So far, so good; two radar stations down but the radar dead zones in the three hundred-and-sixty degree coverage of the ocean surrounding Malta had been swiftly ‘patched’. The preparations for the pre-planned conventional strikes by the three serviceable V-bombers at Luqa on enemy positions on Cyprus had continued, while the RAF, US Air Force and the much depleted Royal Fleet Air Arm strike force held back at Luqa was re-tasked to intercept the ‘invasion’ convoy if it was confirmed as such at first light. In the event that confirmation had not come until after nine that morning by which time aircraft which had been sitting at dispersals crewed and bombed up for several hours had had to be stood down, fuel tanks topped off, and revised operational orders and objectives promulgated. Julian Christopher’s deputy on the Maltese Archipelago, Air Vice-Marshall Daniel French ran a tight ship and the last of the twenty-three available strike aircraft, and the three pre-tasked Vulcan V-bombers had all been airborne by 11:27 hours.
At that stage the situation had been under control; there had been no apparent cause for undue alarm.
For a further fourteen minutes there had been no significant developments and the local ‘threat board’ had remained empty.
Everything had started going wrong at 11:41 hours.
At 11:41 a formation of aircraft had been detected by the Type-12 frigate HMS Yarmouth, but not by either of the radar stations on Gozo or by the long-range air search installations at Dingli on the west coast, or at Fort Rinella east of Kalkara overlooking the approaches to the Grand Harbour.
Once the Air Defence Controller at Luqa had got over his understandable shock to be suddenly confronted by possible ‘hostiles’ travelling at over four hundred knots less than a hundred miles north-east of the archipelago, two quick reaction alert — QRA — Hawker Hunters had been despatched to intercept the strangers, while other fighters were hastily rolled out. At 11:47 the ‘bogey’s had turned away, dropping huge clouds of chaff and jamming all standard channels.
At 11:49 HMS Yarmouth had transited the South Comino Channel between Malta and Gozo, the two largest islands of the Maltese Archipelago. Within seconds, her gunnery control radar had detected several unidentified surface contacts impossibly close to the islands.
At 11:53 HMS Yarmouth had come under fire.
The Commander-in-Chief had watched the situation developing on the plots in the basement of his Mdina Headquarters. He had not actually believed it was possible for the entire air defence system to fail. Such a failure was inconceivable unless the archipelago’s defences had been sabotaged in detail. But that was impossible. The system was too complex, too multi-layered. True, a lot of good men had sailed with the two Operation Grantham Task Forces, most of his best staff officers had pleaded to be allowed to sail with the Fleet. A significant part of the US Air Force and the whole US Navy contingent on Malta — which was not and never had been under his direct command — had decamped to join the expedition and at the time he had welcomed the whole-hearted commitment of his allies to Operation Grantham. The home base had seemed secure and every available aircraft, ship and man was desperately needed, if the expedition to liberate Cyprus and to open a new front on Red Dawn’s flank was to succeed. Malta was protected by batteries of anti-aircraft guns, advanced British and American long-range surface-to-air missiles and a squadron of RAF Hawker Hunters fighters.
He had deliberately committed everything he had to ensure the success of Operation Grantham. Only a week ago he had agonised over holding back a mechanised battalion of the Welsh Guards after generator trouble had denied him the services of one of his Tank Landing Ships. A mechanised unit was useless without all its equipment, so the Guardsmen had parked their armour at the Cambridge Barracks on Tigne Point and hit the bars of Sliema and Gzira to drown their collective sorrows.
The fact that a single angry, dispirited and somewhat hung over battalion of Welsh Guards was the only mobile armoured force at his disposal with which to defend the main island now served to magnify the scale of his catastrophic failure.
His first duty had been to protect the home base.
Self-evidently, he had failed.
HMS Yarmouth had ducked back into the South Comino Channel where the surrounding high ground had initially blinded her search radars but offered her sanctuary from the enemy’s fire.
The first salvo of heavy calibre shells had crashed into and around RAF Luqa at 12:06. A lucky — or unlucky — hit had cratered the main runway at 12:09. At 12:10 Julian Christopher’s Headquarters had lost contact with the Command-Information-Centre at Luqa.
Thus, the career of Admiral Sir Julian Christopher Commander-in-Chief of all British and Commonwealth Forces in the Mediterranean Theatre of Operations ended.
He turned and faced his unnerved Headquarters Staff.
A bystander who did not know what was going on and was unaware of the scale of the rapidly unfolding military catastrophe, might have described the Commander-in-Chief’s demeanour as being ‘as cool as a cucumber’ as he calmly started to dictate orders.
“If the Welsh Guards aren’t already on the move order them to disperse around Tigne Point and into the back streets of Sliema. Whatever they do they are to hold their armour back until I call for it!”
Julian Christopher steeled himself; this was going to be very bloody.
There was at least one ship standing off shore shooting with very big guns, he decided. And another with a large number of smaller guns that were larger than anything he possessed capable of shooting back at either ship. The big guns were only firing every two to three minutes, four round salvoes. The ship with the smaller guns was shooting broadsides every thirty seconds.
He wondered if this was some kind of demented bad dream and was sorely tempted to pinch himself.
The sky seemed as if it was being torn in half.
Four huge geysers of dirt, vegetation and masonry erupted across the far side of Ta’Qali airfield, which lay in the valley beneath the ramparts of the ancient Citadel of Mdina.
Julian Christopher clenched his fists so hard on his binoculars that a spasm of red hot pricking agony stabbed in his right forearm. The cramp briefly paralysed his hand and he almost dropped the glasses.
There was only one ship in the Mediterranean that could throw shells that big. No matter how ridiculous or militarily implausible it seemed to that rational part of his mind that was not numbed with shock; Malta was under bombardment by one of Kaiser Wilhelm II’s dreadnoughts. Old Kaiser Bill had built a whole fleet of battleships and battlecruisers before the Great War in an attempt to break the grip of the Royal Navy and to humble the British Empire; it seemed, over twenty years after his death and fifty years after Seiner Majestät Schiff — His Majesty's Ship — Goeben was chased into Turkish service by the Mediterranean Fleet, the old tyrant’s dearest wish was about to come true.