The PM nodded. ‘Yes, overseas conflicts have tied up too many resources. I believe I’ve missed a very obvious threat to our well-being – countering large scale terrorist attacks on our own soil… Without guaranteed access to energy, we face an uncertain and potentially bleak future.’
‘Air Chief Marshal.’ The PM looked carefully at him. ‘When this is over, I want you to draw together a team of experts so that you can provide the Cabinet with a briefing paper on how we should shape the armed forces so that they’re fit-for-purpose in terms of protecting our country’s interests at home.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I have no wish for us to become a police state, but the prospect of a small, but well-funded terrorist cell attacking the heart of our energy supplies is a great concern.’
Back in the office, Rafi was still racking his brains about the two missing locations. He was willing to put good money on one of them being the crude oil pumping station at Cruden Bay – its location and its importance to the economy put it right at the top. Then for the other there was Sizewell nuclear power station or Grays liquid natural gas storage depot, but the special forces had still found nothing at either.
Kate and he had been exploring whether the location could be linked to the terrorists’ fish processing business and a possible new cold store in the London area. They had checked to see if the terrorists’ property company had used any specific firm of lawyers. Unfortunately, they used a different firm for each transaction. They had spoken again to Land Registry, but drawn a blank.
Neil had arranged a special visit to the terrorists’ property company’s offices an hour earlier, but they were empty. It transpired that they were being moved from London to Manchester. All their computers and files were in transit and MI5 were not surprised to find that they were unable to trace the removals firm.
As a last resort, the commissioner had decided there was nothing for it but to pull in PREH’s directors. There were four of them. Basel Talal was at large in the North Atlantic on board Golden Sundancer and the other three, it transpired from one of the director’s wives, were on a corporate bonding week with their staff in the Caribbean. The tour company advised that they had chartered a crewed yacht. No one in the marina from which they had sailed knew where they were heading. Their ship-to-shore radio was switched off, as were their mobile phones.
The yacht had left the marina twenty-four hours earlier with the wind a comfortable force three, gusting four. The US Coast Guard advised that with an average speed of eight knots the yacht could be anywhere within a couple of hundred mile radius, equivalent to an area of around 100,000 square miles. Neil had spoken to his opposite number at the US Homeland Security. Four US navy helicopters and all available coastal patrol vessels were dispatched to reconnoitre the possible area. They would try the captain’s usual haunts first but, given the scale of the area to be covered, they didn’t have high hopes of finding the yacht.
Meanwhile, Kate had rung Rick in Manchester. Wesson was asleep. Rick described the man as unhinged, with a persecution complex. He was still being totally uncooperative.
John had tracked down the flight of Roger Harewood, the immigration officer, and had eventually got through to the captain of the 747 and to Roger.
‘Er… Good morning, or is it evening? To what do I owe the pleasure?’ said a somewhat surprised and dazed Roger.
John explained about the fish processing business and the need to find their new cold store in London.
Roger sounded very apologetic. ‘I seem to recall making a jotting or two. It’s hard to keep track of people entering through the immigration fast track process. Unfortunately, I can’t recall any details. We’re asked to process hundreds of people.’
‘Steve said that information in your notebooks might help us,’ said John.
‘Yes; I’ve a drawer full of cheap notebooks in which I make miscellaneous notes. As soon as we land I’ll go straight to the office and try to find my scribbles on their fish processing business. I hope I didn’t throw them away. All I can remember is that the location was somewhere in London. At the moment, I can’t recall anything more. We aren’t encouraged to muddy the waters. My scribbles aren’t welcomed on the files. Just a habit I suppose.’
‘A good one,’ said John. ‘We’ll arrange to have you picked up from the plane and taken to your office when you land. Will your wife and family be OK?’
‘Yes, no problem there; Felicity is well-organised.’
‘If you should remember anything in the meantime, do please let us know. When you get to the office, if for any reason you can not get through on the phone, please fax us with anything you have. The fax comes through to the middle of our office. Steve has put the numbers on your desk. Safe journey.’
John asked to speak to the captain.
‘How can I be of assistance?’
‘Mr Harewood is going to be helping us with important enquiries when he gets back to Manchester. He seems to have unwittingly uncovered a piece of information that might help us solve a serious crime. We could do with him being as alert as possible when he lands. Could you…?’
The pilot didn’t need to hear the rest of the sentence. ‘I’ll arrange for him and his family to be moved to first class for the remainder of the flight.’
‘Thank you. When you land, I will arrange for Mr Harewood to be collected from the boarding gate. Could you ask the control tower to give you landing priority, or should I?’
‘No problem, I can do that.’
‘This is hush-hush so another excuse would be appreciated. Thanks for your help,’ said John.
John thought for a moment, picked up the phone and spoke to Phil Scott, Rick Feldon’s assistant. ‘Apologies for waking you. I could do with a favour, please. I need to get a Roger Harewood from Manchester Airport to his office in Sheffield, when his plane lands just after 9 o’clock this morning. Time will be of the essence.’
‘It’s forty miles and at that time of the morning the traffic will be awful. I’ve got an idea. Can I ring you back?’ asked Phil.
‘No problem.’
A few minutes later, Phil came on the phone. ‘I’ve pulled some strings and booked the police helicopter. It will be waiting at Manchester airport, and I’ve arranged for an airport security car to take Roger from the plane across to it.’
‘Perfect, thanks very much,’ said John.
It was now a matter of waiting. Rafi looked at Kate. It was obvious that neither of them was optimistic.
‘What else can we do? How about we get the large scale London maps out again and see if we’ve missed anything?’
Kate gave Rafi a concerned look. ‘I don’t know how you do it. You’ve suffered more stress in the last week than most people deal with in their whole lives and you still keep going with a smile on your face. I’m absolutely shattered.’
He looked at Kate and saw a different, softer side to her.
‘It’s the company I keep, and an overwhelming desire to stop the terrorists,’ he replied.
Kate smiled at him. ‘You think the company is tolerable?’
‘Yes,’ he smiled, ‘When you walked into the interview room at Paddington Green, I doubt if you knew how close I was to folding. I shall be in your debt for…’ Rafi paused, trying to think how best to express his feelings.
But, before he could finish his sentence, Kate cut in. ‘It was David who said I should back you. For my part, I’d have left you to the wolves. But I’m glad that my first instincts proved to be so wrong.’
In the Ops Room the planning of Operation Counterpane continued at a feverish pace.
Time had slipped by – dawn would soon be breaking.
‘They are professionals, hardened in the tactics of guerrilla warfare,’ said Colonel Gray to his team. ‘If they’re half as good as the Russian Security Service say, we can expect them to be invisible right up to the last moment.’
At Cruden Bay in North Scotland, the expectation was for an attack shortly after d
aybreak. The SAS and paratroopers were waiting, but there was still no sign of the terrorist. However, the indications were that a terrorist had been in the vicinity. An outbuilding behind the vacant industrial unit in Peterhead had been occupied the previous day. Someone had been sloppy. Numerous fresh cigarette ends were found on the floor. In themselves they were nothing out of the ordinary, but in the circumstances they were like manna from heaven. In the FSB files was a miscellaneous comment on Sergy Kowshaya – he was a chain-smoker.
The brigadier’s two adjutants were having an increasingly frenetic time coordinating the Ministry of Defence’s press team and the release of information to the news desks.
The message they were trying to put across was: ‘Yes, there have been three terrorist attacks, but this is a matter for the armed forces and the police, not the politicians. The attacks have been partially successful. Thankfully, no nuclear material has been released. Security has been stepped up at all UK nuclear installations. Another attack couldn’t be ruled out. Nothing is being taken for granted and the military has been called in to provide a defensive ring around key installations. This is what the armed forces are trained for and the public should remain calm.’
The Air Chief Marshal spoke to those around him in the Ops Room and those on the video links. ‘Daylight will bring with it the real danger as the terrorists will be able to see their targets more clearly and the news cameras will capture any scenes of destruction. Be prepared for anything to happen. We have two highly dangerous terrorists out there. We have to find them and stop them.’
It was cold at Cruden Bay. A swirling sea mist lapped around the bulbous twin tanks of the oil pumping station, cloaking them in a soft, white blanket. The outline of the buildings was barely visible, making an accurate attack by a terrorist difficult.
Suddenly there was activity. A suspicious movement had been detected one and a half kilometres from the perimeter of the oil pumping station. From nowhere, there was the feint infrared image of an individual kneeling on the ground out in the open, with a missile launcher at his side. The enhanced pictures showed that in the blink of an eye the terrorist had the launcher up on its tripod and was ready to fire at the pumping station. It was clear he knew exactly what he was doing. The nearest SAS soldier was 500 metres to the terrorist’s left but, unfortunately, his line of sight was partially obscured by a small undulation in the terrain.
It was too late – there was a whooshing sound and seconds later one of the two oil storage tanks erupted into a fireball that lit up the grassland for miles around. The explosion was followed by a series of smaller explosions. It was like a gargantuan Chinese firecracker going off. Dense, grey smoke engulfed the whole facility.
The soldier broke cover and moved rapidly to a point where he could clearly see the terrorist in the distance. On the run, he opened fire. The terrorist seemed unfazed by the bullets whistling around him and fired a second missile into the thick pall of smoke. Another explosion was heard, but this time it lacked the cataclysmic intensity of the first. The dark, clawing smoke belched up into the sky. Anyone downwind was going to have an unpleasant time.
The terrorist’s position looked increasingly hopeless; three SAS soldiers with their automatic fire had him pinned down in his foxhole. Suddenly the ground around the terrorist started belching out thick white smoke, creating a smokescreen which rapidly obscured him from the view of the SAS – he was well prepared.
Then, from within the blanket of white smoke, the engine of a powerful motorbike could be heard – it had been stowed under a nearby camouflage net. The terrorist had abandoned the missile launcher and was making a quick getaway.
He appeared at speed from his protective smokescreen, handling the bike with skill. He slipped unharmed through the security force’s net and now had an unhindered run to Peterhead and then towards the St Fergus gas terminal. He had foreseen that the security would be tight given the location, but was surprised by the speed of the response.
The team in the Ops Room were briefed on the events: the oil pumping facility had been extensively damaged.
Rafi recalled Emma’s earlier comment: ‘It’s not size that matters, but the throughput of the pumping station. Cruden Bay is where the Forties Pipeline System has its landfall. It can pump over one million barrels of oil a day from the offshore oil fields to the inland processing terminal at Kinneil. Without Cruden Bay the lion’s share of the UK’s daily crude oil supplies would stop.’
The Air Chief Marshal called out. ‘Four of the five Kornet missile launchers and all four Vektor mortars are accounted for. There has been major structural damage at Cruden Bay, but thankfully there are no civilian casualties or injuries. The sappers are doing a great job at Heysham, Aldermaston and Hartlepool. To those not in the know, it’s been a seriously awful night. It’s as if World War III has broken out in our back yard. We know better.’ He paused. ‘As a matter of utmost priority we have got to find the missing Chechen terrorist or at least his Kornet missile launcher…’
The commissioner, who had been watching quietly, leant across and spoke to the Prime Minister and the Air Chief Marshal, ‘I think it’s time for me to advise the London financial markets not to open.’ He picked up the phone and spoke first to his contact at the Stock Exchange, and then to Euronext. liffe. Two minutes later, both exchanges had posted on their dealing screens that they would not be opening due to terrorist threats. Then, as an afterthought, he picked up the phone and spoke to the heads of the derivatives exchanges in Frankfurt and Chicago. To his relief they both agreed to postpone the opening of their exchanges.
It was 6.45 a.m. at Sizewell – the grey February dawn was still forty minutes away; the cutting east wind was blowing over the coastal marshland and was forecast to veer around and come from the south-east. Dick Newton and his co-driver, Ted Dyer, had received notice the day before from their controller that their run to the marshalling yard at Willesden Junction in north London had been brought forward by two and a half hours and that the train would be going straight through to Sellafield.
The heightened anxiety of terrorist threats over the past year had resulted in Dick and Ted’s timetable being subject to frequent changes. Gone were the days of a regular schedule. But that did not seem to worry them, as they were well looked after. This morning, however, was a first. Never before had they been on the move in darkness and never before had they gone further than Willesden.
In the February early morning air Dick and Ted undertook their final inspection of the two carriages transporting the spent nuclear fuel casks. The radioactivity coming from the sweating casks was within the guidelines. Dick radioed through to control confirming that the freight train was ready to depart at its allotted time.
They had been operating the Sizewell to Willesden Junction run for several years and it had become a regular feature of both their lives. They knew the routine like clockwork and the safety procedures as prescribed by their employers had become second nature.
Back in the warmth of the train’s cab, Dick handed his empty coffee mug to Ted and waited for the last few minutes to tick by before their departure time. At 6.50 a.m. precisely, Dick reported in to his controller, released the brake and the train moved effortlessly out of the sidings. The train made light work of its two fifty-tonne reinforced canisters and gathered speed – on the old rails and wooden sleepers – down the branch line from Leiston to Saxmundham.
A few years earlier an early morning start would not have been possible. The 45 mph speed limit imposed on the nuclear freight trains meant that peak rush hours had to be avoided as they caused too much congestion for the commuter trains. Behind the scenes, the speed limit had unofficially been raised to 60 mph. The result was that if Dick and Ted timed their slot correctly when they joined the mainline at Ipswich and went behind the Norwich to London express, they would cause hardly any disruption to the passenger train schedules. In any event, the reliability of the early morning commuter trains was far from good and it was not
unusual for their journey to be delayed by one of the many problems encountered by the long-suffering commuters.
There was no real hurry to get to Saxmundham, where they joined the Lowestoft-Ipswich line. They were scheduled to go after the small diesel passenger train which was timetabled to stop at Saxmundham at 7.31 a.m. But, as this morning it was running a few minutes late, Dick brought his train to a gentle stop outside Saxmundham station and they waited for the passenger train to come and go. It was 7.38 a.m. when the nuclear freight train passed through Saxmundham. They were four minutes behind schedule, but in the scale of things this was well within the bounds of normality.
Over the years Dick had become used to Ted’s running commentary of the places they passed and his interpretation of what they were. The descriptions rarely changed. It helped the time slip by. There was the alpaca farm and then the small market town of Woodbridge, nestling on the banks of the river Deben, a favourite of Ted’s. He would recall how the Viking burial ship at Sutton Hoo on the other side of the river was worth a visit. Then it was on to Ipswich to wait for their slot behind the Norwich to London express train. The intercity train was on time. Dick eased his train through Ipswich station and the tunnel beyond. After that, it was a straight run down to Stratford on the north-eastern outskirts of London. There, they would leave the main line for the North London line which would take them around London, past Willesden Junction and on to the north-west line towards Sellafield.
When their speed limit had been 45 mph, the seventy miles from Ipswich to Stratford had taken two and a half hours, with a couple of stops to let passenger trains past. At 60 mph, the journey would be almost an hour faster and they would need only one stop to let an intercity commuter train through.
By 8 o’clock, the early morning news channels had wall-to-wall coverage of the four terrorist attacks. The infernos and the tall columns of acrid black smoke filled the TV screens in the Ops Room.
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