by James Philip
“Mistakes have been made,” Jack Kennedy said. “We have all been guilty of oversights. I choose to look forward in this,” he quirked a grimace, “our darkest hour.”
Curtis LeMay looked his President in the eye.
“What’s Bus Wheeler got to say about all this?” He asked bluntly.
“The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was killed by a sniper two hours ago, General.”
The word at Andrews Air Force Base was that Earl Wheeler was being flown to Bethesda Naval Hospital; wounded but alive. That news had been old before LeMay’s Sea King had taken off on the perilous flight to the White House.
“You are the ranking officer, General LeMay,” Jack Kennedy went on, like the airman he too had learned to put away his emotions at times like this. Around them the Situation Room was already noticeably less crowded and quieter.
Robert McNamara returned with Bobby Kennedy at his shoulder. The Attorney General had aged fifteen years since Curtis LeMay had last seen him a month ago. The younger Kennedy brother didn’t have the natural gift of exuding grace under pressure; he hadn’t been tested in the fire of battle the way his elder sibling had been in the Pacific in 1943. Perhaps, in time he might develop the same assurance under pressure but LeMay doubted it.
“What we have is a military situation,” Jack Kennedy stated as the other men circled him. “Washington is under siege.” He made and held cool eye contact with the acting professional Head of all United States Forces. “General LeMay, you are authorised to use all forces at your disposal to put down the current insurrection and to restore order in this city and its environs.” He steeled himself, added: “Show no mercy.”
Chapter 30
Tuesday 10th December 1963
British Overseas Airways Flight A107
Edward Richard George Heath, Prime Minister of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II’s United Kingdom Interim Emergency Administration, remained unconvinced of the wisdom of employing one of the three surviving British Overseas Airways Corporation’s Boeing 707s for this expedition. However, it was symptomatic of the madness of the World in which they lived that whatever his private reservations he was compelled to concede, that Tom Harding-Grayson’s suggestion was not without merit. If half the much reduced Cabinet was to be shot down then it might as well be shot down in an American aircraft. The situation seemed so dire, so beyond comprehension and reason, that every little gesture mattered. Besides, several months ago the RAF had fitted ‘Speedbird 712’ – the aircraft’s call-sign – with every available modern communications device; theoretically, the jet airliner should be able to remain in contact with, if not home, then radio stations and relays which might in an emergency, be capable of making contact with the Government compound at Cheltenham.
Iain Macleod, the newly appointed Minister of Information, the Foreign Secretary and the former American Ambassador, Loudon Baines Westheimer II were arguing fiercely three rows back from where the Prime Minister was trying to rest. He’d been humming Bach to himself, imagining himself conducting the London Philharmonic Orchestra at the Albert Hall. Music was the thing he missed most. He was of the 1939-45 wartime generation who’d grown inured to the death of friends, acquaintances and developed a knack of sublimating much of his grief. He thought occasionally of all the people who’d died in the October War - died or just ceased to exist, disappeared – but didn’t dwell upon the fallen for therein lay a terrible melancholy he could not, and would not allow to rule his waking thoughts.
Tom Harding-Grayson was patiently explaining the purpose of the mission to Loudon Baines Westheimer II, a most uncouth and almost totally ignorant man, who clearly thought the enterprise was some kind of game in which the object was to score points off his naive British hosts.
Every few minutes a new report was received.
It seemed that large tracts of Washington DC had been carpet bombed by the United States Air Force, and tanks and infantry were systematically hunting down the last of the ‘terrorists’. Twelve hours ago the ‘terrorists; had still been ‘insurgents’, now they were beyond the pale, vermin to be eradicated with overwhelming firepower. Nobody knew how many people had been killed other than that among the dead were the British Ambassador and several of his senior aides, the United States Secretary of State, Dean Rusk, and Clarence Douglas Dillon, the Secretary of the Treasury. Several Deputy and Assistant Secretaries had lost their lives or were missing in the mayhem, and as many as twenty Senate and Congressional members were confirmed dead. The death toll was likely to run into thousands. It was unclear whether a handful of ‘terrorists’ were still holding out in the ruins of the Pentagon; a pitched battle was continuing around Washington Dulles International Airport in Virginia, less than thirty miles from the centre of the American capital. Meanwhile, ‘terrorists who had fled the city were dug in at Washington National Airport’, situated in Arlington County, close to downtown Washington DC.
The United States Government was in stasis, paralysed by the nightmare. This was either the worst or the best time to launch a last gasp mission to the beleaguered Kennedy Administration; and Edward Heath did not pretend to know which. The peace mission had been initiated and organised at breakneck speed via the one remaining secure back-channel – in retrospect mistakenly neglected in recent weeks, between the UKIEA’s Government Communications Headquarters at Oakley, less than five miles from the post-October War Government compound and the Central Intelligence Agency at Langley, Virginia – that remained open to the former allies. It was Dick White, the Head of the Secret Intelligence Service and nominally, the master of GCHG who had made direct personal contact with John McCone, the Director of the CIA. The Central Intelligence Agency’s Headquarters situated across the Potomac from Washington remained an apparent island of tranquillity in the eye of the seething storm which currently swirled around the capital.
The message had been simple.
Premier Heath is flying to Washington to discuss the World situation with President Kennedy.
The acknowledgement had come back: Situation dangerous. If Premier Heath comes at this time it is at his own risk.
The communication was by teleprinter.
GCHQ had filed a flight plan for approval.
Affirmative.
In approximately four hours time Speedbird 712 would land at Andrews Air Force Base; assuming it wasn’t shot down by one or other of the warring parties.
“Ambassador Westheimer,” Tom Harding-Grayson groaned, “your presence on this flight is an unambiguous token of the UKIEA’s good intentions. You were never ‘held hostage’ at Brize Norton; the fact of the matter was that your State Department refused to discuss arrangements for your safe transport home. You and your staff were nobody’s ‘hostages’, you were abandoned by your own people. Furthermore, I feel duty bound to remind you that you have no official status in this delegation...”
“Where does that leave Brenckmann?” The American retorted contemptuously.
The Prime Minister stood up in the aisle, stretched.
The men nearby fell silent.
“Ambassador Westheimer,” he said, moving back along the plane so as to avoid having to raise his voice. Seeing the Prime Minister moving a stewardess – attired in an immaculate BOAC uniform – approached solicitously. The big man motioned her to resume her seat, smiling gravely. He stood over the hulking Texan who’d conspicuously failed to represent the interests of his country in England in recent months. “Please believe me when I say that I find Captain Brenckmann’s presence on this mission and his likely role, as perplexing and as uncomfortable as you do. However, at this eleventh hour I am prepared to go to any lengths to avert war between our two nations. If that is your wish, also, I and my colleagues will be happy to continue to engage with you in this great discourse. If not, pray keep your opinions to yourself.”
This said the Prime Minister went back to his seat hoping against hope to compose his thoughts before Speedbird 712 reached its destination. It was a forlorn hope.
“May I speak with you, sir,” Dick White asked, his tone indicating that he might have been reading Edward Heath’s mind.
“Of course. Take a pew, Dick.”
“Thank you,” the tall spymaster murmured, sitting down in the seat across the aisle from the Prime Minister. He’d had very few dealings with Edward Heath prior to the October War. The Head of MI6 didn’t usually have much reason to socialise with the Government’s Chief Whip, or the Lord Privy Seal in peace time. The Premier had spent most of the year before the war travelling around Europe attempting to negotiate the United Kingdom’s entry into the European Common Market, the child of the European Coal and Steel Community masterminded after the 1945 war by Jon Paul Monet to ensure that France and Germany would henceforth be too economically inter-dependent to ever got to war against each other again. The Prime Minister had been a passionate believer in a European pipe dream; the ultimate antidote to quell all fears of future continental wars like the 1914-18 and the 1939-45 bloodlettings. The October War had destroyed his dreams of a better, safer World, stolen from him most of the things he loved and yet he persevered, and he still believed in decency and justice in international affairs. He was in many ways far too moral a man to be entrusted with power in a World that had taken a step back into the dark ages. “I thought you ought to know that the situation in Washington is,” he shrugged, “increasingly opaque.”
Edward Heath smiled wanly.
“Opaque, Dick?”
“The people at Langley believe that ‘mopping up operations’ are in progress but other reports indicate virtual anarchy. I strongly suggest we divert to a safer location until such time as we have a better feel for what is going on...”
The Prime Minister shook his head.
“Our respective navies are shadow boxing in the Western Approaches. We have no idea what the Spanish will do next. Who knows what other atrocities might be committed against our territories in the Mediterranean. I don’t know if I care for this Red Dawn nonsense but it gives us a plausible pretext to engage again with our former friends in Washington – those who survive, that is – and I intend to clasp it with both hands very much in the manner that a drowning man will cling to anything that comes within his reach. I cannot do that if we land at New York or Quebec, or Boston. If we get shot down over Washington, Jim Callaghan and Margaret Thatcher will have to carry on.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And that is my final word on the subject.”
The spymaster accepted this without further comment.
“Red Dawn,” he said, leaning across the aisle so that he didn’t broadcast his meaning beyond the hearing of the two men. The airliner was less than half-full. Other than the Prime Minister and his ten man delegation, the only other passengers were sixteen Royal Marines in full combat kit and armed to the teeth, and seven plain clothes Police Special Branch officers responsible for Edward Heath’s personal security. Dick White and his master sat in a small oasis in the mid-section of the aircraft with nobody nearby. “Red Dawn,” he repeated, “may be a chimera but if it exists in anything like the manifestation I have had described to me, then it offers not only an explanation of some of the more troubling and inflammatory recent events,” he hesitated, took an intuitive leap, “it offers a subtext that our American ‘friends’ might embrace. Red Dawn may well be our only common ground with the Kennedy Administration.”
Edward Heath contemplated this stark realisation.
A little over a year ago he’d been looking forward to the day when Europe would be united in a community of nations sworn to live in peace for all time. A European Union that would banish the spectre of war from the continent for future generations and possibly, lead to a new golden age...
“A part of me,” he confided, sharing a confidence he would never have shared before the cataclysm, “cries for retribution. Even now I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. If our people ever discover what really happened last year will they ever forgive me if I succeed in making a peace?”
If the spymaster was discommoded by this shocking outburst of frankness he hid it superbly.
“The great thing,” he replied, “is to be able to see both sides of the picture,” he decided. “Because it enables us to understand the true nature of our own best interests, sir.”
Chapter 31
Tuesday 10th December 1963
Pembroke Barracks Emergency Field Hospital, Malta
By the time Marija Calleja stepped off the bus outside the gates the sun was threatening to break through the early morning overcast and for December it was pleasantly mild. Her mother had wrapped her thickest woollen shawl around her daughter’s shoulders before she left the house in Sliema, her protestations growing ever fiercer as Marija moved closer to the door.
‘Dottoressa Seiffert said for you to stay at home until tomorrow!’
“I am perfectly well, Mama!” Which wasn’t really true, or untrue. After twelve hours of uninterrupted, deep sleep in her own bed, Marija felt much restored if not ‘perfectly well. Most of her aches and pains were gone – the worst ones, anyway – and from experience she knew she was, once again, capable of being of service at Pembroke Barracks. Or rather, she would be after Margo had told her off and assigned her to light duties. ‘I know I can be useful at the Pembroke Barracks and if I stay at home all day I’ll only start worrying about things I can’t do anything about.’
For example, she would brood over Peter Christopher.
There’d still been no news and it was gnawing at her, an insidious canker that was liable to reduce her to a hollow shell of her real self if she allowed it to fester. No, it was better to be busy. If and when bad news arrived, she’d deal with it then. Deep down her mother understood this. Like all mothers she was torn several ways, desperate to protect her little princess. Mother and daughter had hugged for long moments on the doorstep before Marija trudged slowly to the top of Tower Street to await the next bus heading north to St Julian’s and the Pembroke Barracks.
On her arrival Margo Seiffert didn’t actually chastise her Marija for ignoring her orders. The women embraced briefly.
“A lot of the beds are empty now,” the older woman explained, leading her friend out into the tented quadrangle. Other nurses waved, smiled at the newcomer. “Admiral Christopher has opened up every military hospital and infirmary on the Archipelago to the civilian authorities, and families are being encouraged to come into the wards to care for their loved ones.” She sounded a little unsettled by the idea; it smacked of clinical anarchy and she had no intention of allowing stray civilians to wander unsupervised around her hospital. “Anyway, as you can see from the empty beds it has taken the pressure off us.”
Marija was ‘to keep an eye’ on the ‘prisoners’.
She didn’t know if she liked being a pseudo ‘Red Cross Visitor’. Moreover, she had mixed feelings about fraternising with men whom she regarded as ‘the enemy’ and who had, not to put too fine a point on it, tried very hard to kill her and her family last Friday night.
“You,” her friend had said with a twinkle in her grey eyes, “are on the lightest of light duties today. Is that clear Nurse Calleja?”
Marija had nodded guiltily.
The POWs had been allowed onto the ramparts of the old circular fort at the seaward point of the triangular defensive bastions of the Pembroke Barracks. The breeze out of the south was warm and a haze concealed the eastern horizon as Marija climbed up to the battlements to check on her charges. Two of the POWs, an American and an Italian had been transferred to Kalkara for minor surgical procedures, the remaining nine men turned to greet her arrival with guarded smiles and mostly hooded eyes.
Captain Nathan Zabriski, who’d been standing apart from the others, approached her.
“We missed you yesterday, ma’am,” he said, tight-lipped. He’d been smoking a cigarette which he’d crushed underfoot.
“Doctor Seiffert sent me home to catch up on my sleep, Captain,” Marija reported. “I am to be your guardia
n again today. Although, I don’t think it is very likely your British captors mean you any harm.”
Marija and the airman’s eyes fell upon the two unarmed soldiers, a lance-corporal and a private wearing the insignia of the Pay Corps who’d escorted the POWs up onto the battlements. The two men were chatting amiably, smoking cigarettes and evidently, wholly disinterested in ‘guard duty’. There had been an armed sentry at the gates to the fort but otherwise the British had donned their kid gloves. The man and the woman grinned at each other before they remembered they weren’t supposed to behave like normal human beings.
“You look less,” Marija was finding it hard to be as distant and detached from the American officer as she ought to be, “battered today, Captain?”
“I’m fine, ma’am. We’re being treated well.”
“My name is Marija,” she informed him. “Doctor Seiffert was an officer in your Navy. I am a Maltese civilian.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am...” The man caught himself. “Marija.” He grimaced. “My Ma’s middle name is Maria.”
They’d wandered idly to the wall and now they gazed into the haze. Inshore two small fishing boats, high prow and stern painted in the blue and red and yellows of the ancient Phoenicians bobbed on the gentle swells.
“I grew up on Air Force Bases in the mid-west,” the man offered. “Everything for hundreds of miles was flat, just farmlands and prairies. We once lived in a place that was over a thousand miles from the Atlantic or the Pacific Ocean.
Marija leaned on the pitted limestone rampart.
“Your father was in the air force?”
“He was with the 7th Bomb Wing at Carswell until a couple of years before the war. That’s in Texas. He went to work for Boeing in Seattle when he and my Mom split up. That kind of messed up Mom for a while. She’d had crazy times when I was a kid but after Pa left she, well, sort of changed. She was angry all the time. Betrayal does that to you, I suppose? I don’t think my Pa found anybody else, or anything, it was just that after he left the Air Force he didn’t want to be with Mom any more. It was like it was the Service and base life that had kept them together all those years and when he stopped flying the big birds... Hell, I don’t know. You think you know your Mom and Dad and then something like that happens...” He shook his head, eyes misty. The moment of self pity quickly passed. “After the October War my Ma moved up to Washington DC to live with my Aunt Ida. The last thing I heard she was applying for a government job...”
