by James Philip
Oh, yes.
You and all the others trained me well Arkady Pavlovich...
Chapter 49
12:39 Hours
Friday 3rd April 1964
Battery Caves, Kalkara, Malta
“What is it?” Rosa Calleja whispered.
Marija could not stop shivering. One moment she had been fine – or as fine as a woman can be cowering in a cave while two warships bombarded one’s home – and the next she had felt an awful, crushing sense of absolute and hopeless loss descend upon her, enveloping her like a suffocating miasma. She had felt this way when her father had broken the news about her brother, Samuel’s disappearance and probable death, except this was many times worse as if some unimaginably dark blight had fallen upon the World. What had happened to Peter? What had happened to her Mama and Papa? What had happened to her little brother, Joe? Margo?
Rosa was panicking.
“Sister, what is it?” She had hugged the slighter woman to her.
Marija was wracked with the shivering. It was as if her body was in the throes of a fierce fever.
People around them were looking on anxiously.
Fires were burning in Kalkara now.
The burning time had come.
Chapter 50
12:44 Hours
Friday 3rd April 1964
USS Iowa, 23 miles SW of Malta
The battleship and its two escorting guided missile destroyers had parted company with the USS Independence and the rest of Task Force 21.1 at midnight, when the big carrier and her screening force had headed north into the Tyrrhenian Sea and rounded the coast of Sicily. Since Operation Grantham was proceeding without apparent let or hindrance the Task Force Commander, Vice-Admiral Bernard A. Clarey, had determined to make a ‘show of strength’ off Palermo at dawn and to intensively exercise the Independence’s air group in the southern Tyrrhenian Sea, putting on a crushing display of maritime air power for the benefit of the air forces and navies of the Fascisti presently in nominal control of Italy and Sicily. Thereafter, the Independence and her escorts would make an unannounced passage south to Malta via the Straits of Messina, just in case the Fascisti on the mainland had failed to get the message that the US Navy was back and it planned to stay.
Captain Anderson Farragut Schmidt had raised no objections to the change of plan. The Independence’s air group was rusty after so long in port and heck, when was he going to get another chance to command his own little fleet again?
With the sudden change of plan the two oilers loitering north of Lampedusa had been bypassed. Iowa and her two screening destroyers would enter the Grand Harbour in a morale boosting show of strength and the two tankers could catch up with the warships later.
The Iowa’s escorts, the Charles F. Adams class destroyers Berkeley and John King had run their bunkers low steaming at twenty–eight knots for the best part of three days, so the Iowa had slowed to twenty-two knots once Schmidt’s newly designated Task Force 21.2 headed through the narrows between Sicily and the Tunisian coast.
Shortly afterwards, the garbled reports of ‘invasion’ forces and radar breakdowns had started trickling into the battleship’s communications centre. Schmidt’s operations orders required Iowa to listen and log but not to respond to intercepted traffic. While the old sea dog had disliked a lot of what he was hearing, he assumed Vice-Admiral Clarey would have a better, clearer picture of what was going on onboard the Independence. The big carrier had a state of the art communications and sensor suite, airborne early warning aircraft, and the capacity to maintain a continually updated ‘big’ picture of the three dimensional air, surface and undersea battlefield out to ranges of over two hundred miles in every direction. All he had was a radio and a mess of ten year old radars that barely reached to the visible horizon.
“Independence on the horn for Iowa, sir!”
Captain Schmidt ran a hand through his thinning grey hair and took the handset.
He had been impressed by the Task Force Commander, fifty-one year old Iowan born Bernard Clarey. Clarey had made his reputation commanding submarines in the Pacific in the forty-five war and thereafter his advancement had been seamless and rapid. People were already speaking of him as a future Chief of Naval Operations.
The scrambled link hissed and clicked.
“The shit has hit the fan at Malta,” Bernard Clarey said without preamble. I’ve redirected two Hawkeyes and an airborne tanker to give me a heads up on what’s actually going on but it is clear from what we already know that Malta is under bombardment from the sea and paratroopers are attacking key installations all over the archipelago.”
Anderson Schmidt knew he should not ask it, but he asked it anyway: “What’s happened to Rear-Admiral Detweiller’s squadron, sir.”
“Detweiller sent both designated guard ships to join Independence, and took all his other units to the Eastern Mediterranean in support of Operation Grantham three days ago.” The Task Force Commander sounded like he had only just found out about it and he was not a happy man.
Oh fuck!
Anderson Farragut Schmidt bit his tongue.
This would be one of those scenarios that General Curtis LeMay would describe, in his inimitable way, as a FUBAR. Fucked Up Beyond All Repair. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs had disarmed, astonished and largely won over the old Washington press corps, now removed to Philadelphia, with his loquacity and forthrightness since the Battle of Washington. Anderson Schmidt wondered how he planned to swat away the barbs which were about to come his way for the Navy’s latest FUBAR.
Schmidt’s understanding had been that elements of Rear-Admiral Detweiller’s Task Force 20.1 would remain at Malta, or exercising within three hours steaming of the Grand Harbour until it was subsumed – on its arrival at Malta - into Admiral Clarey’s Task Force 21.1, which, at that time would be re-designated United States 6th Fleet. It had been assumed that the presence of Detweiller’s modern ships at Malta would enable the British to send everything they had to the Eastern Mediterranean, safe in the knowledge that their home base was secure.
“That’s going to be a problem, sir,” the Captain of the USS Iowa said, demonstrating a mastery of the subtle art of grimly stoic understatement.
“Yes, it is!”
“What are your orders, sir?”
“Communications with Malta are spotty. There’s a lot of jamming going on. The Hawkeyes ought to be able to do something about that when they arrive on station. I’ll send you whatever tactical updates become available. Otherwise, do what you have to do, Captain Schmidt!”
The one thing a man could count on in the Navy was that he never knew what was going to happen next.
“Yes, sir!”
Schmidt straightened, half-smiled.
“Sound Action Stations!”
Chapter 51
12:44 Hours
Friday 3rd April 1964
The Citadel, Mdina
A Kalashnikov-wielding nurse was such an unlikely sight that both British and Russian soldiers gawped at Clara Pullman for a moment before they reacted. Her pale blue nursing auxiliary’s uniform was spattered with Margo Seiffert’s and her killer’s blood, her hair was wild and in her eyes there was nothing but murder.
She screamed: “I’m on your side!” At British soldiers and any civilians who crossed her path. And she screamed: “Ya na vashey storone!” with a manic intensity at Soviet paratroopers.
The former she allowed to go about their business.
The latter she gunned down without compunction as if they were rabid wild dogs.
Two Royal Military Policemen armed with only Webley service revolvers hiding in a cul-de-sac saw Clara step out into the street and empty her AK-47’s thirty-round magazine in three unhurried bursts, and then calmly go to the nearest body and retrieve a new magazine. She slapped it home, cleared the breech, and glanced at the two Redcaps.
“If you want to live come with me!”
Chapter 52
13:45 Hours (Local)
Corpus Christi College, Oxford, England
Captain Walter Brenckmann, the Ambassador of the United States of America to the Court of Blenheim Palace, held the telephone handset to his head and listened to his Naval Attaché’s terse report with studied impassivity.
The Prime Minister’s Personal Private Office was silent; Margaret Thatcher, her Foreign and Defence Ministers, and the Cabinet Secretary waited politely, patiently for him to be told the worst.
“Keep this line open,” the Ambassador ordered, employing the same emphatic tone he had used a thousand times in his sea-going days. He had been on convoy escorts in the Battle of the Atlantic and had commanded a Fletcher class fleet destroyer in the Korean War; he understood from cruel experience that in war things go wrong and people die. But knowing that this was the way of things did not help make it any easier to bear.
The American looked up.
“The USS Independence is north of Sicily, the USS Iowa is approximately one to two hours sailing time south west of Malta. It appears that Rear-Admiral Detweiller departed Malta in support of Operation Grantham with all his major surface units without first clearing his movements with Admiral Clarey. This was contrary to Admiral Christopher’s wishes but, as you know, American commanders in the field are not obliged to obey the orders of local, albeit senior, allied commanders. Presumably, Admiral Christopher elected not to turn what probably seemed at the time like a minor professional disagreement, into a full blown diplomatic incident. Until this morning all available intelligence summaries gave no reason to think that Malta was in any way threatened. The USS Independence reports intercepting signals from the Malta strike force that attacked an ‘invasion convoy’ east of the archipelago indicating that the convoy has been badly damaged and scattered. Aircraft returning from that strike are reporting that large areas of Malta are shrouded by smoke, and report shooting down numerous Soviet twin-engine Antonov and other transport-type aircraft over Malta engaged in dropping a large number of paratroopers. The returning aircraft are engaging in hostiles until their fuel runs out, at which time their crews are ejecting over land. The Independence has established communication with the frigate HMS Yarmouth, which, in company with HMS Talavera is planning to attack the major enemy surface units bombarding Malta with torpedoes.”
Margaret Thatcher was impressed by the conciseness of the report.
“How many torpedoes do those two ships have?”
“Four,” the American replied flatly. “Yarmouth has none. The Talavera was recently converted to mount a single quadruple launcher. Yarmouth will attempt to draw the enemy’s fire when Talavera attacks.”
The Prime Minister absorbed this with a sick feeling in her stomach.
“When will Independence be in a position to intervene?” She asked.
“The Independence was recovering her air group when the emergency became know. Aircraft will need to be refuelled and weapon loads re-calibrated. Given the range and flight times involved in mounting a co-ordinated strike operation against the enemy naval units off Malta,” he shrugged, “two to three hours, Prime Minister.”
Chapter 53
12:49 Hours
Friday 3rd April 1964
Two miles off Dragutt Point, Malta
Joe Calleja scowled at the stocky red-headed and bearded man sitting in the bucket control chair attached to the torpedo mount.
“I don’t have time to show you how everything works, Petty Officer Griffin!”
“If I don’t work the fucking panel who the fuck will?”
“You don’t know what you’re doing! I’m surprised you haven’t launched a torpedo into the funnel the way you’ve been following the lights around the board!”
The two men glared at each other.
“Steady on!” Lieutenant-Commander Miles Weiss shouted. “Are we ship shape down here?”
“Yes, sir,” the two men chorused uncertainly.
HMS Talavera’s Executive Office could see with his own eyes that this was not the case.
“What’s the problem?”
“I’ll get the hang of this thing, sir!” Jack Griffin protested, waving his muscular arms at the control board.
HMS Talavera’s Executive Officer’s temper was on a short leash.
His stared bored into Joe Calleja’s face.
“Do you know how to work this mount?”
The civilian nodded.
“Right, you’re in the hot seat.” He switched his attention to Jack Griffin. “We’ll be approaching the target at speed and turning to starboard to launch all four fish in one attack. I’m reliably informed that the mount needs to be pointed forty-five degrees forward of the beam at the moment of launching.” He gave each man a hard look. “You will need to lead the target by about ten degrees. Any questions?”
There were no questions.
However, Joe Calleja suspected there was something HMS Talavera’s second-in-command was neither aware or, nor could possibly have taken into account in issuing his orders.
“Er, sorry,” he apologised. “Mr Weiss,” he stuttered.
“What is it?”
“The Mark VIIIs in Tubes One and Four are early ‘M’ modifications.”
Miles Weiss gave him a blank look.
“All four torpedoes are late wartime or immediate post 1945 variants. The ones they gave you to load in Tubes Two and Three are standard contact-detonated mods without any fancy electronics. But the ‘fish’,” he was uneasy using the Royal Navy term for reasons he did not begin to understand, “in Tubes One and Four are fitted with early model ‘magnetic’ detonators. If we fire those into the side of a ship it might dent the plates but it probably won’t blow up.”
“Oh, I see.” The destroyer’s Executive Officer thought for a moment. “Right, well spotted that man! Set fish One and Four to run at thirty feet. The Others can run at twelve feet.”
“Commander,” Joe groaned. “The early ‘M’ mods were all duds. Or that was what I heard...”
“What, all of them?”
“Well, most of them. Yes.”
Miles Weiss shrugged, this was exactly why he had always wanted to be a big gun man. A fellow knew exactly where he stood and what he was doing with good old fashioned naval rifles!
“I’ll tell the Captain. For your sake I hope they go off, otherwise we’ll have to ram the blighters!” He sniffed the air, feeling the motion of the ship change as power fed into her racing propellers. “Carry on!”
Less than a minute later the Tannoy blared.
“This is the Captain.” HMS Talavera was picking up speed, attempting to bury her stern in the blue Mediterranean waters as she proscribed a mile wide racing swerve. “We will shortly be attacking two large surface targets currently engaged in bombarding the island of Malta. As soon as HMS Yarmouth is in position we’re going to attack the two big ships with torpedoes. During the attack every gun that will bear on the enemy may fire at will. Stand to you duty, gentlemen. WHILE THIS SHIP FLOATS I WILL NOT LET THOSE BASTARDS PAST!”
Joe Calleja realised he was the only man gathered around or standing on top of the torpedo mount who was not laughing and cheering hysterically. His brother-in-law, his sister’s beloved husband whose death would break her heart forever, had just told his men that he would rather die than surrender. And yet the men around him were jumping up and down as if their favourite football team had scored a match-winning goal!
The English were mad.
All of them were mad!
Chapter 54
12:50 Hours
Friday 3rd April 1964
The Citadel, Mdina
Most of the shooting was coming from the quarter around the Headquarters buildings on the eastern flank of the Citadel.
Clara Pullman and her pair of frightened Redcaps almost ran into the two Soviet paratroopers. One was an older man, an NCO, the other a squat, brutish trooper with a gashed head. The Russians wasted a fraction of a second trying to work out wha
t a nurse was doing with an AK-47 and that was the death of them.
Clara was a little surprised when the shorter man’s torso and head literally exploded in a spray of blood and bone fragments. After she had killed the trooper’s NCO she checked her Kalashnikov’s magazine.
There was a dab of red paint on the end of it.
“Dum Dum bullets,” she explained to the horrified Redcaps. The rounds in the red-dotted magazines were doctored or hollow-pointed to expand, explode, or fragment on impact. “Take their Kalashnikovs and replace the mags with ones that are marked red like this one.” She showed the two Royal Military Policemen her weapon. “And give me another full red-dotted mag. Get a move on!” She shouted, eying the two narrow passageways leading to right and left.
She took the magazine she was handed and dropped it into the voluminous folds of the front pouch of her increasingly bloody pale blue nursing auxiliary’s smock. She sized up her two companions.
“You kill anybody in a Soviet uniform or carrying one of these,” she flicked her gaze onto the Kalashnikov in her arms. “Don’t think about it just do it! Understand?”
She did not actually think either of her companions understood. Normal, decent men were often incapable of adapting to the reality of killing or being killed. Her misgivings were quickly confirmed.
“Where are we going?” The senior of the Redcaps asked. He was a lance-corporal with a deep tan that spoke of long service on the island.
“To the Headquarters. They will kill all the senior officers before they liquidate the civilian population of the Citadel.”
“You don’t know that...”
Clara brought up her AK-47.
No, she did not know that was what the paratroopers would do; just that it would be consistent with the standard operating procedures of airborne Spetsnaz – Special Forces – troops like the ones she had been killing for the last few minutes.