The Nationalist (31 page)

At Lossiemouth it had been all clear at Q Shed, home to the RAF’s 6 Squadron Quick Reaction Alert team. The pilots sat, half-in and half-out of their green flight gear; their job was to wait. They were surrounded by phones of different colours – each line alerting them to a new level of threat, connecting the heart of the service to the command chain.

The call from Glasgow came into the Control and Reporting Centre at 11:05pm. The controller, Mike Carmichael, explained that a Cessna 172 Seahawk was flying at low altitude towards the coast. Its transponder was off and the pilot was not responding to radio communication. Identification officer, Sergeant, Brian Galloway, knew the drill. The terror threat was critical and they were on full alert for potential attacks. His tracking screen confirmed there was no transponder signal but the plane was being picked up by radar. On its current course the plane would be passing near Faslane Naval Base in a matter of minutes.

Brian Galloway contacted RAF Air Command at High Wycombe and the order was given by the black box Telebrief machine to act.

SCRAMBLE SCRAMBLE SCRAMBLE

The red phone rang in the Q Shed and the flight gear was pulled on and zipped up. The alarm was sounded. Flight Lieutenant, Greg Cross, punched the button which opened the hanger shed. The two pilots ran out, locking the door to protect the classified equipment inside. As the automatic shed doors opened up they could see the engineers making final checks to the Typhoon fighter jets, which were maintained in a constant state of readiness. Since the end of World War Two no fighter had fired on an unidentified aircraft over British soil, but each time the alarm sounded the pilots knew this time might be the first. Climbing the metal ladders which had been hastily put in place to allow for the short climb into the cockpits, the pilots slid into position and clicked their harnesses into place. In less than four minutes the fighter jets were airborne and heading for intercept.

At Prestwick the helicopter blades whirled slowly back into life, as the engine grew louder, the knot of tension began to grow in Arbogast’s guts. He didn’t mind flying but he had never been comfortable with the idea of being supported by thing strips of metal spinning in the air. He knew the science. He knew that the principle was the same for planes. When the rotors turn, air flowed more quickly across the tops of the blades than it did below, which made flight possible. But he still didn’t like it, and gripped the sides of the seat tightly as the great weight pulled away from the earth and made a path back into the night sky.

They had received a call from Pitt Street. Donald had been informed by the First Minister that the RAF was responding to a low flying aircraft which seemed to be heading for Faslane. It fitted with the plan which Coulter had told them.

“He went to a different airport. He knew we’d be here, he just didn’t tell Coulter,” Arbogast had said to Ying.

“We don’t know that, but we can’t take any chances. If there is even a remote possibility he’s heading for the naval base, then the plane will be dealt with, one way or another.”

“Then where are we going?”

“We need to be seen to be on top of this.”

It was going to take them about quarter of an hour to reach the base and as the rotors kept spinning Arbogast wondered if they might finally be close to bringing this manhunt to an end.

Ian Wark was cruising at around 90knots, close to 100mph. The decision to fly low meant he was experiencing more turbulence than expected. He had calculated it would take about 15 minutes to reach his target. His contact on the base had given him the co-ordinates he needed. Plotting the course he was confident he’d make the final run. Wark had flown past Glasgow Airport which looked deserted. The runways were still illuminated by the pin pricks of the runway lights, but he knew he still had some way to go. Wark focused on the gloom outside, the central propeller droning at a constant rate. Ian thought about the years of planning, the success of the operation so far, the message he’d sent to the outside world about the country they lived in. He was already winning the war; his war. And tonight the world would know the meaning of the term deterrent. They might think they were safe, not questioning the way their country acted overseas; but it wasn’t right to kill innocent people in the name of peace, to brush past sins under the carpet as if they didn’t matter. It wasn’t right and tonight everyone would be able to see why. Tonight he was going to cast new light on the UK’s hubristic empire mentality. Tonight was the night when Scotland would unite under a common cause.

In the distance he could see the waters of the Firth of Clyde shimmer under the moonlight, the gateway for the naval base and home to Britain’s nuclear fleet.

Designed with a 30 year lifespan, the UK Government pressed Trident II into active service in 1994. Four Vanguard class nuclear submarines were based at Faslane on Clydeside; all were equipped to carry 16 atomic missiles, and each missile carried three warheads with a range of 7,500 miles. With at least one of the vessels on active patrol at any given time, this effectively meant that no target was out of reach.

In 1945, when the first atomic bomb ‘Little Boy’ was dropped on Hiroshima, as many as 45,000 died people on the first day, with a total of 166,000 following in the aftermath. In 2014 the technology’s power dwarfed that of its predecessor. A single Trident II missile has the destructive capacity of eight Hiroshima bombs, and 16 were currently being loaded onto HMS Vengeance.

When the alarm came through of a potential attack, the loading operation stopped. The moment the klaxon sounded across Faslane, the naval base snapped into emergency lock down.  With major centres of population within the potential blast zone, nothing was being left to chance. Three missiles were already in place on board the Vengeance and one more was in transit. The remaining weapons were stopped in convoy and turned back to their secure housing at Coulport, several miles away. Back on the dock, crews scrambled to make the vessel safe, with teams running on automatic, as well drilled emergency procedures sprung into effect. In the distance the roar of fighter jets masked the progress of a single light aircraft.

***

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?”