Shaking from cold and shock, the commander fished inside his pocket and pulled out the small brass-encased compass. He opened it – it was still in one piece. He handed it to his wife and gave her the course to steer before flopping back down onto the wet floor of the dinghy.
The Ops Room and the command centre were on tenterhooks. The presence of the two Moroccan jets was going to make things very difficult and a major diplomatic row was the last thing the Government needed right now.
Colonel Gray sent a message to the House. The Chancellor was advised that he would have to speak for at least another forty minutes before the PM could reveal his hand.
The Chancellor leant forward and tapped the pile of folders in front of him, sending an acknowledgement to the Ops Room. He pulled out a red folder. ‘I now wish to tackle one of our “sacred cows”. It is a matter which has held back our economy and resulted in a disproportionate and inefficient allocation of capital away from production. At the present rate of decline, manufacturing’s share of output will soon be less than ten percent.’
The silence was broken by MPs shuffling in their seats in anticipation of what was to follow.
‘We live in a country where our home is our castle. Where we live is an integral part of our well-being. Those of us with above average salaries have the ability to occupy homes near to where we work, homes that are very comfortable to live in, but which are also very expensive. Too many of those who provide our public services and make our economy and our lives operate efficiently and harmoniously have been priced out of the market. They have been forced either to move long distances away from where they work or to live in substandard accommodation. Furthermore, the lack of appropriate accommodation near to where they work has prompted many individuals to leave their public sector jobs. Nurses, teachers, firemen, street sweepers, policemen and many, many more who work to make our lives better view owning a home as an impossibility; something they would love to afford in the right location, with the right amount of space, but that is financially out of their reach.’
The Chancellor looked up at the camera. ‘Our love affair with housing has created exorbitant house prices and a dearth of affordable housing. These two factors are two of the – if not the – key factors driving social exclusion and social deprivation.’ He paused for effect. ‘Why should we have to live in homes which have prices far exceeding their building cost? Economists maintain that it’s all to do with the immovable laws of supply and demand, but I have a different perspective; one borne out of the necessity to rectify the current inequity. The current housing market solutions for those on low salaries – namely, affordable housing, equity sharing and the like – make house ownership for the less well off a very risky business. Were these shared equity schemes a stock market product, I am sure that they’d be outlawed by the Financial Services Authority as being far, far too risky for a family’s largest investment.’
Rafi watched intently as the Chancellor paused and took a sip of water. The Chancellor still had a lot of talking to do, before the terrorists were captured, and only then could he get onto matters relating to Stratford and the economy. Rafi wondered how he would fill the time. Would his initiatives be new and innovative, or re-cast proposals which had already been announced? Rafi hoped that they would be the former. Now had to be the time for the Chancellor to be bold and housing was a good place to start…
‘I now turn to another fundamental problem with affordable housing and housing for our armed forces and their families. This housing is low cost. It provides small residential units, not family homes, and encourages poor quality buildings. Furthermore the specifications of these low cost houses are environmentally unsound. We are stacking up problems for future generations: ghettoisation and the creation of the “haves” and the “have-nots”. Our housing, when energy is a scarce resource, must be built to environmentally sound standards. The further we make our key and low paid workers commute, the less environmentally sensible it is - and the less able they are to enjoy their work and their home lives. In London, too many key workers lose over two hours a day commuting, not because they want to, but because they have to. For too many, between ten and fifteen hours a week are wasted. This is very poor use of people’s time; it spoils people’s quality of life and does not foster a contented society.’
The Chancellor moved up another gear. ‘This Government will introduce a new ownership structure: indexhold. Indexhold is an uncomplicated structure: it simply uses the tried and tested legislation for leasehold property which will form the basis of the legal relationship between the freeholder and the indexholder.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Key workers and members of the armed forces will be able to purchase homes through indexhold ownership. These will be long leasehold interests at a nominal rent. The purchase price for the indexhold interest will be the gross building cost. It is the high cost of land that has pushed up property prices and driven away key workers from city centres. Indexholds will enable people to own their home, but at a sensible price, will provide new housing that is environmentally up to standard and will rebalance the fairness of the position.’
Rafi was amazed; what a remarkable concept, so logical, and so straightforward! It would, over time, dramatically improve the lifestyle of key workers and be tremendous for the economy -there was a need for hundreds of thousands of new homes and this would provide house builders with an environmentally friendly product to champion. He listened intently as the Chancellor continued.
‘When the owner of an indexhold interest decides to move and sells their home, they will receive their initial purchase price plus a sum representing the inflationary increase. The freehold will be owned by a public body or a charity and they will have the first right of purchase on a sale. They can be expected to exercise this option to buy back the indexhold interest as the price will be significantly below that which the property could be sold for on the open market. At this point, the indexhold interest will then become available for sale to another key worker or soldier on another long lease.’
‘In practical terms, the money raised by selling indexhold interests will be used to build the right types of homes, with high environmental standards, on land owned by the state. This proposal will assist those wishing to live close to their work in our large towns and cities, but will also be extended to rural communities to enable locals who are being priced out of their villages to remain there or get back into them.’
The Chancellor let slip a small smile. ‘There will be another benefit. As there is a guaranteed blue-chip purchaser of the indexhold interest, namely the freeholder, mortgage lenders will factor this into their interest rate charges. Gone will be the days when the less wealthy are penalised for having poor credit histories, low salaries or small deposits.’
Rafi realised that he had been listening in awe, completely distracted from the events at Safi. Something good would come out of the Stratford catastrophe. The Chancellor had, in a single stroke, introduced an initiative that would, over time, improve the lives of hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of people - and free up capital which could be deployed in more productive areas of the economy.’ This was a very timely and socially astute initiative.
Rafi glanced across to the clock. It had been several minutes since the commander had jumped ship. From the dots on the screen he could see that Golden Sundancer was making an excellent turn of speed away from the dinghy and the two life rafts.
Suddenly over the radio came the voice of a Moroccan fighter pilot in heavily accented English. ‘Golden Sundancer!… Golden Sundancer!… I have you on my radar – bring your boat to a stop. I say again, bring your boat to a stop!’
In the Ops Room the Air Chief Marshal spoke to the command centre. ‘We have to keep the two Moroccan fighters interested in Golden Sundancer and looking in the wrong place for about twenty minutes. Get the Harrier pilot to engage the two fighters in conversation and to tell them that there are British nationals amongst the hostages on board - and tha
t they should shadow the motor vessel. I repeat, we’ve got to keep them looking in the wrong place! The dinghy and life rafts won’t show up on their radar, so they will be safe until the rain clears and the planes fly directly overhead.’
The seconds passed by. The Moroccan pilot would by now have Golden Sundancer on visual. What would he do? He had been warned that there were hostages on board. At 48–50 knots she could outrun anything that the Moroccan Navy possessed. A further command was heard.
‘Stop or I will open fire!’
‘Northrop Tiger, come in Northrop Tiger,’ said the Harrier pilot. ‘Be advised that there are British Nationals on board… Do not engaged!’
In the rainswept dinghy, the commander leant across to Jim. ‘If you hear any cannon fire, please push your little red button. The pilot will think it’s all his doing.’
There was silence and then a further command to ‘Heave to’ was heard. Golden Sundancer carried on regardless. In the distance there was the distinctive sound of a short burst of gunfire. No doubt the fighter pilot had aimed across the bow.
Jim pressed the little red button. Seconds later the deep boom and shockwave of the explosion reached the dinghy. He squinted through the rain, but could see nothing.
The radio fell silent.
Back at the command centre there had been initial consternation when the pilot had opened fire and seconds later Golden Sundancer had literally disappeared from the Nimrod’s screens.
‘Oh my God!’ the intelligence officer standing beside the team leader was heard to say. He’d just arrived back on duty and had missed out on the recent shenanigans.
Over the speaker came the voice of the Northrop Tiger’s pilot. He was calling up helicopter support.
The stern voice of the Harrier pilot meanwhile was demanding to know what the hell the Northrop Tiger pilot thought he was up to.
Meanwhile the Eurocopter on board the frigate Mohammed V had taken off to investigate. The sky was going to get busy and the nuclear submarine still had to make its pickup.
‘Right,’ said the chief in the command centre to the Nimrod, ‘Where exactly is our Harrier relative to the helicopter?’
‘She’ll be there in fifteen minutes and the Eurocopter will be there two minutes later.’
‘Excellent.’
Meanwhile the Harrier’s pilot was demanding that the two Moroccan fighters keep looking for survivors until the helicopter arrived.
In the rainswept dinghy, the commander was still dazed. The swell that had hardly inconvenienced Golden Sundancer was making life uncomfortable for those in the little open-topped inflatable, which was barely making four knots. Slowly, the commander calculated that they would get back to the life rafts in twelve minutes and the submarine would surface just minutes later.
The Nimrod continued to pick up the radio traffic between the Moroccan fighter pilots and their control centre. There was consternation. The Northrop Tiger pilot was describing the size of the explosion.
Jim had placed his explosive charges next to the cool box, which housed the four thermobaric Kornet missiles, which in turn weren’t far from the main fuel tanks full of diesel vapour. The overall effect was impressive. One moment Golden Sundancer had been there, the next she’d literally disintegrated into a fireball. Her debris had vaporised. When the flames and smoke cleared there was no sign of her.
A minute later the second Moroccan jet fighter arrived to find nothing but clear ocean. The presence of the RAF Harrier fighter thirteen minutes away, bearing down on their two planes, was causing concern at the Moroccan control centre.
Rafi listened to the colonel who was talking to the RAF command centre. ‘We have the makings of a major diplomatic incident if they piece together what’s really going on under their noses. Tell the Harrier to keep talking and to get them to stay where they are…’
The contents of the Chancellor’s third coloured folder grabbed Rafi’s attention. It was as though he’d been through the Treasury’s ‘good ideas box’ and was bringing them out, one at a time.
The Chancellor started to outline a new corporate structure. ‘The not-for-profit corporation will primarily be used for public sector bodies.’ His voice was clear and authoritative.
‘The structure of a not-for-profit corporation will be similar to that of a public limited company,’ he added in a businesslike manner. ‘Just like a PLC, it will have a Memorandum and Articles of Association. The difference will be that this corporation will have custodianholders instead of shareholders. The custodianholders will have limited liability, as is the case in companies limited by guarantee. The custodianholders will have the same role as shareholders, in that they will be responsible for holding the management to account. Custodianholders will be drawn from the managers of the business, its employees, its funders, local organisations, locally elected politicians and those who receive the services. The last group, the service users, will have the largest number of votes, but no group will have a clear voting majority.’
The Chancellor seemed to be enjoying himself …
Rafi’s attention was pulled back to the action going on off the Moroccan coast. The distant Nimrod reconnaissance plane reported that the dinghy had rejoined the two life rafts. All three specks on the rain swept ocean were ready, waiting for their rendezvous. The squall was clearing and they would soon be clearly visible to a plane flying overhead. Eight miles away the radio traffic between the Harrier and the two Moroccan jet fighters had been concluded. The Moroccan pilots viewed it as job done and had turned back to their bases minutes before the Harrier arrived.
The seconds ticked by.
The Harrier arrived, over the spot where Golden Sundancer had exploded, and waited for the Moroccan helicopter to get there so that a final search could be carried out.
The helicopter, in theory, posed a grave threat to the submarine, but with the Harrier in position that threat could be neutralised.
The command centre spoke to the special service personnel on board the life rafts. ‘Activate the homing device. You have less than seven minutes to get on board the submarine.’
Jim felt under his shirt and switched on his personal homing device for ten seconds – not 200 metres away, the submarine picked up the signal.
The order went out: ‘Make surface and prepare to take on board visitors.’
The sight of the Vanguard class submarine breaking surface at speed surprised those in the dinghy. They knew she was big, but relative to the life rafts she was huge!
‘The helicopter has you on its radar and has changed course to investigate - the Harrier is shadowing,’ came the message from the Nimrod. ‘Captain, you have less than six minutes before the helicopter has you on visual.’
Rafi sensed the tension in the room. It was going to be a close-run thing.
In a flurry of activity, a squad of naval ratings descended on the two life rafts and the dinghy. The ratings and three of the special service men hauled the eight uncooperative captives out of the life rafts and manhandled them across the deck to the door at the bottom of the conning tower. They were followed by those from the inflatable dinghy. Meanwhile, Jim had slashed the buoyancy tanks of the dinghy and the life rafts and lashed them together, so that they would sink under the weight of the outboard engine.
The Nimrod was tracking the hostile helicopter and speaking to the submarine’s commanding officer. ‘You have ninety seconds before you’re in firing range. The Harrier has taken up a position above and behind the helicopter and continues to shadow her.’
As Jim hurried through the conning tower door, the command, ‘Secure hatches!’ rang out.
With seconds to spare, the submarine commenced her dive into obscurity and vanished from the radar screens.
Meanwhile, the Harrier and the helicopter pilots were in conversation.
‘The possible vessel has disappeared,’ advised the Harrier pilot. ‘I suggest we call it a day.’
‘We give it, say, ten minutes and we return to base?
Yes?’
‘Affirmative,’ came the Harrier pilot’s reply.
Over the speaker Rafi heard, ‘All eight terrorists and all eight service personnel safely picked up. Diving and going into silent mode. Will speak later; ETA Devonport in forty-eight hours.’
‘Bravo Zulu, out.’ A cheer went up. A sense of relief filled the air. The submarine was heading back to Plymouth with its cargo safely on board.
The Chancellor was still going strong. He had been going through the contents of the orange folder in front of him and was explaining how the Government proposed to improve the transparency of corporate ownership, and how it was going to remove the tax deductibility of losses and associated costs incurred by those speculating on naked options. Rafi didn’t catch precisely what he was explaining, but from the attentive nature of the faces around him he was still having the impact of a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat. His audience was enthralled.
Meanwhile in Luxembourg, as soon as Golden Sundancer had reached international waters, Giles gave the signal to the local police team. The gendarmerie was waiting outside Maryam’s offices. Her arrest had been authorised by the Chief of the Luxembourg police. The evidence he had been shown was overwhelming and, off the record, he had agreed that a trial in London with the other three terrorists would be the simplest solution. Neither spoke of extradition. A British SWAT team, including a couple of SAS operatives, was standing by.
When the knock at the door came, Maryam was found entertaining a group of EU politicians in her boardroom. Their lunch had stretched right through the afternoon. For her part, she was celebrating.
LATENT HAZARD: On the Edge Page 37
