Chapter 6 - Red Carpet and Gunmetal
The Gulfstream touched down on the tarmac of RAF Northolt with a sharp screech of rubber against concrete.
Rain was falling across London, a typical grey British drizzle that slicked the asphalt and made the runway lights reflect like liquid gold.
Before the engines had even spun down, the stairs dropped open.
Waiting at the base of the plane was a convoy of four royal protection vehicles, their blue emergency lights flashing silently against the rain.
A man in civilian clothes holding a large black umbrella stepped forward as I walked down the stairs.
“Commander Carter, I am Inspector Davies, Special Branch.”
“Follow me, please.”
We piled into the armored Jaguar at the center of the convoy.
The moment the doors slammed shut, the cars accelerated onto the A40 toward central London, escorted by six motorcycle outriders in high-visibility gear.
Sirens split the damp evening air, forcing London taxis and red double-decker buses to veer sharply toward the curbs.
We crossed the city in less than twenty minutes, running every red light with total impunity.
Soon, the massive stone towers of St. Jude’s Cathedral loomed through the rain, illuminated by towering floodlights that cut through the gloom.
Barricades lined the entire perimeter for half a mile in every direction.
Thousands of spectators stood behind the metal barriers under an ocean of umbrellas, waving small union jacks and American flags.
They had been standing there for six hours, confused by the unprecedented delay, waiting for any sign of movement from the great wooden doors of the cathedral.
Outside the press pen, hundreds of television cameras were mounted on scaffolding, reporters speaking frantically into microphones with umbrellas held over their equipment.
“Breaking news from St. Jude’s,” a reporter’s voice blared from the radio inside our car.
“The delay in the royal nuptials of Prince Alexander and American socialite Rachel Carter has now stretched past three hours.”
“Palace officials remain silent, though rumors of an unprecedented protocol crisis continue to circulate among foreign dignitaries inside.”
Our motorcade did not slow down as we approached the grand western entrance.
The motorcycle outriders parted the crowd, and our four black cars swept straight through the security gates, pulling up directly beneath the red-carpeted canopy of the Great West Door.
The press cameras swiveled immediately toward our vehicles, flashbulbs exploding like a thousand tiny lightning strikes in the grey drizzle.
“Stay close to me, Commander,” Inspector Davies said, opening his door.
I picked up my white combination cover, placed it squarely on my head, and stepped out onto the red carpet.
The cold rain misted against my face, but I didn't blink.
A collective gasp rippled through the press corps as my uniform came into full view under the blazing floodlights.
They had been expecting another doctor, a government minister, or a palace courier.
Instead, stepping out of the King's personal security car was an active-duty United States Navy officer in pristine Service Dress Whites, gold stripes gleaming, ribbons displayed across her chest.
Dozens of camera shutters clicked in deafening unison, motor drives whirring frantically as photographers shouted over each other.
“Who is she?”
“Is that an American officer?”
“What is the United States military doing at the royal wedding?”
I ignored the shouting, kept my chin level, and walked with measured, rhythmic strides up the wide stone stairs.
Captain Thorne and four royal guards formed a wedge around me, their boots striking the stone steps in perfect synchronization.
At the top of the stairs, the towering oak doors swung open just wide enough to admit our detachment.
As soon as we crossed the threshold into the great narthex, the massive doors slammed shut behind us, cutting off the noise of the crowd, the rain, and the media storm outside.
Inside, the cathedral was cavernous, smelling of ancient incense, beeswax candles, and damp stone.
And standing just beyond the second set of doors, pacing nervously in an ornate mahogany hallway, was the Lord Chamberlain.
His face was completely devoid of color, his silk tie loosened, sweat shining on his forehead despite the cool air of the church.
“Is this her?” the Lord Chamberlain whispered, his voice trembling as he looked at me.
“This is Commander Emily Carter,” Captain Thorne said with clear authority.
The Lord Chamberlain pressed his palms against his temples and closed his eyes.
“God help us all,” he muttered.
“His Majesty is in the Bishop’s library with the Prince.”
“And the bride?” I asked, my voice cutting through his panic like a blade.
The Lord Chamberlain pointed a trembling finger toward the ornate double doors leading to the bridal holding suite at the end of the corridor.
“She is in there,” he said.
“She has been screaming at her dressmakers for the past two hours.”
“She doesn't know you’re on this side of the ocean.”
May you like
I turned my eyes toward the closed doors at the end of the hall.
“Let's go say hello to my sister.”
