Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(92)

‘I’ve got a Nimrod flying above the immediate area, with a second one on its way. Lowlander can’t have covered more than a hundred miles since it was taken over, so I’m confident it shouldn’t be too long before we locate it.’

‘Where do you think they’re heading?’ asked the Cabinet Secretary, looking back down at the map.

‘They won’t want to hang about in Spanish waters,’ said the First Sea Lord. ‘My bet is they’re heading for Tripoli,’ a finger moving across the map, ‘in the hope that they can reach Libyan territorial waters before we are given the chance to mount a full scale retaliation.’

‘How much time do we have?’ asked the Cabinet Secretary.

‘If they maintain a speed of around eighteen knots, it will take them about forty-eight hours to reach the safety of their own territorial waters.’

‘If they make it,’ said the Foreign Secretary, who was seated opposite the Prime Minister, ‘we have no more sanctions to threaten Libya with, so we’re not exactly in a strong bargaining position.’

‘A very weak one,’ said the Prime Minister, folding her arms. ‘So, what can we hope to achieve during the next forty-eight hours to make sure that doesn’t arise?’

‘I’ve got a crack SBS squadron trained in Maritime Counter Terrorism who are currently carrying out exercises on the Clyde near Faslane,’ chipped in the Director of Special Forces. ‘I’ve already issued an order that they should return to their base in Dorset soonest, where I’ll be joining them later today.’

‘Are any of our ships currently in the area?’ asked the Cabinet Secretary, who leant across the table and dipped a finger in the middle of the Mediterranean.

‘The aircraft carrier HMS Cornwall was anchored off the coast of Malta,’ said the First Sea Lord, ‘but is already heading towards the area at speed. They should catch up with them in about eighteen hours. We also have a submarine undertaking minor repairs in Gibraltar, which will be ready to get under way later this morning and should join up with the Cornwall some time tomorrow afternoon.’

‘I presume,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘you’ve chosen a crack commander to head up this operation?’

‘Yes,’ said the First Sea Lord. ‘He’s the best. Because for something this big we certainly don’t need a fimfop.’

‘A fimfop?’ queried the Cabinet Secretary.

‘Fun In the Mess, Fool Operationally. I can assure you that Captain Davenport is not a man Khalifah will want to meet.’

‘Under what conditions is Khalifah being held at this moment?’ asked the Prime Minister, looking around the table, not sure who would be able to answer her question.

‘He’s currently locked up in the solitary confinement wing of Belmarsh prison,’ said William. ‘He has no way of contacting anyone on the outside, but I think we can assume he’s well aware of what’s going on.’

Everyone around the table turned and looked at William.

‘Throwing away the key would seem an appropriate response given the circumstances,’ said the Home Secretary.

‘I only wish it was that easy,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘But for now, I suggest we all get to work and try to look as if it’s business as usual. I don’t have to remind you that it’s imperative the press don’t get hold of the story.’

‘And if they do?’ asked the PM’s Press Secretary.

‘I’ll slap a D-notice on every printing press in Fleet Street,’ said the Attorney General, without hesitation.

‘What if a foreign source finds out the Princess has been kidnapped?’ was the Press Secretary’s second question. ‘You can’t slap anything on them.’

‘If that were to happen, Bernard, prepare a statement for me,’ said the Prime Minister, just as the door burst open and her private secretary came rushing into the room and handed the PM a note. She opened it and read the short message out loud. ‘A Nimrod has located Lowlander, and you’re right, Admiral,’ she said, looking up at the First Sea Lord. ‘They’re heading east-south-east at around seventeen knots.’

‘So it has to be Tripoli,’ said the Foreign Secretary.

‘Which means we’ve got,’ said the Prime Minister, checking her watch, ‘about forty-seven hours before I have no choice but to accept a call from Colonel Gaddafi and negotiate from a very weak position.’ She looked around the table. ‘That’s something I want to avoid,’ she said firmly. ‘Whatever the cost.’





CHAPTER 33





WHEN THE SBS DIVE SUPERVISOR got the call from the ops commander at Faslane, he steadied his boat and loaded a diver recall device before dropping it into the water. It sank below the waves, exploding moments later to alert the divers of M Squadron to return to the surface immediately. Within seconds, a dozen rubber-clad bodies appeared above the waves and began racing each other to the safety boat. They didn’t need to be told it was an emergency, because they could see two faster vessels heading at speed towards them.

The order was simple. Return to the base at Coulport, get out of your dive kit and be ready to board a helicopter in twenty minutes. Anyone not on the helipad by then will be left behind. ‘Left behind’ were the only two words the ops commander repeated.