Duncan Falconer - Traitor
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- Year:2010
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Traitor: summary, description and annotation
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After a surveillance mission in Sevastopol goes badly wrong, Stratton finds himself doing penance at MI16, the governments clandestine organisation that creates weapons equipment for special forces and the secret service. But Sevastopol has started something. In the North Sea a team of hijackers take over the giant Morpheus oil platform. They are demanding two billion dollars. Inside twenty-four hours. Or the bodies will start falling. With the SBS overstretched and its surveillance team locked down, there is only one option: Stratton and a team of unproven operatives from MI16. Stratton knows he has to redeem himself and he also has his own agenda. One of the men on the rig is an old friend. And Stratton intends to save him. But one of Strattons team is not what they appear to be. A traitor. With a deadly agenda of their own. And Morpheus is just the beginning. This is the incendiary sixth thriller in the Stratton series by the UKs leading ex-SF professional.
Duncan Falconer: author's other books
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Table of Contents
Also by Duncan Falconer
The Hostage
The Hijack
The Operative
The Protector
Undersea Prison
Mercenary
The Hijack
The Operative
The Protector
Undersea Prison
Mercenary
Non-fiction
First Into Action
First Into Action
Traitor
DUNCAN FALCONER
Hachette Digital
www.littlebrown.co.uk
To Paul Whittome One of the toughest men I have the honour of knowng
Stratton dropped a tea bag into a mug and filled it with boiling water from a kettle. He pulled up the sleeves of the tatty old rugby shirt he wore and scraped some diced carrots from a board into a crockpot of meat and other vegetables. As he added some of the water a sound outside caught his attention. He brushed a strand of dark hair from his face and looked through the window. A pheasant, flapping its wings to negotiate the tall hedgerow bordering the back of the garden, landed on the grass, which was coated in thick frost.
Stratton took a piece of bread and quietly unlocked the back door, opening it just enough to toss out the crust. It landed close to the bird which looked at it. The sudden chirp of a mobile phone in the kitchen spooked the pheasant into flight.
Stratton shrugged as he watched the bird crash over the hedge. Sorry, mate. I tried, he muttered, closing the door. He picked up the phone from the breakfast table and pressed the receive button. This is Stratton.
Mike here.
Morning, Sergeant Major, Stratton said, as he stirred the crockpot. Dont tell me that rubbish car of yours has broken down again and you need a lift.
No. Im at the office... and I need you in here asap.
Stratton checked his watch. It was still early. Okay.
And put your supper in the fridge. You might be eating out tonight.
The line went dead.
Stratton looked at the crockpot. Things had been fairly busy of late but despite the current cold weather he hoped he wasnt going anywhere hot and sandy this time. He was growing tired of the Middle East and of Afghanistan in particular.
He unplugged the pot and placed it in the fridge. Tomorrow, hopefully, he said to it.
Stratton walked into his bedroom and took off his shirt. His strong back bore several livid scars, a couple of them looking as though theyd been made by bullets. He pulled on a clean T-shirt followed by a thick fleece and walked to the hallway, taking a well-worn leather jacket off the coat hook. He paused at the front door to feel his pockets, checking that he had his phone, wallet and keys. Satisfied, he left the house.
Stratton slowed the open-top Jeep on the approach to the heavily guarded SBS camp in Hamworthy, near Poole on the Dorset coastline. At the entrance barrier he lowered the scarf wrapped around his face and handed the armed soldier his ID.
The soldier placed the card in an electronic reader and Stratton punched in a code. The man handed back the ID, raised the barrier and Stratton drove through the centre of the camp, the icy wind pulling at his tousled hair. The place was like a ghost town and had been pretty much since the invasion of Afghanistan. He turned into the headquarters car park to see half a dozen cars, just one of them covered in frost. He wasnt the only early bird to arrive that morning. He climbed out and headed towards the main administration building, a squat two-storey modern structure. Half a dozen mud-caked men in shorts and T-shirts came running across the rugby field that stretched to the far perimeter of the camp.
Hey, Stratton! one of them called out on seeing him. A minute, guys, the man said to the others who seemed happy to take a breather. He headed over to Stratton. No workout today? he asked, out of breath, his face pink, steam rising from his head and powerful shoulders.
No time for such luxuries, Chaz old mate. Some of us have to work for a living.
No kidding. Im enjoying my first quiet week in ten months.
Youve nothing on at the moment? Stratton asked, fishing.
Youre looking at the entire standby squadron, Chaz said, indicating the others. Six of us for the whole world.
Overworked and understaffed.
When has it ever been anything else, mate? Maybe Ill catch you for a beer later on. Blue Boar around seven sound good?
If I dont turn up its nothing personal.
Roger that. Okay, lads, Chaz called out. Lets finish with five times up the ropes, hands only, no touching the ground on the bottom. Take care, he said to Stratton as he set off after the others.
Stratton felt a twinge of guilt at not having done any physical exercise that morning. He had been looking forward to a long run, these being his favourite conditions for a cross-country jog: the air crisp and bracing, the icy ground crunching underfoot. Tomorrow, he promised himself, then wondered immediately if that was wishful thinking.
He made his way past the large chunk of Gibraltar rock that served as the SBSs memorial to fallen comrades, a brass plaque with many names inscribed on it affixed to its face, and pushed his way in through the HQ entrance. A soldier behind the reception counter gave a nod as Stratton swiped his ID card across a keypad that unlocked an inner door.
Morning, Stratton said, walking through the spacious empty lobby. He skipped up the stairs, went around the internal balcony landing to a corner office and paused at an open door to look inside.
A well-built grey-haired man in a plain uniform sat behind a desk by a window. He was reading something on the computer monitor in front of him.
Morning, Mike.
Mike glanced up as Stratton walked into the room. He hit a couple of keys to close the screen, picked up a file and got to his feet. I think youll like this one, he said as he came around the desk. Hasnt been done in over thirty years.
What hasnt? Stratton asked, eyeing him.
Think Buster Crabb, Mike said, tapping his nose and winking. He walked past Stratton and on out of the office. Theyre waiting for us in the ops room.
Stratton followed along the landing, pondering the comment. Crabb had been an MI6 operative whod disappeared while on a top-secret dive to investigate a Russian warship during the Cold War. Some believed hed been a spy whod taken the opportunity to defect. Others thought that Spetsnaz divers had killed Crabb while hed been in the water under the destroyer. No doubt MI6 had the true account on file inside its vaults and might one day release it. Or not. Stratton took Mikes point to mean that it was an underwater task, quite possibly against the Russians. Crabb had never returned home. That bit stuck in Strattons mind.
The two men headed down the stairs and across the lobby to another and more narrow set of steps, which descended to a large black steel door. Mike punched a code onto a keypad. The internal lock clicked and he pulled the door open easily on its heavily sprung hinges.
Stratton followed him into a small space hung with curtains of thick black cloth. With the door closed behind them Mike pushed the curtain aside to reveal a brightly lit spacious operations room. Maps, charts and flatscreen monitors covered the available wall space, providing all manner of global environmental, political and conflict data. Seated at a table and sharing a pot of tea were the SBS commanding officer, the operations officer and a civilian whom Stratton recognised.
Ah, Stratton, the CO said, taking a sip of tea. How are you today?
Fine, thank you, sir.
The white-haired CO, although tall, had a mass to him, the result of younger days when he had regularly occupied a place in the navys rugby team second row. The scrum experience clearly influenced his manner, which was straightforward. I think you know Mr Jervis, he said.
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