Operation: North Sea (S-Squad Book 10)

by William Meikle

  Ahead of Banks, the doc and his helpers were getting the sarge loaded into the second chopper. Banks and Seton were the last two people to arrive on the helipad.

  “Get her up,” he shouted, realising there was no way the pilot could hear him, and broke into a run, hoping that Seton was smart enough to do the same. He’d got halfway across the helipad when the whole rig shook and shuddered from a heavy hit. The lights flickered and dimmed and the chanting could barely be heard now above the chopper noise and the wind.

  Banks put his head down and, with Seton right at his shoulder, made for the chopper.

  Everybody else was aboard. The doc stood bent over in the doorway, urging them forward.

  The rig took another hit, harder this time. The helipad lurched hard and developed a slope. The impact caused Seton to stumble and fall flat on his face. Banks went back for him and helped the older man to his feet and had turned back towards the chopper as another jolting blow hit the rig. The lights went dark, the tannoy cut off, and now there was just the wind, the rotor blades, and a mad dash for the doorway.

  The helipad was breaking up below them. Banks caught a glimpse of the beast, the great head starting to rise out of the water. He grabbed Seton and threw him forward into the doorway, saw the doc gather the older man inside to safety. The chopper began to rise, just as the deck of the helipad gave way under Banks’ feet. He reached upward, already knowing he wasn’t going to make it, and felt only yawning emptiness and death below him for a split second before a strong hand grabbed his left wrist and pulled him up.

  He tumbled into the chopper, all elbows and knees, and rolled over to see that it had been Seton who’d saved him. The older man grinned.

  “Not so auld now, eh,” he said, but Banks knew there was no time for chat.

  “Take her up, right fucking now,” he shouted, hoping the pilot might hear. He rose and went to the doorway, looking down. The creature appeared to be ignoring the chopper in favor of wreaking carnage on the rig. From above, and getting higher with every second, Banks and Seton got a bird’s-eye view and were able to see for the first time the true size and extent of the beast.

  “It’s huge,” Seton said.

  “Bloody enormous are the words, I think,” Banks agreed.

  It was coiled like a snake around the base pillars of the rig, crushing them inwards even as its head and great jaw tore the superstructure above to shards of twisted metal. Now that he could see almost its whole length he saw it wasn’t entirely serpentine but had four legs, short and stubby, but each tipped with a four-clawed foot. The front two limbs tore at the lower reaches of the infrastructure; the little that remained of the helipad disappeared into the seething roil of water as the beast’s frenzy grew.

  Only then did it seem to take note of the chopper. It looked up, and again Banks felt as if it stared directly into his soul.

  “Higher,” he shouted as he saw the coils below tighten. “Higher, now.”

  The beast threw itself up, impossibly high, lifting almost all of the great length of body behind it as the jaws opened and Banks looked down into the depths of its gullet.

  The jaws snapped shut only yards below them, the subsequent wash of wind almost knocking them out of the sky and forcing Banks to grab onto a hold lest he be tumbled headlong out the open door.

  He watched the beast fall. It hit what was left of the rig with a crash audible even this high above in the storm and everything disappeared in a wash of spray and foam which, when it cleared, revealed only a dark empty sea.

  The beast had gone again and taken the rig down to the dark with it.

  13

  “We’ve got one flare left for each dinghy by my reckoning,” Wiggo said. They’d been adrift for two hours now and they were about as miserable as any five men could be. With every flare their hope was kindled, only to be dashed again when no rescue came in reply. Davies was suffering badly from seasickness; he’d thrown up three times now and the air in the dinghy reeked of it, even after Wiggo relented and allowed them a smoke each. He showed the last flare to them all.

  “What do you say? Do we save it in case we hear someone coming, or do we use it now?”

  Both the privates spoke at the same time.

  “Save it.”

  Tom and the operator both went the other way and suggested using it.

  “I’ve got the casting vote then,” Wiggo replied and put the loaded flare gun down.

  For now.

  Ten minutes later, the near dinghy let off their last, and ten minutes after that the third followed suit, leaving Wiggo with the only flare left.

  Well this is just fucking marvelous.

  The only good thing about the situation was that the storm appeared to be lessening outside. The wind had dropped considerably and although the swell was still rough, they had been able to open the zipper and get some fresh air without fear of being swamped by spray.

  Wiggo checked his watch for the umpteenth time. It was after midnight now but the minutes appeared to be creeping slower than normal. He put his hand on the flare gun, wondering again whether he’d made the right decision. Then he heard it…not a chopper, but the weird high, almost musical, drone of the beast echoing across the surface of the ocean.

  “That’s all we fucking need,” he said.

  He moved across to the zippered entrance, unzipped it halfway, and put his head outside. The sound was louder out here and again he was reminded of a bagpiper, perhaps on a lonely misty hillside, wailing his lament into the mist. But no piper had ever raised the hackles at the back of Wiggo’s neck like this did. It sounded like trouble, and it had his Spidey-sense tingling.

  He peered out into the night, staring for any sight of the beast. Instead he saw a faint glimmer of light on the horizon, two spotlights, lost as quickly as they had come as the dinghy went into a trough, then clearly visible again when they came up the next crest. He heard them now too, the faintest whoop of rotors, beating as if in time to the beast’s song.

  “It’s about fucking time too,” he muttered to himself as he took the flare gun, aimed in the direction of the light, and pulled the trigger. The flare hissed away and burst into a red star high overhead. Wiggins followed its trail as arced away and fell towards the horizon. At the last moment, just before it fell into the sea, there was something silhouetted between it and the dinghy—three massive, sinewy humps showing where the beast was circling them some four hundred yards out.

  He didn’t mention the beast when he turned back inside; the lads were going to have enough to worry about in the coming minutes.

  “This is it, boys,” he said. “We’re going home.” He turned to Tom. “You’re the man with the training. Anything we should be doing in preparation?”

  “How many choppers?” the big man asked.

  “Two by the looks of things.”

  “Then we should untie at least one of the dinghies; we’ll want both choppers to be winching at the same time.”

  Tom moved past Wiggo, undid the zip totally, and leaned over the side of the dinghy. Second later they were bobbing, slightly higher in the water now, and drifting away from the other two vessels. When Tom turned back, he was lit from above and behind by a bright, almost blinding light and suddenly the air was full of the roar of choppers. He bent his head out and looked up, then came back in and addressed Wiggo, having to shout to be heard.

  “The taxi’s here. It’ll take two at a time. Your call, boss. Who goes first?”

  “Woman and children,” Wiggo said with a smile. “That’s your other man here and yourself in case you hadn’t noticed. Then we’ll get Davies off and put him out of his misery. Wilko will go with him and I’ll watch our backs and come up when you’re all safe.”

  Tom stayed in the doorway looking upward. A few seconds later, he began to wave, giving directions to someone above and seconds after that he had a harness in his hands attached to a line above.

  “Quick now,” he said to the operator. “He’s holding stead
y for now but if there’s a gust…”

  He didn’t have to finish the sentence. The operator was by his side seconds later. Tom made sure that the three squad members saw how he got into, and then locked, the harness. Then he leaned out, gave a thumbs up to someone above, and the pair of them were winched away, their dangling feet the last things to be seen.

  “Okay, Wilko, Davies,” Wiggins said. “You’re next. Take as much of your kit with you as you can manage, rifle over your shoulder if the harness will allow it, otherwise keep it in hand. I didn’t want to alarm the straights, but yon beastie is on the prowl nearby. We can only hope it’s no’ hungry.”

  Wilkins went to stand at the entrance and soon he was waving in the same manner as Tom had minutes before. Seconds later, he had the harness in hand. Wiggo helped them get in and made sure they were secure.

  “See you up top, lads,” he said. “Keep a seat warm for me.”

  Wilkins gave a thumbs up to the crew above and they too were winched away up into the light. Wiggo had a quick look ‘round the interior of the dinghy, decided that apart from his own pack and weapon there was nothing that wasn’t indispensable, and went to stand at the opening.

  Over to his right, some fifty yards away now, the other two dinghies bobbed in the water. Two men were being winched up from the one farthest from Wiggo. Everything appeared to be going smoothly. He looked up to see the empty harness come down towards him. As the others had done, he had to wave instructions to maneuver the line to the right position, but in seconds he had the harness in hand, climbed into it, and locked himself in position. He had his pack on his back and his weapon in his right hand as he gave the thumbs up and was lifted away from the dinghy.

  He saw it coming when he was little more than ten feet up. The beast’s broad back carved the water on either side and it came on like an accelerating speedboat, heading in a direct line for the other two dinghies which were now eighty yards away to Wiggo’s right.

  “Don’t you fucking dare,” Wiggo shouted. He managed to get turned around enough so that he could take aim and he sent a volley of rounds in the beast’s direction, but if he hit anything it didn’t show and the beast didn’t slow.

  “Fuck off!” he shouted and fired again but he was already being lifted up and away and the harness swung him round so that his shots headed into the sea somewhere to the beast’s left. He could only watch in horror as the head came up, the jaws gaped open, and the two dinghies were scooped up. Teeth clamped down. The other chopper’s harness line was severed, the two men who’d been on it taken away with however many had still been in the dinghies. The serpent’s tail came up, not fluked like a whale’s but a single solid slab of flesh and muscle, the head went down, and the whole length of it slid smoothly into the dark waters with scarcely a ripple.

  By the time Wiggo was pulled into the chopper, there was only the dark sea below and a single floating dinghy. There was no sign that the other two had ever been there.

  Tom came through from the pilot area as Wiggo was getting out of the harness.

  “Seven,” he said, his face pale and tears in his eyes. Wiggo didn’t have to ask what he was referring to.

  My first command. And I’ve lost nearly half of them.

  14

  Banks heard of the others’ rescue as they came in on approach to Aberdeen airport. The co-pilot relayed the news.

  “Your guys are okay. The one called Wiggins is turning the air blue and causing the air-traffic controllers to have kittens, but they’re safe. Some of the rig crew that were on the floatel didn’t make it though.”

  Something loosened in him that he hadn’t realised was tense. The sarge was still out of it, lying on a stretcher in the belly of the chopper, but Banks bent over him anyway.

  “Our lads are safe, Sarge. Wiggo got them through.”

  He didn’t think Hynd would hear but it felt right to tell him.

  He looked for Seton, couldn’t find him at first, then saw him up front in the co-pilot’s seat, using the radio. The older man spoke for a few minutes before coming back into the body of the chopper to talk to Banks.

  “I’ve been on the blower to your colonel again,” he said. “I tried to talk him into giving my theory another try but I was told in no uncertain terms that my role here is at an end. They’re calling out the big guns and they’ve declared a state of emergency. They’re going to throw everything and the kitchen sink at our beastie.”

  “Your beastie, not mine,” Banks answered. He remembered the enormity of the thing he’d seen taking down the rig. “I hope they’re fetching plenty of firepower. They’re going to need it.”

  A flurry of activity met them on arrival at the airport. Hynd was wheeled off rapidly to an ambulance. The doc took a second to turn and talk to Banks.

  “We’ll be at the Royal Infirmary when you’ve got time to come and see him. Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”

  “You might need to tie him down when he wakes up,” Banks said. “He’ll be wanting to get on his feet.”

  “Wanting and doing are two different things,” the doc replied. “Anyway, they’ve got nurses at ARI who can strip paint with their tongues. They’ll keep him quiet, trust me.”

  And with that, the doc was gone.

  The other rescued men were all whisked away in a bus put on by the oil company responsible for the rig. There was a small ring of reporters beyond the choppers’ landing area, but the company had made sure that no one who came off the rig would talk to them. They’d done it for purely financial considerations of course, protecting their bottom line, but Banks knew it would be in line with his own superior’s thinking; the fewer who knew the truth, the better. For the time being at least.

  He was left on the tarmac with Seton.

  “Looks like we’re on our own, wee man, at least until the rest of the squad gets brought in. Do you think we can get a drink anywhere at this time of night?”

  Seton went into his pocket, took out the hip flask, and shook it against his ear.

  “Empty. Bugger. But if we can get a taxi, I ken a place in the docks that’ll let us in for a few drams no matter what time of the night.”

  Any chances of that were quashed when a black SUV rolled up beside them. Banks was surprised to see his colonel at the wheel; he was usually in the back with his PA doing the driving up front. This was turning into a special night all ‘round.

  “Get in, chaps,” the colonel said. “I need to debrief you; the minister’s going in front of the cameras in the morning. The shit’s hitting the fan and we have to move fast if we don’t want to get caught in the blowback.”

  They got in the back and drove, mostly in silence, out of the airport, past a still-being erected police cordon in the car-park and down towards the city. The colonel didn’t speak until they pulled into the driveway of the Gordon Barracks on the north east side of town.

  “I’ve commandeered a wing here for the duration,” he said. “Away from prying eyes. We’ll be able to talk safely and you can bring me up to speed.”

  Banks was pleased to discover that the colonel’s view of ‘commandeering’ also included supplying the place with his usual comforts. They were soon sitting in comfortable chairs in a well-appointed office, each with a full glass of scotch and a fresh smoke. A large plate of freshly made ham sandwiches sat on the table but Banks preferred a liquid diet at that moment, if only to blunt the memories of the preceding hours.

  When the colonel waved to indicate he could start, it all came back in a flood.

  “It was a total shitstorm from start to finish, sir,” he began. “As soon as we got on the rig the manager was working against us…”

  It took the best part of an hour, several more smokes, another glass of scotch and numerous interventions from both the colonel and Seton but in the end the story was done to the colonel’s satisfaction.

  “How big?” he said, and Banks heard the skepticism. It was Seton who answered.

  “Too big,” he said. “The hea
d’s bigger than a row of houses on its own. You could lay the whole thing inside Hampden Park and the head would be poking out one end, the tail out the other.”

  The colonel shook his head, still taking it all in, and knocked back his scotch on one gulp before answering.

  “I’m going to have the devil of a job convincing the minister of the truth of the matter,” he said ruefully. “But he saw yon thing at Loch Ness for himself. He knows it’s not just BS and old soldier’s tales.”

  “Well, not all of it,” Banks said, and even got a laugh in return from the colonel who then turned to Banks.

  “Don’t take it hard on yourself, John. You saved lives tonight. You got that part of the job done.”

  “Lost some too,” Banks replied.

  “Same as it ever was,” the colonel added, the sadness clear in his voice. “But we can only do what we can do. And what we can do now is ensure that the politicians don’t make a pig’s arse out of what happens next.”

  “Same as it ever was,” Seton added, and got a laugh all ‘round.

  Then it was the colonel’s turn to quickly bring them up to speed on the response so far.

  There wasn’t much to tell; the storm was hampering any efforts to locate the beast. A squadron of fighter jets was in the air over the North Sea looking for it, the Russians were getting frisky at all the non-planned activity, the minister was shitting his breeks, and the oil company was already demanding enormous sums in compensation from the government, trying to lay the blame on Banks for much of what had happened out on the rig.

  “It was that twat of a rig manager that caused most of the trouble,” Banks said indignantly, before guiltily remembering that the man had died in the first chopper.