Stratton glanced at the man, who gave him a mischievous look in return. They had only just met but the captain appeared to have read the operative’s character from the start and got his measure. Stratton couldn’t help producing the thinnest of smiles that echoed the captain’s.
‘I’d better go and sort out my ship,’ the captain said. ‘You’ll be taking off shortly after last light. Good luck,’ he said as he started to walk away but stopped when he saw something on Stratton’s back. ‘Is that blood?’ he asked.
Stratton hadn’t been aware his wound was bleeding although it had started throbbing slightly after he climbed down the ladder. ‘If it is, it’s not mine,’ he lied, looking the captain in the eye.
The captain nodded but Stratton could see in his eyes he was unconvinced.
Stratton watched him go and turned his attention to the first of the launches that was returning fully laden with men and equipment.
He looked to the horizon, towards Somalia. The
Stratton saw himself put a gun to the man’s heart and, with cold relish, pull the trigger. He could only pray that his wish would come true.
17
Stratton stood on one of the small landings of the superstructure to watch the lads and their equipment arrive. Half the ship’s crew had turned out to watch the spectacle, many of them young lads who hadn’t seen special forces operatives before. In the past, HMS
There was the usual banter from the men as they mustered on deck in groups, small and large. Bursts of laughter regularly broke out, which was the norm. The occasional loudmouth could be heard above all others. Stratton enjoyed the men’s company but his current position, watching them from a distance, proved an illustration of what it was truly like for him. He felt like he was on the outside looking in. It had always been that way. He had his close friends, but not many. It had been like that for him at school, as far back as he could remember. He had friends he would die for. Many of them were standing before him, with a good number of others spread about the world, and not all of them in the SBS. But that wasn’t the same thing. It was bizarre that few of those he would truly risk his life for, and without hesitation, numbered among his close friends. It was a unique relation ship for those who fought side by side in the face of death.
None of the men had noticed him, tucked against a bulkhead in the shadows. Which was the way he liked it, content to hang on to his privacy for a while longer.
He had another reason for holding back from greeting and mingling with them of course. Hopper. The man had been popular among the lads. He would have been down there laughing and cavorting among them already. He would have been waiting for the first lot to touch down on deck to greet them in his gregarious manner. He was never like that with Stratton, though. It was like he knew not to be, even though Stratton had never sent any kind of message of dissuasion. Stratton didn’t mind boisterousness, but no one had acted that way with him in many years.
The last helicopter thudded down and a handful of the lads climbed out of it and headed over to the main group. He recognised the last man to step off the chopper. It was Downs. Stratton wondered if he was in charge of this crowd. He was certainly senior enough to be. There would be officers present but the key man of a squadron would usually be the sergeant major. He would take charge of the groundwork for the operation.
One of the young SBS faces walked up to Downs for a talk. Stratton recognised him as Lieutenant Phelps. The team leaders reported to their sergeant major as he made his way across the flight deck with the officer. The lads quickly lined up to be mustered and checked off to ensure everyone who had boarded the aircraft at Brize Norton had actually arrived on board the ship.
Stratton looked down on a couple of the ship’s officers as they walked out of the superstructure. It looked like Howel and Winslow.
Winslow headed towards Phelps and Downs, no doubt to welcome them aboard. Stratton expected the ship’s operations officer to recognise Downs. It had been five or six years since his selection course, but as a senior course instructor, Downs would have been a focal point for every man on that course, a face that none would probably forget. Downs would have been the last SBS face the failed rankers would have seen because it was his job to explain to the individual why he was on his way back to his unit. The officers would have been given a final let-go by a senior SBS officer. But they would have known it was Downs who had cut the umbilical cord.
Winslow walked up to Downs to introduce himself. It seemed to Stratton that Downs didn’t know who the man was beyond his present role. That was probably because on the selection course Downs would have been looking at dozens of faces and not one in particular.
Stratton knew Downs very well. He had joined the service a year before Stratton. They were of a similar age and quite often ended up in the same section together. The man was generally cheerful, confident and forward. Had he recognised Winslow, there was little doubt he would have mentioned it right away.
Downs smiled broadly as he shook the officer’s hand and, although Stratton couldn’t hear Downs’s voice, in his head he could hear the rich Irish accent asking the officer how he was. Winslow would have realised by then that Downs had forgotten their previous relationship. Or he might suspect Downs of deliberately pretending not to know him.
Stratton wondered if Winslow would mention their shared past right away or wait for an opportunity to corner Downs in the same way he had done to Stratton. The officer might be dis appointed if he did. If Winslow pushed Downs too far, the Irishman would quickly become indignant and brush the man’s failure aside as having been for the best.
Downs, Winslow and Phelps went into the superstructure and the bulk of the lads ambled inside after them.
Stratton would have liked to stay where he was for a while longer but the operational briefing would take place soon and he needed to attend it.
As he headed into the superstructure and down the stairs to the main road, he didn’t see any lads he was familiar with. He passed a group of younger SBS men in the gangway but they didn’t give him anything more than a respectful nod. Stratton was known to everyone, even those who hadn’t actually seen him before. That renown, however, had got tagged with the usual rumours and exaggerations. Because SBS guys were human and subject to the same rules of gossip and hyperbole. He had indeed been on several interesting operations during his time in special forces and while in the employ of the British Secret Intelligence Services. But only a handful of people truly knew the operations he had been involved in, and hardly any of those people were among the ranks of the SBS. But a snippet of a story would be enough to encourage suppositions and assumptions, parts of which generally stuck as fact. Nobody ever asked Stratton to comment. No one would dare. It wasn’t because of any fear of him. You simply never made enquiries about a secret operation or anyone who had been involved in it. You were limited to asking only those people who hadn’t been directly involved.
The men had a couple of hours to sort out their equipment and grab a meal before the operational briefing. They all knew in outline why they had arrived in the Gulf of Aden. The briefing would deliver the finer points and last-minute details.
Stratton arrived at the crowded briefing room minutes before it started and stood at the back of the dimly lit space. All the men sat in tight rows facing the operations officer on his podium set to one side of a large screen that had maps and images of ground-to-air rockets on it. The young officer, Phelps, gave his orders in the usual manner, beginning with the ground, situation and then the meat of the mission itself. All straightforward enough: destroy the Chinese ground-to-air missiles. The secondary missions included rescuing any hostages and repatriating them. All of the execution phases had to be visually recorded using digital equipment. To satisfy the usual legalities. Ops had prepared a legitimate excuse to kill as many of the jihadists as they could. It was an indictment of the times, the need for an excuse. It had been presented as a necessary strategy. The bad guys could not be given the
