The contribution from the back benches confirmed the Prime Minister’s and Simon’s beliefs that they had gauged the feelings of the nation correctly, but neither of them allowed the slightest show of emotion to cross their faces and give hope to those who were demanding military action.
By the time Simon rose to wind up for the Government at nine-thirty that night he had spent two and a half hours in the Chamber listening to men and women tell him to get on with exactly what he was already doing. Blandly, he backed the Foreign Secretary in his pursuit of a diplomatic solution. The House became restive, and when the clock reached ten Simon sat down to cries of “Resign” from some of his own colleagues and the more right-wing of the Labour benches.
Andrew watched carefully as Kerslake and Seymour left the Chamber. He wondered what was really going on in his old department.
He arrived home after the debate. Louise congratulated him on his speech and added, “But it didn’t evoke much of a response from Simon Kerslake.”
“He’s up to something,” said Andrew. “I only wish I was sitting in his office tonight and could find out what it is.”
When Simon arrived in that office he phoned Elizabeth and explained that he would be spending another night at the ministry.
“Some women do lose their men to the strangest mistresses,” said Elizabeth. “By the way, your younger son wants to know if you will have time to watch him play hockey in his cuppers’ match at Oxford on Saturday.”
“What’s today?”
“It’s still Thursday,” she said, “and you’re the one in charge of the nation’s defenses.”
Simon knew the rescue attempt would be all over one way or the other by lunchtime the next day. Why shouldn’t he watch his son play hockey?
“Tell him I’ll be there,” he said.
Although nothing could be achieved between midnight and six o’clock now the submarines were in place, none of the Joint Chiefs left the operations room. Radio silence was not broken once through the night as Simon tried to occupy himself with the bulging red boxes containing other pressing matters which still demanded his attention. He took advantage of the presence of the Joint Chiefs and had a hundred queries answered in minutes that would normally have taken him a month.
At midnight the first editions of the morning papers were brought to him. Simon pinned up the Telegraph’s headline on the operations board. “Kerslake’s In his Hammock till the great Armada comes.” The article demanded to know how the hero of Northern Ireland could be so indecisive while our sailors lay bound and gagged in foreign waters, and ended with the words “Captain, art thou sleeping there below?” “Not a wink,” muttered Simon. “Resign” was the single-word headline in the Daily Express. Sir John looked over the minister’s shoulder and read the opening paragraph.
“I shall never understand why anyone wants to be a politician,” he said before reporting: “We have just heard from reconnaissance in the area that both submarines Conqueror and Courageous have moved up into place.”
Simon picked up his stick from the side of his desk and left the Joint Chiefs to go to Downing Street. He took the private lift to the basement and then walked through the tunnel which runs under Whitehall direct to the Cabinet room, thus avoiding the press and any curious onlookers.
He found the Prime Minister sitting alone in the Cabinet room.
Simon went over the final plan with her in great detail, explaining that everything was ready and would be over by the time most people were having their breakfasts.
“Let me know the moment you hear anything, however trivial,” she concluded, before returning to the latest gloomy study of the economy from the Wynne Godley team, who were suggesting the pound and the dollar would be on an equal parity by 1988. “One day you may have all these problems on your shoulders,” she said.
Simon smiled and left her to walk back through the private tunnel to his office on the other side of Whitehall.
He took the lift back up to his room on the sixth floor and joined the Joint Chiefs. Although it was past midnight none of them looked tired despite their all having shared the lonely vigil with their comrades 2,000 miles away. They told stories of Suez and the Falklands, and there was frequently laughter. But it was never long before their eyes returned to the clock.
As Big Ben struck two chimes, Simon thought: four o’clock in Libya. He could visualize the men falling backward over the side of the boat and deep into the water before starting the long, slow swim toward Broadsword.
When the phone rang, breaking the eerie silence like a fire alarm, Simon picked it up to hear Charles Seymour’s voice.
“Simon,” he began, “I’ve finally got through to Gaddafi and he wants to negotiate.” Simon looked at his watch; the SBS men could only be a few hundred yards from Broadsword.
“It’s too late,” he said. “I can’t stop them now.”
“Don’t be such a bloody fool — order them to turn back. Don’t you understand we’ve won a diplomatic coup?”
“Gaddafi could negotiate for months and still end up humiliating us. No, I won’t turn back.”
“We shall see how the Prime Minister reacts to your arrogance,” said Charles and slammed down the receiver.
Simon sat at his desk and waited for the telephone to ring. He wondered if he could get away with taking the damn thing off the hook — the modern equivalent of Nelson placing the telescope to his blind eye, he considered. He needed a few minutes, but the phone rang again only seconds later. He picked it up and heard Margaret Thatcher’s unmistakable voice.
“Can you stop them if I order you to, Simon?”
He considered lying. “Yes, Prime Minister,” he said.
“But you would still like to carry it through, wouldn’t you?”
“I only need a few minutes, Prime Minister.”
“Do you understand the consequences if you fail, with Charles already claiming a diplomatic victory?”
“You would have my resignation within the hour.”
“I suspect mine would have to go with it,” she said. “In which case Charles would undoubtedly be Prime Minister by this time tomorrow.” There was a moment’s pause before she continued. “Gaddafi is on the other line and I am going to tell him that I am willing to negotiate.” Simon felt defeated. “Perhaps that will give you enough time, and let’s hope it’s Gaddafi who has to worry about resignations at breakfast.”
Simon nearly cheered.
“Do you know the hardest thing I have had to do in this entire operation?”
“No, Prime Minister.”
“When Gaddafi rang in the middle of the night, I had to pretend to be asleep so that he didn’t know I was sitting by the phone.”
He laughed.
“Good luck, Simon. I’ll phone and explain my decision to Charles.”
The clock read three-thirty.
On his return the bevy of admirals were variously clenching their fists, tapping the table, or walking around it, and Simon began to sense what the Israelis must have felt like as they waited for news from Entebbe.
The phone rang again. He knew it couldn’t be the Prime Minister this time as she was the one woman in England who never changed her mind. It was Charles Seymour.
“I want it clearly understood, Simon, that I gave you the news concerning Gaddafi’s desire to negotiate at three-twenty. That is on the record, so there will be only one minister handing in his resignation later this morning.”
“I know exactly where you stand, Charles, and I feel confident that whatever happens you’ll come through your own mound of manure smelling of roses.” He slammed down the phone just as four o’clock struck. For no fathomable reason everyone in the room stood up, but as the minutes passed again one by one they sat back down.