Meltdown

by Andy McNab

  Kubara went over to talk with one of the heliport officials and they were left with Storm, under the ever-watchful eyes of the bodyguard.

  She was gazing back towards the shoreline.

  Teddy went to stand beside her. 'Are you going to explain?' he asked quietly.

  Storm shrugged her shoulders. 'Is there any point?'

  Teddy was suddenly angry. 'Of course there is! You led us into this trap.'

  'You brought this on yourselves; you're hardly a couple of innocent victims.'

  'You made fools of us,' said Will, glaring back at her.

  Storm laughed. 'It wasn't difficult.'

  The insults no longer bothered Teddy, but there was something more he needed to know. 'I still don't understand. How can he be your father?'

  The hardness went from Storm's eyes. 'My mother was in Bosnia as a volunteer, working for a relief organization. She met my father and they fell in love and got married. She gave up everything to be with him.'

  She gazed out at the dark sea. 'When my mother became pregnant, they thought she would be safer in his home village. And she was, for a while. My father was away fighting when I was born. Then the village was attacked, my mother was killed and . . .' She fell silent for a moment. 'A few people escaped. My aunt smuggled me away and we hid in the hills. I was two years old when my father found me again.'

  'But he sent you to school in England,' said Will. 'If he hates the British so much, why did he do that?'

  'Because it was safe. Because he wanted me to have a good education. Because he wanted to use the British system, take everything it had to offer. Because one day he knew that the sort of opportunity that you two presented was bound to come along. And he was right. My father is always right.'

  Before the twins could say any more, Kubara came striding back towards them. He had caught the tail end of their conversation. 'So now you know the whole story,' he said. 'Good, I'm glad. Come, we are leaving.'

  *

  HMS Cornwall, a type 22 frigate, was cruising in the north Mediterranean after a goodwill visit to the deep-water port at Villefranche in France.

  It was all routine stuff: flying the flag, maintaining the entente cordiale between Britain and its nearest neighbour.

  But now the crew was standing by to carry out an operation that was not routine: a hot refuel in the dark on a helicopter they were unfamiliar with.

  The darkness was no problem; the vessel was fitted with powerful lights for just such a situation. The frigate's own Lynx helicopter had been returned to its hangar, and the landing opal at the rear of the warship was ready to receive its new visitor.

  The sea was calm and there was no reason to think that the operation wouldn't proceed smoothly. But when the crew spotted the lights of the Cougar as it descended towards the ship, there was an understandable air of tension around the landing opal. Everyone had a job to do and nobody wanted to be the one person who cocked up.

  A hot refuel involves an aircraft being refuelled while the crew and passengers are still on board and the rotors turning. If it works efficiently, it can be completed in a matter of minutes, and the crew of HMS Cornwall were intending to make sure it worked efficiently.

  Hot refuels are usually carried out when a helicopter is on an operation, ferrying troops to a target. The helicopter may have a range of 200K, but the target could be 400K away. In these situations, larger helis carrying fuel bladders move forward to isolated areas en route and become mobile filling stations.

  On a ship, the operation is more complex, with little room for error from either the refuelling team or the helicopter pilot.

  Inside the Cougar, Danny was feeling a lot better after grabbing some sleep. He watched in amazement as the heli sank lower and touched down perfectly.

  Instantly, crew members appeared on the deck; they were dressed in dark-blue flame-resistant overalls and white face hoods and looked more like members of a Formula One refuelling team than sailors. They ran out and slid blocks behind the Cougar's wheels so that it remained stable. At the same time more seamen were dragging the heavy refuelling pipe across to the heli, along with the thick length of wire that connected the aircraft to the ship so that the helicopter was earthed. Without that, a single spark could lead to a catastrophic explosion.

  The moment the helicopter landed, the loadie, who was in the back of the aircraft with the team, pulled back both doors at the rear of the Cougar so that he could check that everything was in place while the refuel was carried out. A cable running into his helmet linked his intercom with the pilot's.

  And throughout the operation, a crew member stood in front of the helicopter so that the pilot and co-pilot could see him. His arms were crossed: this signalled that the pilot should keep the aircraft exactly where it was. The operation was not finished.

  It all meant that the pilots were getting two independent lots of information on what was happening, visual and verbal, as the loadie made his constant progress reports.

  As a final safety measure, the side doors were kept open so that the passengers could make a quick exit in case of fire.

  The noise was deafening and the smell of aviation fuel was overpowering. The heat of the two engines made the interior of the Cougar feel like a furnace. Danny watched the refuelling team move around the aircraft like ants as the ship moved up and down in the swell.

  He looked at his grandfather and saw that he seemed to be lost in thought. Danny tapped him on the shoulder. 'Amazing!' he shouted, nodding at the men rushing around the heli.

  'What?'

  'This! The refuel!'

  'Oh. Oh yeah . . . I was just remembering something. Did I ever tell you about Binsy?'

  'Who?'

  'Binsy Murray!' Fergus was having to shout.

  'Binsy?' asked Danny.

  'Bins – you know, binoculars. Bloke I was in the Regiment with. We called him Binsy 'cos he wore these thick bottle-top glasses. It was during the Falklands War – we were on a frigate waiting for a heli pick-up!'

  Danny shook his head, wondering why his grandfather was telling him a story at a moment like this. And then he realized that Fergus was looking nervous and he understood exactly what was going on. The only time Fergus showed fear of any sort was when he was on a vessel – boat, ship, big or small, he just didn't like them.

  'What happened?'

  'Well, me and Binsy are walking towards this Scout helicopter when these two Argentine jets come in fast and really low, trying to bomb the Brit ships. They'd already sunk a couple that way.'

  'Did they hit you?' Danny was looking interested, and he was, but he was also keeping his grandfather's thoughts off the ship rolling beneath them.

  'No, they missed us that time. Anyway, our ship's right in the middle of the fleet – anti-aircraft guns start banging off and everyone dives for cover, including me. But not Binsy. He stands there with his general-purpose machine gun and fires off a complete two-hundred-round belt of ammunition at the jets. Got nowhere near them, but it made him feel better.'

  Fergus glanced out towards the deck: the refuel was over and the earthing wire had been disconnected; the refuelling team was moving away.

  'So, anyway, four days later, when we get back from our mission on the main island, there's a signal from the navy's fleet chief. He's thanking Binsy for having a go but asking him not to do it again,'

  'Why was that?' Danny asked.

  'He's missed the planes, but his rounds hit our own ships! The bloke was more of a threat to the fleet than the whole Argentine air force!'

  Danny laughed as he looked out through the Cougar's open doors.

  The wheel blocks had been removed and as the loadie reported what was happening to the pilot, the guy in front of the helicopter double-checked that everyone was safe before uncrossing his arms and stretching them skywards.

  The Cougar's doors were closed and the helicopter took off in a burst of power.

  'Great story, Granddad!' shouted Danny.

  Fergus nodded
and smiled and then settled back in his seat. He would never like ships, even Royal Navy ships.

  38

  Waiting and watching, being patient, was part of the job, but Phil's patience was being tested to the limit.

  He watched a huge truck, just one up, drive slowly into the old hangar. The doors didn't close afterwards. The reason became apparent less than a minute later when a second truck, two up and pulling what appeared to be an identical trailer, appeared and also drove into the hangar.

  This time the doors did slide shut. Phil waited; he was far too experienced to go rushing in. It was fortunate that he was. A few minutes later one of the doors slid open a little and two men came out, closing it behind them.

  They didn't seem to be on stag; they were far too casual. Phil guessed that maybe they were the truck drivers, come out to stretch their legs. Or maybe they just weren't needed for whatever was going on inside the hangar at that moment and would be called on later. Whoever they were, they were stopping phil from doing what he had to do.

  The hangar was built from solid concrete, designed to take a direct hit from a wartime bomb. There were no windows to look through, just the massive sliding doors at the front and a single metal door at the back.

  Phil had made a sortie towards the back and had spotted the door, but before he got much closer a couple of dogs started barking and howling. He saw the police dog vans and swiftly moved back to the cover of his own vehicle, knowing that his only option now was to check out what was going on from the front of the hangar. If only the two goons standing outside would give him a chance.

  He couldn't hear what they were saying – they were too far away. All he could see was dim outlines and the occasional flare of a lighter followed by the glow of cigarettes as they chain-smoked.

  Phil was considering giving the rear door a second go, taking a chance on slipping past the dogs without setting them off again. Then he saw a chink of light as one of the two front doors slid open a little. The two guys disappeared through the gap and the door was pushed shut again.

  The waiting was almost over, but Phil gave it another ten minutes before slowly working his way out behind his car until he was far enough away from the target to cross the open expanse of the runway.

  He sprinted over and took cover behind the fence protecting rows of rental vans and lorries. Slowly he edged his way towards the target, avoiding making any noise at all for fear of sparking up the dogs again.

  He reached the hangar, knowing that his only option was to peer through the small gap where the massive sliding doors met at ground level. He got down and pushed an eye up against the gap – and saw all that he needed to see.

  The Mini was parked near the doors, but what Phil saw at the rear of the hangar was far more interesting. The two trucks were backed against each other with their sides down. They were full of machinery, and in each truck a figure in a white coat was moving up and down, checking and testing. Phil didn't know exactly what he was looking at but it didn't matter. It was all clear enough – Freddie was in one of the trucks, walking around like some absent-minded professor.

  The boys were in there making Meltdown.

  'Clever,' breathed Phil. 'Very, very clever.'

  39

  'I want to speak to the Prime Minister. Now.'

  Dudley wasn't messing around. He needed to take action and he needed to take it fast, and that meant getting the go-ahead for a second time from the Prime Minister himself.

  The PM was actually in New York for a conference on global warming. Now that Dudley knew the location of the DMP, he planned to do a little global warming of his own, in a very specific area north of Manchester.

  A voice came back on the telephone. 'Connecting you to the PM now, sir.'

  Three seconds later, a much more familiar voice came on the line. 'Yes, Dudley.'

  They didn't waste time with 'good evening's or 'how are you's. Swiftly Dudley explained the situation and made his request.

  The Prime Minister's official work for the day was over, but he wasn't sitting back taking it easy. And he wasn't alone. There were private secretaries and advisers listening in through a speaker to what Dudley had to say.

  Only when Dudley had given all the details and made his request for permission to 'Go' did the PM speak again. 'One moment, please?'

  The line went dead. Dudley knew that the PM was discussing the operation. His advisers wouldn't be happy about using special forces on UK soil again. The old airstrip was closer to the third party than the abandoned warehouse in Glasgow. If the news leaked out, the media would have a field day, particularly if the operation went wrong. The PM could even be accused of turning the UK into a military state.

  But he knew the risks. 'Dudley?'

  'Yes, Prime Minister?'

  'You are one hundred per cent certain you have found the DMP?'

  Dudley had never lied to a PM, and he wasn't going to start now. That was why he was always trusted. 'Prime Minister, I would not ask you for permission to mount such a high-risk operation if I did not firmly believe the situation warranted it.'

  He waited again, and after less than a minute the PM came back on the line. 'As before, this must be a covert operation, with a complete cover story. There will of course be no mention of either the security services or the SAS.'

  'We have two alternative cover stories fully prepared, sir. Which one we use will be decided upon following the action.'

  There was another moment's hesitation, and then: 'Very well. Good luck.'

  Nothing more needed to be said. It was on.

  Phil kept a trigger on the hangar from his own vehicle, while he liaised with the team commanders back in Hereford. He gave them the precise location and full details of the target. They needed all the information he could give them: what type of doors did the hangar have? What was the best approach route? Were there any third party about?

  Soon after that, the commanders had their own pictures of what the circling. Predator could see, and they watched on monitors and finalized their plan.

  It was to be a smash-and-bang job, in and out in fifteen minutes. The heli would land a little way away from the target so that it wasn't heard – either by those in the hangar or by the third party.

  The assault team would then tab the 1K to the airfield and wait for the order to hit the target. Everyone inside the hangar had to be killed and everything inside it had to be destroyed. Then it would be back to the waiting heli for the return to 'H', and never a word said about the job.

  Phil would inform the team if there were any changes as they closed in on foot.

  The flight was going to take little more than an hour, but the actual attack might have to wait longer. Dudley was still insisting on every aspect of the operation being carried out at the same moment, unless circumstances changed.

  It would be difficult, but not impossible, and it still depended on exactly where Enver Kubara was taking the twins.

  40

  The Sikorsky was over Germany, heading north. It was flying lower now, almost hugging the ground.

  Less than twenty minutes behind it, the Cougar pilot was doing the same thing, flying tactically low to avoid being picked up by radar.