Beyond the ruddy-faced Treasury Secretary sat the Secretaries of the Navy, the Air Force and the Army, several loyal senior Democrats, the Secretary of Labour, the Surgeon General, and two representatives of the Unity Administration of the United Kingdom; the British Ambassador, Lord Franks, elegantly attired in civilian garb, and beside him Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher’s personal ‘Military Legate to the President’, the former Chief of the British Air Staff, Air Marshal Sir Charles Elworthy. Margaret Thatcher had made it clear to Jack Kennedy that these two men, in her absence, ‘spoke for the United Kingdom’ and when the Angry Widow said a thing like that a man was a fool not to take it to heart. Senior staffers circled around their principals. This ‘packing’ of the conference presented an intrinsic security issue but not one that was outweighed by the crying need for everybody to be on the same page, and to be wholly conversant with the same message.
The President of the United States of America cleared his throat.
“Admiral McDonald has prepared a for our ears only situation briefing,” he prefaced, deadly serious. “This conference was called at this time and place for four reasons. One, the setting,” he quirked an unfunny half-smile, “because appearances do matter, my friends, and I make no apology for using these magnificent old ships as publicity props. Any assurance we can give our fellow Americans in these times is to be welcomed.”
There were murmurs of agreement around the table.
“Two, despite recent events in the Mediterranean, and the news we are receiving all the time — some good, some bad, some very bad — nothing that has happened in the last few days has altered the declared policy of my Administration. The United States of America will re-mobilize to fight a one continent war by the earliest date. Thereafter, we will restore and if necessary, build up, our forces to be capable of simultaneously fighting a two continent war against any likely foe. For the present we will offer and provide, without reserve, on a ‘war grant’ basis,” he threw a glance at his new Secretary to the US Treasury, “similar to the Second World War lend lease arrangements’ all assistance that it is within out power to give to the United Kingdom. Several ships carrying war supplies and other essential goods are already at sea en route to the United Kingdom and to the Mediterranean. Presently, this lifeline is a trickle, heads will roll if that lifeline does not quickly turn into a mighty river of foodstuffs, industrial and technical materials, fuels and every imaginable sinew of war.”
Jack Kennedy exchanged looks with his younger brother, whose understated nod confirmed he was hitting the right buttons. Thus fortified, he continued.
“Three, while re-affirming that it is still this Administration’s position that an attack on the soil of an Ally as defined by the Articles of the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation, shall be automatically be regarded as a direct attack on the United States of America; I have been persuaded by Premier Thatcher that despite the clear intention of aggressors based on Romanian sovereign territory, and the soil of one, perhaps two of the republics of the former Soviet Union, to target British territories and warships in the Mediterranean with nuclear weapons,” he paused, made eye contacts around the table, “a decision to launch a retaliatory nuclear strike has been deferred indefinitely at this time pending future developments. Those responsible for the recent nuclear and conventional war crimes and atrocities committed in the Central and Eastern Mediterranean Regions are hereby under notice from the civilized World that their crimes will never be forgotten, and that one day they will face the justice they so richly deserve.”
The sound of hammering and machinery filtered into the compartment from far, far away as if to remind all those present that this ship, and the country at large was stirring from its post-cataclysm stupor.
“Four,” Jack Kennedy said, his tone brightening and yet filling with iron resolve. “Tomorrow evening in a speech to the Faculty of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology I will announce my decision to run for a second term as your President.”
Chapter 6
Admiral Sir Julian Christopher, Commander-in-Chief of all British and Commonwealth Forces in the Mediterranean Theatre of Operations, could not but be aware of the peculiarly festive atmosphere around him on the dockside as the gangway was heaved into place and secured to the gouged, dented, fire-blackened main deck of the battered Weapon class destroyer HMS Scorpion. He had given ‘the ladies’ — Marija Calleja and her chaperone, Margo Seiffert — leave to detach themselves from the official welcoming party. For himself, no matter how much he wanted to shake his son’s hand again, protocol demanded that he welcome Captain ‘D’ of the 7th Destroyer Flotilla ashore first.
Striding magisterially up the gangway he caught a glimpse of Marija and Margo smoothing down their skirts while they awaited the securing of HMS Talavera’s gangway. He chuckled to himself and shook his head before forcing himself to focus on the matter in hand.
“Permission to come aboard, Captain!”
Captain Nicholas Davey, the crown of his head swathed in thick crepe bandages and his left arm in a sling did his best to straighten his generously proportioned, somewhat bruised frame, into a semblance of naval good order. He threw a parody of a salute; it was the best he could manage while somehow contriving to keep a relatively straight face as his old friend stood at the top of the gangway like an aging Greek god in his immaculate uniform.
“Granted, sir!”
Julian Christopher looked about him at the wreckage and the twisted metal, the wooden deck planking scorched by fire. The ship stank of aviation fuel, a lot of it only half-burnt.
He sniffed, maintained the severe severity of high command for a little longer.
“Quiet a mess,” he observed tartly.
The side party waited with baited breath.
Suddenly the Commander-in-Chief’s handsome tanned face broke into a smile and his eyes glistened with mischief and relief.
“While I was listening to the Enterprise’s radio traffic during the worst of the fire there were a couple of times,” he declared loudly, “that I thought you and the boy were gonners, Nick!”
Captain Nicholas Davey had raced big — ocean-going America’s cup contenders — and countless smaller yachts with Julian Christopher before the 1945 war; they had raced hard and partied harder, and later they had served together many times in these very waters. The last time they had been together in Malta he had been his old friend’s second-in-command.
“Yes, well,” the portly commanding officer of HMS Scorpion bemoaned, his face flushing with good humour, “needs must, sir.”