Their Own Game
Page 44
***
That same night, far out at sea off the west coast of Cornwall, the 2,000-ton, ocean going, Liberian registered, rusting tramp ship “Hercules”, was boarded. There was a mixed crew on board of Libyans, Irishmen and Chinese. They took the word of the boarding party that they were UK Customs and Excise, searching for drugs. If that was all, they wouldn’t find any. The manifest said they were carrying only timber and molasses. If they were honest, it wasn’t much of a search, either, and the boarding party left within half an hour or so, apparently content.
As the men sped off in their launch back towards the Coastguard Cutter, a dim silhouette on the horizon, the Irishmen treated themselves to a large glass of Bushmills whiskey each.
“That was close,” said one. “Thank the sweet Jesus it was only drugs they were after.”
“And obviously not a tip-off either, else they’d have torn the ship apart,” said another.
“Then we’d all have been sunk!” joked a third.
They were still laughing and drinking Bushmills half an hour later, when the sabotaged vessel was ripped from stem to stern by the explosive charges the SBS team had left behind during their ‘search’. They watched through night-vision binoculars with professional satisfaction, and passed a “mission accomplished” message to Lieutenant Commander Nick Marsden, listening out on his ‘crystal set’ in Bill Clayton’s office.