Выбрать главу

For all that Airey Neave, the forty-seven year old escapee from Colditz who’d been the man who read the indictments at the trial of the leading Nazis at Nuremburg was that rare thing, a living national treasure, there were times when the man who had become Margaret Thatcher’s unofficial chief of staff, was an infuriating enigma. In the recent Government reshuffle he’d been promoted to Minister of Supply under the umbrella of what was in effect, a new Ministry of the Interior within the existing Home Office apparatus. It appeared that Airey Neave was recklessly stepping on Foreign Office toes.

“I do apologise, Tom,” Margaret Thatcher blinked with irritation as she tried to think what her friend was up to. “I hate to have to admit it but I have no idea what Airey is up to.”

She stood up and passed Airey Neave’s note across to the Foreign Secretary who glanced at it and smiled quizzically at the Home Secretary.

The double doors opened again and Admiral Sir David Luce entered the room. He paused to ask the RAF technicians a question and resumed his chair at the Cabinet table.

“I have several updates and clarifications for the Cabinet, Prime Minister,” he said flatly. “If I might speak to these before we view the film footage from Malta?”

Edward Heath paused until he’d considered whether he ought to intervene to curtail whatever wild goose chase Airey Neave had embarked upon this time. He made a mental note to speak to Margaret Thatcher about the man’s antics. It hadn’t mattered that Airey was a loose cannon in the old days; however, if he wanted to stay in Government he needed to remember he was supposed to be a team player. This decided, he moved on.

“Yes, carry on, First Sea Lord.”

“Western Approaches,” Admiral Sir David Luce prefaced, wasting no time getting on with business. Everything discussed in this room was suddenly very urgent. “The Enterprise Battle Group continues to cruise in a patrol zone which at its closest approach intrudes some seventy miles inside the notified Total Exclusion Zone. I have ordered HMS Dreadnought, tactical practicalities willing, to place herself between the Enterprise Battle Group and the most northerly surface units screening HMS Hermes off Cape Trafalgar.”

The First Sea Lord frowned.

“The latest report I have from the C-in-C Ark Royal Battle Group regarding the Talavera and the Devonshire,” he continued. Although the set of his jaw was stern none of the outrage that burned in his eyes touched his voice. “The sea conditions in the area off the north western coast of the Iberian Peninsula are atrocious and likely to worsen again overnight. Devonshire is proceeding under her own steam escorted by HMS Leopard. The ship is in a bad way with over a hundred casualties onboard. As for Talavera; over half her crew were casualties and she’s got an unexploded bomb wedged against the aft bulkhead of her forward magazine. HMS Plymouth is rendering all possible assistance and HMS Daring will be in the area by dawn. However, if it turns out that Oporto is not open to…”

Edward Heath interjected.

“If the Portuguese turn our ships away there will be Hell to pay,” he promised solemnly.

The First Sea Lord nodded. He moved on: “Gibraltar.”

Everybody around the table stiffened, leaned closer.

“Subsequent to air attacks against elements of the Hermes Battle Group and the destroyers and frigates in the gun line in the Straits,” Admiral Sir David Luce announced, “I regret I must now report the total loss of the frigates Hardy and Exmouth. Both vessels were engaged on anti-submarine patrol activities some distance from the main concentration of the Battle Group. It appears that after the Hermes’s Sea Vixens cut a swath through the first wave of attackers, a second wave of bombers ignored the main fleet and concentrated on the two relatively isolated units. Rescue operations are in hand but there are not expected to be a large number of survivors.”

Margaret Thatcher asked a gentle, quiet question.

“Did the Spanish really attack our ships employing their copies of German World War II bombers and fighters, Sir David?”

“Yes. They held back their America supplied F-86 Super Sabres and somewhat older Lockheed F-80 fighters. We don’t know how many of these they have in their inventory or how many are likely to operational. I suspect that they didn’t have the stomach to risk them against Hermes’s Sea Vixens.” The First Sea Lord picked up where he’d been interrupted. “Apart from HMS Hardy and HMS Exmouth, a number of our ships sustained minor damage — from splinters and near misses — but there were very few casualties. One Sea Vixen was lost due to an engine flare out; both crew members were recovered from the sea and are expected to return to duty shortly. About two hours ago ships from the Battle Group moved inshore and bombarded shipping in Algeciras Bay and Cadiz Roads. At this time the Hermes Battle Group remains on station controlling access to the Straits of Gibraltar.”

At this juncture the First Sea Lord hesitated and a flicker of a smile touched his pale lips.

“Malta,” he said portentously. ”There have been no further air attacks this day and Admiral Christopher reports that rescue and recovery work is well in hand. I have no update on casualty figures other than to confirm that the initial estimate of one thousand five hundred dead, one thousand seriously wounded and as many less badly hurt but requiring hospital treatment may unduly optimistic. Since the raid the RAF and the Fleet Air Arm are flying twenty-four hour combat air patrols out to a distance of one hundred miles around the Maltese Archipelago. Admiral Christopher reports an absence of civil unrest and has made it known that henceforth he plans to institute more ‘collegiate’ working relationships with the leaders of Maltese civil society.”

“More collegiate?” Margaret Thatcher queried.

“More normal, Mrs Thatcher,” Sir David Luce replied. “More akin to pre-war arrangements.” He finished his briefing: “Sir Julian has ordered the C-in-C Hermes Battle Group to ‘keep up the pressure’ on the Spanish around Gibraltar without unduly risking his ships.”

“Keeping up the pressure,” James Callaghan sighed. “What does he have in mind, Sir David? More shore bombardments? Hit and run air attacks?”

The Admiral met his political master’s steady gaze,

“Sir Julian has not confided specifics to me, sir. Likewise, I should imagine he’s deliberately not tied the hands of the C-in-C of the Hermes Battle Group. Hermes’s Sea Vixens will have exhausted most of the available Sidewinder reloads and some of the destroyers and frigates will be low on 4.5 and 4.7 inch shells. Until or unless the Battle Group can be resupplied or relieved by new ships, there is limited scope for sustained offensive action.”

Edward Heath brought matters to a head.

“Thank you, First Sea Lord. Let’s have the lights down so we can watch the film footage the ‘Fighting Admiral’ has sent us.”

Even though everybody sitting around the table knew exactly what they were about to see the actual gun camera footage of the 30-millimetre ADEN cannons of RAF Hawker Hunter jets methodically blasting four Boeing B-52 bombers out of the air, brought home to the War Cabinet like nothing else could possibly have brought it home to them that the World had finally, and incontrovertibly gone stark staring mad.