All of that meant Frank had nothing to add to the operation. The major had pressed him an hour ago, just before he’d left the building - all togged-up, black-faced and looking very menacing. Frank couldn’t hide his disappointment that he’d got nothing new.
And now they waited.
H-hour was 11.30 pm. That was in 85 minutes’ time. He wasn’t sure he could keep his eyes open for that long. The ops room, square and about half the size of the briefing room, was busy with screens and operators. Front-middle was the model of the ship, which a couple of hefty Marines had effortlessly moved from the briefing room to centre-stage as soon as the major had finished his orders. Frank had no idea what each of the operators’ responsibilities were, but he counted 15. Twelve of them were wearing uniform of some colour; the remaining three were in smart civvies.
The ‘agencies’, of which SIS was one, had seats along the back of the room. Power was provided for laptops etc, and each polyprop chair had one of those really annoying tables that fold up and then drop sideward, out of your way. Frank had never sat in one where the table had been perfectly horizontal.
He’d said ‘hello’ to most of his colleagues in the cheap seats and briefed them on what he knew of the three male terrorists. Frank was an introvert and never comfortable with making introductions. Even though he worked for SIS and knew what he did was important and valuable, that never seemed enough to give him the confidence to unabashedly stick his hand out and say, ‘Hi, I’m Frank.’ As a result all introductions were uncomfortable and awkward, but he always did what he had to do whilst his stomach churned. And he thanked his job for that.
He looked up and down the line of seats with wonky tables: five men and two women. Some were tapping away on laptops. Others were chatting. One, the Border Agency rep, was flat out; head back, mouth open. Calm before the storm.
That made Frank suppress a yawn. It was no good. He had to do something.
Coffee.
It would be his fourth cup in as many hours. Thankfully there was a toilet just down the corridor.
He stood and squeezed between the legs of his colleagues and the bank of operators. He got halfway to the door when somebody changed the plan.
‘Hello Zero, this is Romeo Six. We’re getting something on the SAR readout. Can you see it? Over.’ The voice came from a speaker forward-left, on the desk of a woman who was wearing light blue - RAF.
SAR? Frank previous thoughts were interrupted immediately: Synthetic Aperture Radar; not Search and Rescue. Pictures taken in sequence from an aircraft at long distance - looking sideward - using tiny radio waves that bounced back and gave a very detailed image in something close to 3D. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the RAF had a couple of small commercial jets fitted with those very capable radars.
‘Sergeant Hollison, stick it on the main screen.’ A snap order from the operations officer.
As Frank understood it the major, the squadron commander, led the troops on the ground. His second-in-command, a captain - the ops officer - controlled the operation from afar. There were a couple of senior hoods, one was a Brigadier, kicking around the room. But the success of the operation was down to a major and a captain.
The main screen, beyond the model of the boat, burst into life.
‘Lower the lights!’, the captain barked.
And there it was: the Pride of Eastbourne. A light grey image floating on a sea of black. The image was sharp, but inverted, like a negative from an old wet film camera. The boat was side-on. Looking just like the model in front of the screen.
Except … what’s that?
‘Someone tell me what’s happening?’ The captain’s voice was laced with impatience. ‘What’s that at the front of the boat?’
‘The carport bow doors are opening.’ The reply came from a woman in P&O livery who was sitting front right. Frank noticed her epaulettes showed three gold bars. She was obviously someone who knew a lot about the P&O fleet.
‘What?’ Only the captain said the word out loud. Everyone else must have been thinking the same, surely?
The P&O woman was on her feet. She was at the screen. Pointing.
‘Here …’. She stuck her finger at the bow of the boat. Sure enough, a large slab of something was sticking out of the front.
‘They’ll sink it, surely?’ The captain had moved to the P&O woman’s side.
‘I’m sorry, captain, but that’s exactly what will happen. Unless …’
‘Unless what?’ More impatience.
‘Unless, someone gets on the boat, or someone on the boat, lowers the doors.’
‘How long?’
The woman stepped back and studied the whole image. It flickered. Frank reckoned it was being updated every 20 seconds or so.
‘It looks like a force three or four out there at the moment. The water will have already breached. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen and then the vehicles will start to move … maybe less.’
The P&O woman didn’t have time to finish her sentence. The ops officer picked up a handset from the nearest desk.
‘Hello, all stations this is Zero, Zero-Alpha acknowledge. Over.’
The squawky reply was immediate.
‘Zero-Alpha, send, over.’ Frank could hear the clump-clump-clump of the helicopter’s rotor blades in the background of the major’s reply.
‘Situation change. The target’s bow doors have been opened. We have confirmation of this from Romeo Six. And we have confirmed it here from the SAR images. Roger so far, Zero-Alpha, over.’
‘Roger, send.’
‘My view is this has now changed from an assault to a rescue. Repeat, now a rescue operation. Implement Plan Golf, over?’
The only other noise in the ops room was the RAF operator talking in hushed tones to Romeo Six. That exchange was so quiet Frank couldn’t make it out. Everyone else was fixed on the horror unfolding on the screen.
Nothing came back from the squadron commander. The latest update on the screen showed the slab of metal sticking out of its front was now parallel to the water.
‘Zero-Alpha?’ The captain reminded his boss that he needed an answer.
‘Wait … clump, clump …’
‘Hello, all stations this is Zero-Alpha. Reference operation, cancel. Sierra Seven, acknowledge, over.’
‘Sierra Seven, roger, over.’
Frank couldn’t be sure but he thought that might be the Vanguard submarine.
‘Enact Plan Golf. Sierra Seven, how long before you can get a team aboard, over.’
‘Wait …’, Frank imagined a guy with a periscope having a frantic conversation with men in dry suits.
‘Six minutes. Do you want me to launch them now?’
‘Yes. Now. All stations, move now. Move now. Make best speed. Do not, I repeat, do not worry about taking terrorists alive. Key now is rescue. Let me know when we have boots on board, roger so far, Zero.’
‘Zero, roger.’ The captain replied.
‘Zero-Alpha, get every helicopter from Odiham in the air. And anything else. Make sure they’ve fitted with appropriate winches. Hold them at ten clicks. Once we have “boat clear”, fly them in. Over.’
‘Roger. Out.’ The captain turned and spoke at the same time. ‘RAFLO. Get Odiham on the line, now. Get every Chinook in the air.’ He turned again. This time he stuck two hands out. One was pointing at an Army major. The second, at a civilian who was on the back row of the monitors.
‘Kev.’ The Army major nodded. ‘Get hold of PJHQ. Any winch capable Army Air Corps birds - get them in the air.’ He was now looking at the civilian. ‘Steven. Lift the exclusion zone. Any civvy ships within 20 nautical miles - get them to steam to the ferry. Tell them the UK government will pay the bill.’ He then put himself dead centre. ‘Any questions, anyone?’
Frank had one.
What was that small black object heading away from the bow of the ferry?
A Marine officer in the front row beat him to it.
‘Captain …’
C
hapter 10
Fatebenefratelli Hospital, Rome, Italy
That’s interesting. What’s that noise?
Gareth’s mind was well ahead of most of the rest of his body. It was like his brain was an independent spirit, floating around, unattached. And it was struggling to make the leap of faith required to connect to his torso and limbs. Even the casing of his skull, which had an extra hole in it drilled by surgeons to release the pressure from the bleed, was leaving him well alone. His brain was clever. It knew if it made that connection, then a whole load of hurt would join his consciousness. And it could do without that for a while longer, thank you very much.
‘His eyes are moving. Can you see? Under his eyelids. There’s something there.’
A female voice. It was one that Gareth thought he recognised.
‘Oh my God! You’re right. Gareth! Can you hear me? Gareth?’
A male voice. A Welsh twang. Soft, but instantly recognisable.
And then a touch on his arm.
An arm? I have one of those?
It came flooding back - most of it. In torrents. Wave after wave. Who he was. Where he was … Italy? And … shit!, that hurts!
He still hadn’t opened his eyes. He wasn’t ready; not for that new dimension. But it didn’t stop them from weeping. Tears and tears. It was mostly about the pain. Which was like the worst toothache you could ever imagine, all over one side of his head. But something told him that maybe there were more reasons to fear consciousness.
‘He’s crying! Gareth, love. It’s mum. Are you OK?’
Mum … of course.
‘Nurse! Nurse!’
The pain was overwhelming.
Please make it stop. Please.
His mind took that as a direct order.
And shut down.
Basement, British Embassy, Budapest, Hungary
Sam was sitting on a comfy chair in a small staff room just down from the open-plan office from where the 15-person, SIS Hungarian station was based. She’d just woken up. The inside of her mouth felt as if she’d just eaten a sand and Marmite sandwich. And her black eye was demanding a paracetamol reboot.
Give me five minutes.
She straightened her back, blinking - trying to moisten her eyes. She looked through the half-height window into the main office. Unsurprisingly, at this hour, it was empty - save in one corner. A man. She could only see the top of his head sticking out from behind a computer screen.
Probably the duty officer.
The staff room was small, but it had a coffee machine, six lounging chairs, a table with some magazines on it and a wall-mounted TV.
She reached across for the remote and pressed the red button.
Flicker. And … what the blazes?
It was the BBC news channel. The picture was black with strobes of beams of light, like super-powered torches. If it hadn’t been for the red ticker-tape headlines, Sam wasn’t sure she’d have been able to work out what was happening.
Hijacked ferry close to sinking in the North Sea. Hundreds of lives in peril …
It was a Lilliputian scene; like looking at a whale floundering on its side, lying in a black ocean. Above the waterline were scores of little people, huddled together - no, clinging together. And then the ropes, not tying the giant down, but dangling onto the body of the whale. It was difficult to tell as the spotlights kept moving, but Sam reckoned there were five helicopters working the side of the ship, hoisting people to safety.
The BBC camera then zoomed into one particular group. They got really close. It was a man and two girls. The man was passing the two girls to the rescuer who was hanging at the end of the rope. You couldn’t make out facial expressions, the picture quality and the light made that impossible. But Sam sensed the man’s relief as the winch did its job and the two girls started their elevation to freedom.
Shit, no!
The boat moved - toppled. Five degrees maybe. The BBC were still focused on the man and his departing girls. He fell. Dropped to his knees. And slid. The camera tried to follow him, but he moved too quickly, heading for the edge. It was a lowlight blur. Someone at the BBC pressed a button and a new camera angle appeared. It was the whole ship. It looked different. More of it was under water. And the people on the top had all been shaken around, like ants fleeing a nest that had been soaked with boiling water. It was distressing. Horrible.
Someone at the BBC agreed. The picture changed again. Now they were looking at a talking head. He was on dry land, outside a building. It was a reporter at Dover. He was asked a question by the woman in the studio. And he gave an answer which Sam knew he could only have made up.
But it filled time.
And took them away from the horror of the whale in the water.
And the ants. Scurrying and clinging. And falling. The man, having saved his daughters, now gone.
Sam pressed the red button. The screen went blank.
She felt her cheeks. They were wet. And the tears kept coming. She found a hanky in her pocket and wiped her eyes.
Shit! Idiot.
Her left eye was sore as hell.
What a night. What a week.
She was going to finish with, what a year, but gave up.
She was frustrated. And tired. And unbelievably sad.
What the hell was going on? What was it with a foiled attack on a nuclear power station in Russia? And, how many did Jane say yesterday? Eighty-nine unrelated terror attacks since Christmas, hitting almost every corner of the globe. And now this. Someone hijacks a ferry, drives it into the middle of the North Sea and then sinks it? Sam had no idea whether the terrorists had got away. Or if they’d ‘gone down with their ship’. But, and she knew she’d be right, there would be no easy explanation. There’d be no ISIS video on Al Jazeera claiming responsibility. No clear link to a new terror cell demanding freedom for its people. Or the release of political prisoners. The only guaranteed outcome would be a world aghast that, yet again, a random act of terror had befallen them. Where would the terrorist strike next? Would it be their country? Our town? Would me, or my family be victims? No wonder the streets of the world’s capitals were quickly filling with frightened residents demanding their country’s government make their lives safer.
It was crazy. Inexplicable.
But …
… there is a link. Somebody, or something, is behind this.
Yes, they were clever. Uber-organised and incredibly secret. The internet and the dark web provided indecipherable portals and conduits for agents of terror to do their business. If you wanted to hire someone to do something unspeakable, or buy any weapon of choice, the dark web provided the people and the guns - and the secrecy. Sam reckoned a cell of maybe five or six people could work the dark web and find individuals and small groups who were willing to enact terror on this scale. It would take planning - lots of it. And each link would have to be utterly discreet and completely obscure.
And there’d need to be a lot of money. A huge amount.
Because that’s what this was about. If there was no ideology, nobody on a soap box in a desert or a town square demanding their version of religion or their incomplete statehood be listened to, then this was about money.
Jane had mentioned ‘revenge’. Someone wanting the world to fall apart. Longing for it to happen. Sitting behind a desk somewhere, stroking a fluffy white cat. Disinterested in the death. But relishing the mayhem. Watching with glee as governments and their security services chase non-existent leads. Getting off on the chaos because sometime previously they had been smited. Maybe they’d lost an election. Or had been sacked from the board of a huge global company. Or, just maybe, they’d lost someone. Death at the hands of a police force somewhere. And now, because they had money, the rest of us would pay.
Sam didn’t buy that.
It would take a hugely unhinged person to want this level of terror and destruction just to get back at the world. And whilst those people may exist, their states of mind didn’t match the micro-surger
y needed to keep the lid on an operation of this magnitude. They’d be too fidgety. Too … mad. They’d take risks. Cut corners. And that would have exposed them by now.
No, she didn’t get the revenge theory.
This was about money. Huge amounts of it.
And that’s what frustrated her most; why the tears fell as they did. Mix unspeakable horror with tiredness and she’d shed a tear. Add in the frustration of not being able to see where this had come from, or where it was going, and she’d give you floods. She hated it. She hated not being able to see the journey - where she’d been, and where she was going. She couldn’t cope with the unknown being so obscure - so opaque. She always knew what to do next, even if the direction were the wrong one. She always knew something about her antagonist. She always had a feel for her next decision.
I always have something.
But she didn’t now.
Between arriving at the Embassy and falling asleep in the chair in the staff room two hours ago, she’d read every piece of evidence, every document both the Embassy and the SIS team had on Viktor Molnár. It didn’t surprise her that they knew little more than she’d gleaned in Moscow. The Hungarian prime minister was, at heart, a moderate. Until two months ago he’d held the country firm. He’d made conciliatory noises to the right wing of his party, whilst avoiding the calamity of taking the country out of Europe.
On the Back Foot to Hell Page 20