Sovereigns of the Collapse Book 4: Operation Ultimate: Sovereigns of the Collapse, #4

By Malcolm J Wardlaw

The truth of the Value System is too outrageous to believe.

 

Lawrence has won the support of the Shellingfield dynasty to attack the Value System. But first, he has to prove to the world it's as evil as he claims. He must get living evidence.

 

As the first tribune of the Protectorate, Nightminster has tasted power, and it's a taste he likes. He has every intention of getting more of it. His alliance with the Krossington dynasty makes him a formidable force. He's going to purge the Value System and have Bishop Donald Aldingford indicted for the murder of Julius Shellingfield. He'll win the support of the glory trusts by putting Sarah-Kelly Newman on trial for mass-murder.

 

With no enemies left, what can stop him achieving supreme power?

 

Operation Ultimate is the fourth part of the Sovereigns of the Collapse dystopian thriller series.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Malcolm J Wardlaw
• Release date: Jun 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201990237

Book preview

SOVEREIGNS OF THE COLLAPSE

BOOK FOUR – OPERATION ULTIMATE

*

MALCOLM J WARDLAW

Operation Ultimate

Copyright © 2020 by Malcolm J. Wardlaw.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or else are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is entirely coincidental.

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Cover design by MiblArt

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 1

[Mid January 2107, off the coast The Wash, Norfolk, England]

The gas-flame blue of early dawn reddened the east into a gleam of solar corona streaming over the horizon, sweeping a crimson brush across the waves around them. From his place beside the helmsman, Lawrence Aldingford shielded his eyes with his left hand, concentrating ahead, raising himself as each roller passed under their longboat to catch a view of the breakers along the shore.

The slow-revving diesel engine was so effectively silenced that until now the only sound had been the rush of their wake flowing past at about ten knots. From ahead came a new sound, broad and ponderous, a quivering rumble. A white barrier spread across their path separating them from the low silhouette of the coast, a white barrier of living violence where these docile rollers from deep in the North Sea sprawled over sandbars into avalanches of foam acres in extent. Technically, the longboat was unsinkable. It had sealed air chambers and a heavy diesel engine to assure self-righting. However, neither Lawrence nor the six Shellingfield marines with him were unsinkable, technically or otherwise. Even with cork floatation jackets, if they got thrown in and flung head over heels again and again by the breakers whilst weighed down with boots and heavy combat clothing, they would not last long.

Lawrence stood up, forming his hands into a tunnel to shield out the hardening dawn. In places, deeper channels penetrated through to the shallows. One of these might provide safe passage through the outer shoals, where the breakers were dangerous, to the shallows where they were not. He spotted several channels, which on careful scrutiny threaded in to dead ends surrounded by dangerous turmoil. With a signal to the helmsman, he directed a course to run parallel with the coast about half a mile off-shore.

The helmsman was a dark-brown-complexioned stalwart of the Shellingfield marines whose expression was savage even when he was in a good mood. He nodded briefly, without reducing himself to look at Lawrence directly. In the eyes of these marines, Lawrence was contemptible three times over: he did not speak Esperanto, he was a commoner and he had been a glory trooper. For all that, they accepted he was the expert through whom the mission succeeded or failed.

It was now light enough to see colours. The extreme contrasts and long shadows cut a dramatic scene, enriching what was in fact a washed out, colourless January landscape of fenland. Sharp eyes on that shore would be able to spot the dark grey longboat as it lifted over the swell and sank from sight in the troughs. This knowledge provoked an unnerving sense of exposure in Lawrence, which he ignored. He had always doubted the Value System shareholders maintained any watch out to sea. Why should they? The nearest sea lanes were twenty miles away and there was nothing in the sodden land hereabouts to draw visitors into this dead end of The Wash with its tricky tides and shifting sands. King John had lost his treasury in this wasteland; sensible people kept out.

Lawrence stooped and touched the shoulder of the helmsman, pointing to a clear, dark strip of sea leading amongst the bars. The helmsman nodded and steered shore wards, gunning the engine up to full power to charge in, veering off into safe, creamy shallows just before their wave curled over with a crash and blast of spray. A minute later and four marines were jumping over the bows to drag the longboat as far as they could aground, throw out the camouflage net and secure it with coil-shaped steel pegs they screwed into the mud with their bayonets.

A low sea dyke blocked the view inland. This dyke ran as far as the eye could see in both directions. It was the Public Era sea defence that once had kept the sea from inundating the hinterland but which the sea had by-passed more than seven decades ago—even before the Glorious Resolution—when the nation state was in its last throes of failure. Doubled low, Lawrence ran up the flank of the sea defence and rolled flat on its top to survey their whereabouts, being dismayed to find the inland view a non-descript spread of boggy grass and reed beds with copses of trees marking higher areas. They could be anywhere. There were no landmarks.

Then with a start he spotted a brick chimney through the bare branches of woodland to the right—in summer he would not have seen it. It was the chimney of the Square of the Value System. From its position, he knew the longboat had made landfall about a mile east of the Value System. The mouth of the channel by which Pezzini and he had escaped inland two months previously—he had named it Channel 14 for the purposes of this expedition—must flow between where he was lying and the Square. And indeed, when he rolled on his back to look offshore, he recognised immediately that the deep area by which the longboat had got through the breakers was in fact caused by discharges from Channel 14. At the current state of tide—almost slack high tide—there would a moderate current into Channel 14 towards the inland estuary, which would still be filling up. The safest option was to launch the longboat and get into Channel 14 where it could be secreted amongst the reed banks.

No more than five minutes later, the longboat nosed into the mouth of Channel 14, the tidal current drawing them inland. Dark grey walls of clay hemmed them in. The upper world of bushes peered down into the longboat. Lawrence kept his eyes alert for nets or wires laid across the channel, which might trigger flares. His escape must have caused fury amongst the ultramarine guards and mortified the dignity of The Captain, provoking major changes in the security arrangements. The lack of wires or snare nets raised rather than eased his suspicions. Every minute or so, he stood up on a thwart to catch a glimpse of the chimneys of the Factory through the trees. When a creek in the reeds opened to starboard, Lawrence motioned to the helmsman to get the longboat into it. He steered them neatly up the middle between the banks of reeds. The creek soon narrowed until the bows nosed into mud. They were entirely hidden from all directions.

This is perfect, Lawrence murmured. Please wait here.

Lieutenant Andy nodded. His real name was Anantaneni, which was why Lawrence called him Andy. The marines in turn referred to Lawrence as Krokodilo, an Esperanto slang term for an outsider.

Lawrence eased himself over the bows, gaining footing on clumps of reeds to avoid the worst of the mud. He pushed his way up and lay flat to survey the scene from cover. It was a good location. About thirty yards away was the edge of the willow plantation, which provided fuel for the Factory and the Square. What surprised him was to see one end of the Factory about two hundred yards off through a band of woodland. He had not realised it was so close to Channel 14. He could see a gang of value unloading willow cuttings from wagons and taking them inside to the storage tanks for drying out. They were guarded by a knot of six ultra guards with submachine guns. That was another surprise for Lawrence, as no guard had carried such weaponry previously when he had been an inmate (that is, a ‘value’) of the Value System. With the binoculars, Lawrence recognised the value as from Gang 9, led by Bomber. A thrill of victory rushed through him as it finally sank in that he had fulfilled his dream: he was back. Now the Value System was his prey!

Three marsh warriors emerged from a thicket to his left. They stooped double to remain in cover of bushes until they reached the willow plantation, where they straightened up and continued towards the coast. They wore deerskin trousers and tunics and rabbit skin hats—ears still attached. They passed so close that Lawrence heard their breathing. They did not appear to be armed.

On his return to the longboat, he murmured his report to Lieutenant Andy. It was not yet half past nine. They would have to wait two hours until lunch time for the Value System began at half past eleven.

At half past eleven, Lawrence, Lieutenant Andy and the helmsman, a sergeant with a name that sounded like Pod, crawled forward into the woodland and advanced from bole to bole towards the Factory. A long stream of value marched past from the Pig Farm, another gang flowed by with dirty hands and boots, probably having served a shift on the Great Patch. The gangs were accompanied by at least double the number of guards that Lawrence had been used to seeing. About half of the guards carried submachine guns. Lawrence contemplated the implications. If, worst case scenario, the longboat party was detected, they would be facing not just a few pistols but whole teams with submachine guns. Their chance of survival would be zero.

Minutes passed. Twenty to twelve came and went. The ultramarine guards were still tramping past in groups to take lunch in their own so-called Shareholders’ Compound. Lawrence and the two marines edged closer, now crawling amongst the bushes. They lay still to listen. It seemed clear. It was now ten minutes to noon. Lawrence chanced a peek over the bushes. All seemed quiet. He moved forward the last ten yards at a crouch and almost collapsed with shock on hearing boots coming down the flank of the Factory. Through the branches he saw Master Sergeant Shiny—so named because of his polished bald pate—lope past towards the Shareholders’ Compound. He could not have failed to see Lawrence had he looked at him.

Lawrence urged the other two men out of cover. The three of them jogged up about half the length of the Factory to a side door. It was padlocked, as Lawrence knew it would be. Sergeant Pod stooped and got to work on the lock with a torque key and snake rake. He was rated as the top lock-picker of the Shellingfield marines. After three rakes, he had all the tumblers free and the lock in his hand. Without a word, the three men slipped inside and shut the door.

The two marines scowled at the stench of rotting flesh. Lawrence in contrast was surprised by how fresh the air seemed, compared to that first, awful shift in the Separation Shop back in early October. The reason was that at this time of year, no cadavers arrived to be unloaded and separated, for there was not enough surplus flowing on the drains to make the operation worthwhile. The bating tanks were empty. The stainless steel evisceration tables of the Separation Shop were bare and clean.

Lawrence had already described in great detail the elements of the Value System to his marine escorts. However, from the complete awe with which they gazed about, it was clear they were only just now beginning to believe it.

Please get to work, we don’t have much time. I’ll look for hides and currency, Lawrence said. He could not order Lieutenant Andy, only ask politely. The lieutenant snapped out of his amazement and got to work with the camera and flash. The flashes would be visible through the skylights by anyone looking at the Factory from a distance. It was a risk that could not be avoided. The lieutenant started photographing in the Separation Shop and worked his way through to the Bating Shop. There were still scores of hides hung up awaiting cutting. Some were long like trouser legs, others were broad like the sections of jackets. It reassured Lawrence to see just how obvious it was the hides had been cut from human bodies. This fact must have impressed Sergeant Pod. He vomited into one of the bating tanks and hissed a long oath in Esperanto. Lawrence gestured for him to clean it up—the next gang in would be pissed off to find the vomit and their gang leader would complain to the leader of the morning shift. It could arouse suspicions.

Several of the torso cuts displayed fabulous tattoos. These were not used in production. They were reserved for certain old-time value who made them into shirts or skirts for the Saturday night parties. They would have made lovely evidence to take away, but Lawrence left them where they were, as they would be missed. Instead, he took down several production cuts, rolled them up and stowed them in his back pack.

He stepped into the hallowed territory of the office block of the Factory, a place where no value were ever allowed, not even old-timers. He was certain the Value System treasury must be in here. It was quite a dismal place really, concrete floors and burst armchairs, a sooty kettle on an oil stove, a cracked tea pot and many tannin-stained old mugs. All the cupboards and filing cabinets were locked. Ten past noon. Damn! He waved Sergeant Pod in to get to work with his picking tools. The released office locks exposed forms written up by the master sergeants recording the production of each shift, reams and reams of them. He finally struck gold in a bottom drawer. There it was, the central bank of the Value System, a whole drawer of fiat fingernails yielding up the true rotten stink of money.  Sergeant Pod’s eyes bulged with horror. He uttered a low moan and scampered out to fetch the lieutenant. Lawrence splayed out his right hand and laid it on the fiat fingernails while Lieutenant Andy took four photographs and hurried out. Lawrence grabbed a handful of fiat fingernails and poured them into a leather pouch he had brought for exactly this purpose. He pulled the draw string tight and put the pouch in his back pack. They moved to the Cannery. This, however, yielded little of real interest. Industrial pressure cookers were not in themselves incriminating. The cold stores contained nothing more suspicious than pork carcasses hung up in rows.

Let’s go, Lawrence said. It was twenty past twelve. Before opening the Factory door, he lay on the floor and peered through the gap underneath it. He could both hear and see a pair of crate-like boots crunching closer from the direction of the Square. He was sure those crate-like boots belonged to SMS London. He heard a cough and knew for certain it was SMS London. Had the man been more alert, he would have noticed the padlock missing off the door into the Factory, in which case, Lawrence would have shot him in the face with the ‘silenced’ and beautiful Smith & Wesson 45 issued to him by the armourer of the Shellingfield marines. In fact, SMS London went thumping past on his way to the Shareholders’ Compound.

A couple of minutes later and the padlock was back in place and all three men were back in cover. Lawrence was pleased by the excursion so far, although frustrated at how they had been held up getting in to the Factory. He decided to continue to the Midden anyway, on the off-chance that Lieutenant Andy would still be able to get photographs from cover, even if there were guards or value about. It was better than waiting until the afternoon shift was over. It would then be dark; camera flashes would be visible for miles.

The distance was half a mile through bushland cut by winding creeks reaching in towards the Value System like tentacles. All the time, the three men had to be on guard against lurking marsh people. Lawrence stopped from time to time and listened for sounds of pursuit, knowing his ears were partially dulled from years of gunfire. Sergeant Pod murmured once he thought there might be wild pigs behind them. After waiting in silence, they pressed on. It took nearly an hour of crawling, stooping, slugging it through mud and easing through reeds to come out at the edge of the football playing fields just adjacent the Pig Farm. The air hung with that good old piggy smell of excrement and festering slop. Now he had his bearings, Lawrence led them back into cover. They crawled the last hundred yards to the edge of the Midden. By this time, Lawrence’s shoulders and back ached from exertion. The prospect of the trip back to the longboat was not uplifting.

He peeled aside the last fronds of fern to look across the Midden.

Hardened character though he was, even Lawrence was shocked by the sight. The Midden was an open, muddy area of about half an acre where ‘leftovers’ from the Separation Shop were dumped for the delight of the local seagulls and rooks, not to mention an army of field rats. On a busy day, the birds would swirl about over the midden like a whirlpool of salt and pepper (as Spiderman had once poetically described it). Today was not a good day for carrion. The remains were all were picked clean and white as chalk. There were heaps of rib cages, piles of broken human skulls as well as pig skulls. Lawrence was at first aghast, then baffled. Normally the bones were collected to be pounded into bone meal fertiliser for the farm. These bones had obviously been left out for weeks, such that weeds were starting to grow over some of the heaps.

Sergeant Pod began dry-retching. Lieutenant Andy rubbed his back to sooth him down, murmuring Esperanto comforts in his ear.

Lawrence observed heavy clouds creeping up from the south west. He urged Lieutenant Andy to take pictures while the light was good. Meanwhile, he did some estimation of the enemy visible.

From the Pig Farm came the screams of pigs getting slaughtered, some laughter, a low rumble of conversation. Duties in the Pig Farm pleased the sadists of the Value System: wankers like Gnasher and Buttons. For everyone else it was rather a bore, slinging up the carcases and with a slice opening the bellies so that the guts came tumbling out. There was, admittedly, a certain artistry in butchering, although Lawrence had never taken to it. By moving along the edge of the Midden, he approached the long brick shed of the Pig Farm. There were no windows, only skylights. However, double doors at each end were usually left open when a gang was on duty. From a grove of birch trees, Lawrence appraised a group of five ultra guards gathered at the rear doors. He did not recognise any of them. They bore Shpagin submachine guns with the 71-round drum magazine. The Shpagin was a robust, simple weapon developed in the Soviet Union of the Public Era. It was