Pirate

Within a few minutes all of the gliders had got off the Ocean. When Stratton next looked back, he could barely make out the others in the darkness. But they were all able to see his glider. Every craft had a navigation light on its rear, positioned in a device that only allowed it to be seen from behind and level with it or from above it.

Every pilot carried a GPS that provided a pre-programmed direction as well as a minimum height alarm.

‘All stations, this is Downs, radio check,’ Downs said into his radio.

One by one each pilot reported in.

‘Downs, roger that,’ Downs said at the end.

Stratton made an effort to relax. The wind whipped his hair about. His eyes no longer wept. It had something very tranquil about it. And surreal. What they were doing, or about to do, gave him a buzz at the same time as it sobered everything right up. People were going to die in the next hour or so. Hopefully that would be the enemy only but the chances had to be high that the squadron would lose someone. Maybe a few.

It was an innovative attack, that was for sure. They weren’t in jet helicopters crammed with sophisticated navigation, communications and visual aids. They were in metal tubes under nylon wings and using engines about as powerful as a lawnmower’s, with a wooden propeller behind it all pushing them forward at a cumbersome rate of knots.

But they were armed to the teeth and about to go into battle. It was great. It was beautiful. It was ultimately what Stratton lived for.

The GPS indicated the coastline to be less than two kilometres away. It was a perfectly black night. The clouds not far above them had formed on cue, just like the evening before when Stratton and the girl had escaped along the river. The stars and moon had been blocked out completely. The forecast had given it a 40 per cent chance of rain on the mainland. Which they didn’t consider a massive problem. The gliders would fly almost as well, depending on how heavy the rain was. The landing might even be softer.

Stratton could make out a white scar running across their entire front. The coastline. He could see a faint glow to the east. Lotto’s town. The squadron planned to pass well to the west of it, head inland due south for a couple of clicks, before turning east towards the Al-Shabaab encampment.

The flight had not been without its little moments of drama. The wind had toyed with them and some crews had flown too close together which caused a bit of mild panic among those concerned. It was also impossible to judge the height by eye alone. That was difficult enough in the daytime without something like a boat in the water to provide a point of reference. But it was almost as difficult for the pilots to fly with an eye fixed on the altimeter. More than once Downs had suddenly pulled back hard on the stick to gain immediate height, an action that attracted every bit of Stratton’s attention each time he did it. It was harder for Downs than for the other pilots. He was alone out in front with no other craft to gauge himself by. But if he hit the drink and the pilot behind wasn’t watching his altimeter, they would probably follow. The gliders didn’t respond particularly quickly to the controls because of the weight they were carrying.

Stratton hadn’t discovered the precise type of radar the Somali jihadists had at their base but specialists back in Poole had advised a sea approach of a hundred feet, and less than that if possible when they reached landfall, would be good enough. Which was going to be tricky because of the way the ground rose into the hills beyond the beach. It was going to be pitch black and again they would have to rely on their altimeters. Confidence was high that if the gliders maintained the lowest altitude, they wouldn’t be detected by the radar. But anyone on the ground would spot the large mass quite easily if it flew close by them. That was one of the risks they were prepared to take.

Downs carried out an all stations radio check every five minutes just in case someone at the back of the squadron had ditched without being seen. The emergency procedure for such an event was to press on and leave the crew to their own devices. A report would be sent detailing the incident and location to HMS Ocean. The ship would send out a rescue team. Each man carried his own SARBE emergency beacon so it wouldn’t be considered a great drama if a pair did have to ditch. The impact was something none of them wanted to experience of course. The real fear was not being able to get out of the damned machine before it sank like a stone.

Stratton checked his GPS. The coast was less than a kilometre away. A sudden flash appeared up ahead. For a second he thought it looked like a device of some kind, his brain in full military mode, unable to decide what it was right away. Another flash followed immediately after in a different place and he realised it was lightning. The low rumble of thunder followed, which he could just about hear above the purring of the propeller.

Minutes later they crossed the beach line and Downs pulled back on the stick to increase their altitude as the ground started to rise.

They could barely see the dark hills up ahead, obscured by a mass of clouds. Another crack of lightning, this time much closer, and Stratton wasn’t the only one who suddenly wondered what would happen if their craft happened to be struck by a bolt. It was not worth thinking about. Nothing anyone could do to prevent it if it happened.

Stratton peered ahead in the hope of seeing a hillside that he recognised. He knew that despite the dozens of satellite photographs everyone had studied, and the ones that every passenger held in his hand at that moment, and the metre-accurate GPS coordinates, there could be no better substitute for having someone who had actually been there. All part of the reasoning for bringing him along and placing him at the front of the squadron.

Stratton and Downs’s GPSs both beeped at the same time, signalling the heading change to due east. Every other GPS in the squadron beeped in turn, just in case the pilot didn’t see the craft in front make the change in direction. Something hardly likely to happen at this stage. Each man was concentrating hard ahead. They had minutes to go.

Stratton saw something he recognised. He could make out the unmoving river up ahead. He searched the black countryside just in front of it, looking for signs of the camp. On their right side the hills ascended, the tops high above them.

Another bolt of lightning striking close by startled everyone. It lit up the ground like the flash from a giant camera. For a second the terrain around them was exposed like daytime. The bad news was that people generally tended to look to the skies when lightning struck. But a few seconds later another element arrived that caused the reverse and induced those in the open to find cover.

Stratton felt a drop of water hit his face. Then another. They were heading into the rain.

Moments later the heavens opened up and it became torrential. The gliders buffeted heavily. Suddenly all of the confidence the crews had that the craft would fly normally in bad weather disintegrated. Those who had flown in the rain and who had declared it safe had never been in anything close to what they were experiencing at that moment. The danger was fundamental enough. If the rain beat down on to the tops of the canvas wings of the gliders too heavily, they could lose their shape. If that happened, the craft would lose lift and height and the rest was easy enough to work out.

Downs immediately pulled back on the stick to gain even greater altitude. If the wings did begin to flatten under the weight of the rain, he wanted them to be as close as possible to the camp when they went down.

The other crews did the same, or attempted to.

‘This is Spud, having problems!’ came a shout over the radio.

Stratton strained to look back and could make out a glider far lower than it should have been. And he could see a couple of others that looked like they might be struggling to hold altitude.

‘We can’t get any height!’ Spud shouted, starting to lose his composure.

It was a private ordeal. No one could do anything to help them, other than pray that they could overcome the difficulty and get back up in the air.

The rain continued to lash against them all, biting at their faces like pea-shot. The heavy beating on the canopy almost drowned out the sound of the engine. Downs kept the stick pulled back. They weren’t going up but then they weren’t losing any height either. Not yet at least. He felt suddenly aware that the entire operation could quickly turn into a total disaster before the assault phase.

‘We’re going in! We’re going in!’ Spud shouted over the radio.

Stratton put a face to the name, a young stocky lad with stacks of enthusiasm. He didn’t know who the lad’s partner was.

A long silence followed.

‘Spud, this is Downs!’ Downs shouted.