Quatre Sables revealed itself in morning light as a dark bundle on the horizon. Just before dawn, a faint wind blew from the direction of the island, and Wilson caught the familiar stench of the place, and it was as if a cold hand had grabbed his gut from pubic hair to belly button.
A hundred yards off the port bow, HMS Hyperion mirrored the Gadfly in dark silhouette. Coded signals flashed back and forth between the two ships; flags snapped in the ocean breeze. The jet engines of the Sea Harriers started with a wheeze, then warmed into a steady scream. Men in camouflage fatigues and combat gear moved purposefully across the deck. Despite the noise and motion, Wilson could hardly keep his eyes open; he had never been a morning person—then, suddenly, he was wide awake and the sea breeze was sharp and fresh in his nostrils, and he was ready for whatever would come.
At 0500 hours, the sky began to brighten in the east. Acting Captain Worthington assembled the crew on the main deck below the superstructure. He wore combat fatigues and camouflage paint on his face but eschewed the heavy armament of his marines and carried only a pistol at his side. He spoke through a small microphone attached to his tunic, and his words were carried electronically to the Hyperion riding the waves in the near distance.
“Sailors and marines of the Blockade Squadron,” he said, “I will be brief as we have a job ahead of us today. We look around and see a world sliding back into ruin and savagery. Five thousand years of civilization, the intellectuals tell us, are at an end—our beliefs exhausted, our achievements in the past. They tell us we are becoming a footnote, going under with all hands and all engines, sinking into the depths with our God and our laws, our academies of natural and applied sciences, our presidents and kings, our literature and legends, our poets and painters and musicians, our critics and the critics of our critics. Perhaps it is true, perhaps our time has come, and the world is making way for something new, and we may hope something better. That is not for me to say. I am a soldier, that is tomorrow’s business, and we are here today. But I will promise you one thing”—he swung around and with a dramatic gesture indicated the white ensign of the Royal Navy flying from the topgallant—“as long as that flag is hoisted every morning to meet the rising wind, chaos will have an enemy!”
He paused to cough into his hand, and a variety of coughs and sniffles echoed from the men below. “As always, England asks only this of you, that each man do his duty. Good luck.”
The acting captain turned away. But before he crossed the hatch, someone shouted, “Three cheers for the acting captain!” and the hurrahs of the men ascended into the brightening sky.