Pirate - Duncan Falconer [106]
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