pitch control and the Lynx started to climb.
‘How long to eighteen thousand feet?’ Stratton asked him.
The pilot glanced quickly over at Stratton, looking more worried. ‘You mean twelve thousand feet.’
‘I like to come in from eighteen. Hardly any chance of being seen or heard at that height. How long?’ Stratton asked again.
The pilot glanced at his co-pilot who shrugged helplessly. ‘Em . . . three minutes,’ the pilot said awkwardly, his mind starting to race.
‘What’s six thousand feet between friends,’ Stratton said to Scouse. ‘Where are the boats?’
‘A mile in rear of the tanker,’ Scouse said.
‘Tell them to start their run now.’
Scouse relayed the order as the Lynx shuddered, straining to climb as fast as it could.
A mile behind the tanker the pair of 22-metre-long grey-and-black VSVs cruised gracefully through the water at quarter speed. They were unusual boats, shaped like a cross between a slim wedge of cheese and the nose of a Concorde supersonic jet, and virtually undetectable by radar due to their stealth construction. The boats were designed to cut through the waves not ride over them like every other high-performance speedboat, and in rough conditions they could pierce a swell and disappear beneath the surface for a short period of time. The boats were fully enclosed with a cabin capacity of twenty-six operatives packed tightly together and an optional pair of twin 50-cal. machine guns in the bows. Their maximum speed was confidential and far in excess of the maker’s advertised 60 knots.
The coxswains pushed their throttles forward and the massive twin 2,000hp diesel engines roared deeply as the boats accelerated powerfully through the water. The forty operatives, twenty in each boat, were dressed identically to Stratton’s team but with added specialised equipment for getting on board a large ship.The VSVs cruised a few metres apart and within half a minute were at near maximum speed and closing on the tanker like surface torpedoes.
The Lynx shuddered and levelled out. ‘Eighteen thousand feet,’ the pilot said, and sounding none too confident about it.
‘We right behind the tanker’s stern?’ Stratton asked.
‘It’s directly below us,’ the co-pilot said, making some checks on his instrument panel.
‘Hold until I give the word.’
‘Roger that,’ came the co-pilot’s reply, glancing at his nervous partner as inexperienced as he was.
The pilot released the controls one hand at a time to clench and unclench his hands and get the blood flowing through them. His anxiety was growing. Under normal circumstances, the training for this procedure was taken in gradual steps to allow the pilot to get the feel for it, a few hundred feet first before working up to a couple of thousand, the speed building each time. He had put troops down on ships many times in the past but never from an eagle feast. When they called him in the mess during breakfast that morning, told him about the operation and asked if he could do it, he said he could without hesitation. His response had been partly macho but mostly because he didn’t want to pass on the opportunity of a lifetime to do a live operational ship attack with the SBS. There were more pilots than there were opportunities to take part in a job like this one and it would be a big chalk up on his record. But now, hovering at eighteen thousand feet, the tanker looking quite small far below, he was having doubts and questioning his gung-ho eagerness. It was not just his life at stake, there were seven more in his hands. Here he was getting ready to do what until a few years ago only a handful of highly experienced pilots had attempted. Only the best were allowed to even try. He was one of the best, but if he screwed this up, well, he would not be around to get chastised for it, that was for sure. It was too late to change his mind now. He would rather crash the helicopter than live with the life-long disgrace of backing out of it.
‘Two hundred metres,’ Scouse relayed from the VSVs. ‘One hundred . . . Slowing . . . Alongside.’
The two VSVs approached directly behind the stern of the tanker and then broke swiftly to come along either side. Meanwhile in the back of the boats, the hook-men, two in each, were already on their feet and in harnesses designed so they could stand and hold the skyward-pointing launchers on their shoulders without falling over, even in rough conditions. When the coxswains reached a