The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 130 The Black Scepter

Forty minutes after dinner ended, Sterling House was completely enveloped in the stillness of the night.

The servants had already left, and only the wall lamps in the corridor were still on, emitting a dim yellow glow.

The door to the study on the second floor was tightly closed.

This is the heart of the Sterling family.

The room is 80 square meters in size, with walnut wainscoting covering the walls and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves around it, displaying thousands of leather-bound books.

Most of them are classics on maritime law, mining geology, shipbuilding engineering, and imperial war history. There are also some original account books of the East India Company, their covers worn white.

A peculiar granular quality hung in the air. It was the aroma of burning Cuban cigars, the musty smell of old paper, and leather conditioner mixed together. It was the smell of power.

Earl Stirling sat behind the enormous mahogany desk, which was two meters wide and had a tabletop carved from a single piece of mahogany, covered with the marks of time.

For the past four decades, instructions regarding the laying of keels for British warships, the mining quotas for tin mines in the Far East, and the exploration plans for oil fields in the North Sea have all been issued from this table.

The fire in the fireplace was still burning, the dry oak crackling as it burned, and the heat made the air in the study somewhat dry.

Arthur did not sit down immediately.

He slung the ebony cane over his shoulder and stood before the towering bookshelves, his fingers tracing the gilded spines of the books.

Arthur's finger stopped on a book with a dark blue cover, and he pulled it out.

Tactics of Trafalgar, published in 1910, was written by Sir Julian Corbett of the Admiralty.

Arthur turned the pages of the book.

Tucked inside was a yellowed hand-drawn nautical chart, marked with the "T"-shaped maneuvering trajectory of Nelson's fleet cutting into the battle line of the Franco-Spanish combined fleet.

"Are you interested in the navy?" The old count's voice came from behind his desk, where he was cutting the cap off a Montecristo cigar.

"If you'd like a change of scenery, I can call the First Sea Lord right now." The old count picked up a match and struck it.

"I'll get you a visa and get you a job in the Royal Navy. Even being a captain on HMS Hood would be more respectable than wallowing in the mud in Calais. That's a gentleman's war."

"Cough cough cough cough!" Arthur suddenly coughed violently. He choked on the air he had just inhaled and almost dropped the book in his hand.

Arthur turned around, and in that instant, his expression became incredibly interesting.

His eyebrows were raised, his eyes twitched, and his gaze was a mixture of fear and absurdity, as if he were looking at a murderer who was trying to kill his own son.

When you think of the HMS Hood, what comes to mind first?

The indigenous people's answer: The pride of the British Empire, the world's most powerful battlecruiser.

Arthur: Bismarck's only achievement, self-destruction, thin skin but big filling.

[Denmark Strait. May 24, 1941. Ammunition depot explodes. All personnel killed. Survivors: 3. Survival rate:]

0.21%.

That wasn't a Royal Navy luxury cruise ship; it was a mobile powder keg encased in 42000 tons of steel, its horizontal armor as thin as paper.

"What?" The old count frowned, looking at his son's overreaction. "That's the Royal Navy's flagship. Even being a colonel there is an unparalleled honor."

"Glory." Arthur covered his mouth with a handkerchief to calm his breathing.

"Father, if you want me to die quickly, just give me a fully loaded revolver. There's no need to send me on that ship."

Under the old count's puzzled gaze, Arthur closed the book "A Study of the Tactics of the Battle of Trafalgar".

"A gentleman's war?" He shoved the book back onto the shelf with a heavy thud, the spine of the book hitting the shelf with a loud "bang."

“Father. At sea, if a ship sinks, it’s an iron coffin. There’s no need to dig a grave, because the body can’t be found.” Arthur turned around, leaning on his cane. “Moreover, you can be burned alive in a fire fueled by thousands of tons of heavy oil, or drowned in the cold waters of the Atlantic Ocean, or torn apart by sharks.”

"I don't think this is more dignified than being machine-gunned."

The old count paused for a moment.

The match burned his finger, and he flicked it out.

"You're right." The old count's voice suddenly lowered. "The navy's casualty rate is indeed the highest of all branches of the military. Once something happens, thousands of names disappear at the same time." He shook his head, as if trying to dispel some bad thoughts, because he was thinking of Nelson. "Forget it. Let's stick with the army. At least we have our feet on the ground, it's easier to run."

Arthur walked to the opposite side of the desk, sat down, and leaned his cane against the edge of the table. The father and son's eyes met through the smoke.

He was still wearing his military uniform, buttoned up. Before entering the study, the old count had him take his ebony cane. The head of the cane was a lion relief made of pure silver. After years of handling, the silver surface had oxidized and turned black, with only the lion's teeth and eyes polished to a shine.

Arthur tapped the tip of the cane rhythmically, making no sound, just the contact between his fingertips and the metal.

The old count frowned.

"Harold may be a greedy fool," the old count broke the silence, his deep voice echoing in the empty study, "but he's not entirely useless; he's a working machine."

"For the past decade, he has managed the day-to-day operations of Stirling Heavy Industries. Managing the supply chain, personnel relations with the Ordnance Department, negotiations with unions, and applications for raw material quotas." The old count looked at Arthur. "It's a huge network."

Harold may have been sneaking a bite, but he knew how to keep the net from breaking.

"Now we've driven him away."

"The London Stock Exchange opens at 9:00 AM tomorrow. Stirling Heavy Industries' share price will fluctuate due to management turmoil."

"More importantly, the day after tomorrow is the delivery deadline for the Navy's follow-up orders for the King George V-class battleships."

"If no one signs off, no one bribes the ordnance bureau's inspectors, and no one stops the suppliers who want to take the opportunity to raise prices."

"The Sterling Reconstruction Project could cause chaos and disrupt the family's plans and rhythm."

The old count pulled out the drawer, and the slide made a slight scraping sound.

He took out a printed document and pushed it to the edge of the table.

"This is the list that the headhunting firm sent yesterday."

"The best professional managers in London. There are former HSBC executives and operations directors poached from Vickers-Armstrong."

"I'm going to appoint that guy named Robert—"

"No need." Arthur decisively interrupted his father, his tone cold, direct, and without any room for negotiation.

The old count's hand froze in mid-air as he looked at Arthur, waiting for his next explanation.

Arthur didn't reach for the list; he didn't even glance at it.

He simply clasped his hands together, leaned on his cane, and leaned slightly forward, like a statue.

On his retina was the blue RTS system interface, with data streaming down—the entirety of the Sterling family's business data.

From the purchase price of every screw to the attendance record of every worker, the system has completed a full-dimensional scan and modeling, and archived it for him, the commander.

"Professional managers only look at financial statements. They don't understand technology. They understand even less about war." Arthur spoke, his pace steady and his tone flat, as if he were reading a report aloud, because he truly was.

"Birmingham First Steel Mill," Arthur reported the first coordinate. "Over the past three quarters, the mill's book loss rate for nickel alloy raw materials has reached 15.4%."

"The industry average loss rate is 4.5%."

"The extra 10.9% was resold by the factory manager, Williams, to the Birmingham black market via night-shift trucks. The buyers were several hardware workshops that were falsifying their accounts."

"Williams is Uncle Harold's wife's cousin. He bought two villas in South Birmingham, in the name of his mistress."

The old count's pupils contracted slightly, and he was immediately stunned.

Arthur did not stop.

Liverpool Shipyard. Third Dry Dock.

"Starting in January 1939, the shipyard's weekly wage expenditure increased by 32%."

"The books show 1200 riveters. But in reality, only 1000 are actually working."

"Those 200 ghost workers would collect their wages every Friday without fail; some were receiving salaries for doing nothing. The money ultimately went into a shell account belonging to a firm called Harrison Consulting."

"The person who actually controls that account is Uncle Harold's private lawyer."

The old count's fingers, holding the cigar, trembled, and a piece of grayish-white ash broke off, silently scattering onto the expensive Persian carpet, leaving a tiny black mark.

He ignored the carpet; his mind was racing.

Harold's underhanded tactics were no secret to him; they were "management fees" he tacitly approved to maintain the family's balance. As long as the machines were running, Sterling Heavy Industries could still generate huge profits every year, so this loss was negligible.

To his astonishment, how did this little brat know?

Arthur had only been back in England for less than 24 hours. How did he manage that?

Alfred? That was his first thought; the old butler knew most of the family's secrets.

Impossible, because he is so loyal that the old count would entrust his life to him.

Was that MI6 wiretapping? Or was the accountant bribed?

In that instant, as the old count looked at his son across from him, who was still "reporting out points" with a blank expression, countless speculations about "intelligence leakage" flashed through his mind.

Ignoring the old count's intriguing gaze, Arthur quickened his pace.

"Sheffield Ordnance Division. This is the most serious."

"In order to save costs, Harold approved changes to the production process of the 40mm Bofors anti-aircraft shell."

"They replaced the standard copper ammunition belts with copper-plated steel."

"This can lead to excessive wear of the rifling and barrel explosion during continuous firing."

"This batch of ammunition is mainly supplied to the air defense brigade in Portsmouth."

"For every 10,000 rounds produced, Harold can save £300."

Arthur recited a series of data.

The names, dates, specific amounts, and even the exact bank transaction numbers—every number is precise to one decimal place. There isn't a single vague word like "approximately" or "maybe"; everything is stated with certainty.

Arthur looked at his father and made a final judgment, because his father was forcing him to abdicate and proving himself.

"I know which screw is loose."

"I also know which mouse is stealing the food."

"I even know Uncle Harold's safe deposit box number at Credit Suisse in Zurich, Switzerland."

The study was deathly silent, save for the crackling sound of the wood popping in the fireplace.

The old count held a cigar in his hand but forgot to smoke it. He stared blankly at his son sitting opposite him. This feeling was unfamiliar and even made him feel a little scared.

Yes, fear, a word that was very foreign to him.

Arthur had just returned from France, where he had spent the last three months wallowing in the mud and crawling through piles of dead bodies in Calais.

He had no time to look at the accounts, let alone visit the factory, and he never did.

But at this moment, he probably understands the family business better than Harold himself and he understands it better.

Those corrupt practices and those falsified accounts were as transparent as can be in Arthur's mouth.

How did this kid manage to do that? How many spies did he plant in the family?

Genius? Or some more absurd possibility?

The old count looked into those unwavering blue eyes. His son, who used to be all about riding horses, drinking, and fighting over a dancer, was completely different from the sophisticated calculating machine before him.

In that instant, the old count even had a near-superstitious delusion: the real Arthur might have already died in the mud pit of Calais. The one sitting opposite him was nothing more than a stranger in Arthur's skin, whose soul had been stolen.

But the old count was the old count; he simply took a deep breath and quickly composed himself.

As a father and the head of the family, he did not want to appear weak in front of his son.

He picked up a cigar, took a deep drag, and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. Using the smoke as cover, he adjusted his facial expression.

"Hmph." The old count let out a nasal sound, a haughty snort masking his embarrassment. "You brat—"

"It seems that he's not as indifferent to the family business as you say."

"You even know the nickel alloy loss rate in Birmingham by heart. Looks like you haven't been idle in France either."

Arthur ignored his father's comments and continued to present his solutions. Since they had already laid their cards on the table, he might as well explain the solutions clearly.

"I don't need professional managers."

"When those people come, all they'll do is lay off staff or cut R&D budgets just to make their reports look good."

"I have the new candidates in mind." Arthur tapped his temple with his finger. "The First Steel Rolling Mill in Birmingham will be taken over by old George. He's a World War I veteran and now the foreman of Blast Furnace No. 3. He was suppressed by Williams for five years, but he knows the blast furnace better than his own wife."

"Liverpool shipyard, promote that chief engineer named McDonald. He's a Scotsman, has a terrible temper, but is technically superb. Give him enough steel, and he can sleep in the dock."

"I've already written the orders."

"Tomorrow morning at 8 o'clock, Major Ryder will lead the military police and the audit team to move into these three locations simultaneously."

"It's not chaos," Arthur's voice was cold and hard. "It's a great purge."

"It's a surgical procedure to remove a tumor."

The old count then closed the list of professional managers and casually tossed it into the trash can.

Since his son is such a sophisticated computing machine, then he really doesn't need to worry about the company's affairs.

The old count leaned back in his chair, watching the swirling smoke, and changed the subject.

"It seems you can manage the company and keep the accounts. I don't need to worry about that anymore."

"But what about the family's future?"

The old count observed Arthur through the smoke.

"Two days before you returned, I met with the Lord Chamberlain."

"We had afternoon tea at St. James's Palace."

"His Majesty the King mentioned you."

"Oh?" Now it was Arthur's turn to be a little surprised.

George VI, the "Berty" who had a severe stutter, a shy personality, and relied on smoking to relieve anxiety? The unlucky guy who never wanted to be king but was forced onto the throne because his brother fell in love with a divorced American woman?

It's understandable that he's concerned about himself, since the entire British military and civilian population is watching him. But what does he want to do?

The old count looked at Arthur's pensive expression with a sense of pride; it was finally his turn to turn the tables.

"His Majesty is very impressed with you. Very impressed."

"You are a hero. A war hero. Needless to say, you are the heir to the Sterling family."

"Most importantly, you have demonstrated a toughness that is extremely rare in this chaotic world."

"Princess Elizabeth," the old count uttered the name, "though she's only 14 years old. Still a child."

"But the royal family is thinking about the future. The future queen needs a strong consort. A prince who can stand behind her, wield significant power, and protect the dignity of the royal family."

The old count's eyes sharpened.

"If you agree to retire, enter politics, or join the Privy Council."

"This is the best kind of political marriage."

"The Sterling family will no longer be just business tycoons. We will become royalty. We will be integrated with the bloodline of the House of Windsor."

Arthur paused for a moment.

Of course he knew who Elizabeth was—the Queen of a remarkably long reign, the woman who witnessed the British Empire's decline from its former glory to its current state, and who saw more than a dozen prime ministers pass away. Right now, she was just a young girl hiding in Windsor Castle, seeking refuge from air raids.

Arthur gave a bitter smile, not a sarcastic one, but one of deep helplessness.

"Father," Arthur said, looking at the old Earl, "you want me to be a prince?"

"Or are you suggesting I become a stallion?"

Arthur stood up.

His military boots clattered heavily on the thick Persian carpet. He walked to the French windows and drew back the heavy velvet curtains. Outside, the night was pitch black; London was still under blackout. But Arthur seemed to see the lights across the Channel through the darkness.

"The German tanks are still arriving."

"Guderian's armored division was only 33 kilometers from the Strait of Dover."

"They could cross the sea at any time. Operation Sea Lion is not just talk; it refers to those landing craft that are being assembled. Before we evacuated, the Germans were already deliberately seizing those ports to prevent the Allied forces from destroying the facilities there. As for what they were used for, you can probably guess."

Arthur turned around, his back to the window.

"Talking about marriage at this time?"

"Or should I marry the future queen?"

"What does that mean? It means I have to take off my military uniform and put on a tuxedo."

"That means I'll be locked in Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle."

"My daily tasks are ribbon-cutting, smiling, comforting the wounded, and being a perfect mascot."

"Then, when needed, provide the royal family with fresh genes."

Arthur gripped his cane tightly, and the cane slammed heavily onto the ground.

笃.

"I am a soldier. Father."

"I am the commander."

"I want to stay in the army. I want to go to the front lines. I want to kill people."

"Until we send those Little Mustache guys to hell. Until we tear the Nazi flag down from the Reichstag and replace it with our own."

The air in the study seemed to freeze, but the old count wasn't angry, as he had expected.

He listened quietly to Arthur's outpouring, then slowly and forcefully stubbed out his cigar in the crystal ashtray.

"You can go back to the army," the old count said coldly, even colder than when they were discussing the £45. "You can continue killing. You can even die."

"But the Sterling family cannot die."

The old count leaned forward, his hands gripping the armrests, exuding an aura of authority that instantly emanated from him.

"You almost didn't make it back from Calgary."

"If you die, who will inherit all of this?"

"Harold? Or that idiot Julian who can only write lousy sonnets?"

"If the Sterling family line dies out, what's the point of us winning the war?"

"If your bloodline ends, then this house, these factories, this surname, will all be swallowed up by others."

The old count tapped on the table.

"I'm just talking to you about a deal, Arthur."

"You want to continue leading troops on the front lines? You want to go crazy? Fine."

"But you must make contact with Princess Elizabeth, or other dukes' daughters. You can choose who you marry, that's your freedom. But you must choose; that's your responsibility as the heir to the Sterling family."

"Don't try to fool me with that French girl." The old count's gaze swept across Arthur's face. "That girl named Jeanne is indeed quite good. I don't deny that she's a good soldier, even a good adjutant."

"But she is not suited to be the mistress of the Sterling family."

"The Sterling family has a history of four hundred years. Those who are worthy of us must be top-tier nobles of equal social standing."

"This is the bottom line."

The old count issued an ultimatum.

"Go to Windsor Castle. Go see her. Go to her tea party. Go and show off your charm."

"Even if it's just to leave a shadow in that princess's heart."

"If you refuse," the old count picked up the telephone receiver—a secure line directly to the War Ministry—"tomorrow morning at 8..."

"I'll call Sir Ainside, the Imperial Chief of Staff."

"Or you could call your new friend Churchill directly."

"You will receive a new transfer order."

"Congratulations on your promotion to Major General. You will then be transferred to the Scottish Highlands to train new recruits until the end of the war."

Arthur looked at his father and suddenly smiled.

Are you threatening me?

"I am protecting the continuation of the family line." The old count's eyes were resolute. "Don't doubt my influence, and even more so, don't doubt my ability and power, Arthur."

"Although Churchill currently favors you, on matters concerning the continuation of noble bloodlines, the entire House of Lords, including the King himself, will stand by my side."

"To ensure you have an heir, I will not hesitate to break your legs."

Arthur fell silent.

He looked at the old man sitting in the chair and saw the stubbornness in the old man's eyes.

This is not a bluff.

This old man is serious.

If he doesn't agree, that transfer order will really be on his desk tomorrow. Go to the Scottish rear to lead new recruits? That means he'll miss the entire Second World War, miss all the pivotal moments in history.

The RTS system will be completely useless.

This is a form of political blackmail, and also a distorted manifestation of paternal love.

Of course, it was also his destiny as an heir to a noble family.

Arthur took a deep breath and loosened his grip on the cane.

"Alright." Arthur sighed helplessly. "I'll see her when I have time, provided I have the time."

"I'll go to Windsor Castle. Have tea. Chat. Talk about the weather."

"But I'm only responsible for making contact," Arthur added. "Elizabeth is the Crown Princess. Whether she'd even look at me is another matter. After all, my reputation now is that of a butcher."

The old count gave a cold laugh, the laugh of a victor.

That's your problem.

"No woman is too difficult for a Sterling man to handle."

"Whether it's a queen or a peasant woman."

The tense atmosphere dissipated, and the old count picked up a cigar again, but did not light it.

His gaze fell on the ebony cane in Arthur's hand.

"That cane," the old count suddenly said, "was the one your elder brother used before he died."

Arthur's older brother died in a Marseille accident a few years ago and was originally the heir to the Sterling family.

Arthur looked down at the silver lion's head at the top of his cane.

"I know," Arthur said. "It's heavy. The center of gravity is in the front third."

The old count looked at him.

Do you know its secret?

Arthur did not answer; he pressed his thumb against the eye of the lion relief and gently rotated it.

A crisp click, the sound of mechanical meshing.

Arthur gripped the staff head with his right hand and pulled it away.

A flash of cold light.

A 50-centimeter-long slender sword was drawn, its blade triangular, each side bearing a deep bloodletting groove. The steel had a cold, grayish-blue hue, clearly the result of special quenching treatment. This was a deadly weapon, specifically designed to strike the heart or throat.

"I know," Arthur said, looking at the tip of the sword. "It's not just for walking. It's for self-defense. Or for clearing obstacles."

Arthur sheathed the sword back into the cane. Click. Perfectly fitted. Outwardly, it still looked like a gentleman's walking stick.

"Like the Sterling family," Arthur said. "They're gentlemen in appearance. They wear the best suits and drink the best wine."

"But the inside must be a weapon."

"Without this sword, we would have been devoured by those greedy competitors or politicians long ago."

The old count understood. He sighed. It was a sense of relief, and also a father's acceptance of growing old.

Arthur understood the rules of this world better than he realized.

"That bastard Churchill," the old count suddenly cursed, "he turned you into a monster. But he's lucky; the Empire really does need monsters right now."

The old count rose and walked to the wall behind his desk. He moved an oil painting aside, revealing a safe behind it. He entered the password and turned the dial. Click. The heavy steel door opened.

The old count took a heavy ebony box from inside. He placed the box on his lap, walked over to Arthur, and pushed the box to the edge of the desk.

"Open it."

Arthur opened the box.

It was lined with red velvet, and in the center was a steel stamp. The handle of the stamp was a pure gold lion statue, and the stamp face was engraved with intricate anti-counterfeiting patterns.

That was the highest symbol of power at Sterling Heavy Industries; only documents bearing this seal could access the family's core assets. Beside it lay a small black booklet, the keybook to the highest-level access to the underground vaults of Credit Suisse Zurich and the Bank of England.

"Take it." The old count's voice was somewhat aged, carrying a hint of weariness after being relieved of a heavy burden. "Since you don't want to be a mascot, then go be a madman. Go be a butcher."

He pushed the heavy ebony box in front of Arthur.

"Take this. Go to the company tomorrow. Clean those termites thoroughly. Use the largest scalpel."

The old count's fingers tapped on the table, producing a sound like the beat of a war drum.

"Don't worry about the board. Don't worry about those bloodsuckers in the City of London."

"I'm not dead yet." The old count looked at Arthur, his tone firm. "This old bone may not be able to go to the battlefield, but it's still very tough. I will hold the rear for you. I will shield you from those sniper shots from the council and the banks."

"All you need to do is get the factory up and running."

"Build those damn shells, tanks, and planes. The more the better."

Suddenly, the old count raised his head.

The layer of aged disguise instantly tore away from his originally cloudy eyes, revealing a chilling ruthlessness and fierce light.

That was the look in his eyes when he was young, hunting red deer in the Scottish wilderness and plundering wealth in the colonies.

"But remember one thing, Arthur."

"Don't lose to those Hans."

"Don't let the Nazi swastika fly over this house. That's the Sterling family's bottom line."

The old count stretched out his withered finger and pointed to the cane in Arthur's hand that concealed a sharp sword.

"If one day, Guderian's tanks really do roll over the lawns of Kent, and the German military police really do come knocking on this door..."

"Use it." The old count's voice was as hard as iron. "For the sake of the family's honor."

"Died in battle."

Arthur reached out and his fingertips touched the cold steel stamp.

heavy.

That was the livelihood of tens of thousands of workers, the foundation of a vast industrial empire, and the fuel for the war machine.

He closed the lid and picked up the box.

"I will, Father."

"The Germans can't get in."

"As long as I'm here."

Arthur straightened up and gave a military salute to the old man in the wheelchair. This was not only a son's salute to his father, but also a tribute from the new head of the family to the former.

Arthur turned around, his boots clicking on the carpet, and walked out of the study.

In the hall, Major Ryder, holding a rifle, leaned against the wall on guard. Although it was safe, he still maintained the posture of a sentry.

He was supposed to go to Hughes like McTavish and Lina, but Arthur made him wait here.

Upon seeing Arthur emerge, Ryder immediately stood up straight.

"Sir?"

Arthur stopped in his tracks, glanced at the ebony box he was carrying, and then gripped the cane that concealed the sword.

The Winfrey look he had shown when facing his father had completely vanished from his eyes, replaced by the absolute indifference and decisiveness befitting a Sterling battle group commander.

"Go find David Sterling," Arthur said softly, but coldly. "Whether he's in some woman's bed or drunk in some bar right now."

"Let him come to his senses."

"Tell him to stop playing around." Arthur looked into the darkness at the end of the corridor. "We need to get to work."

This chapter is also known as: "I'm Preparing to Send You to Serve on the Hood" and "As Long as I'm Here, the Germans Can't Get In".

Light-years away 233