since then and what he had achieved. He could think of nothing now that seemed worthy though some had at the time. He often doubted his chosen career. As he got older he began to believe that soldiers throughout history had never really achieved much. If the definition was true that the quality of a war was judged by the resulting peace then he had failed in everything. The wars he had been involved in were in the same old places against the same old enemy and fighting for the same old thing: power and control, and the soldiers fuelled the war machines.
Stratton felt a tap on his shoulder and looked away from the window to see it was the co-pilot. They were moving beyond the estuary and he was indicating ahead. Stratton took a headset off the panel beside him and put it over his ears.
‘There it is,’ the co-pilot said, pointing.
Stratton looked below the horizon to see a tiny cluster of ships still quite far out to sea. The tanker was easiest to make out and the other specks were no doubt the coastguard and some police boats.
Scouse was listening on his SBS network radio and nudged Stratton. ‘Team Bravo and Charlie are in the water and closing on the tanker. They’re waiting for us.’
‘I want the other boats out of the way,’ Stratton said.
‘They’re getting the order now,’ Scouse said.
There was a possibility of an explosive device on board and there was no longer a need for the boats to be there anyway. The thought of a greater threat such as an atom or even a dirty bomb had occurred to most but that was not worth talking about at this stage. If there was a serious device they wouldn’t know anything about it a second after it went off.
Stratton leaned forward to get a look at the pilot but didn’t recognise him. ‘Who’s the pilot?’ he asked Scouse. The pilot and co-pilot could only hear him if he spoke through the intercom headset.
‘Ah. One small problem,’ Scouse said. ‘He joined the branch a couple of weeks ago and he was the only pilot available at five minutes’ notice.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘He’s obviously good or he wouldn’t be here.’
‘Has he done an eagle feast before?’
‘One, and not at max speed.’
‘I wouldn’t describe that as a small problem, Scouse.’
An eagle feast was part of a simultaneous two-pronged assault on a ship at sea: one from the water, the other from the air.To approach from the air unnoticed a craft had to be high, but then to take part in the assault it had to cover the distance down to the boat in the fastest possible time. The best way the Special Forces naval pilots had come up with was simply to take the wind out of the rotors and let the helicopter drop like a stone. The hard part was controlling the drop and getting the wind back into the rotors at the end of it.
Stratton put his cabin headset back on and pushed the mic in front of his mouth. ‘Pilot? What’s your name?’
The pilot glanced back for a second. He looked very young. ‘Robert,’ he said into his own mic. He was an officer but had been around long enough to know it was first-name terms among all ranks in the SBS working at the sharp end, including attached ranks such as he was.
‘Good to meet you, Robert. I’m Stratton. Is that right you’ve only done one eagle feast before now?’
‘Yes, a week ago,’ he said, doing his best to sound confident, but Stratton was not so sure.
‘You happy with the procedure?’
The pilot paused a moment and Stratton thought he caught a slight change in his expression.
‘Well . . . to be honest, not really,’ he said. ‘Wish I’d had the chance to practise a couple more before my first live one.’
Stratton glanced at Scouse who was listening through another headset and wearing a concerned expression, which was more put on than genuine - cavalier humour was the norm in the SBS, especially when tension was mounting. But there was something to be worried about since there was not any room for error on the manoeuvre.
‘Too late to worry about that now,’ Stratton said to the pilot.
‘Rubbish,’ Scouse chimed in. ‘There’s plenty of time to shit yourself.’
‘They’re waiting on us,’ Stratton continued. ‘Let’s get to the drop height.’ Then aside to Scouse: ‘He can only get it wrong once.’
‘True enough,’ Scouse said.
The pilot eased up the blade