The commander had reached Golden Sundancer - a big sister to Puddle Jumper. He bounded up on to her fly deck. ‘Phew!’ The ignition key was still in place.
He turned the key and pressed the ignition buttons. The turbo diesels roared into life. He ran through the checks.
He was talking to himself under his breath. ‘The auxiliary fuel tanks are both empty, but the main tank is probably good for 100, maybe 150 miles. That should be more than enough. This is going to be fun!’ He never dreamt that he would find such heavy duty power again. ‘It’s going to be like the Sabre class vessels; what a way to feel young again!’
He called across to Lieutenant Anna Gregson. ‘Cast off and stow the fore and aft springs - then man the bow line.’
In the direction of Lieutenant Janet Steiner he shouted, ‘Prepare to stow the gangway. And Jim, man the stern line.’
The commander saw the door to the harbour master’s office swing open. Clive and his SAS colleague, Mark, were carrying the deadweight of the bear-like terrorist; they had an arm under each of his shoulders, leaving his feet to drag along the ground. They were doing something more than a trot, but they were still over 200 metres away. The commander did some mental arithmetic.
Meanwhile Colin had handcuffed the helicopter pilot to his joystick and as a parting gesture fired a couple of bullets into the helicopter’s radio and fuel tank. For the time being at least the helicopter would be going nowhere. He then tidied up the bodies of the six bodyguards and left them sitting on the concrete with their guns on their laps.
The commander called across to Jim. ‘Move the stern painter to the starboard side and make certain it can run freely around the bollard on the quayside. Stand by the cleat until you receive further orders.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. Runs freely,’ came the reply.
‘Lieutenant Gregson, check that the bow painter runs freely and prepare to cast off.’
‘Runs freely, sir.’
The commander turned to his wife who was standing behind him. ‘Darling, would you please find a boat hook and when I say “Cast off bow”, push hard at the quayside wall and swing the bow out into the harbour?’
He turned and looked astern. ‘Jim, when I call “Cast off bow”, let out three metres of mooring line - no more - and hold her until I say “Cast off stern”. Mind there are no knots to snag the rope -and watch your fingers!’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
In the distance there was the wailing of police sirens. They were getting closer. The two special services men were making good progress carrying the unconscious terrorist. They only had a few metres to go. The commander waited patiently for them to reach the gangway. Sergy was unceremoniously dragged on board by the SAS officer and Clive.
The commander shouted, ‘Stow gangway, cast off bow, let out stern line and, darling, push!’ He then eased the control for the port engine forward and the starboard engine slightly into reverse. The boat, which was still secured to the quayside with a stern line to her starboard side, turned on a sixpence. At that moment he caught sight of the first police car. Moments later, the bow was facing the opposite side of the harbour and was swinging round to face out to sea.
The commander called out, ‘Cast off stern!’
Jim, thinking of his fingers and the taught rope, took out his razor-sharp knife and cut the lines secured to the rear stanchion. At that moment the commander pushed forward the throttles to both engines. The vessel was like a wild stallion that had been tied down and suddenly allowed to run free. With the engines roaring, the stern dug deep into the water. The commander by now had the throttles towards their maximum revs.
The commander shouted, ‘Lieutenants: stow the fenders and prepare for sea.’
The harbour water was like a millpond. Golden Sundancer, with the power of her two turbo engines propelling her forward, gracefully lifted her bow up out of the water and on to the plane.
The commander looked over his shoulder and saw that the first police car was 150 metres away. Golden Sundancer was almost up to her cruising speed. He smiled. He was enjoying the feeling of the immense power beneath his feet.
‘I’ll give a prize,’ shouted out the commander, ‘To the first man or woman who can cause a distraction on the quayside. A car’s petrol tank perhaps? We want them to keep their heads down until we get out of range.’
Clive passed Anna his rifle. ‘See if you can hit something.’
With the skill of a trained professional, she picked up the rifle and fired at the nearest police car. At that moment there was a huge explosion which ripped apart the nearest harbour building, followed by a second explosion further down the quayside. The quayside was torn apart and a plume of dark smoke erupted from the tall storage tank behind the buildings. The police car screeched to a halt and the policemen dived for cover.
Clive shot a glance at Colin standing nearby and laughed.‘Damn good shooting!’ he exclaimed and gave Anna a firm pat on the back. Her bemused smile stretched from ear to ear.
Hidden from view, in the palm of the of Colin’s hand, was a small radio-controlled transmitter which had set off the explosions. He grinned at Clive. ‘So nice, for once, to be properly prepared for a retreat.’
The commander called down. ‘See if you can hole Puddle Jumper’s hull. She’s the next fastest vessel in the area and we don’t want her coming after us.’
Anna and the two SAS soldiers trained their rifles on Puddle Jumper. Flecks of spray appeared along her waterline as the shots reached their target.
The commander on the flybridge had the engine throttles forward to their maximum. He looked at the rev counters. The port engine had crept into the red. He eased it back to below the red and, at the same time, balanced the revs on the starboard engine. Golden Sundancer was making forty-nine knots. She was pure poetry in motion. He cast an eye over to the chart which he had been studying carefully earlier in the day. The channel posed few problems. Phase one was complete. It was time for phase two: getting out of Moroccan territorial waters, into the freedom of international waters and on to the rendezvous with the submarine twenty miles off the coast.
Jim, who had climbed up on to the flybridge, called out, ‘Permission to come on to the bridge, commander,’ as he mounted the last step.
The commander turned around. ‘Yes. Jim, could you sort out the radio? I need to find out from command centre what the incoming Moroccan Air Force is up to. In a few minutes we’ll be in open water. I need to know which direction they are approaching from.’
Jim sat down next to the radio and changed the settings.
‘Here you are, commander.’
‘It’s all yours Jim; I’ve the charts to work on.’ The commander called down to his wife. ‘Darling, could you come up to the flybridge?’ She bounced up the stairs like a young rating and he gave her some instructions: ‘Right, your task is to steer a course of due west and to keep an eye on the two rev counters, the temperature and oil pressure dials. Anything untoward, please shout! We’re making straight for international waters.’
The swell in the Atlantic Ocean had eased, and the waves, though several metres tall, were long and well spaced out. Golden Sundancer was skimming across the water; being light on fuel helped. These were the conditions in which she thrived. She looked and felt spectacular - like a thoroughbred. The commander’s wife delicately adjusted the throttle, applying a little more power, lifting the revs to a fine whisker below the red. The roar decreased a few decibels as she eased back the throttle to a point where the pitch of the engines sounded pleasing and not laboured. They were doing a very respectable forty-eight knots.
The commander recalled that Morocco had signed up to the international convention. Their territorial waters ended twelve nautical miles from land. It was an easy calculation: fifteen minutes to freedom - then he could start to breathe a small sigh of relief.
‘Jim, what’s the position regarding the fighter planes, please? And also enquire about the weather - those clouds over the bow loo
k like rain in the offing.’
The radio crackled; it was the control centre. ‘Are you receiving me, commander?’
‘Jim here,’ came the reply.
‘Tell the commander that you’ll shortly have company. A Mirage F1 fighter has been scrambled from Sidi Slimane Air Base some 235 nautical miles to your north-east.’
‘North-east,’ repeated the commander. ‘Yes, I have it on the chart.’
‘We’ll advise when she’s airborne: ETA from take-off is eleven minutes. Radio traffic suggests that the pilot is in no hurry - the control tower is telling him to pull his finger out, but the plane hasn’t started taxiing to the runway as yet. And an old Northrop F-5E Tiger II has been scrambled from Meknes Airbase, 225 miles north-east of where you are - ETA from take-off is thirteen minutes. We’ll advise when airborne. Radio traffic from the control tower suggests that the plane is undertaking its final checks as we speak and could be airborne shortly. To add to your problems, there’s a Floréal class frigate at Casablanca. She’s received orders to put to sea and has on board a Eurocopter Panther. She’s 140 miles away. She’ll pose no problem unless she launches her paraffin pigeon which is armed for anti-surface and submarine warfare. You’ve potentially three bandits to avoid. We’re working on a plan.’
The commander reached over and took the microphone from Jim’s hand.
‘We’re heading due west from Safi harbour. We will reach international waters in…’ He paused, looked at his watch, and then continued, ‘In thirteen minutes forty-five seconds. Please advise the submarine to make her rendezvous point fifteen miles due west of Safi harbour. Please advise her ETA.’
Back in the Operations Room the events unfolding off the Moroccan coast had ratcheted up the tension. It was unheard of for a Trident class nuclear submarine to surface in open water when there were potentially hostile aircraft around – and so close to another country’s territorial waters.
The commander surveyed the scene. He was having fun: Golden Sundancer was a joy to handle. His mind went into overdrive. He could clearly visualise in his mind’s eye where he was and where the three hostiles were going to be approaching from.
The radio crackled to life. ‘I’ve spoken to your pickup vessel; she’ll be at the rendezvous point in forty-six minutes. You asked about the weather – expect some heavy rain showers.’
The commander looked at his watch. Yes, that should give him enough time so long as neither of the fighters got their act together and took off within the next three or four minutes. It was going to be a very close call. He called across to Jim, ‘Get me Clive and the two SAS chaps here; we need a council of war. Tell Lieutenant Steiner to see how many life rafts she can find and ask her to take them to the aft deck. And get Lieutenant Gregson to see if she can find an inflatable dinghy, an outboard, and some life jackets, and to put them on the aft deck as well.’
The commander spoke into the radio. ‘Do you have any news for us?’
‘Yes, as good planning would have it, they kept back one of the Harrier jump jets that flew you and your wife to Gibraltar. She’s fully armed and took off two minutes ago. Her ETA is forty-one minutes.’
‘Thank you,’ replied the commander. The seconds were ticking by.
The longer it was before the fighters took off, the better their chances. He could pick out dark rain-laden squalls in the distance. A small smile crept across his face.
The Chancellor was in sombre mood. He was explaining to the House the consequences of the terrorist attack at Stratford and was setting out his proposals to persuade the public and industry to make the best use of energy and to encourage the diversification of the UK’s energy resources.
‘I shall be announcing a range of tax incentives to encourage the production and use of efficient and renewable energy sources, and to progress carbon sink technology to enable coal-fired power stations to move to zero emissions…’
At this point, Rafi’s attention was pulled back to the big screen and the running commentary from the command centre.
Jim had returned to the flybridge with Clive and the two SAS men.
‘Right,’ said the commander, ‘we’ve got ourselves a spot of bother. Two Moroccan fighters have been scrambled to intercept us and a frigate with a Eurocopter on board is putting to sea. In the short term it’s the two fighters that concern me.’
The commander pointed at a spot on the map. ‘The Trident submarine will reach our rendezvous point here in forty-two minutes. The Moroccan Mirage could be there in nineteen minutes and an elderly Northrop Tiger should follow a couple of minutes later. That will leave us unprotected, with nowhere to hide, for around twenty minutes. How many life rafts do we have?’
‘Two,’ came the reply from Jim.
‘Excellent, get Lieutenant Steiner to inflate them and tell her to keep them tied down! Also, find out from Lieutenant Gregson what’s happening with the search for a dinghy and an outboard.’
‘She’s found a twelve-foot inflatable with a ten horsepower outboard,’ called back Clive.
‘Perfect! Get it inflated and ready for sea – and make sure that the outboard has petrol in it,’ said the commander. He turned his attention to his charts. ‘We’ll reach international waters in five minutes. A couple of minutes later we should reach…’ he pointed to the group of black clouds over the bow, ‘That weather front, then we will launch the life rafts and I’ll change Golden Sundancer’ s course and head her north, on autopilot, towards the two fighter jets.’
Clive raised his eyebrows.
The commander turned to the four special forces men around him. ‘Here is the plan. You’ve got seven minutes from now to get the terrorists into the life rafts. Jim, you and Lieutenant Gregson will remain on board with me and my wife. The rest of you will go with the terrorists in the rafts. Once the rafts are in the water, we’ll need to put as much distance as possible between the rafts and the fighters.’ He paused. ’Let’s hope that their attention is drawn to Golden Sundancer and they don’t even think of looking for us elsewhere!’
The commander looked at Jim. ‘Have you got anything more in your bag of tricks?’
All the special service men nodded in unison.
‘Before I jump ship, could you wire up an explosive device, for which I can set the timing?’ asked the commander.
‘No problem,’ replied Clive.
‘Plus another bomb which can be detonated from the dinghy? And can you arrange for there to be a radio so that I can talk to the fighter pilots?’
‘No problem.’
‘Will one of you please disable the tracking devices in both life rafts and put a radio in each?’ ordered the commander.
‘Consider it done,’ said Jim.
‘As soon as the dinghy is fully inflated we will launch her, abandon ship and leave Golden Sundancer on autopilot heading at top speed up the coast. I’ll come back in the inflatable and meet up with the two life rafts. If we can buy ourselves ten minutes before the first fighter spots Golden Sundancer, she’ll put over eight miles between us and the fighters. Anything more is a bonus and will make it harder for them to find us.’
‘Four minutes to international waters.’ The commander’s wife called out,
The commander turned to Clive, ‘Time to get a move on.’
The four special servicemen ran down the steps to the lower deck to fetch the captives, who were bundled on to the floor of the rear deck.
‘The two Chechens, Chindriani, Hartnell, you and I,’ said Clive pointing to Colin, the nearest SAS man, ‘Will go in one raft. The sheikh, Basel, Jameel, their captain, Lieutenant Steiner and Mark, the SAS major will go in the other.’
A minute and a half after they’d entered international waters, they reached the edge of the squall. The sea around them had darkened and the wind had strengthened – the telltale signs of looming heavy rain. Moments later the downpour hit them. The commander brought the vessel to a stop.
The terrorists were manhandled quickly into one life raft,
then the other and, with their guards safely on board, the rafts were cast off.
The commander pushed the throttles forward and majestically Golden Sundancer lifted her bow out of the water.
Meanwhile, Lieutenant Gregson had the inflatable fully functional and Jim had rigged up two incendiary bombs.
‘We will leave the precise timing until we know the status of the fighter planes,’ said the commander.
‘Of course, sir,’ replied Jim.
The radio crackled back into life. ‘The Northrop Tiger has completed its taxiing and is taking off as we speak. ETA thirteen minutes and counting.’
‘Right!’ shouted the commander. ‘Life jackets on. I’ll slow the boat down, let you get off, set the autopilot and come and join you.’
Jim looked at the commander. ‘Old man, you realise that falling into the “oggin” at fifty knots will feel like hitting wet concrete?’
‘Jim, get on your way and set the bomb to go off in twenty minutes. Your concern is noted,’ replied the commander.
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Throw me a life jacket, and shout when you’re ready to leave ship.’
Seconds later came the call, ‘Ready to disembark.’
The commander eased the throttles back. From the flybridge he watched the three quickly and safely climb into the small inflatable dinghy and fire up the outboard engine. He picked up his small hand-held compass and tucked it into his trouser pocket, set a new course on the autopilot, pushed the throttles forward to their top setting, turned and bolted down the stairs, heading for the swimming platform.
The commander stood for a moment on the edge of the platform, watching the water churning at his feet. With a sharp intake of breath, he held his nose, knelt down and rolled slowly side first into the water. The compass in his pocket dug into his thigh as he hit the rushing water. He felt like a human skimming stone. Then there was darkness. The next thing he knew, he felt a strong pair of hands holding him as he gasped for breath. The inflatable dinghy was bobbing at his side in the pouring rain. Lieutenant Gregson and Jim, using his one good arm, grabbed him and dragged him on board. His wife put the small outboard into gear, turned the little dinghy and headed for the two life rafts.
LATENT HAZARD: On the Edge Page 36