time or space to regroup and mount a counter-assault while the men were distracted by the second phase of the task, which was the pirate village on the coast and the kidnap victims. Etcetera, etcetera.
The secondary pirate assault phase was intended to be less bloody and represented the humanitarian side of the operation. Which was partially because it would be the main cover story. As far as the media were concerned, the operation would be reported as purely a hostage rescue task, with no mention of the jihadists. Because they needed to keep the whole portable ground-to-air missile story secret. The al-Qaeda-backed operation was an international one and they had many players who had to be reeled in. You couldn’t do that with global publicity of the attack.
An interpreter had been attached to the operation, an army linguist from Aberdeen who, by his own admission, could speak just about enough Somali to order a haircut and a cup of coffee. Not quite the level of expertise the MoD had been told about him. Someone had been misinformed. But Ops didn’t look overly concerned about this oversight. His skill level would suffice for what they needed – his job would be simply to warn any Somalis who weren’t jihadists to put down their weapons or risk being harmed. The man insisted he was up to that much at least and looked eager to give lessons in short phrases to any of the lads who were interested.
The most recent stomping ground for this particular squadron had been Afghanistan. They had lost four men in the last two months with seven others seriously injured and they didn’t want anything to happen to anyone else, especially on this unscheduled backwater task. Stratton understood that.
Before Afghanistan and Iraq had kicked off, a job like this would have been subject to a real rush of men wanting to take part in it. Operatives would have been tripping over each other to get their names on the list. It had the hallmarks of a cracking adventure. But these days such a task, be it a different one in a different part of the world, merely interfered with leave or other equally dangerous work.
When the teams got announced, Stratton felt pleased to hear he would partner Downs for the flight infiltration phase. The powered gliders were two-seaters and although Stratton had completed an initial pilot course, he hadn’t accumulated enough hours, and certainly not in recent years, to qualify as an operational pilot. But then, according to Downs, few of the lads had logged many hours either. Lucky the machines weren’t that difficult to fly, the operative reasoned. Once you got airborne, it was straightforward enough to keep them that way. Landing could be a bit tricky for the inexperienced. But as someone pointed out, once the craft had touched the ground, crashing it would be little different from falling off a speeding motorbike. A few of the men raised suspicious eyebrows at the claim but several of the lads had indeed crashed on training landings and all had walked away without serious injury.
Stratton understood he hadn’t been teamed with Downs because they were old buddies. Downs was the assault operations commander and it made sense to have the man who knew the ground best alongside him. Stratton would be more than content to sit in the back seat anyway and let someone else take the stress of flying the damned thing.
Phelps dedicated the final part of the briefing to contingency planning and emergency rendezvous and communications and signals. As soon as he had finished, most of the lads went to various map tables in order to cross-check their notes and confirm the GPS coordinates thay had been given.
The group had been broken down into two separate assault components or serials. Each was little more than a regular company troop and would operate in the same manner once they had landed and had mustered. A little air activity was intended to precede the ground phase. That was the bit the guys were most jazzed about. It was very much out of the norm and more akin to a First World War battle scenario.
Stratton was about to head out of the room when Downs caught sight of him, called his name and indicated he wanted a word.
Downs spent a moment talking with the briefing officer and the team leaders. Stratton watched as Downs’s closely cropped red-haired head turned to face each question as it came at him. The man always seemed to be wearing a smirk on his face, as though it were an effort to appear serious. Stratton remembered their early days in the service together and how Downs had often been reprimanded by one senior or another for grinning at an inappropriate moment. It took years before it became generally accepted that the man wasn’t being impudent and that he had a semi-permanent smirk.
Downs finally broke away and walked over to Stratton. Both their faces broke into broad grins as the gap between them closed. When they met it was with a firm, bear-hug embrace borne of years of friendship and mutual respect.
‘Ha! Ya bastard,’ Downs said in a low voice. ‘How come you wait till now to greet me?’
‘You’re the main man,’ said Stratton. ‘You have big responsibilities. I wanted to see you when you had a moment. It’s good to see you.’
‘You too. So you survived another one. I thought you’d bought it this time. I was on the verge of takin’ your house keys from the safe and going up to Lytchett to see what I could prof before anyone else could get there.’
‘I know. My wardrobe. You’ve always envied my dress sense.’
Downs laughed heartily as he eyed Stratton’s boiler suit. ‘That’s better than anything you’ve got in your bloody house.’
They roared again together.
‘Sounds like a fun op,’ Stratton said.
‘I was disappointed you didn’t have anything to add to it.’
‘No need. You have it smack on. Arrive. Wipe the bastards out. Go home.’
Downs nodded, his usually constant smile losing its grip as he thought of something else. ‘Sorry about Hopper.’
Stratton had managed to forget about the man for a moment.
‘You don’t need to explain to me, mate,’ Downs said. ‘Any decision you make in the field is good by me.’
‘No one’s perfect. Least of all me.’
‘Well. Not the time or place. We need a quiet pub and a tenacious barkeep if we’re going to analyse that one, along with a few dozen other mishaps over the years, to be sure.’
One of the men arrived and hovered close by, looking anxious to ask Downs something but not daring to interrupt his conversation with Stratton.
‘You’ll be wanting some kit,’ Downs said to Stratton, looking him up and down. ‘Unless you’re going in as an undercover shit-house cleaner. There’s loads of spares in the stores. There’s a bag with your name on it too,’ he added with a wink. ‘Scran’s in twenty minutes. If I don’t see you there, I’ll see you on deck.’
Downs faced the young operator and Stratton stepped out of the room. He went to where the SBS stores had been assembled and set about selecting some kit for himself. All of the men had been wearing lightweight desert camouflage fatigues. Stratton supposed it was appropriate enough. But he felt it would be better suited to daytime operations. This task was timed to start by last light and be over by dawn. The best colour at night was black, anywhere in the world.
Stratton opened a large plastic container to reveal bundles of combat clothing. Near the bottom he saw a pile of black outfits. He checked the sizes and pulled out a shirt. A pair of trousers quickly followed. He dug out some black jungle boots and socks and within a short while he was fully dressed.
A webbing box contained a belt and weapons harness with a variety of pouches attached. He laid out the belt so that the pouches were in a row and looked at the various weapons boxes in order to fill them.
Inside the first one was a box labelled ‘STRATTON’, courtesy of Downs. He opened it to find some of his favourite items, including a watch, a GPS and his P226 pistol with the front and rear sights filed away. Stratton regarded a pistol as a purely close-quarters weapon, which meant you didn’t aim using the sights. So they were superfluous in his opinion. Shooting a pistol had to be instinctive. The gun had to become a part of your body. Milliseconds counted in a close-quarters pistol fight and anyone who needed to aim using the sights was always going to lose to someone whose gun was a mere extension of their wrist. They hit what they pointed at. But it was a much more difficult skill than it sounded.
Stratton held the pistol in his right hand and down by his side. He looked for a target to his front. A dull grey locker, the far side of the room, had a small white name-plate stuck to it. Stratton studied it for half a second before closing his eyes. He raised the gun in his outstretched hand so that it was pointing to his extreme right. With his eyes still closed, he traversed the pistol until it was in front of him and aiming at the locker. He opened his eyes and looked along the top of the pistol, which he kept still in a vicelike grip. He had aligned the weapon perfectly with the
