution in such wise.” “Hmm” Samuel was not about to be drawn down that avenue of discussion. Jefferson's America had not known two civil wars, had of course still been a slave-owning nation, and the great man the owner of his own slaves. Many would say that today's United States was a freer and more equal society. Hubertus turned back, his eyes suddenly tired, as if suddenly deflated by his colleague's lack of passion, “So…” he said at length, “Is there nothing we can do ?” “As the Post says, the treaty is now law.” “Our future”, Hubertus sat down heavily in the armchair and fixed with the Congressman with a stabbing gaze, “Our future is now not only tied to Russia, it depends upon them.” “It is a defensive alliance”, Samuel tried to sound hopeful, but failed “It is an alliance”, Hubertus removed the equivocation Samuel could only agree. Together, they lapsed into silence, all conversation spent. There was nothing more that needed to be said.

- - - - - - -

Dancing The Shadows - Chapter 5c Seoul, Kingdom of Korea

“Go !” Andrei Gromykin hissed the word, a simple syllable, a command that would see the world set on fire. The dozen or so elite warriors of the Imperial Guard's Manchurian division raced across the darkness of the square and took up position before the gates. Clad in black overcoats, and with the shine of badges and buttons shadowed from the light, they lay like wraiths upon the paving. A flash came from the top of the wall, then another. Gromykin nodded. There would be no answering flash, no unexplained light to give the palace guards a few extra seconds of warning. He raised the sight of his rifle to his eyes, targeted on the lamp burning in the gatehouse and squeezed the trigger. The lamp shattered. Mortars leapt into the air from the soldiers in the square. Gunfire from the wall rained down on the gatehouse. Amidst the flames and explosions, the palace guard made an effort to fight back. Two of Gromykin's men manoevred a pipe-like contraption into place, uttered a short prayer that the new-fangled device would work as planned, and blew the gates apart with a well-placed rocket. Like his men, Gromykin was on his feet and running even before the first splinters fell to earth.

Yi Lin could feel the rush, could almost hear the blood pounding in his veins. Seeing his allies safely attain the gatehouse, he bounded down to ground level. “Quickly !”, he yelled, “This way !” Time was of the essence. At the moment the Guard was confused and in shock. They had a window of opportunity, some small segment of time in which to act before the defenders rallied and before the call fopr aid reached the other units of the Royal Army in the city barracks. A mixed force of his own men and Russians at his back, the Korean royal led the attack out of the grounds and into the palace proper. Shotting from the hip he downed a veteran captain, one of his father's most trusted lieutenants. They dashed along a corridor, spookily devoid of all resistance, and burst into the grand dining room just as its occupants were scrambling for the rear door, panic having overtaken decorum as the appropriate course of action. “Kill them !” he yelled, levelling his own pistol at the shocked individual in the centre of the party.

King Sunjong froze, as if his feet had suddenly been welded to the spot. With his wife shaking in terror at his back, and assorted courtiers and servants imploring him to get away, he could only stare down the barrel of the gun that his second son was levelling at him from across the room. “Why ?” he asked. Yi Lin did not reply. “By doing this you give Korea to the Russians !” his father spoke desperately. Yi Lin fired. Blood blossomed on his forehead, rained down on his wife. Her attempt to scream was cut off by another shot. A hail of bullets from rebels and Russians alike cut down the rest. “We must find my brother !” the Korean prince growled in frustration, “I will will not be denied now.” They moved deeper into the palace.

The defenders were rallying. The rebels were having to form a defensive line at their rear, even as they pushed the attack on ahead. It did not matter. All resistance would cease if tey could attain their prey.

“There !” screamed Yi Lin, “There ! There !” Gromykin had seen it too. A desperate knot of royal guard falling away before them into the residential wing, and amongst them the crown prince - king now in theory. But that must never become fact. Hearing gunfire from the rear, seeing even a bullet splinter off the cornice, the Russian commander made his decision, “Take him out now !” he yelled. Sensing the desperation of the circumstances his men threw themselves forward. Several fell, cut down by the guards' desperate gunfire. But then the surviving Russians were upon them, knives replaced pistols as the weapon of choice, and a bloody fight ensued. The wall beside Gromykin exploded in a shower of splinters. “Aghhh…”, the Russian collapsed, grasping at his bloodied face, the sight vanished from one eye. Blood pouring down his forehead he contemplated failure and did not like what he saw. The same thought had occurred to Yi Lin. Realising that his men could not long hold out behind him, the would-be monarch drew his sword and leapt into battle. For a moment brother stood facing brother, an impasse of but a moment, but something which rippled across the room. Then Yi Lin lashed out. His elder brother's head fell at his feet, the body tottering backwards. A royal guard captain ran into the room, too late… He took in the scene before him, knew that he only had one chance. He dropped to the floor, “Your majesty” he intoned Behind him, the rest of his men did likewise.

Yi Lin looked from the sudden act of obeisance to the wounded Russian commander to the severed head of his brother and smiled, “I always fancied Chongjong as a regnal name”, he said. Upon the floor, Gromykin shivered to see the smile upon the new king's face. Did the High Command know what they were doing in making this man ruler of Korea ? “Chongjong”, Yi Lin licked his lips, “King Chongjong IV I believe it is…”

- - - - - - -

Hawaii August 1937

The newspaper did not make happy reading. 'The Honolulu Times' was the Kingdom of Hawaii's leading newspaper, and on events that impacted the North Pacific it was strident in its views. Sir Edward Manners looked around the gentleman's lounge of the Honolulu Royale. There were only two activities that morning - immersion in the islands' newspapers, or hushed and urgent conversations. As usual a fair number of the clientele were native Hawaiians. King Kamehameha IV had followed his Japanese ally's lead and taken his country down the road of modernisation at the end of the nineteenth century. The tri-partite 'Protection Pact' involving Britain had brought new markets and new investment to the island kingdom, and today Hawaii boasted a flourishing society with a strong mercantile class. “Sir Edward ?” He looked up. One of the boys from the embassy was there. “Yes ?”, the fifty year old was not used to being interupted whilst out in company, but these were unusual times. “Sir, the Telegraph Officer requires me to give you this at once.” He took the paper from the lad's hand and split the seal with a finger nail. Time seemed to stand still as he read. 'Urgent and priority. Japanese Prime Minister has called emergency cabinet meeting. Army chief Yoshita is to press for reserve mobilisation. ETI reports preliminary naval mobilisation. Vancouver intercepts show numerous transmissions in top security code to Japanese interests worldwide. Institute crisis procedure.' Without knowing how he got there, Sir Edward was on his feet, “Ah…” he said, and in that 'ah' were a thousand thoughts. Touching the surface of his mind were those with immediate relevance to the here and now. He took the fountain pen from his jacket pocket and unscrewed the lid. Wetting the nib, he leant on the side table, and scribbled several notes at the bottom of the telegram. 'Arrange briefing with ETI station commander Urgent meeting with French and Spanish ambassadors - tonight ? Will be at the palace' He folded the paper neatly into an impossible shape. Origami was one of his leaisure-time specialisms, and there was no better substitute for a waxed or gummed seal than to close the paper in on itself. Of course the boy COULD open it, but Sir Edward would lay odds of a thousand to one that he would not be able to fold it up again. As a tamper-prevention device it would work just as effectively as a seal. He handed it over to the bemused youth who turned it over in his hand, as if expecting to find it in the shape of an interesting animal. “Deliver this to Captain Asher at once” “Yes sir” Sir Edward nodded with approval as the boy turned and ran at full pelt out of the room, not letting decorum stand in the way of urgency. Asher was the Imperial Defence Attache and his deputy, and would set everything in motion at once. The Extra-Territorial Intelligence commander would already be contacting London, Vancouver, HongKong, Singapore and Sydney. By the time he returned to the embassy, everybody would be in possession of information as full as was possible to obtain at this juncture. Before that he had an appointment at the palace. Replacing his pen in his pocket, he strode out of the lounge, through the grand hallway and out of the Royale. A row of private charabancs was drawn up opposite. He stepped out into the road, his hand raised in the air, “To the palace - at once !” he commanded.

- - - - - - -

HMS Porpoise Off Port Arthur

“Holy Lord !” Captain Arnold Bates turned a disapproving scowl upon the lieutenant currently manning the periscope, “Do you care to make a proper report, Mr Farraday ?” For some reason the officer remained glued to the eye-piece rather than turning to face his superior officer as etiquette required. “Sir”, he was clearly trying - and failing - to keep his voice under control, “The whole Russian fleet is putting to sea !” “Move over”, Bates did not bother with decorum but fairly shouldered the man aside. He took a moment to focus, “Good God” he breathed, “That they are, indeed !” Through the periscope he could see line after line of Russian warships exiting the roads. Screens of destroyers fanning out. Cruisers bounding across the waves to take positions on the flank. And amidst it all, squadron after squadron of first class battleships, all stripped for action and sortying out with a purpose. He swallowed hard, steadying his voice with rigid discipline, “Lieutenant Chalmers” he addressed the officer on navigation and mapping duty, “The approximate position of the nearest fleet relay vessel if you please.” The officer addressed consulted a number of charts and tables. No ship ever stayed in one place for long and patrols this close to Russian waters were by their nature somewhat erratic in holding position. “I have the cruiser Shamrock off Taku and the gunboat Lurgan off Chefoo. Possibly the cruiser Antelope in the Yellow Sea, but I cannot confirm.” That would do. Two ships to relay their signal. “Deploy the radio buoy.” he commanded. It would make them more visible to watchful eyes, but news of this magnitude needed to be received with all possible speed. “Lieutenant Card”, he addressed the radio officer, “Begin transmission. Russian fleet in full strength leaving Port Arthur…”

- - - - - - -

British Columbia

Colonel Stewart sat back in his leather chair, and stretched. His eyes took in his desk, a greast bulk of native wood (redwood if he recalled), but almost obscured in papers, folders and leather-bound log books. Since he had received - highly confidential - news of Grand Dke Nikolai Aleksandrovich's assassination, life had become very complicated. Currently before him on the desk was a demand - not a request, or even a requirement, but a demand no less - for a list of all people who were aware of the Grand Duke's defection. The British police forces, military intelligence, whoever else, had all drawn a blank their end and were now looking at the issue from the point of origin - the moment the Tsar's uncle and his family had crossed the border from out of Alaska. So far he had a hundred names listed, from the border point commander to the driver responsible for bringing the late royal to the dominion's capital. Working forwards from his arrival was going to be a nightmare - compound staff, body guards, airship crew… Life most certainly did not look good going forwards. Well, this was the life he had chosen, and if his superiors in London required this of him, he would just have to do it. No one asked that he like it. Sighing loudly - for who could hear - he picked up the fountain pen, wetted the nib and began to write, “Compund Command Seamus Malone, 1st British Columbian….” he tailed off. Just what the hell was that ? There was a general furore outside his officer, shouts, even screams… He thrust his chair backwards and stood up, just as a young telegraph officer runner almost broke the door down in his haste. Ignoring the decidedly odd lack of protocol, Colonel Stewart took the sheet of paper that the young man held as if it were a bomb. He blanched, “War warning ?!”, his voice was too high pitched. He coughed, wiped his forehead, noted the terror in the young man's eyes. Military discipline took over, “Get confirmation of this from London - now !” The youth jumped and ran away. Colonel Stewart strode over to the doorway and stared out into pandemonium, “Enough !” he yelled. All movement ceased, all eyes turned to his. “Issue the order for general mobilisation. Close Vancouver and Seattle to all civilian traffic. Contact all airship operators and require the immediate grounding of their vessels. Bring the fleet to alert. Contact all border positions…”, he paused, realisation dawning on him, ”…all border positions North AND South. Seal the borders and prepare for imminent attack.“ Mesmerised by the sound of his voice, its sudden cessation galvanised them. Men set off running in all directions. Female typists typed. Secretaries of both sexes picked up the emergency telephones and began to issue orders. Satisfied, he returned to his office, closing the door behind him. He picked up the telephone receiver from off his desk, “Operator” he barked, “Connect me to the Governor General immediately”

Grey Wolf

http://pub188.ezboard.com/falternatehistoryfictoryfrm7

stories/dancing_the_shadows.1389033858.txt.gz · Last modified: 2019/03/29 15:19 (external edit)

Donate Powered by PHP Valid HTML5 Valid CSS Driven by DokuWiki