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 to be struck by a bolt. It was not worth thinking about. Nothing anyone could do to prevent it if it happened.
Stratton peered ahead in the hope of seeing a hillside that he recognised. He knew that despite the dozens of satellite photographs everyone had studied, and the ones that every passenger held in his hand at that moment, and the metre-accurate GPS coordinates, there could be no better substitute for having someone who had actually been there. All part of the reasoning for bringing him along and placing him at the front of the squadron.
Stratton and Downs’s GPSs both beeped at the same time, signalling the heading change to due east. Every other GPS in the squadron beeped in turn, just in case the pilot didn’t see the craft in front make the change in direction. Something hardly likely to happen at this stage. Each man was concentrating hard ahead. They had minutes to go.
Stratton saw something he recognised. He could make out the unmoving river up ahead. He searched the black countryside just in front of it, looking for signs of the camp. On their right side the hills ascended, the tops high above them.
Another bolt of lightning striking close by startled everyone. It lit up the ground like the flash from a giant camera. For a second the terrain around them was exposed like daytime. The bad news was that people generally tended to look to the skies when lightning struck. But a few seconds later another element arrived that caused the reverse and induced those in the open to find cover.
Stratton felt a drop of water hit his face. Then another. They were heading into the rain.
Moments later the heavens opened up and it became torrential. The gliders buffeted heavily. Suddenly all of the confidence the crews had that the craft would fly normally in bad weather disintegrated. Those who had flown in the rain and who had declared it safe had never been in anything close to what they were experiencing at that moment. The danger was fundamental enough. If the rain beat down on to the tops of the canvas wings of the gliders too heavily, they could lose their shape. If that happened, the craft would lose lift and height and the rest was easy enough to work out.
Downs immediately pulled back on the stick to gain even greater altitude. If the wings did begin to flatten under the weight of the rain, he wanted them to be as close as possible to the camp when they went down.
The other crews did the same, or attempted to.
‘This is Spud, having problems!’ came a shout over the radio.
Stratton strained to look back and could make out a glider far lower than it should have been. And he could see a couple of others that looked like they might be struggling to hold altitude.
‘We can’t get any height!’ Spud shouted, starting to lose his composure.
It was a private ordeal. No one could do anything to help them, other than pray that they could overcome the difficulty and get back up in the air.
The rain continued to lash against them all, biting at their faces like pea-shot. The heavy beating on the canopy almost drowned out the sound of the engine. Downs kept the stick pulled back. They weren’t going up but then they weren’t losing any height either. Not yet at least. He felt suddenly aware that the entire operation could quickly turn into a total disaster before the assault phase.
‘We’re going in! We’re going in!’ Spud shouted over the radio.
Stratton put a face to the name, a young stocky lad with stacks of enthusiasm. He didn’t know who the lad’s partner was.
A long silence followed.
‘Spud, this is Downs!’ Downs shouted.
Silence.
‘Jordo! You still tail end?’ Downs shouted into his radio above the cacophony around him and the rain slamming into his face.
‘Jordo here. Roger that. I just saw Spud hit the deck. It looked pretty hard. I couldn’t see anything else. I’m also having trouble holding on.’
‘Christ.’ Downs shouted back to Stratton, ‘We’re going to have to ditch these payloads!’
Stratton looked ahead, blinking through the rain. He was pretty certain he could make out the camp area at the bottom of the dark slope. The heavy rain did not help.
He suddenly saw a light flicker. And then another.
‘On the bomb run!’ he shouted to Downs. ‘You’re on heading! Straight ahead!’
19
‘All stations stand by!’ Downs shouted into his radio. ‘Hang in there another minute and we’ll solve our weight problems.’
Which was precisely what every other crew was thinking. They were each carrying a dozen mortar shells which was, for most of them, the difference between staying in the air and crashing.
The rain hammered men and machines. But more and more lights appeared within the wood ahead. Some electrical, others kerosene-powered. Stratton could only hope that any sentry wouldn’t be looking skyward. That they would all be under cover or heading for it in the downpour. That the sound of the rain hitting the trees would cover that of the glider engines until they got directly overhead.
‘Dizzy here, not sure if we’re gonna make it!’ came a voice over the radio.
‘Ditch your mortars!’ Downs shouted. ‘Or enough of ’em to keep you up. The rest of you, don’t forget to pull the pins!’
Stratton didn’t need reminding. He was already removing the pins from the first row of mortars on each side of him.
‘Anywhere in particular?’ Downs shouted to his partner.
Stratton couldn’t identify anything within the wood of more interest than any other part. Not yet at least. He hadn’t seen inside the camp anyway.