Stratton took a long sip of his tea and put the mug down. ‘The job doesn’t suit everybody,’ he said. ‘Maybe you wouldn’t have enjoyed it.’ And if you had got through, he thought, you wouldn’t have got along with anyone in the service with the attitude you have.
‘I’m going to get my head down,’ he said, walking away.
The officer watched him go. Stratton could feel the man’s eyes on his back.
He pushed through the doors and went in search of his pit. Winslow stirred his cup of tea then he put the spoon down, poured the liquid into a bin and sighed to himself. It was easy for those who had made it into special forces to write off those who hadn’t. But the truth was many who failed were mentally scarred for life. Which was a risk few allowed for. There was the odd one who did attempt it knowing they would fail but wanted to give it a go anyway. But the vast majority of those who signed up for the gruelling course never planned on failing it. They had to believe in themselves. Winslow considered himself highly intelligent but he couldn’t grasp what was obvious to those maybe less intelligent than he was. He knew that to dwell on his failure would be unhealthy and nothing could be done to heal him other than trying the course again and passing it. But that window of opportunity had closed for him. He had moved up in rank and he could no longer apply. He knew he should let it go, but he couldn’t.
It was early morning when Stratton got prodded by a hand. ‘Time to get up, mate.’
He woke instantly in the narrow bunk, recognising the young sailor who had shown him to the galley the night before.
‘I brought you a cup of tea,’ the sailor said, holding out a steaming mug. ‘I’m not a creep. But I reckon you deserve it.’ He grinned.
Stratton rubbed his face and swung his feet down on to the floor and took the mug. ‘Thanks.’
‘’Ope you like it sweet. I do.’
Stratton took a sip of the dark molasses that looked like it could absorb a pint of milk without getting any lighter in colour. He did all he could not to wince. ‘You sure it’s tea?’
‘Tell you the truth, I made it for myself but decided to give it to you when they told me to give you a shake.’
Stratton handed it back to him. ‘I’m wide awake now, thanks.’
‘It does that to you.’
Stratton stood up, still in his boiler suit. There were several other bunks in the room, all occupied. He checked his wrist, forgetting he had no watch. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just gone eight. You slept well.’
‘I need a doby. Where can I get a towel and a change of clothes?’
‘I’ll see the chief. Oh, I almost forgot the most important thing. The old man wants to see you up on deck.’
Stratton looked at the mug, took it off the sailor and had another sip. He shook his head as he tasted the strong tea and handed it back. ‘I really don’t think I could get used to that,’ he said.
Stratton made his way through the boat and up a couple of flights of steps to a level where he could see daylight flooding in through the far end of the corridor.
He walked through a broad opening and on to a platform a flight above the main deck. The wind struck him as he stepped through the entrance and he braced himself against it, almost losing one of his sandals as he stepped back. The opening gave him a balcony view of the flight deck.
Six Sea King helicopters stood lined up in a neat row on the far side of the deck, their noses pointing forward, rotors folded back to form a single blade pointing towards the tail, where they were secured by a strap. The Lynx waited at the far end of the flight deck, where it had landed the evening before.
Crew emerged from the superstructure beneath Stratton and divided up on their way to all of the Sea Kings. They set about untying the rotors and making other preparations for flight. He searched the various clusters of men and individuals along the length of the deck for one who looked like he might be the captain. He saw two men standing at the front of the flight deck looking forward out to sea, one of whom fitted the description.
Stratton climbed down a ladder on to the flight deck. The wind whipped at him as he walked past the end of the superstructure and across the exposed deck.
The younger of the two men saw him and said something to the other. The older man looked around at Stratton as he approached. His cropped silver hair made him look older than he was.
The younger man gave Stratton an officious nod before heading away. Stratton wondered what the captain was going to be like. Everyone on board looked well turned out and he was walking around in a boiler suit with straggly hair and several days’ worth of beard. No wonder he seemed alien to the regular military. He had spent so many years in SF and working with military intelligence that if he ever had to join the regulars for some reason, he doubted he would last a week before being court martialled for any one of a number of insubordinations. The service could be pretty laid back compared with the Navy and Marines, but it still had enough stuffed shirts within its ranks to make life difficult for field operatives when they spent any time back at the HQ camp.
The captain turned to greet him with a smile that was echoed in his eyes.
‘Good to meet you, Stratton. I understand everyone calls you by your last name.’
Stratton politely shrugged indifference. ‘Good to meet you too, sir.’
The captain looked him up and down. ‘I see you’ve not had a chance to get some duds, or is it that you prefer the scruffy look?’
‘One of the lads is finding me a razor and something to wear, sir.’
‘Personally I envy you being able to wear what you want. When I go on leave I don’t normally have a shave until the day I return to work. My wife likes that too. I don’t think anyone would deny you your rest after what you’ve been through.’ The captain checked his watch and looked in the direction his ship was sailing. ‘I’m sorry about your friend.’
Stratton didn’t answer. The captain had obviously been briefed by Poole or London. There hadn’t been any hint of judgement in the way he said it. That was because it was unlikely he knew all the details. He wouldn’t have been told anything other than the basic facts. He certainly wouldn’t know that Stratton had killed his colleague. That kind of information would be kept in house, for a while at least. It would eventually leak out from Ops and into the ranks of the SBS. London could also be a bit of a sieve for that kind of gossip. So it would find its way into the general information mainstream, through wives and bar talk. It wouldn’t be classified as secret, just sensitive. Everyone gossiped. Special forces and military intelligence were no different. It was a piece of information that ultimately did no harm if it was leaked. Helen, Hopper’s wife, might be upset by it. She might understand when she heard the full details. But she would not be pleased if she discovered that Stratton was ultimately responsible for her husband’s death. That the strategies he had employed were flawed. Self-seeking. That would leak out too. Eventually. She might wonder if it was a twisted rumour at first. If so, she might ask Stratton to clarify that himself. He would tell the truth. He didn’t know her well enough to guess how she might react. He did know if she had a temper, she might hit him. He would have to take it. He would want to take it. Hopper’s two children would eventually learn about it too. One day. They had all of that to come.