Andy McNab - Zero hour

I looked around for the RIB keys. They wouldn't be lying in a designer bowl. There would be a log book with them, noting who'd been on board, how much fuel was used, how long they were out, all that sort of stuff. You sign in and sign out each time you use them.

Two thick plastic folders with serial numbers stencilled on the front lay at the top right-hand corner of the desk. I flicked one open. Of course the RIBs had been filled up. Both were done at 19.00 tonight. Bean counting is the same anywhere; it doesn't matter what language it's in. The admin god decrees it. They'd each been out for two hours during the day. One had been topped up with sixty-eight litres, the other fifty-two. The tanks had to hold more than a hundred. They'd want to get five operational hours out of them.

The keys were in the folders too. Both had rubber covers, like jam-pot lids, to protect them from the weather when the RIBs were up and running. A yellow spiral cord clipped them to the driver, acting as a kill switch if you crashed or fell. I took both. I couldn't find a compass, but still left the sat navs. The last thing I needed was a great big electronic arrow pointing at my exact location.

I left via the door. I bounced over the side of the first RIB I came to, slid down to the console and inserted a key. No luck. I tried the second and both Yamahas fired up. The pointer on the fuel gauge immediately showed full. A cloud of smoke belched from the exhausts. The propellers were still low in the water so, for now at least, I didn't have to work out how to sort the hydraulics. I untied the mooring rope, hit the power lever to the right of the steering-wheel, and eased the nose gently out towards the sea.

As I emerged from the apex of the triangle a ship's navigation lights glided past me into the canal. I left the protection of the sea wall. Wind buffeted my face. I zipped up the rest of the dry-bag and donned the hood and gloves as well.

When I'd put a bit of distance between me and the shore, I slipped the lever into neutral. I kept the engine running, but powered right down. The boat bobbed in the swell as I moved back to check the fuel lines. One 115 h.p. engine was more than enough for me to piss it to the UK. Two engines would burn twice as much.

I twisted the cut-out on what I thought was the left-hand fuel line but the right-hand one cut out instead. I found the button for the hydraulic ram and lifted it out of the water. I didn't want any unnecessary drag.

Next priority was navigation. There was no ball compass. This boat's direction-finding devices were all Gucci. As I came out into the sea, I was more or less heading west, so north had to be to my right. But before I went much further I was going to need Polaris.

The Pole Star is the most accurate natural guide there is in the northern hemisphere. As all the other stars appear to move from east to west as the earth rotates, this one stays stock still, directly above the Pole.

First I had to find the Plough, seven stars grouped in the shape of a long-handled saucepan. Draw a line between the two stars that form the side furthest from the handle, extend it upwards by about five times its length, and the star you get to, all on its own, is Polaris.

Once I'd found it, all I needed to do was make sure I kept it to my right until I bumped into the UK. Exactly where, I couldn't predict.

I looked west and picked another star to aim for. I opened the throttle again and the bow lifted. The wind tugged at my hood. I sat on the cox's seat behind the screen, glancing back and forth between my star and Polaris. I'd waver left and right; the wind and the single engine would make it impossible not to. But that didn't matter, as long as I was going west.

I powered down until the bow dropped and I was bouncing over the surface of the water.

I thought about Robot – my mate from the battalion, not the one I'd hung on the extinguisher hook. We were posted in Gibraltar, so it wasn't easy for him to get to Millwall on a Saturday. He came up with a plan. One Friday night, he stole a speedboat from the harbour; he reckoned that as long as he turned right and followed the coast, he'd soon reach France. Once there, he'd chuck a left to the Den. Being Robot, he had no idea how far he had to go. The boat ran out of fuel in the Bay of Biscay. He never made the game.

Shit, I was doing it again…

Spray blasted my face. My arse wound was sore from four hours of constant sitting and standing. My arms ached from gripping the wheel. I was exhausted and hungry. But soon none of that mattered. Lights twinkled three or four K ahead, some high, some low. I focused on the low ones, near the water. I didn't want to end up steering towards a cliff. The biggest concentration was south-west of me. I turned the wheel and headed for the darkness about a K to the left of it.

The more I thought about this shit and the closer I'd got to the coast, the more worked up I'd become. I needed to control myself.

It was nearing first light. For some reason, that always made me feel even colder. But apart from my injuries I was feeling all right. Even the acid burn wasn't that bad. The lack of Smarties hadn't had any effect at all.

Half a K out I powered down, keeping the bow pointed towards the land. The tide was out. I'd have about three hundred metres of beach to cover.

About five short of the water's edge I heard the Yamaha scrape along the bottom. I gave it a quick burst of reverse and then swung the wheel so it faced out to sea again. I unclipped the kill cord from my dry-bag. Making sure the engine was facing dead ahead, in line with the bow, I tied the wheel to the console with the wires from both keys.

I sat on the edge of the RIB with my legs spread and my right hand gripping the grab loop. I leant out towards the console, slapped the throttle lever and jumped. The engine revved and the bow came up. The boat roared off, back the way I'd come.

I was waist deep in water. Some had made it down the neck of the Gore-Tex but otherwise the suit had done its stuff. Daylight was breaking behind me as I waded onto the deserted sand. I moved across it as quickly as I could, heading for the cover of the dunes. I needed to wriggle out of the dry-bag before the place was crawling with early-morning dog-walkers.

As I approached the edge of the town a van came past, and then a milk float. They drove on the left and had British plates. Thank fuck they weren't Belgian or French. Or, worse still, Norwegian. I'd read about a guy in Kent who'd bought himself a little boat. With only a road map for directions, he'd set off from a town on the river Medway, en route for Southampton. He ran out of fuel, then drifted onto a sandbank. He told the rescue team he'd been careful to keep the coast to his right. He'd ended up going round and round the Isle of Sheppey.

I passed a boatyard. A sign said, 'Welcome to Aldeburgh'. The road became the high street. It was a typical east-coast town, with old houses painted in pastel colours and local shops trying to compete with the big chains.

A Budgens was open. I picked up a litre of milk, some crisps and Mars bars, and a couple of packs of egg-mayonnaise sandwiches. A woman was sorting the morning papers at the counter. I added a copy of the Sun and had a quick chat with her about the weather.

Back on the street with my carrier bag, I passed an old butcher sorting out his shop front. At last I found what I was after. The bus stop near the tourist information centre told me I could get a 165 to Ipswich railway station, or I could get the 164 to Saxmundham. The first to arrive would be the 6.59 to Ipswich.

I only had about ten minutes to wait. I sat on the bench in the bus shelter and munched and drank over the morning paper, as you do on your way to work. The early edition carried nothing about an exploding silo in Amsterdam.