‘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 look 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 Floreal 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.