Pirate - Duncan Falconer [107]
‘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