by James Philip
“You remind me very much of your uncle,” she told him.
“He was quite a character they say?”
Marija frowned. “Did you ever meet him?”
“Only a few times as a kid when he came back to England on leave in the late forties. My father was killed in the war. Out in the Far East. I didn’t find out until some months after his death that Uncle Reggie had been supporting my mother and me all those years. I’d probably never have got into medical school without his pulling strings and stumping up my living costs. You must have got to know him quite well?”
“He was a very happy man. He felt bad about putting me in metal cages after some of my operations. He would sit by my bed in the night when I was afraid. It was easy to forget the demons that hide in the darkness when he was holding my hand...”
Marija’s words trailed away into the cool morning airs.
She had not intended to say what she had said; she barely comprehended how those words had escaped her lips or from whence, deep inside her, they had emerged.
The man leaned forward, looking out to sea as he rested his elbows on the wall.
“Uncle Reggie wrote me a letter every fortnight. Every fortnight the last five or six years before he died. He wanted to know what I was up to, sometimes he took me to task for my numerous failings but not very often. Mostly, he wrote about Malta,” Michael Stephens shrugged, “and you and Dr Seiffert.”
Involuntarily, Marija shivered at his mention of Margo’s name.
She said nothing, not trusting herself to speak.
She thought about her mother and father, her friends in Mdina and drew comfort from picturing their faces, and hearing their voices in her head.
But Margo’s name only invoked a pang of aching guilt, and inconsolable loss...
Chapter 27
06:05 Hours (GMT)
Saturday 4th April 1964
Merton College, Oxford
William Whitelaw had returned to his rooms at New College – ‘new’ in Oxford terms was a relative thing, the college having been founded in 1379 by William of Wykeham and its full name being The Warden and Scholars of St Mary's College of Winchester in Oxford, the ‘new’ simply differentiating it from a nearby neighbour which was at that time also known as St Mary’ but in later centuries became known as Oriel College – to snatch a couple of hours sleep, and to wash and shave before returning to confer with his staff at the offices of the Ministry of Defence.
Merton College like half-a-dozen others had suspended lectures to accommodate the rushed, and increasingly chaotic move of the administrative centre of government from Cheltenham to Oxford. By the autumn the University would, hopefully, begin to get back to normal but that pre-supposed that the ambitious first phase of works in and around the city was completed on schedule. Presently, the main ministries and the Parliamentary bureaucracy were being hosted by individual colleges, while schemes to erect prefabricated housing and administrative compounds outside the old city had as yet barely broken ground. Within the city buildings were being converted at breakneck speed, bomb shelters sunk into the ground and plans being forged to construct new roads to the north and south, and the west out to RAF Brize Norton. Workers were pouring in from all over the United Kingdom transforming sleepy Oxford into a militarized boom town.
The University community was in a daze.
The vision of a ‘new Oxford’, a ne-dedicated capital city at the very heart of England was of course, Margaret Thatcher’s. What had started as an exercise in democratic renewal – reconvening Parliament in the city – had in the last month assumed a momentum of its own, rather like the proverbial genie released from its long captivity. Less charitable souls in the city spoke of a Pandora’s box having been opened. In retrospect it was self-evident that Cheltenham, the first home of the post-cataclysm emergency government - the United Kingdom Interim Emergency Administration - simply did not fit the bill for a new long-term national capital. Whereas, Oxford with is central position, history and the existing University infrastructure automatically suggested itself as the obvious candidate. In any event the ‘governmental settlement’ of Oxford implicitly recognised the reality that the reconstruction of London would be a generation long project which was unlikely to be completed within the life spans of any of the immediate survivors of the cataclysm.
It was still dark when the Defence Secretary walked unannounced into his private office and greeted his three senior military advisors; General Sir Richard Amyatt Hull, Air Marshal Sir Christopher Hartley and the First Sea Lord and Chairman of the Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Sir David Luce.
“Please forgive the tardiness of my appearance,” William Whitelaw apologised. He was five minutes late, his departure from New College having been delayed by a telephone call from the Prime Minister. The dire news from Dublin was now particularly exercising Margaret Thatcher’s mind and he had had to patiently explain to her the reasons why he did not think asking the BBC to broadcast a threat of ‘massive retaliation’ was at this time, in any way helpful.
“Tell me about these blasted Redeyes?” He demanded jovially. There were very few occasions when a gloomy approach to problems, regardless of their intractability, was appropriate in Willie Whitelaw’s book.
Fifty-one year old Air Marshal Sir Christopher Hartley smiled grimly. He had not known his political master long but he recognised a kindred spirit when he encountered one. Elevated into his current post out of the blue when the former Chief of the Air Staff had been sent to Philadelphia in the capacity of the UAUK’s ‘Military Legate to President Kennedy’; he had brought a ‘can do’ fresh perspective to the RAF. Educated at Eton College, Balliol and King’s College Cambridge, he had taken part in zoological expeditions to Sarawak, Spitsbergen and Greenland before becoming a master at Eton in 1937. The son of a distinguished Army officer, Brigadier-general Sir Harold Hartley, he had joined the RAF Volunteer reserve in 1938; flying night fighters during the Second World War. Prior to the October War he had been Air Officer Commanding 12 Group, Fighter Command. Even in middle age he remained a tall, strongly built man never happier than when he was out in the country, shooting or walking. He had been a breath of fresh air when he joined the other two Chiefs of Staff soon after Margaret Thatcher’s elevation to the premiership.
“To be frank,” he declared, spreading his hands, “the reason the US Army is reluctant to accept Redeyes into service is because they don’t know if the dammed things work, Minister. Now,” he grimaced, “the things may work, they may even be deadly. They may be damp squibs, we simply don’t know. Nonetheless, I think we have to take the threat extremely seriously because if these Redeyes are half as unpleasant as the manufacturers, General Dynamics, say they are we have a big problem.”
The Secretary of State for defence was impassive.
The Chief of the Air Staff continued his briefing.
“The Redeye shoulder-launched surface-to-air missile is approximated four feet eight inches long, it weighs about thirty pounds in its pre-launch configuration, and homes onto its target by locking onto the heat generated by the tailpipe of a jet engine. It has an effective range of about four miles, and during its flight reaches a maximum velocity of about one thousand two hundred miles per hour. The weapon is designed to shoot down aircraft which have just completed a dive bombing attack or a low level strafing run, or aircraft which are either taking off or landing. It presents no threat to high-flying military or commercial aircraft at normal cruising altitudes. I have already issued orders to beef up existing defences and patrols at key airfields. However,” he looked to his colleagues and his political master with suddenly thoughtful, concerned eyes. “We simply do not have enough men to spare to put out a ten mile secure perimeter cordon around all our important air bases.”
“Which bases are you prioritising, Christopher?” General Hull asked.
“Brize Norton, Cheltenham and the three main V-Bomber bases, Conningsby, Scampton and Wyton.”
“Thank you,” Wi
lliam Whitelaw declared softly, wanting to move on. The IRA’s mischief making was a political problem and he needed to be discussing more pressing military matters with the Chiefs of Staff ahead of that day’s War Cabinet meetings.
“First Sea Lord,” he inquired, turning to Admiral Sir David Luce. “Is there any further information about the situation in the South Atlantic?”
“No, sir. We believe the ice patrol ship Protector is maintaining radio silence to avoid detection and contact with superior Argentine naval forces somewhere in the vicinity of South Georgia.”
“What naval assets are in the South Atlantic at present, Sir David?”
“Two destroyers at Simon’s Town,” the First Sea Lord responded. “The Caesar and the Delight, both engaged on working up exercises prior to relieving the guard ships based at Singapore and Hong Kong. Miscellaneous other small units; patrol boats and two minesweepers, the Hexton and the Shavington are based at the Cape. Otherwise, our only available surface assets are in Gibraltar and Australasia.”
“What about submarines?”
Sir David Luce hesitated.
At the time of the October War twenty-one advanced but still conventionally powered new attack submarines - of the Porpoise and later Oberon classes - had been under construction or had come into service in the previous two years. Of these vessels fifteen had thus far been commissioned into the fleet; all fifteen had been held back in home waters and eleven were currently fully operational. The new boats, although lacking the underwater endurance of the nuclear-powered HMS Dreadnought, were all capable – unlike earlier British diesel-electric submarines of relatively high underwater speeds and able to stay continuously submerged for periods of many days, or weeks if necessary. The boats were so advanced that while the brand new and to all intents ‘experimental’ first nuclear-powered submarine in the fleet, the Dreadnought, had been winning her spurs in the Atlantic and subsequently in the Mediterranean, the Admiralty had fought tooth and nail to keep the capabilities of the Oberons and the Porpoises under wraps in the case the nightmare scenario of a war with the United States actually befell the United Kingdom.
The new boats were fully capable of operating independently for several weeks at a time along the Eastern seaboard of North America; they were very quiet – quieter than any US Navy nuclear boat – and worked up to a very high pitch of combat efficiency. Used en masse the available Oberons and Porpoises would present a threat to any major naval force which attempted to operate in the North Atlantic, or become the nemesis of any commercial shipping which attempted to ply its trade in that ocean. If war with America had come last December the new submarines would have been the United Kingdom’s one last throw of the dice, always assuming the Americans had not triggered a new nuclear war. But that was then and this was now.
“In the event that Oberons and Porpoises are deployed in the South Atlantic fuelling and depot ships would need to be pre-positioned, Minister. My staff has been working up a detailed operational proposal for the Cabinet’s attention since yesterday evening.”
William Whitelaw arched an eyebrow.
“My assumption,” the First Sea Lord continued laconically, “would be that our boats would enforce an exclusion zone around the Falkland Islands and blockade Argentinean ports until such time as the regime in Buenos Aires comes to its senses.”
The Secretary of State for Defence nodded.
“And these vessels are equal to that task?”
“Yes, sir.” David Luce could see the politician’s mind clicking through the possibilities; and was also asking himself why the Navy had been holding this apparent ace up its sleeve these last few months.
“Our American allies know about these submarines?”
“Yes, sir. Since our relations with the Kennedy Administration have been normalised a disclosure of our full naval capabilities has been made to Ambassador Brenckmann. Needless to say his own principals have been less forthcoming,” the First Sea Lord added, “but then we are the ones who have been asking for American assistance, rather than vice versa. That said the United States Navy does not share the Royal Navy’s faith in the capabilities of the Oberons and the Porpoises. They worship nuclear reactors to the exclusion of good old-fashioned tried, tested and well-honed ways.” He was going to finish at that point; had a second thought. “When Dreadnought was working up in the early autumn last year she was repeatedly ‘heard’ and nominally ‘destroyed’ by two separate Oberon class boats. Dreadnought never knew she was under attack until the Oberons pinged her with active sonar to confirm the ‘exercise’ kill. Dreadnought is no noisier than any of the American nuclear boats and equally agile. In fact the reason we have dispensed with the American machinery set installed in the Dreadnought in all future nuclear-powered boats is that those ‘war games’ off the Hebrides last year confirmed exactly how disconcertingly noisy Dreadnought was in comparison with our newest conventionally powered Oberons and Porpoises.”
“Most illuminating,” William Whitelaw’s smile was saturnine. The Navy had not told his post-October War predecessor, Jim Callaghan or him any of this, other than in the most general, generic of terms. The news about the Oberons ‘sinking’ the Dreadnought – supposedly the most dangerous weapon in the Royal Navy’s arsenal – in ‘exercises’ last year was nothing short of a revelation. He decided not to make a big thing of being kept in the dark for so long. “I shall look forward to presenting your paper to Cabinet in due course, Sir David.” He sighed. “Now, Malta, gentlemen...”
Chapter 28
07:58 Hours (Local)
Saturday 4th April 1964
Sa’dabad Palace, Tehran, Iran
Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi, Shah of Iran, Light of the Aryans and Head of the Warriors and a dwindling coterie of frightened and outnumbered loyal bodyguards was desperately attempting to escape from the Sa’dabad Palace. The Palace had been built during his father’s reign before the Second World War; and the only the reason Mohammad Reza was still alive was that it had been constructed on the site of an earlier building within a complex constructed by the Qajar dynasty in the 19th century. The relatively lightly armed attacking Soviet paratroopers had to clear the interlinked compounds of the palace room by room.
Somebody had found the ‘Light of the Aryans’ an anonymous battledress jacket and a bowl-shaped American style steel helmet. A Browning 9-millimetre pistol had been pressed into his trembling hands.
Stinging sweat ran into the ‘Head of the Warriors’ eyes and he struggled to catch his breath.
First there had been explosions in the heart of Tehran some miles away. Then the rattle of small arms fire had erupted nearby, and fires had begun to burn in the city. More and bigger explosions had jarred the ground like the small earthquakes most Iranians took for granted as a fact of everyday life.
The Sa’dabad Palace’s communications room had intercepted a stream of voice and military transmissions – the latter mainly broadcast in the clear – describing reports of attacks on Government offices, foreign embassies and hotels. Much of the traffic had ceased after the Tehran Central Telephone Exchange had been blown up. Everywhere the invaders went they killed and destroyed, set demolition charges, cut telephone and power lines, started fires and moved on. Large areas of Tehran had gone dark long before the dawn revealed a cityscape rapidly disappearing beneath a funereal pall of dirty grey smoke. In the south massive oil storage tanks belched a great pillar of inky black into the clean morning air funnelling down from the mountains to the north. There had been panic in the streets, with every road out of the capital clogged by terrified people attempting to reach the safety of the surrounding countryside.
Mohammad Reza flinched, involuntarily cowering into the shadows as a long, deafeningly loud burst of automatic gunfire reverberated down nearby corridors.
“Grenades!” A man near to him shouted.
Moments later the basement storeroom into which the Shah of Iran and his surviving bodyguards had been driven was filled with acrid, choking
smoke and pulverised plaster and brick dust rained down.
Mohammad Reza felt himself being picked up by strong arms.
His ears rang, he was spitting dirt.
He later realised his bodyguards must have half pushed him trough the skylight window of the underground room by the time the second batch of grenades rolled into their midst.
There was sudden agonising pain in his legs.
Iron hands grabbed his arms and the collar of his battledress and dragged him across the dusty ground.
He fainted.
When he regained consciousness he had no idea how long he had lain on the dirt underneath the boughs of the large Juniper tree in the cloistered courtyard behind the main palace. A sycophantic courtier – he had had a lot of those – had once regaled him with the particular character of this tree.
Juniperus excelsa polycarpus, commonly known as the Persian juniper sometimes grew to twenty metres in height. A subspecies of the Greek juniper common through the eastern Mediterranean, Greece, Turkey, Syria, the Lebanon and the Caucasus, Juniperus excelsa polycarpus was found throughout the mountains of Iran all the way to north western Pakistan...
The sharp point of a bayonet attached to a Kalashnikov AK-47 pricked the Light of the Aryans’s throat.
An urgent interrogative was barked at the man on the ground.
Mohammad Reza’s colloquial Russian was of the colloquial Moskva kind and the question had been grunted in what sounded like a Georgian dialect shot through with bastardised half-recognisable standard Russian words.
“I don’t speak Russian,” the man on the ground muttered hoarsely in English.
Another man had joined the first.
He kicked the Shah of Iran’s left foot and spat an order.