Jack Kennedy looked to his wife for reassurance.
Jackie smiled.
They’d been apart too much this last year and that had been a mistake.
“Article Six of the North Atlantic Treaty says: For the purpose of Article 5, an armed attack on one or more of the Parties is deemed to include an armed attack on the territory of any of the Parties in Europe or North America, on the Algerian Departments of France, on the territory of or on the Islands under the jurisdiction of any of the Parties in the North Atlantic area north of the Tropic of Cancer; and on the forces, vessels, or aircraft of any of the Parties, when in or over these territories or any other area in Europe in which occupation forces of any of the Parties were stationed on the date when the Treaty entered into force or the Mediterranean Sea or the North Atlantic area north of the Tropic of Cancer.”
The President’s expression had become grim.
“My Administration takes these Articles to mean that an attack on the United Kingdom, or any of its bases in the Mediterranean, is a direct act of war against the United States of America.”
Chapter 36
There was a knock at the open door to Captain Simon Collingwood’s cramped cabin. Lieutenant-Commander Max Forton stuck his bearded face around the bulkhead.
“Come in, Number One,” invited the commanding officer of the Royal Navy’s only nuclear-powered attack submarine. He handed the two message sheets to the newcomer, waving him to sit on the adjacent bunk.
Max Forton grinned.
“Congratulations, Commander,” his captain chuckled. The top sheet was a list of promotions and recommendations for decorations for gallantry and good service. The second sheet was about the business of war.
“Thank you, sir.” The younger man pulled a face. “You don’t think they’ll haul me off to somewhere I’d rather not be the first time we touch land, do you?”
“You and me both, I should imagine,” Simon Collingwood guffawed. The next time Dreadnought docked she wouldn’t be going to sea again until her ever-growing, already very long defect list had been addressed. “The Blake has been ordered to stay in Limassol another forty-eight hours.”
He handed both sheets to his Executive Officer.
Max Forton perused the second sheet.
“Hermes making for Malta at best speed,” he read out aloud as he skimmed the page. “Second Submarine Squadron boats to adopt forward positions in a picket line across the Libyan Sea. Victorious task force temporarily withdrawing towards Alexandria. That’s a turn up, the Egyptians offering re-fuelling facilities… Tiger and Lion are rebalancing their main magazines with eighty percent AP shells. Good god,” he concluded, “they’ve patched up the Sheffield and they’re planning to send her out to join the Victorious!”
Simon Collingwood nodded.
Every ship in the Mediterranean Fleet which could raise steam was being sent to the Eastern Mediterranean. While HQ in Malta scrambled to position units west and south of Crete, HMS Blake and her cargo of three dozen nuclear warheads recently removed from the old combined NATO-CENTO store at RAF Akrotiri had no choice but to remain in port. The Blake might be a match for a Sverdlov or Chapayev class cruiser in normal circumstances, but with such precious and dangerous treasure in her magazines, a gunnery duel with one or more big former Soviet cruisers was to be avoided at all costs.
The ‘Cyprus problem’ had come home to roost with a vengeance. Cyprus had been a NATO enclave on the western periphery of the Central Treaty Organisation area of operations. The nuclear weapon store had been under joint US-UK control at the time of the October War and with the pullback of US forces in the Mediterranean the British garrison had effectively usurped the smaller combine US Air Force and Marine Corps presence, and taken custody of the stockpile. While the ruling Greek Junta was neutral and showed no signs of ambition towards Cyprus, the position was tenuous. When Crete ceased to be Greek-controlled, Cyprus should have either been massively reinforced, or abandoned. Vice-Admiral Sir Julian Christopher’s predecessor as Commander-in-Chief Mediterranean had neither had the resources nor the will to reinforce Cyprus, and had made preparations — unfortunately very visible preparations — to evacuate the British presence from the island. This had sparked widespread civil unrest not to mention high anxiety; without achieving a single worthwhile tactical or strategic gain for the occupiers at the very moment that the sudden threat of Red Dawn had prompted the worst crisis in the region since the October War. That this was a crisis, not a ‘panic’, was solely down to the calm, sure guiding hand of the current Commander-in-Chief in Malta.
“Um,” Max Forton grunted, “I hope they keep all those A class boats out of our way!”
His captain heartily concurred with this thought.
The 2nd Submarine Squadron’s six A, or Amphion class, diesel-electric submarines based at Malta were relics of the immediate post-Second War era; able to stay submerged only for as long as their batteries lasted, relatively slow under water and obliged to transit from base to any potential war station mostly on the surface. The advent of the nuclear age of submarines had made them horribly obsolete over night. They would also be very difficult to tell apart from any former Soviet or Turkish diesel-electric boat that Dreadnought encountered.
“It is a bit of a mess, isn’t it?” Simon Collingwood said, wholly rhetorically. It was a thought he wouldn’t have dreamed of voicing to any other man aboard Dreadnought.
“Presumably, one of the reasons the Blake is holed up in Limassol is that her main battery magazines are full of HE and proximity fused ant-aircraft rounds,” Max Forton mused. “Her escorts too, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“None of our cruisers could lay a finger on the Yavuz,” Simon Collingwood observed. The old ex-German battlecruiser had eleven-inch thick cemented armour over her vitals, nine-inches protecting her turrets and up to three inches on her decks. Catching himself thinking negatively he instantly recanted. “Still, I’m sure if the old beast turns up the RAF will have got her number!”
“You never know, she might sail across our bows sooner or later, sir!”
Late yesterday afternoon the Admiral Kutuzov and her escorting destroyers had rendezvoused with a tanker anchored off the Greek island of Rhodes. There were fires burning on the island, a pall of smoke drifting out to sea. Fire on the land and oil slicks marring the blue Aegean from sunken ships; everywhere that Red Dawn went scorched earth followed. Having topped up their bunkers the Sverdlov class cruiser and her escorts had steamed over Dreadnought, heading south. That was two hours ago.
Max Forton opened his mouth to speak.
The distant explosion had both men on their feet.
By the time the concussion waves of the second and third detonations reached the Dreadnought both men were marching into the control room.
“Contacts along the explosion bearings?” The Executive Officer demanded, studying the tactical plot.
“Negative, sir!”
There was a smaller explosion, and another. Low rumbling outbursts that eddied in the deep water.
“We have the Kutuzov group bearing zero-nine-five degrees. Range five miles. The explosions bear zero-one-five degrees. Range unconfirmed but I’d guess two to three miles, sir!”
Despite the inherent risks there was no substitute for the mark one human eye when it came to unravelling a thorny tactical situation.