First Among Equals
Page 130
Andrew watched carefully as Kerslake and Seymour left the Chamber. He wondered what was really going on in his old department.
He arrived home after the debate. Louise congratulated him on his speech and added, “But it didn’t evoke much of a response from Simon Kerslake.”
“He’s up to something,” said Andrew. “I only wish I was sitting in his office tonight and could find out what it is.”
When Simon arrived in that office he phoned Elizabeth and explained that he would be spending another night at the ministry.
“Some women do lose their men to the strangest mistresses,” said Elizabeth. “By the way, your younger son wants to know if you will have time to watch him play hockey in his cuppers’ match at Oxford on Saturday.”
“What’s today?”
“It’s still Thursday,” she said, “and you’re the one in charge of the nation’s defenses.”
Simon knew the rescue attempt would be all over one way or the other by lunchtime the next day. Why shouldn’t he watch his son play hockey?
“Tell him I’ll be there,” he said.
Although nothing could be achieved between midnight and six o’clock now the submarines were in place, none of the Joint Chiefs left the operations room. Radio silence was not broken once through the night as Simon tried to occupy himself with the bulging red boxes containing other pressing matters which still demanded his attention. He took advantage of the presence of the Joint Chiefs and had a hundred queries answered in minutes that would normally have taken him a month.
At midnight the first editions of the morning papers were brought to him. Simon pinned up the Telegraph’s headline on the operations board. “Kerslake’s In his Hammock till the great Armada comes.” The article demanded to know how the hero of Northern Ireland could be so indecisive while our sailors lay bound and gagged in foreign waters, and ended with the words “Captain, art thou sleeping there below?” “Not a wink,” muttered Simon. “Resign” was the single-word headline in the Daily Express. Sir John looked over the minister’s shoulder and read the opening paragraph.
“I shall never understand why anyone wants to be a politician,” he said before reporting: “We have just heard from reconnaissance in the area that both submarines Conqueror and Courageous have moved up into place.”
Simon picked up his stick from the side of his desk and left the Joint Chiefs to go to Downing Street. He took the private lift to the basement and then walked through the tunnel which runs under Whitehall direct to the Cabinet room, thus avoiding the press and any curious onlookers.
He found the Prime Minister sitting alone in the Cabinet room.
Simon went over the final plan with her in great detail, explaining that everything was ready and would be over by the time most people were having their breakfasts.
“Let me know the moment you hear anything, however trivial,” she concluded, before returning to the latest gloomy study of the economy from the Wynne Godley team, who were suggesting the pound and the dollar would be on an equal parity by 1988. “One day you may have all these problems on your shoulders,” she said.
Simon smiled and left her to walk back through the private tunnel to his office on the other side of Whitehall.
He took the lift back up to his room on the sixth floor and joined the Joint Chiefs. Although it was past midnight none of them looked tired despite their all having shared the lonely vigil with their comrades 2,000 miles away. They told stories of Suez and the Falklands, and there was frequently laughter. But it was never long before their eyes returned to the clock.
As Big Ben struck two chimes, Simon thought: four o’clock in Libya. He could visualize the men falling backward over the side of the boat and deep into the water before starting the long, slow swim toward Broadsword.
When the phone rang, breaking the eerie silence like a fire alarm, Simon picked it up to hear Charles Seymour’s voice.
“Simon,” he began, “I’ve finally got through to Gaddafi and he wants to negotiate.” Simon looked at his watch; the SBS men could only be a few hundred yards from Broadsword.
“It’s too late,” he said. “I can’t stop them now.”
“Don’t be such a bloody fool—order them to turn back. Don’t you understand we’ve won a diplomatic coup?”
“Gaddafi could negotiate for months and still end up humiliating us. No, I won’t turn back.”
“We shall see how the Prime Minister reacts to your arrogance,” said Charles and slammed down the receiver.
Simon sat at his desk and waited for the telephone to ring. He wondered if he could get away with taking the damn thing off the hook—the modern equivalent of Nelson placing the telescope to his blind eye, he considered. He needed a few minutes, but the phone rang again only seconds later. He picked it up and heard Margaret Thatcher’s unmistakable voice.
“Can you stop them if I order you to, Simon?”
He considered lying. “Yes, Prime Minister,” he said.
“But you would still like to carry it through, wouldn’t you?”
“I only need a few minutes, Prime Minister.”