Latent Hazard

by Piers Venmore-Rowland

  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 partially facing away from the open door, yet 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.

  The two SAS men, who had been patiently watching the two of the four heavies standing in the shadows, spoke quietly to each other.

  ‘I can see my targets, but can’t get near them,’ said one SAS soldier.

  ‘Not much cover to help me either,’ said the other.

  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’s 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.

  The two SAS officers shifted their location to get a better line of sight of the two remaining minders, the helicopter and the walk across to Golden Sundancer.

  If they smelled a rat and tried to take off, the pilot would be their next target. They stayed hidden.

  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 far, far 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 his glass in the air and returned to his conversation with the ‘captain’.

  Anna and Janet stepped off Puddle Jumper and made their way back towards Golden Sundancer with the first aid box. They arrived at Golden Sundancer just before the group from the helicopter. Their flimsy flowing kaftans caught the eye of Jameel.

  The sheikh and the two bodyguards headed towards the gangway.

  One of the minders meanwhile turned to check where his colleagues were and, seeing them lying on the ground, let out a loud warning shout.

  The sheikh’s bodyguards turned with their guns raised to see what the commotion was.

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

  There was a spluttering of the silenced guns. The sheikh’s two bodyguards fell on the spot. Only seconds later, the two remaining heavies slumped to the ground. The helicopter pilot, sensing danger, fired up his engine, but wasn’t fast enough. The closest SAS soldier 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,’ said Clive, who was standing at the bottom of 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 slowly walked down the gangway towards him.

  ‘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 bitch,’ spat out the sheikh.

  Clive swung him round and tightly secured his hands 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 SAS opened fire. Jameel stood there, transfixed, watching as those around him fell to the ground. 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 eye. Either way, if you move you’re dead.’

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

  ‘Silence – or you leave here in a box.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

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

  Jim walked over to Anna. ‘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 message 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 and are set to escape out to sea. There has been shooting and killings; we are all in grave danger.’

  The pilot had started to repeat his message, facing away from the SAS man, when he heard the thump of the butt of his gun against the window. When he turned and looked down the barrel of his gun he stopped talking.

  ‘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 the SAS officer. ‘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 Golden Sundancer; check she has enough fuel and prepare her for immediate departure. Suggest you take your local charts with you and leave now.’

  Meanwhile, Jim, Anna and Janet had frogmarched the sheikh and Jameel on board. They were taken below, tied up and left in a cabin.

  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 Golden Sundancer.

  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 95% 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.

  Rafi looked at the clock on the wall. 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 of those associated with the terrorists could begin.

  As the PM stood aside to let the Chancellor rise and move to the dispatch box, Rafi noticed him whisper into the Chancellor’s ear. 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 the dispatch box. Rafi wondered what was in them.

  The polite silence continued for the Chancellor. Rafi sensed that the fireworks were being reserved for the questions after the Chancellor’s 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 shocked 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 . . .’

  The commander had reached Golden Sundancer – a big sister to Puddle Jumper. He bounded up on to her fly deck. ‘Phew!’ The ignition key was still in place.

  He turned the key and pressed the ignition buttons. The turbo diesels roared into life. He ran through the checks.

  He was talking to himself under his breath. ‘The auxiliary fuel tanks are both empty, but the main tank is probably good for 100, maybe 150 miles. That should be more than enough. This is going to be fun.’ He never dreamt that he would find such heavy duty power again. ‘It’s going to be like the Sabre class vessels; one hell of a way to feel young again!’

  He called across to Lieutenant Anna Gregson. ‘Cast off and stow the fore and aft springs – then man the bow line.’

  In the direction of Lieutenant Janet Steiner he shouted, ‘Prepare to stow the gangway. And Jim, man the stern line.’

  The commander saw the door to the harbour master’s office swing open. Clive and his SAS colleague were carrying the deadweight of the bear-like terrorist; they had an arm under each of his shoulders, leaving his feet to drag along the ground. They were doing something more than a trot, but they were still over 200 metres away. The commander did some mental arithmetic.

  The two SAS soldiers had handcuffed the helicopter pilot to his joystick and as a parting gesture fired a couple of bullets into the helicopter’s radio and fuel tank. For the time being at least the helicopter would be going nowhere. They then tidied up the bodies of the six bodyguards and left them sitting on the concrete with their guns on their laps.

  The commander called across to the two SAS officers. ‘Come and join us.’ He then shouted to Jim, ‘Move the stern painter to the starboard side and make certain it can run freely around the bollard on the quayside. Stand by the cleat until you receive further orders.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir. Runs freely,’ came the reply.

  ‘Lieutenant Gregson, check that the bow painter runs freely and prepare to cast off.’

  ‘Runs freely, sir.’

  The commander turned to his wife who was standing behind him. ‘Darling, would you please find a boat hook and when I say “Cast off bow”, push hard at the quayside wall and swing the bow out into the harbour?’

  He turned and looked astern. ‘Jim, when I call “Cast off bow”, let out three metres of mooring line – no more – and hold her until I say “Cast off stern”. Mind there are no knots to snag the rope and watch your fingers.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  In the distance there was the wailing of police sirens. They were getting closer. The two special services men were making good progress carrying the unconscious terrorist. They only had a few metres to go. The commander waited patiently for them to reach the gangway. Sergy was unceremoniously dragged on board by the SAS officer and Clive.

  The commander shouted, ‘Stow gangway, cast off bow, let out stern line and, darling, push!’ He then eased the control for the port engine forward and the starboard engine slightly into reverse. The boat, which was still secured to the quayside with a stern line to her starboard side, turned on a sixpence. At that moment he caught sight of the first police car. Moments later, the bow was facing the opposite side of the harbour and was swinging round to face out to sea.

  The commander called out, ‘Cast off stern!’

  Jim, thinking of his fingers and the taught rope, took out his razor-sharp knife and cut the lines secured to the rear stanchion. At that moment the commander pushed forward the throttles to both engines. The vessel was like a wild stallion that had been tied down and suddenly allowed to run free. With the engines roaring, the stern dug deep into the water. The commander by now had the throttles towards their maximum revs.

  The commander shouted, ‘Lieutenants: stow the fenders and prepare for sea.’

  The harbour water was like a millpond. Golden Sundancer, with the power of her two turbo engines propelling her forward, gracefully lifted her bow up out of the water and on to the plane.

  The commander looked over his shoulder and saw that the first police car was 150 metres away. Golden Sundancer was almost up to her cruising speed. He smiled. He was enjoying the feeling of the immense power beneath his feet.

  ‘I’ll give a prize,’ shouted out the commander, ‘to the first man or woman who can cause a distraction on the quayside. A car’s petrol tank perhaps? We want them to keep their heads down until we get out of range.’

  Clive passed Anna his rifle. ‘See if you can hit something.’

  With the skill of a trained professional, she picked up the rifle and loosed off a shot in the direction of the nearest police car. At that moment there was a huge explosion which ripped apart the nearest harbour building, followed by a second explosion further down the quayside. The quayside was torn apart and a plume of dark smoke erupted from the tall storage tank behind the buildings. The police car screeched to a halt and the policemen dived for cover.

  Clive shot a glance at the SAS soldier standing nearby and laughed. ‘Bloody good shooting!’ he exclaimed and gave Anna a firm pat on the back. Her bemused smile stretched from ear to ear.

  Hidden from view, in the palm of the of the SAS soldier’s hand, was a small radio-controlled transmitter which had set off the explosions. He grinned at Clive, ‘So nice, for once, to be properly prepared for a retreat.’

  The commander called down. ‘See if you can hole Puddle Jumper’s hull. She’s the next fastest vessel in the area and we don’t want her coming after us.’

  Anna and the two SAS soldiers trained their rifles on Puddle Jumper. Flecks of spray appeared along her waterline as the shots reached their ta
rget.

  The commander on the flybridge had the engine throttles forward to their maximum. He looked at the rev counters. The port engine had crept into the red. He eased it back to below the red and at the same time balanced the revs on the starboard engine. Golden Sundancer was making forty-nine knots. She was pure poetry in motion. He cast an eye over to the chart which he had been studying carefully earlier in the day. The channel posed few problems. Phase one was complete. It was time for phase two: getting out of Moroccan territorial waters, into the freedom of international waters and on to the rendezvous with the submarine twenty miles off the coast.

  Jim, who had climbed up on to the flybridge, called out, ‘Permission to come on to the bridge, commander,’ as he climbed the last step.

  The commander turned around. ‘Yes. Jim, could you sort out the radio? I need to find out from command centre what the incoming Moroccan Air Force is up to. In a few minutes we’ll be in open water. I need to know which direction they’re approaching from.’

  Jim sat down next to the radio and changed the settings.

  ‘Here you are, commander.’

  ‘It’s all yours Jim; I’ve the charts to work on.’ The commander called down to his wife. ‘Darling, could you come up to the flybridge?’ She bounced up the stairs like a young rating and he gave her some instructions: ‘Right, your task is to steer a course of due west and to keep an eye on the two rev counters, the temperature and oil pressure dials. Anything untoward, please shout! We’re making straight for international waters.’

  The swell in the Atlantic Ocean had eased and the waves, though several metres tall, were long and well spaced out. Golden Sundancer was creaming through the sea; being light on fuel helped. These were the type of conditions on which she thrived. She looked and felt spectacular – like a thoroughbred. The commander’s wife delicately adjusted the throttle, applying a little more power, lifting the revs to a fine whisker below the red. The roar decreased a few decibels as she eased back the throttle to a point where the pitch of the engines sounded pleasing and not laboured. They were doing a very respectable forty-eight knots.