Pirate - Duncan Falconer [117]
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