16

‘Sir, for the record, I must register my objection to the action you are about to take. We have no right to fire on a vessel in UK waters. Even if it is the Soviets, sir.’

Captain Rumsfeld eyed his lieutenant. ‘Your concerns are noted. Now, remove yourself from duty and confine yourself to your cabin. Palliser, find the correct range for that Russian trawler and fire.’

‘Yes, sir!’ shouted the ensign enthusiastically, bending over his range finder.

Rumsfeld watched his lieutenant hurry from the bridge, then announced, ‘I want you men here to remember this day. It’s the day America took a stand. Took a stand against these Soviets, and in defence of our allies. We, the crew of this fine warship, have drawn a line in the sand. While we don’t want to take the lives of those Russians, we have to stand up for freedom and our way of life. This day will go down in the history of the United States of America.’

Captain Pushkov looked at the warship through his binoculars and frowned. ‘You are sure they understand message, Alexei? Guns moving . . .’

‘Have nae worries on that score. They widna fire on an ex-Royal Navy sailor like mysel’. Man, they wid go doon in history as brutes – and likely cause one major diplomatic incident in the process. Nae doubt, Her Majesty wid get personally involved, knowing that one of her seafarers had been cruelly treated. Anyhow, I’ve enough on my plate, whoot wae weddings, nae fish in the sea and the like, tae take up arms against a superpower.’

Hamish eyed the grey warship with narrowed eyes. ‘I’ve a wile bad feeling aboot this.’

Captain Rumsfeld was waiting for the trawler to rise to the top of the swell to give him the clearest possible target. He opened his mouth to give the order to fire, but before he could speak, he was interrupted.

‘Sir, ten degrees to port, looks like a minesweeper. Royal Navy, sir.’

Rumsfeld hesitated for a second, the silent command still on his lips. Eventually, he let out a long and heartfelt sigh. ‘Stand weapons down, Palliser.’

‘Aye, aye, sir!’

As the Russian trawler docked at Kinloch’s second pier, the Harbour Master rushed to the side of the vessel. ‘Ahoy there! Dae you have a Sandy Hoynes aboard?’

‘It’s yoursel’, Ritchie,’ greeted Hoynes, leaning over the rail of the trawler. ‘Wait the noo till I tell you whoot an exciting time we’ve been having.’ Standing beside him, Hamish looked heavenward.

‘Och, I know fine whoot’s been happening. There’s been a bit on the radio a’ aboot it.’ Ritchie Brown shook his head. ‘Damn near an international incident oot in the Sound. Some yachtsman called it in tae the Coastguard. Warships firing guns, and all sorts. We’ll have a’ the newspapers here by teatime – aye, an’ the television, tae, so I’m told.’

‘Whoot a stramash. These good men were good enough tae rescue us fae the Mull. That’s all there is tae it.’

‘That’s no’ whoot I’m hearing,’ said the Harbour Master. ‘And on top o’ that, that polisman Grant has gone missing, and Watson the Fishery Officer’s up at the Cottage Hospital.’

‘Oh, that’s good news, right enough,’ replied Hoynes, nodding at Hamish. ‘He’s a fine fella, that Watson. A wee bit highly strung, mind.’

‘He’s highly strung noo, by all accounts. Arrived at Jackie MacKinnon’s farm at the Pass thonder, covered fae head tae toe in glaur. He’s only spoken two words since.’

‘Was one o’ them “octopus”, by any chance?’ asked Hamish.

‘No, nothing aboot octopuses – jeest “Sandy Hoynes”. That’s a’ he keeps saying, over and over. “Sandy Hoynes”.’

Hoynes stroked his chin. Hamish had an infuriating I-told-you-so look on his face, while Geordie’s hands were shaking so much he was struggling to roll his cigarette. ‘As I say, fair highly strung, the man.’ He looked on as two brawny Russian seamen carried Marshall on a stretcher down the gangplank. ‘Good luck tae you, Mr Marshall. I’m sure that heid o’ yours will be jeest fine in a wee while. The ambulance is on its way.’

‘All oor geese are comin’ hame tae roost at the same time. And we’ve still no’ arranged tae rescue them back at the bothy,’ said Hamish.

‘It’s getting dark noo, Hamish. I’m sure they’ll be fine til the morning.’ Hoynes smiled. ‘It’s chickens, is it no’?’

‘The lifeboat’s away roon’ the Mull. Tae your bothy, Geordie. Watson telt MacKinnon there was a party of folk stranded there by a landslide at the Piper’s Pass,’ said the Harbour Master.

Hoynes thought for a moment. ‘You know, Hamish, the weather’s set fair the morrow. I think we should jeest have a wee nap on the boat, then get oot and get an early start tomorrow.’

‘You mean hide fae Marjorie and Maggie.’

‘Away ye go, nothing of the sort. We’ve got a hell o’ a lot o’ fishing tae catch up on.’

Hoynes and Hamish tried to settle down for the night aboard the Girl Maggie, but there was an unusual amount of activity in the harbour. At one point, Hamish swore that he could hear Marjorie asking about the whereabouts of her husband, but Hoynes said he was imagining things.

After a restless night, Hoynes shook Hamish out of his bunk, pointing to his watch. ‘It’s been light for half an hour. Time we got fired up and back oot tae the fishing. Young Peter will be here directly.’

The fishermen were readying the vessel for sea when they heard someone shouting from the pier above. ‘Is anyone on board?’ The voice was insistent.

Reluctantly, Hoynes poked his head out of the hatch and craned his neck up to the pier, shading his eyes against the early morning sun. ‘Whoot can I do for you?’

‘I’m Timothy Halley from the BBC in Glasgow. Are you Alexander Hoynes?’

‘Eh . . . aye, I am that,’ he replied. ‘But I’ve no time tae talk to the press. I’ve a fishing boat tae skipper.’

‘I hear you had rather an exciting time yesterday,’ shouted Halley.

‘Whoot’s he sayin’?’ asked Hamish from below, cleaning his teeth with an old wooden toothbrush.

‘Och, I widna say it was that exciting. Jeest another day for those o’ us that make oor living at sea.’ Hoynes gestured to his shipmate to be quiet.

‘But weren’t you caught up in some incident between the Russians and the US Navy?’

‘Like I said, nothing we’re not used tae on the ocean. Blown oot o’ all proportion, I’d say.’

‘Nearly like oor backsides,’ observed Hamish, spitting into a metal bucket.

‘I really hope you can share your experience with our viewers, Mr Hoynes.’

‘As I telt you, I’ve a vessel tae get ready for sea. Another time, perhaps. No’ that there’s anything tae talk aboot anyhow.’

‘Oh, that’s a pity, Alexander . . . may I call you that?’

‘You can call me anythin’ you want,’ replied Hoynes.

‘You can be sure everyone else will,’ said Hamish, under his breath.

‘I’ve been authorised to avail you of five pounds for your thoughts, Mr Hoynes.’

Hoynes tilted his head. ‘Five pounds, did you say?’

‘Yes, I have the money here.’ Halley pulled a fiver from his pocket and waved it in the air. ‘Look!’

‘I daresay I could describe the hardship that was put before us yesterday,’ said Hoynes, clearing his throat.

‘Dae you think you’re daein’ the right thing, Sandy?’

‘Wheesht, Hamish, there’s a fiver at stake here, man.’

Five minutes later, the two fishermen were standing in the early morning sunshine on the pier, while a technician fussed around a huge television camera and Halley looked at his notes.

‘So, Mr Hoynes. You’re the skipper of a fishing boat here in Kinloch, am I right?’

‘That’s a fact,’ replied Hoynes.

‘Now, can you tell me what happened to you yesterday? You were rescued by a Russian trawler when out on a small lobster boat with some colleagues?’

‘Yes, yes, we were. And damned grateful we were tae oor Russian freens. A valiant effort, I must say.’

‘My information is that, before you reached the safety of Kinloch harbour, this trawler – your rescuers – was fired upon by an American Naval vessel. Is this true?’

Hoynes paused, then turned his focus from the reporter to the camera, which he fixed with a beady eye. ‘I’m no’ jeest sure where you’re getting a’ this from. But whoot should be being addressed is the disappearance o’ herring in these waters this summer.’

Halley tried to interject, but Hoynes raised his hand to silence him. ‘You see, ladies and gentlemen, a plane’s being tested in the skies o’er Kinloch . . .’