Loudon Baines Westheimer II was now physically incapable of speech.
“Thirdly,” the Foreign Secretary bored on remorselessly, “United Kingdom airspace is now closed to non-UK aircraft. Aircraft approaching UK airspace without the appropriate permissions will be challenged and in extremis, shot down.”
Tom Harding-Grayson let this sink in for a count of five seconds before he moved on to the next and probably most inflammatory clause in the UKIEA’s ultimatum to its former ally.
“Fourthly, the UKIEA forbids any foreign naval power to carry out exercises or manoeuvres within five hundred nautical miles of its shores. Any foreign naval units found within this exclusion zone will be liable to arrest or attack without warning.”
Loudon Baines Westheimer II stuttered as his brain began to posthumously catch up with what his ears were hearing.
“The Big E’s Battle Group is operating in international waters,” he blurted angrily.
Tom Harding-Grayson pursed his lips and steepled his hands as he fixed the American Ambassador with a sphinx like scrutiny.
“The aforementioned exclusion zone will come into effect in seven days time,” he said blankly after a silence which had lasted some fifteen seconds. He re-gathered his wits. “Fifthly, given that a state of war now exists between my country and the Fascist Republic of Spain I strongly advise you to remove all American personnel, both military and civilian, and all military assets from the Iberian Peninsula. The rule that will apply to this and all future combat operations conducted by British armed forces will be that my enemy’s friend is my enemy.”
Loudon Baines Westheimer II was breathing in short, shallow seething breaths.
“Washington won’t stand for this!”
“We shall see. We shall see.”
The American Ambassador heaved himself to his feet.
“One last thing, Mr Westheimer,” Tom Harding-Grayson announced, “we shall be withdrawing our embassy from Washington as soon as transportation can be arranged. As of midnight this day you and all accredited representatives of the Unites States of America are deemed persona non grata. Her Majesty’s Government would, therefore, be obliged if you would pack up your bags and go home at your earliest convenience.”
Chapter 31
Patricia Harding-Grayson brushed a strand of straw grey hair out of her face and slowly, carefully lowered her stiff and aching body onto the threadbare sofa by the fire in the front room of the small cottage she shared with her husband, Her Majesty’s newly appointed Foreign and Commonwealth Secretary. Three days ago — it seemed like a lifetime — she’d found herself thrown to the floor by the blast of the first bomb in the grounds behind Balmoral Castle. Although she’d escaped serious injury she’d been battered and bruised, and subsequently exhausted beyond measure setting up the makeshift casualty clearing station in the hallway of the partially demolished Castle.
“Oh God,” she sighed, accepting the glass of whiskey and water her husband pressed into her hands, “is it really true that the Americans may have been behind what happened in Scotland?”
Sir Henry Tomlinson, the Cabinet Secretary and Tom Harding-Grayson’s oldest friend who was sitting in an arm chair by the low fire in the hearth, nodded sadly.
“Some Americans,” he qualified dubiously. “Not perhaps JFK or a member of his immediate circle but we’re pretty certain the fellows over in Ireland had something to do with it.”
Tom Harding-Grayson patted his wife’s knee fondly: “The Bay of Pigs fiasco and practically everything else that went wrong in US policy towards Cuba in the years before the October War was the handiwork of the Central Intelligence Agency,” he told her morosely.
“Is it wise thumbing our noses at the Kennedy Administration so, so,” she was too tired to think of the right word.
“Gratuitously?” Her husband suggested.
“Yes. No, I mean so finally? Haven’t we burnt our boats with the Kennedy people for all time?”
“Kennedy’s people want to put a man on the Moon,” Henry Tomlinson remarked, sourly, “the rest of us can go to Hell in a hand cart for all they care. We’re better off alone.”
Tom Harding-Grayson was nodding.
“The Americans have moved to dominate the countries of the Pacific rim and abdicated their responsibilities to Europe. As far as Washington is concerned what’s left of the old world can tear itself to pieces. In a few years they’ll fly in and pick up the pieces.”
“Should a British Foreign Secretary be so dreadfully cynical, darling?” Patricia Harding-Grayson teased her husband.
“There’s not a lot to be cheerful about,” he rejoined mildly.
“I thought the Queen was awfully brave,” his wife said, changing the subject.
“She is the Queen,” Henry Tomlinson guffawed gently.
“She and Margaret were real bricks just after the bombing, you know. The Prime Minister went off organising the Black Watch in case there was a second attack and the Queen and Margaret just, well, took over…”
Tom Harding-Grayson eyed his wife mischievously for a moment.
“Since when did the Angry Widow become ‘Margaret’?” He queried.
“Since I saw the other side of her, darling,” she explained patiently. Her husband had told her that Edward Heath had offered Margaret Thatcher the Foreign Secretary’s job but she’d recused herself on grounds that at some stage in the future, the post might require ‘somebody of a naturally less confrontational temperament that I’.
“She does seem to have taken quite a shine to the ‘fighting admiral’,” Henry Tomlinson observed, his humour improving with every sip of his Scotch.
Patricia Harding-Grayson couldn’t stop a ghost of smile flitting across her face. Later that evening the two men talked in low tones so as not to disturb her as she dozed with her head on her husband’s shoulder.
“We have burnt our boats,” Henry Tomlinson ruminated. He knew he ought to get some sleep, for tomorrow and every other day of whatever remained of his life was surely going to be a great trial.
“Is it true that the Prime Minister dreams of some kind of a European rebirth?”
“I’m sure he dreams of it, yes. I doubt if he’d put it so grandly, but yes, I think he honestly believes we have a responsibility to hold the line and to begin the process of rebuilding. He’s right, too. Otherwise, what do we say to our people out there in the post-cataclysm world. That surviving is the only thing that matters? What sort of a message is that? No, I think he’s right to believe that just surviving isn’t enough. Our people have to have hope, Tom. Our people must feel that that are worthy of surviving.”
“My goodness, old man,” Tom Harding-Grayson exclaimed lowly, “all these years I’ve known you and I never realised you were a closet philosopher.”
“That’s as may be but you know I’m right.”
His host nodded. He opened his mouth to speak; there was a staccato knocking at the front door of the cottage. Patricia Harding-Grayson blinked awake, yawned and made as if to rise.
“I’ll get it, my dear,” he insisted, waving her to stay where she was.
The Foreign Secretary rose to his feet and walked leadenly to the door.
Outside in the frigid darkness where snowflakes curled and floated — mercifully only in ones and twos without settling on the ground — stood a grey-haired, calm-eyed man in a United States Navy braided cap and greatcoat. The officer seemed familiar, the Foreign Secretary had seen him before; couldn’t put his face to a name.