‘Get the three terrorists out of there and into protective custody. As far as everyone is concerned, the suicide bombers are dead, got that?’ ordered Colonel Gray.
‘Yes, sir.’
The journalist had attached a small radio-controlled explosive device to the fuel tank of the horsebox, which had ignited around 100 litres of diesel.
Colonel Gray gave the order, ‘Initiate phase two.’ The dull thud of an explosion in the distance was audible. The video screen showed a section of Aldermaston’s outer fence with a gaping hole and a nearby building on fire, billowing black smoke.
‘Not bad, eh?’ remarked Jeremy, who had materialised from nowhere and was standing next to Rafi. ‘Gives the impression to the other terrorists that they were successful, doesn’t it?’
‘Good work,’ added the Air Chief Marshal.
The SAS command centre came online. ‘Some plans and a spare timer for a detonator were found in Kaleem Shah’s vehicle. The plans mark two buildings that were to be attacked. Both contain low-level radioactive materials; nothing really dangerous, but sufficient to close the plant if released. Odd though, the timer had been tampered with. Whatever the setting, it would have gone off after about five seconds. Also the blue team leader reports that the explosives were packed into rucksacks, just like at Bishopsgate.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Colonel Gray.
The commissioner was thoughtful. ‘Well, that explains why the bomber at Bishopsgate got caught in the blast. He thought that he would have far more time to get away than he actually did. A five-second stroll from the bomb’s location to where his body was found fits in with the time delay on the fuse – so he wasn’t a suicide bomber, just a servant set up by his masters!’
‘Interesting,’ mused Ewan. ‘Ergo, the bombers at Aldermaston were expecting to escape!’ He went quiet for a moment, lost in his own thoughts, he spoke out loud. ‘I wonder if this attack has anything to do with the Iranians and the UK Trident nuclear weapons programme…? If the terrorists were in bed with Iran, it would give them a safe place to go after the attacks… And this sort of attack could appeal to a number of the extremist Iranian politicians. A tit-for-tat attack… I wonder?’
‘Ewan, no!’ The Air Chief Marshal looked concerned. ‘Don’t even go there!’
Ewan shrugged his shoulders. ‘Old habits… Just trying to put two and two together…’
The Air Chief Marshal spoke over him. ‘Now for phase three; the news and the TV crews are all yours, Harold.’
Brigadier Harold Sparkman, who was standing nearby, nodded and phoned a member of the Ministry’s press team, who was in bed asleep. ‘I’ve arranged a press conference for you at 7 a.m. near to the Aldermaston explosion. When you’re dressed and have had a quick cup of coffee, I’ll brief you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Colonel Gray, meanwhile, was giving orders to the SAS red and blue team leaders. ‘Arrange for the vehicles to be removed and the area cleaned. Can you please confirm the terrorists are safely with MI5 operatives?’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the reply.
‘Good. Now how serious are the injuries your team sustained, blue leader?’
‘Relatively minor, sir. Corporal Evans looks a bit like a hedgehog, but he can be patched up! And corporal Winderson suffered concussion when he struck his head in the explosion, but he’s got a thick skull – give him a few hours and he’ll be right as rain.’
‘Thank you, blue leader. All fit members of your unit are to join the red team. A helicopter is on its way.’
Rafi looked at the clock on the wall; everything had happened so quickly. It was only 4.20 a.m., Friday morning.
The brigadier turned to the Air Chief Marshal. ‘Press briefing arranged, sir. Our boys on the ground have been told to keep the buildings smoking as you ordered, sir.’
Shortly after the Ops Room had become operational, the PM, the Defence Secretary, the Air Chief Marshal, Colonel Paul Gray and Ewan Thorn had gone into a conclave. It was a meeting each of them would remember for years to come. On the table in front of them was a list showing the sum total of all the special forces, marines, paratroopers and army units with urban warfare experience – plus the crack anti-terrorist personnel – that were available. The country’s defences were stretched to breaking point. The conflicts overseas and tight budgets had left a gaping hole in the numbers available. Their terrorist adversaries were highly trained and experienced in the deadly art of urban warfare and concealment. A decision had to be made – they agreed that quality rather than quantity had to be the order of the day.
The PM pondered quietly to himself as he listened to the discussion over the allocation of their scarce recourses. He, too, now appreciated just how overstretched they were. Resources were being allocated according to the perceived size of the latent hazard – priority was given to protecting the nuclear installations, leaving the defence of the gas and oil plants bordering on thread-bare.
The considered view was that the terrorists would not make their move in the dead of night. And the command centre did not want them to be tipped off by reconnaissance teams being spotted; accordingly, only cursory inspections of the properties and the surrounding areas had been done.
‘No sign of any of the four terrorists,’ came over the speaker. ‘We will wait until all our special forces, marines and paratrooper teams are in position.’
‘I hope to God we’ve got this right,’ the Air Chief Marshal murmured anxiously under his breath.
‘It’s now time to see whether the terrorists are where we think they should be,’ called out the Air Chief Marshal.
Rafi felt a wave of apprehension flow through him. If he was wrong about the properties and they drew a blank… The butterflies in his stomach turned into a dull ache. He looked at the screens in the Ops Room; they were focused on the nuclear installations. The twilight pictures, from the infrared cameras, gave a distant feel as to what was happening.
The Air Chief Marshal addressed his team. ‘Brigadier Sparkman, as discussed, you will coordinate the SAS and the Paras at Hartlepool, Hull and Easington.’
Then he turned to Colonel Turner and enquired, ‘Is all in place at the Peterhead properties, St Fergus and Cruden Bay?’
‘Yes, sir.’
His next question was addressed to Colonel Gray. ‘All ready to go at North Walsham, Bacton, Grays and Sizewell?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ewan, is all in place at Troon, Peterhead and Great Yarmouth docks?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That leaves me with Sellafield, Prestwick and Heysham.’ The Air Chief Marshal spoke via his headset to his SAS contact, glanced across to the video-conferencing screen which linked their Ops Room with the SAS command centre and then at the screen next to it, which showed the paratroopers’ command centre.
‘Gentlemen, are we ready to go in five minutes?’ Affirmative replies came in.
The die is cast, thought Rafi. He touched Kate’s shoulder.
She was standing in front of him, gazing at the screens. She turned; her face was white with tiredness. ‘This is it,’ she said apprehensively. ‘We’ll soon find out if our hunches were right or if we’ve got it completely wrong!’
‘Hunches… I hope they’re a lot more than that!’
‘Your confidence is most refreshing,’ said Kate. Rafi found his hand next to hers; he gave it an affectionate squeeze. She took half a step backwards and let her body rest against his. She kept hold of his hand as she watched the three screens intently and listened to all that was going on.
The waiting was nail-biting. There were, Rafi estimated, twenty teams of special forces, paratroopers and anti-terrorist personnel out there in the darkness, stalking their prey. Behind them provisions had been made for their support. The scope of the mobilisation made it one of the largest peacetime operations on record.