Harold looked across the parade ground, he was feeling buoyant and confident, there was no chance that his nephew could raise a force to resist the full might of the Royal Army. Aligned before him, in their best parade dress uniforms was a division of the best that the Army could muster. Every exposed piece of leather shone, the brass was like mirrors and the weapons looked straight out to box from the factory. Harold was fully aware that these were simply for show, the real soldiers were preparing to move north and set up a blocking force just south of the Scottish border. His spies had informed him that the rebels were mustering their forces just north of the border. The information coming south was limited as the rebels were expecting spies and his were usually caught before they came too close to the main encampment. His Generals had assured him that the rebel forces would be substantially smaller than the Royal forces and the outcome was simply a matter of time. Harold's mind was starting to break down on a major level and he couldn't see the reality of the situation.
He ordered an immediate deployment to the north, but he refused to send the home fleet north, he maintained that they were the true power on the sea and the rebels would be fools to try and engage them. So, the Home Fleet sat at anchor just outside the entry to the Thames, and would remain there. He had placed all his eggs in the Army's basket, he wouldn't hear of the Fleet travelling north as a long range artillery option, if the rebels had enough troops to worry the Generals they should have increased their troop numbers through the Draft. As he watched the soldiers drilling on parade, he couldn't imagine such handsome soldiers being defeated and the more they marched and clattered to a halt on command, the more his smile grew and the more he knew in his heart he would defeat these traitors with ease.
"These are the greatest soldiers in the world, General. It will be a slaughter, order them no quarter. I do not want anyone that would follow that waste of life to have a chance to bask in the glory that the British Empire is about to become." He announced as he clapped and stamped his feet when the perfect lines marched past him.
"Sir, that is a very harsh order, I would hope that they would show compassion to our wounded and captured. Do you not think it would raise your legend as a King of the people if you ordered the same?" General Dunlevy enquired, trying subtly to move the King away from a very dangerous and quite abhorrent order.
"Yes, you do have a point, spare the ranks, but the officers are to be put to death on the spot. That way I can serve a lesson and yet appear merciful and understanding."
"Yes, Sire." Dunlevy had absolutely no intention of passing on such a barbaric order to his men. If the rebels got wind of it, there would be catastrophic responses from the rebel's forces. "By you leave, Sire. I must attend to the deployment and battle plans."
"Of course, General, I await your signal of the first victory." Dunlevy saluted and turned and left the King dancing around like a child watching the circus march past his home town.
General Eugene Dunlevy had always served the Crown to the best of his ability. He was not one of the Cabal that had over-thrown Uther, but on the same side of the coin, he didn't do anything to prevent it, or even protest the actions of those in leadership positions. It was clear in his mind, if he didn't succeed in the coming war, then he would likely be strung up by Prince Arthur once he ascended the Throne. The thought of Brit fighting Brit made him feel sick to the stomach, and if there was any other way of settling this matter, he would have been waving the flag at the front of the column. He knew that he was had the upper hand with almost a two to one advantage, but the troops that were aligned against his own were some of the best trained troops in the world. He did have divisions of equally capable troops, but they lacked one important motivation, the love of their leader. Harold was a psychopath that thought of nothing but his own aggrandizement, Arthur, it was said, thought of nothing but the upraising of the British people. There was nothing a soldier wouldn't do for a leader that thought more of the soldier than himself. These rebels were a perilous threat to the Crown of Harold the First. He stepped into the back seat of the car that was awaiting him and sped off to the primary military Headquarters (HQ) in London
Captain Elizabeth Cornwall sat on a small stool next to her MBT (Main Battle Tank) "Fluffy". It was a bone of major contention with the rest of her crew that their massive one hundred tonne tank was called Fluffy. But as she said, when they gained command of their own tank they could name it whatever the hell they wanted, but until that time, they could suck it up and deal with it. She was in love with the massive war machine, it was like no feeling on Earth when it was tearing across the terrain at a hundred kilometres an hour, then the main gun fired and it was like the Gods spoke in vengeful anger. She had been a Tanker for eight years and she had moved through the ranks to finally command a Squad of PC1BR Leviathan Main Battle Tanks. There were very few things on the planet that could go toe to toe with a PC1BR. With armour almost a metre thick on the sides and one and half metres on the front and the turret. She had seen one take a direct hit with a one fifty mm artillery shell and keep on going, there was a massive crater where the shell impacted, but it failed to penetrate the hull.
There was only one weakness on the MBT, and that was the tracks, they could take an enormous amount of punishment, but there were limits a drive track could take before it reached its limit. Cornwall had caused no end of consternation when she announced at twelve that she wanted to drive tanks in the army, her parents had tried everything they could to dissuade her from such a manly career, it just didn't do for young ladies of a certain station to aspire to such an ugly job. But as she grew, her obsession with tanks and tank warfare had only grown and once she was old enough, she had applied to Sandhurst Military Academy. Graduating in the top three percent she her pick of billets, to which she chose armour in a heartbeat. It hadn't been all smooth sailing, as it were, more than one senior officer had tried to encourage her into a more feminine role, but she had proven herself a very capable tank commander and there was nothing left for it, but to give her the role she dreamt of.
That was a long time ago now, but she had not lost one iota of the love and enjoyment of running around the country in a tank. Now she was leading a squad of ten MBT's and about to take them into real battle, against her own countrymen, a fact that she struggled with, but it was the same as any battle, if she didn't kill them, they would kill her. She had the power of a one-thirty mm main gun, two side turrets with eighty mm anti-materiel canon and for good measure, an eighty mm rear facing canon, not that she wanted to find out what situation would call its use. The Leviathan was the latest and most powerful MBT that had ever been developed, in exercises against the American Roosevelt MBT, there was a major mismatch. The American's had suggested a test of fire power, so both countries set up radio controlled tanks to slug it out in a test, winner take all, and there was an awfully large amount of money on the line. She had bet her counterpart a thousand dollars, which he took with a smug smile and they headed to the range. To say that it was a one sided affair would be selling the Leviathan short. Two shots from the Leviathan had completely mangled the Roosevelt and left it a smoking wreck. If that wasn't enough, Lieutenant General Snyder had invited the Americans to have a crack at the Leviathan with two manned Roosevelts.
The result was that Cornwall was a thousand dollars richer and the Americans approached Baker Harmonics to supply versions of the Leviathan for their own tank battalions. The fact that the PC1BR was powered by an EMPG system made a lot of difference, there was never a lack of power and the lack of a gearbox meant instantaneous power to the ground with a the chances of failure so small that the Americans offered twice the usual cost for each unit. By that time EMPG was well ensconced in Scotland and saw issue with supplying the units. Cornwall had heard that the Americans tried to disassemble the EMPG unit and were ropable when the unit fused into slag and was completely useless for analysis. A sound off to her right brought her back to the present, her driver and long-time friend corporal Terry Main wandered up and stood beside her.
"I just can't help it, Skipper, why did you have to paint "Fluffy" in pink on the barrel. It's embarrassing." Main complained.
"I have told you before, Corporal, if it's big, mean, nasty and destroys shit, what better name than Fluffy? Would you put shit on MacDiarmid for the name of his tank?" Main swallowed at the thought and nearly choked, MacDiarmid was huge and barely fir in a Leviathan, he had called his machine "Wee Man" as one would expect from a Scot.
"Exactly, or Gossper for calling hers Bob? No I wouldn't imagine so either, she would tear you a new arse and then stitch all your holes shut with barbed wire."
"Point made Skipper. The boss called a meeting for sixteen hundred. Squad level commanders only." He informed her.
"Well looks like Fluffy is about to lose her virginity." She said wistfully. "Alright, spin up the power unit, pass the order down and make sure all the weapons are pristine, I don't want the slightest hint of a failure, Understood?"
"Clear, Skipper, I will get everyone on it."