Portsmouth Royal Dockyards – Admiralty Hall.

The Day of the Presentation.

The long mahogany table was flanked by men who controlled more ships than some nations had villages.

Admirals, ministers, treasury officials, naval architects — and at the head of them all sat the Prime Minister, Lord Percival Hawthorne, with Admiral Harrington Grant to his right and the Duke of Wellington to his left.

Phillip stood at the far end of the room. Behind him, wheeled in carefully by three apprentices, was a demonstration assembly — half of a working triple-expansion cylinder prototype. On another table sat one of the precision-milled steel shafts, gleaming faintly in the morning light.

No one spoke at first.

They didn't need to.

Everyone knew why they were here.

Admiral Grant broke the silence.

"Lord Wellington," he said, "you have seven minutes."

Seven minutes.

To propose a naval revolution.

Phillip nodded once, stepped forward, and began.

He did not launch into technical jargon.

He did not describe horsepower or alloy steel or pressure tolerances.

He began with something simpler.

He pointed to the window.

Through it, the masts of dozens of great wooden vessels could be seen — Britain's proud, wind-bound fleet.

"For five hundred years," he began, voice steady, "ships have obeyed the wind."

Silence.

Even the scribes stopped writing.

Phillip continued.

"They have served us well. They have carried trade, diplomacy, and war. But they have also betrayed us. How many battles have been lost because wind changed direction? How many fleets have sat powerless because the sea was calm? How many merchants have been delayed, economies stalled, and soldiers stranded — because nature refused to cooperate?"

He let the silence linger.

"Steam does not wait for wind," he said. "It does not depend on tide. And when properly harnessed, it will move a ship faster, farther, more reliably — and under our control, not nature's."

Admiral Sussex narrowed his eyes. "You speak well, Lord Wellington. But words do not move ships."

Phillip nodded to two apprentices.

They stepped forward, removed the covering from the demonstration.

The half-assembled triple-expansion cylinder gleamed under the lantern light. Steam lines, pressure valves, and piston chambers — all carefully labeled.

Phillip turned to the Admiralty.

"This," he said calmly, "moves ships."

Murmurs spread.

Some leaned forward; others stood.

Phillip began the technical demonstration, but he kept it simple — not out of condescension, but because he wanted them to understand.

"A traditional steam engine," he said, "releases steam after one expansion."

He gestured to the smallest cylinder.

"This one uses it three times."

He tapped each chamber.

"High pressure. Intermediate. Low pressure. Power extracted three times. Coal consumed once."

A treasury minister nearly jumped in his seat.

"Less coal?"

Phillip nodded.

"Less crew. Fewer refueling stops. Longer range. Reduced operating cost."

The Minister of the Exchequer, Lord Hillgrave, leaned forward. That, more than any cannon or engine, had caught his attention.

Admiral Sussex folded his arms. "Impressive. But engines alone do not make ships."

Phillip nodded.

Which was why Henry stepped forward — awkwardly carrying the steel shaft.

Phillip set it gently on the table.

"This," he said again, "drives ships."

"Not paddles. Propellers. Underwater, protected. Efficient, difficult to hit, and capable of pushing five thousand tons of iron through rough water at up to fourteen knots."

An admiral scoffed.

"Impossible. A wooden frigate makes eight knots with full wind!"

Phillip met his gaze.

"Exactly."

Silence again.

Lord Hawthorne, the Prime Minister, leaned forward.

"Lord Wellington," he said slowly, "you are proposing that we abandon centuries of proven naval doctrine. That we trust — this." He gestured to the prototype. "This idea. This engine. This metal."

Phillip didn't flinch.

"I am asking you," he said steadily, "not to abandon what works — but to stop defending what will soon fail."

That earned him full silence.

He continued.

"The world is changing. France is experimenting with paddle steamers. The Americans are testing iron hulls. The Prussians — have sent agents to acquire British locomotive designs."

That made several ministers exchange looks.

"They are awakening," Phillip said. "They do not yet know what to build. But they know something is coming."

He gestured to the prototype.

"Gentlemen — this is that something."

The room remained silent for a long time.

Then the Duke of Wellington finally spoke.

"My son," he said, "does not merely propose a ship. He proposes a weapon of time."

Lord Hawthorne straightened.

"A weapon of time?"

The Duke nodded.

"A weapon that will make every existing fleet, of every existing nation, obsolete the moment it floats."

No one argued.

Because no one could.

Finally, Admiral Grant slowly rose from his chair.

He approached Phillip's prototype.

He touched the steel shaft — as though to confirm it was real.

Then — quietly, almost reverently — he said:

"Begin."

The board did not adjourn.There was no further debate.

They didn't even ask how much it would cost.

They only asked two questions:

How soon?How many?

Phillip answered both calmly.

"Eighteen months.And as many as you can afford."

Silence.

Then, surprisingly — laughter.

Not mocking laughter.

The kind of laughter born from disbelief, relief, fear — and excitement.

Prime Minister Hawthorne stood.

"So be it."

He faced the room.

"From this day forward — the Royal Navy will begin the Ironclad Initiative."

He turned to Phillip.

"And Lord Phillip Wellington… will lead it."

A thunder of table knocks filled the chamber.

It was not applause.

It was approval.

Formal.

Unmistakable.

Knock.Knock.Knock.

In that moment, sails truly began to die.

And steam —began its reign.

No one left the chamber normally.

They didn't disperse; they moved with purpose.

Messengers sprinted toward telegraph rooms. Naval architects hurriedly gathered Phillip's sketches, handling them as if they were classified weapons. Treasury officials whispered urgently in corners, already calculating what would need to be funded, what would need to be cut.

And Phillip stood still—prototype beside him, satchel in hand—not smiling, not triumphant.

Only… aware.

Aware that this room, these people, this moment—would be recorded someday.

Not as the day ships changed.

But as the day war changed.

He turned to Henry.

"We start tomorrow."

Henry swallowed.

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