Timebomb
Page 33
Then a thought struck him. He couldn’t stop or turn the boat, but maybe he could sink it. Or at least slow it down.
He grabbed the Heckler and Koch, stepped across to the right-hand side of the cockpit and leant out as far as he could. Then he squeezed the trigger and sent a three-second burst of nine-millimetre shells smashing into the side of the fibreglass hull. That, he knew, wouldn’t be enough to actually sink it – boats of that type were stuffed full of buoyancy tanks and were virtually unsinkable – but if he could open up a hole in the side of the vessel it would start taking in water and veering to starboard.
The fibreglass disintegrated under this sledge-hammer assault and a ragged-edged gash, about a foot across, appeared in the hull of the boat right at the waterline. Grey-brown water began pouring in, and Richter could feel the boat start tipping slightly to starboard and lurching in the same direction under the increased drag from that side of the craft.
He leant over the rail again and repeated the assault with the MP5, about a metre behind the first hole.
He glanced back across the cockpit. The automatic pilot was already beginning to compensate, the wheel turning anti-clockwise to swing the boat back on course, but Richter could tell that the vessel had slowed perceptibly. Yet he also knew that he was only delaying the inevitable. The damage he’d inflicted on the hull of the craft had given it a pronounced list to starboard, and severely affected its ability to steer a straight course, but unless he could do more – a lot more – the autopilot would eventually succeed in manoeuvring the boat to its planned destination.
He had to do something else, something a lot more dramatic. He pointed the Heckler & Koch straight down and pulled the trigger again, repeating the punishing treatment on the floor of the cockpit. Wood splinters flew in all directions as the nine-millimetre rounds smashed through the duckboards, and only moments later water began flooding in. But the boat still wasn’t going to sink, and Richter knew that.
He had, he realized, only two options left. Either he blew one of the anti-tamper charges, which would probably disrupt the main explosive charges and wreck the boat – blowing him to pieces in the process – or find a way of sinking it and himself staying in one piece.
And he could only think of one way to achieve that. He stood up and looked around, searching for the helicopter. As soon as he saw it, he began waving both arms frantically.
SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’
The Sea King was still holding over Sheppey, basically circling Sheerness at a couple of thousand feet, the eyes of the crew fixed on the silently unfolding drama being played out a mile and a half offshore from the town’s seafront.
‘It’s turning away from the wreck, but really slowly. Wait one – he must have sorted it out. He’s waving for a pick up.’
‘Right,’ the pilot said. ‘Dave, get ready with the winch.’
The pilot eased the control column forward, turning onto an intercept course, and began to rapidly descend the aircraft back towards the sea.
Medway, Kent
Richter bent over the Arab’s body and searched it. He wasn’t surprised to find no wallet or any form of identification, but in one pocket of the man’s jacket he discovered a well-used copy of the Koran. That, also, was no surprise. He left the book where it was and looked around for the chopper.
The helicopter was now about a mile behind the boat, but in a steep descent, so Richter guessed it should be above him in about thirty seconds. He just hoped that would be enough time. He checked the cleats and rails around the cockpit and on top of the cabin, and then selected the grab-bar that ran along the port side of the cabin roof. That should be strong enough.
The boat was heading broadly north-east, away from Sheppey, and bouncing fairly violently in the waves. And, now that it was clear of the island and the sheltering effect of its landmass, the stiff breeze was very noticeable and the vessel was surrounded by white horses. The water it had already shipped, and the three holes blown through the hull, had markedly altered its handling characteristics, and the boat was lurching violently from side to side.
The helicopter came to a hover just off the port side of the bouncing craft, the winch cable and lifting strap already dangling below it. In the back of the Sea King, Richter could see the aircrewman guiding the cable down towards him. The end of the cable dipped into the water and then skimmed across the surface towards him and, as soon as the lifting strap reached the side of the boat, he reached out and grabbed it.
But instead of dropping the strap around his own body, Richter unclipped one end of it, slipped it under the cabin grab-bar and re-attached it to the clip on the end of the winch cable.
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 wet-suit.’
‘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 aircrewman 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 cou
ld 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 wet-suit hood.
‘Roger 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 onboard 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 Saint 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 staf
f 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.