Stratton lowered the gun, pulled a loaded, extended twenty-round magazine from the bundle, placed it into the weapon, cocked it and released the slide so that it picked up a bullet and slammed it into the breach. He deftly nudged the release lever on the side of the weapon with his thumb and the hammer sprang forward without firing the weapon. It was cocked and ready to fire. He placed it into a holster, which he strapped to his thigh.
He opened another box to reveal a line of immaculate, new compact Colt assault rifles fully fitted with night scopes and infrared spotlights. Stratton removed one of the weapons that had a combat harness strap attached to it, checked the working parts and looked through the sight. Happy with it, he picked up a pouch of magazines and stuffed a couple of spare ammo boxes into a small backpack. He removed a scanning device attached to a laptop computer and scanned the barcode on the weapon and heard a soft beep. He pointed the same scanner at one of his eyes and moved it around until the same soft beep was emitted.
After recording the Colt magazines and the GPS, he opened a box of tracking devices and tested the one he selected. It was fully charged and he scanned its barcode, which registered the device to his name on the laptop. Trackers were usually used by SF when operating against unsophisticated enemy who would be unable to crack the signal encryption. They were small and light and the battery could last for days on a ping to a satellite every fifteen minutes.
He replaced the scanner and checked the face of his watch. He had an hour to go before take-off. Everyone would be mustering on deck to prepare the gliders.
He picked up his pack, stuffed some food and a couple bottles of water inside, added a satellite phone, swung it over his shoulder and headed out of the room.
18
The light was beginning to fade as Stratton stepped from the superstructure into a stiff breeze. HMS Ocean powered towards Somalia, cutting down as much as possible the distance the powered hang-gliders would have to fly. Officially, the carrier could not sail nearer than twelve miles from the coastline to remain within international waters. But the plan required Ocean’s launches to be able to come into the coastline to cover emergency contingencies like a glider hitting the drink and to execute the main exfiltration phase. So the plan was technically illegal. So permission to carry it out would be granted by the Somali government in retrospect. You couldn’t make them aware of the attack before it was complete simply because they could not be trusted to maintain secrecy.
The pyramid-shaped glider frames had been lined up in neat rows, their propellers mounted at the backs of the engines secured within them. On the uppermost point of each, where the tubular framing converged, a large bracket hinge would hold the wings. But because of the wind the wings hadn’t been fitted. Two comfortable-looking, lay-backed seats had been arranged in front of the engines, the rear one above and behind the front. The back of the pilot’s seat, in the front, would be part way between the legs of the passenger.
Ops was concerned about the weather. The overall forecast looked favourable but the winds were predicted to be on the high side of acceptable for the gliders. The wind wouldn’t just make it hard getting the craft airborne. It was coming off the land and, with the gliders’ limited power, a strong headwind could prevent them from reaching the target because they could run out of fuel. Which was the only obstacle so far that threatened to postpone the operation. Stratton could only hope the weather held. He was having visions of the last operation he had mounted from HMS Ocean and did not want to spend yet another week on board waiting for the opportunity to go into action.
The SBS operators had another concern:the final fighting weight of the small aircraft. Trials had been carried out using two fully armed men with complete field equipment and rations for ten days. These had pushed the glider’s capacity to its limits but it had managed to take off using the length of the old parade ground in Poole and into a bit of a headwind. This assault wasn’t going to need any long-term field equipment, but the craft would be carrying something just as heavy. Two robust pouches had been fitted, one either side of the passenger seat, with half a dozen 82mm mortar shells in each, rigged so that they could be dropped from altitude and explode on contact.
There were twenty gliders in total and, as take-off time approached, the men began finalising their kit, putting on cam-cream and testing communications. Several shots came from the back end of the huge deck as a handful of the men tested their weapons out to sea. Dozens of crew members had assembled to help out where they could. Those that weren’t needed stood on the periphery to observe. It was a unique sight, the like of which they might never get again. There was something of a festival atmosphere about the preparation, one tempered by a soberness at the possibility some of the men might not come back.
Downs stepped on deck with four other SBS operatives wearing full camouflage clothing, their faces blackened and carrying substantial backpacks. He had a brief chat with the men before patting one of them on the shoulder. The men walked away down the line of gliders towards the rear end of the flight deck.
‘Good luck, Smudge,’ someone shouted out.
In response, one of the four operatives raised a hand that clutched a loaded Colt assault rifle. They were the pathfinder team, whose job it was to mark the landing strips for the gliders. The operations room back in Poole, using satellite images, had identified several patches of level ground close to the jihadist encampment that would be suitable for the gliders to land on. The robust craft didn’t need much room to land, depending again on the wind. But due to the numbers, they needed enough room to allow the tail-enders to land through the inevitable clutter of those who had already landed, or crashed.
The pathfinders made their way over to the Lynx, which was starting up its high-pitched engines. They would leave well before the gliders so that they had ample time to carry out the task. The plan was to drop them off a mile from the jihadist camp the other side of the range of hills. From there they would yomp to their respective pre-selected sites to prepare the landing markers.
The obvious question was, if pathfinders could get dropped off to yomp on to the target, why couldn’t the other forty men do the same and save the risks involved with flying in? It had a simple enough answer. One small, low-flying super-fast helicopter might not be noticed. And if it was noticed, it wouldn’t be considered a threat. A single Somali military helicopter flying across the plains wouldn’t be unheard of in the area. A squadron of Sea Kings would invoke some concern and a warning message might be called into the jihadists. And two pairs of men could move practically undetected. If by some chance someone saw them, they wouldn’t be considered a major threat to the four hundred or so jihadists. Forty men had a much higher chance of being detected and no matter how good they were at soldiering, they would soon run out of all of the ammunition they could possibly carry if the jihadists came out to meet them for a fight.
The final reason for using the gliders was the need for pinpoint pre-assault bombing. They needed to soften up the camp using air-delivered bombs. They intended to confuse and hopefully scatter the warriors before the ground assault – historically, such bombing operations, particularly in woodland, hadn’t produced a significant number of casualties. A ground force would have had to use mortars. But they wouldn’t have been as accurate as the same bombs delivered by hand from directly above by men who could see what they were aiming for. HMS Ocean didn’t have guns large enough to hit the encampment. Stratton guessed London had considered Cruise missiles to be too heavy-handed and probably calculated they might work against them in the subsequent propaganda exchange. A more hands-on, surgical solution had been required.
The Lynx’s engines roared to full power and it rose off the deck and politely reversed off the back end so as not to harass the men and their gliders with its downdraft. It turned to one side and dropped out of sight as it headed towards the coastline a few feet above the waves. Without any of its navigation lights, it soon disappeared from view and seconds later it could
no longer be heard, the throb of its engines absorbed by the blustery wind.
Downs walked around the edge of the hustle and bustle and over to Stratton and the glider he was to share with his old friend. ‘Bloody madness, if you ask me,’ he said in his rich Irish brogue and wearing his usual grin. ‘I’m talking about this glider lark. What do you think?’
‘I think that about sums it up,’ Stratton said. ‘And you and I wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world right now.’
‘Ha, bloody roight.’
Lieutenant Phelps stepped out on deck and searched the men spread out in front of him until he found who he was looking for. ‘Stratton?’ he called out.
Stratton turned to look at the man whom he hardly knew.
‘A brief word, please,’ the officer said.
Stratton left Downs and walked over to him.
The officer stepped away to a more private piece of deck as Stratton arrived and glanced around to ensure they were out of earshot of everyone else.
‘I have a message for you from London,’ Phelps said. ‘The Chinese insist they don’t have an agent in Somalia at this time and have not had in recent months. They have acknowledged the agent you confronted in Yemen. Given that, London is inclined to believe them. Why would they acknowledge one and not the other? They have accounted for all of their known citizens in Somalia and none fit the description of the woman in your report.’
Stratton felt surprised by the revelation. His initial inclination was to believe it but he wasn’t immediately sure why.
‘Good luck,’ the officer said, before walking away and back inside the superstructure.
Stratton’s head started to fill with questions about what the girl could have been doing in Somalia if she wasn’t an agent. Maybe the Chinese were lying. That he could believe. Maybe she was connected to Al-Shabaab and the acquisition of the weapons. If so, something had clearly gone badly wrong for her. But that didn’t explain why she would have been sneaking around the Oasis when he found her. None of the dots connected in a way that worked for him. He couldn’t find a remotely satisfying explanation for it. He clearly didn’t have enough information.
Despite the possibility that she had duped him, he couldn’t dislike her. He never got the impression she was a bad person. Which was possibly naive of him but he fancied himself a fair judge of character.
He wondered where the girl was at that moment. Had she truly gone back to Somalia to finish whatever it was she had started there, madness though it had to be? Hopefully she had made it safely to another coast. If she wasn’t a Chinese agent, it helped explain why she jumped ship. She knew Stratton would have included her in his report. She would also have expected him to go to the nearest British safe haven and would have expected her to accompany him. The Chinese authorities would also have been informed. She wouldn’t have wanted to be interviewed by the British, and even less by her own people.
Stratton’s thoughts were interrupted by Howel and Winslow stepping out on deck through a door beside him. The two officers headed over to Downs.
‘The old man said you can go ahead and prepare for departure,’ Winslow said. ‘He’s adjusting the ship’s speed and heading to reduce the wind so that you can complete the assembling of the gliders.’
Downs looked into the wind and decided it had indeed grown weaker in the past few minutes. He brought a whistle to his lips and blew it. Everyone looked in his direction. ‘Let’s get the wings on,’ he shouted.
Howel looked around at the preparations as he and Winslow walked back towards the superstructure, where Stratton still stood.
‘God, how I envy you lot,’ Howel said to Stratton.
‘Well, you know where the door to true adventure lies,’ Stratton said. ‘You just have to get through it.’
He winked at Winslow and walked away. Winslow watched him go, his jaw tight.
Stratton stepped to his glider as a couple of the ship’s crew were assembling the wing. The rest of the glider pairs, aided by sailors, were doing the same all over the deck area.
A tall, strongly built SBS operative preparing the glider beside Downs and Stratton’s looked over at Stratton as he arrived. ‘Hey, Stratton,’ he said.
Stratton looked at him, recognising the face but unable to place him right away.
‘Matt,’ he reminded Stratton, aware the operative could not remember his name. ‘We were in Helmand last year at the same time. I was in Blue Team.’
The man fell into place for Stratton. ‘I remember. How’s it going?’
Matt stepped closer. He was a head taller than Stratton with a pair of shoulders to match. ‘So what’s Somalia like?’
‘I found it a tad unfriendly. But it would be unfair to taint the entire country. I only saw a small part of it.’
‘I’m looking forward to punishing those bastards. Hopper was a good friend. Do you know his wife, Helen?’
Stratton had been wondering who would be the first to mention Hopper. ‘Only in passing,’ he said.
‘You met the kids?’
Stratton could sense an edge to the man’s tone. ‘A couple of times.’
Matt nodded. Like he had no real interest in Stratton’s answers to his questions, like he wanted to get to others he had on his mind. ‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’ he said. ‘There’s a rumour going around that you killed Hopper.’
The hint of confrontation Stratton had detected became suddenly far stronger. Hearing Matt’s voice had improved his memory of the man. Matt had a reputation for being stroppy. He had a bit of the big-man syndrome. He used his size and naturally aggressive nature to intimidate. It worked on most people. Stratton remembered his behaviour during one set of operational orders in Afghanistan. During the questions phase, Matt had been sarcastic to the sergeant running that small op. Stratton suspected it was because he felt like he should have been running it. A childish response but some people were like that.
For Matt’s part, Stratton didn’t overly impress him. He felt he was every bit as good as guys like him. In Matt’s eyes, the only difference between them both was that he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to prove himself.
Stratton appreciated displays of confidence and didn’t mind if it bordered on arrogance or even discourtesy. But he drew the line at blatant disrespect. ‘That’s right,’ he answered, a coldness easing its way into his own tone.
The men nearby who had heard the question and the answer stopped what they were doing to watch and listen. Everyone had heard and discussed the rumours but no one knew the truth.
Matt took a step closer to Stratton. Got close to invading the operative’s personal space, a dangerous place to venture. Stratton would give him a lot of leeway though. Matt was SBS, but also upset about his friend’s death.
‘Was that deliberate or did you shoot him by accident?’ Matt asked.
Stratton didn’t react at all. He looked hard at Matt. He had a dangerous look in his eye. But Matt was afraid of no one. Few members of the service would dare to show disrespect to Stratton. Even fewer would threaten him. Matt believed he had a right to confront Stratton, regardless of the fact the man was the most accomplished operative in the SBS. He knew he was in dangerous territory but suddenly felt confident about it.
There were not many men on that deck who would have questioned Stratton’s operational choices. Most believed that whatever he did was for a good reason. Stratton did have his detractors. There were men in the SBS who didn’t approve of him in general. Most of those numbered among the older operators and officers. They believed London should not have favourites, that one man shouldn’t get so many choice operations and be selected over others. They also disapproved of him dividing his time between the SBS and the SIS. If he wanted to work for the London ghosts, then he should sod off and join them.
Matt didn’t share those feelings. Deep down he wanted to do exactly the same things. But he wanted to be the man they came to, not Stratton. Over the years, that jealousy had twisted inside of him. Inst
ead of doing something about making himself more attractive to the selectors, Matt became resentful. He wasn’t helped in his dilemma by the fact that he didn’t have a clue how to go about getting selected for those special ops. You couldn’t just write in and ask. You couldn’t fill in a form, you couldn’t call a number. He knew, like everyone else, that just about every operator got gauged from time to time when the Secret Intelligence Service needed new recruits. He would never accept the possibility that the reason he hadn’t been selected was because they didn’t consider him good enough. That would have been too large a pill for him to swallow.
Matt would never be able to get away with abusing Stratton for no apparent reason at all. That would instantly be recognised as jealousy. And if he decided to get physical with Stratton and it was suspected he did it out of jealousy, he could find himself out of the SBS and on his way back to his commando unit for such a pathetic display. The unit didn’t tolerate such things. They could ultimately find their way into an operation and negatively affect the outcome.
Matt wasn’t that stupid, though. He knew the ground rules. So he also knew Hopper’s death by Stratton’s hand could be an acceptable reason to criticise him openly, show the man some disdain. He wouldn’t miss an opportunity like that. Matt thought he could see a personal advantage in it. He might expose a severe flaw in the highly rated operative while at the same time turn the spotlight on himself. Elevate himself and at the same time shrink Stratton’s stature.
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