The other beam caught Stratton and something struck him in the side of his chest, the impact absorbed by the body armour. Another blow followed quickly and slammed through the fibreglass housing of his breathing apparatus. If the missile had done any damage Stratton would soon know about it when he breathed in a mouthful of water - or of caustic acid from the carbon dioxide-absorbent powder.
The Russian diver powered headlong towards Stratton, shining the light into the operative’s eyes, blinding him, and fired again. The shot slashed across Stratton’s shoulder, his blood leaking into the surrounding seawater as two more darts missed him by inches. Stratton could not make out his target in the glare and in desperation fired the rest of his pistol’s darts, one of which smashed the light. But the Russian had closed the gap and, out of ammunition now, he grabbed at Stratton with his hands. The Spetsnaz diver knew the fundamental strategy for underwater hand-to-hand combat: he went for Stratton’s breathing apparatus. Apart from the obvious effect, ripping away the mouthpiece causes immediate panic, thus placing the enemy on the absolute retreat. Usually the first to do it is the winner. It was therefore fair for the Spetsnaz man to assume that as he managed to grab Stratton’s low-pressure oxygen hose where it was attached to his mouthpiece, wrench it out of his mouth and rip it from his set, he had gained the upper and indeed decisive hand. His training had also emphasised ensuring a clean finish, which required maintaining control over the victim until he had succumbed to asphyxiation. He could not allow Stratton to escape to the surface. So the Russian kept a firm hold on Stratton and finned as strongly as he could to push him down between the boulders and hold him there until he was dead.
Stratton reacted in panic to his mouthpiece being ripped out. He fought with all his might to wrestle free from the other man’s clutches, his single aim to get to the surface so as not to perish. But the Russian was not only more powerful than Stratton, he was on top, could breathe, and had both of his fins.
As Stratton twisted and wriggled in vain he slid from the side of the boulder. The Russian pushed him deeper into the crevice. Stratton stretched out an arm to push himself back up and it landed squarely on something immediately familiar. He quickly found the grip of the bolt gun, hauled it up, placed the muzzle against the Russian’s ribcage under his armpit, pushed it in to release the safety catch, and pulled the trigger.The bolt shot through the man’s lungs and aorta before punching its way out the other side, followed by a stream of blood and tissue. The fight instantly went out of the Russian and his body went limp. Stratton ripped out the man’s mouthpiece, shoved it into his own mouth and sucked on it, drawing in the air.
The sound of the speedboat circling above reached down to him. Stratton removed his own flooded diving set, unfastened the Russian’s and tossed it over his own shoulders. He took one of the man’s fins and swam away, keeping low to the bottom.
The compass helped him head straight out to sea away from the mole for a few hundred metres before changing direction back towards the cache. The icy water leaked in through the dart holes in his suit but he had to ignore it. He surfaced once to check he was on the correct bearing to his start point and then not again until he could look out of the water with his chest still on the seabed. After ensuring that the beach was deserted and that he was facing the spot where the cache was hidden, he pulled off the fins and got to his feet. The water in his suit filled the leggings as he hurried into the bushes.
Stratton remained still for a moment to acquaint his ears to the surrounding sounds. He had to move fast and get as far out of the area as soon as possible. He would also have to contact his people to let them know what had happened in case a change in the exfiltration plans was required.
His shoulder suddenly began to burn. The wound had stopped bleeding but it would need a few stitches. All things considered, he had got off lightly.
He felt under his wrist seal and removed the memory card. All in all the operation had been a success, from his point of view. That was one more job he would never do again. Bloody bolts and rocks. If those boys in MI16 wanted to do it, they could have it.
Stratton dumped all the equipment back in the black bag and hastily covered it. Whoever had buried it originally would be back to clear up, probably before dawn. His clothes were pretty much soaked through, but he had a change back in his room. He pulled on his shoes and after a brief scan up and down the beach stepped onto the sand and made his way along it. He combed his hair with his fingers, pressing out some of the water. He would take a quick shower to wash out the salt and then get on the road.
Stratton’s thoughts turned to something more pleasant - the crockpot in his fridge that he was looking forward to heating up and digging into, and the glass of wine to go with it.
3
Stratton walked through Customs into the arrivals hall at London Heathrow Terminal Five wearing his battered leather jacket and with his holdall slung over one shoulder. He scanned along the line of faces waiting for arriving passengers, recognising Ted’s large head lurking at the end of the line.
‘How’s it going, Ted?’ Stratton asked as he came over to the driver.
‘I’m grand, Stratton,’ the man replied in a Belfast accent. ‘This way,’ he pointed, indicating a set of glass doors that led outside. Ted was a regular Royal Marine who had been attached to the SBS for half a dozen years. The dependable type, he took his job as driver to the unit most seriously. ‘Did you have a good trip?’ he asked, giving Stratton a knowing glance that suggested he was privy to the intimate details of the mission, which of course he had no clue about.
‘I did,’ Stratton replied, with a wink.
‘You look fine, so you do,’ Ted assured him. ‘It’s good to have you back in one piece again.’
As they made their way through the hall, Stratton saw a man he thought he recognised walk in from outside. The man looked strong and burly and was wearing a heavy parka with a fur-lined hood. His long jet-black hair was unkempt. Most notably he had a limp: the mobility of his left leg was restricted as he moved to get on an ascending escalator. He looked older and heavier than Stratton would have expected him to be after the couple of years since he’d last seen him. Stratton might not have recognised the man at all had it not been for his disability.
‘Jordan!’ Stratton called out above the cacophony of the hall.
The man, carrying a backpack, turned his head. He glanced in Stratton’s direction before looking back up the escalator.
‘Jordan!’ Stratton repeated. This time the man did not respond.
‘That Jordan Mackay?’ Ted asked. ‘That is ’im, ain’t it,’ he decided quickly.
Stratton dropped his bag at Ted’s feet. ‘Be back in a minute,’ he said, setting off towards a flight of stairs to the departure level where Jordan was headed.
‘I’ll wait right here for you,’ Ted called out.
Stratton ran up the stairs and paused on reaching the top landing. The man was limping briskly across the not too crowded hall. ‘Jordan,’ Stratton called out again after significantly closing the gap between them.
This time Jordan looked directly at him, appearing surprised as he stopped to face his old friend. His initially blank expression turned into a slight, vaguely tense smile. ‘Stratton.’
‘How are you, my old mate?’ Stratton asked, holding out a hand.
Jordan shook it firmly, appearing to warm to the meeting, if somewhat reluctantly. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You look well,’ Stratton offered. ‘A little heavier around the middle, perhaps,’ he added to remain honest.
Stratton suddenly suspected that Jordan had heard him call his name the first time but had wanted to avoid their meeting. In truth, Stratton shared some of that reluctance himself but would not succumb to it. His feeling of guilt formed an effective pyschological barrier between them but a strong sense of old loyalty had pushed him through it. Despite Jordan’s unease, he did not regret meeting him.
‘You look tired,’ Jordan said. ‘They still working you every hour God sends?’
‘Is it any easier being a civilian?’
Jordan shrugged. ‘When you’re off the clock nobody bothers you, at least.’
‘There’s something to be said for that.You off on holiday or work?’
Jordan hesitated. ‘North Sea,’ he answered finally. ‘I’m a dive supervisor.’
‘On a platform?’
‘One you know well enough. The Morpheus.’
‘Crawled all over that a few times, haven’t we? How does it feel? I mean, working on it as a civvy.’
