“There is no serving officer in the British Navy who will thank us for leaving Broadsword in Libyan waters while we negotiate a settlement in which, at best, our ship will be returned when it suits the guerillas-to say nothing of the humiliation of our Navy. Gaddafi can laugh at the United Nations while he has captured not only one of our most modern frigates but also the headlines of the world’s press. As Ayatollah Khomeini did, he will want to keep them both for as long as he can. These headlines can only demoralize our countrymen and invite the sort of election defeat Carter suffered at the hands of the American people after the Iranian Embassy debacle.”
“We would be foolish to take such an unnecessary risk while we have world opinion on our side,” protested Charles. “Let us at least wait a few more days.”
“I fear that if we wait,” said Simon, “the crew will be transferred from the ship to a military prison, which would only result in our having two targets to concentrate on, and then Gaddafi can sit around in the desert taking whatever amount of time suits him.”
Simon and Charles weighed argument against counterargument while the Prime Minister listened, taking note of the views of her other colleagues round the table to see if she had a majority for one course or the other. Three hours later, when everyone had given his opinion, she had “fourteen-nine” written on the pad in front of her.
“I think we have exhausted the arguments, gentlemen,” she said, “and having listened to the collective views around this table I feel we must on balance allow the Secretary of State for Defense to proceed with Operation Shoplifter. I therefore propose that the Foreign Secretary, the Defense Secretary, the Attorney General, and myself make up a sub-committee, backed up by a professional staff, to consider the Joint Chiefs’ plan. The utmost secrecy will be required from us at all times, so the subject will not be raised again until the plan is ready for presentation to a full meeting of the Cabinet. Therefore, with the exception of the sub-committee, all ministers will return to their departments and carry on with their normal duties. We must not lose sight of the fact that the country still has to be governed. Thank you, gentlemen.” The Prime Minister asked Charles and Simon to join her in the study.
As soon as the door was closed she said to Charles, “Please let me know the moment you hear the result of the vote in the General Assembly. Now that the Cabinet has favored a military initiative, it is important that you are seen to be pressing for a diplomatic solution.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” said Charles without emotion.
Mrs. Thatcher then turned to Simon. “When can I have a rundown on the details of the Joint Chiefs’ plan?”
“We anticipate working on the strategy through the night, Prime Minister, and I should be able to make a full presentation to you by ten tomorrow.”
“No later, Simon,” said the Prime Minister. “Now our next problem is tomorrow’s proposed emergency debate. Andrew Fraser will undoubtedly put in a second request for a full debate under standing order number ten and the Speaker gave a clear hint today he will allow it. Anyway, we can’t avoid making a policy statement without an outcry from the Opposition benches—and I suspect our own––so I’ve decided that we will grasp the nettle and no doubt get stung.”
The two men looked at each other, exasperated at the thought of having to waste precious hours in the Commons.
“Charles, you must be prepared to open the debate for the Government, and Simon, you will wind up. At least the debate will be on Thursday afternoon; that way some of our colleagues may have gone home for the weekend, though frankly I doubt it. But with any luck we will have secured a moral victory at the United Nations, and we can keep the Opposition minds concentrating on that. When you sum up, Simon, just answer the questions put during the debate without offering any new initiative.”
She then added, “Report any news you hear direct to me. I shan’t be sleeping tonight.”
Charles walked back to the Foreign Office, at least thankful that Amanda was somewhere in South America.
Simon returned to the Joint Chiefs to find a large map of Libyan territorial waters pinned to a blackboard. Generals, admirals, and air marshals were studying the contours and ocean depths like children preparing for a geography test.
They all stood again when Simon entered the room. They looked at him in anticipation, men of action who were suspicious of talk. When Simon told them the Cabinet’s decision was to back the Ministry of Defense the suggestion of a smile came over the face of Sir John. “Perhaps that battle will turn out to be our hardest,” he said, just loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Take me through the plan again,” said Simon, ignoring Sir John’s comment. “I have to present it to the Prime Minister by ten o’clock tomorrow.”
Sir John placed the tip of a long wooden pointer on a model of HMS Broadsword in the middle of a stretch of water in a well-protected bay.
When Charles reached his office the international telegrams and telexes of support for a diplomatic solution were piled high on his desk. The Permanent Under-Secretary reported that the debate in the United Nations had been so one-sided that he anticipated an overwhelming majority when they came to vote. Charles feared his hands were tied; he had to be seen to go through the motions, even by his own staff, although he had not yet given up hopes of undermining Simon’s plan. He intended the whole episode to end up as a triumph for the Foreign Office and not for “those warmongers” at the Ministry of Defense. After consulting the Permanent Under-Secretary Charles appointed a small Libyan task force consisting of some older Foreign Office mandarins with experience of Gaddafi and four of the department’s most promising high fliers.
Mr. Oliver Miles, the former Ambassador to Libya, had his leave canceled and was deposited in a tiny room in the upper reaches of the Foreign Office so that Charles could call on his local knowledge at any time, day or night, throughout the crisis.
Charles asked the Permanent Under-Secretary to link him up with Britain’s ambassador at the United Nations.
“And keep trying to raise Gaddafi.”
Simon listened to Sir John go over the latest version of Operation Shoplifter. Thirty-seven men from the crack Special Boat Service, the Marine equivalent of the SAS regiment which had been involved in the St. James’s Square siege in April 1984, were now in Rosyth on the Scottish coast, preparing to board HMS Brilliant, the sister ship to Broadsword.
The men were to be dropped from a submarine a mile outside Rosyth harbor and to swim the last mile and a half under water until they reached the ship. They would then board Brilliant and expect to recapture her from a mock Libyan crew in an estimated twelve minutes. Brilliant would then be sailed to a distance of one nautical mile off the Scottish coast. The operation was to be completed in sixty-five minutes. The SBS planned to rehearse the procedure on Brilliant three times before first light the following morning, when they hoped to have the entire exercise down to one hour.
Simon had already confirmed the order to send two submarines from the Mediterranean full steam in the direction of the Libyan coast. The rest of the fleet was to be seen to be conspicuously going about its normal business while the Foreign Office appeared to be searching for a diplomatic solution.
Simon’s request to the Joint Chiefs came as no surprise and was granted immediately. He phoned Elizabeth to explain why he wouldn’t be home that night. An hour later the Secretary of State for Defense was strapped into a helicopter and on his way to Rosyth.
Charles followed the proceedings at the United Nations live in his office on a satellite link-up. At the end of a brief debate a vote was called for. The Secretary General announced 147–3 in Great Britain’s favor, with twenty-two abstentions. Charles wondered if such an overwhelming vote would be enough to get the Prime Minister to change her mind over Kerslake’s plan. He checked over the voting list carefully. The Russians, along with the Warsaw Pact countries and the Americans, had kept their word and voted with the UK. Only Libya, South Yemen, and Djibouti had voted aga
inst. Charles was put through to Downing Street and passed on the news. The Prime Minister, although delighted with the diplomatic triumph, refused to change course until she had heard from Gaddafi. Charles put the phone down and asked his Permanent Under-Secretary to call Ambassador Kadir to the Foreign Office once more.
“But it’s two o’clock in the morning, Foreign Secretary.”
“I am quite aware what time it is but I can see no reason why, when we are all awake, he should be having a peaceful night’s sleep.”
When Mr. Kadir was shown into his room it annoyed Charles to see the little man still looking fresh and dapper. It was obvious that he had just shaved and put on a clean shirt.
“You called for me, Foreign Secretary?” asked Mr. Kadir politely, as if he had been invited to afternoon tea.
“Yes,” said Charles. “We wished to be certain that you are aware of the vote taken at the United Nations an hour ago supporting the United Kingdom’s Resolution 12/40.”
“Yes, Foreign Secretary.”
“In which your Government was condemned by the leaders of ninety percent of the people on the globe”—a fact the Permanent Under-Secretary had fed to Charles a few minutes before Mr. Kadir had arrived.
“Yes, Foreign Secretary.”
“My Prime Minister is still waiting to hear from your Head of State.”
“Yes, Foreign Secretary.”
“Have you yet made contact with Colonel Gaddafi?”
“No, Foreign Secretary.”
“But you have a direct telephone link to his headquarters.”
“Then you will be only too aware, Foreign Secretary, that I have been unable to speak to him,” said Mr. Kadir with a wry smile.
Charles saw the Permanent Under-Secretary lower his eyes. “I shall speak to you on the hour every hour, Mr. Kadir, but do not press my country’s hospitality too far.”
“No, Foreign Secretary.”
“Good night, Ambassador,” said Charles.
“Good night, Foreign Secretary.”
Kadir turned and left the Foreign Office to be driven back to his Embassy. He cursed the Right Honorable Charles Seymour. Didn’t the man realize that he hadn’t been back to Libya, except to visit his mother, since the age of four? Colonel Gaddafi was ignoring his ambassador every bit as much as he was the British Prime Minister. He checked his watch: it was two forty-four.
Simon’s helicopter landed in Scotland at two forty-five. He and Sir John were immediately driven to the dockside, then ferried out to HMS Brilliant through the misty night.
“The first Secretary of State not to be piped on board in living memory,” said Sir John as Simon made his way with difficulty, his blackthorn stick tapping up the gangplank. The captain of the Brilliant couldn’t disguise his surprise when he saw his uninvited guests and took them quickly to the bridge. Sir John whispered something in the captain’s ear which Simon missed.
“When is the next raid due?” asked Simon, staring out from the bridge but unable to see more than a few yards in front of him.
“They leave the sub at 0300, sir,” said the captain, “and should reach Brilliant at approximately three-twenty. They hope to have taken command of the ship in eleven minutes and be a mile beyond territorial waters in under the hour.”
Simon checked his watch: it was five to three. He thought of the SBS preparing for their task, unaware that the Secretary of State and the Chief of the Defense Staff were on board Brilliant waiting for them. He pulled his coat collar up.
Suddenly he was thrown to the deck, a black and oily hand clamped over his mouth before he could protest. He felt his arms whipped up and tied behind his back as his eyes were blindfolded and he was gagged. He tried to retaliate and received a sharp elbow in the ribs. Then he was dragged down a narrow staircase and dumped onto a wooden floor. He lay trussed up like a chicken for what he thought was about ten minutes before he heard the ship’s engines revving up and felt the movement of the ship below him. The Secretary of State could not move for another fifteen minutes.
“Release them,” Simon heard a voice say in distinctly Oxford English. The rope around his arms was untied and the blindfold and gag removed. Standing over the Secretary of State was an SBS frogman, black from head to toe, his white teeth gleaming. Simon was still slightly stunned as he turned to see the Services Chief also being untied.
“I must apologize, Minister,” said Sir John, as soon as his gag was removed, “but I told the captain not to inform the submarine commander we were on board. If I am going to risk 217 of my men’s lives I wanted to be sure this rabble from the SBS knew what they were up to.” Simon backed away from the six-foot-two giant who towered over him, still grinning.
“Good thing we didn’t bring the Prime Minister along for the ride,” said Sir John.
“I agree,” said Simon, looking up at the SBS commando. “She would have broken his neck.” Everyone laughed except the frogman who pursed his lips.
“What’s wrong with him?” said Simon.
“If he utters the slightest sound during the first sixty minutes he has no hope of being selected for the final team.”
“The Conservative party could do with some back-bench Members of Parliament like that,” said Simon, “especially when I have to address the House tomorrow and explain why I’m doing nothing.”
By three-forty-nine Brilliant was a mile beyond territorial waters. The newspaper headlines that morning ranged from “Diplomatic Victory” in The Times to “Gaddafi the Pirate” in the Mirror.
At a meeting of the inner Cabinet held at ten in the morning Simon reported his first-hand experience of Shoplifter to the Prime Minister. Charles was quick to follow him. “But after the overwhelming vote in our favor at the UN it must be sensible for us to postpone anything that might be construed as an outright act of aggression.”
“If the SBS don’t go tomorrow morning we will have to wait another month, Prime Minister,” said Simon, interrupting him. All eyes at the meeting of the inner Cabinet turned to Kerslake.
“Why?” asked Mrs. Thatcher.
“Because Ramadan, when Moslems fast and cannot take drink during daylight hours, will be coming to an end tomorrow. Traditionally the heaviest eating and drinking takes place the following day, which means tomorrow night will be our best chance to catch the guerillas off guard. I have been over the entire operation in Rosyth and by now the SBS are well on their way to the submarines and preparing for the assault. It’s all so finely tuned, Prime Minister, that obviously we can’t throw away such a strategic advantage.”
“That’s good reasoning,” she concurred. “With the weekend ahead of us we must pray that this mess will be all over by Monday morning. Let’s put on our negotiating faces for the Commons this afternoon. I expect a very convincing performance from you, Charles.”
When Andrew rose at three-thirty that Thursday afternoon to ask for a second time for an emergency debate under standing order number ten the Speaker granted his request, directing that the urgency of the matter warranted a debate to commence at seven o’clock that evening.
The Chamber emptied quickly as the members scuttled off to prepare their speeches, although they all knew that less than two percent of them could hope to be called. The Speaker departed the Chamber and did not return until five to seven when he took over the chair from his deputy.
By seven o’clock, when Charles and Simon had entered the House, all thirty-seven SBS men were aboard Her Majesty’s submarine Conqueror, lying on the ocean bed about sixty nautical miles off the Libyan coast. A second submarine, Courageous, was ten miles to her rear. Neither had broken radio silence for the past twelve hours.
The Prime Minister had still not heard from Colonel Gaddafi and they were now only eight hours away from Operation Shoplifter. Simon looked around him. The atmosphere resembled Budget Day and an eerie silence fell as the Speaker called Andrew Fraser to address the House.
He began by explaining, under standing order number ten, why the matter he had
raised was specific, important, and needed urgent consideration. He quickly moved on to demand that the Foreign Secretary confirm that if negotiations with Gaddafi failed or dragged on the Secretary of State for Defense would not hesitate to take the necessary action to recover HMS Broadsword. Simon sat on the front bench looking glum and shaking his head.
“Gaddafi’s nothing more than a pirate,” said Andrew. “Why talk of diplomatic solutions?”
The House cheered as each well-rehearsed phrase rolled off Andrew’s tongue. When he sat down the cheers came from all parts of the Chamber and it was several minutes before the Speaker could bring the House back to order. Mr. Kadir sat in the Distinguished Strangers’ Gallery staring impassively down, trying to memorize the salient points that had been made and the House’s reaction to them, so that—if he were ever given the chance—he could pass them on to Colonel Gaddafi.
“The Foreign Secretary,” called the Speaker and Charles rose from his place on the Treasury bench. He placed his speech on the dispatch box in front of him and waited. Once again the House fell silent.
Charles opened his case by emphasizing the significance of the United Nations’ vote as the foundation for a genuine negotiated settlement. He went on to say that his first priority was to secure the lives of the 217 men on board HMS Broadsword and that he intended to work tirelessly to that end. The Secretary General was hoping to contact Gaddafi personally and brief him on the strong feelings of his colleagues in the General Assembly. Charles stressed that taking any other course at the present time could only lose the support and goodwill of the free world. When Charles sat down he realized that the rowdy House was not convinced.
The contribution from the back benches confirmed the Prime Minister’s and Simon’s beliefs that they had gauged the feelings of the nation correctly, but neither of them allowed the slightest show of emotion to cross their faces and give hope to those who were demanding military action.