Up until that moment the worst news that morning had been that his flag lieutenant, Alan Hannay, had respectfully requested a transfer to sea duty. His request had included the supplementary information that he was aware of several vacancies in the wardroom of HMS Talavera, and that he had already established that the commanding officer of the said ship would be happy to have him aboard in the capacity of Supply Officer and Purser. Notwithstanding, he was unlikely to find a flag lieutenant half as capable as young Hannay, in good conscience the C-in-C didn’t have the heart to stand in the boy’s way. In times like these if a man wanted to put his hand in the fire; who was he to hold him back?
Sheltered from the searing light of the news from Limassol, down in the bowels of the Citadel his Operations Staff was urgently recalibrating worst case scenarios. HMS Dreadnought’s report of a tramp steamer steaming unmolested beneath the guns of the Admiral Kutuzov group suddenly assumed ominous — actually, chilling — new significance. Another such vessel had clearly sailed unchallenged into Limassol harbour. Any ship laden with refugees, or apparently fleeing from the madness in the Aegean or Asia Minor could be a potential thermonuclear booby trap and would henceforth have to be treated accordingly.
This just got worse!
The Blake and her cargo of thirty-eight nuclear warheads lay on the bottom of Limassol harbour. At least one of her escorts was lost — partially blocking the harbour, it seemed — and most of the other vessels in the port would be damaged or sinking. A bomb that size would have wrecked most of the port, killed practically everybody above ground half-a-mile away and seriously burned and injured anybody within a mile. In a fiery split second the planned, tactical evacuation of Cyprus was now so morbidly problematic as to be impossible.
And what was to stop the bastards using further nukes?
Julian Christopher went to his door.
“I need to speak to Air Vice-Marshall French,” he said urbanely, as if he needed to have a chat with his deputy about a cocktail party. “And round up the Operations Staff. We’ll assemble in the Situation Room in fifteen minutes.”
Daniel French listened intently for some moments. The phone line clicked and whistled; proof the scrambler was doing its job.
“This is a bad business,” the other man agreed. “Do you want to delay going to War Stations until we have more information, sir?”
“No. We’ll hit the alarm button now, Dan. I can’t spare frigates and destroyers to maintain an exclusion zone around the Archipelago; I’ll leave that to the RAF. If you could talk to your American opposite number. There are more US aircraft at Luqa and Ta’Qali than British, so if he’s willing to throw his lot in with us, so be it.”
Down in the bowels of the building, sunken into the living rock upon which the ancient Citadel was founded, a dozen worried men were awaiting the Commander-in-Chief’s arrival.
Julian Christopher understood how important it was that he set the right tone. The Staff needed to know that although what had happened at Limassol was a setback that the C-in-C was still in control of the situation.
“The bad news is that my flag lieutenant has asked for an immediate transfer to sea duties,” Julian Christopher announced sardonically as the circle of officers opened to allow him to walk up to the big table where several maps were partly unfurled. “It seems the young man is in cahoots with my son, the Hero of Lampedusa.” This drew a couple of snorts of amusement and generally lessened the gloom. “I’ve sent Hannay on his way to the Talavera. No point delaying at times such as these. However, while it would be churlish to complain overmuch, I fear that young Hannay’s absence means that the refreshments normally available at these conferences might not be up to the normal standard.”
“Bad show!” Somebody sympathised.
There were other guffaws of strained amusement.
“The situation isn’t good,” Julian Christopher went on. From his tone and confident bearing a disinterested observer might have concluded this was a routine meeting and he was keen to get it over and done with so he could enjoy his luncheon. “I for one didn’t anticipate what has happened in Limassol. Nobody did. As of now I am declaring War Stations throughout the Theatre of Operations and all War Book Options are in play except Arc Light. Dan French is organising an extended air blockade of the Archipelago. A one hundred mile War Exclusion Zone is now in effect and any unidentified vessel or aircraft entering that Zone without prior authorization will be liable to attack without warning. I will be detailing off the Sixth Destroyer Squadron and elements of the Twenty-Second Escort Flotilla to intercept targets which refuse to turn back when challenged by aircraft.”
“What do we do about Cyprus, sir?”
“The Victorious Battle Group will proceed to Cyprus to support the evacuation of all personnel, their dependents and all portable military assets. V-Bomber conventional bombing strikes will be scheduled if enemy ground activity interdicts the evacuation. All non-movable military assets will be destroyed so as to not fall into enemy hands. If Red Dawn attempts to salvage any munitions of any type from HMS Blake I will request an Arc Light strike on the ship.”
Julian Christopher had spoken crisply, with clarity and unshakable conviction. But just in case any of his senior staff hadn’t got the message he laid on a second layer of indefatigable certitude.
“Please make it clear in all you actions that I will defend the Maltese Archipelago to the last man. This is where we stand and this is where we will remain.” He looked around the table. “No surrender, gentlemen.”
Chapter 46
“I think Marija and her visitor would probably like a little privacy,” Margo Seiffert suggested wryly, extending a helping hand to Rosa Calleja. Another woman dressed in the pale blue of the hospital’s nursing staff supported the injured young woman from the other side.
Suddenly, Peter Christopher was alone with Marija.
For long moments neither of them spoke.
The man’s eyes clouded with concern as he surveyed the woman’s desperately bruised face. One eye was black, the other threatening to follow suit. The wound in her eyebrow looked horribly angry and the tears trickling down Marija’s cheeks cut him to the quick.
“I,” he began, lost his courage and had to start anew. “I imagined, dreamed really, about this day. About all the ways we might meet at last.” He was standing at the foot of the bed, his hands in constant nervous motion. “But life is a funny old thing, isn’t it?”
Marija nodded mutely.
Peter moved a step closer, hesitated.
“You’ve had a rough old time of it lately?” He muttered.
“So have you,” she retorted timidly, shyly, horribly self-conscious. I must look awful!
He shrugged.
“Dr Seiffert said you knocked your head? That you had a touch of concussion?”
“Yes…”
“I had a taste of that a couple of months ago. I felt groggy for a couple of days afterwards.”
Marija didn’t know how it happened but she was beginning to feel less ill, less edgy, less afraid, more herself, normal. Her normal self would have held out her hand, sought out physical contact. And that was what, intuitively she did now; she extended her right hand towards the man.
He took it and with immense care, perched on the side of her bed.
Her hand disappeared into his much larger paws.
Marija studied his face. White scar lines of recently healed injuries on his brow were merging with his new Mediterranean tan. She’d expected him to be more boyish, joking, but that wasn’t this man because right now he couldn’t be that man. He had been through too much lately and he was too worried, too frightened for her.