Medusa (33 page)

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

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.

Noon. And nothing happened. The sun blazed down, everything very still, the frigate's anchor chain hanging slack, the water flat like polished brass. Fearing the worst it was almost an anti-climax. Away to the south a plane rose from the airport. It looked like a military plane, but it flew west towards Ciudadela.

I stayed there, watching, and shortly after twelve-thirty a launch moved out from the commercial quay heading straight for Bloody Island. It was the same launch that had brought the new harbour master out to
Medusa
. I turned
the glasses on to the naval quay. Still the same three ships there – a fast patrol boat, one of the big fishery protection launches and the old minesweeper that had escorted
Medusa
in. The launch came through the narrows, making for the frigate, and as it passed I could see a little group of three men in the stern of it. One was Romacho. He was now wearing an official cap and beside him was a man in uniform, an Army officer by the look of it. The third man was in civilian clothes and I wondered who it was. He had his back to me and it wasn't until he turned to speak to Romacho that I realised it was Fuxá himself.

So the RN presence was that important. The launch swung alongside the frigate's accommodation ladder where they were met by one of the officers, Mault I think, certainly not Gareth, and all three of them went on board.