14

Aboard the USS Newark

Captain Walter P Rumsfeld scanned the sea with an enormous pair of binoculars. A lookout on the old destroyer had spotted a flare near the Kintyre coast, and they were steaming in that general direction, ready to assist. Though his hair was iron grey now, being back in these waters off the coast of Scotland brought the dark-haired young lieutenant he’d been more than twenty years ago to mind.

Being on friendly exercise with the Royal Navy over the last two weeks was somehow like a pilgrimage, a nod to those days that now seemed so far off. The ragged convoys of merchantmen – easy prey for German U-boats – were under their care. The long, long hours searching the waves for any sign of a periscope. The fear, the joy, the exhilaration of being young – of being a seaborne warrior, of living life on the edge – had miraculously returned, as though the feelings had never been away.

He felt his fingertips tingle at the memory – almost forgot that he now operated in a very different world, one where the enemy came from further to the east.

But how could he forget? He, his crew, in this very warship, had shadowed the ships from the Soviet Union, stowed with their cargo of nuclear warheads, only a few years before as they neared Cuba. That was the last time he had felt the thrill he felt again now – of being on the edge as the world held its breath.

His eyes sparkled as his lieutenant spoke. ‘Sir, we have a visual, fourteen degrees to starboard.’

Rumsfeld swivelled his binoculars in the general direction he’d been given. Though they were a few nautical miles distant, he could make out a tiny vessel, probably wooden in construction, dwarfed by a red ship many times its size.

‘Lieutenant, confirm or deny, do we have the flag of the Soviets?’

‘Yes, sir, we do.’

‘Does that look like a fishing trawler to you?’

‘Yes, sir. Roger that.’

Rumsfeld let the binoculars hang on his chest by their leather strap, and rubbed his hands in anticipation. ‘Gentlemen, I need not remind you of the dual function of the Soviet fishing vessels.’

‘Spy ships, sir,’ piped up a young ensign behind him.

‘Good, Palliser, very good.’ He turned to the young man. ‘And what are our standing orders?’

‘To intercept and investigate such vessels, sir,’ the young officer replied immediately.

‘Correct.’ He leaned over a speaking tube and spoke with a commanding tone. ‘Helm, steer fourteen degrees to starboard – full steam ahead!’

‘Sir, if I may make an observation?’ asked his lieutenant tentatively.

‘Ask away.’

‘Sir, we are about to enter UK waters. I mean, do we have the mandate to intercept the Soviet vessel under these circumstances?’

‘Mandate? Mandate, Lieutenant?’ He gave the man a withering look. ‘We are entering the waters of our closest ally. The country we fought for in World War Two. The country that, alongside the United States of America – our fine nation – saved the world from the tyranny of the oppressor.’ He paused, looking into the distance. ‘Did Dwight D Eisenhower ask for a mandate to defeat our enemies, to preserve our way of life? If JFK – may the Lord rest his soul – had asked us to enter Cuban waters to save our country from the horror of nuclear annihilation at the hands of the Soviets, would we have questioned his mandate?’

‘No, sir,’ came the reply, as USS Newark’s Lieutenant stood to attention, as though he was on parade.

‘We are, and will always be the beacon of freedom. Mandate or no, full steam ahead!’

The warship turned and the bow wave rose at her side as she made her way towards the Russian vessel.

Hoynes sat in the Russian captain’s spacious cabin, a large glass of vodka in his hand. He looked across at Hamish who was draining his glass. ‘Well, if you’re in peril at sea and in need of rescue, these are the very boys tae oblige, eh.’

‘I’ve never been a fan o’ this vodka stuff,’ said Geordie. ‘But this fair hits the spot tonight. Nectar, sheer nectar.’

‘But whoot aboot oor fish?’ lamented Hamish. ‘Did you see the size o’ they nets on the deck? You could scoop up half o’ Kinloch in they bloody things.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It’s nae wonder we’ve hardly landed a herring this year.’

‘Och, but these boys are no’ interested in plowtering aboot oor wee bit shoals, Hamish.’ Hoynes puffed at his pipe, which emanated a cloud of deeper blue smoke than normal. He spluttered, eyes watering. ‘The vodka might be like nectar, but the baccy fair tears your throat oot.’

‘Dae you think oor wee silver freens jeest hang aboot the coast waiting for us tae entice them intae a net?’ said Hamish sceptically. ‘They’re deep-sea creatures. They’re no’ going tae turn their noses up at a net jeest cos it’s a Ruskie one.’

‘Dae fish have noses?’ asked Geordie, smacking his lips as he emptied his glass. ‘I’ve never been o’er sure.’

‘But you’re being a right Jonah, Hamish,’ said Hoynes. ‘Here we are getting a five-star passage intae Kinloch, wae their doctor looking efter Marshall, an’ us downing the tsar’s best vodka, and you’re still no’ happy. Dae you no’ think there’s hunners o’ boats oot in the broad Atlantic, and have been for years? No’ jeest the Russians, neither.’

‘Well, I’ve never seen them so close tae hame, and that’s a fact. And forbye, I’ve a feeling o’ impending doom – an’ that’s never a good thing.’

With that remark the cabin door swung open and the rotund figure of Captain Vladimir Pushkov strode into the cabin with two large bottles of vodka clasped in his meaty fists. ‘Good for you, gentlemen,’ the Russian seafarer boomed. ‘I am thinking we are needing some more vodka.’ He smiled beatifically as Geordie held out his glass. ‘And your friend – this Marshall – he will be living very well. I am speaking to doctor. So, my friends, a tragedy no more. Let us have toast!’ He unscrewed the top of one of the bottles and, one by one, poured the vodka so generously it spilled over the edge of each glass.

‘Aye, here’s tae you, Vladimir,’ said Hoynes, clinking glasses with the Russian seafarer. ‘And tae the brotherhood of the sea – slainte!’

‘The brotherhood of the sea . . . Sandy.’ He said the name tentatively. ‘I am thinking your name is Alexander. Am I right?’

‘Aye, you have the right o’ it there,’ confirmed Hoynes.

‘So, in the tradition of Mother Russia, I will call you Alexei.’ Pushkov drained his glass and reached once more for the bottle of vodka.

‘You better watch your eye, Alexei,’ said Hamish pointedly. ‘You’ll need tae work oot how we’re going tae get everyone back fae Geordie’s bothy when we get back tae Kinloch. You’ll be in no condition tae organise a rescue the way you’re downing that stuff.’

‘Och, they’ll send oot the lifeboat. But the way the swell is noo, and it no’ being an emergency, it’ll no’ be until the morrow, I’m thinking.’

‘Does that mean you’ll be in charge o’ the show o’ presents?’

Hoynes stared at his first mate for a while, then burst out laughing. ‘There’ll be green snow an’ yellow hailstones before there’ll be any show o’ presents at my hoose the night. Here’s me jeest been rescued by the pride o’ the Baltic fae a watery grave. No, no, no. I’m quite happy tae sink intae this vodka – especially efter the few hours we’ve had. Man, Hamish, but sometimes you’re fair strait-laced.’ Hoynes hiccuped loudly, making Pushkov roar with laughter.

A slight cough made everyone turn around. A man in an immaculate grey suit, white shirt and red tie stood framed in the doorway. His clothes, indeed, his whole demeanour couldn’t have made him look less like a fisherman. He stared at each man in turn.

Quickly removing his cap and standing up, rather unsteadily, Pushkov addressed the man as ‘Commissar’. There followed a flurry of Russian, which the fishermen from Kinloch could not understand but certainly got the gist of. It was obvious that, despite Pushkov being captain of the vessel, he was somehow in thrall to this individual.

‘Which one of you is in charge?’ the Commissar barked.

‘Him,’ said Hamish and Geordie in unison, pointing at Hoynes. This man bore none of Pushkov’s bonhomie.

‘You are British, yes?’

‘Of course I am,’ replied Hoynes, his hiccups even more frequent now. ‘Four years before the mast of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, tae.’ He stood up and gave his interlocutor an exaggeratedly proud salute.

‘I see. So you are soldier of capitalism.’ The Commissar looked at Pushkov, who was fiddling with his cap nervously, and more Russian spilled from his mouth like gunfire, then he turned on his heel and left the cabin, without the slightest gesture of farewell.

‘He’s a nasty piece o’ work, is he no’?’ remarked Hamish.

Pushkov poked his head round the door, to make sure his visitor was out of earshot. ‘He is Commissar. He makes sure we remain good Russians when temptations of the West placed in our way.’

‘One o’ Stalin’s boys?’ said Hoynes.

‘No!’ said Pushkov. ‘Never mention Comrade Stalin. His memory . . . bad.’ He shrugged, having failed to find the correct words to use in English. He leaned towards Hoynes and whispered, ‘This man reports every move back to Moscow. He is eyes and ears of Politburo. You lucky such a man not in your country.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Vladimir, my friend,’ said Hoynes, patting the Russian gently on the back. ‘You’ve obviously no’ come across oor Fishery Officer, Iain Watson. He’d gie the KGB a run for their money any day.’

‘That’s if he’s still in the land o’ the living, and no’ lyin’ deid on the Piper’s Pass,’ said Hamish.

‘Aye. Wae a bit o’ luck . . .’ Hoynes sat down heavily, held out his glass with a beaming smile and belched loudly. ‘C’mon, Vladimir. Time we had another charge, comrade.’