The Nationalist

by Campbell Hart

  Tomorrow seemed such a distant prospect that Annabelle Strachan chose to keep driving. The simple act of losing herself to the instincts of the car meant she could put the mission to the back of her mind. As she shifted through the gears she swept through Banknock and Kilsyth before taking the A891 at Milton of Campsie. After that point she didn’t register the towns or road signs. There was still more than half a tank left. Tonight she knew she had to find some peace of mind, so much had happened. Annabelle found herself on the A81 heading north through Strathblane and out past Aberfoyle. The open road gave way to a twisting highway through the Queen Elizabeth Forest Park. Hairpin bends were taken with little respect. In the silence of the driver’s seat the sound of wheels spinning on loose gravel could be heard in the silence of the night air, as the car struggled to maintain its course, and slipped off the edge of the tarmac. It would be so easy just to fall off. She was driving too fast, but no other cars passed, there was no reason to slow down. She was alone in the night, her headlights cut through the darkness as she sped along the country road. The glowing orbs of startled sheep stared back at her from the side of the road, their eyes reflecting green in the artificial light, otherworldly and alien. The leafless trees made for a stark landscape, contrasting with the pine plantations which flashed past in a blur every other mile. Annabelle could feel the fear rise in her belly, every time she sped across a blind summit. Just do it, get it over with. He’ll be gone by now. But she couldn’t do it – not like that; there was still too much to do. Finally she came to a crossroads. The sign pointed east to Callander or to Loch Katrine. She sat in the middle of the road for several minutes, knowing her next move would be significant. Eventually she turned the wheel counter clockwise. She had made her decision.

  ***

  As the Typhoon blasted into the skies from RAF Leuchers the g-force pinned back Squadron Leader, Geoff Healey. Flight Lieutenant, Greg Cross, followed seconds later. They were approximately 90 miles from their target zone and would be unable to get anywhere near the top speed of 1,500mph given the relatively short distance they had to cover. Cruising at around 300mph they’d have sight of the target soon.

  The national terror threat had remained at ‘Severe’ since the attack in Glasgow but had been raised to ‘Critical’ when Faslane was identified as a potential target. Reports from the base were being updated minute by minute. Calls were being made to find out just how serious a direct hit on the Vengeance could be. At the moment they didn’t know, but with major cities and towns within a 25 mile radius they couldn’t take chances with the nuclear payload. At High Wycombe Air Command the emergency line from the MoD flashed expectantly. A faceless civil servant told the Air Marshall that a Trident missile could not be detonated by an external explosion, but that the threat of a major radiation leak couldn’t be ruled out. David Simmonds wasn’t impressed, he needed to know whether or not he could stand down the Typhoons, and was hoping for a more definitive answer. He felt a knot in his stomach but knew he had a few moments more before he had to make the decision.

  In the Typhoon, Geoff Healey’s radio crackled back into life.

  “High Wycombe calling Delta – Seven – Lima – Five. Co-ordinates incoming. Mission live. Repeat Live. Target on standby. Do you copy? Over.”

  “Affirmative, High Wycombe. Over and Out.”

  The UK defence force was on high alert. An attack on the home of the nuclear fleet could be catastrophic. The priority was to protect it at all costs. The jets continued on course at 8,000 feet. Ready to intercept, the pilots’ Mauser 27mm cannons were primed and ready. On the horizon their target was coming into range.

  The sound of the engine was deafening and on board the Cessna Ian Wark knew he was running out of time. His mind drifted back to old glories. In Libya he had flown an older version of the plane. Before the no-fly zone was enforced in 2011 he had ferried rations and ammunition around the rebel strongholds. Air had been the safest way to travel and in the space of six months he must have made around 100 flights. There had been a few near misses, with ground to air missiles sometimes getting too close for comfort. Fuelled by the surge of adrenalin which coursed through his body when touching down on a makeshift airfield in the dead of night, he had never felt so alive. He would be guided in by petrol fires raging from holes dug in the earth. The country had been in anarchy. At the start of the war you could find people selling unrefined petrol from plastic barrels at the side of the road. Some doubled-up as third world restaurants. Lean-to bus shelters, made from scavenged wood and corrugated iron, used oil drums for stoves, with the makeshift grills serving fresh goat or sheep. So fresh, in fact, that the slaughtered lamb would be hanging from the roof, while the next course stood bleating by the side of the road. That had been supply and demand, Libyan style. It had been rough, but he’d made good contacts. Through his flying he met the ground crew who helped to smuggle goods through the American rendition flights. Security had been tight, and all those given access were trusted. But during the revolution many records had been destroyed. It was quite easy for people to create new lives, and new skills for themselves. The chain of events had brought him closer to the end; closer to now.

  The drone of the motor was his sole companion; he was less than ten miles away from the target but was out of position. Dragging the control rod to the right, the plane veered south west. He needed to approach the base from the south if he was going to stand any chance of hitting the target. Then, in the background, he became aware of a rumble. Looks like I’ve got company. To his left he saw the first fighter jet draw level; his radio crackled with a message but he switched it off. The RAF pilots were trying to talk him down, and both Typhoon fighters were matching his speed, and flew at either side of the Cessna. He knew they would try all frequencies including the emergency channel before they would consider using force. Reaching back he made sure the parachute was in easy reach. The time for thinking was over. Everything depended on the next five minutes.

  52

  Despite the pomp which greeted his arrival, and the pressure piled on his shoulders to get a result, it turned out that Graeme Donald was the last to know about the latest developments. The chain of command found out about the situation in a round of political dominos. RAF Command informed the Ministry of Defence which relayed the news to The Prime Minister’s Office. Out of courtesy Downing Street put in the call to Holyrood. Last but not least was Pitt Street and Police Scotland.

  “First Minister, what an unexpected pleasure.”

  “We’ve got a situation developing at Faslane. Your suspect has stolen a light aircraft from Cumbernauld Airport, and is heading to the Naval Base. The RAF is tracking the flight. They should be with him around now. He won’t get away.”

  “I’d like this guy to go to trial. A lot of people have suffered.”

  “If he flies a plane into Faslane, this will turn into another international incident, which won’t be good for either of us. Everything possible that can be done needs to be done. The RAF say they will bring him down if they are forced to.”

  “Christ. This guy’s persistent. I’ll give him that.”

  “This is no time for jokes. I think you should get your guys up there. Are they still at Prestwick?”

  “They have a helicopter, I’ll issue the order. Has the RAF been given the authority they need to deal with this?”

  “The Quick Reaction Alert team have round the clock authority. If Wark doesn’t land he’ll be brought down; safely if possible.”

  “If possible,” Donald repeated the phrase to himself, “OK understood. I’ll be in touch, but we’ll get some bodies down there. Do we need clearance to land?”

  “I’ll see to it. Let me know if you need anything else. The call went silent. The Police helicopter left Prestwick a few minutes later.

  Annabelle Strachan finished recording the message and pressed stop on her mobile phone. She had parked at the Loch Katrine visitor centre. To give herself more space she’d sat in the back of the car,
using the internal light to brighten the shot. She had spread a Union flag along the back seat to use as a backdrop. This was the last thing she had to do; her last promise to Ian Wark, who told her it would send a message. She felt something on her cheek, a tear – she was crying. Hot, soft tears streaked down her face. The enormity of the day became too much and Annabelle gave herself over to a cathartic session which washed away her remaining doubts. Half an hour later she watched the sun rise and knew she couldn’t put it off any longer. Soon people would be arriving for work. Annabelle uploaded the video from the phone onto her YouTube account. Then, using the list she had of Scottish and UK newsrooms, she emailed a link to let them access the private account. Everyone would get the message at the same time. Each organisation was blind copied into her saved draft. She knew the video would be taken seriously, her mission was nearly complete.

  In the hospital the TV was never off. Norrie Smith paid five pounds a day for the privilege of watching four channels from the comfort of his sick bed. He was getting out tomorrow and would be glad to get back to the comfort of his own home, his own bed. The wound had been healing well and he was now able to walk without suffering a shooting pain with every step. He had been well treated and his recovery had been quicker than expected ‘for a man his age’; he was only 54 – still in his prime. Cheeky bastards. But still he’d be out soon and then – and then what? The liaison officer had told him he would need to remain under guard in case his attacker returned to finish the job. But as he watched TV he thought that might not be a problem. The News Channel was showing a video. They wouldn’t play the sound for fear of encouraging others to follow suit and the only shot they played was of that women, Strachan, sat in front of a Union flag. All the information he needed was the headline, “Terrorists warn of further attacks.”

  Norrie sighed and lay back. He looked at his mobile and thought to phone Arbogast, but he knew the time for that had passed. From now on he was going to have to look after himself.

  The helicopter flew low and fast along the west coast, heading for the Gareloch. No-one spoke as the lights of villages and town sped by, the headlights of cars looked like fireflies hovering in the night sky. They were all unaware of what was happening just now, of the potential consequences of this latest attack. Arbogast leaned forward and shouted in Rosalind’s ear, trying to make himself heard.

  “Have they told you what’s going to happen?”

  Rosalind pointed at her ears and shook her head as if to say she hadn’t understood. He tried again but she shrugged her shoulders. It might have been a communication breakdown but it felt like he a snub. The information was ‘need to know’ and his days of expecting special treatment were over.

  The Typhoon pilots watched as the Cessna started to turn towards the Gareloch, giving a clean run on the naval base. Squadron leader Geoff Healey repeated his warning on the emergency channel, the one frequency which should have been clear. The cockpit lights were on. Watching through the fighter’s thick acrylic canopy Geoff could see the pilot was paying no attention to his warning and was starting to turn the plane into an attack run. The camera on his helmet had been relaying real time video back to RAF Command. The footage went through the central computer, was forwarded to SOCA and then back to the Police Scotland network. All the systems were connected and within minutes they were 90% sure the pilot was the terror suspect, Ian Wark. Healey made the sign for Wark to land. He had turned and was facing him directly. He thought he saw him smile but it was too dark to be sure. Wark increased the speed up to 124 knots and started to descend. Force was authorised. Healey fired off four warning shots which flared past Wark’s cockpit, but he didn’t change course; the target was in sight.

  Graeme Donald had called in James Robinson, his head of communications. It was late, but they needed to work on a strategy to handle the calls they would be swamped with later. Given the investigation was live, there was a limit to what they could disclose, but depending on the outcome of the operation there might not be anyone left to arrest. If that was the case the day would be a free-for-all, with all stories considered, printed, and analysed. They needed to have a clear timeline of events. Regardless of what happened next the exercise would help them identify what they could say and demonstrate exactly how well the case had been handled. With so many different strands to the investigation it was going to be important to send out the right message as early as possible.

  ***

  They said it was the best time of the day but it was a shift he had never got used to. David Colquhoun arrived at Loch Katrine at 5:30am. As the groundsman, he was always busy. They were working on upgrading the paths, and he was managing four different crews working on different sections at the same time. At this time of year fewer people came to the Loch, and he was surprised to see a light blue Volvo in the car park. Pulling up outside the office he walked across to see if there was anyone there. Sometimes a new worker misjudged the time it took to reach the Loch and arrived too early. As he walked across to the car David noticed a light plume of smoke. As he drew closer he noticed a small hole in the top of the roof, the metal pushed outwards. He wondered what might have caused it, and why they hadn’t got it fixed. In fact, he thought, why would you smoke in an enclosed space like that? It would make me sick, especially at this time of day. The car’s windows were misted over, so he knew there must be someone inside. Knocking on the window he could hear the radio was playing.

  “C’mon, open up. You’re a bit early today. We won’t be starting for another hour,” There was no answer. David tried again, “Have you fallen asleep in there? You’d better watch or your battery will die and then you’ll be stuck here.” When there was still no response he tried the door, expecting it to be locked. It was an old car with a push button release. Pressing down David hesitated when the door opened. Maybe this isn’t the right thing to do. What if it’s not a workman? But it was too late, so he prised open the door, with the grease free frame signalling its resistance, as metal strained against metal, causing a loud screech to cut through the early morning silence. Peering inside, he could see a woman asleep in the backseat. On her lap she held a gun in her right hand. Shit. He backed off a few steps but the woman didn’t move. He froze but he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Fascinated, he looked for signs of life, but there were none. Edging back towards the car he saw a red mark at the top of her head. David’s legs buckled under him and he fell to his knees on the road, when it finally dawned on him that a flat battery was the least of this woman’s concerns.

  Sandy Stirrit had been released from custody at around 4:30am, without his equipment and without being charged. Furious, he went straight to work to try and exert pressure through the BBC. But when he logged into his computer his attention switched; he’d been contacted by Annabelle Strachan, a woman the world and his dog were trying to find. His heart quickened at the prospect of another lead in the case. Why had she chosen him? Has something else happened? Would they be able to use it? About 20 questions passed through Sandy’s mind as he scanned the contents of the email. There was no message as such, only the words ‘Scotland Unite’, hyperlinked to a website. Underneath were:

  User name: Scotland Unite

  Password: AStrachan1

  He clicked on the link half expecting the BBC firewall to block access but he was directed through to a private YouTube account. The thumbnail showed a figure with a flag in the background. He clicked play. The video looked like it was shot in a car. Suddenly Annabelle’s face swung into view and the autofocus on the camera found its subject.

  “If you’re watching this video then my journey has come to an end. I have no more questions to answer, no more ideals to pursue, and no more lies to swallow. This is a wake-up call for Scotland. Today we will show the world that we are no longer prepared to live under the yoke of a fallen empire. No longer will we fight wars in foreign countries in the name of peace. No longer will we exist while the political classes feather their own nests and pursue their own
agendas. Scotland Unite. Unite for your past, your present, and your future. Do not accept the status quo. Do not accept that this is everything you live for. There is another way and today you will see that things can change. Scotland, the time has come to unite behind this martyr’s cause. This is just the beginning.”

  Sandy watched until the end but there was nothing of any real substance in the message. It came across like the ramblings of someone who had been living for too long on the edge. He knew the woman had been involved in the plot. Perhaps the reality of what she had done had finally sunk in. But still there was something in what she was saying ‘today you will see that things can change’. He phoned Police Scotland’s Media Services department at 5:00am. Keeping it coy at first, he asked if there had been any new developments in the terror case. The duty officer seemed flustered, but he couldn’t tell him anything. Sandy asked if he knew anything about a new video. He was told a statement would be released later. He tried to break him down, get more information, but he could hear a bank of phones ringing incessantly in the background. Eventually the duty officer had told him to keep his eyes on the news wires and hung up.

  ***

  Ian Wark stayed calm when the warning shots rattled past the plane. They were expected. The submarine base was now clearly in his line of sight. It was getting lighter outside but the shimmering lights at the base already acted like a beacon. He also had exact coordinates for the submarine, which he knew was being loaded for its next long haul mission. Fixing his sights on the target he switched the plane into autopilot mode. The Cessna was heading on a downward trajectory and would hit home in less than three minutes. In the distance he could see a flurry of activity. Ant-like figures scrambled over the docks trying to make the site safe, but Ian knew it was too late to stop him. Taking his hands off the control column he stopped for a second, half expecting the plane to lurch away without his guiding hand, but the course held true. Looking outside he saw the fighters were moving back into an attack formation. He didn’t have much time. Making his way back into the depths of the plane, Ian Wark pushed down on the handle and struggled to open the door as the wind drove him back, taking his breath away. He stood back and kicked at the metal, which gave way and came off on the top hinge, hanging dangerously in the fierce wind as the aircraft hurtled towards its final destination. Pulling the on-board parachute across his back, he clicked the straps into place and stood by the door. Without hesitation he jumped and immediately pulled the cord.