Capítulo 1888: Chapter 810: Hydra Becos a Shit-Stirrer Too
April 10, 1997, across Scotland.
The air carried a scent of rust and damp moss. Temporary voting booths were set up across the city square, countryside churches, and even mountain pasture cabins.
The St. Andrew’s Flag with its blue background and white cross, and the Union Jack hung side by side, but the forr was clearly newer and brighter, flapping fiercely in the brisk spring breeze, like a silent protest.
The referendum options were printed on light yellow ballots, simple but as weighty as a thousand pounds:
[Option A: Full independence, establishing the Scottish Republic.]
[Option B: Becoming the “Scottish Autonomous Kingdom,” acknowledging the Queen of England as the titular head of state, with complete autonomy except in defense and diplomatic titular powers.]
[Option C: Maintain the status quo, as part of the United Kingdom.]
Outside each polling station, there stood two kinds of people: Scotland Election Commission staff wearing fluorescent vests, and forr resistance mbers dressed in plain clothes but with sharp eyes and armbands labeled “Transition Period Security Committee.” The latter did not carry weapons, but their bulging waistlines were themselves a silent warning: No one should think of causing trouble today.
Outside the main polling station at Glasgow George Square, the line of people snaked across several blocks. People queued silently, with complex expressions—so were excited, so solemn, so baffled, and so with irrepressible anger.
An old man in a faded work uniform stared at the polling station doors, muttering to himself: “My father, my grandfather, waited their whole lives for this day… but they didn’t get to see it.”
Beside him, a young mother held her child, whispering to her: “Rember today, darling, rember today.”
McTavish did not go to vote.
As the spokesperson for the Transition Period Security Committee, he had to maintain “neutrality.”
He sat in the temporary office at Edinburgh St Giles Cathedral, in front of him were over a dozen surveillance screens, connected to major polling stations across the land. Calum McDonald stood behind him, his glasses reflecting the flickering images.
“The voter turnout will be very high,”
Calum said, “It’s estimated to exceed 85%. According to our last week’s poll, option B is leading, but not by much. Option A has nearly 30% stable supporters, primarily among the radical factions in the Highlands and cities. Option C… less than 15%, concentrated in so southern border areas with close economic ties to England.”
McTavish stared at the silent crowd on the screen: “London won’t stand by idly.”
“They’ve already started moving.” Calum pulled up an encrypted briefing, “In the past 24 hours, all major BBC and ITV channels have been rolling out ‘United Kingdom Family’ sentintal adverts, stressing shared history, cultural ties, economic complentarity. The Royal Family announced that if option B passes, the Queen will use the title ‘Queen of the Scottish Autonomous Kingdom’ for the first ti to deliver a special speech. The Treasury Departnt has hinted that if option C is chosen, Scotland will receive ‘extra financial subsidies.’
“The sa old routine.”
McTavish snorted, “Carrot and stick. Is there anything else?”
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Calum lowered his voice: “Military Intelligence Five has been active in several border groups, trying to contact so… ‘moderate’ local leaders on our list. Additionally, we’ve received intelligence that a batch of anonymous flyers printed with ‘Vote C, keep the job’ is being distributed in factory areas of Dundee and Stirling, with printing quality much higher than local workshop products.”
“Trace the source, arrest them.” McTavish’s voice was flat, “No need for a trial, detain them under ‘disrupting election order,’ and deal with them after the referendum. Tell Moira to keep her people alert; today anyone who dares to cause trouble, take them down directly. No need for permission.”
“Understood.”
At this mont, a screen showing a polling station in the suburbs of Inverness suddenly flickered, then went black.
“What’s happening?” McTavish leaned forward.
The technician quickly tapped the keyboard: “Signal interrupted… not a technical glitch, the line was physically cut! The backup wireless signal is also heavily jamd!”
McTavish grabbed the intercom: “Inverness Station 3, report the situation!”
There was a crackling electric current sound, followed by hurried panting and chaotic background noise: “Chairman, a convoy rushed in! Not our people! They… they’re dispersing the queued voters!”
The image briefly returned, through the shaky lens, several unmarked black SUVs could be seen blocking the polling station entrance, a dozen burly n in black tactical vests and hoods were pushing the crowd, snatching banners. Voter screams and curses rged into a clamor.
“Where’s the police?!” McTavish shouted angrily.
“The local police are right nearby… They’re watching! Not moving!”
McTavish’s eyes reddened instantly.
He pressed another channel, “Highland Brigade Rapid Reaction Team, this is McTavish. Inverness Station 3, there are ard militants disrupting the vote. I order: imdiately go to control the scene, use all necessary ans if t with resistance. Repeat, all necessary ans. Pin those black-clad bastards to the ground! Imdiately!”
In less than five minutes, the thundering of helicopters was heard approaching from afar.
Three “Ghost Eagle” helicopters, marked with the Scottish Transitional Governnt emblem, appeared above Inverness Station 3.
Of course, all this was sponsored by so “people.”
It could also be sothing picked up in a sewer outside the Scottish countryside.
Who can be sure of these things?
Anyway, there are many kind-hearted people, and there are too many unbelievable things in the world.
Rope descent, landing, over twenty fully ard soldiers, dressed in Scottish mountain camouflage, quickly deployed their formation. Their equipnt was obviously more sophisticated than those black-clad individuals, and their movents were more professional.
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