Pirate

by Duncan Falconer

  ‘It was intentional,’ Stratton said without any edge or emotion to his voice.

  There were those nearby who hadn’t known. Some of them had heard but could not believe that Stratton had wilfully killed Hopper. To hear the admission from Stratton’s own lips left all of them confused. Even those who thought they knew him. A few immediately doubted that they could support him.

  ‘I can’t imagine a scenario where you would have to kill a mate deliberately,’ Matt said. ‘There’s always a chance he might survive.’

  Matt had a valid point. Stratton could never be 100 per cent certain Hopper would have died if he hadn’t shot him.

  ‘Who do you think you are? God?’ Matt said.

  Stratton was seething deep down inside. He harboured a great deal of guilt about Hopper’s death, to be sure. But despite the element of doubt that Hopper might not have died at the hands of the fanatical terrorists if Stratton hadn’t shot him, it wasn’t the true source of his guilt. That originated with the events that had led to Hopper being taken away by Sabarak. Stratton’s self-indulgent adventure to the ship was the reason Hopper had been taken to the jihadists’ camp. That was his true crime and the cause of Hopper’s death. But Matt was talking about something else. He didn’t know about that side of the story, and perhaps if he did, he would not have seen anything wrong with it because it was precisely the kind of thing Matt would have done himself. Stratton not only believed Matt was wrong, he resented him for it.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Stratton said, keeping a grip on his anger.

  ‘Is that right? Why don’t you explain it to us?’

  ‘I would, if I thought you’d get it.’

  Matt gritted his teeth, reading the insinuation that he in particular wouldn’t understand while others might. He had been accused of being thick in the past, an accusation he didn’t take kindly to. Banter in the SBS could get particularly barbed and personal but people were expected not to overreact and bite on the bait. Matt had been known to take a swing at anyone who ventured to illuminate his restricted intellect. But that wasn’t the only thing that angered Matt this time. He also felt that Stratton had insinuated something else: that his inability to understand the subtleties of Stratton’s actions was the reason why he had not been selected by the SIS for special operations.

  Matt’s jaw clenched even more tightly. ‘You really do rate yourself, don’t you?’

  Stratton decided to ignore the man and get back to sorting out his glider. Matt’s hands balled into fists. If anyone else had turned their back on him, he might have considered closing the distance and testing the waters further. But despite all his ill feelings towards Stratton, he knew better than to cross a certain line with the man. Matt had some weapons in his arsenal but he would not test them against those in Stratton’s. But then again, there would probably never be a better time than this one.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Downs said, stepping in. ‘One more word, Matt, and you’re off the op. And you know that ball will bounce all the way to the top by the time you get back to Poole.’

  Matt might not have been the brightest light in the SBS but he could instantly figure out the consequences of being kicked off an operation. He not only backed off but gave Downs a look that was pure deference. He didn’t even give Stratton a parting glance as he turned away and got back to his glider.

  But anyone who knew Matt was aware he wouldn’t let the issue go completely. He wouldn’t risk injuring his career for anything but neither could he back off when he believed he was right.

  Stratton focused on securing his equipment but he could feel the eyes on him. His wound was sorely exposed.

  Downs wanted to say something to his friend but he couldn’t. He knew as little about the incident as everyone else and was one of those who had forgiven Stratton immediately, feeling that if he had indeed killed Hopper then he had a good reason and that was that. But it still left something of a bitter taste in his mouth. He could sense Stratton wasn’t exactly comfortable with it and suspected there was a lot more to it. He would ask Stratton, one day, but not at that moment. Perhaps over that pint they had talked about.

  It was like the sun had taken advantage of the men’s distraction to slip below the horizon. Darkness came quite suddenly. Which wasn’t helped by the carrier going into full external dark mode, with only dim red lighting inside the superstructure’s entrances. The men used low-light glowlights to finish off preparing the gliders.

  The Ocean continued to cut through the water but at a reduced speed to control the wind.

  ‘Is that Somalia?’ one of the men asked no one in particular.

  They could see a faint glow in the distance in the direction of the Somali coastline.

  ‘Calula,’ someone answered.

  ‘I think that’s too far east,’ another operator said. ‘Could be, I suppose,’ he added, having a second thought.

  The wind suddenly picked up a little, something each man was keenly aware of. Crewmen hurried to the wing ends to hold them in case a gust should arrive. With no one sitting in them, the craft were relatively light and could get blown about. The single thought that ran through every operative’s mind at that point was how strong the captain would let it get before cancelling the take-off.

  There was one other significant element in the equation that could stop the operation and that was any sign of mobilisation by the Somali jihadists. The ship’s operations room carefully watched the terrorist camp via satellite. If they got any indication that the enemy were preparing for an attack, the task would be aborted, for the time being at least. The teams didn’t have the manpower, equipment or firepower to mount an assault against a defended position. The satellite guys felt confident that the jihadists hadn’t reacted unduly to Stratton’s escape despite him knowing the whereabouts of their camp. The initial fear had been that they might immediately relocate. But all signs seemed to indicate that they hadn’t. Not yet. It was the reason why the assault had been organised so quickly. They had to hit the camp before the missiles could be moved. The jihadists had to know that Stratton had escaped them but would they expect him to have escaped Somalia? Which was why Lotto had been upgraded to a significant factor.

  They estimated that the pirate chief would have reached his coastal base by dusk that day. How he acted would depend on how seriously he took the possibility that the British would mount an attack right away or even at all. Lotto didn’t necessarily know that Stratton had discovered the weapons secreted on board the Oasis. Once again, it was another good reason to mount an attack immediately.

  A glider engine fired up and its propeller whirred. The glider engineer who had accompanied the teams was running a test after having completed some work on it. Stratton felt surprised by how quiet it was. He hadn’t heard the engines since the new suppressors had been fitted. In fact most of the sound came from the propellers cutting through the air rather than the engine itself.

  Before long, every glider had its wing fitted and appeared ready to go. The wind hadn’t increased significantly and everything looked good to go.

  ‘You all set?’ Downs asked Stratton.

  ‘Yep,’ Stratton said as he buckled up his fighting harness and adjusted the strapping.

  ‘Seriously. You looking forward to this or not? You had a pretty hard time of it over there.’

  ‘I’m ready to go,’ Stratton said, with little emotion. ‘More than anyone else here,’ he added.

  Downs believed him. He had the feeling there might also be more to it than just revenge for Hopper. He pushed the send button on his radio that was attached to his body harness. ‘All stations, this is Downs, check.’

  ‘Harry, check,’ came an immediate reply.

  ‘Dizzy, check.’

  ‘Spud, check.’

  And so on as each glider team responded to the communications check in turn. First or nicknames could be used instead of call-signs for a number of reasons. The communications system had been encrypted a
nd even the Russians or Chinese wouldn’t be able to decrypt it, let alone the Somalis. Another reason was that with so many teams it could be difficult to keep tabs on who belonged to which call-sign. The final check came from the ship’s operations room.

  ‘Oscar Zero, Downs, permission for countdown?’ Downs asked.

  ‘Oscar Zero, that’s affirmative.’

  ‘Roger. All stations, this is Downs, countdown five minutes. No reply required unless you have a problem.’

  Downs waited for a moment in case anyone did reply but the airwaves remained silent. ‘Gentlemen, get seated and start your engines,’ he said to those around him.

  That had a ripple effect as the rest of the teams boarded their aircraft.

  The ship’s loudspeaker broke over the sound of engines starting up. ‘All non-mission personnel move behind the flight lines.’

  The sailors who had been lending a hand hurried across the deck in between the lines of gliders and over the thick white line that surrounded the superstructure. Some of the crew moved behind the squadron of gliders to the helicopters parked on the rear portion of the deck.

  Every glider engine purred away, the craft positioned two abreast with several metres between the following rows. The take-off had naturally been discussed in detail but there had not been any time to carry out rehearsals back in the UK before departure. There had been a brief discussion about the practicalities of carrying out a practice run earlier in the day but that had been nixed immediately. Taking off was much easier than landing and accidents were only to be expected. A 10 per cent failure rate had been built into the take-off and target-approach phase of the operation, which meant they could afford to lose two craft and four men before the first assault stage began. A rehearsal that included a difficult landing on the flight deck, something none of the pilots had actually done before, was considered ill-advised.

  Stratton got comfortable in his seat to the rear and above Downs and buckled himself in. He secured the strap of his Colt in case he had to release it from his grip for whatever reason, but otherwise it would remain in one of his hands. He had a pair of goggles but elected not to wear them unless the wind became too uncomfortable. Stratton disliked hats and sunglasses or goggles and only used them when he had to.

  The propeller turned over behind him, vibrating the chassis. The bucket-style seats were snug and quite comfortable. Stratton checked his small backpack was secured to the back of Downs’s seat in between his legs and that the mortar shells nestled tightly in their pouches either side of him. The safety pins remained in the heads to prevent them from going off should the glider crash. He looked over at the glider to his side. Matt sat in the back staring ahead. The man had not even looked in his direction since Downs’s threat.

  ‘Clear for take-off,’ came a voice over the radio from the ship’s operations room.

  Stratton looked at the back of Downs’s head and wondered how the man was feeling. He knew Downs to be a tough fighter and although he would be as nervous as everyone else, he was good at hiding it.

  Stratton felt a touch of the butterflies in the pit of his own stomach as the seconds to take-off ticked away. The wind had picked up a little but it was being controlled by the captain to a large degree using the ship’s speed and direction. The plan would be to have several knots blowing in their faces to aid the take-off because the first craft only just had enough runway to get airborne. That would improve for each following row of aircraft.

  Stratton checked his GPS. The Somali coastline was eight miles away. There was a bit of a headwind but they hoped to be on target before 2200. The ideal time for an attack such as this would be in the early hours of the morning, around 0200 to 0300, when the enemy would be well asleep. But that would not have left them time to complete the other phases of the operation before first light, which was important.

  ‘Hey, Stratton.’

  Stratton looked at Downs who had his head turned to the side enough to talk to him but not to see him. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I think we might be too heavy.’

  ‘You just decided that?’ Stratton asked, suspicious Downs was trying to wind him up, such was the man’s sense of humour.

  ‘No. Been thinking about it all day.’

  ‘Why are you telling me now?’

  ‘I didn’t want to crash into the sea without you knowing I knew about it.’

  ‘OK. Well, now I know, thanks for sharing that.’ Stratton still wasn’t sure if Downs was being serious or not. The Irishman had a wry sense of humour even during the most desperate of situations. But he wasn’t a mental case either and clearly had some confidence they could get airborne or he wouldn’t risk it, certainly not as commander of his first major operation. Stratton hoped so at least. ‘I’m all fastened in so you might as well get going.’

  ‘OK. Just what I was thinking.’

  Downs eased the throttle forward. The propeller revolutions greatly increased. The framework vibrated much more as everything got a little louder though it remained much quieter than Stratton had expected.

  The craft hadn’t moved. Downs had intentionally kept the brake on until the revs reached maximum.

  He released the brake and gripped the joystick and the glider lurched forward. The runway wasn’t as smooth as it looked. Even though the wheels had a little suspension built into them, the little glider juddered and jolted along, rattling Stratton’s teeth in his head so much he had to clamp his jaw shut.

  As the glider picked up speed, the nylon wing panel above them ballooned into a tight curve as it caught the air. The framework creaked as it strained to hold everything together.

  Stratton forgot everything else and stared at the end of the Ocean’s runway. They were quickly closing in on it and the wheels had not yet left the deck. He glanced to his side for the other glider that should have taken off with them but he couldn’t see it. He didn’t turn in his seat to look for it, concerned at that moment for no one else but them.

  The engine was purring at full revs. Stratton could feel the wind not just blowing into his face but being sucked past him and through the propellers. He squinted ahead, wiping his eyes quickly as they started to water. He would have put on his goggles but he had greater priorities at that moment. His hands tightened on the rifle and framework. His thoughts flashed to his harness quick release. He considered releasing it there and then. If they took off, he wouldn’t need it. If they hit the drink, he didn’t want to be fighting with it, but crashing into the sea without it might be enough to knock him out. The problems of dropping off the end into the sea multiplied. They would have to get out of the framework as quickly as possible, not just because the craft would probably sink like a stone but also because the ship would run into them and they might get sucked below and through the propellers. These were not the best thoughts to be having seconds before reaching the end of the runway and he had Downs to thank for inspiring them.

  Metres before the end of the deck the glider rose up and left the surface a few inches then dropped back down with a heavy bump.

  They reached the end, the wheels still rolling along on the deck.

  The craft went over the lip and dropped out of sight to everyone on deck watching it.

  The pit of Stratton’s stomach turned to mush as the glider dropped. He gripped the frame, his knuckles turning white as the sea came up to meet them. Downs pulled back so hard on the joystick it threatened to rip out. But the increased speed of falling off the end was all the craft needed to provide that extra lift and it levelled out a couple of metres above the wave tops. Stratton realised he had stopped breathing. He looked back to see the sharp end of the ship not all that far away. The important thing was that the wet stuff was still below them.

  Downs gradually brought the nose up and increased the height until they got level with the deck of the ship again.

  Stratton could hear another sound above the engine and the wind. It was Downs giving off a loud yell.

  Stratton leaned forward. ‘Did yo
u enjoy that?’ he shouted.

  ‘If I hadn’ta crapped my pants when we went off the end, I might’ve enjoyed it more than I did!’

  Stratton sat back and had to smile. It felt like a form of release. He looked back over his shoulder again to see another craft below them and dangerously close to the water. But it managed to level out and gain height.

  Downs brought the craft up to about a hundred feet while making a gentle bank to the left. After a short turn, he reversed the manoeuvre, banking over to the right. After coming back on to the main heading, he did the turns again, the zig-zagging intended to slow the glider’s progress without reducing their speed and to allow the tail-enders to catch up.

  Within a few minutes all of the gliders had got off the Ocean. When Stratton next looked back, he could barely make out the others in the darkness. But they were all able to see his glider. Every craft had a navigation light on its rear, positioned in a device that only allowed it to be seen from behind and level with it or from above it.

  Every pilot carried a GPS that provided a pre-programmed direction as well as a minimum height alarm.

  ‘All stations, this is Downs, radio check,’ Downs said into his radio.

  One by one each pilot reported in.

  ‘Downs, roger that,’ Downs said at the end.

  Stratton made an effort to relax. The wind whipped his hair about. His eyes no longer wept. It had something very tranquil about it. And surreal. What they were doing, or about to do, gave him a buzz at the same time as it sobered everything right up. People were going to die in the next hour or so. Hopefully that would be the enemy only but the chances had to be high that the squadron would lose someone. Maybe a few.

  It was an innovative attack, that was for sure. They weren’t in jet helicopters crammed with sophisticated navigation, communications and visual aids. They were in metal tubes under nylon wings and using engines about as powerful as a lawnmower’s, with a wooden propeller behind it all pushing them forward at a cumbersome rate of knots.