LATENT HAZARD: On the Edge

by Piers Venmore-Rowland

  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.

  A drawn and tired looking PM spoke to those around him. ‘Thank you for all your unstinting efforts. We can be grateful that we have suffered no casualties and that the nuclear facilities are one hundred per cent intact. However, we still have one terrorist and one Kornet missile launcher unaccounted for. As we don’t know where he is or what his target is, I have spoken to the Permanent Secretary for Intelligence Security and Resilience and the director of Civil Contingencies.’

  He paused and looked across at his Defence Secretary. ‘COBRA will be in session as of 9 a.m. I have told them to have experts on CBRN – chemical biological radiological nuclear – in attendance. And to have all members of ACPO (TAM) – Association of Chief Police Officers (Terrorism and Allied Matters) – available via video-conference links. The Defence Secretary and I will be leaving shortly to brief COBRA.’

  The Prime Minister turned to the chief of the armed forces. ‘Sir Nigel, I shall leave this Ops Room in your command. Your remit is to take out the fourth terrorist and disable his missile launcher. And please keep all the fleeing terrorists under close observation.’

  The PM and the Defence Secretary shook the hands of everyone in the Ops Room and then left for Downing Street.

  The train journey down towards London was uneventful. Ted kept up his almost constant commentary which was broken only by short conversations with the manager or his assistant at the control centre. They discussed the terrorist attacks. The nuclear trains weren’t being stopped; just their schedules ha
d received minor changes. This strategy had been approved by their bosses, who deemed that “Their cargo posed too difficult a target and was thus an insignificant risk,’ according to the control room manager.

  The controller was in a grumpy mood; he had been trying unsuccessfully to give up smoking and had failed. In his cigarette breaks, Ted chatted with his assistant, a newcomer who had only started working for the nuclear transport company the Monday before. Ted was beginning to wonder if the young lad was stupid. He was charming, but seemed to have little grasp of the importance of his job.

  Dick was pleased to find that the intercity train behind them was running late. This meant they could proceed to Shenfield before pulling in to let it pass. They were on the outskirts of London when the young assistant controller came on the radio. ‘My boss has nipped out to his car to get another packet of cigarettes and have a smoke.’

  Ted sensed unease in the young lad’s voice. ‘Are you alright?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yes, it’s just that I wish my boss would get back. I need to go for my morning constitutional – I think it was the vindaloo curry I had last night!’

  Ted looked across at Dick and muttered, ‘I suppose that means he’s desperate for the loo.’

  The freight train passed through Romford; it wouldn’t be long before they left the main line and started on the next leg of their journey.

  The desperate voice of the assistant came on the radio. ‘It’s no good, I can’t wait any longer. My boss should be back soon!’

  Dick raised his eyebrows and was going to speak, when Ted cut in. ‘I hope he’s quick!’ He thought back to when he had first driven the nuclear waste trains. The manpower involved in those early days dwarfed the lean efficient teams that had become the norm. Spare capacity was a thing of the past. Forty uneventful years of safe nuclear rail transport had not given rise to complacency, but rather a sense of the mundane had permeated the system and dulled the minds of many involved.

  The train was approaching Stratford station. Ted had radioed through to the Control Room. There had been no reply; the manager had not returned from his smoke and the young lad was presumably still otherwise engaged.

  As they arrived at Stratford station, the signal for the branch line turned red. Dick brought the train to a halt. As they waited, he noticed that the platforms were almost deserted. After a couple of minutes’ wait the light turned green and the train slowly trundled on to the branch line to start its way around suburban London.

  Dick smiled. It had been a good run down from Suffolk. He was looking forward to his extended journey up the west coast and wondered if Ted would, for the first time, be lost for words.

  In Manchester, Detective Inspector Rick Feldon was having a chat over breakfast with William Wesson. His fifteen years of interrogation experience told him that there was still at least one more nugget of information to be drawn from this despicable man. Wesson continued to ignore his questions - he was in denial and his defence was to shower verbal abuse on those around him. Rick was getting nowhere. ‘How about we see what’s going on in the world?’

  A small TV was brought into the interview room. The channels were filled with special news bulletins showing wall-to-wall pictures of the plumes of smoke resulting from the terrorist attacks. Wesson looked without any apparent interest at the pictures. The detective inspector asked him more questions without receiving any response. It was getting hopeless. He was going round and round in circles.

  Time was ebbing away. Rick had an idea. It was time for some creative thinking. He left the room and reappeared a few minutes later with a photograph of a middle-aged woman.

  Rick put the photo on the table in front of Wesson. ‘She’s about the same age as your mother, isn’t she?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘She worked as a cleaner at Heysham and was killed by flying shrapnel. A slow and painful death, I understand. Now her two teenage children have no close family to look after them,’ he lied again. ‘What would you and your younger sister have done if your mother had been killed when you were that young?’

  Rick pressed on. ‘How would you have felt if you and your sister had had no mother?’

  Wesson broke down in front of him. Howls and sobs came from the insufferable little man. Rick had no sympathy for him at all. He had one aim and that was to get from him the missing pieces of information. ‘Your mother rang. She wants to see you’

  Wesson raised his head.

  ‘Why couldn’t she have been the person killed by the shrapnel? She always stopped me from doing the things I wanted to and her tongue is as sharp as a carving knife. I don’t want to speak to her. In fact, I’d be happy if I never saw her again.’

  Rick took a deep breath on hearing the unexpected reply. ‘You valued all the properties which were used by the terrorists. We’re missing one more address. You can help us stop the next attack.’

  Wesson didn’t move.

  ‘How do you think your sister, who you’ve protected all these years, will survive as the sister of a murdering, terrorist collaborator? She won’t get any sympathy from her mother, will she? Think about it!’

  Rick watched the turmoil bubbling up inside the young man. ‘Now would be a good time to tell me the addresses we don’t know about.’

  Wesson did not raise his eyes. ‘All I know is that they have a building which is being refurbished. I do not even know its address, other than it’s in Stratford, East London…’

  ‘You must tell me more!’

  ‘I can’t! That’s as much as I know. You see, I accidentally overheard Talal and a director of his discussing this property …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘When Talal saw me – his eyes were like my father’s before he lashed out and hit me. He was livid and shouted at me - Never repeat what you’ve heard, if you value your sister’s life! Even if I knew the address, I wouldn’t tell you!’

  Rick thought for a moment, concluded that Wesson had nothing more to say, pulled out his mobile and phoned Kate’s direct line. After several rings the call was diverted to the switchboard. ‘DI Adams, please. It’s urgent – Very Urgent.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can locate her; she’s not answering her phone.’

  The seconds ticked by as if they were the last grains in an hourglass. The telephonist came back on the line. ‘She’s in a meeting.’

  ‘I need your help, please,’ said Rick calmly. ‘I have an urgent message for her. Please write this down: Urgent. Ring Me. Now! -Rick Feldon. As a matter of life and death, please take this message to DI Adams, now!’

  ‘I’m not allowed to leave my desk unless I’ve got cover.’

  ‘Of course you’re not, technically, but we’re trying to stop the bastards who planned the Bishopsgate bomb from letting another one off. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir… I’ll go straightaway.’

  The phone went dead.

  In his chauffeur-driven car en route to Downing Street, the Prime Minister thought about the events of the night. Had he been right in not activating COBRA earlier? The Ops Room at Wood Street had served its purpose and had worked well, he mused. Yes, now was the right time to get COBRA up and running.

  He mused on the vast powers that the Civil Contingencies Act gave this committee. To all intents and purposes, when sitting, it became all powerful. In the first instance he chaired the committee, but if he was not available, it fell on the Home Secretary or his deputy to take his place.

  The PM’s thoughts turned to his Home Secretary, whom he had chosen in order to placate the wing of his party he found most difficult to deal with. As he leaned back on the soft leather car seat, he wondered whether the Home Secretary and his department spent too much time courting favourable headlines and news coverage. Increasingly, in the few months since taking power, he realised that he had become progressively more anxious as to his Home Secretary’s motivations. The press painted him as good party leadership material and liked his and his ministers’ charm offensive. Perhaps hi
s party’s waferthin majority had prompted his spin offensive and he was jockeying for position in case the PM slipped up.

  The PM’s attention refocused on the previous week’s COBRA meeting, which had been convened to sort out the mess left by the Bishopsgate bombing and to foil any follow-up attacks. The minutes showed it had been a straightforward meeting. It had been chaired by the number two at the Home Office, a loyal supporter of the Home Secretary, with liaison officers from the MoD, the police, MI5, MI6 and the Metropolitan police. This meeting was going to be considerably more difficult. He personally would take the chair.

  Deep under Number 10, with the Home Secretary away, his number two had taken the chair. He had arrived at COBRA early, sensing it was his opportunity to take control. By 8.45 a.m. he had a quorum. Against the advice of the permanent secretary, he called the meeting to order and had COBRA up and running. He almost caught MI5 with their trousers down. They had the video link, relaying what was going on at COBRA to the Ops Room, working only seconds later.

  The minister chairing COBRA appeared very concerned about the impact of the adverse TV coverage and asked for suggestions on how the news stories and the TV pictures could be made to look less grim.

  The army at Hartlepool in particular were doing an impressive job. The zinc factory next to the nuclear power station was belching out acrid smoke. Elsewhere, in the words of one TV commentator at Cruden Bay, ‘The locals must think that they are on the edge of a war zone, what with all the explosions and the dense smoke.’ Aldermaston and Heysham also looked grim.

  The Home Office minister relished his time in the spotlight. He cleared his throat. ‘First, we must counter these awful pictures with something that will prevent us from looking feeble and, second, we should consider what the terrorists might do next and what we can do to stop them. The second part, I shall leave to the PM who will be joining us shortly.’