Two days felt like two decades. Downing Street had transformed into a war room. Maps of London, Manchester, and Birmingham were spread across tables, marked with red zones—areas Sir James Sterling referred to as "nests of infection." Drafts of the Border Security Act flew back and forth between government lawyers and Blackwood's office, each clause honed into a razor-sharp legal weapon.
I spent most of my time with Sterling and Blackwood. They were an odd but effective pairing. Sterling, the bulldog, spoke of logistics: temporary holding centers, charter flight schedules, coordination between the police and territorial army units. He was the sledgehammer.
Blackwood, on the other hand, was the scalpel. He danced through the loopholes of human rights law, finding precedents and emergency exceptions to exploit.
"The key, Prime Minister," he'd said one afternoon, his eyes glinting in the lamplight.
"is speed. We must pass this act through Parliament and begin the first operations before the courts or the international opposition can organize an effective resistance. We must create facts on the ground. Once thousands have been deported, it becomes much harder to reverse."
His brutal pragmatism impressed me. He didn't care about ideology; he cared about winning.
Wednesday arrived. The day of Prime Minister's Questions. The gladiator pit.
As I walked through the Members' Lobby toward the main chamber, the noise hit me like a physical wave. The murmurs, the shouts, the jeers—it all blended into the roar of a political beast. I could feel their eyes on my back. Some from my own party stared with fear, others with a hidden admiration. The opposition stared at me with pure hatred.
I placed my folder on the dispatch box, feeling the cool, old wood beneath my fingertips. Across from me, Kaelan Richards, the Leader of the Opposition, glared. His normally ruddy face was now pale with controlled rage. He looked like a priest preparing to perform an exorcism.
"System," I whispered internally, "activate the charisma reward."
+5% Charisma activated for this session. Good luck, Mr. Prime Minister.
I didn't feel a magical surge of power. Just… clarity. The words felt closer to hand, the thoughts sharper, as if a thin fog had been lifted from my brain.
After a few tedious opening questions, the Speaker called his name. "Mr. Kaelan Richards."
The chamber fell silent. Richards stood, his hands gripping his notes so tightly his knuckles were white.
"Prime Minister, in the last forty-eight hours," he began, his voice trembling with righteous anger, "you have branded millions of British citizens as the enemy. You have announced plans that many legal experts are calling administrative ethnic cleansing. My question is simple: Does the Prime Minister still believe in the basic principle of equality before the law, or does the United Kingdom under his leadership now have two tiers of citizen?"
Jeers erupted from the opposition benches. I let the noise die down.
"Mr. Speaker," I replied, my voice calm and measured, cutting through the din. "I believe in one tier of citizen: the law-abiding British citizen. And I believe in one primary duty of government: to protect that citizen."
I looked directly at Richards. "The Leader of the Opposition seems to believe that the right of a law-breaking illegal immigrant to remain in our country is more important than the right of a pensioner in Bradford to walk to the shops without fear. I disagree."
A low roar of support came from the government side. I saw Richards's face harden. I had turned his narrative on its head.
He tried again. "The Prime Minister talks of crime. Let's talk of contribution. Will the Prime Minister deport a doctor from Nigeria who has served the NHS for twenty years, saving British lives, because of a minor traffic violation in his past? Yes or no?"
It was a trap. An emotional question designed to make me look heartless.
"An interesting question," I returned with a slight smile. "But it is the wrong question. The right question is: why would a doctor who is granted the privilege of living and working in our country choose to break our laws, however minor? Adherence to the law is not an a la carte menu. It is the very basis of the social contract."
I leaned forward slightly. "And let us be clear. The priority of my Border Security Act is violent criminals, gang members, and those here illegally. The people who have turned our communities into war zones. The Leader of the Opposition seems more concerned with the criminals than with their victims. Perhaps he can explain that policy to his constituents."
"Disgraceful!" shouted a backbencher.
Richards was losing his composure. His face was flushing. "The Prime Minister is avoiding the question! He is using rhetoric to hide the barbarity of his plan! His plan will tear families apart, destroy communities, and stain the name of our country forever! Does he not have a shred of shame?"
He's fighting with emotion, I thought. A fatal mistake.
I shook my head with an expression of manufactured sorrow. "Mr. Speaker, the Leader of the Opposition speaks of 'shame'. I will tell you what shame is. Shame is when young girls in Rotherham are systematically abused for years by immigrant gangs, and the authorities are afraid to act because of 'cultural sensitivities'. Shame is when the flags of terrorist groups are flown on the streets of London and our police are told to stand by and do nothing. Shame is surrendering our sovereignty, our security, and our identity on the altar of a failed multicultural ideology."
I paused, letting the words sink in. "My plan is not about shame. It is about restoring respect. Respect for our laws. Respect for our borders. And most importantly, respect for the British people who have been ignored for far too long."
The session was over. I had survived. More than that, I had won. Richards looked defeated and frustrated, while my own wavering MPs were now cheering with renewed vigor. They had smelled blood in the water, and it was their opponent's.
…
That evening, the news I had been waiting for arrived. Simon Blackwood entered my office without knocking. On his usually impassive face, there was a flicker of triumph.
"The Border Security Act has passed its first reading," he said. "A majority of thirty-two. We had a few of our own wobble, but we peeled off several opposition members from fed-up, working-class constituencies. The whip worked."
I nodded, feeling a wave of cold relief. The first step had been taken. The first mountain had been climbed.
But as Blackwood left, Sir James Sterling entered. His face was grim, as if he had just returned from a battlefield. He placed a thick, red folder on my desk. On its cover, in block capitals, were two words:
OPERATION SWORD OF SOVEREIGNTY
"The preparations are complete, Prime Minister," Sterling said in a low voice. "The first teams move in thirty-six hours. We will begin in Tower Hamlets, East London. Our intelligence has identified over two hundred priority targets: illegal immigrants with violent criminal records and known gang members."
I opened the folder. Inside were photographs, floor plans, and timetables. This was no longer a theoretical debate in Parliament. This was a battle plan. Names, faces, addresses.
I glanced up at the portrait of Winston Churchill hanging over the fireplace. His eyes seemed to bore into me, heavy with the weight of history. He had led this country through a war against an external enemy. My task, in a strange way, was far harder. I had to lead a war against a disease from within.
I closed the folder. The decision was made. The scalpel was honed.
"Proceed, Sir James," I said, my voice steady, without a trace of doubt. "Begin the operation."
The doctor had made his diagnosis. Now, it was time to begin the surgery.