Operation: North Sea (S-Squad Book 10)

by William Meikle

  “There’s two more choppers inbound behind that,” Banks replied. “We’ll get as many of the crew as we can out on the first one then see how we go from there. I’d like to travel with the sarge too, so we’ll go later.”

  “That works for me. How long have we got?”

  “Forty minutes do you?”

  “Plenty. I’ll be ready in thirty, and we’ll meet you up on the helipad.”

  “Thanks, doc. Nice to meet somebody that kens what they’re doing on this lump of metal.”

  The doctor smiled.

  “Don’t let my bedside manner fool you. I’m bloody terrified.”

  “That makes two of us then. See you up top in thirty.”

  He left the doc to it and headed back towards the control room, getting a soaking again in the process. There was a constant stream of crew out on the stairs heading out towards the helideck that was almost on the same level as the control room gantry but some thirty yards away on the northern side of the rig. Banks noted with some dismay that it had no shelter whatsoever and was exposed to the full wrath of the storm. The men who were making their way across the causeway towards it were bent almost double into the wind and looked to be having trouble standing.

  He found Seton in the control room doorway smoking his pipe.

  “The chopper will be here any minute,” Banks said. “You should get over to the pad.”

  The older man shook his head.

  “If you’re staying, I’m staying. Besides, I’ll need to see if my theory works.”

  “You can see it from five hundred feet higher up as easily as you can see it from here.”

  “No, I need to be at the controls. I might need to alter the volume or the cadence and…”

  “Admit it, auld man. You just want another close up view of the beastie.”

  “You know me too well. There is that. But there’s also the fact that I want to see the thing through. I came here with you and Hynd. I’d like to go back with you both. I’m part of the team, aren’t I?”

  “I suppose you are at that. I’ll get you a wee badge made up when we get home.”

  They were interrupted by a shout from inside the control room.

  “The first chopper’s two minutes out and closing.”

  Banks and Seton watched from the gantry, peering into the rain to try to catch a glimpse of the approaching rescue. As soon as they saw a searchlight washing on the waves and coming closer rapidly, Seton turned away towards the control room door.

  “I’ll be inside. If the beast returns, I’ll try to control it.”

  “Best of luck, wee man. Given the size of yon beast, you’ll need it.”

  Despite having seen the old man in action against the monster they’d tracked down in Loch Ness, Banks was still skeptical; the memory of the great head staring right at him out on the gantry was still all too fresh in his mind. Sure, Nessie had been bad, but this thing here was an order of magnitude larger than that beast had been. The thought of controlling it wasn’t something he could get his head to understand.

  “Maybe we will get lucky,” he muttered to himself. “Maybe it’ll stay away.”

  And at first, he thought his wish was going to be granted. The chopper struggled in the wind but the pilot was skilled and he brought it down to a landing dead center of the helipad. The crew’s rescue procedures had been honed through the training they required just to get onto the rig in the first place and loading the craft went quickly and smoothly until they had taken on a full complement. The rig manager was last to board. Banks saw the man take a final look across the rig then the door was shut behind him and the chopper began to lift away off the pad.

  “Yes!” Banks shouted. “Go on, my son.”

  The chopper had cleared the platform and was rising away out to sea when the beast made its appearance, coming up out of the water like a launched torpedo, jaws already opening in anticipation of another morsel. The tannoy burst into action, a chant ringing through the storm.

  He sleeps and he dreams with the fish far below.

  He dreams and he sings in the dark.

  The beast paused, momentarily confused.

  He sleeps and he sings and he dreams far below.

  The huge head shook, like a dog shedding water, sending spray in a wash across the chopper and helipad. The wind rose up a notch, and the last line of the chant was torn away in the breeze.

  And the Dreaming God is singing where he lies.

  The wind’s effect on the chanting also appeared to wash aside any effect it had on the beast. It raised its head again, gaze fixed on the chopper. The craft rose, kept rising and accelerating; it would be out of reach, even for the beast, in a matter of seconds.

  “Go on. Go on,” Banks muttered under his breath.

  But the beast had other ideas. It surged, impossibly high out of the water, showing Banks its underbelly. He had his pistol out and put three quick shots into it, working on pure instinct, but they had as little effect as before. The thing’s jaws gaped and plucked the chopper out of the sky like a swallow taking a butterfly. The crunch and squeal of metal as the teeth clamped down echoed above the wind and as quickly as it had risen, the beast was falling. It landed hard on the water, the resultant splash soaking the gantry and Banks with it in a wave that almost knocked him off balance.

  When he’d recovered enough to look over the side of the railing, he was once again looking down at only the dark water and a seething roil of foam and ripples that was already subsiding.

  The chopper, and all the men aboard, had gone down into the deep from where there could be no return.

  11

  Wiggo’s backside was complaining about the hardness of the floor below him, but not as much as the rig crewmen were complaining about the lack of a rescue. They’d been sitting in the dark for nearly an hour and were getting restless. Restless and terrified.

  They were also getting cold, for it had quickly become obvious that the heating had gone when the power cut off. Wiggo felt it seep through the wall at his back, and up through the carpeted floor. At least they were all dry, but that was just about the only plus point in their current situation.

  “Bugger this for a game of sodjers,” the control desk operator said. “I need to take a piss.” He switched on the torch that Wiggo had given him and strode across the room to the stairwell, pointing the beam downward into the dark. Wiggo saw him stiffen and knew immediately they had more problems incoming.

  “Fuck me,” the operator said. He waved the torch beam back at Wiggo. It swung wildly in his trembling hand. “Fuck me,” he said again, as if fright had temporarily robbed him of any other words.

  Wiggo was up and moving fast, preempting any move by any of the crew. He joined the operator and had him swing the torch beam down the stairs.

  The problem was immediately obvious. Black water rolled backwards and forwards below them; the mess hall deck was completely flooded and the waters were already rising up the stairwell.

  “I thought you said three hours?” Wiggo whispered.

  “I thought you said a rescue chopper was coming,” the operator replied.

  There was no time to argue; the water in the stairwell was rising noticeably.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any lifeboats on this heap of junk?” Wiggo said, expecting a negative answer.

  “Of course there are. There’s dinghies. Three of them, on the roof,” the man replied. “But in this sea…”

  “In this sea, we’re going to sink and go down trapped in here,” Wiggo replied. “I’ll take my chances in a dinghy.”

  He turned back to the rest of the men in the room.

  “We’re moving up. It’s going to get wet and windy, so pucker up. Anybody know how to get the lifeboat dinghies operational?”

  Tom the cook was among three men to put up a hand.

  “Okay. You’re in charge of one each. Any of the rest of you had forces’ training? Do you ken how to operate one of these?” He held up his rifle. Two men
raised a hand. He put them in charge of the cap’s and the sarge’s kit and weapons. “It’ll probably be like pissing into the wind, but if the beastie shows up and looks to be getting frisky, put a few rounds in it, see if it quietens it down. Just don’t fucking lose the rifles or the cap will have my bollocks for breakfast.”

  He addressed Davies and Wilkins.

  “We’ll stay together in one of the dinghies,” he said. “Split the other lads up between them so there’s equal numbers in each.”

  He glanced at the stairwell. Water was lapping just a few steps down.

  “Marines, we are leaving,” he said.

  He led the way up the stairs to the outer doors.

  Beyond the doors, the storm raged in the night.

  The storm raged around them, but the fact that the floatel was now more stable in the water was working to their advantage. Getting the dinghies inflated and roped together proved easier than Wiggo had imagined. The three crewmen assigned to the job moved with almost military precision and within minutes they had three inflated dinghies perched on the edge of the floatel, with all of the men inside. Wiggo and the privates got on board one with Tom the chef and the control desk operator for company; the rest of the men were on the other two, equally split.

  Wiggo had expected the dinghies to be open to the elements but was pleasantly surprised to find that it was more like a padded, floating tent. They had a roof overhead, transparent panels to see out, and were lit inside with a small row of LED lights, enough for him to see the other men’s faces.

  They’d made it out of the floatel just in time; it was sinking fast now, and the sea was only feet below their position on the edge on the top deck.

  “We’ll float off on the first big wave,” Tom shouted as he zipped up the opening, enclosing them inside. “It’s likely to get rough.”

  “Deep joy,” Davies muttered at Wiggo’s side. The private already looked pale and sickly, but he gave Wiggo a thumbs up when he saw him looking. “Don’t mind me, Corp. If I’m going to throw up, I’ll do it in my pocket.”

  “As long as you don’t do it in mine we’ll be just fine.”

  The expected wave arrived seconds later. They were lifted up, fell in empty air for a stomach-lurching second then landed hard in the sea. The dinghy tilted alarmingly on one side and Wiggo thought they might topple over entirely but its natural buoyancy ensured that it righted itself. They felt a heavy bump as one of the other dinghy’s hit them then they were caught by wind and sea, rising and falling in the waves.

  “Bloody Blackpool Pleasure Beach time again,” Wiggo muttered. “I fucking hate roller coasters.”

  The only one in the dinghy who didn’t even seem slightly perturbed was the big cook.

  “It was worse than this in training,” he said in explanation when he caught Wiggo’s glance. “They had us in pitch blackness in a huge wave machine and turned us upside down a few times. This is a walk in the park compared to that nonsense.”

  He reached into a pouch built into the side of the dinghy and came out with some bottled water, a flare-gun, and a small box with six flares in it. He handed the gun and flares to Wiggo before taking a swig of water then passing it around.

  “Outstanding,” Wiggo said. “Now all we need is a pack of cards.”

  “Funny you should say that, Corp,” Davies replied and produced a battered pack from his jacket pocket. “Five fags buys a seat at the table. Three card brag, Aces high, one-eyed Jacks floating. Who’s in?”

  The operator…Wiggo realised he’d never asked the man’s name…spoke up.

  “You can’t play cards at a time like this, surely?”

  “Watch us,” Davies replied. “And don’t call me Shirley.”

  As before, the card game did much to keep their minds off their situation but Wiggo’s heart wasn’t in it. He lost all his smokes within twenty minutes and let Tom take his place. He shuffled over to the zipped-up entrance, opened the zip six inches, and parted the opening to have a look out. He saw another dinghy almost next to them, separated by three feet of water, presumed the third was on the far side beyond that, but there was nothing else to see but darkness and sea and all he got for his trouble was a faceful of spray. He zipped it up again quickly and attempted to stand, meaning to take a look out of the transparent window-like area above. But the buck and sway in the swell made standing impossible and he slumped back down to join the others with a grunt of frustration.

  “If anybody’s got any bright ideas, now would be a good time to share them,” he said.

  Tom spoke up first.

  “They’ll be looking for us. Or rather, they’ll be looking for the floatel. We’re now a much smaller target, and we’re lost in a big dark sea. If it were up to me, I’d send up a flare every so often, maybe every twenty minutes or half an hour? It might improve our chances.”

  “Good thinking, Batman,” Wiggo replied. “Do all the dinghies have flares?”

  “Aye. But we’d need to get outside and over to them to coordinate; that’s not safe.”

  “Agree. But if they see ours, they might get the message. Okay, I’m convinced.”

  He loaded the flare gun with a flare from the box while Tom unzipped the opening far enough for him to aim it outside and upward. When he pulled the trigger, the flare fizzed away like a firework and exploded in a wee red sun high above them before arcing away out of sight.

  “One down, five to go,” Wiggo said. “We’ll go again in twenty. Let’s hope we get lucky.”

  Ten minutes later, they heard the distinctive hiss again and on looking up saw that another of the dinghies had fired a flare, the red glow lighting the sky for several seconds.

  “They got the message,” Tom said. “Our chances are improving.”

  Wiggo wasn’t too sure of that but kept his mouth shut. What he really needed was a cigarette but having everyone light up in an enclosed space like this was going to make the air unbreathable so he fought down the urge, promising himself that he’d light up at the first opportunity.

  The dinghy continued to lurch violently in the swell and several times they again came close to tipping over completely. Once Tom had them all move quickly to one side to shift weight and avoid such a tipping. Another hiss and flare that Wiggo guessed came from the third dinghy light up the sky.

  But nothing came in response; the only sound from outside was the splash of waves against their side and the whistle of the wind.

  Anytime now would be good, guys. Anytime.

  12

  Banks made his way back into the rig’s control room.

  “Are you in contact with the other incoming choppers?”

  “Yep,” the operator replied. “They’re ten minutes out.”

  “Ask them to slow down a tad,” Banks said. “We need a new plan of action.”

  He turned to Seton.

  “It was working. What happened?”

  “A guess? Not loud enough, the storm is dissipating the effect.”

  “Can you boost it?”

  “We can try,” Seton said. “Unless you have any other ideas, I think it’s our only shot.”

  “Crank it up then,” Banks said, and, to the operator, “Belay that order to the choppers. It’s time we got ourselves the fuck out of here.”

  Banks returned to his spot on the gantry and lit up another smoke. Rig crew were already beginning to make their way along the pathway towards the helipad but, understandably, none had yet gone out to the pad itself. Banks felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see the doctor there.

  “We’ve got your sergeant ready to move. I won’t bring him out until the last minute in this weather,” he said, then looked Banks in the eye. “Is it true about the chopper? The beast took it down?”

  Banks nodded.

  “Lost, all of them.”

  “So what’s to say it won’t happen again? Is it worth the risk?”

  “Yon beast is likely to take the whole rig down on one of these visits. We need to get off here.
We’ve got a plan.”

  “That song on the tannoy? That’s your plan?”

  Banks didn’t reply to that, but he didn’t have to; he saw skepticism written large on the doc’s face before he turned away.

  A minute later, the tannoy kicked in, almost deafeningly.

  He sleeps and he dreams with the fish far below.

  He dreams and he sings in the dark.

  Banks looked out past the heliport. Two searchlight beams were sweeping the sea, coming closer fast.

  Showtime.

  He went back into the control room.

  “Can we leave it running like that in a loop?” he said, having to shout to be heard above the tannoy.

  “Already done,” the operator said. He had left his post and was getting into a waterproof survival suit that appeared to be eating him. “It’ll keep going as long as there’s power here in the room.”

  “Then pray it stays on,” Banks replied. He turned to Seton. “Ready to get the flock out of here yet, wee man?”

  “More than ready.”

  When they went back out onto the gantry, the first of the two choppers had already landed and a line of crew were making their way across the accessway to the helipad. The second chopper came in at a steeper angle, the pilot expertly using the wind against itself to land dead center on the second parking bay on the pad.

  There was no sign of the beast.

  Not yet anyway.

  He saw the doc and two of the crew pushing a trolley bed across the causeway, the sarge’s pale face showing clearly in the gloom. Banks made for the causeway with Seton beside him.

  The tannoy was still broadcasting the chant.

  He sleeps and he dreams with the fish far below.

  He dreams and he sings in the dark.

  The first chopper had filled rapidly and the rotors were spinning up ready for take-off. The noisy clatter and whirr echoed around the rig and Banks noticed, too late, that the sound was deadening the chanting. The first chopper rose slowly off the pad, the pilot clearly fighting against the wind to stop being blown horizontally across the landing area.