Pirate

by Duncan Falconer

  But they were armed to the teeth and about to go into battle. It was great. It was beautiful. It was ultimately what Stratton lived for.

  The GPS indicated the coastline to be less than two kilometres away. It was a perfectly black night. The clouds not far above them had formed on cue, just like the evening before when Stratton and the girl had escaped along the river. The stars and moon had been blocked out completely. The forecast had given it a 40 per cent chance of rain on the mainland. Which they didn’t consider a massive problem. The gliders would fly almost as well, depending on how heavy the rain was. The landing might even be softer.

  Stratton could make out a white scar running across their entire front. The coastline. He could see a faint glow to the east. Lotto’s town. The squadron planned to pass well to the west of it, head inland due south for a couple of clicks, before turning east towards the Al-Shabaab encampment.

  The flight had not been without its little moments of drama. The wind had toyed with them and some crews had flown too close together which caused a bit of mild panic among those concerned. It was also impossible to judge the height by eye alone. That was difficult enough in the daytime without something like a boat in the water to provide a point of reference. But it was almost as difficult for the pilots to fly with an eye fixed on the altimeter. More than once Downs had suddenly pulled back hard on the stick to gain immediate height, an action that attracted every bit of Stratton’s attention each time he did it. It was harder for Downs than for the other pilots. He was alone out in front with no other craft to gauge himself by. But if he hit the drink and the pilot behind wasn’t watching his altimeter, they would probably follow. The gliders didn’t respond particularly quickly to the controls because of the weight they were carrying.

  Stratton hadn’t discovered the precise type of radar the Somali jihadists had at their base but specialists back in Poole had advised a sea approach of a hundred feet, and less than that if possible when they reached landfall, would be good enough. Which was going to be tricky because of the way the ground rose into the hills beyond the beach. It was going to be pitch black and again they would have to rely on their altimeters. Confidence was high that if the gliders maintained the lowest altitude, they wouldn’t be detected by the radar. But anyone on the ground would spot the large mass quite easily if it flew close by them. That was one of the risks they were prepared to take.

  Downs carried out an all stations radio check every five minutes just in case someone at the back of the squadron had ditched without being seen. The emergency procedure for such an event was to press on and leave the crew to their own devices. A report would be sent detailing the incident and location to HMS Ocean. The ship would send out a rescue team. Each man carried his own SARBE emergency beacon so it wouldn’t be considered a great drama if a pair did have to ditch. The impact was something none of them wanted to experience of course. The real fear was not being able to get out of the damned machine before it sank like a stone.

  Stratton checked his GPS. The coast was less than a kilometre away. A sudden flash appeared up ahead. For a second he thought it looked like a device of some kind, his brain in full military mode, unable to decide what it was right away. Another flash followed immediately after in a different place and he realised it was lightning. The low rumble of thunder followed, which he could just about hear above the purring of the propeller.

  Minutes later they crossed the beach line and Downs pulled back on the stick to increase their altitude as the ground started to rise.

  They could barely see the dark hills up ahead, obscured by a mass of clouds. Another crack of lightning, this time much closer, and Stratton wasn’t the only one who suddenly wondered what would happen if their craft happened to be struck by a bolt. It was not worth thinking about. Nothing anyone could do to prevent it if it happened.

  Stratton peered ahead in the hope of seeing a hillside that he recognised. He knew that despite the dozens of satellite photographs everyone had studied, and the ones that every passenger held in his hand at that moment, and the metre-accurate GPS coordinates, there could be no better substitute for having someone who had actually been there. All part of the reasoning for bringing him along and placing him at the front of the squadron.

  Stratton and Downs’s GPSs both beeped at the same time, signalling the heading change to due east. Every other GPS in the squadron beeped in turn, just in case the pilot didn’t see the craft in front make the change in direction. Something hardly likely to happen at this stage. Each man was concentrating hard ahead. They had minutes to go.

  Stratton saw something he recognised. He could make out the unmoving river up ahead. He searched the black countryside just in front of it, looking for signs of the camp. On their right side the hills ascended, the tops high above them.

  Another bolt of lightning striking close by startled everyone. It lit up the ground like the flash from a giant camera. For a second the terrain around them was exposed like daytime. The bad news was that people generally tended to look to the skies when lightning struck. But a few seconds later another element arrived that caused the reverse and induced those in the open to find cover.

  Stratton felt a drop of water hit his face. Then another. They were heading into the rain.

  Moments later the heavens opened up and it became torrential. The gliders buffeted heavily. Suddenly all of the confidence the crews had that the craft would fly normally in bad weather disintegrated. Those who had flown in the rain and who had declared it safe had never been in anything close to what they were experiencing at that moment. The danger was fundamental enough. If the rain beat down on to the tops of the canvas wings of the gliders too heavily, they could lose their shape. If that happened, the craft would lose lift and height and the rest was easy enough to work out.

  Downs immediately pulled back on the stick to gain even greater altitude. If the wings did begin to flatten under the weight of the rain, he wanted them to be as close as possible to the camp when they went down.

  The other crews did the same, or attempted to.

  ‘This is Spud, having problems!’ came a shout over the radio.

  Stratton strained to look back and could make out a glider far lower than it should have been. And he could see a couple of others that looked like they might be struggling to hold altitude.

  ‘We can’t get any height!’ Spud shouted, starting to lose his composure.

  It was a private ordeal. No one could do anything to help them, other than pray that they could overcome the difficulty and get back up in the air.

  The rain continued to lash against them all, biting at their faces like pea-shot. The heavy beating on the canopy almost drowned out the sound of the engine. Downs kept the stick pulled back. They weren’t going up but then they weren’t losing any height either. Not yet at least. He felt suddenly aware that the entire operation could quickly turn into a total disaster before the assault phase.

  ‘We’re going in! We’re going in!’ Spud shouted over the radio.

  Stratton put a face to the name, a young stocky lad with stacks of enthusiasm. He didn’t know who the lad’s partner was.

  A long silence followed.

  ‘Spud, this is Downs!’ Downs shouted.

  Silence.

  ‘Jordo! You still tail end?’ Downs shouted into his radio above the cacophony around him and the rain slamming into his face.

  ‘Jordo here. Roger that. I just saw Spud hit the deck. It looked pretty hard. I couldn’t see anything else. I’m also having trouble holding on.’

  ‘Christ.’ Downs shouted back to Stratton, ‘We’re going to have to ditch these payloads!’

  Stratton looked ahead, blinking through the rain. He was pretty certain he could make out the camp area at the bottom of the dark slope. The heavy rain did not help.

  He suddenly saw a light flicker. And then another.

  ‘On the bomb run!’ he shouted to Downs. ‘You’re on heading! Straight ahead!’

  19
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  ‘All stations stand by!’ Downs shouted into his radio. ‘Hang in there another minute and we’ll solve our weight problems.’

  Which was precisely what every other crew was thinking. They were each carrying a dozen mortar shells which was, for most of them, the difference between staying in the air and crashing.

  The rain hammered men and machines. But more and more lights appeared within the wood ahead. Some electrical, others kerosene-powered. Stratton could only hope that any sentry wouldn’t be looking skyward. That they would all be under cover or heading for it in the downpour. That the sound of the rain hitting the trees would cover that of the glider engines until they got directly overhead.

  ‘Dizzy here, not sure if we’re gonna make it!’ came a voice over the radio.

  ‘Ditch your mortars!’ Downs shouted. ‘Or enough of ’em to keep you up. The rest of you, don’t forget to pull the pins!’

  Stratton didn’t need reminding. He was already removing the pins from the first row of mortars on each side of him.

  ‘Anywhere in particular?’ Downs shouted to his partner.

  Stratton couldn’t identify anything within the wood of more interest than any other part. Not yet at least. He hadn’t seen inside the camp anyway.

  As they drew closer, he could make out the dark clearing at the foot of the slope where he had killed Hopper. He suddenly had a flashback and could see the man on his knees waiting to die.

  Stratton snapped back to the task in hand and took a couple of mortars from each pouch. Then everything seemed to slow down. A beeping sound broke his concentration. It was his GPS warning him they were on target.

  A flash of lightning lit up the wood and for a second he could see signs of life: sheets of plastic glistening in the rain, several vehicles. He thought he saw someone running. He identified a hut directly in their flight line and decided that would be the target for his opening salvo. It no longer mattered to him if they were seen or not. In a few seconds he would open up the attack. This was the start of his revenge and he prayed it would be a satisfying night.

  He sat back holding a bomb in each hand by its tail fins and dangled them either side of him as he concentrated ahead.

  A bearded jihadist commander wearing a hooded raincoat left the cover of his tent and cleared both of his nostrils as he walked the short distance to the edge of the wood. He paused at his favourite pissing tree and hiked up his dishdasha to relieve himself. He looked skywards and a frown creased his brow as he saw a strange thing in the sky. He removed his hood to get a better look. A flash of lightning revealed the broad, dark wings of what appeared to be a giant bird approaching. He saw the two men beneath the single wingspan. He knew nothing about gliders. But he did feel that something very bad was about to happen and he turned and ran as fast as he possibly could.

  The fighter charged between the well-spread trees, their lower branches having long since been removed for firewood or construction. He glanced back as he ran to make sure he hadn’t imagined it. Sure enough, just above the trees and not very far behind him was the black beast with its purring growl which he could now hear.

  He began to scream as he neared the closest hut. The door opened and a fighter stepped outside. The commander charged inside to grab his gun, yelling at half a dozen men lying around a cast iron stove.

  A couple of seconds later the bird passed overhead and the hut exploded in a ball of smoke and flashing flames.

  Stratton felt the shockwave pulse skywards. Bits of shrapnel and wood flew past him, a couple of pieces penetrating the glider wing. He looked over his shoulder to see the bright yellow flames light up the wood.

  ‘A little more height, if you please, Mr Downs!’ he shouted.

  Downs laughed hard. It was like a high-pressure gas bottle of tension had been released. All the planning and preparations were behind them. All the worrying that he might have forgotten something had gone. The battle had begun. This is what it had all been about. Why he had joined the Royal Marines at sixteen years old and had trained for two years as a recruit until he had been able to win his green beret and join a commando unit.

  Downs pulled back on the stick and turned it to one side to try and climb as well as get into position for another bomb run.

  Stratton thought he saw some vehicles directly below as Downs made the turn and released two more bombs. The wood exploded behind them.

  Downs continued to roar with joy. ‘Come on you bastards!’

  Another explosion came from elsewhere in the wood, followed by several more until there seemed to be one going off every few seconds.

  As Downs yelled like a madman, Stratton released a couple more bombs and had to smile at his crazed friend. The glider appeared to be benefiting from the reduced weight as Downs turned and gained height at the same time.

  ‘Truck!’ Downs cried out.

  Stratton looked ahead to see several vehicles parked nose to tail on a track that entered the wood.

  ‘Let’s go for it!’ Stratton shouted as he removed the pins from several more mortars.

  Downs lined up the glider so that it flew directly over the top of them.

  Stratton dropped one bomb with a short delay before releasing the next. They slammed into the beds of two trucks, one after the other, and the vehicles exploded.

  Downs was clearly loving it. ‘I’d do this bloody job for nothing!’ he shouted.

  Stratton’s smile faded into concentration as he saw men running through the wood below him, illuminated by the fires that were cropping up all over the place despite the rain. They had caused total and utter panic. The Somalis had no idea what was going on. Those with any battle experience would know it was a mortar attack and not artillery but the sight of the gliders had frightened and confused them.

  Downs took the glider in a gentle curve, his eyes everywhere, conscious that gliders could easily collide right then. The orders had been to keep all turns over the wood to the right only. It wouldn’t prevent a crash but it did reduce the chances of one.

  Stratton was hoping to see Sabarak. He knew it would be impossible to recognise the Saudi from the air but he couldn’t help himself. He saw several men running along a track, illuminated by the flames. Stratton reached for the last of his mortars and held one either side of the seat as Downs took them above the men. Stratton staggered his release and the double boom filled the area where it struck with smoke and debris.

  Another line of men ran out of the wood and into the black open ground. Stratton pulled up his Colt, shoved the butt into his shoulder and fired a couple of shots. The rear pair went down and the others scattered.

  Downs turned in order to close in on another group of running men and lost a bit of height. As he flew alongside them, Stratton let rip with several short bursts. Three of the men went down and the rest scattered.

  Downs pulled hard on the stick to gain height and headed away from the wood. Stratton looked back to see several explosions. A dozen or so fires blazed and a line of smoke drifted on the wind towards the coast.

  Downs quickly checked his GPS and turned hard up and over a treeless slope. Several other gliders did the same and moved in behind him, all of the craft much more manoeuvrable since ditching their payloads.

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

  The crews began to answer right away. There was a long pause after the last report. Two gliders were missing. It was an acceptable loss for that stage of the mission but only as a statistic. Downs could only pray that just the gliders were gone and not the men. The trackers would let the ops room know if the missing men were moving or not. But the tracker couldn’t tell them if the men were still alive or that their bodies were being looted.

  Downs would have to worry about them later. The teams still had work to do.

  As the gliders crested a rise, they saw two straight lines of tiny white lights stretching away either side of them. A red line of lights at the far end indicated the limit of the landing str
ip. The pathfinders had done their job after being dropped off by the Lynx.

  Downs didn’t hang about and immediately lost height. He touched down hard and they bounced back up until he took the power out of the engine and the glider dropped back to the ground with another thump.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Downs said as he steered the craft away from the middle of the landing strip to make room for the others.

  They quickly climbed out, ditched their life-jackets and prepared their equipment for the next phase.

  ‘I think I’d like the rain to stop now,’ Downs said.

  One of the pathfinders arrived from the darkness. ‘All right, Downsy?’

  ‘Thanks, Smudge. There’s only nine left in this serial.’

  ‘I ’eard. Get going. I’ll clean up,’ Smudge said. ‘Got everything?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Stratton, pulling on his backpack.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Downs said.

  Smudge tossed an incendiary into the glider and as Downs and Stratton walked away it burst into flames. Smudge ran off to help the next crews who had landed.

  ‘We live in a very disposable world, don’t we,’ Downs said as he watched the glider go up in flames.

  Stratton didn’t answer, going to the edge of the small plateau to look down the slope at the glowing wood.

  ‘I wish I’d gone for the black outfit myself,’ Downs said, comparing Stratton’s fatigues with his own. ‘You’re anxious to get down there, aren’t you?’

  ‘Sabarak will be on the run.’

  ‘That’s the idea. Our job is to take out the missiles. Someone else’ll get Sabarak, one day if not today.’

  Stratton wasn’t interested in another day. Only in this one. He looked back to see if the others were ready to go.

  ‘But that’s the bit that pisses you off, hey, Stratton. You want to be the one who does him in.’

  ‘I owe him.’

  ‘We all owe him. Hopper was my friend as well.’

  ‘You didn’t have to kill him!’ Stratton said angrily, immediately regretting the outburst.