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“Independence on the horn for Iowa, sir!”

Captain Schmidt ran a hand through his thinning grey hair and took the handset.

He had been impressed by the Task Force Commander, fifty-one year old Iowan born Bernard Clarey. Clarey had made his reputation commanding submarines in the Pacific in the forty-five war and thereafter his advancement had been seamless and rapid. People were already speaking of him as a future Chief of Naval Operations.

The scrambled link hissed and clicked.

“The shit has hit the fan at Malta,” Bernard Clarey said without preamble. I’ve redirected two Hawkeyes and an airborne tanker to give me a heads up on what’s actually going on but it is clear from what we already know that Malta is under bombardment from the sea and paratroopers are attacking key installations all over the archipelago.”

Anderson Schmidt knew he should not ask it, but he asked it anyway: “What’s happened to Rear-Admiral Detweiller’s squadron, sir.”

“Detweiller sent both designated guard ships to join Independence, and took all his other units to the Eastern Mediterranean in support of Operation Grantham three days ago.” The Task Force Commander sounded like he had only just found out about it and he was not a happy man.

Oh fuck!

Anderson Farragut Schmidt bit his tongue.

This would be one of those scenarios that General Curtis LeMay would describe, in his inimitable way, as a FUBAR. Fucked Up Beyond All Repair. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs had disarmed, astonished and largely won over the old Washington press corps, now removed to Philadelphia, with his loquacity and forthrightness since the Battle of Washington. Anderson Schmidt wondered how he planned to swat away the barbs which were about to come his way for the Navy’s latest FUBAR.

Schmidt’s understanding had been that elements of Rear-Admiral Detweiller’s Task Force 20.1 would remain at Malta, or exercising within three hours steaming of the Grand Harbour until it was subsumed — on its arrival at Malta — into Admiral Clarey’s Task Force 21.1, which, at that time would be re-designated United States 6th Fleet. It had been assumed that the presence of Detweiller’s modern ships at Malta would enable the British to send everything they had to the Eastern Mediterranean, safe in the knowledge that their home base was secure.

“That’s going to be a problem, sir,” the Captain of the USS Iowa said, demonstrating a mastery of the subtle art of grimly stoic understatement.

“Yes, it is!”

“What are your orders, sir?”

“Communications with Malta are spotty. There’s a lot of jamming going on. The Hawkeyes ought to be able to do something about that when they arrive on station. I’ll send you whatever tactical updates become available. Otherwise, do what you have to do, Captain Schmidt!”

The one thing a man could count on in the Navy was that he never knew what was going to happen next.

“Yes, sir!”

Schmidt straightened, half-smiled.

“Sound Action Stations!”

Chapter 51

12:44 Hours
Friday 3rd April 1964
The Citadel, Mdina

A Kalashnikov-wielding nurse was such an unlikely sight that both British and Russian soldiers gawped at Clara Pullman for a moment before they reacted. Her pale blue nursing auxiliary’s uniform was spattered with Margo Seiffert’s and her killer’s blood, her hair was wild and in her eyes there was nothing but murder.

She screamed: “I’m on your side!” At British soldiers and any civilians who crossed her path. And she screamed: “Ya na vashey storone!” with a manic intensity at Soviet paratroopers.

The former she allowed to go about their business.

The latter she gunned down without compunction as if they were rabid wild dogs.

Two Royal Military Policemen armed with only Webley service revolvers hiding in a cul-de-sac saw Clara step out into the street and empty her AK-47’s thirty-round magazine in three unhurried bursts, and then calmly go to the nearest body and retrieve a new magazine. She slapped it home, cleared the breech, and glanced at the two Redcaps.

“If you want to live come with me!”

Chapter 52

13:45 Hours (Local)
Friday 3rd April 1964
Corpus Christi College, Oxford, England

Captain Walter Brenckmann, the Ambassador of the United States of America to the Court of Blenheim Palace, held the telephone handset to his head and listened to his Naval Attaché’s terse report with studied impassivity.

The Prime Minister’s Personal Private Office was silent; Margaret Thatcher, her Foreign and Defence Ministers, and the Cabinet Secretary waited politely, patiently for him to be told the worst.

“Keep this line open,” the Ambassador ordered, employing the same emphatic tone he had used a thousand times in his sea-going days. He had been on convoy escorts in the Battle of the Atlantic and had commanded a Fletcher class fleet destroyer in the Korean War; he understood from cruel experience that in war things go wrong and people die. But knowing that this was the way of things did not help make it any easier to bear.

The American looked up.

“The USS Independence is north of Sicily, the USS Iowa is approximately one to two hours sailing time south west of Malta. It appears that Rear-Admiral Detweiller departed Malta in support of Operation Grantham with all his major surface units without first clearing his movements with Admiral Clarey. This was contrary to Admiral Christopher’s wishes but, as you know, American commanders in the field are not obliged to obey the orders of local, albeit senior, allied commanders. Presumably, Admiral Christopher elected not to turn what probably seemed at the time like a minor professional disagreement, into a full blown diplomatic incident. Until this morning all available intelligence summaries gave no reason to think that Malta was in any way threatened. The USS Independence reports intercepting signals from the Malta strike force that attacked an ‘invasion convoy’ east of the archipelago indicating that the convoy has been badly damaged and scattered. Aircraft returning from that strike are reporting that large areas of Malta are shrouded by smoke, and report shooting down numerous Soviet twin-engine Antonov and other transport-type aircraft over Malta engaged in dropping a large number of paratroopers. The returning aircraft are engaging in hostiles until their fuel runs out, at which time their crews are ejecting over land. The Independence has established communication with the frigate HMS Yarmouth, which, in company with HMS Talavera is planning to attack the major enemy surface units bombarding Malta with torpedoes.”

Margaret Thatcher was impressed by the conciseness of the report.

“How many torpedoes do those two ships have?”

“Four,” the American replied flatly. “Yarmouth has none. The Talavera was recently converted to mount a single quadruple launcher. Yarmouth will attempt to draw the enemy’s fire when Talavera attacks.”

The Prime Minister absorbed this with a sick feeling in her stomach.

“When will Independence be in a position to intervene?” She asked.

“The Independence was recovering her air group when the emergency became know. Aircraft will need to be refuelled and weapon loads re-calibrated. Given the range and flight times involved in mounting a co-ordinated strike operation against the enemy naval units off Malta,” he shrugged, “two to three hours, Prime Minister.”