Pirate

by Duncan Falconer

  ‘An adventurous scheme to say the least,’ the captain said.

  Stratton suspected that he might be toying with him. The old man would know that Stratton couldn’t have been privy to any operational details as yet since his only communication with his people had been the night before when he gave his verbal report – and there was no way a plan had been hatched in that time.

  ‘Sorry,’ the captain said shortly after. It was a half-hearted attempt at admitting he was well aware he had Stratton at a disadvantage. ‘I’m at liberty to tell you that your chaps are going to invade Somalia using powered hang-gliders.’

  Stratton smiled once again. He had been right.

  ‘I don’t believe we’ve ever done anything quite like it before. What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s a great idea,’ said Stratton.

  ‘I suppose you’d like to go with them?’

  Stratton remained poker-faced, wondering if the captain was always such a baiter. Perhaps this time he wasn’t playing games. Stratton decided not to answer.

  ‘I hope you do,’ the captain said. ‘You’re to attend the briefing.’

  Stratton glanced at the man, who gave him a mischievous look in return. They had only just met but the captain appeared to have read the operative’s character from the start and got his measure. Stratton couldn’t help producing the thinnest of smiles that echoed the captain’s.

  ‘I’d better go and sort out my ship,’ the captain said. ‘You’ll be taking off shortly after last light. Good luck,’ he said as he started to walk away but stopped when he saw something on Stratton’s back. ‘Is that blood?’ he asked.

  Stratton hadn’t been aware his wound was bleeding although it had started throbbing slightly after he climbed down the ladder. ‘If it is, it’s not mine,’ he lied, looking the captain in the eye.

  The captain nodded but Stratton could see in his eyes he was unconvinced.

  Stratton watched him go and turned his attention to the first of the launches that was returning fully laden with men and equipment.

  He looked to the horizon, towards Somalia. The Ocean was some fifty miles from the coastline but he could see the place well enough in his mind’s eye, in particular the jihadist camp. He could see Sabarak, his features clear, his cold, hate-filled expression as he stared back at Stratton.

  Stratton saw himself put a gun to the man’s heart and, with cold relish, pull the trigger. He could only pray that his wish would come true.

  17

  Stratton stood on one of the small landings of the superstructure to watch the lads and their equipment arrive. Half the ship’s crew had turned out to watch the spectacle, many of them young lads who hadn’t seen special forces operatives before. In the past, HMS Ocean had entertained such personalities quite regularly, mostly for exercises and the occasional operation, such as Stratton’s adventure in West Africa. But since the conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq, there had been precious little time for playing war games, especially at sea. These days special forces spent practically all of their time doing the real thing.

  There was the usual banter from the men as they mustered on deck in groups, small and large. Bursts of laughter regularly broke out, which was the norm. The occasional loudmouth could be heard above all others. Stratton enjoyed the men’s company but his current position, watching them from a distance, proved an illustration of what it was truly like for him. He felt like he was on the outside looking in. It had always been that way. He had his close friends, but not many. It had been like that for him at school, as far back as he could remember. He had friends he would die for. Many of them were standing before him, with a good number of others spread about the world, and not all of them in the SBS. But that wasn’t the same thing. It was bizarre that few of those he would truly risk his life for, and without hesitation, numbered among his close friends. It was a unique relation ship for those who fought side by side in the face of death.

  None of the men had noticed him, tucked against a bulkhead in the shadows. Which was the way he liked it, content to hang on to his privacy for a while longer.

  He had another reason for holding back from greeting and mingling with them of course. Hopper. The man had been popular among the lads. He would have been down there laughing and cavorting among them already. He would have been waiting for the first lot to touch down on deck to greet them in his gregarious manner. He was never like that with Stratton, though. It was like he knew not to be, even though Stratton had never sent any kind of message of dissuasion. Stratton didn’t mind boisterousness, but no one had acted that way with him in many years.

  The last helicopter thudded down and a handful of the lads climbed out of it and headed over to the main group. He recognised the last man to step off the chopper. It was Downs. Stratton wondered if he was in charge of this crowd. He was certainly senior enough to be. There would be officers present but the key man of a squadron would usually be the sergeant major. He would take charge of the groundwork for the operation.

  One of the young SBS faces walked up to Downs for a talk. Stratton recognised him as Lieutenant Phelps. The team leaders reported to their sergeant major as he made his way across the flight deck with the officer. The lads quickly lined up to be mustered and checked off to ensure everyone who had boarded the aircraft at Brize Norton had actually arrived on board the ship.

  Stratton looked down on a couple of the ship’s officers as they walked out of the superstructure. It looked like Howel and Winslow.

  Winslow headed towards Phelps and Downs, no doubt to welcome them aboard. Stratton expected the ship’s operations officer to recognise Downs. It had been five or six years since his selection course, but as a senior course instructor, Downs would have been a focal point for every man on that course, a face that none would probably forget. Downs would have been the last SBS face the failed rankers would have seen because it was his job to explain to the individual why he was on his way back to his unit. The officers would have been given a final let-go by a senior SBS officer. But they would have known it was Downs who had cut the umbilical cord.

  Winslow walked up to Downs to introduce himself. It seemed to Stratton that Downs didn’t know who the man was beyond his present role. That was probably because on the selection course Downs would have been looking at dozens of faces and not one in particular.

  Stratton knew Downs very well. He had joined the service a year before Stratton. They were of a similar age and quite often ended up in the same section together. The man was generally cheerful, confident and forward. Had he recognised Winslow, there was little doubt he would have mentioned it right away.

  Downs smiled broadly as he shook the officer’s hand and, although Stratton couldn’t hear Downs’s voice, in his head he could hear the rich Irish accent asking the officer how he was. Winslow would have realised by then that Downs had forgotten their previous relationship. Or he might suspect Downs of deliberately pretending not to know him.

  Stratton wondered if Winslow would mention their shared past right away or wait for an opportunity to corner Downs in the same way he had done to Stratton. The officer might be dis appointed if he did. If Winslow pushed Downs too far, the Irishman would quickly become indignant and brush the man’s failure aside as having been for the best.

  Downs, Winslow and Phelps went into the superstructure and the bulk of the lads ambled inside after them.

  Stratton would have liked to stay where he was for a while longer but the operational briefing would take place soon and he needed to attend it.

  As he headed into the superstructure and down the stairs to the main road, he didn’t see any lads he was familiar with. He passed a group of younger SBS men in the gangway but they didn’t give him anything more than a respectful nod. Stratton was known to everyone, even those who hadn’t actually seen him before. That renown, however, had got tagged with the usual rumours and exaggerations. Because SBS guys were human and subject to the same rules of gossip and hyperbole. He had indeed b
een on several interesting operations during his time in special forces and while in the employ of the British Secret Intelligence Services. But only a handful of people truly knew the operations he had been involved in, and hardly any of those people were among the ranks of the SBS. But a snippet of a story would be enough to encourage suppositions and assumptions, parts of which generally stuck as fact. Nobody ever asked Stratton to comment. No one would dare. It wasn’t because of any fear of him. You simply never made enquiries about a secret operation or anyone who had been involved in it. You were limited to asking only those people who hadn’t been directly involved.

  The men had a couple of hours to sort out their equipment and grab a meal before the operational briefing. They all knew in outline why they had arrived in the Gulf of Aden. The briefing would deliver the finer points and last-minute details.

  Stratton arrived at the crowded briefing room minutes before it started and stood at the back of the dimly lit space. All the men sat in tight rows facing the operations officer on his podium set to one side of a large screen that had maps and images of ground-to-air rockets on it. The young officer, Phelps, gave his orders in the usual manner, beginning with the ground, situation and then the meat of the mission itself. All straightforward enough: destroy the Chinese ground-to-air missiles. The secondary missions included rescuing any hostages and repatriating them. All of the execution phases had to be visually recorded using digital equipment. To satisfy the usual legalities. Ops had prepared a legitimate excuse to kill as many of the jihadists as they could. It was an indictment of the times, the need for an excuse. It had been presented as a necessary strategy. The bad guys could not be given the time or space to regroup and mount a counter-assault while the men were distracted by the second phase of the task, which was the pirate village on the coast and the kidnap victims. Etcetera, etcetera.

  The secondary pirate assault phase was intended to be less bloody and represented the humanitarian side of the operation. Which was partially because it would be the main cover story. As far as the media were concerned, the operation would be reported as purely a hostage rescue task, with no mention of the jihadists. Because they needed to keep the whole portable ground-to-air missile story secret. The al-Qaeda-backed operation was an international one and they had many players who had to be reeled in. You couldn’t do that with global publicity of the attack.

  An interpreter had been attached to the operation, an army linguist from Aberdeen who, by his own admission, could speak just about enough Somali to order a haircut and a cup of coffee. Not quite the level of expertise the MoD had been told about him. Someone had been misinformed. But Ops didn’t look overly concerned about this oversight. His skill level would suffice for what they needed – his job would be simply to warn any Somalis who weren’t jihadists to put down their weapons or risk being harmed. The man insisted he was up to that much at least and looked eager to give lessons in short phrases to any of the lads who were interested.

  The most recent stomping ground for this particular squadron had been Afghanistan. They had lost four men in the last two months with seven others seriously injured and they didn’t want anything to happen to anyone else, especially on this unscheduled backwater task. Stratton understood that.

  Before Afghanistan and Iraq had kicked off, a job like this would have been subject to a real rush of men wanting to take part in it. Operatives would have been tripping over each other to get their names on the list. It had the hallmarks of a cracking adventure. But these days such a task, be it a different one in a different part of the world, merely interfered with leave or other equally dangerous work.

  When the teams got announced, Stratton felt pleased to hear he would partner Downs for the flight infiltration phase. The powered gliders were two-seaters and although Stratton had completed an initial pilot course, he hadn’t accumulated enough hours, and certainly not in recent years, to qualify as an operational pilot. But then, according to Downs, few of the lads had logged many hours either. Lucky the machines weren’t that difficult to fly, the operative reasoned. Once you got airborne, it was straightforward enough to keep them that way. Landing could be a bit tricky for the inexperienced. But as someone pointed out, once the craft had touched the ground, crashing it would be little different from falling off a speeding motorbike. A few of the men raised suspicious eyebrows at the claim but several of the lads had indeed crashed on training landings and all had walked away without serious injury.

  Stratton understood he hadn’t been teamed with Downs because they were old buddies. Downs was the assault operations commander and it made sense to have the man who knew the ground best alongside him. Stratton would be more than content to sit in the back seat anyway and let someone else take the stress of flying the damned thing.

  Phelps dedicated the final part of the briefing to contingency planning and emergency rendezvous and communications and signals. As soon as he had finished, most of the lads went to various map tables in order to cross-check their notes and confirm the GPS coordinates thay had been given.

  The group had been broken down into two separate assault components or serials. Each was little more than a regular company troop and would operate in the same manner once they had landed and had mustered. A little air activity was intended to precede the ground phase. That was the bit the guys were most jazzed about. It was very much out of the norm and more akin to a First World War battle scenario.

  Stratton was about to head out of the room when Downs caught sight of him, called his name and indicated he wanted a word.

  Downs spent a moment talking with the briefing officer and the team leaders. Stratton watched as Downs’s closely cropped red-haired head turned to face each question as it came at him. The man always seemed to be wearing a smirk on his face, as though it were an effort to appear serious. Stratton remembered their early days in the service together and how Downs had often been reprimanded by one senior or another for grinning at an inappropriate moment. It took years before it became generally accepted that the man wasn’t being impudent and that he had a semi-permanent smirk.

  Downs finally broke away and walked over to Stratton. Both their faces broke into broad grins as the gap between them closed. When they met it was with a firm, bear-hug embrace borne of years of friendship and mutual respect.

  ‘Ha! Ya bastard,’ Downs said in a low voice. ‘How come you wait till now to greet me?’

  ‘You’re the main man,’ said Stratton. ‘You have big responsibilities. I wanted to see you when you had a moment. It’s good to see you.’

  ‘You too. So you survived another one. I thought you’d bought it this time. I was on the verge of takin’ your house keys from the safe and going up to Lytchett to see what I could prof before anyone else could get there.’

  ‘I know. My wardrobe. You’ve always envied my dress sense.’

  Downs laughed heartily as he eyed Stratton’s boiler suit. ‘That’s better than anything you’ve got in your bloody house.’

  They roared again together.

  ‘Sounds like a fun op,’ Stratton said.

  ‘I was disappointed you didn’t have anything to add to it.’

  ‘No need. You have it smack on. Arrive. Wipe the bastards out. Go home.’

  Downs nodded, his usually constant smile losing its grip as he thought of something else. ‘Sorry about Hopper.’

  Stratton had managed to forget about the man for a moment.

  ‘You don’t need to explain to me, mate,’ Downs said. ‘Any decision you make in the field is good by me.’

  ‘No one’s perfect. Least of all me.’

  ‘Well. Not the time or place. We need a quiet pub and a tenacious barkeep if we’re going to analyse that one, along with a few dozen other mishaps over the years, to be sure.’

  One of the men arrived and hovered close by, looking anxious to ask Downs something but not daring to interrupt his conversation with Stratton.

  ‘You’ll be wanting some kit,’ Downs said to
Stratton, looking him up and down. ‘Unless you’re going in as an undercover shit-house cleaner. There’s loads of spares in the stores. There’s a bag with your name on it too,’ he added with a wink. ‘Scran’s in twenty minutes. If I don’t see you there, I’ll see you on deck.’

  Downs faced the young operator and Stratton stepped out of the room. He went to where the SBS stores had been assembled and set about selecting some kit for himself. All of the men had been wearing lightweight desert camouflage fatigues. Stratton supposed it was appropriate enough. But he felt it would be better suited to daytime operations. This task was timed to start by last light and be over by dawn. The best colour at night was black, anywhere in the world.

  Stratton opened a large plastic container to reveal bundles of combat clothing. Near the bottom he saw a pile of black outfits. He checked the sizes and pulled out a shirt. A pair of trousers quickly followed. He dug out some black jungle boots and socks and within a short while he was fully dressed.

  A webbing box contained a belt and weapons harness with a variety of pouches attached. He laid out the belt so that the pouches were in a row and looked at the various weapons boxes in order to fill them.

  Inside the first one was a box labelled ‘STRATTON’, courtesy of Downs. He opened it to find some of his favourite items, including a watch, a GPS and his P226 pistol with the front and rear sights filed away. Stratton regarded a pistol as a purely close-quarters weapon, which meant you didn’t aim using the sights. So they were superfluous in his opinion. Shooting a pistol had to be instinctive. The gun had to become a part of your body. Milliseconds counted in a close-quarters pistol fight and anyone who needed to aim using the sights was always going to lose to someone whose gun was a mere extension of their wrist. They hit what they pointed at. But it was a much more difficult skill than it sounded.

  Stratton held the pistol in his right hand and down by his side. He looked for a target to his front. A dull grey locker, the far side of the room, had a small white name-plate stuck to it. Stratton studied it for half a second before closing his eyes. He raised the gun in his outstretched hand so that it was pointing to his extreme right. With his eyes still closed, he traversed the pistol until it was in front of him and aiming at the locker. He opened his eyes and looked along the top of the pistol, which he kept still in a vicelike grip. He had aligned the weapon perfectly with the white name-plate – if he fired, he would hit it in the centre.