Within the hour Fox, CNN and S4C were reporting nothing else but coverage of the attack. Miraculously President Island had survived the blast and was in a critical but stable condition in hospital. A bewildering range of previously unknown groups had come forward claiming responsibility for the bomb. Assorted ‘security experts’ wheeled out for the cameras took turns looking bemused, claiming never to have heard of such organisations as the Daughters of Glyndwr, or the Sons of Penderyn. Russia Today tracked down the drummer from the rock band Sisters of Mercy for comment. He made more sense than most of the rest.

A constant theme running through the bulletins was talk of the President’s political opponent. Behind each newscaster glowered the gaunt, bleak face of Llywsiffer Pendragon, leader of the Gorsedd Party and Barry Island’s electoral nemesis. Even in a still image his eyes seemed to flash with hellfire, his bushy grey monobrow casting them in permanent shadow. No pundit seemed ready to go on record – perhaps they didn’t want to wake up to a sheep’s head in their bed – but you didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to read between the lines.

Safer to stick with the terrorists’ outlandish demands. Some were sent in by fax, others posted on social media, and at least one was scrawled in crayon, wrapped around a lump of coal and thrown through the window of the Western Mail. Taken together they made an extensive list. Chief amongst them was the demand the war in Patagonia be stepped up so the Welsh side actually had a chance of winning. For too long, so they claimed, the Expeditionary Force had been fighting with one hand tied behind its back. The time for political niceties was over. After that the demands got more outlandish. Some highlights included…

An end to the use of an ‘Area the Size of Wales’ as a unit of international measurement. Degrading and disrespectful – ATSOW no more!

The Australian state of Queensland to change its name immediately to New North Wales.

All international diplomacy to be carried out through the medium of YouTube comment threads. I didn’t think this last one would end very well.

Gwen watched the reports roll in stony faced. All she’d say was it smelt like a false flag attack – someone was trying to muddy the already murky waters. I was already too confused to speculate.

Our compartment ended in a set of heavy bulkhead doors. On the other side was a narrow walkway recessed into the hull of the ship. From the rail it was a hundred-foot drop to the broiling waters of the North Atlantic below. This balcony was our one chance to get a lungful of fresh air. I followed Gwen outside to watch the sunset, trying not to wonder how many I had left.

There’s a unique palette of colours you only get when the sun goes down behind a thousand miles of ocean, a range of shades paint manufacturers struggle to invent names for. We gazed at the spectacle in silence for a while, as beneath us the swell crashed against the hull of the enormous ship, racing away to points unknown.

‘Are you going to tell me why you’re risking your life for me?’

Gwen was a long time answering. I sensed the moisture in her eyes wasn’t just down to the brisk salty breeze. When she spoke her voice seemed changed somehow, distant and smaller.

‘I knew this girl once, she was young and naïve, but full of hope; thought she could change the world.’

‘Don’t we all. What happened to her?’

Gwen inhaled deeply. ‘She signed up for the military. Seems weird now, but back then we all believed we were fighting for a just cause. The Revolution was young, just like us, and the principles of the Founding Uncles resounded in our ears like thunder round the hills. If only we could give the world a big cwtch, everything would be all right. Of course, we might have to invade it first.

‘Turned out that girl was more than cut out for army life. Went through basic on Bardsey Island like shit through a sheep. Truth was it was easy after growing up in the orphanage. Her drill instructors gave her a standing ovation when she graduated. She was transferred to Special Forces – the legendary ‘Raspberry Berets’ – and fast-tracked through OTC. That was where she met the Colonel.’

‘The Colonel?’

‘Yes. He was already a legend by then, a true hero of the Revolution. The only ranking officer in Welsh Special Forces with one wooden leg but two real feet.’

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Gwen took a moment to extract a troublesome eyelash and sniffed. ‘He was a hoary old soldier who had seen it all before, but he’d never seen anything like her. He took her under his battle-scarred wing, taught her things few men ever learned, becoming the father figure she’d never known. They had a special bond, stronger than steel and deeper than a drift mine.’

‘Wow.’ I have to admit I was rapt by the story. ‘Did she get sent to the war?’

‘Oh yes. She might have had a tear in her eye the day she shipped out for Patagonia, on a transport much like this one. She was with her unit, as elite a team of badasses as ever set sail, but still the closest thing she’d ever known to a family. As the politicians were at pains to point out, they weren’t an invasion force, but “military advisors”, sent to help the brave rebels throw off the Argentine yoke.

‘They were heading south, much like the situation on the ground in Chubut Province. Turns out the rebels were just as bad as the Argy Junta – freedom fighters to us back home, but terrorists to everyone else. Atrocities were committed on both sides. Not least being Max Boyce going out on a non-stop tour performing for the troops. And as it goes, not all the locals were thrilled to be liberated. They were quite happy without the benefits of Welsh Civilisation – they threw that cheese on toast and hymn-singing right back in our faces.’

I could see she was welling up, but Gwen’s tale had taken on a life of its own. Once started it had to be told. Like that point of no return in a really big poo.

‘The war dragged on. The politicians back home fed yet more troops into the fray, but never enough to tip the balance in our favour. The world was watching, and it didn’t like what it saw – an Argentine Dafydd pitted against a Welsh Goliath. A generation of young lives scarred forever. Wars these days are fought as much on social media and in news rooms as they are on the battlefield, and Wales was losing this one.

‘At the end of Black October her unit found itself in Puerto Madryn, surrounded by the Argies on three sides. Outnumbered twenty to one, they put up a desperate fight, but it was no use. It was like Rorke’s Drift, but without the racism and close harmony singing. They ate nothing but corned beef for days. She saw her friends fall one by one. After a week of fighting it was just the girl and the Colonel left. After rigging a fake rearguard of jangling defenders from spent Fray Bentos tins, they slipped silently into the night. She shed bitter tears for her fallen comrades but at least she could still save her mentor. Half-carrying him they hopped along; luckily it had been his wooded leg which was blown off. They were soon in a hellish three-legged race for life itself.

‘The Argies sent their Mapuche Indian trackers after them through the bush. The girl could have escaped on her own, but there was no way she was leaving the Colonel behind. They were run to ground at a long abandoned farmhouse above a desolate dry river bed. The whole place reeked of death.

‘Their pursuers hung back, wary of the destruction they’d already seen her reap. They were happy to let her go, the Ángelita de la Muerte, soon to be enshrined in legend. It was her CO they wanted. One amongst them called out from the night, “Don’t worry – he’ll be safe with us.” Those fateful words would come to haunt her dreams.’

Gwen slumped against the ship’s rail, her body wracked by dry sobs. Feebly I patted her on the shoulder. I was taken back to the diner in Jacksonville, where Finch had uttered those self-same words about yours truly.

Gwen regained her composure and continued the tale. ‘She would have died for him a thousand times over, but he commanded her to go. He’d be a prisoner of war, he told her – parcels from the Red Cross, he said, escape committees and sing-songs; prison camp dirt down trouser legs, they’d all seen the films. Against her better judgement she followed his orders and fled into the night. The Argies descended on him like a pack of wild dogs, their howls ringing in her ears. She was safe back behind Welsh lines by morning. For him there was another fate in store.’

Gwen grew silent and stared far out to sea. The sun had set and the sky was bathed in a breathtaking indigo twilight. Salmon-tinted clouds skittered off in search of a place to spend the night. I badly wanted to hear the rest of the tale, hoping for a happy ending.

‘So they treated the Colonel well – Geneva Convention and all that?’

She looked at me in wonder, the first starlight glinting off her eyes. ‘Of course not – they horribly tortured him.’

‘Oh.’

‘They broke him on a wheel. They put him back together again then broke him on another wheel. They kept going till they ran out of wheels. They moved him next to a wheel factory. They’d never heard of Geneva, or any conventions. They fed him the Tears of the Puma, and other stuff just as bad. They only had that coffee that’s been passed through the gut of a cat. Sent his mind to places no sane man should ever visit. Not all of it came back.’

My mouth moved but no sounds emerged. Perhaps it was for the best.

‘He was released two years later in a prisoner exchange. They’d given up trying to get information from him. He might have been howling at the moon by then, but the Colonel was as tough as old boots and twice as leathery.’

I stood in silence as I tried to take it all in. ‘So this girl from the story – where is she now?’

Gwen regarded me for a good while, her head slowly shaking. At last she muttered, ‘Er mwyn ffwc. Lord preserve us.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘That girl WAS ME! Try to keep up!’

Gwen stormed off back inside. There was a series of hollow thuds as I banged my head against the ship’s hull in frustration. Who amongst us would ever understand women and their mysterious ways?