The commander recalled that Morocco had signed up to the international convention. Their territorial waters ended twelve nautical miles from land. It was an easy calculation: fifteen minutes to freedom – then he could start to breathe a small sigh of relief.
‘Jim, what’s the position regarding the fighter planes, please? And also enquire about the weather – those clouds look like rain in the offing.’
The radio crackled; it was the control centre. ‘Are you receiving me, commander?’
‘Jim here,’ came the reply.
‘Tell the commander that you’ll shortly have company. A Mirage F1 fighter has been scrambled from Sidi Slimane Air Base some 235 nautical miles to your north-east.’
‘North-east,’ repeated the commander quietly. ‘Yes, I have it on the chart.’
‘We’ll advise when she’s airborne: ETA from take-off is eleven minutes. Radio traffic suggests that the pilot is in no hurry – the control tower is telling him to pull his finger out, but the plane hasn’t started taxiing to the runway as yet. And an old Northrop F-5E Tiger II has been scrambled from Meknes Airbase, 225 miles north-east of where you are – ETA from take-off is thirteen minutes. We’ll advise when airborne. Radio traffic from the control tower suggests that the plane is undertaking its final checks as we speak and could be airborne shortly. To add to your problems, there’s a Floréal class frigate at Casablanca. She’s received orders to put to sea and has on board a Eurocopter Panther. She’s 140 miles away. She’ll pose no problem unless she launches her paraffin pigeon which is armed for anti-surface and submarine warfare. You’ve potentially three bandits to avoid. We’re working on a plan.’
The commander reached over and took the microphone from Jim’s hand.
‘We’re heading due west from Safi harbour. We will reach international waters in . . .,’ he paused, looked at his watch, then continued, ‘in thirteen minutes forty-five seconds. Please advise the submarine to make her rendezvous point fifteen miles due west of Safi harbour. Please advise her ETA.’
It was unheard of for a Trident class nuclear submarine to surface in open water when there were potentially hostile aircraft around – and so close to another country’s territorial waters.
The commander surveyed the scene. He was having fun: Golden Sundancer was a joy to handle. His mind went into overdrive. He could clearly visualise in his mind’s eye where he was and where the three hostiles were going to be approaching from.
The radio crackled to life. ‘I’ve spoken to our pickup vessel; she’ll be at the rendezvous point in forty-six minutes. You asked about the weather – expect some rain showers.’
The commander looked at his watch. Yes, that should give him enough time so long as neither of the fighters got their act together and took off within the next three or four minutes. It was going to be a bloody close call. He called across to Jim, ‘Get me Clive and the two SAS chaps here; we need a council of war. Tell Lieutenant Steiner to see how many life rafts she can find and ask her to take them to the aft deck. And get Lieutenant Gregson to see if she can find an inflatable dinghy, an outboard, and some life jackets, and to put them on the aft deck as well.’
The commander spoke into the radio. ‘Do you have any news for us?’
‘Yes, as good planning would have it, they kept back one of the Harrier jump jets that flew you and your wife to Gibraltar. She’s fully armed and took off two minutes ago. Her ETA is forty-one minutes.’
‘Thank you,’ replied the commander. The seconds were ticking by.
The longer it was before the fighters took off, the better their chances. He could pick out dark rain-laden squalls in the distance. A small smile crept across his face.
The Chancellor was in sombre mood. He was explaining to the House the consequences of the terrorist attack at Stratford and was setting out his proposals to persuade the public and industry to make the best use of energy and to encourage the diversification of the UK’s energy resources.
‘I shall be announcing a range of tax incentives to encourage the production and use of efficient and renewable energy sources, and to progress carbon sink technology to enable coal-fired power stations to move to zero emissions . . .’
At this point, Rafi’s attention was pulled back to the big screen and the running commentary from the command centre.
Jim had returned to the flybridge with Clive and the two SAS men.
‘Right,’ said the commander, ‘we’ve got ourselves a spot of bother. Two Moroccan fighters have been scrambled to intercept us and a frigate with a Eurocopter on board is putting to sea. In the short term it’s the two fighters that concern me.’
The commander pointed at a spot on the map. ‘The Trident submarine will reach our rendezvous point here in forty-two minutes. The Moroccan Mirage could be there in nineteen minutes and an elderly Northrop Tiger should follow a couple of minutes later. That will leave us unprotected, with nowhere to hide, for around twenty minutes. How many life rafts do we have?’
‘Two five-people rafts,’ came the reply from Jim.
‘Excellent, get Lieutenant Gregson to inflate them and tell her to keep them tied down! Also, find out from Lieutenant Steiner what is happening with the search for the dinghy and the outboard.’
‘She’s found a twelve-foot inflatable with a ten horsepower outboard,’ called back Clive.
‘Perfect! Get it inflated and ready for sea – and make sure that the outboard has petrol in it,’ said the commander. He turned his attention to his charts. ‘We’ll reach international waters in five minutes. A couple of minutes later we should reach that weather front,’ he said, pointing to the black clouds over the bow. ‘Then we will launch the life rafts and I’ll change course and head north towards the two fighter jets.’
Clive raised his eyebrows.
The commander turned to the four special forces men around him. ‘Here is the plan. You’ve got seven minutes from now to get the terrorists into the life rafts. Jim, you and Lieutenant Gregson will remain on board with me and my wife. The rest of you will go with the terrorists in the rafts. Once the rafts are in the water, we’ll put as much distance between the rafts and the fighters as possible.’
The commander looked at Jim. ‘Have you got anything more in your bag of tricks?’
All the special service men nodded in unison.
‘Before I jump ship, could you wire up an explosive device, for which I can set the timing?’ asked the commander.
‘No problem,’ replied Clive.
‘Plus another bomb which can be detonated from the dinghy? And can you arrange for there to be a radio so that I can talk to the fighter pilots?’
‘No problem.’
‘Will one of you please disable the tracking devices in both life rafts and put a radio in each?’ ordered the commander.
‘Consider it done,’ said Jim.
‘As soon as the inflatable dinghy is ready we’ll launch her, abandon ship and leave Golden Sundancer on autopilot heading at top speed up the coast. We’ll come back in the inflatable and meet up with the two life rafts. If we can buy ourselves ten minutes before the first fighter spots Golden Sundancer she’ll put over eight miles between us and the fighters. Anything more is a bonus and will make it harder for them to find us.’
The commander’s wife called out, ‘Four minutes to international waters.’
The commander turned to Clive, ‘Time to get a move on.’
The four special servicemen ran down the steps to the lower deck to fetch the captives, who were bundled on to the floor of the rear deck.
‘The two Chechens, Chindriani, Hartnell, you and I,’ said Clive pointing to the nearest SAS man, ‘will go in one raft. The sheikh, Basel, Jameel, their captain, Lieutenant Steiner and the SAS major will go in the other.’
A minute and a half after they’d entered international waters, they reached the edge of the squall. The sea around them had darkened and the wind had strengthened – the telltale signs of looming heavy rain. Moments la
ter the downpour hit them. The commander brought the vessel to a stop.
The terrorists were manhandled quickly into one life raft, then the other and, with their guards safely on board, the rafts were cast off.
The commander pushed the throttles forward and in seconds Golden Sundancer was back planing majestically through the water.
Meanwhile, Lieutenant Gregson had the inflatable fully functional and Jim had rigged up two incendiary bombs.
‘We will leave the precise timing until we know the status of the fighter planes,’ said the commander.
‘Of course,’ replied Jim.
The radio crackled back into life. ‘The Northrop Tiger has completed its taxiing and is taking off as we speak. ETA thirteen minutes and counting.’
‘Right!’ shouted the commander. ‘Life jackets on. I’ll slow the boat down, let you get off, set the autopilot and come and join you.’
Jim looked at the commander. ‘Old man, you realise that falling into the “oggin” at fifty knots will feel like hitting wet concrete?’
‘Jim, get on your way and set the bomb to go off in twenty minutes. Your concern is noted,’ replied the commander.
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Throw me a life jacket and shout when you’re ready to leave ship.’
Seconds later came the call, ‘Ready to disembark.’
The commander eased the throttles back and she came to rest in the water. From the back of the flybridge he saw the three quickly and safely climb into the small inflatable dinghy and fire up the outboard engine. He picked up his small hand-held compass and tucked it into his trouser pocket, set the course on autopilot, pressed the throttles forward to the top of their red gauges, turned and bolted down the stairs, heading for the swimming platform.
The commander stood on the edge of the platform, watching the water churning at his feet, held his nose, knelt down and rolled slowly side first into the water. The compass in his pocket dug into his thigh as he hit the rushing water. He felt like a human skimming stone. There was darkness. The next thing he knew, he felt a strong pair of hands holding him as he gasped for breath. The inflatable dinghy was bobbing at his side in the pouring rain. Lieutenant Gregson and Jim, using his one good arm, grabbed him and dragged him on board. His wife put the small outboard into gear, turned the little dinghy and headed for the two life rafts.
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 on to 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’s 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 10%.’
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 and homes that are very comfortable to live in, but they 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 values 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.
‘I now turn to another fundamental problem with affordable housing and housing for our armed forces and their families. It is low cost. It provides small residential units, not family homes, and encourages building down to a price, which is environmentally unsound. We are racking 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 indexhold properties. They 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 and so logical, 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 purchase as the price will be significantly below the open market value. At this point, the indexhold interest will become available for sale to another key worker 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 envir
onmental 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 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. He listened as the Chancellor ran through an example of the significant benefits indexhold would bring to the family of a key worker with three children.
‘Let us consider this family who buy a city centre indexhold flat for £125,000. They live there for ten years and then decide to sell. How much extra will they get? That will depend upon the rate of inflation. Let us say that it has averaged 2.5% per annum – so their indexhold investment will have increased in value over the ten years by £35,011. This tax-free capital gain will have been immune from the shocks and vagaries of the housing market.’
He turned over a couple of pages. ‘As for single key workers, even those on modest salaries – health care assistants, for example – would be able to afford a good-sized one-bedroom indexhold flat in close proximity to where they work and still be left with a reasonable disposable income. At the heart of indexhold ownership is the ability to provide high quality housing, where it is needed, for those who serve the community.’
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