Poseidon's Ransom

Chapter Nine

The picturesque town of Oban is situated on the West coast of Scotland. With its resident population of less than 10,000, it is normally a sleepy highland location, but in the summer the population increases, thanks to the tourists, to more than 25,000. Most of the visitors come for the scenery, some for the offshore fishing and many for the excellent golf in the area.

The sight of a helicopter landing at the Craiglarich Golf Club is not unusual, nor does it get much attention from the members and visitors, and only occasionally solicits the comment, ‘Och, here we go again, anither rich bunch up frae Glasgow.’

On this occasion, it was strange to see only one person exit the clattering aircraft. After securing the chopper its pilot made his way into the Professional’s Shop.

‘G’mornin, sir,’ said the young man behind the counter,’ ‘How can’a help ye?’

‘Good morning,’ said the pilot. ‘I’m here to pick up some visitors who’ll be arriving in a couple of hours. We made arrangements to land the helicopter here.’

‘Aye, sir. We were expectin ye. Ye can wait in the clubhoos.’

The pilot smiled. ‘Okay. Thank you.’ As he left the shop, he took out his smartphone and tapped out two words. In the old Welsh farmhouse, Rick Washington’s phone beeped. He swiped the screen and smiled at the message. IN OBAN.

In Downing Street the situation was now critical. Reports had been passed, via the Home Secretary, to the PM, none of which were good. Neither the police, Special Branch, or MI5 had made any progress with finding the kidnapped families. There had been some reports from the odd neighbour of ‘goings-on’ during the previous nights, but no one could help with much more than a few sketchy details.

The deadline was fast approaching, and tensions were high.

In the White House, the President was meeting with his security council. The Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Kelsey Morgan was speaking. ‘Our ballistic submarine USS Jackson is on station, south of Iceland, Mister President. It can be brought into play immediately you give the order, sir. We can take out Poseidon with a cruise missile before they knew what hit them. Just give the order.’

The President looked at the man sitting across from him. The slightest of frowns wrinkled his brow. ‘Let’s hope it won’t come to that, Admiral.’

In his office in the Bank of England, the Governor waited in silence. His deputy stood at the window looking out over Threadneedle Street. The three billion pound transaction had been processed and was ready to be actioned. All that was needed was to press SEND on the computer. The sharp ring of the telephone broke the silence.

‘Yes?’ said the Governor. ‘I understand… Thank you, Home Secretary.’ He hung up the phone and turned to his deputy. ‘Send it.’