Latent Hazard rkadika-1

by Piers Venmore-Rowland

  The PM glanced across to the opposition benches. ‘I will ask the new Home Office minister in charge of Homeland Security to draw up proposals which will provide transparency as to who is in our country. Biometrics will be used for the unique identification of individuals. The software, I am advised, is available to facilitate this. I repeat: this is not the thin end of the wedge for the full-scale issuance of identity cards. One secure biometric database will be created and it will be used to confirm a person’s identity. Name, date of birth, contact address, photograph, fingerprints, iris scan and other such biometric data, as appropriate, will be stored on the database. Biometric information will be gathered at police stations and specialist Homeland Security offices free of charge. Visitors to the UK will be required to provide biometric data at their point of entry.’

  The PM took a sip water. ‘This database will be available online for a restricted number of users, so that they can confirm a person’s identity. However, these users will only be able to confirm that the individual is who they say they are, by checking their biometric details online. We have become accustomed to having our PIN number checked when we withdraw cash from a cashpoint machine – this will be a broadly similar process. No part, I repeat, no part of the database will be available for downloading. In future, an individual’s biometric information will be checked as part of the process of obtaining a passport or driving licence and verification will be real time, online at an official office. Furthermore, as from 1 September, all new car insurance policies will require named drivers – each of whose identity will need to be verified against the biometric database.’

  ‘Over a relatively short period of time, users of public services such as, for example, the National Health Service, social and local authority services, tax offices and the Electoral Register will be required to be on the biometric database. However, I stress that each database will remain separate. It is fundamental that they do. The State does not wish to invade people’s privacy, but it does need to know the names of the people in our country, have a point of contact for them and know the basis on which they are here. It is currently not possible for the Home Office to give an accurate estimate of the number of people in the UK. Too many people are off the radar screen. The numbers run into hundreds of thousands. This is totally unacceptable. Those who are here illegally or without the appropriate documentation will be identified. There will be duplicates and anomalies, and these will be investigated by the authorities.’

  The PM paused to let what he had just said sink in.

  At the airport, the sheikh was beginning to get annoyed by the delay. He pulled out a wad of banknotes and gave them to one of his bodyguards, with instructions to hurry the mechanic up. Minutes later, as if by magic, the mechanic reappeared carrying an aluminium stepladder on his shoulder and a large toolbox. He set up his ladder and climbed up to the rotary engine, then removed a side panel and looked in. He stood there for a minute, seemingly tinkering around. He closed the panel, gave the pilot the thumbs up and walked slowly back to the buildings.

  The helicopter was ready to get on its way to Safi. The thirtyminute delay was all that had been needed.

  Once again Rafi’s attention shifted to the action at Safi.

  Dakka Dudayev had left Golden Sundancer and was enjoying a cigarette on the quayside. Janet and Anna waved at him and his brief acknowledgement was taken by them as an invitation to go over to him. They hopped off Puddle Jumper and, in a carefree manner, walked around the harbour towards Dakka, with their caftans flowing in the wind. The material was bunched up and tied around their hips, thus obscuring the small pistols that were tucked into their bikini bottoms. Under their hair, out of sight, were miniature headphones, and tiny microphones were hidden in their bikini tops.

  Janet approached Dakka as if he was the first red-blooded male she’d seen for a very long while. Anna stood nearby, looking on shyly. The two women giggled like teenage girls. They looked beautiful, flirty and helpless.

  On Golden Sundancer, the captain and Basel were still on the flybridge. Dakka was on the quayside and this left the three remaining individuals below deck. It would soon be time for Clive and Jim to make their move.

  Over the radio came the voice of Mark, one of the SAS men. ‘The captain is calling up the harbour master about refuelling. There’s no reply. He is sending Sergy to investigate.’

  Sergy hesitantly walked up the gangway, and then off along the harbour side. As he passed Puddle Jumper, he received a friendly ‘Good afternoon’ from the commander’s wife who was sitting in the sun on the aft deck.

  Sergy was about to discover the problem. The harbour master was lying unconscious at his desk – he had received a knock out blow from Colin, the second SAS soldier, who had also bugged the room and placed a small gismo looking like a Coke can in the rubbish bin. It was a radio-controlled device containing some of the strongest knockout gas known.

  Rafi’s attention switched back to the TV. The PM was in his stride. His sound bites were excellent.

  ‘Stratford has shown how a few kilograms of radioactive waste can blight a vast area for millennia. The UK owns tonnes of highly toxic radioactive waste. Post Stratford the threat of being able to disperse radioactivity over an aggressor’s city will be as strong a deterrent as annihilating it with a Trident missile. We can therefore put to one side the next generation of Trident missiles and switch to lower cost, but highly effective dispersal missiles which will make use of our stockpile of radioactive waste. These dispersal missiles will include radioactive isotopes that will glow in the dark, so that there can be no misunderstanding as to where the radioactive fall-out is located. The switch from Trident to dispersal missiles will save tens of billions, and we will channel these massive savings into higher education and academic research. This will counter the underinvestment which higher education has suffered over the past three decades – during this time we have seen the relative rankings of our universities on the global stage slip. Despite this, fourteen of our universities are in the top 100 in the world; twenty-five are in the top 200 and forty-three are in the top 500. These are figures we can be proud of. UK higher education is an area of international excellence. We shall build on this excellence and it will benefit our economy.’

  The PM then paused and again looked at his watch. It was coming up to 14.30 – he and the Chancellor still had a lot more talking to do.

  Kate nudged Rafi and pointed towards the screens and the action taking place at Safi harbour.

  Mark, who had been carefully watching Golden Sundancer, gave the all-clear. Clive and Jim slipped quietly on to the bathing platform. They peeled off their waterproof suits to reveal dry clothes underneath. Silently, they moved forward, their automatic pistols drawn. Basel Talal and the captain were on the flybridge, chatting, whereas Sergy and Dakka were ashore. That left Kim Chindriani and Alistair Hartnell below deck.

  Mark’s monitoring device pinpointed the location of the two people in the cabins. Clive and Jim crept silently through the boat’s main stateroom and proceeded down the stairs to the cabins. They were directed towards the two men on their bunks.

  Forty-five nail-biting seconds later Jim’s voice came over the speaker: ‘Both men are inoperative. They’re gagged and tied up. Please advise when we should expect our next customer.’

  Two terrorists down, six more terrorists and six bodyguards to go, Rafi thought to himself.

  Along the quay, Sergy arrived at the harbour master’s office. He quietly approached the shabby front door, which was closed. His hand was tucked under his loosely fitting shirt. Concealed forty metres away, Colin noted that he was undoubtedly armed. Sergy looked around before he pushed the door open and entered the tired-looking building. He closed it behind him. A torrent of what Rafi could only imagine were Chechen swear words were picked up by the listening device.

  Sergy was obviously far from pleased. He pulled out a small walkie-talkie. The bug picked up his conversation with the captain. ‘The harbou
r master is pissed out of his mind; sprawled out cold across his desk with an empty bottle of Scotch in his hand. I’ll sober him up and come back to the boat. Out!’

  Colin listened in and pressed the red button on the small grey box in his hand. The knockout gas in what looked like a Coke can was released into the room. Six seconds later there was a resounding thump as the Chechen’s body hit the floor. Colin moved unobtrusively from his hiding place and skirted around the back of the harbour master’s office, out of the line of sight of those on Golden Sundancer. He put on a clear plastic gas mask, pulled out from his back pocket a scrunched-up flannel hat and placed it on his head. He stood there, waiting for the all-clear signal from his colleague who was observing the captain on the flybridge. As Basel Talal turned to descend the stairs to the main deck level, Colin casually walked around to the front of the harbour master’s office, and slipped quietly inside.

  A minute later Sergy was trussed up like a Christmas turkey, as was the harbour master, just in case either woke up, which, given the circumstances, was highly improbable. Both men would be out for at least two hours; far longer if either of them suffered from a weak heart or asthma. Colin radioed in that the two had been tied up and, on hearing that the coast was still clear, sneaked out of the office, making sure that the door was left slightly ajar to let the fresh air in to disperse the knockout gas. He then walked around the back of the buildings to join Mark who was watching the heavies as they waited for the helicopter.

  As Sergy was being tied up in the harbour master’s office, Clive and Jim received a warning through their ear pieces from Mark that Basel Talal was on his way to his cabin. He was ambushed. Not being trained in unarmed combat, he didn’t stand a chance and didn’t see what was coming. Unconscious and securely trussed up, he was left by Jim in his cabin, propped up in a chair.

  Outside, on the quay, Janet and Anna were doing their best to chat up Dakka.

  He was interested in them, but his training told him that there would be time later. He spotted the captain descending from the flybridge and turned to leave.

  In their earpieces the two women received an order: ‘Slow him down; we don’t want him on board for a couple of minutes. Will advise when it’s safe for him to board.’

  Janet called after Dakka. ‘Before you go, would you by any chance have a bottle of vodka we could borrow? Our parents are so boring; they don’t like people drinking on board. Please, please; we would make it worth your while!’

  Dakka stopped and gave the two attractive women an appraising look. ‘Wait there and I’ll see what I can find.’

  Janet moved alongside him and followed him towards the gangplank.

  ‘We need another thirty seconds – do not let him board,’ came an urgent voice over the communications link. Anna broke into a run, caught up with Janet, tripped and went flying on to the concrete quayside. She let out a howl and a series of expletives. Janet bent over her friend who was spreadeagled on the ground. ‘Sis, are you alright?’

  ‘Oow, I’ve really hurt my knee.’

  Dakka stayed where he was.

  Janet helped Anna to sit up. Blood was streaming down her leg from a nasty gash in her knee.

  Dakka looked down at Anna and then in a matter-of-fact manner said, ‘I’ll fetch the first aid kit.’ He paused briefly and then added, ‘And a bottle of vodka. Wait here.’

  Moments earlier Mark had given a warning to Jim and Clive that the captain was on his way below deck.

  The captain sensed something was wrong as he was about to enter his cabin. As he turned to investigate, he was felled by a strong blow to the side of his neck.

  ‘Damn it! Clive,’ exclaimed Jim, ‘You nearly took his head off.’

  ‘Yep, But how was I to know he was going to turn around.’

  The captain was securely bound up and dumped on his bed.

  Clive and Jim waited silently and out of sight at the bottom of the stairs.

  Dakka meanwhile, went to a cupboard in the stateroom and pulled out a bottle of vodka, then turned and collected the first aid box from the stern deck. He walked down the gangplank to the two women huddled on the quayside. He handed them the bottle and the box. ‘Put the box on the gangway when you’ve finished. I’m busy now. I’ll see you later for my reward.’

  Meanwhile, Clive and Jim had climbed the stairs and were waiting in the stateroom. Their earpieces kept them informed as to where their target was. Dakka walked down the gangplank and through the open door into the stateroom. His sixth sense told him he wasn’t alone. He spun around to see Jim coming at him. Instinctively, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and let fly a lethal drop kick which caught Jim just below the shoulder, knocking him backwards. Jim started to pick himself up, but was too slow: Dakka was on him, his powerful hands locked around Jim’s neck, pinning him to the floor.

  There was an almighty crash. Dakka slumped unconscious across Jim’s body. The remnants of a heavy glass decanter were scattered across the carpet.

  Jim struggled to regain his breath, as Clive hauled the muscled man off him. Moments later, Clive had Dakka’s arms tightly secured behind his back with reinforced plastic handcuffs.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jim, as Clive carried on immobilising the terrorist.

  Jim got up slowly. ‘For a heavy man, he sure moved quickly! I reckon the bastard has either broken my collarbone or dislocated my shoulder.’

  ‘No good asking you for a hand in getting him down below, then?’ Clive dragged Dakka across the stateroom and, with a series of loud bumps, down the stairs.

  He reappeared a few moments later. ‘I’ve put him with the captain. Right, let’s have a look at you.’ Clive stood in front of Jim. ‘Lift your arm as high as you can. Is that all you can manage? Does it hurt here?’ He prodded Jim’s collarbone area.

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Think of something nice; your girlfriend with no clothes on – got the picture?’

  Jim nodded.

  Clive took hold of his arm and with a quick upward motion relocated his shoulder back into place.

  ‘Jesus!’ screeched Jim. ‘That was painful.’

  ‘Come on, let’s see what you can do with your injured arm. Can you hold a gun?’

  Jim nodded.

  ‘You will be useless in a fight unless the opposition has a blouse on,’ commented Clive.

  ‘Six out of six accounted for on the boat. This leaves the four minders on the quayside and five in the helicopter.’ Rafi smiled as he listened to the radio transmission.

  The sheikh’s helicopter was about fifteen minutes away.

  Meanwhile the Nimrod picked up the mobile phone conversation between the sheikh’s bodyguard and one of the heavies on the quayside. ‘Is everything OK? I’ve tried to ring the captain but there’s no answer.’

  The heavy standing on the quayside looked across at Golden Sundancer. ‘All quiet here. The captain has gone below; probably getting ready to meet you.’

  ‘Good. We’ll be with you shortly.’

  Rafi made a mental calculation. The operation was running about twenty minutes behind schedule. He hoped the PM and his Chancellor had sufficient material to keep on talking, then noticed that the PM was being handed a folded piece of paper.

  Colonel Gray, standing nearby in the Ops Room, had arranged for its delivery only a few minutes earlier. The note read: Terrorists on boat at Safi have been captured. The helicopter with the sheikh and Jameel onboard is en route and expected to land in the next fifteen minutes. We estimate it will take sixty to seventy-five minutes to wrap things up.

  At the dispatch box the Prime Minister was handed a sheet of paper. He slowly read the message – his face gave nothing away. He then turned and passed it across to his Chancellor, who read it, smiled and tapped the pile of files on his lap. The PM took a deep breath and continued. He was a professional, carrying on if his prolonged speech was the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘The role of our armed forces has to be reconsidered. Our
military forces must be properly equipped to defend us against terrorist attacks. We have to change our strategy and start fighting – not with brute force but with minds and souls. Post Iraq we have surrendered the moral high ground. Our international image is tarnished. We must rebuild trust in ourselves and our country.’

  The PM was in flowing form. ‘It is time to restore our sense of fair play and equity. Warfare has changed. It has moved from the macro level and large theatres of war, to the micro level and local operations. We need to refocus our military prowess and twin our military might with our anti-terrorist expertise. Stratford has been the wake-up call to end all wake-up calls. We have to be able to counter terrorist attacks on our own soil and have the wherewithal to deal with major calamities should they ever arise again. We must have personnel and equipment fit for purpose. I have asked the head of the armed forces and the Defence Minister to prepare a briefing note to this end for Cabinet. Part of their brief will be to consider the valuable role that the Territorial Army and former military personnel can play. In particular, they will look at the specialist skills they can offer, and will advise on how they might be appropriately rewarded for their part-time commitment to our military activities.’

  On the dockside, Anna’s knee had been patched up by Janet. The two women slowly walked back to Puddle Jumper clutching the first aid box and the bottle of vodka. They had been informed via their earpieces that Dakka had been overpowered.

  Anna smiled; the gash to her knee had been worthwhile.

  On board Puddle Jumper, she was given a hot cup of tea with sugar by the commander’s wife.

  The commander was deep in thought, looking over the charts in front of him.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ asked Janet.

  ‘I reckon it’s always a good idea to know exactly where everything is, just in case things turn interesting and one has to leave in a hurry,’ came the reply.