Medusa (23 page)

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.'

The sergeant stared at him impassively. ‘Aye, aye, sir.'

Silence then, just the thrumming of the ship's machinery, a slight trembling of the deck plates underfoot, and men everywhere around the deck waiting and watching, while down on the quay the excited, nervous babble of Maltese voices came up to us as an audible complement to the constantly shifting pattern of the waiting crowd. I could see the motor cyclist in his black leather talking and gesticulating to the little group gathered round him, and there were others, shadowy figures, among the various groups.

The Marine sergeant was back with his men on the deck below and Gareth was glancing at his watch for the third or fourth time. The brass nozzle of a fire hose hit the ship's side with a clang, then a sudden shout and a flurry of movement on the quay, the crowd pouring through the gap between the east wall of the shed and the neighbouring building. A horn blared, shouts and yells, and a small red car appeared in the gap, almost totally submerged in a flood of people. The noise increased, the sound of fists pounding on roof and bonnet, the horn now blaring continuously.

Gareth raised the megaphone. ‘Searchlight.' The white glare of it was so brilliant and so sudden that all movement ceased abruptly. For an instant there was silence. Then the
car's engine revved, nosing into the crowd, spearheading a path for the men following in its wake.

There was a shout, one word, not a Maltese word, but French –
Attaquez,
and on the instant the scene changed, a rush of movement, the car was picked up bodily from one side, the engine screaming as it was pitched on to its side and the wheels came free of the ground. Screams and shouts, and the two fire hoses, run out now across half the width of the quay, bulged, their nozzles hissing like snakes, water bursting out in a broad arc. But the car and the crowd were too far away. The jets of water barely reached them. I heard Mault's voice, but before he had even given the order, the Marine sergeant and his men, all in uniform and with bayonets fixed to their self-loading rifles, came thundering down the gangway.

If they had moved in before the shore party had reached the quay, if they had broken up the crowd, grabbed the ringleaders and the other agitators … But that would have meant taking the initiative with the Navy blamed for everything that followed. As it was, the men forming up in a compact body at the foot of the gangway and then advancing might still have been sufficient intimidation to get the sailors back on board. Instead, the sergeant ordered them to charge, and that was just the catalyst needed to turn an ugly little incident into a political bombshell.

The crowd round the car were already opening out. In a moment they would have run. But then it happened, a spurt of flame, the sound of a shot, and Lieutenant Kent, climbing out of the car, all of his torso reared up in the open window on the driver's side, threw up his hands and began to scream. And as he lost consciousness, his body sagging to lie crumpled across the side of the vehicle, I saw the man who had fired the shot drop his pistol, turn and slide away to the rear of the crowd.

I saw him, but I don't think the others did, for their attention had switched to the armed party. They had suddenly stopped, the sergeant's voice ringing out as he
gave the order to fire over the heads of the crowd. The volley was ragged, but the noise of it and the sight of those men in blue with their rifles raised and the bayonets glinting in the glare of the searchlight was enough. The crowd broke and ran, melting away so quickly that for an instant the only figure left on the scene was the motor cyclist trying to kick-start his bike into life. Finally he threw it down and ran.

I think the enormity of what had happened was immediately apparent to Gareth, for he stood there on the bridge wing, his face white with shock, too stunned, it seemed, to take command. It was Mault who ordered the armed party back on board, sent for the medical orderly and a stretcher party to get the young lieutenant to the sick bay, and had the shore party drawn up at the foot of the gangway and checked against a list of names to make certain nobody was missing. They were coming back on board and the damage control men were rolling up their hoses before Gareth finally came out of his state of shock. ‘Lieutenant Commander Mault.'

Mault turned, an interrogatory lift of his straight, very black eyebrows.

‘Time we got out of here. Come to immediate notice for sea and go to harbour stations as soon as you're ready. We'll move out into the open harbour and anchor seaward of that Russian cruiser. After that we'll see.' He turned abruptly, going back into the bridge housing. ‘Find Chief Petty Officer Gordon and tell him to have a word with me,' he said to one of the seamen. ‘I'll be in my cabin.' And he disappeared hurriedly through the door at the back.

I realised then that he had understood more than any of the officers around him, including his First Lieutenant, the full implications of what had happened – an armed party had landed from a Royal Navy ship and had opened fire on a crowd of Maltese. Never mind that they had fired in the air, that their action had been provoked and an
officer had been shot, it had been done on Maltese soil. An invasive and hostile act, that's how it would be presented, to the Maltese and throughout the Third World and the non-aligned states. He had forgotten all about my presence on the ship, and I couldn't blame him.

The main broadcast suddenly blared out, Mault's voice ordering the crew to harbour stations. I waited until he had finished his announcement, then suggested he signal
Thunderflash
to come and collect me, but he shook his head. ‘Sorry. You'll have to wait until we're anchored.' He had hung up the mike and now had glasses trained on the main dock area where a crowd had gathered at the slip by Somerset Wharf. ‘The whole place will soon be in an uproar.' He turned to the chart table, shaking his head. ‘Bad business.'

He shouldn't have said that, not in front of me, and certainly not with the Navigating Officer standing beside him. And the way he said it, as though it were nothing to do with him – I knew then that he was trying to distance himself from his captain. At the time, of course, I put it down to the fact that he was older, a resentment at being passed over. Later I was to discover his grandfather had been an admiral in the First World War, his father killed at sea in the Second, and he himself had come up through the traditional officer education of the Navy, Pangbourne, Dartmouth, then service at sea. What had damaged his career was volunteering for submarines and then, when he was posted to HMS
Dolphin
for a submariners' course, finding he was subject to claustrophobia and unable to concentrate when submerged.