SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’
‘What the fuck?’ the aircrewman protested on the intercom. ‘Boss, that fucking idiot’s just attached the lifting strap to one of the stanchions on the boat.’
‘He’s done what? Jesus. Has he got a radio?’
‘No. He ditched it when he put on the wetsuit.’
‘Watch him, then. What the hell’s he trying to do? And keep your hand on the cable-cutter, just in case.’
Medway, Kent
Richter looked up at the yellow bulk of the Sea King hovering above him, the massive down-wash from its rotor blades combining with the pitching and bucking of the boat to make it difficult for him to keep on his feet. Without a radio, he couldn’t explain what he was trying to achieve, so he’d have to rely on hand-signals and just hope the crew grasped his intentions.
Richter leant back against the rear of the cockpit and braced his legs. He extended his right arm horizontally, pointing out to starboard, and brought his left arm up in an arc over his head to point in the same direction. It was a standard signal used by a marshaller to indicate that a hovering helicopter should move over to starboard. Richter repeated it twice more.
SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’
‘He wants you to move to starboard, boss,’ the aircrew-man said. ‘OK. I think I see what he’s trying to do. He’s blown holes in the hull, so the boat’s shipping water on its right-hand side and he’s attached the winch cable to the left side of the cabin roof. He must be trying to capsize the boat.’
‘Why the hell doesn’t he just cut the engine or something? This is too fucking risky by far.’
‘I don’t think he can. That cockpit’s a mess of wires, so I think it’s probably got booby-traps all over it. This might be all he’s got left.’
‘This is never going to fucking well work,’ the pilot muttered, but he eased the control column gently to the right.
Medway, Kent
Richter watched as the Sea King began moving slowly to his right, while descending slightly, the winch cable hanging loose. He stepped forward a couple of paces and checked the GPS readout. The boat was less than half a mile from the wreck itself.
The helicopter was still moving slowly to his right, but then suddenly stopped, maintaining its position just on the starboard side of the boat.
Richter looked up, wondering what had changed.
SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’
‘Dave, watch the cable. Any problems, you cut it and we’re out of here.’
‘What’s wrong, boss?’
‘In this position I can’t see the boat, that’s what’s wrong. If this is going to work, I’m going to have to turn us round.’
Medway, Kent
Richter stared upwards, then suddenly guessed what the pilot intended to do.
Above him, the Sea King turned in its own length – in the strong prevailing wind, an impressive piece of flying in itself – and then began matching the boat’s sluggish forward speed, which meant the helicopter was flying backwards.
Richter could see the aircrewman begin tensioning the winch cable, the right-hand seat man looking down and obviously calling distances and angles.
The boat suddenly pitched bow-down. The winch cable snapped taut and Richter could feel the lurch as the turning force exerted by the cable started lifting the port side of the craft. The cockpit was now awash to a depth of about a foot, and the vessel had about a twenty-degree list to starboard, caused by the flooding of the buoyancy tanks on the right-hand side of the hull. It shouldn’t, he hoped, take too much to capsize it altogether.
SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’
‘Keep your eyes on that cable, Dave. I’m moving away now.’
‘Roger, boss.’
The pilot began easing the control column slightly to the left, away from the bouncing boat, trying to keep the winch cable reasonably taut and waiting for the right moment. He watched the waves, seeing how the seventeen-footer below rose and fell. He waited until a large swell passed under the boat, so that it began to roll even further over to starboard as the wave lifted its port side. That was the optimum moment.
He increased power slightly and moved the control column a little further to the left.
Medway, Kent
Richter felt the port side of the boat lift, and he moved over to the right-hand side of the cockpit, grasping a stanchion with both hands. Even as he did so, the combined effect of the damage he’d already caused, the wave passing under the boat and the lifting effect supplied by the helicopter achieved the result he’d been hoping for. With a suddenness that almost took him by surprise, the boat flipped, and his world instantly turned black as the craft rolled over on top of him.
SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’
‘It’s gone, boss,’ the aircrewman called out, simultaneously releasing the winch cable so that it hung slackly beneath the helicopter.
‘Roger that,’ the pilot replied, moving the Sea King back and to the right, until it was almost directly over the upturned boat.
‘Where the hell’s Richter?’
‘He went over with it.’
Medway, Kent
Richter had taken a deep breath as the boat rolled over, just before he sank beneath the waves, and he was now struggling under the craft, trying to find the end of the winch cable in the darkness. And he had to find it, because without the cable he had no way of getting back into the Sea King.
A heavy object struck him in the face, and he realized he was wrestling with the body of the dead Arab. He pushed the arm of the corpse aside and again began groping around in the dark. But the cable remained elusive.
He surfaced briefly in the upturned cockpit, where a pocket of air was trapped in one corner, breathed out, gulped in another lungful, then ducked under the surface again, feeling for the rail running along the top of the cabin. This time he found it and in the gloom he could just detect the yellowish shape of the lifting strap.
Richter grabbed it, ran his hand along it until he found the catch, then pressed it open. He released one of the ends of the strap, and pulled on the other. At first it came freely, then it stopped, jammed somewhere.
Conscious of his increasingly urgent need to breathe, Richter slid his hand down the length of the strap, feeling for the obstruction. Then he found it. The ring at the end of the strap had jammed vertically under the stanchion atop the cabin, but a quick tug freed it.
Keeping tight hold of the strap, Richter pushed himself down and away from the cockpit. Kicking out powerfully with his legs, he clawed his way to the surface.
SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’
‘There he is. About ten feet west of the hull. And he’s got hold of the cable. I can see the lifting strap.’
‘Roger. Get him inside as soon as you can.’
Medway, Kent
At the surface, Richter just trod water for a few seconds, getting his breath back. Then he clicked the loose end of the lifting strap onto the hook at the end of the winch cable and dropped the strap over his shoulders, settling it under his arms.
He looked up, checked all around him to ensure that the lifting cable hadn’t snagged on anything, gave a thumbs-up gesture then forced his arms down by his sides. The cable tightened almost immediately, and a moment later he was ten feet above the surface of the water and rising steadily.
As he began his ascent towards the hovering Sea King, the timer Hans Morschel had wired into the detonator circuit as a fail-safe had less than three minutes to run. And, battery-powered like the plastic explosive to which it was connected, its immersion in sea water would have no effect on it at all.
SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’
‘He’s safely in the aircraft, boss,’ the aircrewman reported on the intercom as he slid the side door closed and watched Richter walk across the rear section of the aircraft and peel off the wetsuit hood.
‘Roge
r that. Get a headset on him as soon as possible, will you?’
‘Any second now.’
Richter grabbed a towel, quickly dried his face and hair, then pulled on a headset.
‘Richter.’
‘Right, we’re heading back up the Medway Who do you want to talk to, and do you want me to pass on any messages for you?’
‘Yes, just while I get dressed, could you contact the Coastguard and give them the approximate course that overturned boat’s following. Warn them it’s loaded with explosives, and that they might find one dead body in the cockpit – unless it’s floated away by now.’
‘Who was he?’
‘No idea. He looked Middle Eastern, and the Koran in his pocket probably means these German terrorists did have a connection to al Qaeda after all. The boat will need specialist examination when they recover it, because the terrorists stuffed it with booby-traps as well. They’ll also have to—’
Richter broke off as a huge explosion rocked the Sea King.
‘What the fuck was that?’ he demanded. ‘Was that the boat?’
‘Wait.’
Richter braced himself against the side of the fuselage as the helicopter swept round in a hard starboard turn.
‘That,’ the pilot announced, once he’d stabilized the aircraft on a north-easterly heading, ‘was your boat, with the emphasis on the past tense. Something made the explosives on board detonate.’
‘Let me see,’ Richter muttered and threaded his way through to the back of the cockpit. Peering between the two pilots, he could see a huge circular area of disturbed water, small pieces of debris barely visible, and an expanding surface wave. Above the site of the explosion, an enormous spray of both smoke and water was slowly dispersing.
‘Could that cause the munitions on the Richard Montgomery to explode?’
‘I don’t know,’ Richter muttered. ‘It’s quite a long way from the wreck, so I hope not. But we’ll find out in just a few seconds.’
The pilot turned the Sea King again, back towards Sheppey, but kept it well clear of the wreck site. They watched as the wave created by the explosion washed over the half-submerged masts of the remains of the Liberty Ship. They were involuntarily holding their breath, but nothing further happened.
‘Good,’ Richter breathed. ‘I guess the detonation needed to be right on top of the wreck for this plan to work. There must have been a timer in the circuit as well as the GPS-triggered detonation system.’ Richter glanced at both pilots in turn. ‘I’m fucking glad you picked me up so quickly, otherwise I’d now be discussing my entry criteria with St Peter, and probably not doing all that well at it. Thanks, guys. I mean it.’
‘No problem. All part of the service. I’ll update that message to the Coastguards, then?’
‘Yes, please. Right, I’d better get dressed. Can you now head back towards London?’
‘You got it.’
Rochester, Kent
Both police officers were still alive but bleeding profusely from their wounds. Within seconds of the fire-fight finishing, one of them had gasped an urgent call for assistance into his personal radio. This roughly coincided with two panicky ‘999’ calls from marina staff – the manager using his mobile, and one of the secretaries on an office phone.
The marina staff did as much as they could, wrapping towels and anything else suitable they could find around the officers’ wounds to try to staunch the bleeding. The first two police cars arrived within twelve minutes, and the ambulance three minutes after that. Within half an hour the car park and lane outside were virtually full of official vehicles of various types, and for nearly twenty minutes now six officers had been gathered inside the office building taking statements from the handful of witnesses.
Their questioning had resulted in the release of an APB for a grey Mercedes on Austrian registration plates, with the caveat that the occupants were well armed and certainly dangerous.
SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’
‘There’s been a shooting,’ the pilot reported on the intercom. ‘At a marina just outside Rochester. Two police officers have been seriously injured, and the cops are searching for a grey Mercedes saloon, two up.’
‘I know who the bad guys are, or who one of them is, anyway. Right, can you patch me through to the Kent Police control room?’
‘Yes, we should be able to.’
‘And I don’t know exactly where we are now, but can you get us over to the Rochester area ASAP?’
‘No problem. We should be over the town itself in about three minutes.’
Thirty seconds later, Richter was talking on the phone to a constable at the Maidstone headquarters of the Kent Police Force.
‘And you are who, exactly?’ the officer asked.
‘I’m an armed intelligence officer overhead Rochester in a Royal Air Force helicopter and I want to be patched through to Detective Inspector Mason.’
‘I’m not sure that’s permitted.’
‘I’m not interested in what the rules and regulations say. Just do it. Bugger me about, constable, and I can make sure you end up pounding the beat for the rest of what passes for your career.’
‘Is that a threat, sir?’
‘More of a promise, really, so just get on with it.’
‘I’ll be reporting this to my superiors.’
‘Be my guest, but just get a fucking move on.’
Ten seconds later, Richter heard Mason’s voice in his headset.
‘This is Richter,’ he said. ‘Give me a SITREP, please.’
‘Right, we’ve got two officers down, badly wounded but both should survive, thanks to their vests. They were running a check at a marina just outside Rochester, and two men were just leaving one of the pontoons. The officers called out for them to stop so they could question them, but instead the men opened up with submachine guns. Then they drove off in a grey Mercedes. We’re assuming one of them must have been Hans Morschel.’
‘Certainly makes sense,’ Richter said. ‘Which way did they go? I’m in a chopper right now, so give me a direction, and we’ll run a search.’
‘We’ve no idea, because nobody saw which way they turned. There are two motorways and a couple of trunk roads nearby, so they could be heading in almost any direction except north, because that’s a dead end. My guess is that they’ll either try to lose themselves in London or blast straight down to Dover or one of the other Channel ports. We’re trying to cover everything now.’
‘Morschel’s not stupid, and he’ll have an escape route already planned. My guess is he’ll either have a clean car stashed somewhere, or maybe even another boat, so there’s a good chance we won’t find him. It’ll probably be a complete waste of time, but we’ll check the coast-bound motorways and see if we can spot him.’
‘Thanks. We’ll keep this line open, just in case.’
Chapter Nineteen
Monday
SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’
‘Sorry, but that’s about it. Our fuel state means we’ve got to cut this off now, unless you want to come back to Wattisham with us.’
‘An attractive offer, but no thanks,’ Richter said. ‘On the way, can you take me back to Hammersmith?’
‘Yes, I was already factoring that into the calculations. Same place, I suppose?’
‘Please.’
The chopper had systematically flown up and down the coast-bound roads, its crew searching for a grey Mercedes on Austrian plates, but without result.
‘Hang on a minute,’ Richter said, as the Sea King began a long turn to starboard. ‘I think we’re missing something here. We know what Morschel looks like, so whatever car he’s driving now there’s a good chance he’ll be recognized at whatever ferry port he chooses. I somehow don’t think he’d take the risk.’
‘What about a boat, then?’ the pilot suggested. ‘There are dozens of places where he could pick one up in Kent.’
Agreed, but my guess is that he’ll want to get out of
here as quickly as possible. Don’t forget, he’s left about twenty dead bodies behind him in London. In fact, I think he’ll want to fly out.’
‘You could be right, but which airport?’
‘How many are there in this area?’
‘Several, that’s the problem.’
‘OK,’ Richter said, ‘let’s try and narrow it down a bit. He won’t be flying commercial, so that eliminates places like London City and Gatwick, but wherever he’s chosen will most likely have a proper runway, not just a grass strip, because he couldn’t have been certain about the state of the weather. And it will be fairly close to Rochester, as he wouldn’t want to drive far with most of the Kent Constabulary out looking for him. You know the area better than I do, so what would be your choice?’
‘The closest is obviously Rochester itself, but that’s fairly busy – lots of microlights and stuff – so I’d guess Biggin Hill, or maybe Headcorn. Plus there’s Lydd, but that’s a bit too far away, right down by New Romney.’
‘Right, thanks. Don’t leave the area, though. If necessary, get some fuel at London City or Manston.’
Richter changed channels and opened the line to Mason again. ‘Richter. I’m only guessing, but I think Morschel will want to get out of here as quickly as possible. Can you check with the airfields at Biggin Hill, Headcorn, Rochester and Lydd and see if any of their aircraft are flight-planned for departure to France today, or specifically if any two men have booked a flight together, with or without a pilot.’
‘Got it,’ Mason replied. ‘Anything else?’
‘No. That’s about the only idea I’ve had. Any progress on the ground?’
‘Nothing yet. And, realistically, they could be almost anywhere by now. We’ll keep looking, obviously but I’m not hopeful.’
Kent
Morschel wasn’t heading for either London or the Channel ports: he had a very different destination in mind. He’d steered the Mercedes south down the A229 as far as Maidstone, then pulled the car into a multi-storey park on the northern outskirts of the town. He took a ticket at the entrance, waited for the barrier to lift, then drove up to the fourth-floor level. In one corner stood a dark-blue Jaguar on British plates, and Morschel slotted the Mercedes into an empty bay a few yards away.
Timebomb (Paul Richter) Page 33
