‘No touching any of the glass afterwards,’ Smudge added.
Stratton nodded again.
‘No picking the glass up with anything and putting it inside the bottle,’ Smudge added, trying to cover every possible catch he could think of.
‘No picking the glass up afterwards,’ Stratton said, his eyes never leaving the table as he finalised his solution. ‘Any more rules?’
Smudge looked around at the others in case they had any to add, hoping that someone had thought of something. But there was only silence. ‘Okay,’ he said.
‘I’ll match the two hundred, then,’ Jack said. ‘But my money’s on Stratton.’
‘Easy money.’ Smudge smirked.
‘Gotta go with the track record,’ Jack said.
‘Can I get in on this?’ Seaton asked, making his way into the group.
‘Absolutely,’ Smudge said. ‘’Ow much?’
‘What’s the going bet?’ the American asked.
‘Jack has two hundred,’ Smudge said.
‘Two hundred it is, then,’ Seaton said, getting out his money.
‘Right. Two hundred against,’ Smudge said as he reached for the notes.
‘No. I’d never bet against Stratton,’ Seaton said, handing the money over.
Smudge’s confidence was rocked a little once again, but he recovered. ‘Your money … Right, then,’ Smudge said as he picked a flower from the tree and put it into the flute. ‘That has to stay in the glass that ends up in the bottle.’
‘You can’t add on things after the bet,’ Jack said.
‘The flower doesn’t matter,’ Stratton said. ‘Nice touch, Smudge.’
Smudge frowned as he held out the briefcase, insisting to himself that Stratton was bluffing.
Stratton took the case, placed it on the table and opened it up. Inside was a series of neatly organised compartments, a pristine surgical pack filled with an assortment of micro-explosives that included: a metre reel of detonator cord or cortex no thicker than a piece of spaghetti, a two-metre reel of very fine slow-burning fuse, a cartridge of four micro-detonators, a pack of PE5 (Super-X) plastic explosive packed in thin cellophane sheets like sliced processed cheese, three timers, one electronic, one mechanical and one chemical, two radio-receiver detonators, a ceramic surgical knife (non-metallic), a heavy-duty multi-tool ‘work man’ that included pliers, scissors and various other utensils, a roll of electrician’s tape, a spool of nylon fishing line, an assortment of screws and tacks, several paper-thin magnetic strips, and a remote-detonation transmitter and continuity tester.
Stratton removed the detonating cord, unravelled a short length which he cut off using the ceramic blade, then began pulling it carefully through his fingers.
‘Why’s he doing that?’ Bracken asked.
‘He’s stretching it to thin it out,’ Jack informed him.
‘I see.’ Bracken nodded. ‘Why?’
‘He’s making it a weaker charge, I suppose.’
Stratton eased the cortex through his fingers, being careful not to break it. When it was half its original thickness he wrapped it once around the neck of the bottle, just above its widest point, and cut it precisely where the ends met. The men were joined by several others and they watched with interest as Stratton removed a small piece of electrician’s tape which he stuck to the face of his wristwatch. Then he cut two lengths of slow-burning fuse, one twelve inches long, the other double that. He attached the shorter fuse to a micro-detonator and carefully placed its tip where the two ends of the cortex met, securing it in place with the tape where it sat like a bracelet.
Stratton reached for the glass.
‘Uh-uh,’ Smudge quickly interrupted. ‘You can’t move anything. You gotta leave it in place as is.’
Stratton didn’t appear bothered about the rule revision and went back to the briefcase. He removed the reel of fishing line, unwound a couple of metres and looked up into the tree that loomed over the table. The men followed his gaze and watched the end of the line float skywards over a branch and back into his hand. He flicked the line along the branch until it was above the glass. Then he cut it, tied a slip knot and pulled it to the top of the line where it tightened in place. He released the line to check that it dangled directly above the glass, which it did nicely, then turned the line several times around the thickest part of the glass and tied it off with a knot.
‘What’s he doing?’ Smudge asked.
‘Shut up, Smudge,’ Smiv said. ‘He’s not doing anything you said he couldn’t.’
‘Whose side are you on, anyway?’ Smudge asked him.
‘I still don’t think he can do it but I’d like to see him try.’
Smudge frowned.
Josh’s head rose up between the men beside Stratton. ‘What you doing, Stratton?’
‘I’m going to blow some fat.’
‘Wow,’ Josh replied, eyes wide.
‘Would you like to light the fuse?’
Josh’s eyes lit up even more. No other reply was necessary.
The final touch was the long piece of fuse, which Stratton wrapped one end of around the nylon line just above the champagne glass. He placed the other end beside the end of the smaller fuse-line attached to the detonator.
Several discussions immediately broke out among the men – descriptions of what was meant to happen and estimates of varying degrees of success. The general consensus seemed to be that it was an interesting idea but a doomed one.
‘You want to get everyone inside?’ Stratton asked Jack.
A moment later the children and wives were being herded into the house. A man with a well-developed gut and a decidedly unspecial-forces-like bearing who had been talking to several of the wives and not paying attention to the goings-on in the corner of the garden joined the men heading into the house. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
‘A party trick,’ Jack said.
‘Oh, great. What is it?’
‘The explosive kind,’ Bracken explained.
‘Explosive. Inside the house?’ The man chuckled, not believing them.
‘No. Outside. That’s why we’re going inside,’ Bracken said.
The man stopped in the doorway, looking as if he’d misheard. ‘Not real explosives, surely?’
‘Yeah. As in boom boom,’ Smiv said.
‘Real explosives?’ the man asked again.
‘Which is why we’re going inside,’ Bracken repeated patiently.
The man looked across the garden to the table where Stratton was crouched with Josh, talking about something. ‘Are you mad?’ he exclaimed. ‘You can’t blow things up. This is a private neighbourhood.’
‘If anyone complains we’ll say it was just a big banger,’ Bracken said.
‘Big banger?’ the man echoed, looking astounded.
‘So who’s gonna know?’ Bracken asked.
‘I’ll know,’ the man said, his voice rising to its highest pitch.
‘May I remind you that I’m a police officer.’ He was from the Dorset Police Firearms Unit which the SBS occasionally instructed.
‘Relax, Bob. It’s all under control,’ Jack assured him.
‘Relax? If anything goes wrong it’ll be me who gets it in the neck.’
‘Bob,’ Smiv said, putting a large hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezing it a little. ‘If you don’t shut up I’m going to shoot you in the leg tomorrow when we’re on the range. Now get in the poxy house and do as you’re told.’
Bob looked at the hardened faces staring at him, all belonging to men a head taller than him. ‘I’m going to deny all knowledge,’ he said as he went into the house.
‘Is everyone inside?’ Jack asked. ‘Shut the balcony door, please,’ he shouted and someone complied. ‘Stratton? All yours.’
‘Don’t you break any of my windows, Stratton,’ Sally called out from the patio doors.
Jack closed the doors on her, cleared various items off a garden table and tipped it on its side.
Stratton
took a small battery-ignited gas lighter from the briefcase and pushed the button on the side a couple of times, initiating it for Josh to see how it worked. ‘You have a go,’ he said to Josh who took the lighter and pushed the button. The small portal instantly glowed red and blue without a visible flickering tongue of fire: it looked more like the rear of a miniature jet engine.
‘That’s perfect. Now, you remember the last time we lit a fuse?’
‘Yes.’ Josh nodded.
‘This is just the same. When you light the ends of the fuses and they start to crackle we’ll walk slowly back to the table where your dad is. Okay?’
Josh nodded again. ‘What do we count up to?’ he asked.
‘Twelve inches is sixty seconds. You remember how we count?’
‘Thousand and one, thousand and two, thousand and three,’ Josh said, nodding his head at each number.
‘Perfect … You ready?’
Josh held up the lighter.
‘Okay. Light it.’
Josh ignited the lighter and carefully aimed the jet at the ends of both the short and the long fuses lying beside each other. They immediately crackled to life and began to give off a thin wisp of smoke.
Josh began to count. ‘Thousand and one, thousand and two, thousand and three, thousand and four …’
Stratton took the lighter from him, pocketed it, closed the briefcase, stood up and took Josh’s hand. Josh looked up at him, still counting, and Stratton winked, emphasising how calm and cool they should be. As Josh got to a thousand and ten, they strode off together to where Jack was waiting for them behind the table.
‘Thousand and twenty-one,’ Josh counted as he got down beside his dad. He glanced over at the patio doors where his friends were pressed against the glass, watching him.
‘Is my money safe?’ Jack asked Stratton while his son continued counting.
‘I’m relying more on luck than judgement but I’d say we’re in good shape.’
As Josh got to one thousand and fifty-seven, there was a sharp crack, hardly louder than a normal firework banger, and a moment later the three of them stood up to see what had happened.
The patio doors opened and Smudge led the others out as a small cloud of smoke dissipated. They walked over and stood around the table. The champagne bottle was in precisely the same position but its top was missing. Swinging like a pendulum above it on the nylon line was the champagne flute containing the flower. The longer fuse wire was still burning up towards it.
Everyone gathered around, watching the glass swing less and less as the thin wisp of smoke from the fuse drew closer to it. Smudge was at the other side of the table, facing Stratton, the swinging glass between them. He looked unsure. But the odds on the fuse burning through the nylon at the precise moment were surely in his favour.
The seconds ticked away and as the fuse got shorter no one said a word. Even Bob the police officer stared in anticipation.
The fuse reached the nylon and burnt through it. The glass fell, the bottom of the stem hitting the edge of the bottle and breaking off. But the rest of it dropped inside the bottle.
Jack leaned over the bottle, reached inside it, and lifted the glass out. Apart from its stem it was intact, with the flower inside. ‘I’d say that was a winner.’
There was instant applause from everyone and Josh hugged Stratton’s legs.
‘Wait a minute,’ Smudge said. ‘The bottom of the glass is broken.’
‘Shut up, Smudge,’ Bracken said. ‘He did exactly what you asked him to. Cough up.’
‘But technically—’ Smudge whined on.
‘Just give ’em the money and stop your whingeing,’ Smiv said as he took out his wallet and duly counted out a hundred pounds into Jack’s hand. Smudge reluct antly took out his wallet and handed his payment to Jack who beamed as he took his cut before handing some to Seaton and the rest to Stratton. ‘Never a doubt,’ Jack said. ‘Beer?’ he asked both Seaton and Stratton.
‘Beer,’ they agreed. They broke into laughter as they headed for the house, Jack and Seaton putting an arm around Stratton.
The sound of a beeper going off filtered through the laughter and conversation as people discussed the feat. Every man heard it but Sally was the first to react, looking up from Josh, her smile fading as her gaze met Jack’s.
Smiv pulled his pager from his pocket. ‘It’s me,’ he said as he read the slender information bar on the top of the device.
Sally sighed, looking relieved. ‘If there’s one sound I hate it’s that one,’ she said to one of the wives beside her.
Another beeper then sounded off, followed by another. Within a few seconds there was a chorus of them and practically every operative was reading his pager.
Sally went instantly sullen. ‘They’ll be gone in about five seconds,’ she said.
Jack looked across at his wife, his expression saying it all. ‘Sorry, Sal. We have to go.’
She nodded.
‘Anyone need a lift to the camp?’ Jack called out. No one answered and Jack took Sally in his arms. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I know what’s happening.’
She nodded, trying to hide the disappointment on her face.
Jack kissed her and headed for the house. ‘You not been called or you left your pager at home?’ he asked Stratton as he passed him.
‘I just got back.’
‘When has that ever stopped ’em?’ Jack said.
‘Someone’s being considerate for once,’ Stratton replied.
‘Enjoy the party,’ Jack said as he disappeared into the house.
‘I will,’ Stratton said as Seaton strode past him.
‘Don’t bet on it,’ the American said as he followed the men inside.
Stratton watched him go and took his beeper out to see if it was operating. Within seconds the men had all gone, except for him and Bob. The wives and children stood around, looking as if they had just been mugged.
‘Where’s Dad going, Mummy?’ Josh asked.
‘I don’t know, Josh. He’ll be back soon.’
‘It could be an exercise,’ Stratton offered, aware of how limp it sounded as soon as he’d said it.
‘When’s the last time the lads had an exercise? You’ve been doing the real thing for so many years now you don’t need one.’
She was right to a certain extent. Stratton was only trying to make it easier for her to bear, although he didn’t know quite why he needed to. It wasn’t as if the lads died like flies every time they went away. Yes, it was a dangerous job but the number of fatalities over the years was low, considering the nature of the work. The wives had been complaining lately about the amount of time their men had been spending away from home. Most were bored with being left alone so much while others suspected that the men had too much of a good time when they were away. Stratton wouldn’t have put Sally in either category and knew that for the past year or so she’d been experiencing genuine fear about Jack going away. She had mentioned it to Stratton more than once and although she knew that it was silly to take any notice of what was, at the end of the day, just her imagination she couldn’t help how she felt.
Sally smiled at Stratton, trying hard not to be a wet rag. ‘I’ll go get you that beer,’ she said. ‘You’re not leaving this house until you and I are drunk, John Stratton. Understood?’
As she stepped towards the house a beeper cut through the air. Sally stopped in the doorway and turned to look at Stratton as he pulled his pager from his pocket to check the readout.
‘I’d better hurry and catch a ride,’ he said as he approached her. He opened his arms and she wrapped hers around his body, resting her cheek on his chest.
‘I know it’s what you all do,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I’ll just never get used to it, that’s all.’
Stratton released her as Josh came up to them. ‘You going too, Stratton?’ the little boy asked, adjusting the oversized pakol on his head.
‘Yes. I have to go with your dad. You have a happy birthday, and look after y
our mum.’
Stratton bounded up the steps to the kitchen balcony and as he went inside the house Sally called out his name. He popped back out and looked down on them.
Sally had picked Josh up and was holding him in her arms. ‘Take care of him,’ she said, suddenly looking quite worried.
Stratton nodded and she smiled bravely. But all Sally could hear were the voices in her head warning her that she would never see Jack alive again. Even though she had heard them before, this time they seemed more compelling. She wanted to tell Stratton her fears but knew it would only make her feel stupid and put him in an uncomfortable position.
She watched him disappear and was suddenly filled with the urge to run through the house, out onto the street, and see Jack one last time before he went away. But she took control of herself.
‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ Josh said.
‘I’m not,’ she lied and held him tightly in her arms.
2
Stratton and Jack stepped in through a doorway cut into a large grey metal sliding door that was closed across the entrance to what, from the outside, looked like a small aircraft hangar. It was one of the Special Boat Service’s operational squadron hangars inside their sprawling headquarters on the edge of Poole Harbour. Gathered in the hangar were the men from Jack’s party plus half a dozen others. Most had some kind of facial hair: a moustache, a goatee, or simply a few days’ growth of stubble.
The door to the operational offices that were constructed on a suspended platform above the floor of the hangar opened and an officer and the squadron sergeant-major stepped out. They were wearing desert-camouflage uniforms. The sergeant-major led the way down a metal staircase where he stopped halfway to address the men.
‘Listen up,’ he barked. ‘Teams Alpha, Bravo and Charlie should all be here. Team leaders speak only if there are members who are not present, otherwise your silence will be taken as affirmative.’ His stare scanned the group and paused on Stratton and Seaton, the only two men who were not assigned to teams. He nodded to them and looked back at the officer. ‘All present, sir.’
‘Thank you, sergeant-major,’ the young officer said, looking up from a clipboard that he was reading from and scribbling notes on.
The Operative s-3 Page 2