Chapter 3

Lieutenant Malcolm took his seat at the mahogany boardroom table. He was hot from rushing out of the Cathedral and gulped the sparkling mineral water that lay in the glass in front of him.

Commander Edgar Bennett took a long, deep intake of breath, whilst unconsciously curling the end of his thick moustache, and then spoke authoritatively, in a voice that demanded respect and focused all of the participants to listen expectantly to his resonant tones.

“We are all aware of the increased sophistication that is being used in the trafficking of illegal goods into our waters. We need to take further measures to ensure that the routes are closed down, the perpetrators brought to justice and the trade brought to an end. A message has to be sent back to the traffickers that the United Kingdom will not tolerate smuggling of any kind and that all illegal cargo will be seized immediately and destroyed.”

There was silence in the room. The occupants at the boardroom table resigned themselves to the current position, their shadows detailing postures that had slumped. The United Kingdom was on the back foot, smuggling was easy. The establishment’s lack of resources meant that the island was seen as a simple target, the ample coastline an easy end destination for narcotics and illegal immigrants.

Malcolm shifted in his seat and Bennett had noticed his eager expression.

“Malcolm, if you are attempting to say something, spit it out.”

Malcolm rose to his feet. He needed all the time he could muster to compose himself and to think logically.

“We have been tracking a fishing boat called the Alana Princess and request permission to board her when she next docks at Ryde, which should be in fifteen minutes. We are led to believe that she carries a full cargo of narcotics and her seizure will be a valuable breakthrough in stemming the cocaine trade to Portsmouth.”

“Good,” Bennett replied. “Let us focus on some small wins to lead us to the bigger fish. You are relieved to board and capture any illegal goods on the vessel and I want a full report.”

“Yes sir,” Malcolm replied, as the electronic doors were already swinging open. He winked at Monica, to her disdain. He grabbed his coat and swiped the push button to exit, walked hurriedly out of the main gate and onwards towards the naval dockyard.

The boarding team at Ryde received Malcolm’s message. Their GP14s were slung over their shoulders as they climbed up from their rubber inflatable and athletically straddled the guardrail that stood proud above the bulky grey hull of the Alana Princess.

The first man headed straight for the bridge and nudged his loaded gun into the generous waist of the Captain.

“Show me your manifest,” he demanded.

With the gun in such close proximity, the Captain was quick to co-operate. The scrawled sheet detailed a hold full of white bait, herring, diesel, rope hemp and netting. The other three men of the boarding crew were already descending into the hold, their headlamps casting eerie contortions of light that bounced off the metal hull of the fishing boat.

Nearly three quarters of an hour later it was apparent there was nothing to capture. The boarding crew reported to Malcolm. Malcolm reported to Bennett. This was an embarrassment. “A pointless exercise,” Bennett replied.