Timebomb

by Timebomb (retail) (epub)

  ‘Wait.’

  There was silence for a few seconds, then Mason heard a few clicks and beeps and then, with no ringing tone or anything else, Richter’s voice was loud in his ear, albeit against a loud throbbing noise in the background.

  ‘This is DI Mason. Where are you?’

  ‘In an Air Force chopper over Sheppey right now, and we’re fairly busy. Is this important?’

  ‘It might be. We’ve been running checks on the Medway boatyards, and we might have a hit. A German named Heinrich bought a boat for cash from a local marina. I’m looking at pictures of it right now.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ Richter said. ‘Give me the description.’

  ‘It’s blue and white, seventeen feet long with a small cabin, and it’s powered by a hefty outboard motor. Does that help?’

  ‘It might,’ Richter said. ‘We’re starting our search just north of Sheppey right now, so thanks for that.’

  ‘Right,’ Mason said, ‘and it’s probably a bit late now, but this man Morschel has probably fitted Austrian plates on the Mercedes.’

  ‘OK. I’ll amend the watch order for him – that’s if we ever manage to find this fucking boat.’

  SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’

  Richter glanced at his watch. If the hydrodynamicist had got it right, the optimum time for the explosion to be triggered was either at, or very shortly before, high tide, when the natural flow of water up the Thames Estuary towards London would assist the progress of the tsunami it created. And high tide was in just under thirty minutes.

  The description of the boat forwarded by Mason was proving less useful than Richter had hoped, because blue and white now appeared to be the commonest colours boat manufacturers used. Almost every vessel they’d spotted so far had that kind of colour scheme, though in varying shades of blue, which might be one good reason Morschel had picked it.

  And what they’d all failed to spot so far were two boats obviously proceeding in close company, or even a pair heading in roughly the same direction. That suggested either his theory was completely wrong, and that Morschel had found some other way of triggering the detonation, or they might be looking at a suicide mission with a single volunteer prepared to stay on the boat all the way to oblivion.

  ‘Right, there’s nothing vaguely close to the wreck right now,’ the pilot announced, ‘but we can see about a dozen small boats heading out of the mouth of the Medway.’

  ‘All of them blue and white, I suppose?’ Richter asked irritably.

  ‘Not all of them, no. There are a few other colours, but blue and white does seem to be this season’s favourite combination.’

  ‘I guess we could apply a bit of filtering here. We can probably eliminate all those obviously carrying family parties, unless they’re being held at gunpoint – which is an unlikely scenario in my opinion. So keep your eyes open for those boats with only a single person in the cockpit. And if you see a boat with nobody in the cockpit, that’s the one.’

  ‘Copied. OK, we’re in the drop now. I’ll fly alongside each boat as close as I can without the risk of swamping them, which means holding about fifty yards off. I’ll manoeuvre the aircraft to the left of each vessel, so you’ll have the best possible view of it, and I’ll hold it there for about five seconds, unless you instruct me otherwise. Would that be satisfactory?’

  ‘Excellent, thanks.’

  As the Sea King descended towards the grey and hostile-looking waters of the entrance to the Medway, Richter checked the SPAS-12 and the MP5 one last time.

  Medway, Kent

  Badri hadn’t been lying about his previous boating experience but he had, to borrow the phrase made famous by a senior British politician, been economical with the truth. He had indeed handled small craft on numerous occasions, but almost always in rivers or lakes. His few experiences of open-water sailing had been notably unpleasant because he found himself suffering from chronic sea-sickness and, within minutes of Morschel leaving the boat, he’d already begun to feel nauseous.

  As the boat, still navigated and controlled by the GPS and automatic pilot, reached the much rougher waters at the mouth of the Medway, Badri’s head was pounding and he felt ready to vomit. He huddled miserably on the curved bench that ran around the stern of the boat, fixing his eyes on the far horizon and trying to control the turmoil in his stomach. The boat kept bouncing quite violently as it butted through the waves at the mouth of the Medway, the pitching and twisting motion exacerbated by the lack of a helmsman able to anticipate the incoming waves.

  At least, Badri reflected, his torment would be over within a few minutes. The fact of the sea getting rougher meant the boat was leaving the shelter of the river, and that must mean the wreck should be almost in sight. That was his hope, at least, but right then he felt too ill to stand up and take a look out of the cockpit to check.

  For some time he’d been aware of the noise of an aircraft. A large yellow-painted helicopter had been flying around the area, obviously searching for something, but Badri hadn’t been able to pay it much attention. But now he noticed it descending close to sea level, approaching a small power boat about half a mile in front of him. Perhaps somebody on board was ill and the chopper had been sent to rescue them.

  Despite his nausea, Badri stood up and staggered to the control panel, seizing one of the grab-bars beside the wheel – Morschel had strongly warned him against touching the wheel itself – so he could get a better view.

  Whatever was happening, he soon realized it wasn’t a rescue, simply because the aircraft wasn’t getting close enough to the power boat to winch anybody off. Even as he watched, he saw the helicopter lift away from the hover and begin to accelerate.

  But then he saw the aircraft repeat this action, descending to a hover close to another vessel, and there was only one conclusion he could draw. They were systematically checking the boats, looking for something – or perhaps for someone.

  For a few seconds Badri just stood there, his seasickness rapidly diminishing in importance as he guessed exactly what the men in the helicopter were searching for. He bent down, picked up the MP5 and first made sure that the magazine was firmly home, and then checked that the other magazines were fully loaded and ready to hand.

  There was a good chance that he’d be able to get pretty close to the wreck before the search team in the helicopter realized he was their quarry. And, even if they did close up on his boat to check him out, the Heckler and Koch should be all he needed to persuade them to back off. One of the things Badri had always found baffling about both the British police and their security services was that, although battling criminals who carried arms as a matter of course, their own personnel were almost invariably unarmed. Whoever was in the helicopter, he guessed they might have a couple of pistols between them at most.

  He now remained standing by the wheel, watching the helicopter’s activities carefully. The search routine its crew was employing seemed simple enough, and fortunately the aircraft seemed to be gradually moving further away from him.

  Badri checked the display on the GPS unit and noted with satisfaction that he only had about another three miles to go. Within a matter of minutes, neither the searching helicopter nor anything else was going to matter.

  SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’

  ‘Talk about finding a needle in a sodding haystack,’ Richter muttered, standing by the open side door of the Sea King and staring at yet another blue and white power boat hammering through the waves a safe fifty metres away. The couple in the cockpit stood waving and grinning like idiots.

  ‘I’ve got a suggestion,’ the pilot said.

  ‘I’ll listen to anything constructive.’

  ‘If you’re right, and somewhere among this lot is a boat with a bomb on board, finding it this way is a bit hit-and-miss. Almost any of the boats heading out of the Medway could be the one we’re looking for and, just because there are several people in the cockpit waving at us doesn’t mean th
ey aren’t the bombers.’

  ‘Agreed, though I think that’s less likely. So?’

  ‘If this plan is going to work, the vessel’s going to have to get pretty close to the wreck before the perpetrators fire the IED. So instead of chasing round here looking at boats in the Medway, why don’t we wait out in the estuary itself, near the wreck, and intercept any vessel trying to get anywhere near it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Richter said, ‘that sounds more sensible than poncing about here. Let’s do one more quick sweep round the Medway, just in case we spot anything interesting, then head out to the Richard Montgomery. You’re still watching the site on radar?’

  ‘Yes. There are no vessels within about half a mile of the exclusion zone, and no sign of anything heading towards it.’

  Medway, Kent

  Something had changed, Badri realized.

  The helicopter had climbed out of the hover, but instead of again descending to sea level, it had continued up to about five hundred feet and then swung right in a long sweeping turn.

  Perhaps it was leaving the area altogether, Badri wondered, still watching it carefully. But his hopes were dashed when the pilot continued the turn until the aircraft was heading in more or less the same direction as he was, and out into the estuary.

  And then he saw it start descending, apparently aiming for a position somewhere near his boat.

  SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’

  ‘Take us down,’ Richter said, peering through his binoculars. ‘The blue and white boat that’s almost dead ahead.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just one thing – there’s a lone male in the cockpit, but it looks to me as if he’s holding onto a grab handle, not the wheel.’

  ‘He could be using an autopilot.’

  ‘Exactly, but why? In these choppy conditions, every other skipper we’ve seen has been driving the boat himself, trying to minimize the effect of the waves. And why would he need to use an autopilot here, virtually at the mouth of the Medway, where he’d have to keep making course changes to avoid other boats and keep clear of navigation hazards?’

  ‘Granted. And there’s something else. The other boats have all been avoiding the exclusion zone by a significant distance, yet this guy’s just altered course slightly so he’s now heading straight for the edge of the zone.’

  ‘Right, that’s got to be him, then.’

  As the Sea King began to lose height, Richter picked up the MP5 and checked it once again, an automatic reaction.

  ‘How do you want to play this?’ the pilot asked.

  ‘By ear, I suppose.’

  ‘You were once a pilot, so I don’t need to remind you that a helicopter is a delicate piece of kit. If bullets start flying around, we’re out of here.’

  Richter looked through his binoculars again at the boat, now probably only a couple of hundred yards in front of the Sea King. He was increasingly certain that the man in the cockpit was simply standing by the controls, touching none of them, yet the wheel was moving back and forth to maintain the correct heading, so obviously some kind of autopilot was in use.

  His gut feeling was that they’d found the right boat, but what the pilot had just said was true – helicopters were fragile machines – and Richter was concerned that the man in the boat might well open up with a Kalashnikov or some other automatic weapon. If the boat was stuffed with Semtex, he’d be very surprised if there weren’t one or two assault rifles on board as well. If their suspect got lucky and hit something vital on the King, that might be the end of the matter.

  There had to be another way.

  Richter carefully studied the layout of the boat through his binoculars. The open cockpit was positioned at the stern, and directly in front was the small cabin. Beyond that, at the bow, was a small area of flat decking surrounded by a low guard rail. As far as he could see, the fore deck was invisible from the cockpit unless the skipper leant out on one side or the other and peered around the structure of the cabin. That had to be the optimum approach, therefore, and from the starboard side of the boat, too, as the controls in the cockpit were located on the port side, where the man was now standing.

  Richter glanced around the rear of the helicopter, and spotted what he needed lying at the back. ‘Change of plan,’ he said quickly. ‘Ignore the boat. Just fly past it and come to a hover about a quarter of a mile in front, over open water.’

  ‘What are you intending to do?’

  ‘I’m going to try and sneak up on him,’ Richter said, then explained exactly what he had in mind.

  ‘That’s madness,’ the pilot protested.

  ‘Not necessarily, and the only alternative is to end up with a shooting match out here on the Medway, with bullets flying in all directions. Anyway, it has to be my decision, so let’s do it. Just remember to pick me up afterwards.’

  With the help of the aircrewman, Richter swiftly pulled off the immersion suit and stripped down to his underwear, then pulled on the wetsuit he’d noticed at the rear. It was a little tight, but that wouldn’t matter, and there was a waterproof pouch attached to the back of the weight-belt which was just big enough to hold the Browning. The shotgun and MP5 were useless for what he planned, and would stay in the helicopter. Fins, mask, and diving knife completed the outfit.

  ‘You ready back there?’ the pilot asked.

  But Richter was already off intercom, waiting by the door and staring at the uninviting grey sea below.

  The aircrewman tapped him on the shoulder, and received a thumbs-up in return. ‘We’re ready,’ he announced.

  ‘Roger. We have to get the timing right, so make sure Richter’s ready the moment I give the word.’

  The Sea King descended to a low hover, turned so that its port side faced the suspect boat, still some five hundred yards away, then dipped even lower, holding a mere four or five feet above the surface, and began moving forward slowly, the left-hand-seat man watching the boat very carefully.

  The downwash from the massive rotors churned the surface of the water and, more importantly for Richter, it was also throwing up a fine mist of spray that surrounded the aircraft and the sea directly below it. It was a mist almost impossible to see through.

  ‘Nearly there. Fifty yards … Thirty … Twenty.’

  ‘Ten seconds. Get ready there in the back, Dave.’

  ‘On the bow now, now, now.’

  ‘Dave, go.’

  In the rear compartment, the aircrewman slapped Richter on the back, and he instantly stepped out of the starboard-side door, his legs held together, and plummeted straight down into the water.

  ‘He’s gone, boss,’ the aircrewman reported.

  ‘Roger,’ the pilot acknowledged, and he immediately broke the aircraft out of the low hover and climbed away.

  Medway, Kent

  Badri was now beginning to breathe a little easier. The helicopter had shot past him, the crew clearly taking no interest in him whatsoever. The chopper had merely dropped down almost to the surface about five hundred yards ahead, and then climbed away almost immediately. Maybe the crew weren’t searching for him, and were perhaps on some kind of training exercise.

  As the aircraft circled round to the east of his vessel, Badri continued to watch it because there was nothing much else to watch. There were no other boats near him, now that he was well clear of the coast. The Sea King flew almost a complete circle around him, and then came to a hover a couple of hundred yards off his port beam. As he watched, an orange harness was lowered slowly towards the water on a winch cable, then equally slowly raised. The helicopter moved forward about fifty yards and the manoeuvre was repeated.

  Quite clearly the crew were just carrying out some very basic rescue exercises, and the route his boat was taking simply gave him a ringside view.

  And that was actually the intention. The winching exercises were being performed for one purpose only: to keep his attention on the helicopter and avoid him looking directly ahead. And the reason for that was n
ow in the dark water only a hundred yards or so in front of him.

  As Richter hit the water, the cold made him gasp in shock, but the wetsuit trapped a thin layer of water that his body heat would quickly warm up, so he knew his discomfort was only going to be temporary.

  The Sea King climbed out of the hover with an increased roar from the jet engines and a thudding sound as the massive rotor blades clawed the air, the downwash churning the water into a maelstrom all around him. In seconds, the helicopter was moving away, and Richter looked cautiously back towards the boat he’d identified shortly before. There were no other vessels particularly close and he could see it quite clearly, the white ‘dog’s bone’ of the bow-wave getting more obvious as it headed straight towards him.

  The strategy he’d decided on was risky, without question, and one-shot. If this failed, the only alternative was to get back into the Sea King and then try to take out the boat’s skipper using the Heckler & Koch. He had no illusions about how difficult that might be, firing a submachine-gun from an unstable airborne platform against a small boat bouncing around in a choppy sea. Add the ever-present risk of a stray slug detonating whatever explosives were stashed on the boat, and the near-certainty that the man onboard would be firing back at him with an automatic weapon, and that definitely made it the less attractive of the two options.

  Not that his present plan was risk-free – far from it. If the boat changed course more than a few degrees, or even accelerated significantly, he’d never be able to catch up with it. Success or failure hinged on the fact that, if the boat’s route out towards the wreck of the Richard Montgomery had been programmed into the automatic pilot, it would probably consist of a series of straight lines linking way-points. They’d already noticed a slight course change from the helicopter, and Richter was gambling on the likelihood that the next alteration would be the final one, and thereafter the boat would head straight for the wreck from the edge of the exclusion zone. Until that point, he hoped, the boat would continue directly towards him.