‘Do you know the whereabouts of any nuclear trains near Stratford?’
‘Er… Yes and no,’ came an uncertain reply. ‘Sorry I’m not that sure; this is only my first week here. The board shows that there’s one scheduled to pass through Stratford. My boss has gone outside for a moment.’
‘Is there anyone else with you who can help us?’
‘Not really, my boss is away from his desk…’
‘Find him as quickly as humanly possible.’
‘He won’t like being disturbed,’ came the unfortunate reply.
‘Get him now; tell him there’s an emergency and you’ve COBRA on the phone.’
‘You what?’
‘Just get him, now. Tell him it’s a matter of life and death.’
‘Will do!’
Rafi looked up at the clock; it was 10 o’clock. He looked around the room. Everyone was holding their breath; there was a deathly hush. Moments later, the voice of an aggravated man came on the phone.
‘What do you want?’ he barked.
‘Do you have a nuclear train anywhere near Stratford?’ The colonel barked back.
‘Damn it! Who the hell are you?’ came the abrupt reply.
‘Colonel Bill Turner of the anti-terrorist squad; I have the Prime Minister alongside me.’
‘No shit!’ was the reply.
‘Do as he says, now!’ commanded the PM in a stern voice. ‘And before you ask, yes, I am the Prime Minister.’
‘Hold on a moment. Yes, the Sizewell train is running slightly late; it has just left Stratford station and is entering the North London branch line.’
The Colonel shouted down the phone, ‘Tell them to do an emergency stop!’
The voice of the controller was heard over the speaker. ‘Dick, STOP! Stop your train immediately; there’s a terrorist threat!’
‘Where exactly is the train, now?’
‘About 600 metres down the spur line past Stratford.’
‘Get it to back up the main line!’
‘That’s against the rules; I can’t do that!’
‘Do as he says,’ came the uncompromising voice of the PM.
The colonel continued, ‘Get all the trains on the main line stopped.’
‘One flaming thing at a time.’
‘Get them to back up now!’ barked the Colonel. ‘Get them to do it before it’s too late!’
‘Keep your hair on! They’re starting to back up as we speak.’
There was an expletive heard over the phone, followed by a couple of sentences heavily laced with choice words.
‘Did I hear you say that your train has disappeared off the screen… and the radio connection with them has been lost?’
‘Y..yes,’ stammered the coordinator. ‘There was a loud bang and they’ve effing disappeared off the screen.’
Rafi looked across at the clock; it read 10.02 a.m.
The shaky voice of the controller came back on the line. ‘I can confirm that I’ve lost contact with the driver and the satellite positioning marker is no longer functioning.’
The brigadier interrupted the silence. ‘The Tornado is one and a half minutes away.’
Rafi felt spellbound and sick with apprehension. They’d found the missing piece of the jigsaw, but were they seconds too late?
The voice of the Tornado fighter pilot came over the loudspeaker. ‘There’s been one – now two – explosions! The target is a train, just west of Stratford station.’
The Ops Room meanwhile had been patched into the pilot’s on-board camera showing an orange ball of flames erupting high into the air, and the remains of the train strewn across the track -one of the nuclear canisters was missing its front half and the top of the second canister was no longer there. Black smoke spiralled up into the sky, drifting north-west in the light wind.
The Air Chief Marshal spoke to the fighter pilot, who had received the grid reference for the property.
‘Can you identify the terrorist’s position?’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the reply.
‘Is the building occupied or unoccupied?’
‘Hard to tell sir – it looks vacant.’
‘If you have him on visual, take him out before he fires another
missile.’
The terrorist looked across at the burning train wreckage from the top of his scaffolding tower. Radiation would soon be all around him. He launched himself over the side and abseiled from view.
You could have heard a pin drop. That was what they were after – London – the business capital of Europe and the venue of the 2012 Olympics.
It was a disaster.
Having foiled the other attacks, Rafi found it hard to take on board the impact of this terrorist success. He had known that the stakes were high and the consequences would be grave if a nuclear catastrophe occurred, but the reality was numbing.
Emma looked at Kate and Rafi. ‘Sweet Jesus help us! There’s around two tonnes of spent nuclear fuel in the air,’ said Emma, with a lump in her throat, ‘which is something like 20 kg of plutonium and 40 kg of other radioactive particles on the loose.’
The service chiefs had been trained to work under pressure and they were already making plans to deal with the calamity. The Air Chief Marshal spoke via the video links to the Army HQ at Wilton and then to the colonel standing next to him.
‘Activate Operation Counterpane. I repeat, activate Operation Counterpane. Brigadier, advise the Royal Netherlands Air Force that we need every helicopter they can spare, pronto.’
Colonel Gray spoke to the Prime Minister, who had turned a whiter shade of pale.
‘Sir, I suggest that you activate LESLP – London Emergency Services Liaison Panel – immediately. The Metropolitan police are on standby. Although control rests with you and your colleagues at COBRA in the first instance, sir, I suggest that you ask us to coordinate the military element required to contain the disaster, and to oversee the evacuation and the decontamination process for the time being.’
‘Carry on,’ replied the PM. ‘I have two nuclear experts with me who will advise you on the size of the exclusion zone.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The video link camera at COBRA was swung round and two middle-aged professors came on to the Wood Street Ops Room screen. They spoke to the Air Chief Marshal and explained what data they would require.
En route to the nuclear train, from Colchester Barracks, was a helicopter equipped with radioactivity-sensing devices. Like many others, it had been placed on standby by the brigadier in the early hours of the morning as part of Operation Counterpane. The helicopter pilot radioed through that he would be over the train in seventeen minutes.
‘For the time being, gentlemen,’ said the professors, ‘we recommend an exclusion zone of one mile upwind and four miles downwind. We will give you the precise figures shortly after we have the data in from the helicopter.’
The Ops Room was like a hornets’ nest. The scale of the task dwarfed anything that had ever been attempted in peacetime.
At last, the helicopter flying at 1,000 feet started to collect and send the data on the radioactivity levels through to COBRA. The professors fed the data, in real time, into the impressive-looking laptops in front of them. As the helicopter flew over the smouldering train, the operator of the radioactivity-sensing equipment let out an expletive and advised the pilot to give the train a wide berth next time. The pilot carried on with a predetermined series of flyovers and sweeps of the vicinity on a grid basis. As the volume of data fed back to the professors increased, it became obvious from their faces that the news was far from good - they had turned an ashen colour.
After what seemed like an age, but in reality was only a matter of minutes, the younger of the two professors started speaking. ‘We need to know, Prime Minister, what acceptable mortality rate to put into our models. The scale of the radioactive leak is very large. What level of increased cancer mortality is acceptable? Should we take one additional death per 100,000 people every ten years,
or what?’
There was a discussion amongst the COBRA team; a number was agreed on and keyed into the computer model. The other professor spoke up hesitantly. ‘I hope you’re all sitting down. On the basis of the data, gentlemen, the exclusion zone is: two miles upwind of the train, ten miles downwind and the ellipse at its widest point is six miles wide.’
Rafi looked at the map. A vast swathe of London, from Enfield to West Ham and from Stoke Newington across to Woodford, was now destined for dereliction in perpetuity. It seemed completely unreal – like something out of a disaster movie.
‘Air Chief Marshal, we have emailed you the perimeter line of the exclusion zone. It can be superimposed on your maps.’
A hush fell over the two rooms. The second professor spoke solemnly. ‘The exclusion zone has an area of fifty-seven square miles and the length of the perimeter is close to thirty miles.’
Rafi looked at Kate. ‘I’ve had enough,’ he felt gutted. All his attempts had proved to be inadequate. The terrorists had won through. Tears welled up in his eyes. They’d pulled off the big one. Over fifty square miles of one of the most densely populated parts of Europe would have to be totally abandoned and many people would face horrible deaths.
Haunting thoughts flooded through Rafi’s mind. If they had told the junior minister to: Get lost!, they could have got the information on the last property to the Ops Room minutes earlier. Valuable time had been squandered. If the nuclear train had been stopped just a few hundred metres sooner the terrorist would not have had a clear line of sight. The knot in his stomach tightened. He turned, walked down the corridor, to break the bad news to Aidan’s team.
In a monotone Rafi told them of the missile attack at Stratford, and that one of their team should liaise with the Ops Room to be briefed on the scale of the radiation contamination. The ball was now in their court. He left their room and noticed Kate still standing by the door to the Ops Room.
Rafi walked over to her and took hold of her hand. She turned and looked at him with tears in her eyes. ‘Come on, let’s go; there isn’t much we can do here.’ But she didn’t move. She stood mesmerised by the screens, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
‘In a few minutes, please,’ she replied. ‘I would like to see what happens next…’
Plugging the gaping holes in what was left of the two spent fuel containers was the immediate task. Access by air was the quickest and safest way to get materials in to cover the ruptured containers. The imperative was to stop further hazardous and highly toxic radioactive waste escaping by entombing the train in concrete.
Operation Counterpane was under way. The army’s HQ Land Command based at Wilton, near Salisbury, had been in a state of full readiness and within minutes of the train being hit by the first missile it was already coordinating troop movements, working closely with those in the Ops Room.
Colonel Turner had passed across a long list of all the available UK civilian helicopters. These were now under the command of the Royal Air Force.
All helicopters within 250 miles and powerful enough to lift a concrete hopper were en route to Stratford. The workhorse Chinook helicopters would be the best at transporting the concrete, but as at 10.45 a.m. the nearest was still forty minutes flying time away. The demands of the armed intervention in the Middle East had seriously depleted the modest size of the services’ ageing helicopter fleet. On paper, the number of helicopters remaining in the UK looked significant, but in practice the majority were out of action, undergoing repairs or modifications. Thankfully, the helicopter squadron from the Netherlands was now only fifty-five minutes away.
Colonel Turner’s team had identified seventeen large building sites with cranes and concrete hoppers. There was a local property development boom going on thanks to the impending 2012 Olympics. Each helicopter was directed to a property development site, where they could pick up a concrete hopper and a crane driver.
It was going to be a dangerous operation, particularly for the first four or five sorties which would be the most at risk when they jettisoned their loads in close proximity to the hot radioactive contents below. In theory, it would be best to use the biggest helicopters first, but in practical terms the colonel opted for a first-come-first-served basis. An added complication was getting the calculations right as to the maximum payload which each helicopter could carry.
The reaction time of the coastguard helicopters was far faster than anything the colonel could have hoped for. The first collected its hopper of concrete within forty-one minutes of the request going out. Having a modest lifting capacity, it was only able to take the hopper a third full, but it was a start.
The pilot and his two crew members were joined by the crane driver and took off with the hopper slung under the helicopter’s belly and headed for the plume of dark smoke which was clearly visible in the overcast February daylight. The pilot made his approach from the south-east – upwind. Half a mile from the train, the helicopter gained altitude and the hopper was lowered to the full length of its steel wires. Hovering over a specified spot was second nature to the pilot – even in a force eight gale. This time, it was different. The risks were unseen.
‘Bombs away!’ shouted the crane driver pulling the mechanical release cord. ‘Now comes the slow bit,’ he shouted. ‘I reckon we’ll be here for sixty to seventy seconds.’
‘Shout when we can scarper,’ yelled the pilot over the noise.
Seventy-five seconds later their task was completed. The empty tubular steel hopper and hawser were ditched; the helicopter banked and headed south.
The co-pilot called back to those behind him. ‘What were the readings?’
‘OK-ish,’ came the reply. ‘No more dentist’s X-rays for a
while though, I reckon. But we’re still below the maximum limit and a bit more shouldn’t do us any real harm; just fry a few cells here or there!’
‘Are you willing do a second run?’ enquired the pilot.
‘If no one else is around and we can help stop the radioactivity escaping, do we have a choice?’ asked the crane driver.
The co-pilot radioed through to the Ops Room and spoke to the colonel. ‘Load safely deposited. Our radioactivity gauge shows that we can do another run. Where’s the next helicopter?’
‘It’s five minutes behind you, followed by two more shortly after that, then there’s…’ He hesitated, ‘A bit of a gap.’
‘Sign us up for that slot. Where do we get our next load of concrete from, please?’
The colonel studied the map. His adjutant beside him pointed at a mark on the map, saying, T suggest this one,’ and relayed the coordinates. The pilot moved on to the new course.
‘What did it look like?’ asked the colonel.
‘Devastation,’ replied the pilot. ‘There’s a river and a canal nearby. You’re no doubt aware of where the water goes?’
‘Yes,’ replied the colonel. ‘We’re working on how to stop the radioactivity getting into the water courses and then leaching into the water table.’
Multi-tasking was the order of the day. Kate was roped in by the colonel. ‘Find me a good location to set up a decontamination unit for the helicopter crews and where we can put the helicopters that have been exposed; ideally a small local airfield away from the public gaze. When you’ve found it, get the RAF command centre to set up a decontamination unit and field hospital there.’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the reply.
A private airfield and flying club was found at Stapleford, near the M25/M11 intersection and less than fifteen miles away. She passed the details on to the RAF Control Centre.
‘Let me look it up,’ said the voice at the other end of the phone. ‘Good choice – its main runway will take transport planes. Tell them to expect a couple of Hercules planes within the next forty-five minutes. Get them to clear the area to the west of their runway number 28/10. We will put the contaminated helicopters there.’
Kate phoned the flight centre, half expecting the phone to be
answered by an unhelpful individual. It was answered by the manager of their Club House. Kate explained that the RAF needed to borrow their facilities.
‘No problem. We’ve been listening to the flurry of radio traffic for the past half an hour. Is it as bad as they say?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ replied Kate.
‘What can we do to help?’
‘You can expect two Hercules transport planes carrying medical supplies within the hour. They won’t be staying long, as they’ve other deliveries to make,’ said Kate, who went on to give details of their requirements.
‘We’ll clear out the student accommodation block. It’ll make a good medical block and decontamination facility. I’ve only one favour to ask: if you could ask the transport planes to land on the tarmac part of the main runway and not on the grass section, it would be much appreciated,’ said the manager.
Back at the train, the first five sorties flown by the lighter coastguard helicopters had started to cover the ruptured canisters with concrete.
‘Bloody pyramids!’ commented the adjutant. ‘The train line is on an embankment and the concrete pours down off the carriage on to the sloping ground. The base layer of the concrete gets wider and wider but the pile doesn’t get much higher.’
The crane driver in the back of the first coastguard helicopter overheard this conversation and shouted to the pilot, ‘Suggest they add salt to the concrete; it’ll speed up the setting time.’
The first heavy-duty Chinook helicopter did the sixth run and took almost two full hoppers. This was closely followed by eleven more Chinook sorties.
By midday, the ruptured canister and train were no longer visible, buried beneath a small hill of concrete. Phase One had been completed successfully.
Meanwhile, the irate junior minister had been let out of the interview room and was now en route to 10 Downing Street, where he had been summoned to attend a meeting with the head of PR at the Cabinet Office.
Phase Two, which had commenced simultaneously with Phase One, involved the establishment of the exclusion zone.
LATENT HAZARD: On the Edge Page 25
