Operation: North Sea (S-Squad Book 10)
Page 2
“As your corporal would say, that’s a long story for another time over a pint. Let’s just say it’s a family tradition. The rest of the story will have to wait. I believe we are nearing the rig.”
As if in reply to Seton’s words, the sound of the engines changed somewhere below and the boat took a slight lurch to starboard. The rig came into view on the porthole window on that side.
“All ashore who’s going ashore,” Seton said.
It only took Banks two minutes to get the squad in order, kitted up, and ready to move out.
Sergeant Hynd held Banks back as they were about to leave the room.
“John,” he said. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“John, is it?” Banks replied, laughing. “It must be serious.”
He saw that the sarge wasn’t joking and they’d been friends long enough for him to also see that wherever it was, it was troubling the other man a great deal.
“We don’t have time now,” Banks replied, “but when we get a quiet moment I’ll cadge the auld man’s hip flask, we’ll share the whisky, and you can tell me what this is all about. Deal?”
“Deal,” Hynd replied. “But don’t leave it too long, eh?”
By the time they arrived on deck, the boat was already being tied up and there was an open cage elevator waiting on the other side of the docking bay.
A small man clad in a bulky over jacket several sizes too big for him ran across the open area towards them.
“The boss is in his office. He says to go on up; second floor, second on the right, you can’t miss it.”
There was no sign that any provision had been made for the squad or their kit and Banks wasn’t about to leave any of either standing on a cold, windy dock, so they squashed together, men and kit all squeezed into the elevator which wheezed clanked and clattered as if protesting against the weight as it took them up to the second-floor corridor. The rig manager’s office was likewise basic and cramped, but they all fit inside well enough. They dumped their kit on the floor as a burly bear of a man came ‘round from behind his desk to greet them.
He shook Banks by the hand, ignored Seton’s outstretched offer of a handshake, and took Banks by the arm, over to the desk.
“Sorry to have to drag you and your men all the way out here for nothing,” he said in a broad Northern English accent. “You were on your way before I could stop you; that wee scaremongering ginger bastard’s fault no doubt. It’s all a big misunderstanding, a prank that got out of hand. The man’s been disciplined and the rig is fully operational. There’s nothing to see here. You can go home as soon as the boat has delivered its supplies.”
3
Wiggo was standing next to Seton and saw the older man bristle at the manager’s tone and insult. Seton made to step forward, but Wiggo put a hand on his arm and when Seton turned to him, Wiggo whispered.
“Let the captain deal with it diplomatically.”
Banks was already replying to the manager.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir,” he said. “I have my orders.”
“And this rig belongs to the company. You have no jurisdiction here.”
“Actually, sir, that’s incorrect. In matters of civil defence, the Armed Forces have authority over the country’s sovereign waters and any vessel operating therein.”
“Civil defence? What the fuck are you here to defend against?”
Banks’ voice never rose at all, but he was smiling as he replied.
“That’s what we’re here to find out. Now if you’ll excuse us, sir, we have a job to do. Is there somewhere we can billet?”
The manager’s mouth opened, but he took one look in Banks’ eyes and shut it again fast. The conversation was over, it had just taken him a while to realize it.
Wiggo winked at Seton.
“See, I told you he was a diplomat.”
The rig manager—the badge on his shirt said his name was Ian Smith—appeared to have lost what little fight he had in him and had all the appearance of a defeated beach ball as he replied to the captain.
“You can kip down in the floatel,” he said, “but there’s no bunks, we’re running at a full complement at the moment. You can bed down in the mess hall if you’d like, although there’s people in and out of there all the time as we run a rotating shift system.”
If he thought that was going to put Banks off, he was quickly put right as the captain smiled again.
“No problemo. Show us the way and we’ll get out of your hair.”
The floatel proved to be an almost cubical floating hotel that appeared to slowly move around the rig attached to a rotating platform.
“Computers,” the man who had been given the job of showing them off the rig said. “They keep the thing head on into any weather that’s around so that it stays relatively stable in the water.”
“And does that work?” Wiggo asked and got an answering laugh.
“No’ as often as the bosses would like it to.”
Wiggo looked out to sea. There was a heavy swell on now and the floatel bobbed and tossed in it alarmingly. He turned to Seton again.
“I hope you’ve got more of that good whisky, wee man. I think it’s going to be a long afternoon and night.”
They left the rig itself and traversed a walkway that swayed and bucked alarmingly. The man with them took it as calmly as if he was out for a stroll in the park and laughed again at Wiggo’s obvious alarm.
“Dinna fash, lad. It’s safer than Sauchiehall Street.”
“Aye, but that’s not saying much, is it?” Wiggo replied, but followed when Banks led, relieved to reach the other side without mishap. “If I’d wanted a roller coaster, I’d have gone to Blackpool.”
The man showed them inside. The mess hall was in the dead center of the floating hotel and as such bucked and rolled to a lesser extent than the area around it.
“Yer boss did us a favor after all,” Wiggo said to their guide.
“Aye, a lot of us spend most of our free time here,” he said. “Here or up top if the weather’s good.” He pointed to a spiral staircase in the center of the room. “There’s a pair of storm doors at the top; the code’s 1234 so don’t forget it.”
He was still laughing as he waddled away, leaving the squad in the echoing mess hall. A Scottish voice called out from behind the long food counter.
“Can I help you, boys? The boss said you’re to have anything you want from the menu.”
“Grub. It’s about bloody time,” Wiggo said. “I’m starving here.”
“It’ll have to wait,” Banks said. “Wilkins, you get to stay here with the kit. Don’t let anybody play with it. The rest of you are with me. It’s time we had a look-see up top and figure out why we’re here.”
Wiggo had a despairing look back at the food counter, dumped his kit with the rest at a spare table then followed the captain up the spiral stairway.
They emerged into what felt like a strengthening gale. The sea roiled in white horses all around and a heavy swell rocked the floatel so much that the horizon disappeared below the rim and appeared again with each wave. Above them, up on the rig they could see men clambering around as if indifferent to the weather.
“They’re not still drilling in this, are they?” Wiggo asked, having to raise his voice to be heard. It was Seton who answered.
“From what I can gather, this is considered mild, almost clement.”
“I’d hate to see what they call bad weather.”
“We might get a chance,” Sergeant Hynd replied. He pointed north and east, to where the sky was noticeably darker. The rising wind was coming out of that direction and it looked like it was driving a storm before it.
“We’re no use to man nor beast standing here,” Banks shouted as the wind rose another notch. “Wiggo had the right idea after all. Let’s get some grub inside us and see if this blows over.”
Seton wanted to argue.
“But what if the beast shows up?”
A burst of rain accompanied the next gust of wind and that was enough even for Seton. They all fled inside, eager to escape the wind that whistled in their ears and tugged at their jackets.
Wiggo was last in the queue for food when they approached the serving area. The cook on the other side of the counter made a point of waiting until everyone else had moved off before leaning over and whispering, almost conspiratorially.
“I hae the gen on whit happened wi’ Willie McLeod, if you’re interested?”
Wiggo answered in kind, keeping his voice low.
“Was he the mannie who saw the beastie?”
“The very man. Meet me at the rear of the scullery when you’ve had your dinner; I’ll be out the back having a smoke and we can talk there where naebody will hear us.”
‘Dinner’ proved to be a stodgy quarter-pound cheeseburger and greasy chips and it was still sitting like a heavy brick in Wiggo’s belly when he made his way through the scullery and out a door to the rear.
The wind hit him immediately, slamming the door hard at his back.
“Over here,” a voice shouted to his left, and Wiggo followed it ‘round a corner into an alcove completely sheltered from the elements. The cook—his name badge said he was Tom—stood there with a cigarette cupped inside his hand against the wind. He shifted to one side to make enough room for Wiggo beside him. Wiggo lit up one of his own smokes before talking.
“So, the story that the big boss up on the rig is spinning is a load of shite, is it?”
The cook laughed.
“Shite, pish and bollocks all at the same time, although it’s nothing new coming from him. He’s just trying to cover his arse, but you’ve seen him. So you ken it’s too big to be hidden away. It’s the talk of the rig, even if he’s trying to whitewash it.”
“I’ll tell you whit happened…” He paused, took a long drag at his cigarette then began. “We were in the mess last night, about nine o’ clock. The afternoon shift came off the clock, hungry after a long day’s drilling. Willie wasn’t with them at that point; he was up top having a fag. It was a calm night, not like now so it came as a wee shock to us all when the whole floatel swung to one side then back again. I damn near got a hot pan of oil down my crotch, three lads tumbled to the floor off their chairs, and a wheen of dinners, plates, and cutlery slid off the tables and smashed on the floor. It was a hell of a mess, I can tell you.
“And then doon the stairs comes Willie, white as a sheet and ranting about a bogle out on the water. Now Willie’s no’ the most imaginative of men; in fact, I’d go as far as to say that his brain is sawdust most of the way through and the only use it gets is figuring the odds at the bookies. So we lads in the mess were inclined to believe him when he said he’d seen something, although there was only the dark waters to be seen when we went to have a look for ourselves. But Willie was adamant, and caused such a stooshie that the boss heard of it.
“That was when the story started to change. The boss had Willie in his office for near an hour, and when they came out, the tale went ‘round that Willie had been caught drinking and that no more was to be said on the matter. Of course, somebody’s mouth kept working, otherwise you lads wouldn’t be here, but the rest of us ken which side our bread is buttered and have been keeping schtum.
“But here’s the thing… Willie was brought up in the Dippers, his folks are strict Baptist and I ken he goes to services religiously when he’s ashore; if he took a drink, then I’m Mickey Mouse.”
4
Banks listened without speaking while Wiggo reported on his conversation with the cook.
“And you don’t think he’s having us on?” he asked when the corporal finished.
“No, Cap. I think I trust him a damned sight more than the bag of wind upstairs.”
Banks spoke quietly, as if to himself.
“And it fits Seton’s story better than the brush off that was given to us earlier. I think it’s time I had another wee word with the man up top. You hold the fort here, Wiggo. The sarge and I will go and see if the boss man wants to change his story.”
“I’ll tag along too,” Seton said. “The big fart owes me an apology.”
“You going tooled, Cap?” Wiggo said, nodding towards the kit bag where the rifles were stowed.
Banks patted the pistol at his hip.
“This will do for now. We’ll be back in half an hour. Don’t get up to any mischief.”
“You ken me, Cap.”
“Aye. That’s what I’m worried about.”
By the time the three of them arrived outside the manager’s office, they were soaked through. The trip across on the walkway had been a hair-raising one, Wiggo’s earlier comparison with a roller-coaster being even more apt now that the wind and swell had gone up another notch and horizontal rain lashed into their faces. But there was a stout guard rail to hold on to and they were never in any real danger. Likewise, the elevator clanked and creaked alarmingly in the wind but Banks reckoned it had seen plenty of such journeys in this kind of weather and worse so wasn’t worried for their safety. All the same, they were all soaked through and dripping wet in the corridor when he raised his fist and rapped, hard, three times on the manager’s door.
“Come in,” the voice shouted from the other side.
As they entered, Banks closed the door behind them and turned to see that the big man behind the desk was most definitely unhappy.
“Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” he said to Banks. “Because of waiting for you in Aberdeen, the supply boat was late arriving. Now it’s stuck here, and it’ll be moored up for the duration of the storm. On top of that there’s a load of new supplies waiting back at port, some of it perishable foodstuff. It’s a fucking logistical nightmare in the making. And it’s your bloody fault, listening to fucking fairy stories and nonsense. A grown man like you…you should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Sorry to have inconvenienced you,” Banks said, keeping his voice calm but making sure his tone implied exactly the opposite. “But your logistical problems don’t concern me. What does concern me is what you did to make McLeod change his story when you had him in here last night.”
“Christ. It didn’t take long for you to shove your nose into my business, did it? Change his story? That was simple. All it took was to sober him up.”
“Aye, that and a bloody miracle worker,” Banks said sharply, allowing his voice to rise for the first time. “You must be, if you can sober up a tee-totaller.” He saw the man’s face drop. “You didn’t know, and you didn’t bother to check. You hectored and bullied him, didn’t you? Threatened to give him the sack, I’d guess. Did you tell him he’d be on the first boat home? You don’t give a fuck about your crew, do you? You were only worried about your bottom line.”
“That’s all I’m paid to worry about,” Smith replied, but now there was a petulant whine in his voice, like a kid after being caught misbehaving.
“Never mind about that. What else did you learn from the man that you haven’t told us? Just tell us what you really know about this creature. Either that or fetch McLeod here and I’ll ask him myself.”
“Creature? There is no bloody creature,” Smith replied, more sure of his ground. “Drunk or not, McLeod couldn’t have seen what he said he’d seen. It’s just not possible.”
It was Seton who replied.
“And yet I’m here to tell you that it is.”
“You?” Smith laughed. “You’re a nutter. There are no beasties, no monsters, you deluded old fuck.”
Banks spoke up softly.
“If he’s a deluded fuck, then so are we, for we’ve seen some of his ‘beasties’. Killed them even. That’s why we’re here. We’re what you might call experts, although my corporal prefers the term ‘monster magnets
’.”
Smith looked from Banks to Seton and back again and Banks saw both confusion and doubt in the man’s eyes.
“Look,” Banks said. “Seton here really is an expert. The top brass believes him, we believe him, so you’d better start at least considering the idea, before it’s too late for everybody on this rig.”
Before Smith could reply, the floor shifted suddenly beneath them and the walls rang with an impact, as if something had hit the rig hard.
“What was that?” Banks said.
“The supply boat at a guess,” Smith replied, reaching for the waterproof that hung behind his seat. “From the sound of that hit, she’s slipped her moorings in the storm. That’s all we fucking need.”
They followed the rig manager out into the storm.
At first, Banks wasn’t sure what they were seeing when they looked down at the dock from their high vantage. The water beneath them seethed and roiled, too violently even accounting for the storm. The supply boat had indeed broken from its moorings and lurched sickeningly up and down from fore to aft, splashing hard with each move and raising washes of water across the dock.
Then they saw, or at least caught glimpses, of the cause of the commotion. Something huge moved beneath the boat, silver and gold and green all at once, moving in sinuous waves to and fro as if searching for something.
“Still think there’s no beastie?” Seton shouted in the manager’s face. “What the fuck do you call that then?”
The rig manager called out, a cry of alarm that was immediately lost in the wind as the thing below the supply boat surged upward, a great maw gaping, filled with teeth, wider by far than the boat itself, engulfing the small vessel completely inside its mouth as the jaws closed on it. The last thing they saw as the beast fell away back into the water was a burst of bubbling froth on the water and the shimmering flesh of the thing’s flanks flashing silver, just once before it sank into the depths below the rig and all went quiet.