Kate was still leaning against Rafi. She felt a release of pentup anxiety. She turned her head and looked into his eyes.
‘Your instincts were spot on. You’re a star.’
He felt the warmth of her body. ‘More like good teamwork,’ he replied, holding her gaze with a big grin.
Meanwhile, the brigadier had received confirmation that the terrorist at Hartlepool had a clear view of the nuclear power station. ‘Can he be safely taken out?’ he asked his opposite number in the command centre.
‘Yes, sir. a SAS sniper has outflanked him and has him in his sights.’
‘Do it. Just don’t risk him firing a missile.’
‘Yes, sir!’
A few moments later, confirmation came over the speaker. ‘Terrorist taken out.’
This was followed by the noise of a massive explosion at Hartlepool. The brigadier turned to Colonel Gray. ‘Crikey! The sappers have been busy – I wonder what they’ve found to blow up?’
Rafi watched the flames darting high into the air, followed by thick smoke engulfing the area around the nuclear power station. He looked across the screens. The army’s pyrotechnic skills were being shown off to great effect at Aldermaston, and now at Hartlepool and Heysham.
Daylight would reveal damage to a non-nuclear building at Aldermaston, a smoking zinc factory next to Hartlepool nuclear power station, and fire and smoke coming from the abandoned visitor centre on the perimeter of the nuclear compound at Heysham.
Rafi and Kate were on tenterhooks. Two terrorists with Kornets were still out there. The good news was that at least one of the likely targets – the oil pumping station at Cruden Bay –wasn’t nuclear, but what on earth was the other target?
‘Nothing to report on the three trawlers,’ called out Ewan.
There was a lull in the proceedings. Time ticked by slowly; the two missing terrorists were conspicuous by their absence.
Rafi and Kate hurried back to their office. They looked again through their paperwork, but still couldn’t find any clues as to where the missing location might be.
Rafi was worried. Had he let the side down and missed some-thing obvious which could have pointed them to the missing target? The very possibility haunted him.
The Air Chief Marshal took the PM, the Defence Secretary and the head of MI5 to one side. ‘I would like your permission to mobilise the entire military. We’ve passed the point of no return. I should have asked for this hours earlier. Unfortunately, at the time I was preoccupied with coordinating the limited resources we had available.’ He looked at the PM. ‘Sir, we have to have a cast-iron insurance policy in place should one of these damn missiles get through to something nuclear. Our ability to deal with a nuclear incident isn’t what it should be. We have two terrorists with Kornet missile launchers on the loose. Who knows if they now suspect that we’re on to them? We must prepare for the worst eventuality: a nuclear disaster.’
The PM agreed and, on his authority, at 4.45 a.m. all armed services’ leave was rescinded. All personnel, including part-time territorial soldiers, all available medical and support Corps, were called to their barracks and put in a state of readiness. Every hospital with an Accident & Emergency Department within 100 miles of a nuclear plant was told to be fully staffed up by 6 a.m. The Home Secretary was contacted and advised to catch the first flight back to London. His ETA in Downing Street was 9.30 a.m.
Every barrack and hospital was told that this was a surprise training exercise, sanctioned by the Prime Minister to test their readiness to respond to a national emergency. The message went out to senior officers that the new Prime Minister wanted to use the exercise as a way of seeing where the problems might be and whether they had the right resources available.
Those in command were left in no doubt that they should prepare for a sizeable disaster or conflict.
The Air Chief Marshal turned to Brigadier Harold Sparkman and Colonel Bill Turner who were standing close by. ‘There are contingency plans in place for attacks on nuclear installations. What I want from the two of you is a plan – we’ll call it Operation Counterpane – which will deal with a serious radioactive leak, contaminating, say, ten to twenty square miles of a densely populated urban area. On your agenda there need to be robust provisions on how to get a nuclear leak covered from the air, arrangements for an exclusion zone with a guarded perimeter, decontamination and triage units, medical facilities, an evacuation and rehousing plan, and a system to monitor the identities of all those displaced. Basically, take what is already there and make it work – big time.’
He was looking perturbed. ‘Probably best if you include Len Thunhurst, commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, in your plans. Giles here has brought him up to speed with all our problems and he’s aware of the need for secrecy.’ He paused, ‘The transportation front is what really concerns me. We are short of a couple of squadrons of heavy helicopters. Without them, logistical support in an urban disaster area will be a nightmare. There will be blocked roads and restricted access at a time when speed will be paramount. The number of operational workhorse helicopters in the UK is far below what we’ll need.’
Then the beginnings of a smile appeared on the Air Chief Marshal’s face. ‘I think I’ll have a quiet chat with a close friend of mine who runs the Royal Netherlands Air Force. Colonel Turner, you are a logistics expert, please liaise with Ewan and get him to draw up a list of the whereabouts of all private helicopter fleets around the UK. Tell the operators that all helicopters capable of carrying four or more people are subject to a requisition order for the next twenty-four hours. Their helicopters should be fully fuelled, with pilots on immediate standby and ready to join a UK task force by 06.00 hours at the latest. They will be held on call for the rest of the day. Full compensation will be paid if requested. Inconvenienced clients should only be advised that their helicopter is on loan for a rescue operation.’
As of 5.35 a.m. the Royal Netherlands Air Force’s base at Gilze-Rijen, fifty kilometres west of Eindhoven, was on full standby and over half of the Dutch military helicopter fleet had been offered to assist the Royal Air Force.
The Air Chief Marshal breathed a sigh of relief on hearing the news - the Royal Netherlands Air Force had one of the most modern fleets in Europe and its helicopters were only an hour away from the east coast of England. Twenty-nine helicopters – Chinooks, Eurocopters and Apache Combat helicopters – were on standby and a direct link had been established with their operations room. This, in one stroke, had more than doubled the number of military helicopters available. He walked over to the PM. ‘Sir the deployment of the military is likely to lay bare the level of overstretch.’
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 daybreak. 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 ter
rorists 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.
LATENT HAZARD: On the Edge Page 22
