Empty Nets and Promises (7 page)

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.'

15

USS
Newark

‘Sir, we're gaining on them, but we'll have to slow down. The charts show rocks ahead.'

Rumsfeld thought for a few moments. ‘Hand me the radio, Lieutenant . . . Chief, find me a frequency where I can speak to these Commies.'

The radio squeaked in protest as they searched for the Russian trawler's communication channel. ‘Sir, I think we have it.'

‘Soviet vessel. This is Captain Walter P Rumsfeld of USS
Newark
. Stop immediately.'

On the other end could be heard a babble of Russian.

‘Stop your vessel immediately!' ordered Rumsfeld.

Again, some incomprehensible Russian . . . and the Russian trawler kept on sailing, regardless.

Captain Rumsfeld turned to his lieutenant. ‘Prepare to send a warning shot over her bows.'

‘But, sir, I have to remind you we're in UK waters. Shouldn't we inform the Royal Navy?'

‘Are you questioning my orders? No? Well, fire that shot!'

‘And here's tae Yuri Gagarin.' Hoynes raised his glass.

‘And to your Winston Churchill,' Pushkov responded in return. ‘But do not be telling my Commissar, no?'

Each man downed a measure of vodka.

Just as Hamish was about to propose a toast to the international brotherhood of fishermen , a loud whine could be heard through the open porthole in the captain's cabin. It became louder – almost deafening – until it stopped for a few heartbeats, and there followed a massive explosion.

‘Whoot on earth was that?' cried Geordie.

Hoynes blinked at him in surprise. ‘It's a long time since I heard one o' them,' he said, his hiccups now gone.

‘Heard whoot?' asked Hamish.

‘That was a shell – a big one, tae. I do believe we're under attack, Vladimir. All hands on deck!' he shouted wildly before falling back in his chair.

‘Quickly, my friends, let us get to the bridge,' said Pushkov, dropping his glass to the floor. ‘What can this be?'

Hamish held a hand out to Hoynes to help his skipper up from his chair. ‘I'm hoping they've no availed Iain Watson o' his ain gunboat.'

Shakily, the three Kinloch fishermen followed Captain Pushkov along the gangway and up a steep flight of steps.

On the bridge stood three agitated-looking sailors, dressed in dark blue jerseys and oilskin trousers. Alongside them was the Commissar, still in his suit and tie. He looked at the new arrivals with disdain and addressed Pushkov sharply, standing almost on his toes as he glared into the burly captain's face.

‘Things is no' looking good,' surmised Hamish. ‘Who on earth can be firing on a fishing trawler? Aye, an' us jeest a few miles fae the toon.'

Pushkov made his way across to the Kinloch men, shaking his head. ‘No crew here speak English. There have been messages. Surely Royal Navy would not fire on us?'

‘No, I don't think so,' replied Hoynes. ‘But I'm no' sure the Fishery Officer wouldn't.'

Amidst a shower of static, the radio burst back into life. ‘This is USS
Newark
. Bring your vessel to a stop immediately, or we
will
fire.'

‘How can this be? The American Navy? We're in British waters,' said Pushkov, grabbing the radio from a bewildered Russian fisherman.

The Commissar spoke up, this time in English. ‘I believe these men to be agents of the capitalist devil, America. You have been tricked, Captain Pushkov. This vessel must not fall into enemy hands. That is an order.'

‘This is Vladimir Pushkov, captain of the
Kirov
. We are fishing vessel on mercy mission, heading for Kinloch. Please explain your actions!'

‘Sir, they say they're on a rescue mission,' said USS
Newark
's lieutenant.

‘I'm not deaf, Lieutenant,' said Rumsfeld. ‘I have given them an explicit order, with which I expect them to comply. They are sailing in the sovereign waters of our ally. We shall not turn our backs on them and let these Commies spy with impunity. That, son, is no more a fishing vessel than I'm Abraham Lincoln.' He put the radio to his mouth. ‘This is Captain Walter P Rumsfeld of USS
Newark
. You are in sovereign UK waters. I demand that you halt your vessel and let my men come aboard. This is non-negotiable.'

Pushkov listened to more orders from the Commissar before replying, his face blanching above his black beard. ‘You have no right to stop my vessel. This not your country. We continue to Kinloch. Mercy mission. Repeat. Mercy mission.'

Hamish looked at Hoynes who was stroking his chin. ‘Aye, this is a fair pickle, right enough. We set oot the day tae try and draw attention tae the plight o' diminishing fish stocks and noo we're aboot tae light the touch paper for World War Three. And forbye that, we've likely been responsible for the death o' a Fishery Officer, as well as seriously injuring an officer of Her Majesty's Customs and Excise.'

‘If these Yanks don't blow us oot the water, we'll hang for sure,' wailed Geordie. ‘Whoot an end tae a life – deid and infamous for the destruction o' the planet. It wiz bad enough wae thon Cuban missile crisis. This'll tip the balance, for sure.'

Hoynes was about to reply when another deafening whine followed by an explosion and a huge plume of water indicated that the US Navy was not bluffing. ‘You men are right pessimists,' he said, once the noise had cleared, and Pushkov and the Commissar had retired to the other end of the bridge to finger-point and argue. ‘This is just a wee misunderstanding – happens at sea all the time.'

‘A wee misunderstanding!' replied Hamish incredulously. ‘Oor backsides have near been blown four hunner feet in the air – an' wae the rest o' us no attached – an' you're calling it a wee misunderstanding!'

‘Here, Vladimir,' said Hoynes, heading towards Pushkov and the Commissar who were still arguing heatedly. ‘I'm an ex-petty officer of the Royal Navy. Let me speak tae this American captain – jeest tae put him right, you understand.'

The Commissar was about to object, but the big sea captain pushed him aside and addressed him in English. ‘This is my vessel. I decide what happens now we are being attacked.' He called to his crewmate in Russian, who handed Hoynes the radio.

Hoynes grabbed the mouthpiece and cleared his throat. ‘How ye getting on? I'm Alexander Hoynes, skipper o' the
Girl
Maggie
fae the Kinloch fishing fleet. These brave sons o' the sea were good enough tae pull us oot o' a right tight spot a wee while ago. They're jeest taking us back tae Kinloch. Will yous stop firing, and you can follow us intae port an' we can sort this a' oot o'er a dram?' Almost as an afterthought, he added, ‘Over' and clicked off. He winked at Hamish. ‘My radio etiquette's a wee bit rusty, but they Yanks will get the message. Noo, where's my pipe?'

‘They give us safe passage, Alexei?' asked Pushkov.

‘Och, it'll no' be a bother. You jeest need tae talk tae them in their ain tongue. You Ruskies haven't got the English jeest so – like a native, you understand. Full steam ahead tae Kinloch, I'd say.'

‘Who on earth was that?' said Captain Rumsfeld, frowning at the radio speaker on the bridge of USS
Newark
. ‘Do you have any idea, Lieutenant?'

‘Didn't sound like a Russian, sir. Possibly an Arab? Could just be a delaying tactic, trying to make us believe there are other nationals aboard.'

‘These Commies don't know when they're beat. It's Cuba all over again. Full steam ahead and to hell with the consequences. If they think they can fool a captain of the US Navy, they can think again.' He contemplated the Russian trawler in the distance. ‘They have left us no choice. Prepare to fire on that vessel.'