by Shaun Clarke
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said quietly.
Masters looked out of the window at the darkening sea. Bravo 1 wasn’t drilling, but he could hear the isolated roar of a fork-lift, the shouting of men. The radio continued crackling, though Charlie 2 was not receiving. Barker sat before the radio and stared at it while smoking his cigarette. Masters studied him and then looked at Turner.
‘We can’t,’ Turner said. ‘It’s out of the question. We can’t possibly give this news to the PM. It’s too much to ask.’
‘What else is there?’ Barker asked him. ‘The decision isn’t ours to make. We can’t take a chance on that bomb. We’ll have to let him decide.’
‘Let’s go,’ Masters said.
8
Each man in the boardroom looked about him as if suffering from shock. The news seemed so preposterous that they couldn’t quite take it in, but gradually, in the grim silence following Turner’s level recital, the awful reality sank in. Sir Reginald McMillan glanced at the Prime Minister, but could not meet his gaze. The PM’s bright-blue gaze swept the table, then returned to the general supervisor.
‘Well,’ the PM said, ‘that’s quite a tale.’
‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid so.’
‘Nineteen hundred hours?’
‘Yes, Prime Minister . . .’
‘Then we have ninety minutes.’
Turner glanced at Masters and Barker. They were standing at the head of the long table, their eyes wandering back and forth. Sir Reginald glanced at Dalton. The American was smoking a cigarette and studying the others around the table with a steady, unblinking gaze. His eyes finally came to rest on the Prime Minister, whose bulky frame filled the chair. The PM was flicking the ash off his cigar and looking up at Turner.
‘You can’t do it,’ Sir Reginald said. ‘We can’t let you go over there. We can’t hand the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom to a bunch of murderous terrorists. It’s completely out of the question.’
‘I agree,’ Dalton said. ‘The request is just crazy. I’m all for trying to meet their demands, but I stop short at this.’
‘Ludicrous,’ Sir Reginald said. ‘They must be utterly insane. I simply won’t accept this.’
The PM leant forward in his chair. His florid, fleshy, stubborn face held a shrewd native cunning.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is ludicrous. That’s exactly what it is. Now, what I want to know is how it happened. That really does interest me.’ He turned his blue eyes on Barker, picked up his cigar, inhaled and blew the smoke into the air, then sat back and waited.
‘It seems irrelevant . . .’ Sir Reginald began defensively.
‘It’s not irrelevant,’ the PM told him.
‘Correct,’ Dalton said. ‘It’s not irrelevant. It’s a goddamn disgrace!’
The PM looked at Barker. ‘So? I’m being asked to fly out to that rig and I want to know why.’
Barker sighed and shrugged his shoulders in defeat. ‘Well,’ he confessed, ‘it seems we simply hired them as legitimate workers. We’ve been doing so for a long time.’
There was silence in the boardroom. Sir Reginald kept his head down. The PM breathed evenly in his chair and kept his eyes fixed on Barker. ‘You hired them?’ he asked.
‘So it seems, sir. They signed up just like all the others and were shipped out the normal way.’
‘Sixty terrorists,’ the PM said.
‘Yes, sir, that’s the figure.’
‘You’re trying to tell me you signed on sixty terrorists without checking them out?’
‘Not all at once, sir. They signed on over eighteen months. They came out of the dole queues and factories just like all the others.’
‘I appreciate that, Mr Barker. I’m well aware of that fact. What I want to know is how a terrorist can get a job on an oil rig.’
‘You don’t check them out?’ Dalton asked.
‘No, we don’t,’ Barker confessed. ‘There are so many unemployed, we don’t bother checking credentials, so we don’t know too much about their past.’
‘This is incredible,’ the PM said. ‘It’s utterly scandalous. Any fool, any madman can get a job on the oil rigs.’
‘It’s not that bad,’ Sir Reginald said.
‘It’s bloody scandalous,’ the PM told him. ‘These oil rigs are the life-blood of this country and you don’t check who works on them.’
‘I didn’t realize,’ Sir Reginald said. ‘I must say, it is appalling. I shall, of course, order an investigation and demand a complete report.’
‘It’s Barker’s bag,’ Dalton said. ‘He’s in charge of security. I’d like to know how the hell he got his job if this is in any way typical.’
‘I won’t take that,’ Barker said. ‘I don’t work in the employment office. My job is security on the rigs. I can’t check out who’s being hired.’
‘So no one does,’ Dalton said.
‘I’ve been wanting checks for years,’ Barker said, glancing at Sir Reginald. ‘An inspection of my files will confirm that. My requests were denied.’
The PM glared at Sir Reginald. ‘This is scandalous,’ he repeated. ‘You won’t let the government touch the oilfields and this is what happens.’
They all glared at one another. The air was smoky and stank of brandy. Through the windows they could see the falling darkness, the lights winking on.
‘Eightly minutes,’ Masters said. ‘We have exactly eighty minutes. I think we should be talking about Charlie 2. I think we’ll have to decide.’
They all stared at Masters, surprised. The silence lasted a long time. ‘Just who the hell are you?’ Dalton finally asked him. ‘And don’t try telling us you’re just a tool-pusher. That wouldn’t get you into this boardroom with Messrs Turner and Barker. You’re security, aren’t you?’
Masters glanced from Barker to Turner, not sure what to say. Turner coughed into his fist and then reluctantly confessed: ‘This man is a sergeant with the SBS – the Special Boat Squadron of the Royal Marine Commando. The SBS and the SAS have been given certain responsibilities regarding security in the oilfields. Sergeant Masters, though a former tool-pusher, is presently here on behalf of the SBS, acting under cover.’
There was another long silence while everyone took this in. The PM, who was furious, fought to control himself, though he couldn’t help glaring at Sir Reginald. The latter’s hands were folded in his lap and he kept staring at them. Eventually, when the tension became unbearable, the PM cleared his throat and said: ‘This is neither the time nor the place to ask why I wasn’t informed about this . . .’
‘Neither was I,’ Dalton interjected.
‘And nor was I,’ the Under-Secretary added.
‘. . . though the matter will certainly not be forgotten,’ the PM continued icily. ‘But for now, given the urgency of our situation, let us stick to the issue in hand. And regarding that, as our SBS sergeant has informed us, we have to decide.’
‘Decide what?’ Sir Reginald asked, feigning outrage to cover his embarrassment. ‘There’s simply nothing to decide. Our Prime Minister isn’t going on that rig and that’s all there is to it.’
‘I agree,’ Dalton said.
‘They have an A-bomb,’ Masters reminded them.
‘Correction,’ Dalton said. ‘We don’t know that. We don’t know that they have it.’ He turned to the PM. ‘We’ll recapture the rig. We’ve no choice but to try it. We can’t let you go to the terrorists. We don’t know their intentions.’
‘And the bomb?’ the Under-Secretary asked. ‘What happens about that? They’ve said they’ll set it off if we attack. They might actually do so.’
‘I think they would,’ Masters said. ‘I’m pretty certain they would. I don’t think they’d be shy.’
The PM rubbed his forehead, stubbed out his cigar, clasped his hands under his chin, then gazed left and right. He avoided Sir Reginald, looked carefully at Masters, and finally his gaze came to rest on Dalton, who was pursing his lips.
‘We’re still assuming
they have that bomb,’ the American said. ‘However, the fact that they had a photograph and a workable design doesn’t mean they’ve managed to make the thing.’
‘That’s true,’ Sir Reginald said. ‘It seems a bit far-fetched to me. I don’t think it’s all that easy for amateurs to make an A-bomb. I find it hard to accept.’
‘It’s been known, sir,’ Masters said. ‘Our onshore men think it’s possible. They say the materials can be bought on the open market and that the making of the actual bomb is relatively easy.’
‘That’s preposterous!’ Sir Reginald snapped.
‘No, it’s not,’ Dalton said. ‘There’s kids making them in their backyards in the States. They’re pretty crude, but they would work.’
‘It would help if we had proof,’ Masters said. ‘And Andrew Blackburn of our onshore security is trying to find it.’
‘He’ll be lucky,’ Sir Reginald said.
The emergency telephone rang. Every head in the room turned towards Barker as he picked it up. There was a tense, lingering silence. Barker covered one ear. He nodded and then lowered the phone and looked at each man in turn.
‘It’s Blackburn,’ he told them. ‘They’re putting him through now. I think he should talk on the open line to let us all hear this.’
‘I don’t think . . . ’ Sir Reginald began.
‘I certainly do,’ the PM interjected. ‘I think we should all be kept informed from this moment on.’
Barker glanced at Sir Reginald. The Chairman nodded reluctantly. Barker pressed a button on the telephone and they all heard a soft, hissing sound.
‘Blackburn?’
‘Yes, Barker. We’ve managed to check out this McGee. It wasn’t very difficult at all. He didn’t cover his tracks.’
‘Good,’ Barker said. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Is this line scrambled?’
‘Yes, Andy, go on.’
‘Good. I think it’s all pretty dodgy.’
Blackburn was silent for a moment, obviously checking his notes. Those waiting studied the speakers on the boardroom walls, most too breathless to speak.
‘McGee lived in a boarding house,’ Blackburn said eventually. ‘In George Street in Aberdeen. He’s been using the same place for the past two years, every time he’s on shore. A pretty normal boarding house. A typical rig worker’s place. McGee used to have a lot of friends in, but apart from that the landlord had no complaints. We searched his room. He hadn’t attempted to hide anything. The search revealed correspondence between himself and various known members of the IRA. McGee was clearly quite high up. The correspondence covered a lot. Plans for bombings and assassinations and hijackings, most of which, as the records now reveal, were accomplished successfully.’
Sir Reginald coughed into his fist. The PM glared at him. Sir Reginald offered a smile that was rejected, so he studied the floor.
‘Also found,’ Blackburn continued, ‘was a notebook with some odd addresses, including one for a closed-down car repair place. I only mention this because it ties in with the fact that we also found invoices from various specialist libraries and bookshops, all of which were unusual. Included were the National Technical Information Service of the US Department of Commerce; the US Atomic Energy Commission; the Science Reference Library in Chancery Lane, London; and the Office of Technical Services. A subsequent search of the closed repair shop revealed various books – all openly available from the sources I’ve just named and all filled with unclassified and declassified – but extremely dangerous – information. Among these books were both volumes of The Plutonium Handbook; another book called The Science of High Explosives – this one written by Melvin Cook, Professor of Metallurgy and director of the Explosives Research Group of the University of Utah – and, finally, the Source Book on Atomic Energy and the Los Alamos Primer. This last book consists of notes made during the production of the first A-bomb in Los Alamos, New Mexico, and is published openly by the US Atomic Energy Commission.’
‘Did you say “published openly”?’ Sir Reginald asked.
‘That’s right,’ Blackburn replied, failing to use the proper form of address because he didn’t know to whom he was talking. ‘These are treated as information libraries. This information, which our own experts have confirmed is extremely dangerous, is, as I said, either unclassified or declassified and therefore freely available to the general public. You just walk in and pay for the books and that’s all there is to it.’
‘That’s scandalous!’ Sir Reginald exclaimed.
The PM glared at him. Embarrassed, Sir Reginald coughed noisily again and gazed at the speakers.
‘Anyway,’ Blackburn continued, ‘this is particularly interesting. Also found in that supposedly closed workshop were traces of plutonium oxide – which I’m told can be converted easily into concentrated plutonium nitrate; an electrical induction furnace; a sealed glove-box of the type used to avoid contamination; high-temperature crucibles; hydrofluoric acid, oxalic acid, metallic calcium, crystalline iodine, quartz glassware, and a cylinder of argon and nitric acid – all available on the open market; all ingredients for a workable plutonium bomb.’
Blackburn let his words sink in. None of the men in the boardroom spoke. Finally, after what seemed like a long time, Barker asked him a question.
‘What does all this mean?’ he said. ‘That they could make it?’
‘Yes,’ replied Blackburn. ‘All the information needed to put those materials together into a working bomb can be found in the books I’ve just named – and the bomb could be made in a car workshop or something even less grand. According to our lab boys, any particularly complicated calculations could be done simply by using hired computer time with any legitimate computer firm. The computer operator, probably innocent, would be shown nothing other than a set of partial differential equations and a written request for a particular programme to be run. He or she therefore wouldn’t have a clue what it was for. Also, suitable explosive lenses are now commercially available just about anywhere; and the initiator and other materials can be bought over the counter from any firm supplying university labs. In short, your terrorists appear to have made their plutonium bomb.’
Dalton gave a low whistle. Turner wiped sweat from his brow. The PM was immobile, staring up at the loudspeakers as if not believing his ears. Masters looked at each man in turn and sensed the fear grow in all of them.
‘OK,’ Barker said. ‘So they made their bomb. But could they test it without setting it off?’
‘Dead easy,’ Blackburn said. ‘Piece of pie, really. They only have to test the detonating circuits for simultaneity – and the equipment for this is also available on the open market. Apart from ordinary metering equipment, it would consist of a double-beam oscilloscope with long-stay traces, a pulse-height analyser, and an accurate recording digital timer – all on sale commercially. My lab boys tell me that they’ve previously come across arming devices made from cooker timers and second-hand servo-motors; and that the detonation circuits can actually be linked to a device known to every telephone engineer – an arrangement that allows detonation of the bomb by phone on any line using STD codes. So they could have – and probably have – tested their bomb.’
Turner sat in a chair and covered his face with his hands. The PM watched him, then glanced at Sir Reginald, who seized this opportunity to wriggle out of his own guilt by launching an attack on the Under-Secretary.
‘I can’t believe it,’ the Chairman said. ‘I cannot believe my own ears. I am informed that the materials and the instructions for a workable atom bomb are freely available to the general public. I find this whole thing appalling.’
The Under-Secretary refused to rise to the bait.
‘Any more?’ Barker asked.
‘A bit,’ Blackburn said. ‘We tried tracing the people detailed in McGee’s notebook and we managed to find some. A few are in prison, others have disappeared, and a fair amount are working on the oil rigs. I assume that’s your problem.’
&nb
sp; Turner uncovered his face to look across at Sir Reginald, who was leaning back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. He had almost stopped breathing.
‘Yes,’ Barker said, ‘that’s our problem. It’s a very big problem. I’m classifying this whole item top secret and I want it to stay that way.’
‘Right,’ Blackburn said.
‘Put a seal across it.’
‘Will do,’ Blackburn said. ‘Have no fear. Is there anything else?’
‘No, nothing else.’
‘Best of luck,’ Blackburn said.
The line went dead. Barker switched off the phone, turned away and stared into space, then shrugged his shoulders.
They all sat for a while in silence. The sea was a remote, rhythmic murmuring all around the platform. It was now dark outside and the platform’s lights were blazing, throwing shadows across the tiered decks and reflecting off the antennae.
‘So,’ the Under-Secretary said. ‘They probably have a working bomb. They may use it, but they may just be bluffing and there’s one way to find out. Are we willing to take that risk? Can we afford to do so? All in all, I don’t think we can risk it. There’s too much at stake here.’
‘And if we don’t?’ the PM asked. ‘If we wait until seven-fifteen? What happens if we wait and the bomb goes off? Can we possibly live with that?’
‘It’s your life at stake, Prime Minister. We don’t know what they want. Those men are assassins – they’ve killed before and they will again – and of all the political figures in this country, you’re the biggest prize there is. I don’t think you should do it. You shouldn’t take that chance. I think we should recapture that rig before they set the bomb off.’
‘That’s impossible,’ Masters said.
‘Why?’ the Under-Secretary asked.
‘All the rigs have radar. That means we can’t use boats. They’ve got cameras and sonic beams beneath the water, so we can’t use submersibles. There’s no way we can surprise them. It’s out of the question. We either sit here and pray that they’re bluffing or we do as they say.’
‘I see,’ the Under-Secretary said to the others around the table. ‘Our SBS colleague wants to risk the Prime Minister. He’s willing to risk our Prime Minister’s life on a mere speculation.’
