The Pillars of Hercules (Timeline 10/27/62 Book 3)

by James Philip

  His companion, a broad man in his late forties with an understated handlebar moustache and weary grey-green eyes sighed.

  “Hell of a view, sir.” Air Commodore Daniel French observed. The first time I came up here I stood on this terrace for half-an-hour and just stared.”

  “I hadn’t realised you were such a reflective soul, Air Commodore,” the tall naval officer chuckled.

  “Oh, I have my moments, sir.”

  Both men were nursing double whiskies in cut glass tumblers.

  “I must confess I’ve had one or two myself lately,” the older man confessed. He didn’t think it odd that he was chatting affably with the Acting Air Officer Commanding RAF Malta as if they’d known each other for years. The two men had instantly recognised in the other a kindred spirit. They were warriors both. “In the last few days I’ve had a castle fall on me,” another low, confidential chuckle, “met two extraordinary women, and made the acquaintance again of another after a gap of more years than I care to contemplate. And, of course, I’ve visited the crash site of B-52 shot down by the RAF. We are living through strange times indeed!”

  The airman shrugged, raised his glass to his lips.

  “Anyway,” Julian Christopher went on. Both men were exhausted and there was business to be concluded. He waved to a table from which they could sit down to enjoy the stunning panoramic view. The men settled, placed their caps on the table. “Thank you for rushing up here at such short notice.

  The younger man half-smiled, sensing that his new C-in-C’s courtesy was in this instance, personal rather than mechanical.

  “I am at your command, sir.”

  Julian Christopher didn’t beat around the bush.

  “I’m appointing you as my deputy on Malta, Dan,” he said flatly. He paused: “my Flag Lieutenant says that nobody calls you ‘Daniel’ in service circles?”

  “Your Flag Lieutenant is well informed, sir.”

  “Unnervingly well informed,” Julian Christopher grimaced. “Things are a mess and frankly, you seem to be pretty clewed up on both the military and the civilian side of things. I want you to take command of the ongoing recovery operation. If ever I am out of contact or otherwise unavailable you will act in my name with my full authority in all military and civilian matters. My objectives in the coming weeks are to: one, defend and retain control of Cyprus, Gibraltar and of the Maltese Archipelago; two, promote and pursue a return to normal civil life on this island and if possible on Cyprus. In support of this latter object I have ordered the cruiser HMS Tiger and three of her escorting destroyers to return to Malta at their best speed. On arrival these ships will be replenished and dispatched to Cyprus in support of the forces on that island.” He met the younger man’s eyes. “Any questions?”

  “Major-General Broughton outranks me, sir.”

  The soldier in question commanded elements of the 6th and 23rd Divisions of the British Army, currently responsible for garrisoning the Archipelago and the acclimatisation, training and transfer of troops to wherever they were needed in the Theatre of Operations. Presently, the Malta garrison was fully occupied with maintaining civil order, and rescue and recovery work with and in support of the civilian authorities.

  “General Broughton will be shipping out with 3rd and 4th Battalions, Yorkshire Regiment on HMS Tiger and whatever shipping I can rustle up. I’ve asked him to take command at Larnica and report to me on the military prospects of restoring our writ across the entire island of Cyprus.”

  Air Commodore French nodded thoughtfully. He was always pleasantly surprised, not to say impressed and reassured, when he discovered a superior officer who was actually one step ahead of him; not least because it didn’t happen very often.

  The two men parted company shortly afterwards.

  “Your next appointment is waiting downstairs, sir,” Lieutenant Alan Hannay reported apologetically after a brief interval during which Julian Christopher had stared out across his new domain. “Staff Sergeant Siddall, sir.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Wheel him in.”

  The tall, muscular Royal Military Policeman in dusty khakis marched into the presence of the great man, saluted crisply, stomped rigidly to attention before the new Commander-in-Chief of all British and Commonwealth Forces in the Mediterranean Theatre of Operations.

  “Staff Sergeant Siddall, Intelligence Division, 2nd Platoon, Royal Military Police, on secondment to Internal Security, Fort Phoenicia, sir!”

  Julian Christopher gestured to his Flag Lieutenant to remain before he turned to the Redcap.

  “No notes, Lieutenant Hannay,” he said. “Stand easy, Staff Sergeant,” he said evenly, neutrally to the perspiring NCO.

  The big man clunked to the ‘at ease’ stance, eyes to his front.

  “I am informed that casualties among ISD on personnel on Manoel Island are extremely heavy.” Julian Christopher reported. He continued, making a second statement but also posing a question. “Your commanding officer was killed during the attack, as were several subalterns?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jim Siddall acknowledged, staring at the wall above Julian Christopher’s head.

  The older man studied the Redcap.

  The man was thirty-four years old. Married. His wife and seven year old son survived in England; somewhat estranged it seemed. Siddall had been ostracised by many of his ISD comrades; notably for his part in ‘exposing’ abuses of prisoners at the Empire Stadium in Gzira earlier in the year and effectively, closing down the joint CIA-ISD ‘reception depot’ that had been set up there after the instigation of martial law in November last year.

  “What remains of the Internal Security Department on Malta is to be disbanded effective as of midnight this night,” Christopher informed the Redcap. “You will be assigned until further notice to the Political Intelligence Section of my personal command staff with the brevet rank of Lieutenant. In the interim my staff will be operating out of this building. My people have identified several vacant nearby properties we can use. Find one of those and get to work. I intend to normalise civilian relations between us – the British colonial power – and the representatives of the Maltese people at the earliest time. Your job will be to keep me informed as to the general political situation on the Archipelago. You are not a spy; you are a member of my personal staff whose job it is to support my dealings with the legitimate representatives of the Maltese people. Any questions?”

  Former Staff Sergeant Jim Siddall – now brevet Lieutenant – didn’t understand what he’d just been told and after a moment of hesitation, decided to confess as much.

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  To the big Redcap’s astonishment the battered ‘fighting admiral’ with the ferocious reputation – who looked and held himself as if he’d been on the wrong end of a bar room brawl in Strait Street, Valletta’s small drinking and red light district - smiled wanly.

  “I want your insights on the way our Maltese friends,” he said the word ‘friends’ without any kind of varying inflexion as if he actually meant ‘friends’ when he said ‘friends’, “think about us and our intentions towards them. I was here during the forty-five war and afterwards and although nobody doubted who was the occupying power, relations were invariably on an even footing. One day Malta will be an independent country and when that day comes, I want, despite everything that has happened, for the Maltese and ourselves to remain ‘friends’, and for long afterwards.”

  The big man ruminated.

  Julian Christopher anticipated his next question.

  “Martial law will be suspended in the next few days. In fact it will happen as soon as the roads have been cleared and the harbours are safe for navigation again.”

  Alan Hannay guided the bewildered Redcap out of the great man’s presence.

  Julian Christopher sipped his whisky.

  He must have dozed off to sleep for a few minutes because when blinking, he awakened he was confronted by Margo Seiffert standing, hands on her hips, viewing him wearily
with a long-suffering smirk on her lined and tanned face.

  The man struggled to get to his feet.

  A combination of lack of sleep and rest, and the stiffening of his mishandled torso meant he’d only half-risen from his chair before he thought better of it and slumped back down.

  “Forgive me,” he muttered.

  The woman drew up a chair opposite him. The dusk had drawn down over the island and insects buzzed and flitted in the lights along the terrace. Elsewhere across the island street lamps blinked distantly.

  “Why no black out?” The woman asked, idly. As she asked the question she reached across and picked up the half-drunk whisky. She sniffed it, took a sip, nodded her approbation and put the tumbler back on the table.

  The man smiled, shook his head.

  Still the same Margo he’d known all those years ago!

  “If our enemies send more B-52s no blackout on Earth will save us,” Julian Christopher confided dryly. “Although, judging from the other day’s experience, the RAF might.”

  Margo Seiffert nodded sagely.

  “If your predecessor was still in the hot seat I’d probably have been locked up by now.”

  Julian Christopher stared out into the gathering darkness of the cool Mediterranean night. He didn’t trust himself to meet the woman’s gaze; partly to hide the pain in his eyes in memory of his fallen friend, Hugh Staveley-Pope, whose body had been recovered from his day room at Fort Phoenicia on Manoel Island earlier that afternoon, and partly because he knew why Margo had come to see him.

  “There is no news about Peter,” he murmured. “The First Sea Lord sent me an emergency flash telex two hours ago informing me that Talavera was under tow by HMS Plymouth, a modern frigate, some miles off the Portuguese coast. Talavera and Devonshire are both trying to make Oporto before the next Atlantic storm system blows through.”

  The woman reached across the table and gently patted the back of his left hand.

  “Why did they send you here, Julian?”

  The man looked to her.

  “I think you know that, Margo.”

  “It would be good to hear it from the man at the top.”

  Julian Christopher shrugged off his foreboding.

  “Here we stand,” he grimaced, “and here we stay. Here, Cyprus and Gibraltar. For better or worse we, the British, notwithstanding our many sins, have been the glue that has held this part of the World together for a hundred and fifty years. If we allow ourselves to be driven out, worse,” he grunted, “if we just give up this whole region will descent into chaos.”

  “But before the October War you were going to withdrawn from Malta next year anyway?”

  “That was then and this is now.”

  “Is it true that you plan to end martial law?”

  “Yes. Sometime in the next forty-eight hours hopefully.”

  “Because you’re an enlightened modern man?”

  Julian Christopher drained his glass.

  “Perhaps, I am, Margo. Perhaps, I can think of better ways to employ the eight thousand British service personnel based on these islands than having them police a population that, with a few notable exceptions, doesn’t actually need to be policed? Not by my men, leastways. Make up your own mind. What do you think?”

  Chapter 11

  Sunday 8th December 1963

  UKIEA Government Buildings, Cheltenham, England

  The inky blackness of the winter night was rent asunder by the bellow of a jet airliner clawing into the night off the south western end of the great, concrete runway which now slashed across what until the previous year had been Cheltenham Race Course. The leaded windows of the mansion rattled. The central heating system – the one thing upon which the dead press magnate who’d built the monstrous old country pile before the Great War had neglected to lavish either money or attention – had broken down again and wherever the hearths hadn’t been bricked over, apologetic coal fires smouldered and glowed, smokily. Everybody was wearing coats, extra layers of clothing and still they shivered because nothing it seemed, could warm the chill out of the Portland stone blocks that formed the greater part of the building’s structural fabric.

  Tom Harding-Grayson stirred the coals in the grate of his first floor office and returned to the threadbare armchair. He surveyed his guest and reached for his cup and saucer. Tea without milk, a slice of lemon was out of the question. A biscuit would have been nice. His stomach rumbled; the Government Compound was subject to the same rationing regime that was being applied in the nearby towns. That hadn’t been a Cabinet decision. The Prime Minister had announced the diktat and that, was that!

  Margaret Hilda Thatcher sipped her tea, viewing the recently appointed Foreign Secretary with hooded eyes. She’d spent most of the afternoon trying not to worry about Malta, Julian Christopher and the fighting admiral’s son’s fate onboard the bomb-damaged HMS Talavera in the storm-swept seas off the rocky coast of Portugal. Until a few days ago she’d been the United Kingdom Interim Emergency Administration’s Minister of Supply – essentially, the ‘rationing queen’ as Airey Neave was wont to quip –now she was at the heart of Government wrestling with a host of new and possibly, intractable problems. Not least among these were the infuriatingly contradictory the reports from the survey teams which had been investigating the bombed out, and it had been assumed, largely uninhabitable zones to the east. The UKIEA’s writ did not run very deep into what had once been Greater London, or along either side of much of the Thames Estuary, or Kent. In fact until recently the presumption had been that virtually nobody had survived in these areas; it now seemed there were, potentially, significant numbers of survivors and possibly numerous coherent settled communities within the bomb-damaged areas of whose existence the UKIEA had had no inkling until the last few weeks. Army survey teams, mostly Royal Engineer-led, which had penetrated the ‘destruction zones’ had been mainly searching for recoverable strategic materials and industrial assets because there had been little expectation of finding hundreds, let alone tens of thousands of people actually living in the ruins. The most recent reports contained tantalising indications – anecdotal reports from people actually living many miles inside the ‘dead’ zones - that even within the inner districts of London there might be pockets of relatively light damage where, for example, archives and even gold or other valuable metals, or say, diamonds might remain untouched in vaults. More important, there were real hopes that large areas of the London docks and riverside quays identified by aerial reconnaissance remained intact, or easily repairable. Unfortunately, the photographic evidence was patchy and nobody cared to speculate on local levels of persistent radioactive contamination. Maddeningly, two naval salvage units which had been tasked to explore the Thames Estuary from the Medway as far upstream as was navigable had yet to report back.

  The door opened to admit Airey Neave, who’d replaced Margaret Thatcher as Minister of Supply, and a middle aged man in the crumpled uniform of the United States Navy. The Home Secretary had not been overly amused when she learned that her friend had been trespassing on Foreign Office territory rather than concentrating on his own duties; the trouble was that Airey Neave hadn’t escaped from Colditz by ‘waiting for things to happen’ and was pathologically incapable of sticking rigidly to any ‘assigned brief’.

  “We meet again, Captain Brenckmann,” Tom Harding-Grayson observed wryly as he shook hands with Airey Neave’s ‘friend’. The Foreign Secretary observed ‘the Angry Widow’ – everybody called Margaret Thatcher ‘the Angry Widow’ because she’d never made any bones about how ‘bloody angry’ she was that, for whatever grandiose geopolitical reason or mischance, somebody had murdered her husband and her children’s father along with hundreds of millions of other innocent people, thirteen months ago – coolly greeting the newcomer.

  The Angry Widow treated all Americans with the utmost suspicion. The only thing that was ever going to be ‘special’ for her in her future relations with representatives of the lost colonies was
her innate mistrust of everything they said, did and had done in the days leading up to the October War. Which, assuming they all lived through the next few days and weeks might be a problem because Tom Harding-Grayson had a feeling that the Angry Widow, having arrived at the top table of Government at the tender age of only thirty-eight, wasn’t leaving it any time soon.

  Margaret Thatcher resumed her seat.

  Around her the three men settled, each man aware that she was uncomfortable with the fact of this hastily arranged meeting, and had it not been for her chagrin at the way Airey Neave had cavalierly walked all over Tom Harding-Grayson’s domain would not have accepted his invitation to attend.

  “Margaret,” Tom Harding-Grayson said cautiously, “I have a confession to make.” It was his turn to tread carefully. Notwithstanding they’d recently gone through the Balmoral nightmare together and that in the aftermath of the initial attack his wife, Pat, and the Angry Widow had formed an unlikely friendship, he suspected this was flimsy ground upon which to presume on this particular lady’s indulgence. “When Airey suggested to me that it was vitally important to attempt to keep channels of communication open, it was I who suggested it might be fruitful to approach Captain Brenckmann.”

  Margaret Thatcher let the subterfuge go unremarked. Instead she concentrated on the person of the unobtrusive, leanly made figure of the interloper in their midst. Captain Walter Brenckmann was of average height, his dark hair heavily flecked with grey at the temples. She guessed he was in his mid-fifties, although it was hard to work out a person’s age these days because so many people seemed prematurely aged. She wasn’t convinced she’d even heard Walter Brenckmann’s name before that evening.