by James Philip
LBJ scowled. If one was looking for a litmus test of the disarray after the Battle of Washington it was that the CIA was much more likely to be talking to the Brits than it was to the high command of the United States military.
“That whole area was pretty badly chewed up during the October War,” he observed sourly. “The Soviets couldn’t get at us so they took their revenge on the Turks. It was a miracle Istanbul got away untouched. What with the destruction of most of the major centres of population in Anatolia, Bulgaria and the military coups across what was left of the Balkans we’re blind in that part of the World. Romania is the only half-way functioning member of the Warsaw Pact in that part of the World and they’ve been putting out diplomatic feelers via the Scandinavians. CIA and the State Department don’t know what they want, or care. The way things are Bucharest is bound to be awash with refugees from the surrounding countries and I don’t see the regime in Romania being any kind of ally in the near future. The whole area is a mess; that was the rationale behind trying to retain contact with the Italians. We’ve still got U-2s operating out of Aviano but you can only see so much from sixty or seventy thousand feet...”
The Chief of Naval Operations sucked his teeth.
“The latest CIA papers coming across my desk paint a bad picture.”
“Spooks like to scare-monger.”
“My planners are working on the basis of a worst case scenario, Mister Vice-President. Judging by their fleet redeployment the British are also planning on the worst,” he ran a hand through his thinning fair hair, “and like us, hoping for the best.”
Lyndon Baines Johnson nodded, wishing he felt a little more presidential and a little less, worried...
“Tell me about the worst case?”
“The worst case is what the British sources predict,” the CNO retorted dryly, “A horde out of the East falls upon either the British possessions in the Mediterranean; or the Balkans and the Italian peninsula, or pours into the Levant and down the valleys of the Tigris and the Euphrates Rivers all the way to the Persian Gulf. The last option is the most immediately disastrous for our own World position, but both of the first two options are terrifying. If Red Dawn is capable of mobilising the survivors of the Soviet forces in the Ukraine, the Crimea, the Caucasus, say,” the CNO continued grimly, “and amalgamates that force with the remaining resources of the Turkish state we’ve got nothing short of nuclear strikes to stop it.”
“That is not an option Admiral.”
“No?”
“There’s no point saving the World if it ends up being so goddam radioactive we all glow in the goddam dark!”
The Chief of Naval Operations let this unscientific remark go uncontested.
“Okay, worst case scenario. Red Dawn might strike west across the Balkans, or down through the Aegean. Taking Crete would isolate the British in Cyprus and potentially threaten the security of the pre-October War atomic weapon storage facility at Akrotiri. Or Red Dawn might strike south towards the Gulf oil fields. The bottom line is if they’ve got any kind of surface combat capability – barges with guns on them would be enough – and any kind of air force,” the Chief of Naval Operations shrugged, “they’ll roll right over whatever is in front of them on Cyprus.”
“If Red Dawn strikes into the Middle East they’ll have to get past the Israelis?” The Vice-President objected.
“Yes, and the Jordanians, the Iraqis, the Iranians, the Egyptians, and the Iranians,” Admiral McDonald agreed. “But it isn’t very likely the existing national military forces in the region will actually co-ordinate, let alone combine against a common threat like Red Dawn. Likewise, none of the above would contemplate diversionary or spoiling attacks by any elements of their armed forces to support the British.” The Chief of Naval Operations reconsidered. “Well, the Jordanians might, I suppose. But I doubt if any of the others would lift a finger to help the British until or unless they feel themselves to be directly threatened by Red Dawn. And then they’d scream for help from us, and probably the Brits!”
“You talked about the vulnerability of the Italian peninsula?”
“Yes, that’s just as big a problem, in the long term a much bigger problem, for us than losing the Gulf oil fields. If Italy falls to Red Dawn, or anybody else as apparently inimical to the USA as Red Dawn, we eventually lose access to the Mediterranean and sooner or later the rest of whatever is left of Central and Western Europe probably falls with it. The worst case scenario is that we – the United States of America – find ourselves with no friends in the half of the World from whence most of our fathers, grandfathers and great grandfathers came from, sir.”
Lyndon Baines Johnson felt oddly presidential when he asked the obvious question: “What do the Brits need from us?”
“The old Sixth Fleet would be a good start, Mister Vice-President.”
“And?”
“If we’re talking worst case scenario,” the CNO obfuscated for a few precious seconds. “A Marine Expeditionary Corps, a lot of grunts to put boots on any ground we hold. Air, lots of it. Air, every kind you can think of, sir.”
“What can we send them now?”
There had been ten fleet carriers in service at the time of the October War including five of the eight huge modern Kitty Hawk and Constellation Class ships. In addition, the nuclear-powered USS Enterprise had just finished working up and was about to join the fleet. The arbitrary mothballing of over two-thirds of the surface fleet had left the Navy with three operational carrier battle groups. The Kitty Hawk was not likely to be fit for sea again for at least two months; the Independence was currently in the Indian Ocean heading home for a six month refit; and the Enterprise was working up in the North Atlantic - assimilating a new command team subsequent to the summary removal of her previous flag officer and most of his staff, and several key members of the nuclear-powered carrier’s operations team – in the aftermath of the ‘Dreadnought Incident’.
The reactivation of other major surface assets had not started; nor would it for some weeks and none of the mothballed big carriers could be returned to service before the autumn at the earliest. The only part of the fleet which had not been completely hamstrung by the ‘Peace Dividend’ exercise was the Submarine Division. It had got away with mothballing all the conventional, old-fashioned diesel-electric boats, gradually halting the ballistic missile submarine building program, and making superficial adjustments to the scheduled rate at which it was building the next generation of nuclear-powered hunter killers.
“We can send the Enterprise and her escorts to the Mediterranean,” the Chief of Naval Operations stated unequivocally. However, he immediately added a caveat. “Enterprise is not fully combat ready. Her new command team has not had time to bed in and most of her original air group was rotated after the events of last month.”
“Can she fight?” The Vice-President inquired softly.
“Yes, sir. She can fight.”
“What else can we send?”
“Three, maybe four SSNs can be warned for departure or diverted to the Mediterranean in the next forty-eight hours.” McDonald was not a man who went in for hand wringing. “As to the surface fleet,” he informed the Vice-President, “the way so many ships were taking out of service and so many key personnel were sent ashore in so short a period has damaged the esprit de corps of the whole service, sir. That’s going to make it hard to reverse the cutback programs still in effect no matter how much money we throw at it. Before we can get parts of the Fleet back to sea we first need to stop the ongoing mothballing. Another issue is that a lot of officers have resigned their commissions. Some by way of a protest, I suppose. But others because they are afraid they’ll get caught in the FBI’s dragnet. If you want the Navy back at sea as fast as possible somebody is going to have to call off the witch hunt. Either way, we’re eighteen months to two years away from restoring the Fleet to its pre-war fighting strength.”
After the CNO had gone Lyndon Baines Johnson went to his desk.
That bastard Edgar J. Hoover was already leaking titbits of information to his lap dogs in the Senate; and the CIA was retaliating by doing the same thing to their own clients in the House in a concerted attempt to undermine the old faggot.
At the very moment America needed its Navy the most the service was about to be embroiled in the greatest conspiracy theory of the age, its reputation dragged through the mire of history. The Air Force was no less culpable in recent disasters; but unlike the Navy, there were no headline culprits and whereas people in the SAC chain of command had clearly questioned their unlawful orders; the Navy had been so all fired up mad keen to sink a British submarine going about its lawful business in international waters that they had inadvertently torpedoed one of their own!
Chapter 14
Wednesday 22nd January 1964
King’s College, Oxford, England
Sir Thomas Harding-Grayson waved nonchalantly to his old friend, the Cabinet Secretary as he entered the Common Room. He was not convinced he liked having to chase around the country to speak to the Prime Minister but then politics was a messy business and although he was not really involved in the nitty-gritty of the political game; the woman he worked for most certainly was!
He did not know when it had happened. It had crept up on him in much the same way it must have for most of the others. However, before he left Washington he had awakened one morning and realised – known for a fact, actually – that he had ceased to be a simple public servant and become Margaret Thatcher’s liege man. It was an almost feudal thing. The Angry Widow had picked up the standard they had all known was lying, half-forgotten in the mud and waved it so violently that the whole World had seen it flying, proudly once again. And he had known that wherever she led and that wherever she led the country, he had to follow.
“There appear to be warships anchored off the Golden Horn!” The Prime Minister scowled as hands were shaken. “And an RAF fighter intercepted and turned back an enemy reconnaissance aircraft north-east of Cyprus yesterday afternoon!”
The Foreign Secretary paused for thought, a little surprised that the RAF had not simply shot down the interloper.
He smiled.
“You look well, Prime Minister.”
“Thank you, Tom. It is very kind of you to say so.”
“What news from the lost colonies?” Sir Henry Tomlinson, the Cabinet Secretary inquired urbanely.
“The US Navy is readying the USS Enterprise and her escorting vessels to depart for the Western Mediterranean. Several nuclear submarines are also being warned to sail for the region in the next few days.” Tom Harding-Grayson raised an apologetic hand of caution. “We shouldn’t get our hopes up. Congress may put the kybosh on this at any time. And even if these ships and submarines ever reach the Mediterranean any kind of formal, pre-arranged line of command is extremely unlikely.” He sobered somewhat, and carried on his abbreviated summary of the latest international developments. “Spain has formally, as opposed it informally, denied the US Air Force and Navy access to its airfields and ports. The tin pot dictators in Corsica and Sardinia are now making noises about shooting down any ‘foreign pirate’ who ‘desecrates’ their air space which means out flights to and from Malta have to make wide, fuel-consuming, detours around those islands further lengthening flight times to and fro the archipelago. The Italian fascists are getting nervous also. Nobody has any idea how much longer they’ll permit U-2 aircraft or KC-135 tankers to operate out of Aviano. Sicily,” he sighed phlegmatically, “well, the Sicilian authorities seem to have gone quiet. They probably don’t want to do anything to upset the Fighting Admiral.”
At the mere mention of Sir Julian Christopher’s person the Prime Minister lowered her eyes and felt the heat rise in her cheeks. In a little less than two hours she would be meeting him off his flight at RAF Brize Norton, and she had absolutely no idea how she was going to get through the reunion without making a complete fool of herself.
“Very wise of them,” she murmured. “What is Lord Franks’s considered opinion as to the mood of Congress in Philadelphia, Tom?”
“Inward looking, Margaret,” the Foreign Secretary snorted quietly. In private - Henry Tomlinson was his oldest friend and already the Angry Widow’s closest advisor - he and the remarkable woman who had been unexpectedly thrust onto the World stage at the height of the recent war fever, remained on ‘Tom’ and ‘Margaret’ terms. Not because they had survived the Balmoral atrocity together, but because they had actually formed the foundation for a lifelong mutual respect and friendship. Like Henry Tomlinson, Tom Harding-Grayson regarded himself as a non-political cog in the gears of the Unity Administration of the United Kingdom, whose role was as unlikely as it sounded, essentially protective of the young woman - she was twenty years their junior as near as dammit - upon whose shoulders the coherence and indeed, possibly the future of the country largely depended. Nobody had seriously predicted a month ago that her elevation to the Premiership would suddenly offer Britain a leader about whom the majority of the people might coalesce; and more than that, a leader who understood the collective anger of her people, and their ache to be convinced that if they only had a little faith, things would get better. “Our Ambassador fears Congress may be very inward looking. By the end of the month we might very easily be right back where were started.”
Margaret Thatcher gave him a peevish look.
“A month ago I hadn’t put my signature to a draft treaty guaranteeing non-belligerence in the short-term and whole-hearted international co-operation at an unspecified later date. A month ago President Kennedy hadn’t ordered the urgent despatch of food, oil and badly needed pharmaceutical products to us. A month ago the First Sea Lord was resigned to sending most of the Royal Navy to the bottom of the North Atlantic in a war we couldn’t possibly win.” She sniffed. “Despite appearances to the contrary, and apart from the fact I think I’m coming down with a head cold things are looking up, gentlemen.”
Sir Henry Tomlinson chuckled.
“Well, that’s told us!”
“Quite,” Margaret Thatcher agreed, not really getting the joke as she reached for her handkerchief and stifled a genteel sneeze. “Blast,” she murmured irritably. “I knew it was a bad idea sitting out there on Capitol Hill in that cold wind!” She shrugged off her angst in a moment. “Anyway, I’m glad I’ve got you two here together,” she announced, one matter ticked off and the next item on her agenda advanced to the top of her list.
There was nothing in her tone warning the two men that she was about to drop a bombshell.
“You are my closest non-Party advisors,” she prefaced busily. Then, with no further fanfare she declared: “I propose to recall Parliament as soon as possible. Here in Oxford would be as good a place as any, unless either of you have got a better idea.”
The two career civil servants, both Oxford University men and keen students of both what was constitutional and what was possible, glanced uncomfo
rtably at each other. Their initial response was that although the idea was probably constitutionally sound; it hardly seemed sensible in the circumstances.
“Prime Minister,” Sir Henry Tomlinson ventured, “leaving aside the question of whether or not such a project would be, shall we say, wise,” he hunched his shoulders in apology, “there are certain practical difficulties...”
“Parliament has a perfect right to debate and vote upon whether it has confidence in my Administration, Henry,” the lady retorted instantly. “Nothing which lies ahead of us will be easy,” she went on. “Likewise, very little of what lies ahead of us will be surmountable without the support of the British people and the unimpeachable legitimacy conferred on any Government, by the unambiguously expressed confidence of the House of Commons. Without that legitimacy my right to lead and the authority of the UAUK will be built on sand. Frankly, if I don’t seize the moment within the next few weeks it will be lost forever and perhaps, with it our best chance of leading our people out of this vale of despond.”
“Be that as it may,” Tom Harding-Grayson observed. People got blown away with the power of the Angry Widow’s presence on occasions such as these. “Henry makes a good point. The Government might not survive a vote of confidence. The membership of the House of Commons is somewhat reduced from its pre-war strength and many of the Honourable members who survive will have been twiddling their thumbs in the shires to no good effect in the interim. I daresay a minority of them will fall in behind hotheads like Enoch Powell...”
“No doubt there will be people of a like mind to the Honourable Member for Wolverhampton South West in the Conservative Party, and the Labour Party!” Margaret Thatcher retaliated mildly. “I confidently expect people like Michael Foot and the other peace at all costs,” she was about to say something profoundly ungenerous but thought better of it, “dreamers will have undergone any kind of Damascene conversion in recent weeks. However, I have faith in the common sense and patriotism of the representatives of what remains of our great and ancient democracy, gentlemen.”
