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“Aye, aye, sir,” Jack Griffin muttered. The Executive Officer was already gone. The Petty Officer gave Joe Calleja a mildly disenchanted glare.

Marija’s little brother was as dumbfounded as the Navy man.

“Did he really just order me to get the mount ready for action?”

Jack Griffin nodded.

“He did and he’ll have our guts for garters if we let him down!”

Chapter 44

12:24 Hours
Friday 3rd April 1964
Situation Room, HQ of the C-in-C, Mediterranean, Mdina

“Do we have any way of communicating with HMS Talavera?” Admiral Sir Julian Christopher, Commander-in-Chief of all British and Commonwealth Forces in the Mediterranean Theatre of Operations asked as he strode into the bunker.

“Negative, sir. She probably took damage to her aerials and rigging from a couple of near misses as she exited the Grand Harbour.”

“Keep trying.” Julian Christopher ordered. The tactical plot showed the USS Permit ninety-five miles east of Malta racing to intercept the suspected ‘invasion convoy’. An ‘invasion convoy’ that ought to have already been savagely mauled by the strike force despatched from RAF Luqa shortly before the base was shelled. Given that there was nowhere for the returning aircraft to land on Malta, or anywhere else within range before their fuel was exhausted, the men in the surviving strike aircraft would have to eject over the island. There was no way to warn them; apart from a few land lines the island-wide telephone network was down and both VHF and short wave communications were being heavily jammed.

The jamming was so bad it was as if it was coming from right next door.

“We’ve got HMS Yarmouth back on line, sir.”

Julian Christopher grabbed the handset.

“This is the C-in-C.”

The Type-12 frigate’s Captain sounded positively insouciant but the older man knew this was an act for the benefit of his bridge team. Julian Christopher’s path had crossed that of Commander John Pope more than once over the years. Very distantly related on his father’s side to the C-in-C’s predecessor on Malta, Hugh Staveley-Pope, John Pope was a thoroughly sound forty-one year old career naval officer who had commanded Yarmouth with distinction while attached to the Hermes’s Battle Group in the closing stages of Operation Manna. Yarmouth had remained in Maltese waters in the capacity of a ‘guard ship’ when the rest of the Fleet had departed. The intention had been for her to be supported in that role by two US Navy Coontz class missile destroyers but at the last minute Rear-Admiral Detweiller had decided to send the two destroyers back towards Gibraltar to supplement the screening forces of the USS Independence and the USS Iowa.

Yarmouth had, therefore, been left to plough a lonely furrow, to be reinforced by HMS Talavera when she returned from sea trials.

The Americans had been infuriatingly coy about when the USS Independence — allegedly fully operational again — and the USS Iowa could be expected in the Central Mediterranean. Julian Christopher understood the need for secrecy as well as any man, and was aware that the Americans viewed his Headquarters as the leakiest of sieves when it came to keeping secrets. He even understood why the Americans were reluctant to allow him to factor in or integrate the two capital ships into the planning for Operation Grantham. But understanding did not actually help anybody; one of the reasons he had been prepared to tolerate leaving Malta so exposed was that he had assumed — and received tacit assurances that — Rear-Admiral Detweiller would leave significant elements of his squadron at Malta awaiting arrival of the Independence and the Iowa.

The Yarmouth’s captain wasted no time making his report.

“I think what we’re dealing with is a Sverdlov class cruiser in company with that bloody battlecruiser the Kaiser gave the Turks all those years ago, sir. They’ve got several escorts in tow and I had a radar ‘sniff’ of another biggish ship, perhaps, another cruiser over the horizon about twenty miles behind the lead group. Presently, I’m playing hide and seek with a couple of Krupny class destroyers in the South Comino Channel. One of the beggars fired a missile at me but we didn’t see where it went. I tried keeping them at arm’s length with the main battery but…”

Some genius at the Admiralty had decided not to install torpedo tubes into the later ‘modified’ Type-12 Rothesay class frigates. Yarmouth was the end ship of the class and was pitiful equipped for any kind of surface action. Her single twin 4.5-inch turret was a good piece of kit but her entire close-range anti-aircraft armament comprised a single double 40-millimetre cannon. Before the October War there had been discussions about stripping out the 40-millimetre guns and installing a quadruple GWS 21 Sea Cat launcher but nothing had come of it. Designated ‘anti-submarine’ frigates, the Rothesays were never intended to go toe to toe with an enemy in a surface action.

“I understand completely,” Julian Christopher assured the younger man. “For your information Talavera has cleared the Grand Harbour.”

There was a short, hissing silence.

Having just taken possession of his death warrant, the Yarmouth’s Captain was not the man to cry over spilt milk.

“Right you are, sir,” drawled Commander Pope. “In that case I shall endeavour to make a nuisance of myself.”

“Good luck, Captain.”

Julian Christopher put down the handset and gazed at the plot.

First things first; worst case scenarios.

The USS Independence had departed Gibraltar over forty-eight hours ago. The big carrier had delayed sailing because she was awaiting the arrival of the USS Iowa. It was reasonable to assume that both ships and their fast modern escorting vessels would be in the central Mediterranean sometime in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Meanwhile, if and when she could be contacted, the USS Permit was within three to four hours steaming time of the Maltese Archipelago. If recalled, fighters and strike aircraft from HMS Eagle’s and HMS Hermes’s air groups might be over the island in strength within forty-eight hours. Moreover, it was not too late to recall the assault force from Cyprus, its troops might be storming ashore on Malta in five to six days under cover of a withering bombardment from HMS Belfast and the two Big Cats, HMS Tiger and HMS Lion.

He kept staring at the tactical plot despite a loud altercation outside the Situation Room. He leaned forward, resting the palms of his hands on the edge of the table. Deep beneath the medieval Citadel the impact of each of the Yavuz’s four shell salvos was transmitted through the ground rock, the floor, and absorbed by the wooden table.

Presently, he stood tall.

He sighed.

“Confirm that the Welsh Guards are dispersing into the streets of Sliema and Gzira. They should be ready to defend and hold that area and if possible extend their left flank as far towards Msida Creek as possible.”

The Guards were in the wrong place.

There was nothing he could do about that.

“OC Welsh Guards is to co-operate as he thinks fit with other local defence forces. That is all.”

Julian Christopher ran his eye around the room.

“Everybody should arm themselves. Soviet paratroopers will be landing on the archipelago in the next few minutes. Their objective will be not to seize or to hold the island but to spread terror by killing as many people as possible.” He steeled himself. “My orders are that all enemy combatants are to be attacked and killed on sight. No prisoners. No quarter. No surrender! Yield no ground! Please transmit that order to all units in the clear by any means possible.”