Actually, sneaking in and sabotaging the radios in every village had been step 2-B. Southeby had done the work himself, all in a single night, creeping into the villages, finding the weather-protected radio huts and creatively disabling each in a unique way. “I felt like a ninja!” he exclaimed to Wylings later.
“Glad you enjoyed yourself.”
“It wasn’t just that, either. It was the thrill of the making things happen. You know what I mean, Wylie? I killed a bunch of these savages any other place at any other time and nobody notices. I kill the right bunch at the right time, and bam! Global interest! I have to tell you, mate, this has been great fun. I owe you a debt of gratitude. No more puny ivory runs for me. I’m going into the business of African geopolitics.”
“Sound like great fun, Southeby,” Wylings said. “I can’t wait to hear about it at the club.” But Wylings had just become extremely worried about Southeby. Southeby knew his secret. Southeby took chances. Southeby might get caught red-handed someday playing his games of geopolitics in the African interior, and there’d be no trapdoor to dump the evidence. Even Southeby couldn’t be counted on to keep his mouth shut if he was interrogated by some African despot.
A few days later Wylings happened to be visiting the coast, prior to his return to England, and he joined Southeby on the old family yacht
“I’m keen to see this bulkhead you go on about, Southeby.”
Southeby was more than happy to show it off.
“There’s a gear, see? Retracts the floor into the hull completely. I’ll just open it partway.” He had described it to Wylings ten times, how he could retract the door halfway and still go fishing or snorkeling. Wylings felt the floor move beneath his feet, sliding into the hull, until half the tiny space was open to the black seafloor beneath the old ship. He and Southeby could hardly stand in the little shelf that was left.
“So, why doesn’t the room just fill up with water?”
“Air pressure, Wylie.” Southeby grinned. “See that little vent? When I got to do an emergency dump, that vent is opened up. The air vents out and the water rushes in. Don’t open it, you dolt!”
Wylings had already moved the lever. He knew it was used by human cargo to refresh their meager air supply during their days and weeks locked in the miserable, lightless box.
“Hell, Wylie, what’d you do that for?” The air was hissing through the vent and the water was soaking their shoes already. Southeby reached across and closed the vent, and Wylings stuck him with his tiny shiv.
“What the hell?” Southeby touched the wound and looked at the dollop of blood on his fingers. “What’s got into you, Wylie?”
Those were his last words. The poison reached his nerves. It was fast-acting stuff and it took away his motor control, but it wouldn’t kill him.
The water would kill him. Wylings didn’t even have to push him in. Southeby slumped into the ocean water and couldn’t make his arms stroke, couldn’t make his feet kick. They were doing their own thing. Southeby gave Wylings a last look from the dark water—not an accusation, but a question. They were mates. Why had he done it?
Southeby didn’t sink like Wylings thought he would. He bobbed to the surface, facedown, in the small trapdoor opening. Wylings let himself out in a hurry, the air rushing around him and rising the level of the water inside the cubicle, carrying Southeby into the cubicle for his crew to discover when they returned to the ship in a week or two.
By the time Southeby was discovered, Wylings had returned home a hero, although he modestly downplayed his feats in Africa. There were already rumors that he would receive royal recognition. He was on the short list for knighthood that season—just him and the British publisher who had originally come up with the concept of putting photos of topless women in the daily papers, thus gaining worldwide distinction for British journalism.
Wylings was given his audience with Her Majesty and got his ceremonial sword taps on each shoulder. He celebrated his new title, but he bided his time for ten more long years.
His first taste of his adventure showed him how risky it could be. Southeby was invaluable, but Wylings should have foreseen Southeby’s inherent risk. He needed to think his plans through with greater care in the future.
He had all kinds of wild schemes brewing, all based on a single fervent conviction: England was the rightful ruler of the world.
The British Empire had been right and good. It should never have been allowed to disintegrate. England was the center of civilization, eminent in culture, superior in judgment. The world would have been better served in the past few hundred years if England had retained its grip on power.
The Russians would never have adopted communism, which meant they would have spent the twentieth century actually doing something productive. The Japanese would never have gone a-conquering across Asia, not with the English keeping a stern eye on them. The Germans—that problem would have been nipped in the bud in the time of the kaisers. Big War One and Big War Two would never have happened. The decades of violence in the Middle East would have been nothing more than a few tribal skirmishes. Africa would be more or less peaceful.
As for America, if she had remained under the control of the British, she would have served as the muscle to enforce England’s wisdom.
And that was what America would be, some day. It would have to be skillfully done, but Wylings could foresee it happening. He would start retaking the colonies around the world—those that would benefit England the most, and those that would give England a new foothold in the lands that she had to someday conquer anew. The tide of support would help Wylings take back more and stronger territories, and with British rule would come a new and splendid peace.
The world was weary of war and violence. Once the people saw that the new British Empire could quell the violence, there would be whole nations clamoring to subjugate themselves.
One important point: the British Parliament was not equipped, or legally entitled, to rule a vast global empire. That required a single authority, as the proclamation spelled out in no uncertain terms. The rebirth of the empire was also the reemergence of the power base of British royalty.
Which begged the need for a powerful, benevolent and wise king of England.
Chapter 18
Sir James Wylings came up with his crazy scheme years ago. Back then it was a pipe dream. These days it still bordered on the insane, and Wylings would be the first to admit it. But he was going to succeed. He had the strategy, he had the tools, he had the leverage to make it happen.
That’s all his knights really were, after all—his tools. They’d help him get this project off the ground, with their petty ambitions and their celebrity status. Later on he could discard them like the disposable knights they were. When he was running things, England would once again return to the days when knighthood meant something more than pop music fame. For now, they had succeeded better than he had hoped—until Jamaica. In Jamaica, Sir Muffa Muh Mutha’s coup attempt had gone down the drain with unexpected swiftness. Wylings still wasn’t sure what had gone wrong there. Somebody had been on the ground on Hope Road ready to react the instant Jamaica House came under attack. Who was it? Some sort of special-forces unit? Whoever it was, they were few in number and skilled at keeping a low profile. Probably some American unit called in to assist the Jamaicans.
Sir Muffa Muh Mutha’s death was no great loss. The man was an imbecile. He’d only been chosen for the coup because he had a bit of a score to settle with the Jamaicans. His chief strategist’s loss was more painful. Sissy Muh was a mocha-skinned goddess. It took all Wylings’s self-control to not succumb to her temptations—and he’d never even met her in person.