Medusa

She was trying to wrench herself free, but at my words she stopped struggling and stared at me, appalled. ‘D’you mean that? D’you mean it’s — now?’

‘Any minute,’ I said. ‘There’s a Russian cruiser, several other warships. They should be off the entrance now.’

She came with me then, pulling on a loose cardigan as we hurried down to the landing point. The launch was already there, two sailors holding it alongside the rock with boathooks, Leslie Masterton in the stern, the engine ticking over. He took Petra’s holdall, helped her in, and as I followed her, he gave the order to push the launch clear.

‘What’s the latest news?’ I asked him as we pulled away from the rocks.

‘I don’t know, sir. Everybody’s at action stations — ’ He rolled the words off his tongue as though savouring them with excited anticipation. For a moment he concentrated on swinging the launch under the frigate’s bows. Then, when we were headed for Cala Figuera, he added, ‘But the Captain hasn’t said anything. There’s been no announcement. So I don’t know anything really, nobody does. All we’ve been told is to stay on maximum alert until we’re ordered otherwise. A lot of the boys are off the ship and among the ruins of that hospital. But you know that. Seems the Captain’s expecting some sort of an attack.’ He was strung up, the words pouring out of him. ‘I’ve been allocated the launch.’ He grinned. ‘Didn’t expect the opportunity of a run ashore.’

I glanced at Petra and she smiled. I think we were both wondering whether Gareth had done it purposely, an excuse for getting this pleasant kid out of the firing line. I pulled back the sleeve of my sweater and looked at my watch. It was already 01.11. Eleven minutes after the time I thought they might be steaming in through the entrance.

It was then that one of the sailors said quietly, ‘Ship on the port bow, sir. Close inshore.’ He pointed and I could see it then, a dim shape under the Villa Carlos cliff line momentarily outlined by the double red flash of the light on the point. It was a small vessel, moving slowly and very low in the water. ‘Looks like that customs launch,’ Masterton said and throttled back until we were barely moving. Even so, the vessel, heading in towards Mahon itself, would cut right across our bows. We lay there without lights, waiting. And when I suggested that we make a dash for it, the young midshipman said, without even hesitating to consider the possibility, ‘Sorry, but my orders are to take no chances and return immediately if challenged.’

We could see the launch quite clearly now each time the Villa Carlos light flashed red. She was low in the water because she was crowded with people. Soon we could hear the sound of the engine. She would cross our bows at a distance of about two hundred metres, and lying quite still, with no lights behind us, there was just a chance we would remain unseen.

But then, as the launch was approaching the point where she would cross our bows and we could see that the pack of men standing on the deck were most of them armed, a string of lights appeared behind us on the road above Cala Lladró. We were suddenly in silhouette against them. Somebody on the customs launch shouted, several of them were pointing at us, and then there was the flash and crack of a rifle fired. I didn’t hear the bullet whistle past. It was lost in the roar of our engine as Masterton gunned it and swung the wheel, turning the launch round and heading back towards Bloody Island. I caught a glimpse of some sort of struggle on the deck of the customs launch. There was the crackle of small-arms fire, spurts of flame, splinters flying off the woodwork of our stern, a glass window shattered, and little geysers bouncing past us as bullets slapped the water close alongside.

The moment of shock passed, the customs launch receding into the distance until it was finally lost in the dark of Mahon’s harbour. There seemed no reason then why we shouldn’t resume our course for Cala Figuera, but when I suggested this to Masterton I found myself faced, not by a kid, but by Midshipman Masterton, a budding officer to whom orders were orders. He had been told to take no chances and return if he was challenged. He had been challenged. Not only that, he’d been fired on, and though I argued that the customs launch was now out of sight and no danger, he said, ‘I don’t know who they were on that launch, but they were armed and they opened fire. Before we can make your quay at Cala Figuera they could be ashore and somebody on the phone to the military.’

Nothing I or Petra could say would change his mind. The nice cheerful face had suddenly become obstinate, his manner indicating the implacability of naval training. I think he was quite capable of initiative, but not when he had been given specific orders. ‘I’ll have to report back.- He said that twice. ‘Then, if I’m instructed to proceed …’