Medusa

by Hammond Innes

  The ultra high frequency set used by Nato service units was on the far side of the bridge. He picked up the headset with its boom-mike and though I couldn’t hear what was said I saw the lines of strain on his face ease. He was talking for barely a minute and then he said, ‘Well, thank God for that. They haven’t got the Naval Base.’ He said it loud enough for all on the bridge to hear, knowing I suppose that it would spread from there right through the ship.

  ‘Launch coming back now, sir.’

  He nodded, watching it come out from behind Bloody Island, making an arrowed arc as it swung to pass under the bows and come alongside the ladder. To seaward the first glimmer of the dawn was etching black the outline of Lazareto Island with the bulk of La Mola reared up behind it.

  Mault, when he reached the bridge, reported that he had been received very formally. He had the impression that his visit was not welcomed and that the Spanish Navy Jefe was wanting to distance himself from the British naval presence in the harbour.

  ‘You saw Perez himself, did you?’ Gareth asked him.

  ‘In the end, yes.’

  ‘Would you say his coolness was dictated by higher authority?’

  ‘Yes. He asked me to thank you for your offer of assistance, but to tell you it would not be necessary.’

  ‘He’s in touch with Madrid then?’

  Mault nodded, i think so. But locally I had the feeling he was cut off. I was with him when the explosion occurred on La Mola. That was when he told me his Communications people could no longer talk to the garrison there. He seemed very dejected. In the circumstances the sensible thing would seem to be for us to withdraw to Gibraltar.’

  Gareth looked at him, gave a short bark of a laugh and said, ‘The sensible thing!’ His voice was full of irony. ‘Oh yes, Lieutenant Commander – that would undoubtedly be the sensible thing. Unfortunately, our orders are quite the opposite. We stay here.’ And he turned on his heel, striding quickly up and down the bridge several times, his face tight-drawn, an expression almost of anguish on his face. He seemed to be struggling to make up his mind about something. Finally, he turned to me. ‘Wait for me in my cabin.’ He was moving towards the door and when I started to say something about it being time I was off his ship he turned on me angrily, ‘Just do as I tell you. Wait in my cabin. I may need you if I manage to contact any of Soo’s friends.’

  He went below then and shortly afterwards the Navigator advised me to do as he said. His hand was on my arm, steering me to the door. On the stairs outside he suddenly stopped. ‘He needs you, sir. You know the island and the people here, and you’re not a part of the ship. That’s important.’ And he added, speaking quite urgently now, ‘There’s one or two of the officers here trying to dismiss him as a jumped-up little Welshman from the lower deck promoted too quickly and not big enough for the job. They don’t know what the job is, of course, and nor do I, but I can tell you this – he’s carrying a burden hardly anybody on board yet realises, a burden I can only guess at from hints dropped by Phil Woburn, our Communications Officer. I admire him.’ He gave a quick embarrassed grin. ‘So do as he says, will you? He needs you.’

  It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him to keep the man away from my wife. But instead I nodded and went down to his cabin, wondering again why he had been given this particular command and what the hell the ship was supposed to do here.

  I was there on my own for a good half-hour and for most of that time I was standing by the porthole which looked out past Bloody Island to the port and the Naval Base. Once one of the naval patrol boats put out heading for Cala Figuera, but a few minutes after disappearing behind Bloody Island it emerged again and returned to base. Otherwise, there was virtually nothing moving in that section of the harbour and the waterfront was too far away for me to identify the few vehicles that were on the road.

  To pass the time I had a look at the books on the shelf above the desk. They were most of them reference books, including the Admiralty Pilot for the Mediterranean Volumes I and II, also, surprisingly, Kemp’s encyclopaedic work, Ships and the Sea, and beside that was Conrad’s The Secret Agent and a rather battered copy of a collection of Kipling’s verse. Opening it at a marker, I found he had underlined a passage from ‘How Fear Came’ – ‘When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack, ye must fight him alone and afar, Lest others take part in the quarrel, and the Pack be diminished by war.’ And earlier there was a ticket to the Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, marking ‘The English Flag’. ‘And what should they know of England who only England know.’ I felt the wrench of that second line, thinking of spring and blossom, chestnuts bursting. Then Petty Officer Jarvis came in to say he would be serving breakfast as soon as the Captain arrived, meanwhile could he offer me a cup of coffee? By then it was 06.09 and I wondered what Ismail Fuxá had said in his Independence Day message.

  Gareth had listened to it on the radio, of course. But when he came in some ten minutes later he couldn’t tell me what the man had said, apart from the fact that it was a declaration of the island’s independence, but he seemed to have got a very vivid impression of Fuxá himself. ‘A little like listening to a re-run of the German Führer speaking at one of the big Nazi rallies in the thirties – very emotional, the voice rising in pitch to the point of screaming, then suddenly falling away so that it seemed to be whispering in one’s ear.’ He slumped down on the settle, passing a hand over his eyes as though to rub out the weariness that showed there. ‘Quite an exercise. Very compelling, almost hypnotic. I think we’re in trouble.’ He said it so softly I could hardly catch the words. ‘They seem to have taken all the key points except the Naval Base, which suggests there were sympathisers among some of the military.’

  He had contacted several of our English-speaking friends, but none of them, not even the Renatos, were willing to talk about what was happening ashore. ‘In the absence of any effective opposition they’re not prepared to stick their necks out.’ Jarvis had brought him a tray of coffee and he sat drinking it and staring vacantly at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s up to the politicians now. Everybody’s been informed – Madrid, London, Washington, and Moscow, of course. They’ll have a finger in it somewhere, I suppose. That cruiser we saw in Grand Harbour sailed yesterday evening and a flotilla of Soviet ships has just passed through the Straits of Bonifacio. Elements of the Sixth Fleet, the ships we passed through yesterday evening, have put about and are headed back into the Western Mediterranean at full speed.’ He poured himself some more coffee, drank it quickly and went out. ‘Won’t be long, then we’ll have breakfast.’

  This time he was gone the better part of an hour, and when he came back his face looked grim. ‘The BBC News led off with it at seven o’clock. There was a short statement from Madrid to the effect that the Spanish Government was greatly concerned and would be watching events closely.’ He was standing at the window looking out towards the town, the white of the buildings touched with gold as the sun rose above the northern arm of the harbour. It was one of those still mornings, the water glassy calm, a molten look that was a sure sign of heat to come. ‘In other words, they’re not sure of themselves and are waiting upon developments locally. No suggestion at the moment that they are prepared to take any positive and determined action.’ He turned to me. ‘How left is this man Fuxa, would you say?’

  ‘We always thought of him as more of an anarchist than a communist,’ I said.

  ‘My information is that he has spent some time in the Soviet Union and is probably Russian trained.’ He gave a little shrug, went over to his desk and sat down, staring vacantly at the litter of signals that covered it. ‘Oh well, we’ll know soon enough. If that’s correct, then he’ll almost certainly request recognition from Moscow, even perhaps some assistance if the going gets rough.’

  He seemed to be using me as a sounding board, for he went on talking about how the situation might develop, the political repercussions outside of Menorca. At the back of his mind, of course, was the American bombing of Libya
. ‘Do you think they’re involved?’ He was staring at me, but I don’t think he was seeing me at all, only what was in his mind, the question purely rhetorical. ‘Russian warships, the American Sixth Fleet, and those big guns out on La Mola. If they know how to fire them, somebody’s got to take them out before any naval ships hostile to this new regime can enter Port Mahon. There are Spanish Navy ships in Barcelona, but they haven’t moved. Perhaps that’s why.’

  ‘Surely they could knock them out,’ I suggested. ‘An air strike …’

  But he was shaking his head. ‘The situation is too confused for them to do that. They don’t know who they’d be attacking. Their own people perhaps.’

  ‘What does Palma say?’ I asked him.

  ‘The Civil Governor has called for calm throughout the Province and appealed for the maintenance of democratic government. Usual sort of thing.’

  ‘And the Military Governor?’

  ‘Nothing so far from him. Not that we’ve been able to pick up, and nothing on the BBC News or even the World Service. Madrid seems to be keeping a low profile.’ He banged his fist against the arm of his chair. ‘Time is passing, and every minute counts. They don’t seem to realise –’

  ‘Nor do you,’ I said.

  He stared at me. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it – they’re afraid of aggravating the situation. If you’d lived in the islands you’d understand something of their history and how recent and how delicate is the matter of provincial autonomy.’

  ‘I know that. But they’re dithering and they haven’t time for that.’ His voice had risen almost to a note of shrillness. ‘They haven’t time,’ he repeated more quietly, gazing into space. ‘God almighty!’ It was an invocation that seemed forced out of him by his lone position at the centre of events that were beyond his control. ‘Better get some breakfast now.’ He got up from the desk and led me over to the table under the portholes, calling for Petty Officer Jarvis.

  ‘Your people knew something like this was going to happen,’ I said as we sat down. ‘That’s why you were ordered out of Malta in such haste.’ He didn’t answer, his mind locked in on itself. ‘Well, wasn’t it? And wasn’t that why you came to Menorca in the first place, before you took command of this ship?’

  That got through to him, his eyes coming into focus and staring at me across the table, ‘I suppose so.’ Jarvis appeared with two plates loaded with bacon, sausage and fried egg.

  ‘So what are you supposed to do? A British Navy ship, you can’t take any part in a coup d’état like this.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘So, what’s the point?’

  ‘Toast?’ He pushed the rack towards me, concentrating now on his food.

  ‘You can’t do any good here,’ I told him.

  He nodded, the broad forehead under the black curly hair creased in a frown. ‘Jesus! Do you think I don’t know that?’

  ‘So why were you sent here?’ I asked him.

  ‘Why?’ He looked surprised. ‘For the same reason Nelson was here. And poor Byng – executed because he wouldn’t face the French.’ And he added, These people, they have this one priceless asset – the finest deep-water harbour in the Western Med. That’s what it’s all about. That’s why I’m here.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘If there had been any opposition, if Madrid had reacted to the situation …’ He stopped there, the loudspeaker breaking in on his thoughts: ‘Bridge here, sir. There’s a launch approaching. Harbour launch by the look of it.’

  Gareth finished his breakfast quickly and a few minutes later the same voice announced that it was the harbour master himself wanting to speak to the Captain. Gareth asked for the man’s name, then turned to me. ‘Francisco Romacho. Is that right?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It should be Juan Terron.’

  He nodded. ‘They haven’t wasted any time. A key appointment and he’s in position already.’ Then into the intercom: ‘Does he speak English? No, well get hold of Sykes, then send the two of them up.’ He suggested I conceal myself in the steward’s pantry. ‘See if you recognise him.’

  The man who entered was short and very dark with an aquiline face. I had never seen him before. He was dressed in khaki trousers and camouflage tunic. He came straight to the point. ‘Señor Fuxá – el Presidente – feels that, in the circumstances, he cannot accept the presence of a foreign warship in the port of Mahon.’ Watching through a crack in the serving hatch, Victor Sykes came into my line of vision. He was another of the young officers-under-training, probably posted to the ship for his knowledge of Spanish. He looked a little scared, his voice low as he interpreted. The three of them were seated at the coffee table, Gareth pointing out that what went on ashore was not his concern, he was simply in Mahon on a courtesy visit and if there had been some change in the government of the island, he was sure the new regime would extend the same welcome to one of Her Majesty’s ships as the old.

  The interview went on like that for some time, Romacho insisting that Medusa leave Mahon, Gareth pointing out that his orders came from London and he had no authority to leave without new instructions. At one point he said, This is a matter for the Spanish and British governments.’ And Romacho answered quickly, ‘I don’t think so. We are now an independent state.’

  ‘Then I suggest your president takes the question up directly with the Foreign Office in London.’

  ‘He cannot do that until we have recognition. In the meantime, he insists that you leave Mahon.’

  ‘I have explained that my orders –’

  ‘Your orders are to leave. Immediately.’ Romacho had jumped to his feet. This is our water. Our port. You have no right to be here when we don’t invite you. You will leave immediately please.’

  Gareth had risen to his feet. ‘Unfortunately we have a problem.’ And he went on to explain that the high-pressure boilers delivering steam to the turbines had sprung some leaks and his Marine Engineer Officer had taken the opportunity to close the boilers down for maintenance work on the condenser pipes.

  It was obvious that Romacho didn’t believe him, but he couldn’t very well demand to inspect the engine room. Instead, he said, ‘In that case, we will have to arrange a tow for you. Fortunately the tanker that keeps the Cala Figuera depot supplied has just finished off-loading and we have our own harbour tug. I will arrange for the two of them to tow you to Palma in Mallorca.’

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ Gareth said.

  ‘You will leave then under your own steam?’

  ‘When I have orders to leave I will leave. Not before.’

  ‘So! You are not going to leave?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very well, Capitán. I also have orders. El Presidente instructs me to say that you have until noon. If you are not away from Mahon by midday he will be forced to regard your continued presence here as a hostile act. You understand?’ He gave a formal little bow, and without waiting for Gareth’s reply, turned quickly and made for the door. His last words as he went out were, ‘You have until midday.’

  IV

  Bloody Island

  Chapter One

  I remember standing by the taula on Bloody Island watching as the minute hand of my watch crept towards the vertical. Clouds were forming to the south over St Felip, the day already hot and airless, as I had known it would be, and the frigate lay to her reflection in the oily water, nothing moving on her deck, everything very still and silent. I was alone, and had been since Medusa’s launch returned me to the island shortly after eight that morning. Gareth had accompanied me to the head of the ship’s ladder. ‘You’ll be going ashore, will you?’ By that he had meant, of course, going across to Mahon. ‘Give my love to Soo.’ He smiled then, a funny, crooked little smile, and then he had said, ‘Pray for me, both of you.’ A perfunctory salute and he had turned on his heel and disappeared back up to the bridge.

  It wasn’t until after I had landed and the launch was on its way back to Medusa that the full import of what he
had said began to sink in. By then I had discovered, not only that Petra’s inflatable wasn’t at the landing place, but there was also no sign of Lennie’s semi-rigid diving boat. I was on my own and plenty of time to think about it. Also, I had no means of knowing what was going on ashore.

  The odd thing was that everything seemed normal enough, the usual volume of traffic along the waterfront, so shops and businesses must be opening as usual. But on the water itself virtually nothing moved. As for the outside world, now that I was off the frigate all I had was Petra’s little portable radio, and listening to the news bulletins I got the impression the media was deliberately playing down events in Mahon. The unilateral declaration of independence was referred to, but only briefly, and even the Overseas Service relegated it to a late spot in the World News. This could, of course, be the result of a local clampdown. It could equally be political pressure at home.

  Sitting there in the sun, stripped to the waist as the day advanced, there was something quite uncanny about the brooding ruins of the hospital, the sense of isolation, and that lonely British warship riding there so peacefully to her reflection. She looked puny against the shimmering sprawl of La Mola and it was hard to realise that inside the battered plates of that grey hull the Communications Room must be humming with messages bounced off satellites as the well-known names of international politics, roused from their beds at an unaccustomed hour or called to their offices unexpectedly, endeavoured to grapple with the possible repercussions of Fuxá’s seizure of power on a small island in the Western Mediterranean. Was Gareth right when he had said it was all because of this four and a half miles of deep, sheltered water that stretched away on either side of me?

  Shortly after eleven a single mobile gun took up a position in the garden of a villa above Cala Llonga. Now, as I waited by the beacon beyond the dig, periodically checking my watch as the seconds ticked away to noon, I wondered whether it would actually open fire, whether there were other guns ranged on the frigate. La Mola had been very quiet since that early morning explosion.