Eleven
1977
Lord Mountbatten had a decision to make.
Military life had been full of decisions. So, to his eventual satisfaction, had proven civilian life. Too often politics appeared to be little more than faceless grey men arguing around a table – and he had seen plenty of scenes like that – but ultimately there was always a decision to make.
He’d been in the job for barely a month. A frenetic, breathless month of base inspections, briefings and meetings with a multitude of subordinates. There just weren’t enough hours in the day. On the face of it though, he’d been impressed. Their island truly was the armed camp that propaganda asserted. A professional army unseen since the Great War, and a navy which could inspire genuine pride, even allowing for a paucity of capital ships. Then there was the air force, with its untested doctrines of interception, and faith in the ‘Aluminium Wall’. He’d been rather thrown at first by the open retention of royalist names and insignia among the regiments, even in Foot’s Republic. But he supposed that the Lord Protector had never really cared for the detail of military organisation. After inaugurating “The Second Model Army”, earnest naming reforms had effectively ceased. The British Navy had also made its own uneasy accord with Foot’s English Radicalism; as the presence in Portsmouth of HMS Bellerophon, HMS Bonaventure, and of course HMS Plymouth attested.
His new subordinates had briefed him, the perceptible flicker of both fear and hope in their eyes. Fear, because what Foot and Powell had told him of a new orbital threat was all too true. Hope because they all invested that Pandoran emotion in him, a man whom some of them had once served under all those years ago. Artificial satellite-mounted missile arrays, each tipped with a dozen warheads. Each capable of being armed and fired from any top tier command centre in the Reich. Against such a threat there could be no defence, could there? Had their country gone through all the upheaval of past decades only to return, full circle, to a position of helplessness before German arms? Mountbatten had assured the British forces as best he could, though it was clear that they would be playing technological catch up for years to come. What little intelligence they knew apparently came by way of a Russian informant; the last laugh of Judeo-Bolshevik science.
Mountbatten had pulled himself away from all that, if only for a morning, to return to the building he still thought of as Admiralty Arch. Cabinet was meeting, for such traditions still held. A civil servant led him to yet another panelled ante-room, where he’d met – in some cases only for the first time – his Cabinet colleagues. At length Foot, whose own timekeeping was elastic at best, called them inside. They sat around a table - one which might well have been taken straight from Downing Street. Foot opened Cabinet, welcoming them all as graciously as ever, but thereafter he played little role in the discussion; his mind apparently even more absent than usual. Delegated to by default, it was his Deputy Powell who led the meeting.
Chancellor Maxwell rose first to deliver a report which, if one filtered out half-truths and some rather creative interpretation of economic statistics, amounted to very little whatsoever. Production figures were on target, the export trade was booming. Creative industries were undergoing a renaissance (though whether that included the Chancellor’s own efforts was left unclear). Exchange controls might be relaxed, and the ration might be increased on certain “luxuries”. Mountbatten always considered himself to be a fair judge of both men and of their character. By the end of the five minute presentation he had decided that Maxwell was not a man he would want under his command – no matter his nautical skills.
Exilic propaganda always held that the Commonwealth of Great Britain was a nation in severe economic hardship, where otherwise common goods were rare and essential foodstuffs subject to continual shortage. The supply of industrial resources was supposedly choked off every winter. All luxuries were
Ersatz at best. Well, that was the myth. Mountbatten had been pleased to learn that things were never quite so dire. Yes, admittedly there was rationing, particularly of foodstuffs, but these rations were generous (certainly more so than those of 1940s Burma), and by most accounts were seen almost as a
public good. The new cadets he had met were fit and healthy. Being no economist, he couldn’t judge the situation much more than that. Eventually he concluded that the truth lay somewhere below Maxwell’s fantasy, though far above Ottawa’s horror stories.
The Home Secretary followed, a young man by the name of Cooke – probably too young to even remember Mountbatten’s war. Cooke spoke softly in a Midlands accent. By all accounts he was a ‘liberal’ and something of a protégé of Foot. Cabinet were told of the latest foreign conspiracy to be unmasked – a rabble of would-be coupists supposedly funded by German gold. Mountbatten knew full well that the Germans had laundered the last of their genuine gold via Zurich decades ago, but decided against introducing this fact to those assembled. It was just about possible, he supposed, that some delusion Salopians had been paid in painted lead. Regardless, they would be on their way to the re-education camps by the end of the week.
One thing Mountbatten had come to expect over the previous fifty years, as the old monarchies had crumbled and become supplanted by the dictators, was the secondary language of political euphemism. “Pacification” and “resettlement”, “harmonisation” and “national entrenchment”. All hid a litany of sins, and made murder sound positively benevolent. And so Mountbatten imagined was the case with “re-education”, which could really only mean propaganda-filled brainwashing at best.
And yet it wasn’t so. The camps, which were admittedly set in the barren isolation of the Outer Hebrides, were genuine centres for education and – to his greater surprise – free thought and free speech. Mountbatten would not have believed it, had it not been revealed to him by those with no love for the regime and thus presumably no incentive to lie. Perhaps Foot and Powell genuinely believed in the self-evident righteousness of their cause? All that these errant fellows needed was the time and environment in which to realise it? Another paradox of the regime.
Cooke wrapped up. Youthful and clearly lacking in confidence, he carried little weight in the room; a shame, Mountbatten felt, as he seemed a genuinely thoughtful figure when set against the fantasist Chancellor.
Stan Orme by contrast was a formidable character, a figure who reminded Mountbatten of an old Bristolian trade unionist he’d once met. Orme was Foreign Secretary, and the regime’s third most prominent figure on the world stage. While Foot’s radicalism was essentially English, Orme flew the internationalist flag. Mountbatten had met him before, many years ago. Another interminable summit in South Africa, where Pretoria’s three-way neutrality had been strained and every delegation looked set for disappointment. Orme had somehow turned things around – while minority rule obviously persisted, the Afrikaner rulers ultimately prevaricated on joining the German bloc.
Orme had just come from a meeting with the Indian ambassador. As rapprochements steeped in historical irony went, perhaps only the
Entente Cordiale could match the Mumbai Accords. Mountbatten vividly remembered the old newsreel footage of overladen helicopters taking off from the roofs of Government House, when the old Raj had collapsed into an inferno of its own stubborn making. And now, barely two decades on, India was England’s staunchest ally. As Orme began his report on the summit, Foot stirred temporarily from otherwise total detachment.
“…And I have every confidence that our technological exchanges will considerably strengthen the Persian frontier.” Orme remarked, to general approval around the table. The Shah was of course an American puppet, and suspiciously close to the Exiles.
The Director of Economic Planning, silent until now, piped up. “I still think we should have insisted upon greater reciprocity in our deal-”
“The terms of the agreement were conveyed to Cabinet last month, and so previously agreed” Orme interrupted.
“I just worry that we are selling short the fruits of our scientific talent” the Director persisted.
“Yes Denis, and you made that point quite clearly – and
emotionally – at the time of our last meeting.”
“That coloured women could back-stab us at any time, and you know it! You can’t trust them.”
Orme only shook his head, while Powell looked daggers at the Director. With the reaction time of an opening crypt, Foot broke the silence.
“India is our friend and ally. We don’t make
commercial bargains with our friends, comrades! What is more, Mrs Gandhi is a close
personal friend of mine. I will have no further discussion on the subject.”
Foot’s entreaty, such as it was, fell upon deaf ears, as both Director and Foreign Secretary continued to snipe back and forth. Only Powell, nostrils flaring, managed to bring them back into line by slamming a clenched fist upon the table. The abruptness of this action made every other member of the Cabinet, bar Mountbatten, jump slightly in their seats. Foot appeared to have already drifted back into his private musings. A thin roll-up idly burned away in his left hand.
“Mr Orme, in your full estimation can we rely upon the steadfastness of our Indian allies?” Powell asked without leading.
“Yes. We need only support them now in their regional quarrels – quarrels may I add where they are most overwhelmingly in the right – and we shall have their loyalty through into the next century. Their growing industrial and military potential will only strengthen our alliance.”
“Let it be so then, the Indian may yet be the armourer of parliamentary democracy.”
“You may well be right, Deputy Lord Protector.” Orme agreed.
“Then Cabinet is agreed.” Powell concluded levelly, and falsely. “Do proceed.” He looked to Mountbatten. “Unless… the new Defence Secretary has anything to add?”
Mountbatten considered for a moment. He had been content until now to absorb information in silence. A conclusion could always be formed later.
“I wouldn’t for a moment doubt the fighting prowess of the common Indian soldier” he replied. Powell appeared to twitch, unsatisfied at the non-committal remark. Mountbatten continued “It isn’t for me to set our geopolitical priorities, but I can see sound strategic value in an Indian alliance.”
Around the table wary nods of assent followed. Powell kept a fixed look on Mountbatten, if only for a few seconds. There was no smile this time, only the thinnest hint of approval.
Orme’s summary of the rest of world affairs drew few comments. Cabinet could have been forgiven for thinking that the Atlantic lacked a western shore, such were the brevity of the Foreign Secretary’s remarks on that hemisphere. There was scattered laughter at President Carter’s latest supposed misfortune, laughter which Mountbatten felt to be both forced and unfair. Yes, it was true that Carter was a Washington outsider. It was also true that Hollywood was a rare background for an elected President. But President Ann Carter had ridden her underdog campaign all the way from California to the White House. That in itself surely deserved some credit. The existence of the unwilling Great Power could not just be willed away.
“And Ireland?” Powell prompted, as Orme began to wrap up.
“I defer to Roy on that.”
In the short time since his return to British politics, Mountbatten had already heard at least a dozen names touted as rising stars – rather foolishly, as vacancies into which to rise were seldom created. Roy Hattersley was one of those names. No member of the Footite old guard, nor a sycophantic climber, Hattersley might just have warranted such an optimistic epithet. Perhaps that was why he had been lumbered with such a dead end department. Since when did Ireland make the headlines?
Hattersley spoke, in a somewhat distinctive manner. Powell’s eyes flicked with an unhappy intensity, though he remained quiet. Foot was effectively absent. Murmurs of dissent quickly spread around the cabinet table; talk of dual sovereignty was anathema, no matter the enthusiasm of a few fringe nutters. That hadn’t stopped Dublin’s latest putative offer, which of course had to be entertained with a sliver of sincerity. On and on went the diplomatic three- (or four-)way tug of war between the power blocs, and all based on the utterly paranoid suggestion that the Taoiseach was one slight away from signing a Hiberno-German pact to turn his country into the world’s largest airstrip. But then there was a lot of that about…
“… but the strategic benefits aside, I wonder if their might not be a moral case for considering the future of Northern Ireland on a more bilateral basis.”
Powell, who had continued to watch the young minister from behind a countenance of firm scepticism, now spoke up. “How exactly do you mean?”
“Many of my constituents are Irish, or of Irish ancestry. It would be a very popular move within that part of our population.”
“And what of our Union?” Powell demanded. Hattersley returned only a blank look.
“We haven’t struggled all these years as a free nation to suddenly do an about turn and begin selling off our constituent parts, for whatever bargain is most politically expedient.” Powell continued, his voice rising in both tempo and volume as he rose from his seat. “This Government will ensure that neither by word nor deed do we treat the membership of the Six Counties in the Commonwealth as negotiable. Every word or act which holds out the prospect that their unity with the rest of the Commonwealth might be negotiable is itself, consciously or unconsciously, a contributory cause to the destruction of that unity.”
Now stood fully upright, Powell glowered at the rest of the Cabinet. None of them said a word, though a few eyes did make furtive glances at Foot, in the futile hope that the old man might yet intervene. No such intervention came, but even so Powell’s control was not absolute. Already there were murmurs of renewed discontent. ‘Direct Rule All Round’ was not the rallying call of a latter-day Chamberlain after all.
“Dr Powell”, Mountbatten spoke up, intervening now for a second time. “I should expect that Mr Hattersley was only considering the hypothetical. After all, is that not the practice of a good strategist or logician? To consider every option in turn, and by process of reason, to eliminate all but the superior course of action?”
Powell sniffed impatiently. “Then Mr Hattersley’s reason should have counselled him to eliminate that particular option
before he brought it to this Cabinet.” He resumed his seat. The tension in the room abated, if only partially.
“And what of Germany?” Powell prompted. Mountbatten at last took what he inferred to be his cue.
“As cabinet may know, I have spent this past month reviewing our country’s defensive capabilities. I am pleased to report that these capabilities are in excellent form. I do not believe that this country has ever been stronger or more able to defy threats from without.”
Powell beamed. Foot… well, Foot appeared to be smirking… Mountbatten continued.
“However, I do have some causes for concern. Forgive me, if these factors do not fall entirely within my departmental remit, but I believe they are integral to our strategic situation. Firstly, it is apparent that we are isolated diplomatically. Fairly or unfairly, we are seen by much of the world as little more than a troublesome little nation adrift in the North Atlantic.”
“A price worth paying for freedom!” a minor Cabinet minister heckled.
“Perhaps so, but we have to realise that it may also cost us our freedom. Supposing that Germany makes her long threatened third attempt on these isles, who then should come to our aid? Who even would protest? Might not some of those Exiles - whom half of you no doubt suspect me of being in league with - might they not encourage such a prospect? The last laugh of bitter old men…”
Around the table there were scandalised cries at such a suggestion. Powell banged the table top furiously in an attempt to restore order. He was unsuccessful, but Mountbatten’s firm voice powered through.
“And in turn, what of our economy? It is stagnant. It muddles along against low expectations, sufficient to fulfil our basic needs, but what else beyond that? Our armaments, which are sorely needed, must be funded somehow. How can I be certain that under the strain of approaching war, the whole system won’t come tumbling down?”
“Exile propaganda!” came another shout, this time from the Chancellor. And in part it was, but Mountbatten, a politician of all of four weeks, could surely indulge himself in a little rhetorical flourish.
“Finally, I fear that I have now discovered the greatest of our weaknesses. It is in leadership. A Cabinet which argues and fights among itself, over even the smallest items of business, and a leader absent in all but name.” He turned now towards Foot. The Lord Protector appeared to just about acknowledge what was now being said.
“Mr Foot, you’ve led this nation for fifteen years now, and you’ve turned it from a path which we can both agree was the wrong one. Circumstances have seldom been in your favour and I recognise your past actions for what they were at the time, for when the choice facing all good men was between the unpalatable and the disastrous. Perhaps history will indeed judge you kindly, for your genuine commitment to freedom and to the independent sovereignty of this nation.
“However, for all the good you have done, I feel that you have now sat here for too long. This country needs fresh leadership. It is time for you to go.”
Mountbatten let his words hang in the air. Silence enveloped the Cabinet room; the prelude to seemingly inevitable mayhem. His full diagnosis had all been stated so calmly and so bluntly, without the half-truths and euphemism that were Cabinet’s normal currency. There has been no angry flourishes. No theatrics. This wasn’t what they expected at all. It would take a moment to sink in.
Powell, predictably, was the first to respond vocally.
“I had hoped that we might be able to count upon your loyalty for more than a month!” he snarled. “Will you be taking the honourable course and submitting your resignation?”
Admiral Louis Francis Albert Victor Nicholas Mountbatten, former Supreme Allied Commander South East Asia Command, now Secretary of State for Defence for the British Commonwealth, rose slowly from his chair. A tall man, he towered over the still seated Cabinet.
“Actually Brigadier Powell” he replied, “I have an alternative proposal…”
The End.
Or so it would have been, had Mountbatten pushed the matter further. Instead he let the hanging implication of his words hang just a little too long.
Silence fell once more upon the room.
Michael Foot, Lord Protector of the Commonwealth of Great Britain, self-proclaimed heir to four hundred years of English Radicalism, also rose. Eyes which a half minute earlier had looked unfocused now fired with piercing intensity as he faced the Admiral across the room. One hand he placed firmly upon the table, as he had often done at the dispatch box in Parliament, all those years ago. With the other hand he pointed accusingly at Mountbatten. Slowly, he began to speak, warm words betrayed by an icy tone.
“Oh my dear Louis. I’m afraid you are quite mistaken. Whatever… coup this is that you appear to be promoting” Foot waved one hand dismissively. “Well, it won’t be going anywhere. And neither will I, for that matter. I’m afraid you see, that you are quite wrong. Wrong about me, and wrong about our national prospects. We do
have the armour, as you so rightly identify.
And we have the strength. We have the quickness in manoeuvre. And yes, we
have the leadership”.
“You are delusional” Mountbatten replied.
“I am not the man who has been invited into the lion’s den, yet who thinks he can recruit the lion’s cubs.”
Mountbatten became aware of the armed young men who had silently appeared at the back of the room. Among them were the faces of aides who’d accompanied him over the previous weeks. Some who he had known from his first renewed contact with the Commonwealth. Spies? Foot’s Praetorian Guard? And among them… Foot’s driver? He collected his thoughts.
“So what happens now? Do you ship me off to Lewis to join the rest of your opponents?”
Foot barked a mirthless laugh.
“Oh course not Louis. This is England. You’ll have a fair trial first.
“We need to decide if you’re guilty.”
THE END