Red Alert

By n/a and Peter Wooton

 Two Russian agents arrive at Faslane, Scotland the home of the UK nuclear submarine squadron. With them is an Algerian woman and her young son whom the Russians took hostage from the refugee camp in Calais, known as 'the jungle'. They offer the woman free passage to the UK provided that when they arrive in Scotland she will complete a number of small tasks for them. She agrees. In London a third Russian agent masquerading a bicycle courier  is ordered to deliver a parcel containing a poisonous substance to the office of MI3, an obscure Ministry of Defence department with the cover name of Domesticus Cleaning Services, otherwise known as DCS. The office manager refuses to accept a parcel she has not ordered. The courier leaves the parcel in a corridor where it is discovered and the bomb disposal squad called. Angered by the failure of the courier to deliver the parcel, his boss in the Kremlin orders him to join his colleagues at Faslane. The parcel is sent to Porton Down, where the scientists discover it contains Ricin. In Faslane the Algerian woman is ordered to discreetly spread Ricin powder around a pub popular with Royal Navy personnel, many of whom are immediately poisoned. Having successfully completed her task she and her son are released. Major Challenor, the officer in charge of DCS is informed of the attack at Faslane. He deploys three of his agents, Mike Harding,a  former British Special Forces soldier, Annalisa Botelli a linquist from Met Police Speical Branch now transferred to MI13 and the Jamaican Dave Stephenson slso a senior officer from Met Police Special Branch also transferred to MI13, to Scotland. Their task is to find the persons behind the Ricin attacks and remove them with extreme prejudice.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: N/A
• Release date: Apr 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223486121

Book preview

1

In a double bedroom at the four star Mambeg Hotel located in the Scottish coastal town of Helensbrugh not far from HM Naval Base Clyde, two Russians. Leo Fedorov and Stepan Popov sat around a small table in Popov’s room sipping diluted Arak poured from an Arabic dallah coffee pot. Both men were in their early forties with muscular physiques, shaven heads and eyes devoid any expression. They had the appearance of  thuggish FSB operatives. Fedorov appeared to be the more intelligent of the two and probably the leader.

On the bed lay a distressed Syrian woman in her late twenties clad in the traditional Syrian dress of a black abayas that covered the length of her body. A white hood covered her head leaving only her face visible. Curled into the foetal position the woman had her back to the two men. Tears ran down her cheeks as she sobbed uncontrollably. Leo Fedorov turned towards her.

‘Shut the fuck up’ said Fedorov, now standing, looking towards the woman.

The woman sobbed loudly.

‘Where is Akmal? I want my son. Have you hurt him? If you have hurt Akmal Allah will see to it that you both burn in hell!’

‘And if you don’t shut up I’ll see to it your son is sold to paedophiles! Having brought you here you are now required to complete a few tasks for us. Simple tasks. Once you have completed the tasks satisfactorily, your son will be returned to you. He is in good hands, of that I can assure you’

The woman continued to sob but less loudly.

It was in Syria where Fedorov and Popov met Abelarda Hassan, the woman who now lay on the bed pleading to be reunited with her son Akmal.

Keen to get herself and her five years old son to the UK, Fedorov and Popov had agreed to help her but at a price. They were due to leave Syria for a terrorist training camp situated within a refugee camp on the outskirts of  Calais. From there they would continue their journey to the UK. Their mission was to destroy the UK’s nuclear deterrent based at Gare Loch on the west coast of Scotland. If they were unable to destroy the submarines, they were to assassinate the crews by spreading a toxin known as Ricin, in places the crews were known to frequent.

With this in mind Fedorov decided Hassan could be very useful to them. Her English was good, she was attractive and obviously intelligent. As bait, Fedorov offered Hassan an all-expenses paid journey from Syria, across the Mediterranean and the English Channel and into the UK. The crossing would be for herself and her son. All she had to do on arrival in the UK would be to complete a few minor tasks, after which she would be free.

After giving Fedorov’s proposal some thought Hassan, keen to leave the past behind and find a better life for herself and her son, accepted the offer. It seemed to be a fairly low risk opportunity and once in the UK she would have the option of either completing the tasks demanded by Fedorov or, if possible, to present herself to the UK authorities as an asylum seeker.

Following an arduous journey from Syria Fedorov, Popov, Hassan and her son Akmal, found themselves aboard a French trawler ready to sail from Calais bound for the Clyde estuary. 

After a relatively uneventful passage for the time of year, the captain of the trawler requested permission to enter Greenock port to enable his engineer to replace a faulty oil pump. With permission granted, the trawler came alongside in the early hours of the morning. Still under the cover of darkness Fedorov, Popov, Hassan and her son came ashore at Greenock, a small fishing port on the west coast of Scotland where they were met by an Asian taxi driver who took them by car to Helensbrugh. At Helensbrugh Hassan’s son  was taken from her and given into the care of a Scottish woman named Josephine who assured Hassan no harm would come to her son provided she did as she was told.

Hassan, Fedorov and Popov waited until mid-morning before checking in at the four  star Mambeg Hotel in the centre of Helensbrugh. Because Hassan’s English was good and because both Fedorov and Popov’s English was poor, she was told to speak only English and instead of the black abayas, to wear the western clothes given to her onboard the trawler.. When she argued against abandoning the abayas she was abruptly reminded of her obligation to the group and what would happen to her son if she failed to comply.

Her very first task was to survey a local pub frequented by personnel from the naval base. All she had to do was to look around as if meeting someone. Then apparently not seeing the person she was pretending to meet, she was to wait for an opportunity to enter the gents’ toilets without being noticed. Then covering her face with a Covid mask and wearing gloves, to quickly spray over as many surfaces as possible the contents of the small aerosol she had been given.

With the mission accomplished she was to quietly leave the pub and  make her way back to the hotel, disposing of the aerosol mask and gloves in any convenient wastebin.

On arrival at the hotel she had expected to find her son waiting for her but there was no sign of him. Instead she was to complete another task similar to the first.

A small plastic phial labelled with the name of a popular confectionery stood unopened on the table in Popov’s room. Fedorov stood up. 

‘With thanks to our colleague Abelarda Hassan, the first stage of our mission has been successfully completed. Here’s to stage two, which I am sure Hassan will complete with equal success.’

Then raising his glass and speaking in a loud voice, offered the toast

‘Udachi!’

With the effects of the potent Arak starting to kick in, Stepan Popov got to his feet, then rather unsteadily raising his glass to Hassan,  shouted ‘Udachi!’

As Popov sat down, Fedorov noticed the look in Popov’s eyes and the expression on his face as he gazed at the now quietly sobbing Hassan. Popov was obviously drunk. His expression said it all. They were in Popov’s room. Fedorov wanted to return to his room to catch up on his sleep but was concerned if he left Popov with Hassan there would be trouble.

‘Popov. If you so much as to lay a finger on Hassan I will kill you. We are not in Syria. She is part of our team. I will not tolerate any misbehaviour or mistreatment of a colleague on whom we depend for the success of this mission. So get it out of your mind right now. Understand?’

Popov understood only too well. Fedorov had a fearsome reputation for handing out brutal punishment for anyone under his command who disobeyed him. He recalled the time in Syria when a man in Fedorov’s squad raped a local woman. Fedorov had issued explicit orders that under no circumstances were locals to be harmed. One man ignored the order. Fedorov assembled the squad, forcing them to watch as he castrated the man. Nobody ever disobeyed Fedorov again.

2

As the BBC News theme tune faded away Sarah Winters, the well-known television  journalist appeared on the screen sitting behind a desk in the studio. She looked up from shuffling papers to smile into the camera. Speaking with a slight Scottish accent Winters ran through the early evening headlines. The final news story mentioned an unidentified illness affecting personnel at HM Naval Base Clyde. The camera cut to a male journalist.

‘Good evening Jonathan. What can you tell us about the incident in Faslane’ asked Sarah Winters, exchanging pleasantries with Johnathan McGregor, the BBC’s defence correspondent in Glasgow.

McGregor, wrapped in a grey puffer jacket with a woollen scarf wound around his neck, stood huddled against the ice cold gale force wind sweeping across Gare Loch, appeared on screen with the main gate of HM Naval Base Clyde in the background. With his microphone held in a gloved hand, McGregor gave an update on the situation. 

‘Good morning Sarah. All I can tell you at the moment is that yesterday evening, several personnel, submariners mostly, suddenly developed a fever. All those infected so far are now isolated in the base sick bay. Royal Navy medics have not found any evidence of a psychogenic reaction nor any evidence of a common ailment such as food poisoning. What is worrying the  command is that should the illness spread unchecked, it will impair the submarine squadron’s readiness to put to sea.’

‘Thank you Johnathan. Let’s hope the cause is soon found. Meanwhile we wish all those in sick bay a speedy recovery.’

The camera cut back to Sarah Winters in the studio then suddenly returned to McGregor with a flash update.

Mike Harding, a former British Special Forces soldier with twenty two years’ service behind him had been due for discharge from the Army but instead, had been retained on  request from the Ministry of Defence and offered the opportunity to be assigned to MI13, an obscure MoD department tasked to resolve politically sensitive threats to national security that no other department has the ability to deal with. The request was based on Harding’s exemplary service record and the cost of replacing men like him.

Having heard the headlines earlier in the day Harding was about to change channels when his attention was suddenly drawn to the newsflash. It was something to do with  a new story that hadn’t appeared in previous bulletins. Intrigued, Harding listened intently as McGregor paused for a moment to check his notes before continuing.

‘They all had a high temperature, were sweating heavily and coughing. Initially only a few of those reporting sick had mentioned a feeling of tightness in the chest and nausea. Now it appears the symptoms have spread rapidly and others are reporting sick with the same symptoms’

McGregor checked his notes again.

‘Further diagnosis has revealed fluid building up in the lungs causing pulmonary edema. Mystified and unable to immediately identify the cause of this sudden sickness, the senior base medical officer, Surgeon Commander Paul Chambers ordered each patient to receive a Polymerase Chain Reaction or PCR test’

Another pause as McGregor referred to his notes.

‘The test results were alarming. They suggested each individual was showing signs of Ricin poisoning, a finding confirmed by the Public Health England scientists recently arrived from the government Defence Science and Technology Laboratory at Porton Down in Wiltshire. The PCR test report was supported by the blueish tinge to the skin colour of all the affected individuals. Over to you Sarah’

The camera cut to the London studio.

‘Thank you Jonathan’ Then turning to the camera Winters continued.

‘We will bring you more on this story as the situation develops.’

‘Shit!’ thought Harding ‘If it’s Ricin then it’s serious. Much depends on how it’s deployed but usually Ricin is lethal. No wonder they’ve called in the boffins from Porton Down.’

Harding listened for a while longer then changed channels. With no further information from Faslane, Harding settled down to watch his favourite Clint Eastwood Dirty Harry film. The one where Harry Callahan the San Francisco detective played by Eastwood, aims his Magnum revolver at the injured bank robber now laying in a pavement doorway thinking about reaching for his shotgun laying on the pavement only a few feet away, utters the famous lines ‘I know what you're thinking. Did he fire six shots or only five? Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I've kinda lost track myself. But being this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question. Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?’

There have been times when I should have said that to the bastard I needed to get rid of’ thought Harding to himself, reflecting on past operations.

‘Only it wouldn’t have been a .44 Magnum but a 9mm Sig Sauer P226 loaded with hollow point rounds’

3

The following morning heralded one of those early winter days in England where the sun shines from a bright blue sky, the air is distinctly fresh and London is mostly free from the swarm of tourists descending on the city during the summer months. It was the sort of day that would make anyone feel happy and Mike Harding, was no exception.

While walking home after taking breakfast at his favourite high street café, Harding received a call on his mobile from his boss, Major Challenor, a former Coldstream Guards officer who, like Harding himself, had served with special forces. Major Challenor  was head of MI13. A call from the major meant only one thing. Trouble. He answered the call.

‘Hello’

‘Ah. Harding. I trust you are well?’ enquired the major, his clipped military manner instantly recognisable. Challenor had not the slightest interest in Harding’s health or wellbeing, it was nothing more than his standard opening statement. Before Harding could reply, the major continued.

‘I need you to pop into the office. The chaps down the road want me or rather the department, to find and remove whoever is poisoning our Royal Navy colleagues with what appears to be Ricin’

By ‘the chaps down the road’ Major Challenor was referring to the Ministry of Defence and possibly also Downing Street.

‘The office? Not the usual place?’ queried Harding knowing full well that when the major said ‘the department’ he meant MI13..

The usual place was a wooden bench seat in Jubilee Gardens on the south bank of the Thames near to the London Eye, known to MI13 operatives as K57. Challenor’s office was on the third floor of a modern stainless steel and glass building located on Victoria Street, a short walk from Victoria Station, The building’s occupants were listed on a brass plate fixed to the wall next to the entrance.  Domesticus Cleaning Services Ltd was the cover name for MI13.

‘Yes and no’ replied Challenor.

The reply was somewhat cryptic. Harding sought clarification.

‘What do you mean by yes and no? Which is it. Yes or no? I don’t want to have to spend all day looking for you!’

‘Oh for goodness sake, Harding. My office. Victoria Street. The area manager would like a chat. Ten thirty’ said Challenor.

‘Ten thirty tomorrow it is then’ confirmed Harding.

The line went dead.

4

As was his usual habit Harding arrived early at Victoria Street. After signing the visitors’ book handed to him by a surly twenty something female receptionist busily filing her nails, then passing through the security checks administered by a large, smartly dressed coloured chap who had probably been RAF Regiment in a previous life, Harding took the lift to the third floor.

‘Morning Harding. Good trip up I trust?’

‘Insofar as it’s possible to have a good trip by train these days Major, then yes’

‘Good. Take seat’

Challenor waved to an empty chair on the opposite side of his desk.

‘Let’s get down to business. I presume you have heard the news?’

‘You mean the report regarding several matelots suddenly being taken ill at Faslane?’ By using the term ‘matelots’ Harding was referring to Royal Navy sailors.

‘Yes. Most odd. The department has been given the task of investigating what the bloody hell is going on up there. There are rumours it could be another Salisbury event. This time using Ricin instead of Novichok’

said Challenor, referring to the Novichok poisoning of a Russian double agent now resident in the UK who was part of a spy swap several years ago.

‘The Russians might be at it again then?’

said Harding, quietly thinking through the possibility. His thoughts were disturbed when Ms Hancock, Challenor’s dour fifty something secretary entered Challenor’s office carrying a tray laden with  a pot of coffee, two cups and a plate of biscuits.

Ms Hancock placed the tray on the conference table in the centre of the room then without saying a word, returned to her office just as a phone rang. Another call from someone seeking the services of a commercial cleaner. Ms Hancock fielded the call in her usual manner. 

‘Another poisoning incident by the Russians perhaps, major?’ said Harding

Major Challenor ignored Harding’s comment. Harding waited for Challenor to offer him a cup of coffee.

‘Nobody knows for sure. All we know so far is that a dozen naval personnel, all of whom are serving in one of the Vanguard class SSBNs, have suddenly become very ill. The actual cause has yet to be confirmed. Porton Down have sent a couple of their Public Health England scientists, at least they say they are from PHE, they could easily be from the bio warfare side of the business, to Faslane. The affected personnel have been transferred to an isolation area reserved for treatment of persons suffering from radiation sickness.

The major continued.

‘What’s worrying the government is the possibility of it being another chemical attack in the style of Skripal, Litvinenko, Markov and one or two others. Whoever is behind the event in Faslane is a serious threat to national security. It’s too much of a coincidence for so many personnel to fall ill at the same time by accident. Instead of targeting individuals, this time the target was the boat’s company of one of our bombers up at  Faslane’

Major Challenor could barely hide his anger. 

‘The boats are hardly seaworthy as it is so the last thing we need is for the crews to be poisoned. Following the outcome of this morning’s COBRA meeting I have been instructed to send my best man to Scotland. Consequently, you are to get yourself to HMNB Clyde. Your orders are to find then remove, the person or persons, behind this recent attack. If it’s the Russians, there is a good chance they will follow the pattern of  previous, attacks. That means the Kremlin might only have sent two agents to do the job’

Challenor paused for a moment to pour himself and Harding a cup of coffee. He handed a cup and saucer to Harding before continuing.

‘Ricin is a Category B Bioterrorism agent. It’s listed as a Schedule Number 1 chemical warfare agent. Ricin is not a weapon used by the RN so someone must have brought it with them or prepped it locally. Apparently it’s extracted from castor beans then purified and treated to become a white powder. The powder can be deployed as is, for example in letters, formed into pellets or dissolved in water. When dissolved in water it forms a weak acid that can be released as an aerosol to be inhaled by the target. It can also be spread on foodstuffs, in drinks and so on. The only known certainty is that it is lethal. Faslane security has been notified that MI13 is sending an officer to assist with the investigation. As has Police Scotland, Police Scotland Special Branch and MoD Police. They have all been similarly notified but don’t expect too much help from any of them. They’ll all be competing against each other to win first prize. The last thing they’ll want is a damned sassenach from some obscure MOD department poking his noise in.  Probably best if you make your arrival known but then maintain a low profile’

‘The Sweaties being unco-operative? Surely not!’ Harding shrugged.

‘Sweaties? We’ll have less of the banter thank you  Harding. We need them on our side so don’t piss them off. Understood’

Sweaties was a derogatory term used by some elements of the military when referring to the Scots. Sweaty Sock rhymes with Jock, Jock being the informal name for a Scotsman.

‘Absolutely, major. As if I would. I’ll remember to behave myself’

‘You damned well better had, Harding. This is a serious matter, way beyond our usual operations. That being so, it requires an improvement on your  usual insubordinate attitude so make sure you do not upset our Scottish colleagues. This is not a contest to see who wins gold. It requires the fullest co-operation with others. Understood?’

‘Understood’

‘Good. There’s bound to be some inter-service, perhaps even intra-service, rivalry so watch out for that’

Harding had come across inter-service rivalries before. It usually started with some senior officer of one service or other seeking to capture all the glory for himself at the expense of everyone else involved in the operation and sometimes even at the expense of the operation itself.

‘By the way Harding, I’m sending Botelli and that chap from the Met Special Branch, that coloured fellow, what’s his name.....?’

Harding paused.

‘You mean DI Stephenson. Dave Stephenson? A damn good bloke is DI Stephenson. His family are part of the Windrush generation. came over from Jamaica in the late forties and early fifties. As for Botelli, she’s no fool either. She managed to infiltrate a Russian spy ring operating from an Eastern European car dealership in Kings Lynn a while back.’

‘Pleased to hear it Harding. Botelli’s multi-lingual. Bright as a button. You might be pleased to know she has been transferred from Special Branch to MI13 so she’s one of us now’

Harding preferred working alone but he had no problem with having  Stephenson and Botelli on his side.

‘Really?’ Harding was pleased to hear Botelli had been drafted to MI13.

‘Excellent. OK then. Ms Hancock has all the usual documents, rail tickets, hotel bookings, car reservations, credit cards and so on’

‘Rail tickets! Why not flights?’

‘Because the department needs to demonstrate its green credentials. Besides, Kings Cross station is barely twenty minutes away. By the time you’ve arrived at any of the airports, be it Heathrow, Gatwick, City, Luton or wherever, and have managed to get through the usual security formalities then waited to board your flight, you would be halfway to Glasgow Central. From there, it’s a cab ride to Faslane. No faffing about with luggage reclaim and so on. Now get going. We need this sorted before any real harm is done’

‘Green credentials, major? You have got to be having a laugh, surely!’

‘The PM insists the department adopts a green attitude so train it is. The three of you are booked on the LNER east coast mainline service departing at twelve fifty from Kings Cross. Scheduled to arrive at Glasgow Central at two minutes past six. I’ve given all of you an upgrade to first class. Botelli and Stephenson will be on the same train. Good luck’

‘Thank you major. Your benevolence is overwhelming’

said Harding, still irritated at having to go

by train instead of flying.

5

The train was less busy than Harding had expected. He quickly found his seat, then made himself comfortable. He glanced at his Rolex watch, a gift from the Sultan of Oman for services rendered. It was twelve forty five. He decided not to bother looking for Botelli or Stephenson on the train. He would meet up with them in Glasgow. If not at the station, then later at the hotel Ms Hancock had booked for him and presumably the other two. To travel in a group would be to make themselves conspicuous. The last thing he needed was to make himself conspicuous. Harding much preferred to work alone but Botelli and Stephenson had proved their worth when they collaborated in an operation to find an eminent British scientist leading a highly classified radar project who suddenly disappeared on arrival at Pisa airport. The operation had been a success. The man was returned to the UK fit and well. When it came to finding whoever was spreading Ricin at the UKs most important naval base, three would