Pirate

by Duncan Falconer

  He walked to the rails to look at the ocean and clear his head.

  A matelot stood nearby having a smoke. He ditched the cigarette over the side when he saw Stratton. ‘S’cuse me, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not a sir,’ Stratton replied without looking at him.

  ‘Sorry. I’m s’posed to show you where to bunk.’

  Stratton hoped they had given him a room to himself.

  ‘The old man wanted to have a word but they thought you might be knackered and want to get your ’ead down first.’

  Stratton still felt tired despite the few hours’ sleep he had grabbed on the cargo ship. He expected it would take another day to recover fully.

  ‘I’m to ask you if you need the sickbay for anything.’

  Stratton thought about having his bullet wounds looked at. But he hadn’t even thought about them since waking up on the Orion. The many hours he had spent in the sea should have cleaned them up but that didn’t necessarily mean they would not get infected. ‘I’m fine,’ he decided. He knew where the sick bay was and if they started to become painful again, he would pay the place a visit.

  Stratton followed the young man through the ship, down a narrow set of stairs to a wider, well-lit corridor. Part of the way along it he saw a pair of swing doors. Stratton remembered it was the galley and pushed one of them open. The place had been crammed with more chairs and tables than it was designed for.

  ‘If you want a wet, you can ’elp yourself over there,’ the sailor said, pointing to a counter with an urn on it. ‘Your bunk room’s down the end of this corridor. Number fourteen. Last door on the left.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Stratton said, aware of the man’s eagerness to complete his duties.

  ‘OK. I’m off watch so I’m going to get my ’ead down.’

  ‘Have a good night,’ Stratton said with a smile. He walked over to the urn and made himself a cup of tea. He heard the sound of aluminium trays being stacked somewhere beyond. A cook walked out of the back and placed a tray of food in one of the slots behind the counter.

  As he sipped his drink, the main door opened and Stratton turned around to see Winslow looking at him.

  The officer walked over to the table. ‘Mind if I make a brew?’ he asked. His tone had changed to light and chatty.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Stratton said.

  As he was about to walk away, Winslow said, ‘Do you live in Poole?’

  Stratton didn’t particularly want to talk to the man about anything but saw no reason to be rude.

  ‘Just outside.’

  ‘I haven’t been there in several years,’ Winslow said. ‘I expect it’s changed quite a lot in that time. Quite a popular summer retreat for some.’

  ‘Most of the locals wish it wasn’t so popular,’ Stratton replied, waiting for an opportunity to end the little chat and leave.

  ‘Is there a Sergeant Downs still there?’ said Winslow.

  ‘Colour Sergeant Downs?’ said Stratton. ‘He might even be Warrant Officer by now. But I haven’t seen him in a while.’

  ‘He’s a right son of a bitch. I didn’t know him socially of course.’

  Stratton wondered where the conversation was going with an introduction like that. ‘Downs is a good lad,’ he said. ‘I know him quite well.’ Stratton remained matter-of-fact. It didn’t offend him if someone didn’t like a friend of his.

  ‘You probably don’t know him the same way I do,’ said Winslow, giving Stratton a sideways look.

  Stratton sipped his tea, barely interested in the man or his dislike of Downs. Winslow went on: ‘In fact he was a right bastard. He was in charge of the SBS phase of the selection.’

  Stratton suddenly had a good idea where this was all going. It wasn’t the first time he’d been cornered by someone outside of the service who had failed the selection course and felt they needed to explain it to him.

  ‘He had it in for me from the start,’ Winslow said. ‘I think the moment he set eyes on me, he decided he was going to get me off the course. I’d done rather well during the combined SAS–SBS land phases. I’m a good map reader and was very fit. The map marches with the heavy packs were no problem for me. I passed all of that but when I got to Poole, Downs didn’t like me, that was for sure.’

  ‘He’s not that sort of bloke,’ Stratton said, not particularly wanting to get involved but deciding to stick up for his friend. He knew Downs to be not the kind to pick on someone for no reason.

  ‘As I said, you probably wouldn’t know him from my point of view. Let’s put it this way, if he had been running your selection and had taken a dislike to you, you wouldn’t have passed your course either.’

  Stratton decided the officer was an arrogant prick. But Downs wouldn’t have taken him off the course for being that way either. It was typical of many who had failed special forces selection to blame it on something or someone and not themselves. There were many valid cases. Injury often put people out. But at the end of the day, if you failed, for whatever reason, deal with it. Stratton wanted to ask why he hadn’t gone back and done another course. Some members of the SBS and SAS had made more than one attempt before succeeding. But he wasn’t interested in the man or his issues enough to ask.

  Stratton took a long sip of his tea and put the mug down. ‘The job doesn’t suit everybody,’ he said. ‘Maybe you wouldn’t have enjoyed it.’ And if you had got through, he thought, you wouldn’t have got along with anyone in the service with the attitude you have.

  ‘I’m going to get my head down,’ he said, walking away.

  The officer watched him go. Stratton could feel the man’s eyes on his back.

  He pushed through the doors and went in search of his pit. Winslow stirred his cup of tea then he put the spoon down, poured the liquid into a bin and sighed to himself. It was easy for those who had made it into special forces to write off those who hadn’t. But the truth was many who failed were mentally scarred for life. Which was a risk few allowed for. There was the odd one who did attempt it knowing they would fail but wanted to give it a go anyway. But the vast majority of those who signed up for the gruelling course never planned on failing it. They had to believe in themselves. Winslow considered himself highly intelligent but he couldn’t grasp what was obvious to those maybe less intelligent than he was. He knew that to dwell on his failure would be unhealthy and nothing could be done to heal him other than trying the course again and passing it. But that window of opportunity had closed for him. He had moved up in rank and he could no longer apply. He knew he should let it go, but he couldn’t.

  It was early morning when Stratton got prodded by a hand. ‘Time to get up, mate.’

  He woke instantly in the narrow bunk, recognising the young sailor who had shown him to the galley the night before.

  ‘I brought you a cup of tea,’ the sailor said, holding out a steaming mug. ‘I’m not a creep. But I reckon you deserve it.’ He grinned.

  Stratton rubbed his face and swung his feet down on to the floor and took the mug. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘’Ope you like it sweet. I do.’

  Stratton took a sip of the dark molasses that looked like it could absorb a pint of milk without getting any lighter in colour. He did all he could not to wince. ‘You sure it’s tea?’

  ‘Tell you the truth, I made it for myself but decided to give it to you when they told me to give you a shake.’

  Stratton handed it back to him. ‘I’m wide awake now, thanks.’

  ‘It does that to you.’

  Stratton stood up, still in his boiler suit. There were several other bunks in the room, all occupied. He checked his wrist, forgetting he had no watch. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just gone eight. You slept well.’

  ‘I need a doby. Where can I get a towel and a change of clothes?’

  ‘I’ll see the chief. Oh, I almost forgot the most important thing. The old man wants to see you up on deck.’

  Stratton looked at the mug, took it off the sailor and had another
sip. He shook his head as he tasted the strong tea and handed it back. ‘I really don’t think I could get used to that,’ he said.

  Stratton made his way through the boat and up a couple of flights of steps to a level where he could see daylight flooding in through the far end of the corridor.

  He walked through a broad opening and on to a platform a flight above the main deck. The wind struck him as he stepped through the entrance and he braced himself against it, almost losing one of his sandals as he stepped back. The opening gave him a balcony view of the flight deck.

  Six Sea King helicopters stood lined up in a neat row on the far side of the deck, their noses pointing forward, rotors folded back to form a single blade pointing towards the tail, where they were secured by a strap. The Lynx waited at the far end of the flight deck, where it had landed the evening before.

  Crew emerged from the superstructure beneath Stratton and divided up on their way to all of the Sea Kings. They set about untying the rotors and making other preparations for flight. He searched the various clusters of men and individuals along the length of the deck for one who looked like he might be the captain. He saw two men standing at the front of the flight deck looking forward out to sea, one of whom fitted the description.

  Stratton climbed down a ladder on to the flight deck. The wind whipped at him as he walked past the end of the superstructure and across the exposed deck.

  The younger of the two men saw him and said something to the other. The older man looked around at Stratton as he approached. His cropped silver hair made him look older than he was.

  The younger man gave Stratton an officious nod before heading away. Stratton wondered what the captain was going to be like. Everyone on board looked well turned out and he was walking around in a boiler suit with straggly hair and several days’ worth of beard. No wonder he seemed alien to the regular military. He had spent so many years in SF and working with military intelligence that if he ever had to join the regulars for some reason, he doubted he would last a week before being court martialled for any one of a number of insubordinations. The service could be pretty laid back compared with the Navy and Marines, but it still had enough stuffed shirts within its ranks to make life difficult for field operatives when they spent any time back at the HQ camp.

  The captain turned to greet him with a smile that was echoed in his eyes.

  ‘Good to meet you, Stratton. I understand everyone calls you by your last name.’

  Stratton politely shrugged indifference. ‘Good to meet you too, sir.’

  The captain looked him up and down. ‘I see you’ve not had a chance to get some duds, or is it that you prefer the scruffy look?’

  ‘One of the lads is finding me a razor and something to wear, sir.’

  ‘Personally I envy you being able to wear what you want. When I go on leave I don’t normally have a shave until the day I return to work. My wife likes that too. I don’t think anyone would deny you your rest after what you’ve been through.’ The captain checked his watch and looked in the direction his ship was sailing. ‘I’m sorry about your friend.’

  Stratton didn’t answer. The captain had obviously been briefed by Poole or London. There hadn’t been any hint of judgement in the way he said it. That was because it was unlikely he knew all the details. He wouldn’t have been told anything other than the basic facts. He certainly wouldn’t know that Stratton had killed his colleague. That kind of information would be kept in house, for a while at least. It would eventually leak out from Ops and into the ranks of the SBS. London could also be a bit of a sieve for that kind of gossip. So it would find its way into the general information mainstream, through wives and bar talk. It wouldn’t be classified as secret, just sensitive. Everyone gossiped. Special forces and military intelligence were no different. It was a piece of information that ultimately did no harm if it was leaked. Helen, Hopper’s wife, might be upset by it. She might understand when she heard the full details. But she would not be pleased if she discovered that Stratton was ultimately responsible for her husband’s death. That the strategies he had employed were flawed. Self-seeking. That would leak out too. Eventually. She might wonder if it was a twisted rumour at first. If so, she might ask Stratton to clarify that himself. He would tell the truth. He didn’t know her well enough to guess how she might react. He did know if she had a temper, she might hit him. He would have to take it. He would want to take it. Hopper’s two children would eventually learn about it too. One day. They had all of that to come.

  So the captain would eventually learn the whole story. He might reflect on their meeting. Stratton wondered how the old man would judge him. For the moment, at least, he would remain ignorant.

  ‘You’ll have a chance to avenge him,’ the captain said.

  Stratton wondered what he meant. It could have been a general ‘you’, as in the service. Or he might have meant Stratton personally. The captain had clearly been told about an operation of some kind.

  ‘Scopus inbound one minute,’ a voice boomed over the ship’s loudspeaker system.

  ‘That’s your boys,’ the skipper said.

  Stratton looked in the direction the captain was gazing. The skies were cloudy but they were thin, streaky and very high. Typical for altostratus formations.

  A helicopter started up. Stratton looked around to see the rotors beginning to turn on the nearest Sea King, several crew members climbing on board. Other Sea Kings came to life down the line.

  ‘There they are,’ the captain said above the growing high-pitched sound of engines.

  The old man was looking skyward. Stratton followed his gaze to see a small, distant cluster of black. It wasn’t long before it separated into three aircraft. As they drew closer they became large cargo carriers, too big to land on the ship. That could only mean one thing. They were going to drop something. And the Sea Kings would collect the delivery.

  Before long all but one of the Sea Kings had started its engines. Stratton thought about asking the captain to elaborate but decided not to. He would find out in good time.

  As the three aircraft got closer Stratton decided they were C-130s, flying at around a thousand feet. The sound of the helicopter engines increased. The turbulence from the rotors reversed the direction of the wind that had been blowing in the men’s faces and whipped at the backs of their clothing.

  The transport aircraft lost height as they passed down the length of the ship a kilometre away in a staggered formation. All had their tailgates open.

  The lead Sea King lifted off the deck, turned its tail towards the superstructure, lowered its nose and moved away from the ship. The next craft carried out the same manoeuvre and the others followed in turn.

  As the helicopters flew in a broad arc around the front of the vessel the sound of their engines and throbbing rotors decreased enough for the jet propellers that powered the fixed-wing cargos to be heard in the distance.

  Stratton and the captain watched as the Hercules turned far beyond the stern of the ship before straightening up on a heading that would bring them down the port side. The two men stepped across to that side of the ship where they could see the drop take place.

  All three aircraft had lost yet more height and were coming at the ship barely a few hundred metres above the grey, choppy waters.

  When the lead cargo plane had got close enough to make out the pilots in the cockpit, a large parachute deployed from the back, which in turn dragged out a bundle the size of a small car. Closely followed by another and then a dozen more. Seconds after each chute fully deployed the bundle swung down and hit the water with a foaming crash.

  The following aircraft released a similar load in a line alongside the first. The last aircraft roared by a little further out to sea but just as low. As before, the first thing they saw appear out of the rear tailgate was a parachute, smaller than those attached to the other bundles. But this time, on the end of each, dangled a man. Over forty individual chutes, the first man hitting the water barely se
conds after he had deployed and long before the last chute had exited.

  The sound of other powerful engines came from below as several launches sped from the Ocean in the direction of the drop.

  Stratton wondered what the bundles contained. He assumed the squadron would be heading into Somalia and he considered how he might carry out an operation like that based on everything he had reported about the target location. Which would have to be the jihadists’ camp because that’s where the missiles were. If you were going to assault the camp, you couldn’t use helicopters. Not without pinging up on their radar. Choppers could be used to drop off teams far from the camp that would then have to yomp in. But that would take time and they’d risk being seen before they hit the camp.

  As he thought about why they had chosen to mount the operation from the carrier, an option came to mind. He smiled to himself at the thought that Ops could have given the OK to such an audacious plan. He hoped it would be true. Something like that the SBS had never done operationally, to his knowledge. In fact, he didn’t know any military outfit that had. He’d heard a story about the Israelis attempting something like it years before on a long-range desert assault. Whatever, you’d be well advised to try it only against a less sophisticated enemy. Like the Somalis.

  He found himself suddenly looking forward to seeing if it might be true. And more importantly, if the plan included him in it. Because there was a chance it might not. But it would make sense to take him along because he knew the ground better than anyone else. That wouldn’t guarantee him a seat but it had to go a long way towards helping. He felt glad he hadn’t gone to the ship’s hospital to have his wounds checked.

  As soon as the transporters had dispensed their loads, their tailgates closed and they continued on into the distance, heading back to England no doubt, Stratton thought.

  The Sea Kings roared around the sides of the ship low to the water, dividing up to collect the men and bundles, assisted by the launches.