'I learnt in the special forces just how vulnerable our ships are to terrorist hijack'

There’s something about drifting through the sea at night that makes me feel unearthly, as if I’m not quite part of this planet. The water and sky are so black it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. It’s a sensation I remember well from my 11 years in the Special Boat Service (SBS), the elite unit of the Royal Navy, closely aligned with the SAS, which is trained to recapture ships from the grip of pirates, drug dealers and terrorists.

In practice exercises, we were plunged into the stormy waters of the North Sea, on orders to retake an oil rig that had been seized by ‘terrorists’; or to climb aboard a vessel to rescue hostages from pirates. I was reminded of these missions last week, when 16 of my former SBS colleagues were praised as heroes after they stormed a Liberian-registered oil tanker off the Isle of Wight that was thought to be at risk of falling into the hands of alleged hijackers.

The Nave Andromeda, which can carry 500,000 barrels of oil at full capacity, was due to arrive in Southampton on Monday, but at some point in their voyage the crew discovered seven stowaways in the ship’s bowels. Concerns apparently grew that the men were turning violent on Sunday morning, smashing glass and reportedly making threats to kill.

A 10-hour standoff ensued, during which the captain issued a desperate Mayday call to the mainland, reportedly telling an operator: “I’m trying to keep them calm, but please send help.” With the help of four navy helicopters, SBS commandos stormed the ship in just nine minutes. Onlookers from the coast saw lights from the ship’s deck flashing against the night sky.

Seven Nigerian nationals were detained; all crew were declared safe and well. I’m relieved the saga ended without injury, but the truth is that Britain’s vessels are far more vulnerable to ‘shipjacking’ than we like to think. Indeed, I’ve spent much of the three decades since I left the Navy advising businesses on how to protect themselves from piracy – or ‘sea crime’, as I have unsuccessfully tried to rebrand it (‘piracy’ is a little too romantic).

There were 162 pirate attacks across the world last year, according to the IMB Piracy Reporting Centre, and Covid-19 means that number is expected to rise this year, particularly in Asia, as the collapse in shipping revenue pushes unemployed sailors to desperation. In the early 2000s, it was the threat of Somali piracy that kept captains awake at night, and shipping companies invested millions in robust security. But strong international action meant that threat had receded considerably by 2010.

Since then, dwindling profits have discouraged firms from investing in security, and automation means crews are becoming smaller: the Nave Andromeda had 22 on board, but 40 years ago the same ship would have carried more like 40 or 50. I don’t think it’s long before we see oil tankers that are totally crewless.

Most sea crime is economic: drug smugglers, or pirates trying to steal scrap metal or engine parts; or, as in the case of last week’s saga, migrants trying to enter a richer country undetected. They normally creep aboard while the ship is in harbour – a job that is easier in poorer countries, where ports often have lax security (last week’s stowaways are assumed to have gained access to the ship in Lagos).

When challenged, crews are advised to comply with pirates’ demands. For most, sea crime seems a faraway threat, summoning images of Treasure Island or gun-wielding Somalis. But it is one that has been top of my mind ever since I joined the SBS in 1975, aged 19, when the elite unit was in the midst of a transformation. The discovery of the Brent oilfield in 1971 had sparked a booming North Sea oil trade, and Whitehall became nervous that terrorists might seize an oil rig; or, worse, commandeer a tanker and sail it into a civilian target.

We pioneered the concept of marine counterterrorism, and sold that knowledge to our allies. In the early days, our methods were rudimentary. We developed the ‘hook and pole’ technique to climb aboard a ship from a smaller boat, in which we simply threw a hook onto the deck then clambered up a ladder.

But our tools became more sophisticated. We built compressed air weapons to fire grappling hooks from the water (the sort of gadget you might see in a James Bond film), and practised it at high speed, chasing ships at 30 knots. Descending onto a boat from a helicopter proved trickier. At first we tried clipping ourselves to a rope, then unfastening ourselves once we reached the ship’s deck – but that only worked if you could find solid ground, which proved difficult in turbulent sea storms.

Instead, we developed the ‘fast roping’ technique, in which you simply slide down a rope with a thick pair of gloves. The first time it was tested – on rugby fields in Poole, Dorset, where the SBS is headquartered – six of us ended up landing on top of each other. That technique is now used by special forces across the world.

In one training exercise, we had to ‘attack’ a North Sea oil rig that had been hijacked by terrorists (played by SAS troopers). We were released in teams from a submarine, but I quickly realised that my specialised equipment was too heavy. I saw the black sub drifting upwards, and realised – with a panic – that I was being dragged towards the seabed. Fortunately, I was connected on a buddy rope to my partner, Steve, a powerhouse of a swimmer. I ripped away the mouthpiece of my oxygen apparatus as we broke the surface, and gasped for air, only to find we were in the middle of a storm.

I spotted the rig about a mile away; its navigation lights illuminating it like a Christmas tree. Our job was to allow the tide to carry us towards the rig, then grab onto its leg – if we mismeasured, we would miss and drift into the blackness. Once aboard the platform (our method of climbing the rig remains a secret) we tossed flash-crash explosives into the control room and galley to disorientate the enemy, before ‘neutralising’ the terrorists inside.

If it sounds like a recreation of the glamorous climax of Bond’s Diamonds are Forever, the illusion was ruined slightly at the end of the exercise by an argument between two of our guys and two of the ‘terrorists’, over who had killed whom. And the job provided plenty of comedy, too. We had an agreement with British merchants in the Channel that we could ‘attack’ their ships for training purposes, with no warning. But one day we targeted a French ferry by mistake. A crewman walked onto the deck and nearly had a heart attack when he saw 10 men dressed in black, armed to the teeth. We quickly scarpered; by the time the crewman had alerted his colleagues, we were gone. They probably thought he was lying, or drunk.

My fear is that terrorists might one day hijack a super-tanker and sail it into a port like Southampton. After 9/11, we improved security to prevent planes from being turned into missiles, but little has been done to stop tankers being turned into weapons of mass destruction. Last week’s Isle of Wight saga was a relatively small incident that ended without tears. I hope it serves as a wake-up call.

As told to Luke Mintz

First Into Action: A Dramatic Personal Account of Life Inside the SBS by Duncan Falconer. Buy now for £5.99 at books.telegraph.co.uk or call 0844 871 1514