Under the gray-white sky, on Whitehall Street south of Trafalgar Square, stands a simple, symmetrical but hardly imposing white building.
Watermarks from the morning fog retreating still linger between the stone columns of the building's porch, and if not for the neatly uniformed civil servants from the Navy Department streaming out from inside, who would have thought that this seemingly unremarkable building is actually the command hub of the Royal Navy, reigning across the seas?
Eld Carter's boot heel lightly tapped on the marble floor.
He relaxed his stiff knuckles, took out his pocket watch for a glance at the time. Before he could step out of the porch, Eld was already impatiently reaching into his coat pocket for his pipe, planning to reward himself with some fine West Indies tobacco.
