He paused then, but two gins had loosened his tongue and he went on, talking fast: ‘They don’t want to make a thing of it, tell us outright to go, but they’ve made it very clear they don’t want us here. You see, wherever we are, in this ship – any RN ship – we’re a bit of the UK. That’s what the Union flag is telling them, and they don’t like it – not now, not any more. Politically, here in Grand Harbour, we stick out like a sore thumb.’ And he added with a wry smile, ‘Our visit isn’t a bit like it was for the last frigate that showed the flag here.’
‘That was the first courtesy visit in seven years if I remember rightly,’ I said.
‘Well, not quite. The Brazen was the first ship to visit Malta after the British Forces finally left the island in 1979. She had the C-in-C Fleet embarked. Prince Charles came later with ninety thousand Maltese cheering and waving flags.’ He made a face, shrugging his shoulders. ‘That’s what the papers said anyway. And look at us, tucked away in a corner where nobody can see us, and that bloody great Russian cruiser lording it in the centre of the harbour. That’s why I had the lights rigged.’
‘I don’t think La Valette would have approved of their presence here,’ I said.
He smiled, ‘Ah, so you know what happened. More than four centuries ago and we still talk of St Elmo’s fire.’ He had read Ernie Bradford’s book, knew the whole incredible story, the astonishing bravery of the Maltese when led by men like the Knights and motivated by religious faith and the fear of being captured and sent to the Turkish galleys. ‘And now they are under the hand of another Muslim ruler.’
There was a knock at the door and a thickset, bull-headed Lieutenant Commander with greying hair entered, cap under his left arm, some papers gripped in his hand. He was a good deal older than his newly-appointed captain. His name was Robin Makewate. ‘MEO,’ Gareth said, explaining that it meant Marine Engineer Officer. It was a state-of-the-engines routine visit, and when he had gone, Gareth said, ‘He’s forty-three, started as a stoker at the age of nineteen after studying engineering at night school. Volunteered for the job here, even though he knew he’d be serving under a much younger man.’ He finished his drink, saying as he did so that it was odd being in command of a ship that was filled partly by volunteers, partly by throw-outs from the rest of the Fleet.
That wry smile again, his eyes not looking at me, not seeing anything but what was in his mind as he went on, speaking so quietly I could hardly hear him: ‘I’ve a total complement of well over two hundred, and of those, fifty-seven are volunteers. Why? I don’t know, and I’m the Captain. They don’t know, and they’re the ones who volunteered. Something dangerous, that’s all some of them have been told. There’s one or two I picked myself. The Appointers were generous in that respect – my Navigating Officer, Peter Craig. Also the SCO – that’s my Communications Officer, Lieutenant Woburn – and Tony Draycott, my Weapons Engineer Officer. I’ve also got a CPO who was at Ganges when I was there. Most of the key people, they’re volunteers, but there’s others, fifty or sixty at least, who’ve been quietly wished on me by other ships’ captains as though word had been put around that Medusa was a sort of personnel dustbin and I was a sucker on whom they could foist all the yobbos and troublemakers they wanted to be rid of. Oh, well …’ Again the wry smile, the slight shrug. ‘Let’s have some food. I’m hungry. You must be, too, listening to me.’
He called for the steward, and over the avocado and shrimp cocktail we talked of Libya and the PLO, Beirut and the effect of the Gulf War. A daily signal from Fleet Headquarters at Northwood near London plus the World News of the BBC kept him very well informed. He needed to be, I thought, tied up here like a sitting duck in a little independent country that was set in the very centre of the Mediterranean like a stepping stone to the most volatile and unreliable country in Africa. And even as I was thinking about that, full of curiosity and wondering whether I could ask him about his plans, what orders he had received, and if he was headed for Menorca next, he was called on the intercom loudspeaker. It was the Officer of the Day reporting a little crowd beginning to gather on the quay.
I got to my feet then and looked out of the nearest porthole. It was almost dark on the concrete apron, only one small light still showing at the corner of the storage shed opposite. A dozen or so figures stood silent against the corrugated metal sheeting of the shed. It was like a stage set with others drifting in from the wings in ones and twos.
‘Have you informed the First Lieutenant? They could be dockers waiting to unload. Is there a ship coming in?’
‘Not that I can see, sir, and the First Lieutenant’s trying to contact the port authorities to see if they can tell him what it’s all about.’
‘All right, tell him to report anything he finds out. And keep an eye on them. Let me know if their numbers noticeably increase.’ He switched off, had a quick look through the other porthole, then returned to the table, muttering to himself. ‘I don’t like it.’
He didn’t talk much after that. The main course was roast lamb and he ate it quickly, jumping up every few minutes to glance out of the porthole. Coffee came and we both stood at the window to drink it. The numbers had grown. It looked as though there were at least forty or fifty men down there lounging in the shadows. ‘What the hell are they waiting for?’ He turned at a knock on the entrance bulkhead. ‘Well, what’s the form?’
His First Lieutenant was a thin gangling man with what I suspected was a permanently worried expression. He had to duck his sharp-nosed halberd of a head to enter. He looked forty-fiveish, but perhaps he was less. His name was Randolph Mault, and his rank was the same as Gareth’s. ‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly. ‘Looks like they’re waiting for something to happen.’
‘Trouble?’
‘Could be a demonstration.’
‘Against us?’
The executive officer hesitated. ‘We know there’s an anti-British – anti-West at any rate – element in Malta. We’ve been briefed on that. And it’s supposed to be quite deliberately fostered and well organised.’
Gareth Lloyd Jones turned back to the porthole. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s probably why our people advised us to anchor out in the middle of the harbour. I thought at first it was because we’d be more conspicuous there, something to counteract the presence of that Russian cruiser, but it did cross my mind, when the Maltese authorities insisted on our lying alongside in this God-forsaken spot, that besides making us as inconspicuous as possible, it also made us more vulnerable to some shore-based whipped-up anti-Western feeling. Pity we didn’t rig the lights right round the ship.’ He stood for a moment, gazing out at the darkened quay and the figures grouped in the shadows.
The First Lieutenant had moved nearer so that he could also see down on to the quay. ‘What time is the shore party due back, do you know?’ he asked.
Gareth shook his head. ‘No time was specified on the invite.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Soon, I would think. And I told them to be sure they remained sober. Do you think they’ll be sober when they return?’
‘It’s not just a wine company, you know. It’s also a distillery. They produce a local brandy, also a sort of gin. I found one of their brochures in the wardroom bar. Apparently we’ve shipped some cases of their wine, or maybe it was a present – I’m not sure.’
Gareth turned abruptly from the window. ‘Very well.’ His voice was suddenly different, sharp and incisive. ‘Have young Kent go over to the company’s office – my apologies to the Director, but something has cropped up and the shore party is to return to the ship immediately.’ He produced a key from his pocket and passed it across. ‘Tell him to take the car we hired yesterday. It’s parked behind the shed there. And he’d better take somebody with him.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘And tell him to get a hustle on. I have a feeling all they’re waiting for now is someone to give them a lead.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The First Lieutenant turned and ducked quickly out.
‘I’d better leave,’ I said,
but Gareth didn’t seem to hear me, standing very still at the porthole, watching. ‘If you’d be good enough to have one of your people signal to Thunderflash …’
He turned then. ‘No, no. You wait here till we get an answer from Menorca. Shouldn’t be long now.’ And he added, ‘I’m going up to the bridge – care to join me?’
We went up a flight of steps just outside his cabin. The bridge was dark and empty, only the glow of various instruments and a solitary figure, a senior petty officer, who came in from the head of the ladder leading down to the sidedeck. ‘Lieutenant Kent’s just leaving now, sir.’
‘Who’s he taking with him?’
‘’Fraid I don’t know, sir.’
‘Hastings.’ It was the First Lieutenant. He had just come on to the bridge. I recognised the rather high voice.
‘Good choice.’ Gareth Lloyd Jones nodded and turned to me with a quick smile. ‘He’s our PT instructor. Keeps us on our toes and the flab under control. That’s the theory of it, anyway.’
He went out through the bridge wing door on the port side and I followed him. From the head of the ladder we watched as the officer who had met me on arrival went quickly down the gangway, followed by a broad-shouldered, powerful-looking seaman. As they reached the quay there was movement among the shadows, voices sounding in the night, Maltese voices plainly audible above the continuous thrum of the ship. Suddenly a solitary voice was raised above the rest and the movement became purposeful, the shadowy figures coalescing into two groups and moving to block the way round the end of the storage shed.
‘Have the ten-inch signal lamp manned and put out a call for the photographer.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ But before the petty officer could move Mault had reached for the bridge phone. He had been followed now by several other officers. ‘I’ve closed the duty watch up, sir,’ one of them reported.
‘Good.’ The acknowledgement was barely audible and Gareth didn’t turn his head, his hands gripped on the rail, his body leaning intently forward as he watched the two figures advancing in step and without hesitation towards the group that now stood in a huddle blocking the exit at the eastern end of the shed. For a moment everything seemed to go quiet, the Maltese all standing very still, so that the only movement was the two uniformed figures advancing across the quay. I thought I could hear the sound of their marching feet, and then they had reached the group blocking the exit and were forced to stop. The young lieutenant might have made it. He was standing there, talking to them quietly, but whatever it was he was saying could not be heard by the group at the other end of the shed. They were starting to move, a little uncertainly, but their intention was clear. They were headed for the foot of the gangway to cut the two Navy men off.
‘Shall I recall them?’ It was the First Lieutenant and he had a microphone for the upper-deck broadcast system ready in his hand.
Lloyd Jones’s hesitation was only fractional, but then one of the Maltese shouted something and in the instant the whole quay was in an uproar, the figures moving like a shadowy tide to engulf the dark blue uniforms. ‘Lieutenant Kent to report back to the ship.’ Mault’s metallic, magnified voice seemed to fill the night. ‘Both of you at the double.’
Lloyd Jones suddenly came to life, seizing the microphone from the First Lieutenant’s hand, his voice booming out of it as he countermanded the order for the men to double and called for the signal lamp to be switched on to the quay. Instantly the whole concrete apron was flooded in a harsh light, the figures no longer shadowy, but leaping into focus, a sea of faces. They checked, and while they were held there, like a crowd scene under the glare of a film-set spotlight, Kent and the burly PO marched smartly back to the gangway. ‘Where’s the photographer?’ Lloyd Jones’s voice was crisp.
‘Here, sir.’ A man in a crumpled sweater with his equipment slung round his neck stepped out on to the wing of the bridge.
‘I want pictures. Clear enough to identify individuals.’ He raised the mike to his lips again. ‘This is the Captain speaking. I don’t know why you have gathered on the quay in front of my ship, but I would ask you all to disperse now and allow my officer to proceed. I should add that my photographer is now taking pictures so that if he is impeded going about his duty each of you will be identifiable when I raise the matter personally with the authorities here in Malta.’
I think he would have succeeded in getting them to disperse, for some of them, particularly those nearest the ship, had turned away their heads as soon as the signal lamp had been switched on and quite a number of them began to drift away at the threat of being photographed. But then a motor bike appeared round the corner of the shed and a man in black leather, like a Hell’s Angel, thrust it on to its stand and began haranguing them in a voice that was almost as powerful as Gareth’s had been with the use of the loudhailer.
It checked the backward flow, but by then Kent had reached the bottom of the gangway and was standing there staring up at us, white-faced in the hard light, waiting for orders. ‘What do you think, Number One – can he make it?’ Lloyd Jones was still leaning on the rail, still looking down on the scene, the bullroarer gripped tight in his right hand. ‘Take a party to the foot of the gangway,’ he ordered. ‘See what a show of strength does.’ He leaned over the rail, his voice quite calm as he ordered Kent to proceed. ‘But you’ll have to move fast when you get to the roadway, before that man whips them up into a mood of violence.’
Kent and the Leading Hand moved smartly back across the quay, the Maltese watching them and the motor cyclist shouting at the top of his voice. They reached the corner of the shed, and then, as they disappeared from view, the crowd began to move, Gareth yelling at them through the megaphone to hold fast while men from the ship tumbled down the gangway to form up at the foot of it. The mob took no notice, all of them streaming out towards the roadway, to come to a sudden halt as the lights of a car went blazing past, the engine revving in low gear.
Standing as I was, right next to Gareth, I heard his breath come out in a sigh, saw him relax momentarily. But then he braced himself, turning slowly as he gave orders for the men on the searchlight to be ready. The quay was almost empty.
‘You think they’ll be back, sir?’
‘’Fraid so. This has been planned. It was planned before ever they allocated us a berth alongside this bloody quay.’ He spoke quietly, more to himself than to his First Lieutenant. ‘And have a full Damage Control Party closed up, fire hoses ready to be run out and full pressure on the pumps when we need it.’
‘Internal Security platoon, sir?’
Gareth hesitated.
‘A show of strength, as you said,’ Mault added. ‘It might do the trick.’
Gareth didn’t answer, staring down at the quay. Already the crowd was drifting back, a group of them gathering round the motor cyclist. He was a barrel-chested, tough-looking man, his face almost square with a thick nose, and he had black curly hair that covered his head like a helmet. ‘All right, have the arms issued. Say twenty men under the command of that Marine sergeant.’
‘Simmonds?’
‘Yes. Perhaps it’s for this sort of thing he was posted to the ship.’ Gareth’s face creased in a grin, ‘I did wonder.’ And he added, ‘But keep them out of sight. A parade of arms is the last thing we want.’ And then, half to himself, he said, ‘About time I sent a signal to CINCFLEET telling them what’s going on.’ He went back into the bridge to telephone, and after that it was a long wait. Finally we returned to his day cabin. ‘No good my hanging around the bridge, looking anxious. They‘d begin to get the jitters.’
‘What about you?’ I asked.
He laughed. ‘Oh, I’ve got the jitters, of course I have.’ His steward appeared and he ordered some more coffee. ‘Care for a brandy with it? Or would you prefer Armagnac? The wardroom shipped some Armagnac at Gib, really first-rate stuff.’ But he wasn’t drinking now so I thanked him and said I was all right. We drank our coffee in silence, listening to the reports that began to
come in over the loudspeakers: damage control first, then MEO confirming there would be full pressure on the hydrants, WEO to say the searchlight was manned. Finally the First Lieutenant’s voice announcing that the IS platoon was at readiness and fully armed. ‘God! I hope we don’t have to resort to that.’
‘You think it might come to that?’ I asked him.
He shrugged and went to the window, standing there, looking out, his coffee gripped in his hand. ‘That bunch isn’t gathered out there for nothing.’ There was a knock on the bulkhead by the curtained doorway and the Yeoman of Signals poked his bearded face in. ‘Signal from CINCFLEET passing a telex from Menorca, sir.’
Gareth took it, read it through, then handed it on to me. ‘Sorry about that. It looks as though you’re still suspect.’
The telex was short and to the point: Ref your query Michael Steele, his sudden departure confirmed authorities in their suspicions. Legal proceedings now being initiated for extradition Malta. For your information weapon used by Barriago still not found. There was no signature, and when I asked him who had sent it, he shook his head. ‘Everything on this ship that’s connected with Communications is classified. But as far as I know the source is absolutely reliable.’ He held out his hand for the signal. ‘Too bad. I wish I could have provided you with better news.’
I thanked him and got to my feet. ‘I’d best be going,’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘Not now.’ He glanced at the clock on the bulkhead above the desk. ‘Five minutes to get them off the company’s premises, ten more for them to reach the quay here.’ He finished his coffee and reached for his cap. ‘Time to go up to the bridge. Coming?’
I followed him into the passage and up the ladder to the bridge. The scene had changed very little, except that the crowd seemed to have grown larger. We went out on to the wing. A big searchlight was mounted now and manned, and the damage control people were lowering hoses on to the quay. No sign of the boarding party, but a Marine sergeant was standing by the davits on the deck below. Gareth called him up to the bridge wing. ‘I’ll give you the order, Sergeant, when I want your men paraded on the quay. Once there you’ll have to act as the situation demands. Your job is to see that all the ship’s personnel get back on board unhurt. But just remember this, any action you take will have political repercussions and will ultimately be exposed to the full glare of publicity.’
Medusa Page 17
