The Nationalist

by Campbell Hart

  The order to hold-off from firing had relieved Geoff Healey’s immediate tension, but his sights were still trained on the Cessna. The two pilots waited for orders.

  Air Marshall, David Simmonds, knew he didn’t have much time to play with, no more than a couple of minutes. He had kept in constant contact with the pilots while he waited for confirmation of the details of the potential danger. “Live cargo at Faslane. Do not fire on target. Repeat – do not fire on target.”

  Geoff Healey swore in frustration. In 46 missions with Quick Reaction he had never had to fire on a target. Mostly they dealt with planes with broken radios, or guided foreign military planes through UK airspace. This was the real deal. Suddenly he saw something drop from the plane. It was too low for it to be a man. But then the parachute opened.

  “Suspect ejected. Repeat suspect ejected. Plane flying solo and on collision course with target; request permission to use force.”

  The Air Marshall didn’t hesitate, “Affirmative.” In unison the Typhoons fired, with the ammunition tearing through the Cessna’s wings and tail. The plane shifted course, veering west, away from the base. The bullets had strafed the fuel tank on the left wing, and flames now engulfed that side of the plane as it plunged down towards the sea loch. On the base a searchlight had been activated, with the bright beam now scanning the skyline to identify the incoming threat.

  Geoff Healey knew the Navy would be waiting, the base on maximum alert. It would be unlikely that there would be anyone on the submarine. But were the missiles still on board? He still hadn’t had confirmation and was running out of time. The aircraft was still on course to crash near to the base. It could still hit the submarine. Geoff watched. He let loose another volley of shots and in seconds he knew instinctively that he had done enough. As the planes circled back the pilots saw the Cessna crash into the Gareloch around 200m from the dock, large parts of the aircraft spread out on impact with petrol burning out on the water. The Typhoons had done their job but at first glance the pilots saw no further sign of the parachute.

  The Police helicopter landed in the naval base car park. A klaxon alarm sounded out across the complex. Ying, Arbogast, and Guthrie were met by an armed escort who shouted at them to follow. Running through the base the sound of ambulance and fire sirens deafened them as they made their way to the dock. There was a fire blazing on top of the HMS Vengeance. Out on the water the petrol, oil, and fuselage burned fiercely, the debris still recognisable as part of a plane. A large section of wing floated next to the dock, bumping against the rubber tyres put in place to protect vessels in port.

  At the dockside a short man of around 5’6” was directing operations. He was wearing a distinctive white topped peaked naval cap and black Gortex jacket. He was introduced as Rear Admiral, Alastair Duncan.

  “Pleased to meet you, officers.”

  “I’m Detective Chief Inspector, Rosalind Ying. These are my colleagues DIs Arbogast and Guthrie.”

  The Rear Admiral nodded, “We were lucky tonight. The plane pretty much missed its target.”

  “Pretty much?” Ying said.

  “The shrapnel from the impact on the Loch has pierced the hull, although the reactor wasn’t damaged. You can see some of the oil has also found its way to the Vengeance too. It’s too early to tell the extent of the damage but it will mean the mission has to be postponed; we’ll deploy another submarine.”

  “Have you found a body?”

  “A body,” he looked puzzled before he realised, “Ah you don’t know; the pilot jumped. He must only have been at around 900 feet; crazy to even attempt it. We haven’t found anything yet.”

  “He couldn’t have got far.”

  “If he fell into the loch, the current could carry him for miles. If we’re lucky the parachute might turn up and he’ll still be attached, but it’s not a given.”

  “We’ll find him.”

  The Rear Admiral nodded, “I hope so.”

  The parachute was found at first light, after the focus had switched from containing the incident on the submarine. As the Admiral had suspected the material had been caught up by the tide, and the fabric was found floating about a foot under the surface, anchored by the weight of the harness. A dredging operation was set up to look for the body. Divers scoured the depths of Gareloch but they found nothing.

  ***

  Media Services had been deluged with calls following the release of Annabelle’s video. Was there an increased threat of attack? Had something happened? Was the video being taken seriously? No-one knew about the incident at Faslane. The owner of the Cessna had been identified and was being debriefed as to why the details could not be made public. He would be supplied with a new plane as compensation. The BBC had run a report on the video but had made no mention of the night’s activity at Prestwick. Sandy Stirrit had been warned about breaking terror laws. The corporation now had its lawyers looking at the case to see what its next steps would be. Graeme Donald was confident there would no comeback. A report was issued saying a man had died at the airport in an industrial accident. The issue would be dealt with, but it would not be publicly linked to the terror attack. As far as the chief constable was concerned the case was closed. They’d put pressure on the attackers from day one, and forced them to act. The final piece of the jigsaw had already been slotted into place.

  ***

  The collie ran at full pelt, its pink tongue hanging over its black lips as it bounded across the rocky beach on the south eastern side of the Rosenath Peninsula. Pulling at driftwood and tossing discarded plastic bottles from side to side, the dog started to bark. Dusty was standing by the sewage overflow. She was balanced precariously on top of the rusted two foot pipe.

  “What’s wrong, girl? What have you got there?”

  Ed Johnson walked the same stretch every day, and every day Dusty found something new to rip to shreds; usually a dead fish or a decomposing seagull. Today the catch was different. By the time Ed reached the pipe he could see his dog was pulling at something with her teeth. The playful barking had given way to a more concerted snarl. He heard something rip. When he looked down he saw a man’s body; his legs twisted and out of shape. He looked like a rag doll that had been discarded by a careless child. At first he thought the man must be dead but then he saw his chest move. Edging closer he heard a sharp rasp of breath; the man was still alive.

  Back at Pitt Street Rosalind Ying broke the news about the discovery, “They’ve found Wark, sir.”

  Graeme Donald had been piecing through the statements from Prestwick and Faslane. They had scheduled a press conference for 2:00pm and they were still a long way from settling on a convincing narrative. “How did he manage to get away?”

  “He didn’t really,” Rosalind had slept in the office but had been one of the first to hear the news, “He’s practically dead. A walker found him washed up on the beach near to Roseneath,”

  “On the other side of the Firth?”

  “The water must have saved him. He shouldn’t have survived the jump from that height; he’s in a bad way, both his legs are broken and his rib cage was crushed in impact. If he was trying to swim to shore he would have swallowed a lot of water. It’s a miracle he made it.”

  “Will he survive?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible, but the doctors say its hit and miss.”

  “After all this?”

  “It’s over. That’s all we need to know.”

  “Good work, Ying. We’ll need to speak to Government and MI6. Postpone the press conference until 5:30pm; it’ll give us more time to get our story straight.”

  Rosalind Ying nodded and left Graeme to think. He waited until he was alone before hissing one word ‘Yesss’ through gritted teeth. He knew he had just secured his job for the long term.

  ***

  The ventilator heaved away in the background, pumping air into Ian Wark, sustaining his life. Arbogast had made the trip to the Intensive Care Unit at Inverclyde Hospital, which had been the neares
t to Roseneath. IV drips and monitoring equipment took up the space around the hospital bed. Arbogast picked up the clipboard attached to the footboard. He scanned the paper but he didn’t understand what any of it meant. Absent-mindedly he hung it back in place, returning his focus back to the enigmatic patient.

  Wark was unmoving and silent, the burr of the machines the only sign of life. How could one man have done so much damage? Watching for movement he scanned the face, which twitched from time to time. Perhaps he’s waking up? I’ve got so many questions. The doctor came in, scanning Arbogast as if to ask ‘Who are you?’

  “Police,” he looked at her name badge.

  Dr J Grey wasn’t impressed, “You won’t get much out of him.”

  “Will he pull through?”

  “He might. He’s in a coma. He could regain consciousness today or it might be weeks, years even.”

  The doctor checked the patient and the machines, noted down her findings on the chart and left. Arbogast stayed for a while; he wondered if it wouldn’t be fairer to pull the plug on him. That at least would give the victims’ families some justice. When he eventually left he knew that Wark’s plan had failed and whatever happened next he had nowhere left to run.

  ***

  Two days later after the media furore had died down it seemed as if life was starting to return to normal. A noticeable calm had returned to Glasgow, something which had been absent for the last few weeks. The barriers at George Square came down and police numbers became less visible on the city’s streets. Arbogast sat at his desk waiting for his next case when Ying appeared at the door.

  “Good work, DI Arbogast,” He looked at her thinking that she never called him that, but she didn’t notice and kept on talking, “I just wanted you to know that your efforts were appreciated. You made a difference.”

  “I still don’t know what we were dealing with.”

  “Wark’s laptop was retrieved from the back of Annabelle’s car. We’re still analysing the contents but it looks like there was a small group of people acting as a terror cell. All of them, from Jock Smith through to Wark, had radical views. It seems as though they talked themselves up; they saw no alternative other than to try and discredit the UK through violence. They seemed to think that would increase support for their version of nationalism.”

  “But why choose terrorism? Why not just try and win the argument, the same as everyone else?”

  “We might never know. Perhaps they felt those ways weren’t delivering. Whatever their plans, they didn’t succeed. The MoD say the base was never under threat from the plan; that the worst Wark could have done was to damage the submarine itself. Now while that might have caused a radiation leak, the missiles were never in danger of being triggered.”

  “Even so, I think they got exactly what they wanted.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look around you. The UK terror alert is at critical. Police across the country are routinely carrying side arms; that’s not even being questioned. Stop and search is on the rise, while at Westminster I see the bureaucrats have applied to extend the length of time suspects can be held without charge to 120 days. The whole country has lurched to the right and no-one seems to care. What better time to make a case for change?”

  “These things come in waves.”

  “Don’t be so flippant. These guys have started a national soul searching exercise. These weren’t Muslim extremists; these were natives, who for all intents and purposes were model citizens. We say we don’t know why, but we do. They wanted this country to change. They attacked a nuclear submarine base. That we’ve managed to keep that out of the press is a minor miracle. But people are talking. People know they have an opportunity to change the way we live. These guys used fear to get a response, to make people question the way Britain does business. They think people don’t consider what we do overseas. The number of people killed means nothing to us. 15 people died in Glasgow and we were horrified. But worse than that happens every day in Iraq, in Afghanistan – all over the world, but we don’t care because it’s got nothing to do with us. Well now it does.”

  “Calm down, John.” Arbogast’s face had gone red with anger as the realisation of what had happened really started to sink in. “We can brand these guys as freaks, as people that don’t represent us, but I think he’s made his point. I think we all know a little bit more about the world than we did last month.”

  “You sound like you admire him.”

  “How can I admire what he did? But he had a point to make and he made it.”

  “Could there be more of them?”

  “It’s possible, but I don’t think so – the way they finished the job. They knew there was no coming back.”

  “So what were they then, terrorists?”

  “I think they all saw something in Ian Wark – a man that fought for his country.”

  “A nationalist?”

  “You tell me.”

  ***

  That night Arbogast returned to his makeshift home. When he hadn’t been at work he had been camped out on Chris Guthrie’s couch. His colleague was still out with his partner and wasn’t due home to the early hours. It was Friday night and with the case wrapped up the investigations team was letting off some steam. Arbogast wasn’t in the mood. After the adrenalin of the investigation had passed, the high of closing the case had led to anti-climax. The sense of victory lasted for such a fleeting moment it was sometimes difficult to work out why he bothered. He knew that in a few days or weeks he’d be looking into another case, something that would be priority for a while then, nothing – yesterday’s news. Arbogast picked up the glass and drank down the whisky; he decided to celebrate with Glenmorangie. The glass felt heavy in his hand, and he heard the ice crackle and shatter as he poured another large measure. He’d drunk half a bottle. As he fumbled around in his empty head for an answer to his life he came to the conclusion that he was still none the wiser. He had promised Chris he’d move out but he hadn’t even started to look for somewhere to live. He still thought Rosalind was going to ask him back – only a matter of time. But he knew deep down that wasn’t going to happen; that her mind was made up. Switching on the TV there was nothing to hold his attention – Big Trouble in Little China; the shopping channel; adverts; news; off air till 7:00am. Babestation. Arbogast paused as he watched a woman in black pants on all fours, her breasts swaying, poised on top of a rumpled bed. She was talking to someone on a phone, but he couldn’t hear what they said. She looked off camera as if to say ‘This isn’t what I expected when you said you’d give me my big break in TV.’ He couldn’t take his eyes off the screen and missed the door unlocking. Chris and Jason were standing in the door way, drunk and giggling.

  “Oops, sorry John, we’re not disturbing you are we?”

  Arbogast switched the TV off, “I was just going to bed.”

  “I bet you were.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t.”

  Jason was laughing in the background, “See you tomorrow, John.”

  “Night.”

  Arbogast was doing his best to try and tidy the mess of crisp packets, peanuts, and the general detritus which had accumulated in the last eight hours, but he lost his footing and fell back on the sofa. When he looked up Chris was shaking his head.

  “This needs to stop, John. I can’t keep letting you stay. You’re a good friend, but I’ve Jason to consider too. I’m just saying.”

  “I know, you need your life back.”

  “Yes, I do, and it needs to be soon. I’m not kicking you out but I’d appreciate it if you could get moving – start thinking about a new life. You know she’s not going to call.”

  Arbogast nodded, “I know that Chris. Do you think I don’t know that?” He was sitting with his head in his hands.

  “C’mon, no need for that,” Chris said, sitting down he put his arm round John, “The guys were all saying tonight that you weren’t getting the credit you d
eserved for this case. But we know; we all know.”

  “She killed my child, Chris. What am I meant to think about that?” He pulled back and Chris could see his face was red, stretched with stress. He could see the mania in his friend’s eyes.

  “Would you rather she had a child she didn’t want?”

  “Yes of course I would.”

  “You’re drunk, John. I’d go to bed and sober up. Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”

  “I can’t help but think if it hadn’t been for Annabelle things would have been OK. Why did she pick me out?”

  “Coincidence?”

  “I can’t think why. She might have seen me in the news on the day of the bomb blast. I keep thinking – did she follow me? Did she actually just find me in the pub? She had the bedroom rigged to film, so she must have planned it.”

  “They were a terror cell, John. They were looking to cripple the system, to pick out figures of authority. Who better to smear than one of the lead cops on the case?”

  “But why me?”

  “Why not? She saw you, she knew you, but she’s dead now. We’ll never get an answer. Look, why don’t you go to bed. You’ve had enough for one night.” Chris took the glass and put the whisky out of reach on the coffee table.