The Nationalist (32 page)

“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.

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.