Operation Winter Queen

To the Admiral of the Fleet: Admiral, I know this may come as a shock to you, but the operation is still active. I repeat, Admiral, this operation is still active. I have compiled what I think is a short chronological account from clandestine memos and his unfinished memoir. This goes back to MI19! I can now begin to guess why the Admiral refused to retire, and the rumour that he was a Baker Street Irregular is likely true. You'd know better than I do on that score. I know you have your hands full with his funeral et cetera, but I believe that this is the reason he refused to leave the office, and died in it. He was still on duty. I will continue to clean it out and look for more skeletons, but it seems everything else was assigned to others as he got older – except for this. Please read, this is urgent:

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We CANNOT afford another Royal succession crisis like that of That Wallis Woman! If Princess E is killed in the bombing, the next in line is Princess M. Incredibly unsuitable. Flighty, prone to pranks and jests, mocks heads of state to their faces. Public relations nightmare. She will embarrass us in the global theatre.

Those damn Krauts have a new class of U-boat. Are we too stupid to learn from the Titanic? Did we not all have Jules Verne as required reading? Can we not make a quiet, fast submarine to slip a Royal backup through the blockade? They can visit in Canada's bosom while we defend the homeland.

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Gentlemen, we have run out of time. Five bombs landed on Buckingham Palace. Five! It is only God's grace that some workmen were injured, and no deaths. TRMs will not evacuate, though the Princesses will be removed to Windsor Castle. There is no talk of further fleeing – in fact, Princess E has declared her intent to sign up for mechanical courses! To work on engines for the war effort! She will likely make a fine Queen some day, but we must think ahead.

Talked to Cunningham. He has a sub that was built to be quiet, incredibly quiet. Faster than other subs. Was going to use it for some spying, but will work better for this operation. Collect a top notch crew, we'll slip our subject to the Americas.

Speaking of subject: reached out to MI19, they claim they've been doing something with cloning – very hush-hush, but have a suitable candidate. Subject will meet crew at Holy Loch when they've proven they can avoid detection. Baffles, new fuel ratio, passive RADAR reception only, special hull coating, fast and quiet. New air refresher installed and also operational. Will still have to surface occasionally to refuel and re-supply, plus air cycling. I pray it's enough.

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Trial successful. Bring subject, Operation Winter Queen is active.

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I remember the last time I saw her. She was shimmering in the pale light. We were in blackout, of course, but we'd built a camouflaged warehouse over the water so the subs could breach in relative safety. She'd insisted on wearing a blue ball gown, and the sequins spangled in the weak glow of a single candle. Tiara, bracelets, necklace dripping with diamonds – the fortune of an Empire. Fake, of course, but she was not to know that.

She wanted to meet her crew looking like a queen.

But the woman I watched standing on the quay, bravely facing enforced darkness, for God knows how long, to preserve an Empire for the future, looked every inch a scion of an ancient Royal line.

She was alone.

The cloche they used for ease of transition – something about the pressurized mix of air in the submarine – let me see her profile clearly. She looked exactly like the coins that were minted after E2 was crowned. She was younger than the Princess I knew, by a few years I'd hazard, but the resemblance was uncanny.

And alone, so alone. Even when the sub rose, silently, and the hatch opened, and some large tubelike thing connected with the cloche, and bare hands reached for her gloved ones to welcome her aboard. She was going to be whisked into a welcoming banquet, and a ball, and dancing, which she loved. On a submarine. A desperate attempt to reclaim normalcy. See, this is just an extension of British soil, one of the odder corners of the Empire to visit, we'll soon land on foreign shores and you can charm those cowboy foreigners with your wit and grace.

As soon as she was clear, other hands speedily switched bundles – supplies, boxes, and containers of fresh water as the air cycled. In return, we were given bundles of waste to destroy, packed in the emptied tin cans of baked beans that were now those sailors' staple food. Beans on toast, so very British.

She would get extra tidbits, of course, but not many. We were a nation at war.

The special paint on the sub blended in so well with the water that I didn't see it slip beneath the waves. I heard the hiss of the hatch being sealed, and like that, they were gone. Godspeed, SSN Shadow, convey our cargo safely to foreign lands.

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Why do I have five women in military custody?

Because apparently five of the higher-ranked morons on the Shadow decided that they wanted to sneak their wives to safety with our cargo. Under normal circumstances, this would be understandable, but these sailors were sworn to secrecy about the mission and knew enough that this situation could be considered treasonous. What they were thinking, I have no idea. So those ladies, and all their knowledge of what was actually happening on the Shadow, must stay in custody. Unless they can be convinced it was all a fever dream, they stay on base. This mission is too critical to release them to the general public.

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It's been two weeks. Has our stealthy cargo been delivered?

Negative. Increased Kraut activity off the coastline, every time they try to slip through the lines, they feel threatened and retreat.

What? That sub's the best in the fleet, it can breeze past a few U-boats!

They say not. I have been receiving regular notices. Captain thinks the patrols know something, and gather whenever they try to land. He pulls back, tries at another location, same thing. He requested to go on a regular “cruise” instead, staying away from both fighting and shipping arenas. They have food supplies for 60 days. Diesel is difficult, but manageable at this time. Will update when I have more information.

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WHERE THE HELL ARE THEY?

Unknown at this time. I only receive the dispatches long after the refueling and trash jettison, so I don't understand the problems they claim to have. If things are so chancey, why not just land at a friendly port and we'll repair on site? I'm just as baffled as you are, and until this war is over, I cannot learn for myself what is really going on. They check in regularly, they resupply, they vanish. Over and over. The route is unpredictable, sometimes doubling back or skipping stations. I cannot assess in person; travel is too dangerous. But as long as they continue to evade detection, we must let them. We have no choice, really. At least we're receiving somewhat decent intel from their passive RADAR reception. When they think to report it. Every advantage helps.

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Do we have a rogue sub? It's been two damme years! Do we need to track it down and fix this with a well-placed bomb?

Frankly, Sir, we don't have the time or manpower. You know as well as I we were about to sue for a quite unfavorable peace treaty when the Americans stepped in. But we are still fully committed. They resupply regularly, we get updates, though they basically say the same thing repeatedly. "No change" is disturbing, considering our war fortunes are quite in flux. We can afford to keep the crew fed and fueled now, so let it play out. As far as we know, they're not harming the war effort. Not helping, true, but not harming. At least our fears of the real princesses being harmed have reduced considerably. Let's pray it stays that way.

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Thoughts on the Shadow?

I wonder if there's been a mutiny. That would explain much concerning the lack of actual facts. I am still extremely reluctant to take drastic measures, considering there's been no real change as far as we know. Yes, poisoning the tinned food is a possibility, but for what reason? I would prefer to live long enough to obtain answers. For now, I am willing to live in obfuscation.

For now, I will allow it. But this war will not last forever, one way or another, and eventually I want answers.

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What amazes me is that they have not had to dock for refitting this whole damned time. Do we have any eyewitnesses to the seaworthiness of the Shadow?

A few. They are sporadic, as you can imagine. I've taken the liberty of requesting the sailors stocking the supplies / refueling to cast an eye over what parts of the sub are visible, give opinions on its ship-shape. The Shadow looks rough, as expected, but not haggard, which is surprising. Apparently the sailors keep her quite clean; I would hazard they surface in the middle of nowhere for maintenance while watching for any approaching air or ship craft. I also would not be surprised if they sneaked extra of the special doping paint on board and have been using it. No patches visible, no overt signs of metal fatigue or breakdown. I do not believe they have been receiving maintenance from anyone else, neither allies nor enemies. I surmise they are the lucky recipients of builders who were more than determined to never have another Titanic, and built it so well it's surpassing all our expectations.

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Enough. The war is over. Five damned years of no contact, but regular re-supply and fueling? MI19 is being disbanded, and you will be made redundant. You WILL get me answers before I sign your final paycheck!

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It was quiet in the station. Quiet by my standards, perhaps, but the gentle hum of a far-off generator made my companion flinch. His subordinates were the same.

I made the meeting possible by the simplest expedient – cutting off re-supply shipments and leaving sealed notes on obviously empty crates for the wayward Captain at each location: War is over, meet me at this location for decommissioning and further instructions.

There was reluctance in every line of his body when he pulled himself free of the hatch. Sapped, exhausted, gaunt. For a man who hadn't fired a single shot at an enemy in this infernal war, he looked like he stared Death in the face daily and treated him like a recurring visitor.

I remembered to at least keep my voice down. The crew, I'm sure, had excellent hearing, hence the generator for a touch of privacy. “Dear God, man, what has happened?”

“Sir. I am so sorry to report my complete and abject failure as a Captain.” He sat down heavily on a crate, accepted my extra cigarette. He inhaled, but coughed – no smoking on the sub, of course. We didn't put cigarette packs in the requested supplies; what little we had went to the officers and men on the front lines.

“So, tell me succinctly. What the hell happened? A two-week mission drawn out to a five-year watery purgatory?”

“Yes. You know about the wives some officers snuck aboard. Well, when Her Majesty learned that there were other females aboard, she ordered them killed. When that was protested, of course, I ensured their safety by crating them and delivering them at the next re-supply station. I pray they made it back home?”

“They are in custody. They will remain so, with their spouses AWOL on a top-secret mission that went disturbingly awry. What did you expect?”

“Not this. Not at all. By the time we reached the Canadian coast, you know the U-boats were all over. We could have slipped through, but by that time, Her Majesty had the crew wrapped around her gloved pinky. The crew deemed the maneuver too risky to Her person, and I was forced to abort. Over and over. She is treated as too valuable to be risked for any reason, including completing the mission. Anyone who protested was met with... 'accidents.' And then eaten.”

That almost got a shout out of me. “What?”

“You heard me, Sir. We all eat beans on toast, every meal, every day. She eats what few specialty foods you've gotten to us. It took much, much sooner than I anticipated for the crew to turn cannibal. It's the only meat we've eaten during the war. Her Majesty has been given all the chicken and beef you've sent.”

“You keep calling her 'Her Majesty.' She is nothing of the kind. George still holds the throne, and his daughters are alive and healthy. She is a cousin who happens to look like Princess Elizabeth, and has been trained to take over in case of dire emergency only. She doesn't have a title; she's not even considered a Princess.”

“Not down here,” he croaked. “We were barely out of port when She declared Herself Queen, and began ordering everyone around. She crowned herself. Many in the crew humoured her, at first. Now, it's a full-blown cult. Anyone who protested has been met with fatal accidents, and also eaten.”

I shivered. This was monstrous.

“Here.” He shoved a thick stack of journals at me. “My log books. It's all there – who died, when, under what circumstances, suspicions. Inedible parts were shoved in the waste cans you've been disposing of. No trace left, except in my log books, and inside our bodies. She's created her own little kingdom on board. RADAR operators went early. Your notes to me have given me glimpses of the turning war fortunes, but I cannot share them with the crew. They think the apocalypse has happened, that we are the last bastion of British culture. She fornicates with whomever she chooses to re-breed the race out of the ashes of war. Luckily she's barren. Where would we raise children down here? How?

“The torpedoes, at least, are unusable now. I disabled them myself. She declared war on Africa and India, said some horrid things concerning their race, blamed them for the war, had us fire on them. We obliterated two coral reefs. What she did to the Irish boys, the Welsh boys... I can't sleep at night. She thinks these refueling stations are the resistance, set up solely for her survival till she can lead us to her throne on the ashes of a former London.”

“We got shelled hard during the Blitz, yes, but we're rebuilding.”

“That's what I mean, Sir. We cannot come home. Ever. She will order us to kill Their Majesties, and the crew will attempt it, believing her madness. We've all gone mad with her. She hasn't seen sunlight in years, like a demented vampire. Says she's whiter than snow by birthright.”

I shivered. She sounded as bad as the Krauts.

“I wish I could return with you, but if I even look like I'm deserting, they will shoot me. They were temped to shoot you, too, but I shut that down. I think. I continually have to watch my back for mutiny. They will try, and only the fact that I know how some of the systems run and they don't has saved me so far. But it doesn't matter. How could I face my country, my King, ever again? Forced to eat my crew, engage in relations with her... My wife would be so ashamed of what I've become.”

He shuddered, and pulled himself together admirably. “Sir, we are lost. Tell your superiors what has become of us. With your permission, and resupplying, we will continue our never-ending route till she is gone. I do not know what else to do to stop the madness, except contain it on our own Flying Dutchman.”

He reached into his coat, and fished out a velvet bag. “My medals. My personal effects. Useless down here. Those at least can be honorably given to my widow. And there's one more thing in there, which might explain it all to you.” I took it; it was heavy.

His cigarette finished, he stubbed it expertly, dropped the tiny remains. He saluted me, and I returned it with pity. And he turned and re-entered the hatch, and I retreated, to allow painfully skinny sailors to creep out of the sub like haunted wraiths and take the supplies.

I reported it all, of course. I took an Admiralty position in order to keep the requisitions flowing smoothly. The verdict? The operation was a complete disaster, and in true British fashion, it was ignored. Swept under the rug as if it never existed. MI19 operatives took retirement and lived on their pensions.

I couldn't leave this poor ship of the damned to its own devices. I'd looked the Captain in the face, and seen his despair. These were our sailors, we'd tasked them – and we abandoned them.

I was rather surprised the order wasn't given to poison the food. I think it's because it was such an embarrassment to the government and covert ops. What seemed like an excellent backup plan had instead gone wildly off the rails, so to speak, and would make us look like a laughingstock in the global arena. No secrets to be had anymore, but questionable decisions. If that sub with all its technology had been allowed in the war arenas instead, could it have saved lives instead of slowly killing a crew one by one for a mad non-queen?

They have a box of cyanide capsules, of course. The Captain could do it himself. But then there would be a perfectly good sub lying somewhere for future treasure hunters to find.

I was a coward as well. Technology had surpassed the Shadow, and other newer subs could detect its presence. I informed allies and enemies alike that yes, it was out there, it was one of ours, and it was harmless, and leave it alone. It will avoid you, so ignore it. So far, my request has been heeded. I could not sign any papers to doom the crew to death. I do not think I have been kind with that decision.

And still the Shadow sails. I sit at my lonely post, and sign the requisition forms, over and over. I sneak special foods into the mix sometimes, strawberries and grapes and fresh chicken when I can. Cigarettes sometimes. Extra cloth for uniforms, though I read in the logs that she requisitions it for herself, for gowns. Her “subjects” go threadbare. If the Captain leaves a note, I'll add his specific requests. But not technology upgrades. Not even replacement filters. I pray their equipment and munitions fail and put them out of their living misery.

They've been declared lost at sea, of course. Had a ceremony and everything; the widows were very appreciative. The wives held in prison were released after conditioning; they thought it was all a fever dream like I suggested. Those specific ladies have since died, and though I have suspicions, I have no proof.

The appropriate units have been notified of our rogue sub, and they make sure to watch it constantly. If it ever lands outside a resupply zone, we will know they plan harm to our Monarchs, and will be dealt with accordingly. Quiet eyes are kept on them during refueling.

I sent the medals on to the Captain's wife. I was curious about his last comment, so I sorted through them to make sure there were no secret messages. There were none – well, not to his wife. There was one for me.

Nestled in a velvet box, I discovered an emerald ring surrounded by diamonds. I know that ring, as anyone of my age would. It explained everything. No surprise that their cargo turned into a mad queen. I assume she takes after her mother, though she was the spitting image of Princess Elizabeth.

We were told “that Wallis woman” had no children with our disgraced abdicated king. Small wonder a daughter of that unhappy union would cause all this trouble.

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Admiral, I know this is difficult to believe, but it's all here – reams of requisition reports, the notes, the journals. I will have it boxed and sent to your office. This is completely above my pay grade. All these years!

Included in this report is the velvet box with the ring. It is indeed Wallis' engagement ring from Edward. On such things does an Empire's fortune turn.

The Admiral would send notes occasionally with updates on the state of the world's doings. I have aleady taken the liberty of sending the Admiral's obituary with a letter of introduction concerning myself and a request to meet. I know I may be shot by the crew, but I would like to see this with my own eyes. Unless you directly order me otherwise, I will be at the rendezvous on the correct date.