“Why are we worrying about it?” The Secretary of State asked bluntly. “We all know that there are significant military assets which we can move into position in the Mediterranean. Why don’t we just do it?”
Curtis LeMay was uncomfortable in his chair. He wanted to be roaming the room like a caged tiger looking for corners of carpet to chew.
“Because they’re the wrong assets and the logistics are a mess, Mister Secretary.”
The President put down his coffee.
“Tell me about the available assets, General.”
“The Enterprise and the Long Beach,” the US Navy’s unbelievably expensive giant trophy nuclear-powered super carrier and her nuclear-powered cruiser consort, “half-a-dozen escorts and several SSNs are exercising in the Eastern Atlantic. We have air assets, maybe fifty aircraft of all types in Spain and Italy. We have no idea how practical it will be to conduct operations from our bases in those countries. Spain basically want us out, we shouldn’t even be in Italy. If we didn’t have two battalions of Marines holding the perimeter the local mafia would steal everything we’ve got at Aviano. Other boots on the ground? As for allies in the region we can rely on? Nobody except the Brits.”
Jack Kennedy had come to the conference direct from taking Secretary of Defence Robert McNamara’s conference call from Washington. The former Ford Motor Company man was overseeing the salvage and recovery operation in DC, and drawing up plans to use the recent disaster as a springboard to radically integrate the disparate arms of the giant American war machine. That, however, was a long term project. This morning their discussion had focused on short term ways and means.
“The British have the use of Portuguese ports and air bases,” the President pointed out. “They have a long runway on Malta, Pantelleria airport is probably going to be open again soon, and they’ve got RAF Akrotiri in Cyprus. What’s the issue re-locating our air assets in the Mediterranean?”
“Congress,” Bobby Kennedy said glumly. The President’s younger brother had to speak as the Attorney General of the United States of America whether he liked it or not. “I doubt if the legal basis for the initial deployment of those aircraft to Spain and northern Italy was watertight to start with, Jack.”
“Fine,” the President grinned. “We’ll offer them to the British. Tell me about the Enterprise battle group?” He invited the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
Curtis LeMay scowled.
“The Enterprise needs to be provisioned for a new deployment. So do her escorts. Obviously, bunker oil isn’t a problem for her and the Long Beach, but food, aviation fuel, bombs, bullets and everything else is.”
“Bob McNamara says the Independence Battle Group is in the South Atlantic heading back to Norfolk?”
“The Chief of Naval Operations says her fleet train will be seriously depleted by the time it gets back home. Besides, Independence has got a problem with her catapults.”
Jack Kennedy grunted.
“We can start the Enterprise on the way to Gibraltar,” the Commander-in-Chief decided. “The Independence can dock at Gibraltar and see if she can get her catapults fixed without having to come back to the East Coast. We can send specialists and parts out by air if necessary. Enterprise can take position in the Eastern Mediterranean with Independence’s fleet train and as many combat ready escorts as possible. In the mean time, General LeMay,” he said, straightening in his chair, “find out if the British can accommodate our existing ‘in theatre’ air assets.”
“None of this will happen fast, Mister President,” Curtis LeMay cautioned. Because it was Curtis LeMay who said it nobody in the room was about to suggest he was sandbagging. “We’re talking fourteen to twenty-one days for the Enterprise to be on station. Ten days for the first SSNs to deploy. Moving air assets is faster but organising the ground crews and logistics isn’t going to be easy even if the Spanish and Italians don’t actively obstruct the redeployment.”
“Do what you can, General.”
Unready ships at sea, a handful of aircraft based in potential combat zones and a few hundred boots on the ground in foreign lands. That was what the Commander-in-Chief had at his personal command. The legislators and overseers of the House of Representatives held the purse strings to everything else. The President could ride roughshod over his political foes but only at an incalculable cost to the rule of law. Before the cataclysm of the Cuban Missiles War he might have acted with impunity, embarked on any crazy adventure he liked; for example, like the Bay of Pigs fiasco. He’d have got a bad press but that was all. Now, whatever he did he risked new and damaging schisms whichever way he turned at the very time when American needed to be at its most united. The brutal reality was that even if there was war in the Mediterranean, or elsewhere, unless American blood was shed Congress would probably block any significant attempt to help the British.
Sometimes, Jack Kennedy was convinced that the American political class of 1964 was the most anti-British since 1776.
Chapter 31
There was a crisp knock at Lieutenant-Commander Peter Christopher’s open door. Bright morning light poured into the cabin through two portholes, illuminating the desk where HMS Talavera’s acting commanding officer was attempting to come to terms with the administrative nightmare of commanding a damaged ship in harbour.
Petty Officer Jack Griffin’s bearded features were immobile.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” the newcomer said, “but there’s a civilian on the gangway who claims she’s a Surgeon Commander Seiffert of the United States Navy. She says she holds a reserve commission in the Maltese Defence Force, whatever that is,” the man sniffed derisively, “but she doesn’t have any papers or an ID card so the Master at Arms is, er, entertaining the lady. He ordered me to, er, let you know what was going on, sir.”
“Dr Margo Seiffert?” Peter Christopher demanded, rising to his feet and searching for his cap.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be on deck directly.”
Jack Griffin slid away.
Peter Christopher jammed his cap on his head, and assailed by a renewed surfeit of guilt, went to meet his visitor. He had arrived at Malta at the end of probably the worst week in Marija Calleja’s life and he hadn’t yet contrived to go ashore to comfort her. He told himself it couldn’t be helped, that there was nothing he could do about it. His dreams of watching for Marija on the quayside as his ship glided into harbour had come to nothing; just getting his damaged ship safely moored fore and aft in the confined waters of a strange anchorage had been a nightmare. What with one thing and another HMS Talavera’s arrival at Malta hadn’t exactly gone to plan. The Lampedusa expedition hadn’t gone to plan either, of course. He tried not to dwell overlong on the events of that dreadful night in the shallows off the small, unexpectedly dangerous island. He’d had plenty of other things to think about. In all the fuss and bother being reunited with his father for the first time in years hadn’t been as traumatic or well, downright unpleasant, as he’d anticipated. The reality of the meeting — perhaps, because it was such a public affair — was that both men had behaved with restrained politeness and respect, playing up to the gallery. They’d both understood their roles in the other night’s drama.
Margo Seiffert was talking animatedly with Chief Petty Officer Spider McCann, Talavera’s senior non-commissioned officer. The Master at Arms and the side party snapped to attention the instant they sighted their commanding officer on deck.