McNamara looked around at the pinched faces of the high command of the US military.
“I have to tell you, again, that the President, Secretary of State Rusk and I have no knowledge of any such talks, agreements, pacts, or understandings with the Spanish Government in this respect. Further, I reiterate that to the best of my knowledge no lawful orders have been issued to American servicemen authorising any offensive, or remotely aggressive, action directed at British forces whether in the air, on land or at sea.”
He did not believe he was going to say what he said next.
“Some doubt was expressed yesterday and overnight about the British claim to have shot down B-52s in the Mediterranean.” His sigh was more of a groan of incredulity. “I have to tell you that the RAF has gun camera footage from the Hawker Hunter interceptors that shot down four 100th Bomb Group B-52s during the attack on Malta on Friday night.”
He took a deep breath, everybody else had stopped breathing.
“The British Ambassador has passed the names of the survivors from the downed B-52s to Secretary Rusk. Eight of the prisoners of war in British custody on Malta are US Air Force personnel. It is unclear at this time whether or not the new British Commander-in-Chief in the Mediterranean, Admiral Christopher, will exercise his right to have our people summarily executed as common criminals. The British Ambassador, Sir James Sykes, was at pains to remind Secretary Rusk that since there has been no declaration of war the normal protocols regarding the treatment of prisoners of war do not apply in this case.”
General McConnell cleared his throat.
“I spoke to General LeMay shortly before I came to this conference,” he explained flatly. “General LeMay is currently in flight to Barksdale Air Force Base. That is where the four missing B-52s were based.” His voice was quietly firm, warning the others in the room that whatever they might be thinking about Curtis LeMay, he did not personally believe that Old Iron Pants had gone rogue. The trouble was that nothing explained the bombing of the British destroyers and the bombing of Malta quite as neatly as a narrative which included the Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force having taken it upon himself to start the next World War. McConnell knew it, and so did everybody else in the Flag Plot Room in the bowels of the Pentagon that Sunday afternoon in December. “In his absence,” he looked to McNamara, “do I have your permission to recall all SAC failsafe missions reinstated at zero-one-three-zero hours this day, and to stand down all aircraft on quick reaction alert status, Mr Secretary?”
Robert McNamara nodded curtly.
“Mr Secretary,” Admiral Anderson grunted, “is it wise to stand down our bombers at a moment of…”
Robert McNamara bit his tongue, waited until the red mist began to clear.
“It is not the policy of the Administration of which I am a member to prepare for, to threaten, or to make war on the United Kingdom, its land, sea or air forces, or upon any ally of that country. There will be no preparations for or contingency considered for making war against the British in any other circumstance excepting a direct attack by British forces on American military assets or upon targets located on American soil.”
The Secretary of Defence looked around the room.
“Is that clear, gentlemen?”
He waited for acknowledging nods.
“Somebody,” he continued, “circumvented the chain of command and sent four B-52s half-way around the World to attack our closest ally’s key strategic naval base in the Mediterranean, Admiral. What’s to stop that same somebody ordering more B-52s to bomb Washington DC or New York?”
Nobody spoke.
McNamara’s tone was grim as he addressed Admiral Anderson, returning to the CNO’s question.
“Admiral, I don’t know if it is wise to stand down SAC. But I do know that standing down a force over which we have lost control is the only rational option open to us.”
Anderson was trembling with rage.
“Sir, the Navy is under my command!”
McNamara realised he had driven the Chief of Naval Operations into a corner. However, even though he knew that sooner or later he had to let him out of that corner, something made him first tighten the screw another notch, and rattle the bars of the Admiral’s cage. He half-turned away, let his eyes rove across the symbols on the Flag Plot Table close to the southern tip of the Irish Republic. The US Navy’s latest and biggest carrier, the nuclear-powered USS Enterprise, screened by the most modern destroyers and frigates still in commission remained strewn across the path of the Operation Manna convoys steaming up from the south.
“The President,” he said slowly, “wants to know why the Enterprise is still operating in this area,” he said, jabbing a finger at the coast of southern Ireland. He fixed the Chief of Naval Operations with a steely gaze. The last commander of the US Atlantic Fleet, a man with a peerless record of service and professional accomplishment, had found himself on the beach after the October War. Somebody had had to take responsibility for the ‘Beale Incident’. “Can I rely on you to communicate directly with CINCLANT urgently, Admiral?”
The Chief of Naval Operations registered that his political master had carefully sidestepped giving him a humiliating order.
The trouble was he still felt like McNamara had told him to ‘get a grip!’
Admiral Anderson nodded curtly.
“Yes, Mr Secretary.”
Chapter 39
“Things are a bit crazy,” admitted the United States Attorney General as he clambered out of the big limousine and joined Ben Bradlee, Newsweek Magazine’s Washington Bureau Chief on the steps of the monument. Bobby Kennedy’s coat collar was turned up, partially obscuring his face. A second car had drawn up and Secret Service men spread out around the two old friends as they began to walk up the steps to where old Abe sat immortalised in marble splendour for all time.
“What’s going on, Bobby?”
Washington remained calm, unnaturally so. It was a lull before the storm sort of tranquillity, edged around with nameless terrors. The papers were full of whispers of war, rumours, contradictory foreign reports frustrated by the fact that officially, the British, or rather the United Kingdom Interim Emergency Administration had as yet still said very little publicly about the events of Friday evening and the ongoing skirmishes with the Spanish. Officially, the UKIEA’s position was that it did not comment on or, broadcast information which might be ‘of assistance to an enemy’. However, behind the scenes via diplomatic channels, the British Embassy and the Australian, New Zealand, South African and all of the Scandinavian legations, the UKIEA was crying MURDER!
“Our best guess is that this is all the work of some kind of communist conspiracy,” the President’s younger brother declared earnestly.
Ben Bradlee thought his friend was trying to be funny.
“That’s the Administration’s line?” He asked, incredulously.
“No, not yet. We need to harden up a few things.”
“A communist conspiracy? You’ve got to be kidding me, Bobby? Nobody’s going to believe that!”
“It looks like our guys in the Mediterranean thought they were obeying orders, Ben,” the Attorney General pleaded. “They may even have been falsely led to believe that the Brits had already nuked American cities.”
“That’s even less plausible than a communist conspiracy,” the journalist objected. “That bastard Hoover will have a field day if that’s half-true. You’ll never shake off the old faggot!”