The Blockade Runners

by Peter Vollmer

  The captain was wrong. The reply took no longer than a minute.

  ‘Why?’

  Captain Reynolds wasn’t enjoying this, aware that the tanker captain was playing the indignant and wronged victim of a British bullying tactic. The man was smart. Reynolds withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket, smoothing it out on the bridge map table.

  ‘Send this: “Your cargo of crude oil is intended for Rhodesia. You are in breach of United Nations Resolution 221. We are enforcing an embargo on all ships. Heave to. Failing to do will force us to fire on you.” Let’s see what the bastard does now.’

  ‘Captain, you don’t propose to fire on him, do you?’ the first officer asked.

  ‘Number One, in terms of the United Nations decree, we are entitled to use force.’

  It took fifteen minutes before the tanker replied. The message was terse. ‘This cargo is intended for the Portuguese company Galp in Beira, Mozambique. Our documentation clearly states: final destination Beira.’

  Captain Reynolds ran his hand over the stubble on his face. He had not yet had time to duck away and shave. The Admiralty had authorised him to shoot a warning shot across the tanker’s bows, provided he had prior permission from them to do so. In terms of the UN resolution, force had been approved. Even a warning shot would be cutting the legalities of his action very fine.

  ‘Number One, you realise, of course, that if the Conservatives were in power we would not be here making bloody fools of ourselves. This is a typical Labour cock-up, no doubt sanctioned by Wilson. The Conservatives would have solved this round a table; we would never have even got to enforcing embargoes. Christ! We’ve a ship owned by the French with a French crew thumbing its nose at the British Navy. It’s fuckin’ ridiculous.’

  ‘Sir, what do you want me to do now?’ the first officer asked.

  ‘Immediately signal them to heave to. A simple “Heave to” should suffice. They’ll ignore it anyway.’

  ****

  Thirty minutes passed. There was no response from the tanker. Captain Reynolds sat in his bridge chair staring out of over the foredeck and the ship’s bow.

  ‘Number One, call the crew to stations. I hope that French bastard hears the bells – he’ll know what’s happening. Have the for’ard turret to bear ahead of the tanker.’

  The harsh shrill of the station bells reverberated through the ship, the crew running to take up their stations, the men disappearing from the deck. The tanker would realise that the ship was preparing for action. How would they interpret this?

  A minute later, the first officer confirmed the ship at battle stations.

  ‘Okay, Number One, send a repeat of the “heave to” message.’

  The captain lifted a phone from the bulkhead next to his chair. This connected him to the frigate’s gunnery officer.

  ‘Guns, prepare a shot across the tanker’s bows. Not too close, mind you. Wait for my signal.’

  The first officer overheard the captain’s conversation with the gunnery officer.

  ‘With respect, Captain, we could create an incident.’

  ‘I know, but that’s Wilson’s bloody problem, not mine. We’ve got our orders.’

  ****

  Captain Le Clercq deciphered the next message as the Aldis flashed from the frigate. He kept a constant vigil while trying to fathom the frigate’s next actions. Again, he ignored the frigate’s second request that he heave to.

  ‘Don’t reply, ignore the message. Hold your course. Let’s see what he does now,’ he ordered the men on the bridge.

  The atmosphere on the bridge had changed. The tension ratcheted up a notch.

  A few minutes later, the frigate’s call could be heard across the water.

  ‘Captain, he’s going to battle stations,’ the first officer said. All were aware of the officer’s heightened apprehension in his voice.

  Le Clercq nodded, watching the tanker through his binoculars. He wondered whether the British captain could see him on the tanker’s bridge. They both knew they were playing a game, and that they were only the pawns. He saw the frigate’s men disappearing from the deck, the hatches being secured. He realised that they were now about to move to the next phase.

  He was right. The frigate’s Aldis flashed another ‘heave to’ request. Again, he ignored it. A minute later, the for’ard turret swung towards the tanker. This did not go unnoticed. The other officers and crew were all staring at him, fear etched on their faces. A few seconds later, the turret belched smoke. A huge fountain of water erupted a half mile in front of the tanker’s bow as they heard the boom of her turret gun.

  The agitated first officer turned to Le Clercq.

  ‘Captain, what must we do now?’

  ‘Ignore the shot. Maintain your course and speed.’ He expected to be obeyed without question.

  He turned to the officer. ‘Send another message, “I wonder what President de Gaulle will have to say about this. You are threatening to fire upon a French crew in international waters.”‘

  The first officer stared.

  ‘Dammit, send it,’ Le Clercq shouted.

  ****

  Reynolds read the message as the Aldis slowly flashed it letter by letter. He had to smile.

  ‘Touché,’ he said. His number one had read it as well and appreciated his captain’s remark, a hint of a smile on his lips.

  ‘Number One, transmit the tanker’s last message verbatim to the Admiralty. I want to see how they respond. Christ, I hope the First Sea Lord has to have Wilson woken for a response. How on earth did we get ourselves into this? That man’s political intellect can’t even be measured even with a bloody micrometer.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  ‘Oh, Number One, have the men stand down. No more messages. Just keep station and leave the tanker more than enough room to manœuvre in.

  ****

  ‘You know, I have to admire the man,’ Le Clercq said to his first officer. ‘He knows this is not our fight, and he knows we know it. Let the politicians fight it out. He’ll want a coded message from the top authorising him to fire again, even if it’s just another shot across our bows. Maintain course and speed. Wake me when you’re ready to drop anchor outside Beira.’

  ‘Oui, mon capitaine.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Beira sits on a low-lying flood plain the northern coast of Mozambique. This is the convergence of a number of rivers so intertwined you never know which is which. These all discharge into the sea creating a three-mile wide river mouth, part of it tidal. Beira is situated on the north side of the river on a small peninsula. The harbour lies just within the river on the northern bank and is the terminus for the rail line from Rhodesia. It is land-locked Rhodesia’s lifeline, through which all her imports and exports are routed.

  It was here that the tank farm had been built to store the crude oil imported into Rhodesia. The tank farm complex was surrounded by an enormous earth wall, which was intended to contain the crude in the event of any breach in the tanks. As is usual, it was surrounded by high-security fencing, and the perimeter was floodlit and patrolled at night. A nearly two hundred-mile pipeline joined Beira with the town of Umtali across the border in Rhodesia.

  The moment they stepped out of the turboprop Fokker Friendship, David and Gisela hit a wall of heat and humidity. Within minutes, they were both perspiring profusely. Of course, they had known what to expect. Gisela had been to Beira before on vacation, this was Rhodesia’s nearest holiday resort on the sea. The town boasted a number of decent hotels, most with their own private pristine beaches, primarily built to provide holiday facilities for the Rhodesians who annually flocked in droves to the coast.

  David had left accommodation arrangements to Gisela. She preferred not to consider a hotel in the city, but instead chose a holiday place about twelve miles further up the coast, secluded and, hopefully, not known to too many outsiders. In a small seaside hamlet called João Bandeira, it sat on a small peninsula along the pristine coast, with white sands and pa
lm trees. The resort was a cluster of thatched bungalows built on the white sands of the beach just beyond the high-water mark. Although spartan, the bungalows contained all basic amenities and the linen was spotless.

  The resort was run by the de Alveras, a middle-aged Portuguese couple. They were assisted by a few local blacks who went out of their way to make their guests’ stay as pleasant as possible. The clientele was mostly Rhodesian tourists. Anybody not Rhodesian would be conspicuous.

  David and Gisela collected their Mercedes 250SE from the car rental, one of the few cars with air conditioning. They planned to masquerade as tourists. Before leaving the airport for the resort, David phoned a number he had been given in Johannesburg. A male voice answered in Portuguese.

  ‘Mr Sardinha, please,’ David asked.

  ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Martinez from Johannesburg.’

  ‘Ah, yes senhor, your package will arrive tomorrow morning. There are a number of your friends already in town staying at the Hotel Tivoli.’

  The man put down the phone. This meant that the Georgio V would arrive off Beira harbour tomorrow morning sometime. The friends Sardinha had referred to were British. MI6. Christ, the bastards are already here and waiting, he thought.

  They spent a pleasant evening at the quiet resort. The de Alveras served a splendid meal of endless grilled prawns accompanied by savoury rice. They washed it all down with copious quantities of Lagosta wine, a crisp, dry import from Portugal, served well chilled. They retired early.

  The next morning, they left for Beira to meet other operatives at an undercover Portuguese-registered company near the docklands. It was in a better part of the town, in a new multi-storied building, which leased space to doctors, lawyers, manufacturers’ agents, as well a host of other professions.

  The offices of the Silva Costa Import Company took up an entire floor. They were staffed by Portuguese, all of whom held Portuguese passports but were affiliated with Rhodesia. Goods labelled as local imports were off-loaded in Beira and these offices re-consigned them for Rhodesia. They were usually restricted to textiles, motor oils, spare parts, and other consumable items assumed for local use. Since they were imported by the Portuguese as well, anyone nosing around would find it difficult to prove they were destined for Rhodesia. Items labelled of strategic importance were invariably imported through South Africa.

  Crude oil was something else. There was no way that its destination could be disguised.

  Access to these offices was through a locked grille-door. Any person other than an employee had to be identified and signed in. John Taylor came through to authorise their entrance. He shook hands with them and led them through to a small conference room.

  ‘My God, what a relief,’ David said, already drenched. ‘This aircon is a bloody Godsend.’ He slumped down in a chair next to the table, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.

  A black woman brought in a tray with glasses and an enormous jug of lemon juice, its ice cubes clinking. They all helped themselves gratefully.

  ‘Well,’ Taylor said with a smug smile on his face, ‘the fun is about to begin. The Georgio V is just off Beira ready to drop anchor. The British frigate is lying just outside the twelve-mile limit. Rest assured, diplomatic messages between the English ambassador and the colonial Portuguese government in Laurence Marques must be flying. Our captain remains adamant that his instructions are to discharge his cargo in Beira, and he proposes to do just that. However, as you know, the only place the crude can go is into the Rhodesian storage tanks. He says that’s no concern of his, and he’s quite right.’

  David stared out of the window. He could see the harbour and the tank farm. If he looked out towards the right, or east, he could see the ships anchored out in the bay. There was only one tanker. He realised that this must be the Georgio V.

  David looked at the man opposite him. Taylor had given him the rundown. Senhor de Mello was a senior member of the Portuguese government, a thickset swarthy man with a mop of black curly hair, a thin moustache below a slightly bulbous nose, and thick lips. David knew him to be a member of the Portuguese PIDE – the Policia Internacional e de Defesa do Estado, the secret police and henchmen of the Portuguese dictator Salazar, and not an organisation to be trifled with. The South African intelligence service BOSS, the Rhodesian CIO, and PIDE worked closely together, sharing a common enemy: the communists in their countries and those engaged in subversive activities against their governments. The emerging black nationalists in the three countries usually had communist affiliations, not out of ideology but rather because only communist countries were prepared to assist these subversive movements.

  ‘Senhor Taylor, you know that there’s nothing I would like more than to allow your ship to enter the harbour. You will appreciate that we are sympathetic towards your cause. However, we are enduring considerable pressure from the British. Their ambassador is virtually encamped at the offices of our Governor-General. Plus, I need to mention the pressure from the United Nations. They maintain that we are in violation of their resolutions. Of course, we refute that.’

  ‘Senhor de Mello, please just let our ship enter the harbour. At least let’s get it to tie-up alongside the quay. Not to start discharging. We can wait for the furore to die down. Of course, we’d have to get the British agents to leave. I don’t know how many you know of, but I know of at least six agents running round here in Beira masquerading as tourists and businessmen,’ Taylor said.

  ‘I know, we know who they are and we are watching, but Senhor Taylor, I must warn you – and this comes from the top: you dare not make a move against them. Is that clearly understood?’

  David ventured a question, interrupting the two. ‘What if they move against us?’

  De Mello laughed. ‘That would be different, but of course, they would be fools to do that. There is to be no shooting.’

  ‘So you’re saying that if they in any way attempt force and place us in danger, we may defend ourselves?’

  ‘Of course, but be certain that you can prove that they initiated it and that you were merely defending yourselves. I can assure you, if MI6 – and we all know they are MI6 – behave in anyway threatening, my people will retaliate. Rather we do so, not you.’ De Mello stressed the final word.

  John Taylor smiled. ‘That’s good to know. We are going to tell the captain of the ship to raise anchor and bring his ship to the harbour mouth. We’ll also instruct the harbour services to assist the ship to come alongside. We’ll wait for a British reaction.’

  De Mello shrugged his shoulders. ‘I can’t stop you, but don’t be surprised if the harbour authorities refuse to co-operate. Our government may tell them not to co-operate. They have yet to make a decision. It all depends on what results from the discussions between the British government and us.’ He paused. ‘Anything can happen,’ he added as an afterthought.

  ‘We’ll take our chances,’ John Taylor said.

  There was a knock on the door and a woman clerk entered, handing a note to John Taylor.

  Dismissing her, he glanced at the note and then turned to those round the table. ‘The French consul is on the quayside looking for a boat to take him out to the Georgio V,’ he said, looking at David and Gisela.

  David laughed.

  ‘No doubt the British have put pressure on the poor bastards. He’s probably here to lift the captain’s papers. That’s not going to help. Knowing Captain Le Clercq, he’ll probably tell him to fuck off,’ David said.

  He looked at Gisela. She didn’t bat an eyelid.

  ‘Well, we won’t interrupt normal commerce in our ports, that’s the stance Portugal proposes to adopt. The English can go to hell,’ de Mello said.

  Taylor offered his thanks to de Mello. De Mello stood up and shrugged, for no reason apparently, and exited the conference room.

  John Taylor sighed. ‘Of course, most believe there’s a Greek crew aboard. They are probably wondering why he is not replying to their communications. You shoul
d read what’s being said in the international press, it’s a laugh a minute. Wilson’s in a flap and he has his Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs running around in Portugal, only to find they are uncooperative and that they are stonewalling him. Wilson called for a meeting of the UN Security Council to further clarify the use of force but bloody U Thant refused. The blacks who are supporting the president of the council – I believe he is from Nigeria – seem to have some other agenda, and are vying for outright military intervention. They are trying to buy time and so garner more support from other countries to demand direct military intervention. Meanwhile Wilson can’t shoot and could lose the advantage he now holds. Fuckin’ Brits.’

  Gisela suddenly sputtered. David started laughing too.

  Taylor looked them sternly. ‘That’s not funny. Okay, listen up. While all this is going on, our ship lies out there just waiting for the Brits to mount some raiding party to board her. They could hold the crew captive and move the ship out into international waters. If they do that, we’re stuffed. So, we need to reinforce the crew. De Mello says he’ll look the other way. I’m taking twelve men out there armed to the teeth with automatic weapons and bazookas. David, I want you and Gisela to stay here and keep an eye on things around the harbour, especially on those British agents.’

  That night, under cover of darkness, a large fishing vessel moored alongside the fishing jetty was prepared. Twelve Rhodesian Special Forces scouts would board her, suitably armed with assault rifles and bazookas and clearly ready for a fight. On instructions from de Mello, John Taylor was to issue John and Gisela with automatics and spare magazines.

  They now stood on the jetty and watched the fishing boat prepared for departure.

  ‘I’ve also left two R1 automatic rifles and two handguns in your car’s boot. Use them if you have too. De Mello will back you – this is war, you know. You do realise that, don’t you? It has become a war.’ John patted David on the back in encouragement.