Pirate

white name-plate – if he fired, he would hit it in the centre.

Stratton lowered the gun, pulled a loaded, extended twenty-round magazine from the bundle, placed it into the weapon, cocked it and released the slide so that it picked up a bullet and slammed it into the breach. He deftly nudged the release lever on the side of the weapon with his thumb and the hammer sprang forward without firing the weapon. It was cocked and ready to fire. He placed it into a holster, which he strapped to his thigh.

He opened another box to reveal a line of immaculate, new compact Colt assault rifles fully fitted with night scopes and infrared spotlights. Stratton removed one of the weapons that had a combat harness strap attached to it, checked the working parts and looked through the sight. Happy with it, he picked up a pouch of magazines and stuffed a couple of spare ammo boxes into a small backpack. He removed a scanning device attached to a laptop computer and scanned the barcode on the weapon and heard a soft beep. He pointed the same scanner at one of his eyes and moved it around until the same soft beep was emitted.

After recording the Colt magazines and the GPS, he opened a box of tracking devices and tested the one he selected. It was fully charged and he scanned its barcode, which registered the device to his name on the laptop. Trackers were usually used by SF when operating against unsophisticated enemy who would be unable to crack the signal encryption. They were small and light and the battery could last for days on a ping to a satellite every fifteen minutes.

He replaced the scanner and checked the face of his watch. He had an hour to go before take-off. Everyone would be mustering on deck to prepare the gliders.

He picked up his pack, stuffed some food and a couple bottles of water inside, added a satellite phone, swung it over his shoulder and headed out of the room.

18

The light was beginning to fade as Stratton stepped from the superstructure into a stiff breeze. HMS Ocean powered towards Somalia, cutting down as much as possible the distance the powered hang-gliders would have to fly. Officially, the carrier could not sail nearer than twelve miles from the coastline to remain within international waters. But the plan required Ocean’s launches to be able to come into the coastline to cover emergency contingencies like a glider hitting the drink and to execute the main exfiltration phase. So the plan was technically illegal. So permission to carry it out would be granted by the Somali government in retrospect. You couldn’t make them aware of the attack before it was complete simply because they could not be trusted to maintain secrecy.

The pyramid-shaped glider frames had been lined up in neat rows, their propellers mounted at the backs of the engines secured within them. On the uppermost point of each, where the tubular framing converged, a large bracket hinge would hold the wings. But because of the wind the wings hadn’t been fitted. Two comfortable-looking, lay-backed seats had been arranged in front of the engines, the rear one above and behind the front. The back of the pilot’s seat, in the front, would be part way between the legs of the passenger.

Ops was concerned about the weather. The overall forecast looked favourable but the winds were predicted to be on the high side of acceptable for the gliders. The wind wouldn’t just make it hard getting the craft airborne. It was coming off the land and, with the gliders’ limited power, a strong headwind could prevent them from reaching the target because they could run out of fuel. Which was the only obstacle so far that threatened to postpone the operation. Stratton could only hope the weather held. He was having visions of the last operation he had mounted from HMS Ocean and did not want to spend yet another week on board waiting for the opportunity to go into action.

The SBS operators had another concern:the final fighting weight of the small aircraft. Trials had been carried out using two fully armed men with complete field equipment and rations for ten days. These had pushed the glider’s capacity to its limits but it had managed to take off using the length of the old parade ground in Poole and into a bit of a headwind. This assault wasn’t going to need any long-term field equipment, but the craft would be carrying something just as heavy. Two robust pouches had been fitted, one either side of the passenger seat, with half a dozen 82mm mortar shells in each, rigged so that they could be dropped from altitude and explode on contact.

There were twenty gliders in total and, as take-off time approached, the men began finalising their kit, putting on cam-cream and testing communications. Several shots came from the back end of the huge deck as a handful of the men tested their weapons out to sea. Dozens of crew members had assembled to help out where they could. Those that weren’t needed stood on the periphery to observe. It was a unique sight, the like of which they might never get again. There was something of a festival atmosphere about the preparation, one tempered by a soberness at the possibility some of the men might not come back.

Downs stepped on deck with four other SBS operatives wearing full camouflage clothing, their faces blackened and carrying substantial backpacks. He had a brief chat with the men before patting one of them on the shoulder. The men walked away down the line of gliders towards the rear end of the flight deck.

‘Good luck, Smudge,’ someone shouted out.

In response, one of the four operatives raised a hand that clutched a loaded Colt assault rifle. They were the pathfinder team, whose job it was to mark the landing strips for the gliders. The operations room back in Poole, using satellite images, had identified several patches of level ground close to the jihadist encampment that would be suitable for the gliders to land on. The robust craft didn’t need much room to land, depending again on the wind. But due to the numbers, they needed enough room to allow the tail-enders to land through the inevitable clutter of those who had already landed, or crashed.

The pathfinders made their way over to the Lynx, which was starting up its high-pitched engines. They would leave well before the gliders so that they had ample time to carry out the task. The plan was to drop them off a mile from the jihadist camp the other side of the range of hills. From there they would yomp to their respective pre-selected sites to prepare the landing markers.

The obvious question was, if pathfinders could get dropped off to yomp on to the target, why couldn’t the other forty men do the same and save the risks involved with flying in? It had a simple enough answer. One small, low-flying super-fast helicopter might not be noticed. And if it was noticed, it wouldn’t be considered a threat. A single Somali military helicopter flying across the plains wouldn’t be unheard of in the area. A squadron of Sea Kings would invoke some concern and a warning message might be called into the jihadists. And two pairs of men could move practically undetected. If by some chance someone saw them, they wouldn’t be considered a major threat to the four hundred or so jihadists. Forty men had a much higher chance of being detected and no matter how good they were at soldiering, they would soon run out of all of the ammunition they could possibly carry if the jihadists came out to meet them for a fight.

The final reason for using the gliders was the need for pinpoint pre-assault bombing. They needed to soften up the camp using air-delivered bombs. They intended to confuse and hopefully scatter the warriors before the ground assault – historically, such bombing operations, particularly in woodland, hadn’t produced a significant number of casualties. A ground force would have had to use mortars. But they wouldn’t have been as accurate as the same bombs delivered by hand from directly above by men who could see what they were aiming for. HMS Ocean didn’t have guns large enough to hit the encampment. Stratton guessed London had considered Cruise missiles to be too heavy-handed and probably calculated they might work against them in the subsequent propaganda exchange. A more hands-on, surgical solution had been required.

The Lynx’s engines roared to full power and it rose off the deck and politely reversed off the back end so as not to harass the men and their gliders with its downdraft. It turned to one side and dropped out of sight as it headed towards the coastline a few feet above the waves. Without any of its navigation lights, it soon disappeared from view and seconds later it could no longer be heard, the throb of its engines absorbed by the blustery wind.

Downs walked around the edge of the hustle and bustle and over to Stratton and the glider he was to share with his old friend. ‘Bloody madness, if you ask me,’ he said in his rich Irish brogue and wearing his usual grin. ‘I’m talking about this glider lark. What do you think?’

‘I think that about sums it up,’ Stratton said. ‘And you and I wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world right now.’

‘Ha, bloody roight.’