‘Hi,’ Morgan said enthusiastically to the back of her head, keeping his eyes on her rear as she moved down the hallway and out of sight.‘Sweet,’ he drooled. ‘I’d crawl through an ’undred yards of minefield just to ’ear ’er fart down the end of a field telephone.’ Morgan was known for his basic sense of humour.
‘She’s probably never had an offer like that before,’ Stratton said dryly, his attention caught by a shrill scream from a clump of bushes; a very young girl in an expensive dress ran out pursued by an even younger boy in shorts, short-sleeve shirt and tie, wielding a water pistol.
‘I don’t think she was into a bit of black though. A bit of old white more like.’
‘Money has mature taste,’ Stratton said.
‘She’s probably a Lady Somethin’ or Other,’ Morgan went on. ‘Bet she wouldn’t piss on the likes of us if we were on fire . . . Mind you, that’s the very type who just might, and we wouldn’t need to be on fire either,’ he added with a chuckle. Morgan was also known for laughing at his own sick jokes, loudly and often alone.
‘Where’s Smudge?’ Stratton asked.
‘Down at the main gate,’ Morgan said. ‘And Bob’s the other side of the marquee. I think ’e’s actually enjoying this. He likes rubbin’ shoulders with this lot. Have you noticed he even starts talkin’ like ’em? And the bloke’s from bleedin’ Luton.’
‘I’m going to get a wet,’ Stratton said as he headed inside.
‘Grab me a sarnee would ya - cheese and pickle if they’ve got any. I’ll go and do another round of the walls . . . I’ll start climbin’ the fuckers if this thing goes on much longer.’
Morgan headed off and Stratton walked down the hallway. As he reached a corner at the end, a man’s voice called out from behind him.
‘I say. Excuse me.’
Stratton looked back to see a young man in a white suit and red tie that appeared a little extrovert for this gathering. ‘Would you get me a Buck’s Fizz, old boy?’ he asked with a smile.
‘What?’ Stratton said, looking irritable having heard what the man had asked him.
‘A Buck’s Fizz. Orange juice and champers, old thing.’
‘I’m not a waiter.’
‘You’re staff, aren’t you? Be a dear and run along and get me one.’
Stratton controlled an urge to say something he would regret and forced a smile. ‘Sure.Anything else?’
‘No, that would be lovely,’ the man said with a warm smile. ‘I’ll be outside.’
Stratton walked around the corner and along a corridor that led to the kitchen.‘I’ll shove a champagne bottle up your arse if you call me dear again,’ he muttered to himself.
The pretty young woman was standing in a doorway as he passed by it. ‘You’d probably lose the bottle with that one,’ she said.
Stratton paused to glance at her. ‘Sorry, I was talking to myself.’
She smiled as he carried on into the kitchen.
Food and drinks were everywhere; a chef was preparing sandwiches, a waitress headed out of a door into the garden carrying a tray full of strawberries and cream while another returned with dirty crockery. Stratton picked up a jug of orange juice, filled a glass and took a sip. He picked a sandwich off a tray and opened it - roast beef; there did not appear to be any cheese and pickle, but then Morgan would eat anything anyway. He wrapped it in a paper napkin and placed it in his jacket pocket. As he took another sip of his juice, the pretty girl walked in.
‘Would you pour me one?’ she said. ‘Please,’ she added, emphasising politeness.
Stratton picked up another glass, filled it and handed it to her. She took it from him and held it, looking at him, still smiling, obviously wanting to chat.
‘That was Pippy, Lord Branborne’s son,’ she said. ‘He only asked you for the drink because he fancies you.’
Stratton ignored the remark.
‘He likes a bit of rough now and then,’ she added.
Stratton sighed inwardly and took a sip of his drink.
‘Are you not going to make him his drink?’
Stratton gave her a tired look.
‘Oh, that’s right.You’re not a waiter . . .The rumour is you’re one of those roughy-toughy special soldier types. I’ve heard about people like you. I thought you only ran around places like the desert shooting nasty terrorists. Must be a nice change to do something like this, standing around doing nothing all day.’
‘Yeah, we all jumped for joy when we heard.’
She didn’t miss the sarcasm but it did not appear to bother her because she moved closer to him, head slightly lowered, eyes looking up at him.
‘Do you have a gun?’ she asked. ‘I bet you’re well armed.’
Stratton studied her eyes and all he could see was a rich tart.
She prodded his chest close to where his gun would have been holstered if he were left-handed.
‘Can I see it?’
‘No.’
‘You probably don’t need a gun though, do you? I expect you know all that kung fu business.’
Stratton was looking for a polite way out of this conversation and the kitchen. She was cute but not enough to have to listen to her crap.
‘What would you do if a dozen terrorists came over the wall right now and attacked us?’ she went on, moving closer still, her ardour obvious. Stratton was uncomfortable being hit on so aggressively at a professional venue and unsure quite how to handle it in a polite manner. The watchword for jobs such as this was diplomacy in all matters.
‘I’d hide in the cellar.’
‘Really? I know where that is if you’d like me to show you.’
The waitress behind the woman glanced at Stratton and rolled her eyes before leaving with a tray of sandwiches.
‘Isabelle,’ a man called out from inside the house as footsteps came down the corridor. She frowned at the interruption.Two smartly dressed men came into the kitchen. Stratton noticed the tiny army badges both had pinned to their lapels. He couldn’t tell which regiment they indicated but considering the calibre of people at the function, the cut of their suits and their bearing, they were not only officers - a non-commissioned officer had a snowball’s chance in hell of being invited to a gig like this unless he was titled.
‘Ah, there you are,’ the taller one said on seeing the girl, then paused as his eyes fell on Stratton who was far too close to her to be considered polite. His smile was replaced by the kind of cold expression a male displays on seeing another coveting his female property. ‘We’re going into London for lunch,’ he continued, talking to her but eyeing Stratton warily. ‘Where’s your coat?’
She rolled her eyes for only Stratton to see before turning to face her boyfriend. ‘Do we have to go now? I’m enjoying myself.’
‘It’s a bit of a bore, darling, and we’ve shown our faces,’ he said. ‘What are you doing in here anyway? Annoying the staff?’
‘This nice man was telling me how he is prepared to lay down his life to protect us all if terrorists should come over the walls in their hundreds. I’d introduce him to you but he won’t tell me his name - the strong secretive type, don’t you know?’
Stratton finished his drink and put the glass down. ‘Nice talking to you,’ he said as he turned to leave.
‘Yes, why don’t you run along,’ the boyfriend said with an attitude.
Stratton stopped and looked back at the man whose tone he found offensive. The other man was also staring at Stratton in support of his friend, like a pair of elegant wolves.
‘You’re not here to hang around the kitchen chatting up ladies,’ the friend added.
Both men saw a flicker of danger behind Stratton’s grey eyes, but they were too well bred to heed any warning from a mere ranker.
‘I’m Captain Brigstock, Life Guards, and this is Captain Boyston. I know you’re not an officer so why don’t you consider it an order. Off you go,’ he said, and topped it off with a chin-jutting, superior smirk.
The girl put her arm t
hrough her captain’s, switching allegiance like the fickle wind. ‘Ooh, you do excite me when you get bossy, Charlie.’
Stratton sighed, turned about and continued to the door. They were not worth the effort.
‘I don’t know why we have to have these mindless thugs as security,’ Brigstock said to his friends but intentionally loud enough for Stratton to hear.
Stratton paused in the doorway without looking back. The officers were beginning to test his self control. He raised his eyes to the skies as if looking for divine help and stepped outside. As he walked away laughter came from the kitchen.
He folded them from his mind and paused on the green to survey the area wondering how much longer this party was going to go on for.
‘Stratton? I say. Is that you?’ a man called out.
Stratton saw a stout, grey-haired gentleman in his sixties the other side of the green heading towards him with his hands in his jacket pockets, a classic affectation of the upper class that the man wore comfortably.
The woman and her two young officers walked out of the kitchen. ‘Isn’t that your uncle?’ Boyston asked Brigstock.
‘Yes,’ Brigstock said, suddenly fluffing up and putting on a broad smile as he waved. ‘Hello, Uncle.’
The old man noticed him as he approached and looked immediately disjointed on recognising his nephew. ‘Oh, Brigstock. How you doing, lad?’ he said blandly.
‘Fine, sir,’ Brigstock beamed while Boyston, also smiling broadly, took a large step forward to stand beside his friend. The old man was obviously very important and it wasn’t what you knew but who you, or your closest friends, were related to. ‘This is my friend—’
‘Excuse me a moment, would you?’ the old man interrupted easily. ‘On my way to see an old friend.’ He breezed past them and headed for Stratton.
‘I thought it was you,’ he said to Stratton as he stopped in front of him.
‘Hello, Ambassador,’ Stratton said, genuinely pleased to see the man, and they shook hands warmly. He was the former British ambassador to Algiers. Three years before, Stratton turned up at the embassy on his own to propose an evacuation plan for the staff during an uprising in the country by Islamic fundamentalists that threatened their safety. An SAS contingent had arrived the day before and was pushing a proposal to cut down all the trees in the embassy grounds so that helicopters could land and evacuate everyone to the airport where a military transport aircraft would take them out of the country. But since the embassy was near the sea, Stratton had been sent from the SBS headquarters with an alternative plan. His idea was to take a short drive to the beach under heavy guard where fast attack boats could ferry the staff to a waiting Royal Navy frigate.
The ambassador’s wife happened to love the trees in the garden and was horrified at the thought of seeing them cut down but had conceded them as an unavoidable price one had to pay for the safety of the embassy staff. When she heard Stratton’s proposal she nudged the ambassador and whispered in his ear that she would divorce him if he didn’t go with the boat idea. The ambassador liked the waterborne option anyway since he happened to be an ex-Navy man and fancied stepping aboard a war ship once again after so many years. However, the four SAS men were officers and Stratton was only an SBS colour sergeant; diplomacy was required so as not to ruffle SAS feathers. As the ambassador fumbled through the pros and cons, racking his brains for a justifiable way out of the air option, Stratton had interrupted politely, informing them that recently the Algerians had acquired some Stingers - hand-held ground-to-air missiles - and that using aircraft to evacuate the area might not be a wise option.
The SAS officers knew Stratton had outmanoeuvred them, and the ambassador was pleased with Stratton’s timely advice which gave him the room to close the matter.
‘How have you been?’ the ambassador asked Stratton, genuinely interested. He had never been impressed with rank alone and was far more inclined towards people of substance. Brigstock and Boyston were within earshot and horrified that the security man had a higher priority than them.
‘Fine, sir,’ Stratton said shaking his hand. He liked the old man who had filed a most complimentary report on his return to England about the SBS’s handling of the embassy situation.
‘You must say hello to Angela. She’s over there and would love to see you. You know she often mentions that time in the embassy, and not only her trees that you saved. You outflanked the SAS in one other area.You were the only military chap thoughtful enough to bring some English newspapers and tea.’ He laughed heartily bringing a broad grin to Stratton’s face. ‘So what are you doing here? Must be god-awful boring for the likes of you. What idiot put people of your calibre on duty at a garden party?’
‘We have to take the rough with the smooth, sir.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
The ambassador caught his nephew hovering over his shoulder and reluctantly acknowledged his presence. ‘Brigstock.You met Stratton?’The old man didn’t want to share Stratton with his nephew but these parties were all about meeting people of influence.
‘’Em, not exactly sir,’ Brigstock stammered.
‘Special Boat Service. One of the top operatives in the country, and that’s not just my opinion.’
Stratton ignored the two men who started to offer their hands but changed their minds when they realised they would not be taken. Brigstock’s girlfriend smiled at Stratton as if she had always been on his side.
Stratton’s phone vibrated in his pocket.‘Excuse me a moment, sir,’ he said as he took it out, checked the screen, pushed a button and put it to his ear. He heard a loud noise that sounded like interference. ‘Scouse.That you?’ he said loudly, trying to compensate for the noise.
‘Stratton,’ a voice shouted.
‘You in a chopper?’ Stratton asked.
‘Yes. Where are you?’
‘Lord Balmore’s estate. We’re covering a garden party.’
‘I know that. I’m towards your location. This isn’t a social call.’
Stratton then heard the throb of a helicopter and looked to the skies. It sounded like it was coming from the south but a wood bordering that side of the estate concealed anything flying low from view.
‘Get your arse into the open,’ Scouse shouted. ‘We’re coming to pick you up.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Something big.’
The helicopter suddenly roared out from the tree-tops, right over the lawn, putting an abrupt halt to every conversation, and banked low over the estate. It was an SBS Super Lynx, a nine-seat jet assault helicopter.
‘Get yourself a marker,’ Scouse said.
‘I’m on it,’ Stratton said, then to the ambassador. ‘Gotta go, sir.’
‘Something come up?’
‘Looks like it,’ Stratton said.
‘That’s more like it, eh?’
Stratton scanned around for something bright and saw it draped over the shoulders of Brigstock’s girlfriend.
‘May I?’ he said to her as he took her pink jacket.
‘Oh. Yes . . . um . . .’
Then Stratton was off, jogging to a clear part of the lawn.
‘Look after yourself,’ the ambassador called out to him.
The man in the white suit stepped out of the building as Stratton went past. ‘I say. Where’s my Buck’s Fizz?’ he said, then noticed the circling helicopter. ‘Oh, my word.’
Stratton held the phone to his ear as he swung the pink coat around his head. ‘Scouse, I’m waving pink.’
‘Seen,’ Scouse replied, and the Lynx continued its spiral back to the lawn. It headed directly for Stratton rapidly losing height and then a few metres from him tipped its nose up to halt its forward movement, levelled out and dropped rapidly on to its trolley wheels as Stratton ran towards it. The marquee took a pounding from the rotors, as did the nearby guests, tables and ladies’ hats, which went flying.
The side door was already open and Stratton jumped in. The Lynx rose quickly, nose dipp
ed dramatically, and accelerated forward and up, engines screaming and the blades carving hungrily into the air as it gained height. The pink jacket came flying out of the door and landed not far from the two officers. Brigstock’s girlfriend ran to pick it up and then waved farewell with it as the Lynx thundered over the house and was out of sight and sound in seconds.
Morgan and Smudge came running on to the lawn amid the whirling debris in time to see the helicopter go.
‘Lucky bastard,’ Morgan said looking thoroughly pissed off.
Scouse slid the door shut, closing out the wind and some of the noise, and Stratton regarded the five SBS operatives who shared the cab behind the cockpit. They were all dressed in black assault clothing, with bulging chest harnesses filled with various pieces of equipment and ordnance, leather gloves, helmets on laps, throat mics, MPK5 sub-machine guns and P226 semi-automatic pistols strapped to their thighs. Scouse, sat beside Stratton, slid a heavy-duty black holdall along the floor and dumped it on top of a large coil of heavy thick rope at Stratton’s feet, one end of which was shackled to a strong point in the ceiling near Stratton’s door.
‘Here’s your kit,’ Scouse shouted over the shrill of the engines.
Stratton took his jacket off and started pulling at his tie. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Possible hijacked supertanker. Sometime before dawn. It’s way off course and doesn’t respond to any radio calls.The coastguard’s alongside but it’s too high for them to climb on deck. They have a chopper in the area but they’ve been told not to board her. The bad news is it’s heading for the coast at top speed, towards the Torquay area, and it’s full to the gunwales with oil.’
‘How long’ve we got?’
‘It’s gonna be tight. By the time we get there I reckon we’ll have about fifteen, twenty minutes to take it.’
‘Anything on the bad guys?’ Stratton asked as he pulled off his shoes and trousers and dug his one-piece fire-retardant assault suit out of the bag.
‘Helicopter reports no sign of life on deck and the bridge looks empty.’
‘Where’s it from?’
‘It’s an Aralco oil company boat. One of their big ones. Last stop was Sidi Kerir oil terminal off the coast of Egypt in the Med where it took on its load. It was on its way to Rotterdam. Last known contact was with its headquarters in Dubai one a.m. this morning.’
The Hijack Page 6