The Henri Villeneuve was an enormous vessel, measuring 354 meters in length and 78 meters in width. It was intended to serve as the flagship of the Western Naval District. With the capacity to accommodate up to twelve squadrons of carrier-based aircraft, it functioned as a mobile airfield—perhaps even more accurately, a floating city.
Godwin had observed it twice before. The first time was two years ago, when he had assumed command of Command West and was enthusiastically guided around by none other than the esteemed Rear Admiral Jean-Luc Lafontaine. The second time was during the initial stages of construction, while he was reviewing the defenses in Belfast. Now, however, it stood in the distance, poised for launch.
It was quite a sight—and unbelievably expensive. Godwin had mixed feelings about it. But the ship was built, and the money had been spent. There was nothing left to do now but congratulate Lafontaine on his new, shiny toy.
His driver, Staff Sergeant James Holloway, turned around.
"Sir, we'll be arriving at the dockyard shortly."
Godwin shifted his attention from the ship to Holloway and nodded.
"Has Hayes arrived yet?"
"Yes, sir. She got here this morning," Holloway replied.
Godwin nodded again and looked out. The streets of Belfast were livelier than usual. The launch of the Western Naval District's first aircraft carrier was a celebration for the city and the entire Atlantic region. The streets were draped in blue and gold; from every lamppost, the Federation's flag welcomed visitors, a reminder that Belfast had long been Europe's principal shipyard. And today, it could add another aircraft carrier to its long list of accomplishments.
But it wasn't just the streets. Belfast Lough was teeming with ships belonging to the District, all adorned with Federation flags, naval pennants, and their own insignias. Many of them would soon form the core of the Henri Villeneuve Task Force. Godwin could see sailors in their pristine white uniforms dotting the decks, preparing for the launch. Today, Belfast had come alive with pride.
As Holloway drove past Belfast Castle, Godwin saw soldiers lining the route—some in ceremonial dress, others in combat gear—readying for the parade that would begin after the ship's launch. A few remaining tanks were neatly positioned at the head of the procession, ready to follow the infantry. Their crews were running final checks on the vehicles, mostly to ensure there was no live ammunition onboard and, of course, that the fuel tanks were full. The parade route was long, and a tank breaking down mid-procession would be an embarrassment—not just for Command West, but for the entire Western Naval District.
Unfortunately, the budget for the parade came from Command West. Godwin involuntarily flinched at the thought of how much was being spent on this completely unnecessary aircraft carrier. What angered him most wasn't that the Navy's funds were being used—it was that his funds were being used. Money that could have gone toward new equipment, or training, or fortifying positions on the western coastline.
But pressure from above had been too great. They had to go through with it, despite his warnings that it would leave a gaping hole in Command West's finances. So instead of revising and improving defense plans, his staff had been forced to plan the perfect parade.
Holloway brought the car to a brief stop as a colonel approached. Godwin rolled down the window and observed the man offer a textbook parade salute. He returned it, though far less enthusiastically. Then he glanced behind him. A group of staffers stood at a respectable distance, waiting.
"Sir, Colonel Pierre Duval, 44th Mechanised Brigade," the colonel introduced himself with a firm salute.
"I've heard of you, Colonel. At ease," Godwin replied, waving dismissively.
"Sir."
"So, how are the preparations coming along?" Godwin asked, his interest seemingly genuine.
"Sir, we encountered a few issues, but nothing critical. We've followed the plans carefully—those prepared by your staff—"
Godwin raised a hand, cutting him off.
"I'm not interested in what problems you encountered or how you solved them. And I really, really don't care about how you—how did you put it?—'followed the plans.' You see, I was under the impression that following orders was part of your job description..." His tone made it painfully clear he wasn't satisfied with Duval leading the parade. But at this stage, it was too late to change anything. "Colonel," he added with emphasis, "are there any problems right now?"
"No, sir," Duval replied, shaking his head.
"Dismissed."
Godwin raised the windshield before Duval could respond. Almost immediately, the engine growled to life, and Holloway drove off—quite literally leaving the colonel in the dust.
"That was... cold, sir," Holloway muttered.
"That was necessary, Sergeant. Colonel Duval needed a reminder about who's in charge here. And last I checked, it wasn't him," Godwin replied curtly.
"Quite so, sir. You could just... uh, actually, never mind. I'll focus on driving."
Godwin nodded silently.
They continued through the city. Godwin stared out the window, the streets flashing past in a blur. Before long, they were joined by the Belfast police—four motorcycle units, their blue lights cutting through the morning haze. Two took the lead, two fell in behind, locking down intersections as they advanced to ensure Godwin's car passed undisturbed.
Crowds were starting to gather. Residents of Belfast mingled with military enthusiasts, all waiting to witness Command West's grand showcase. The local cafés were still open, many people choosing to wait inside with coffee in hand. Some bystanders spotted the motorcade and waved. A few children gave enthusiastic salutes. Godwin wasn't sure if the gestures were meant for him or the officers—but he knew they couldn't see him through the car's tinted windows.
As they neared the shipyard, Holloway eased off the accelerator and glanced out.
"Well, sir... she's a beauty. And big."
Godwin looked up. Henri Villeneuve loomed like a mountain over the dockyard. Like every other ship in the harbor, it was adorned with the Federation's colors and naval ensigns. Gleaming radar domes and a large satellite array crowned the superstructure. On the port side, a rotary cannon stood ready—silent, but unmistakably lethal. Designed to intercept aircraft or missiles foolish enough to draw near.
He watched as elevators rose and fell, prepared to carry aircraft from the cavernous hangars below up to the vast flight deck.
Planes that didn't exist, Godwin thought bitterly.
Holloway carefully maneuvered the car between several vans bearing the logos of some of the Federation's largest media outlets. Godwin watched as cameramen set up their gear and reporters chatted amongst themselves. A few glanced at the car, but none approached. They knew there would be time for statements later.
Holloway brought the vehicle to a stop in front of a large administrative building belonging to the Naval District, just a short distance from the dockyard. A young lieutenant approached and opened the door for Godwin.
He stepped out and glanced back at Holloway.
"Don't worry, sir. I'll go find a place to park," Holloway said.
"Hayes will let you know when I'm ready to return. Until then, you're dismissed, Sergeant." Godwin nodded and shut the door behind him. The engine came to life again, and Holloway drove off.
Godwin turned toward the lieutenant, who snapped into a crisp parade-ground salute. Godwin returned it—far less enthusiastically.
"Sir, Lieutenant Arjan de Vries, sir," the young officer introduced himself.
"At ease, Lieutenant," Godwin said, waving a hand.
"Welcome to Belfast, sir. I trust your trip was pleasant?" de Vries asked.
"It was picturesque. Been a while since I've been in Ireland." Godwin eyed him for a moment. "You're Dutch, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir. But I've been stationed here for three years now. Saw the Henri Villeneuve rise from drydock." He paused. "Are you expecting someone, sir?"
Godwin allowed a slight smile.
"When was Admiral Lafontaine supposed to arrive? I was told he'd meet me out here... No offense."
"None taken, sir. We've been informed that the Admiral's helicopter is delayed," de Vries replied with an apologetic smile.
"Of course," Godwin muttered. "And Captain Hayes?"
"She's inside, waiting for you, sir," de Vries said promptly.
Godwin nodded as they passed by the entrance guards, who stood in full ceremonial uniform. Their polished rifles gleamed under the midday sun. The guards straightened slightly as Godwin approached, their posture stiff with formality.
Inside, Captain Hayes was seated on a couch near the glass doors, resting with her eyes closed. At the sound of footsteps, she opened them and glanced toward the entrance. Upon seeing Godwin, she immediately rose to her feet and snapped off a sharp salute.
Godwin offered a slight smile.
"At ease, Captain," he said, lowering himself onto the couch.
"Sir," she replied, then sat down again.
"How's Belfast treating you, Hayes?" Godwin asked, his tone casual but interested.
"It's more alive than usual, sir," she replied with a faint chuckle. "I spent the entire morning coordinating with Colonel Duval, local police, and the city government over the parade route—but I think we've reached an agreement. Barely."
Godwin gave a short, approving nod.
De Vries cleared his throat softly, drawing their attention. Both Godwin and Hayes turned toward him.
"Sir, ma'am," he began, "we've prepared a short presentation on the Henri Villeneuve's capabilities. Would you care to see it?"
Godwin nodded once.
"Very well. Please, follow me," de Vries said, gesturing down a hallway.
Godwin and Hayes rose and followed him. De Vries led them to a compact but well-appointed presentation room, outfitted with a few comfortable chairs, a holo-screen, and a couple of tables. Godwin took a seat in the front, while Hayes settled into a chair a few spots behind him.
Lieutenant de Vries stepped to the front and activated the holographic projector. A 3D model of the Henri Villeneuve flickered into view, rotating slowly in mid-air. He cleared his throat again, then clapped once—prompting the room lights to dim.
"Sir, ma'am, thank you for being here today. It's a significant day not just for the Western Naval District, but for Command West," he nodded politely toward Godwin and Hayes, "and for the Federation as a whole. The Henri Villeneuve will greatly enhance security across the European Atlantic area. She can operate as a command hub, a logistics center, or a dedicated offensive or defensive platform—depending on operational needs."
Godwin began to tap his fingers impatiently on the armrest, but said nothing. He turned slightly and noticed Hayes watching the presentation with focus and interest. With a faint sigh, he turned his attention back to the lieutenant.
"...as you can see," de Vries continued, still oblivious to Godwin's waning attention, "the vessel's design allows for remarkable adaptability across multiple mission profiles. And now, the part I believe you'll find most relevant—Henri Villeneuve's combat capabilities."
He paused for dramatic effect. Godwin barely suppressed a yawn.
"This," de Vries declared, his voice brimming with pride, "is the most advanced vessel afloat anywhere in the world. I doubt even the LCE has anything matching this level of sophistication."
The door blew open, making Godwin nearly jump from his seat. Lieutenant de Vries visibly tensed, his expression flashing with irritation—before it quickly dissolved into something else. Submission. His posture stiffened slightly, and he turned slowly on his heels.
Standing in the doorway was none other than Rear Admiral Jean-Luc Lafontaine. Jean-Luc "Marquis" Lafontaine.
He wore a wide smile the moment he spotted Godwin, the expression somewhere between faux affection and smug triumph. He glanced at the lieutenant and gave him a small nod. De Vries, catching the cue, turned back toward the others.
"Sir, Rear Admiral Jean-Luc Lafontaine," he announced dutifully.
Godwin muttered something under his breath. He rose from his chair, facing the Admiral as Lafontaine spread his arms wide, like an indulgent uncle greeting his least-favorite nephew after a few months of family-imposed distance.
"My dear Alastair. How are you?" Lafontaine asked, stepping forward and finally lowering his arms.
"Lafontaine," Godwin said flatly, his tone cold. "Saw your new toy. Are you satisfied with it?"
Lafontaine's grin widened. He glanced through the window, where the massive bow of the Henri Villeneuve was just barely visible through the haze.
"It's big," he said, with theatrical flair. "And it's going to obliterate any Chinese shipping that dares come near Western Europe. A psychological and physical barrier—impenetrable, reassuring. For our people."
Godwin flicked a look at Hayes and allowed himself the thinnest smile.
"Lafontaine, do you know where I've heard that before? France, 1930. The Maginot Line. And if I recall correctly... it was a disaster."
Hayes smiled in the background. De Vries stood frozen, uncertain who to side with.
Lafontaine's grin faltered for a heartbeat.
"Alastair, that was an unfortunate outcome. We expected the Germans to respect Belgian neutrality—"
"And what," Godwin interrupted, "makes you think your ship doesn't remind me of the Maginot Line?"
He swept his gaze around the room, resting momentarily on De Vries before settling back on Hayes, whose small smile had grown into a broad grin.
"A lot of money was spent on both," Godwin continued, "money that could've been far better used elsewhere."
Lafontaine's eyes narrowed. His voice dropped a few degrees in warmth.
"Do you have a problem, Major General?"
Godwin's smile returned—tight, sharp.
"You know what, Jean? I do. I fucking do."
Lafontaine's gaze flicked briefly around the room—Hayes, impassive but alert, then Godwin, and finally, the unfortunate Lieutenant de Vries.
"Lieutenant," Lafontaine said icily, "leave the room."
De Vries didn't argue. He nodded, cutting quickly between Godwin—still smiling like a wolf—and Lafontaine, who looked as if that least-favorite nephew had just stabbed him in the back. The young officer gave a final uncertain glance before slipping out and closing the door softly behind him.
"Well, Major General," Lafontaine said, folding his arms. "What is your problem?"
"My problem?" Godwin laughed, the sound dry and sharp. "My problem, dear Admiral, is that every single ship in the Western Naval District has a French name—even though most of them were built in British dockyards."
"What do you mean?" Lafontaine blinked, genuinely puzzled.
"What do I mean?" Godwin's laugh grew louder now, bordering on manic disbelief. "Richelieu. Austerlitz. Jeanne d'Arc. Égalité. Surcouf. Not a single British name. Or Belgian. Or Spanish. Or Portuguese. Don't you think it's time we shared the stage a bit, hmm?"
"General, you know that no other nation in Europe has contributed as much to the Federation as France," Lafontaine replied, smiling again, as if delivering an irrefutable truth.
Hayes, still seated, glanced anxiously toward Godwin. She could see the tightening in his jaw, the subtle shift in posture. For a moment, she genuinely thought he might hit Lafontaine. Quietly, she grabbed her uniform jacket from where it lay across her knees and braced herself to intervene—ready to leap up if the general decided that a court-martial was worth the punch.
But then, just as suddenly, Godwin relaxed.
He smiled back.
"Of course," he said smoothly. "It's easy to contribute once there's peace."
Now it was Lafontaine's turn to look like he was about to hit Godwin. Hayes quickly jumped up and stood beside Godwin, who visibly gloated over the fact that he had managed to hit the Frenchman's nerve.
"My countrymen died under Russian oppression, Godwin," Lafontaine spat coldly.
"So did mine, Lafontaine. So did Belgians, Dutch, Irish people, and Spaniards. So? What makes French lives and battles more worth it? I wouldn't be even half as troubled if warships were named after actual Resistance figures who contributed to the Federation's legacy — with the exception of Henri Villeneuve," Godwin touched his cap in a silent gesture of respect, "but very often it's names from French history. French, Lafontaine. Not the Federation's — French."
Lafontaine looked like he was about to kill Godwin. The vein on his forehead was clearly visible and his face had gone red.
"Why the fuck do you bother with such petty problems, General? You're attacking the unity of the Federation. How about you give me some real problems, eh? You fucking Brit," Lafontaine spat out again.
Godwin doubled over with laughter.
"Lafontaine, that's the most French thing you've said all day," Godwin looked at Hayes, who also smiled a little, while Lafontaine's eyes darted between them in cold, unconcealed fury.
He raised a finger and pointed it at Godwin, who took a step back as if startled. Hayes shifted slightly to allow Godwin space to move. Lafontaine — surprisingly — looked even angrier than before.
"Do you have any real criticism?" Lafontaine said through clenched teeth.
"I do, Jean," Godwin nodded.
Lafontaine lowered his hand.
"Well then, let's hear it."
"You asked for it," Godwin looked briefly at Hayes. "Do you have any fucking idea how much you spent on that aircraft carrier? Twenty-eight billion euros. Twenty-eight. And not bloody millions — billions."
"So what?" Lafontaine shrugged. "It's Navy money."
"Yeah, taken from the Army's and Air Force's funds. Do you have any bloody idea what Command West could do with twenty-eight billion?" Godwin asked.
Lafontaine's brow furrowed slightly.
"Godwin, may I remind you that the Navy is the first line of the Federation's defence?"
Godwin looked at Hayes, his gaze clearly conveying one thought. Hayes nodded briefly. He turned back to Lafontaine and took a few deep breaths to steady himself.
"And what happens when we lose ground? Did you miss your strategy lessons when you were at the Academy?"
"We take it back!" Lafontaine shouted, making both Hayes and Godwin flinch slightly.
"With what?" Godwin asked sarcastically. "Unless you've figured out how to make a warship amphibious, I've no idea how you plan to do it."
"I was under the impression that fighting on the ground is your job, General."
Godwin almost hit Lafontaine. Almost.
"With what, you idiot? With what, when my forces are barely trained, my gear is either outdated or undermanned, and when almost everything we use breaks down the moment we start it! With what, I ask you? Fucking tell me! Or don't! But in that case, you can fuck off!"
Hayes had to gently hold Godwin back so he didn't lash out at Lafontaine, who took a step back, clearly frightened by Godwin's actions and tone.
There was a knock at the door and Lieutenant De Vries entered the room again. He saluted, but after seeing that no one would return it, quickly stood down. Only then did he take in the scene: Hayes holding Godwin back, while Lafontaine — now completely pale — looked like he was about to bolt through the open doors behind him.
An expression of complete puzzlement formed on his face, almost involuntarily. He stared first at Hayes, then at Godwin, then at Lafontaine, and back to Hayes. After finally realising something was off, he performed a swift 180-degree turn and prepared to leave the room — only to be stopped by Hayes.
"Lieutenant, how can we help you?" she asked, while Godwin stepped back, smoothing out his uniform slightly, and Lafontaine began to look a little more composed.
De Vries turned back around and, without meaning to, once again glanced at each officer with an expression that couldn't hide his awe and confusion. After what felt like a long moment, he finally composed himself — though still visibly puzzled — and cleared his throat.
"Sirs, it is time for the ceremony. Sir," he turned to Lafontaine, while Godwin quietly sneered at the word ceremony, "sir, I have your speech."
De Vries extended a hand with a piece of paper toward Lafontaine. Lafontaine took it and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He straightened up and glanced at the lieutenant, who was determinedly staring at his boots. Lafontaine looked around the room one last time and left. De Vries followed close behind, shutting the door behind them.
Godwin chuckled and looked at Hayes, who met his gaze.
"So, Hayes, what do you reckon we should do?" he asked.
"Go listen to his speech?"
"Why not? Let's bless him with our presence," Godwin laughed, prompting a small smile from Hayes as well.
He opened the door and let Hayes through before following her.
***
The crowd was vast—almost unbelievably so. People had come from every corner of the Federation. Some carried cameras, some had children on their shoulders, others waved flags of the Federation and its many member-states. This sea of spectators waited behind barricades lined by police officers in ceremonial uniforms. Behind them stood a secondary line of officers—equipped with caseless rifles, vests, and helmets with visors that displayed real-time intel streamed from small drones circling above, mounted cameras, and discreet sensors embedded in the pavement.
Then, the music began—The March of Free Europeans. As it echoed across the city square, the Navy's staff began to arrive in front of a raised stage, accompanied by handheld cameras and the occasional hovering drone, making either sweeping aerial passes or dramatic close-ups of the arriving brass.
Godwin stepped out with Hayes behind him, swatting away a small four-rotor drone trying to render a 3D representation of his arrival for one of the larger media networks. He took his seat in the front row, doing his best to assume a look of semi-interest.
More officials followed—generals, admirals, ministers, politicians, foreign dignitaries—all filing into their assigned places. The music shifted seamlessly into an older pre-occupation French march, Défendre la mer Républicaine. At the transition from strings to brassy fanfare, Lafontaine appeared, stepping onto the stage before the massive form of Henri Villeneuve. Applause erupted from the crowd and the assembled brass.
He gave his speech, and with dramatic flair, smashed a bottle of pristine 2034 French champagne against the ship's hull.
***
The bottle didn't crack on the first try, but did on the second. Lafontaine smiled and waved grandly to the crowd. Applause thundered. The deep blast of the ship's horn followed, echoed by salutes from the ships of the fleet moored in the harbor.
The military parade commenced, led by Command West—specifically its 44th Mechanised Brigade. Godwin stood beside Lafontaine on yet another raised platform, saluting the soldiers as they passed. Lafontaine merely stood, smiling and occasionally nodding at the troops.
The march was long, though it wrapped up before the sun began its descent across the sky. With the final contingent—clad in the Federation's ceremonial guard uniforms—passing by, Godwin gave one last salute and relaxed slightly. Behind him, Hayes stood, waiting patiently for him to move so she could follow.
Lafontaine left first, surrounded by junior officers and politicians. They disappeared into waiting SUVs that would ferry them to Belfast City Hall, where a gala—hosted by the Western Naval District—was to be held in celebration of Henri Villeneuve's maiden voyage.
Godwin lingered. People streamed past him. He nodded at a few, but mostly just observed—watching as citizens slowly dispersed. Some returned home. Some to hotels. Some headed off with friends to raise a glass to freedom and safety.
Safety that isn't guaranteed, Godwin thought bitterly. Because that safety depends on our men and women, on our gear, on infrastructure that's ignored, forgotten, misused.
He shook his head, half in resignation, half in frustration, and turned his gaze toward the now nearly deserted stage. A few more people passed him; he let them go ahead before finally descending the platform steps, Hayes at his heels.
His car waited just behind the stage. On one side stood Holloway, grinning like a fox. On the other, a uniformed military police officer stood at attention, expression neutral, hands resting calmly on his vest.
Godwin gave Holloway a curt nod. The sergeant opened the door for him as Hayes gently waved off the MP. Both officers stepped into the car, and Holloway closed the door behind them. Then he climbed into the driver's seat and glanced at the General through the mirror.
"So, sir. Good show, eh?"
Godwin gave a tired smile and shook his head slowly.
"Right, thought so. City Hall?" Holloway asked, a bit more cautiously.
"No, Sergeant. I don't think I will go," Godwin replied, leaning back in his seat and shaking his head again.
"Sir, they expect you there. You could get some reps to increase the budget of Command West," Hayes chimed in.
Godwin glanced at her, then leaned forward and patted Holloway's shoulder.
"Sergeant, airport please," Godwin said at last, his voice steady, even as Hayes leaned back beside him, clearly unsatisfied with the outcome.
"Understood, sir." Holloway started the car and eased it out from beneath the long shadow cast by Henri Villeneuve. "And the travel music, sir?"
"Whatever Hayes would like," Godwin muttered, loosening his collar with one hand and turning to look out the window, fatigue pressing at his eyelids like a lead curtain.
Hayes tapped a quick command into the dashboard display. Pop music began to play—a safe, inoffensive beat, something with just enough energy to keep the silence at bay. She opened a tablet and began flicking through the pages of a military theory book, her brow furrowed with focus.
Godwin glanced over and raised an eyebrow. "May I suggest Clausewitz?"
"Sir?" Hayes looked up, puzzled.
"Von Clausewitz. On War. Ever read it?"
She shook her head. "No, sir. It wasn't covered in staff college."
Godwin snorted softly. "It should have been. Read it, Hayes. Universal truths about war. And I have a feeling we'll be needing those truths soon enough."
With that, he shut his eyes, letting the low hum of the car and the distant throb of the city lull him into a brief, uneasy sleep.
⸻
He awoke as they rolled into Fort Dunmara, a hardened, sprawling base nestled northwest of Belfast—Command West's iron bastion on the Irish Sea. The sleek silhouette of a private executive jet gleamed under floodlights, its boarding ramp already lowered, warm yellow light spilling out like a welcome from some quieter, better world.
Holloway gave Godwin a nod and wordlessly drove off. The general and Hayes moved briskly across the tarmac and boarded the aircraft. The engines had already begun their whispering cycle, barely louder than a breath. At the top of the steps, a uniformed pilot greeted them with a crisp salute before vanishing into the cockpit to begin final checks.
Inside, the cabin was quiet and tastefully austere. Godwin eased into a broad leather chair and unbuttoned the top of his uniform jacket. Hayes sat across the aisle, choosing a seat by the window but not too close to him, and resumed her reading.
Outside, two EF fighter jets idled nearby—ghostlike machines in the night, their engines emitting only the faintest of vibrations. Their wings were stripped of traditional payloads, bearing only streamlined sensor pods: 360-degree AI-augmented visual systems for battlefield awareness. Their real arsenal—AAM-42 Jätte and AAM-66M Strix air-to-air missiles—was hidden within internal bays, preserving stealth and reducing radar profile. The pilots, expressionless behind opaque visors, were more machine than man in appearance, marked only by the subdued EF patch on their shoulders.
One jet taxied ahead of the transport, the other falling behind as they moved toward the darkened strip, following a squat utility vehicle with blinking amber lights.
Godwin leaned back and called up the aircraft's embedded holo-interface. A shimmering display sprang to life before him, casting pale blue light across his face. Hayes glanced at it briefly, then returned to her tablet.
The display flickered and flowed—divisional dispositions, armor and infantry unit strength, readiness levels, logistics reports, air power rotations. The never-ending ballet of military minutiae. He flipped through operational plans, comparing maps, red lines and blue arrows dancing across terrain models of Western Europe.
Above them, the plane flew silently over Wales. The fighters kept their distance but maintained a constant presence, like silent wolves running with the pack.
Godwin looked around. Hayes had fallen asleep, tablet still gripped in her lap, her expression softening now that no one was watching.
He returned to the data.
⸻
The aircraft descended smoothly into Northwick Airport, the lights of London flickering in the distance like a thousand barely-contained thoughts. The two escorts broke off, banking sharply toward Fort Albion Aerodrome, disappearing into the night like shadows retreating from dawn.
The plane taxied into a dimly lit, secluded corner of the airfield, far from the commercial terminals and glittering lounges. Around them, a handful of private jets sat idle, blinking faint red and white in the night.
Godwin disembarked first, coat folded over one arm. Hayes followed a few steps behind. Waiting for them was an armored black utility vehicle—larger, heavier, but not driven by Holloway this time. The driver offered only a wordless nod and opened the rear doors.
They climbed in. As the car pulled away, Hayes was the first to be dropped off, at a secure residential complex in the heart of London. She gave a short nod before stepping out and vanishing into the darkened lobby.
Godwin remained silent as the car drove on, toward the estate reserved for the Commander of Command West. He watched the city blur past—lights, lives, distractions—and said nothing.
***
Early on in the morning, Godwin was still sitting behind a holo screen, looking over Command West's assets. Thinking. Wargaming. Analysing.