LATENT HAZARD: On the Edge

by Piers Venmore-Rowland

  Janet moved alongside him and followed him towards the gangplank.

  ‘We need another thirty seconds - do not let him board,’ came an urgent voice over the communications link. Anna broke into a run, caught up with Janet, tripped and went flying on to the concrete quayside. She let out a howl and a series of expletives. Janet bent over her friend who was spreadeagled on the ground. ‘Sis, are you alright?’

  ‘Oow, I’ve really hurt my knee.’

  Dakka stayed where he was.

  Janet helped Anna to sit up. Blood was streaming down her leg from a nasty gash in her knee.

  Dakka looked down at Anna and then in a matter-of-fact manner said, ‘I’ll fetch the first aid kit.’ He paused briefly and then added, ‘And a bottle of vodka. Wait here.’

  Moments earlier Mark had given a warning to Jim and Clive that the captain was on his way below deck.

  The captain sensed something was wrong as he was about to enter his cabin. As he turned to investigate, he was felled by a strong blow to the side of his neck.

  ‘Damn it! Clive,’ exclaimed Jim, ‘You nearly took his head off.’

  ‘Yep, But how was I to know he was going to turn around.’

  The captain was securely bound up and dumped on his bed.

  Clive and Jim waited silently and out of sight at the bottom of the stairs.

  Dakka meanwhile, went to a cupboard in the stateroom and pulled out a bottle of vodka, then turned and collected the first aid box from the stern deck. He walked down the gangplank to the two women huddled on the quayside. He handed them the bottle and the box. ‘Put the box on the gangway when you’ve finished. I’m busy now. I’ll see you later for my reward.’

  Meanwhile, Clive and Jim had climbed the stairs and were waiting in the stateroom. Their earpieces kept them informed as to where their target was. Dakka walked down the gangplank and through the open door into the stateroom. His sixth sense told him he wasn’t alone. He spun around to see Jim coming at him. Instinctively, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and let fly a lethal drop kick which caught Jim just below the shoulder, knocking him backwards. Jim started to pick himself up, but was too slow: Dakka was on him, his powerful hands locked around Jim’s neck, pinning him to the floor.

  There was an almighty crash. Dakka slumped unconscious across Jim’s body. The remnants of a heavy glass decanter were scattered across the carpet.

  Jim struggled to regain his breath, as Clive hauled the muscled man off him. Moments later, Clive had Dakka’s arms tightly secured behind his back with reinforced plastic handcuffs.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jim, as Clive carried on immobilising the terrorist.

  Jim got up slowly. ‘For a heavy man, he sure moved quickly! I reckon the bastard has either broken my collarbone or dislocated my shoulder.’

  ‘No good asking you for a hand in getting him down below, then?’ Clive dragged Dakka across the stateroom and, with a series of loud bumps, down the stairs.

  He reappeared a few moments later. ‘I’ve put him with the captain. Right, let’s have a look at you.’ Clive stood in front of Jim. ‘Lift your arm as high as you can. Is that all you can manage? Does it hurt here?’ He prodded Jim’s collarbone area.

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Think of something nice; your girlfriend with no clothes on - got the picture?’

  Jim nodded.

  Clive took hold of his arm and with a quick upward motion relocated his shoulder back into place.

  ‘Jesus!’ screeched Jim. ‘That was painful.’

  ‘Come on, let’s see what you can do with your injured arm. Can you hold a gun?’

  Jim nodded.

  ‘You will be useless in a fight unless the opposition has a blouse

  on,’ commented Clive.

  ‘Six out of six accounted for on the boat. This leaves the four minders on the quayside and five in the helicopter.’ Rafi smiled as he listened to the radio transmission.

  The sheikh’s helicopter was about fifteen minutes away.

  Meanwhile the Nimrod picked up the mobile phone conversation between the sheikh’s bodyguard and one of the heavies on the quayside. ‘Is everything OK? I’ve tried to ring the captain but there’s no answer.’

  The heavy standing on the quayside looked across at Golden Sundancer. ‘All quiet here. The captain has gone below; probably getting ready to meet you.’

  ‘Good. We’ll be with you shortly.’

  Rafi made a mental calculation. The operation was running about twenty minutes behind schedule. He hoped the PM and his Chancellor had sufficient material to keep on talking, then noticed that the PM was being handed a folded piece of paper.

  Colonel Gray, standing nearby in the Ops Room, had arranged for its delivery only a few minutes earlier. The note read: Terrorists on boat at Safi have been captured. The helicopter with the sheikh and Jameel onboard is en route and expected to land in the next fifteen minutes. We estimate it will take sixty to seventy-five minutes to wrap things up.

  At the dispatch box the Prime Minister was handed a sheet of paper. He slowly read the message - his face gave nothing away. He then turned and passed it across to his Chancellor, who read it, smiled and tapped the pile of files on his lap. The PM took a deep breath and continued. He was a professional, carrying on if his prolonged speech was the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘The role of our armed forces has to be reconsidered. Our military forces must be properly equipped to defend us against terrorist attacks. We have to change our strategy and start fighting - not with brute force but with minds and souls. Post Iraq we have surrendered the moral high ground. Our international image is tarnished. We must rebuild trust in ourselves and our country.’

  The PM was in flowing form. ‘It is time to restore our sense of fair play and equity. Warfare has changed. It has moved from the macro level and large theatres of war, to the micro level and local operations. We need to refocus our military prowess and twin our military might with our anti-terrorist expertise. Stratford has been the wake-up call to end all wake-up calls. We have to be able to counter terrorist attacks on our own soil and have the wherewithal to deal with major calamities should they ever arise again. We must have personnel and equipment fit for purpose. I have asked the head of the armed forces and the Defence Minister to prepare a briefing note to this end for Cabinet. Part of their brief will be to consider the valuable role that the Territorial Army and former military personnel can play. In particular, they will look at the specialist skills they can offer, and will advise on how they might be appropriately rewarded for their part-time commitment to our military activities.’

  On the dockside, Anna’s knee had been patched up by Janet. The two women slowly walked back to Puddle Jumper clutching the first aid box and the bottle of vodka. They had been informed via their earpieces that Dakka had been overpowered.

  Anna smiled; the gash to her knee had been worthwhile.

  On board Puddle Jumper, she was given a hot cup of tea with sugar by the commander’s wife.

  The commander was deep in thought, looking over the charts in front of him.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ asked Janet.

  ‘I reckon it’s always a good idea to know exactly where everything is, just in case things turn interesting and one has to leave in a hurry,’ came the reply.

  The sound of an approaching helicopter caught their attention and that of the four heavies.

  Across on Golden Sundancer, a mobile phone started ringing in the cabin where Basel had been stowed. Clive opened the door and pulled the phone out of Basel’s trouser pocket.

  It was Jameel. ‘Baz, Jamie here; we’ll be landing in a couple of minutes. The sheikh is most pleased and wants to congratulate you personally. He says he’s looking forward to the London markets reopening tomorrow. And he says by then, he’ll have jumped up the world’s rich list by umpteen places. His positions in Frankfurt and Chicago should also show fantastic profits; he’s going to close all his positions tomorr
ow and send the markets spiralling down. We’re all going to be fantastically rich it’ll be difficult to count the noughts! Baz, are you there?’Jameel heard the sound of a lavatory flushing and a muffled voice.

  Clive hung up and smiled.

  The helicopter hovered over the area, next to where the heavies were standing, preparing to land.

  Clive and Jim rummaged around in the captain’s and Basel’s cupboards. Jim found a Panama hat and gaudy striped shirt. He slowly took off his top and replaced it with the loud shirt, put the hat on his head and walked up to the stateroom to join Clive, who was wearing the captain’s hat and a tight-fitting white jacket.

  They pulled up two chairs and positioned them so that they were partially facing away from the open door, yet would be visible from where the helicopter was landing. They could be seen from the quayside enjoying a drink. It was as though the captain and Basel were casually waiting for their guests to arrive.

  Mark and Colin, who had been patiently waiting in the shadows, spoke quietly to each other.

  ‘I can see my targets, but can’t get near them,’ said Colin.

  ‘Not much cover to help me either,’ remarked Mark.

  A crisp voice from the command centre cut in. ‘If necessary take them out and move on - and provide backup for Jim and Clive. Remember, it is the sheikh and Jameel we want unharmed. If the others get in the way, so be it. Got that?’

  Under the noise of the helicopter landing, the quiet pops of the silenced guns were inaudible. The two heavies who had moved back to the nearby buildings slumped to the ground with bullet holes to the chest and forehead.

  Rafi winced, but told himself that the stakes were too high for niceties. It all felt a bit unreal.

  Mark and Colin shifted their location to get a better line of sight. The rotors were still whirring when the two remaining heavies, with their heads held low, ran forward and opened the side doors. The two bodyguards were the first to step out; they were closely followed by Jameel and the sheikh. The group started walking towards Golden Sundancer. Jameel and the sheikh were at ease, smiling and talking to each other. They didn’t notice anything untoward, until it was too late.

  Jim, with the brim of his panama hat pulled down at a jaunty angle and his bright shirt catching the light, waved energetically to Jameel, raised a glass in the air and returned to his conversation with the captain.

  Anna and Janet stepped off Puddle Jumper and made their way towards Golden Sundancer with the first aid box. They arrived just before the group from the helicopter. Their flimsy flowing kaftans caught the eye of Jameel, who strolled over to say hello.

  Meanwhile, the sheikh and his two bodyguards headed towards the gangway. Then, one of the bodyguards heard the spluttering of silenced gun fire and turned to see the two heavies, who had greeted them, lying on the ground by the helicopter. He let out a loud warning shout and pulled out his gun.

  Over the radio came the command from Mark, the closest SAS soldier: ‘They’ve gone hostile. Take them out.’

  There was more spluttering of silenced guns. The sheikh’s two bodyguards fell on the spot where they had been standing.

  The helicopter pilot, sensing danger, fired up his engine, but wasn’t fast enough. Colin broke cover, sprinted across and with his gun pointing through the window, beckoned the pilot to turn the engine off. The sound from the rotor blades faded.

  The sheikh lunged forward to grab his bodyguard’s gun, which was lying nearby on the ground.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you,’ warned Clive, who was standing on the gangway, his gun trained on the sheikh. ‘Move once and you lose your manhood; move twice and you lose your mobility!’ The sheikh froze. Clive walked towards him, slowly.

  ‘What do you want?’ he growled.

  ‘Maryam sends her best wishes. She’s set you up; her freedom for yours. She has all your account details and, with you behind bars, she gets everything,’ he said, enjoying the wind-up.

  ‘The devious little harlot,’ spat out the sheikh.

  Clive swung him round and secured his hands tightly behind his back with plastic handcuffs. He spoke to the command centre. ‘The sheikh has been apprehended.’

  Anna, meanwhile, had been standing less than three metres from Jameel when the shooting started. Jameel stood there, transfixed, watching as those around him fell. He returned his gaze to the beautiful woman standing near him. There, in the palm of her hand was a small shiny revolver.

  ‘Don’t move,’ she ordered. ‘At this range I can choose whether I hit you in the heart or perhaps the head. Either way, if you move you’re dead.’

  Jameel stood still. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Silence!’ Anna ordered, or you leave here in a box.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Silence!’ ordered Anna again. ‘You’ll get explanations in good time.’

  Jim walked over. ‘Need a hand?’ he enquired.

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He swivelled Jameel around and with a firm grip secured his hands behind his back with a pair of handcuffs, and then proceeded to frisk him. ‘He isn’t armed; he’s all yours.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Anna, ‘Why do you boys get all the fun?’

  Jameel looked from Anna to Jim. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Friends of Maryam,’ came Jim’s reply.

  At that moment, an urgent message came through to the command centre from the Nimrod. ‘Moroccan air traffic control has picked up a distress call from the helicopter pilot.’

  They played it back. ‘Sheikh Tufayl, a worthy friend of Mohammed, has been kidnapped by hijackers at Safi docks. The hijackers have a large motor vessel. There have been shootings and killings; we are all in grave danger.’

  The pilot had started to repeat his message, facing away from Colin, when he heard the thump of the butt of his gun against the window. He turned, looked down the barrel of Colin’s gun and fell silent.

  ‘Moroccan air traffic control has informed the police and the Royal Moroccan Air Force,’ came the message from the Nimrod.

  ‘Time to get out,’ ordered the command centre. ‘We suggest you take Golden Sundancer. Get out of there quick. You probably have less than five minutes before the local police arrive and less than half an hour before fighter planes come to have a look.’

  Clive shouted to Mark. ‘We have to get Sergy. I left him trussed up in a cupboard in the harbour master’s office.’

  The two men left for the office at a sprint.

  The command centre was speaking to the commander on Puddle Jumper. ‘There isn’t time to transfer the prisoners to your vessel. Take command of Golden Sundancer; check she has enough fuel and prepare her for immediate departure. Suggest you take your local charts with you and leave now.’

  The commander grabbed his charts and a few personal belongings and called across to his wife to gather up all she needed quickly. They ran as fast as they could in the direction of the terrorists’ boat.

  The PM was winding down his speech. ‘I have set the scene for the next phase of British politics. It will be consensus politics. The three largest political parties speak for ninety five percent of those who voted in the recent general election and their representatives in the Cabinet will have much work to do.’ He paused as the members of the minority parties stirred with disaffection. ‘However, I recognise that it would not be a good idea to leave out members of the minority parties, especially those representing the regions.’

  The PM looked across to the minority parties and their representatives. ‘I am aware that there are some very able people who sit in this House, who are not members of one of the three main parties. Rest assured, you will have a role to play. I have been heartened by the generous offers of help that have come from Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. As part of the Union, all parts of the UK will have responsibility in shaping our countries’ future. London has been the powerhouse that has driven the UK economy for decades. Post-Stratford, it is an inevitable truth that London�
��s economy will struggle, with nearly one-sixth of its population displaced and almost one-twentieth of its land now unfit for human habitation. Our capital must now be joined by cities across the UK in the quest to regain our competitive and prosperous economy. Regional cities must pick up the baton and push our economy forward.’

  He glanced to his left towards the Speaker. ‘These are exceptional times. I propose to break with tradition, if the Speaker permits, and ask the Chancellor of the Exchequer to follow me with his proposals on how to get this great Country back on its feet. After the Honourable Member has set out his proposals, I shall face any questions the Members of this House might wish to put.’

  The Speaker nodded and the PM picked up his watch.

  If all went to plan the Chancellor would need to speak for just less than fifty minutes, plus the time it took to capture Maryam. Then the news of the terrorists’ capture could be made public and the round-up could begin.

  The PM stood aside to let the Chancellor move to the dispatch box. The Chancellor took off his watch and placed it to one side in front of him. He had with him his notes and a small pile of different coloured wallet files, which he stacked neatly next to his watch.

  The polite silence continued for the Chancellor. Rafi sensed that the fireworks were being reserved for the questions after his speech.

  The Chancellor’s face was strained and unsmiling. His voice was unruffled, but sombre. ‘Our economy and the Government’s finances have suffered a second massive blow. Just as we thought we were coming to terms with the first shock to the system - the debilitating effects of the global credit crunch - we have been hit by a nuclear catastrophe. We face financially perilous times which will necessitate significant changes in order to steer our economy back to safe waters.’

  Those in the Chamber sat in silence as they waited for the gravity of the position to be fully revealed. ‘I will, this afternoon, set out how the Government plans to remedy the position and I shall be introducing a range of initiatives to facilitate the rebuilding of our economy…’