The colonel nodded and smiled.
“And the rig staff are even now backing you up on that. Don’t get distracted by the smoke and mirrors, John. I still need you and the squad on this; you’re the chaps with the experience, even if this thing’s a tad bigger than anything else you’ve come up against.”
“You know us, sir. We’re up for anything. But apart from blowing it to fuck with a nuke, I don’t know as we can do much in the way of stopping it.”
“I might have a plan,” Seton said quietly, but didn’t get time to explain as the colonel’s PA came into the office.
“The rest of S-Squad are here as you requested, sir. The corporal is demanding beer.”
The colonel surprised Banks again when they went downstairs to the small private bar and mess hall overlooking the inner quadrangle.
“Get somebody to open up the bar,” the colonel said to his PA. “The first round is on me.”
Banks saw that Wiggo was rather subdued compared to normal. He waited until a sleepy private had been found to open the bar, beers were poured for everybody, and frozen pizzas were in the oven before taking the corporal outside to the quadrangle for a smoke.
“How’s the sarge?” Wiggo asked as they lit up.
“He’ll be fine, or so the doc says. A few broken ribs but a bit of rest and he’ll be good as new. Never mind him. How are you holding up?”
Wiggo stared away into the night before replying.
“I never knew it would be so hard. I mean, we’ve lost guys before, and I took them personally. But it’s different when you’re actually in charge of them. And they weren’t even in the force; they were just regular guys, doing their jobs, making money to keep their families. And what are those poor women and kids going to do now? I’m taking it sore, Cap, if truth be told.”
“It never gets any easier,” Banks replied. “And the fact that it bothers you so much just proves what I’ve always known.”
“And what’s that, Cap?”
“That you’re a good man, Corporal Wiggins. Or rather, Acting-Sergeant Wiggins. I need a wingman, and you’re it. Want the job?”
“Until I die or someone better comes along?” Wiggo said, smiling for the first time.
“As I said, Wiggo. You’re a good man. But you watch far too many crap films.”
They went back into the mess to discover everyone watching a satellite TV news report. The headline ran, white on red and in bold capitals along the bottom of the screen.
DISASTER IN NORTH SEA
As the news item progressed, it became clear that the channel actually had no news at all beyond the fact that there had been a rescue from a rig and that there may, or may not, have been casualties. It did not, however, stop the talking heads assembled on screen from speculating, anything from terrorist attack to catastrophic system failure brought about by cost cutting. Nobody mentioned a fucking huge singing monster.
“The D notice seems to be holding, so that’s something at least. What’s the minister’s story going to be?” Banks asked the colonel.
“I doubt he knows yet. But I’m also sure there’ll be no mention of any monster. Can you imagine the panic, never mind the media circus, that would ensue? No, he’ll want to play it close to his chest. If I were a betting man, I’d guess bad weather will take the blame.”
“The men who died deserve better than that,” Wiggo said.
“The government will make sure their families are supported,” the colonel replied. “What else can they do? What’s done is done.”
Banks saw that Wiggo was getting angry and ready to interject. He put a hand on his shoulder to get his attention and shook his head when Wiggo looked at him.
“I just promoted you, Wiggo,” he said so that only the two of them could hear. “Don’t blow it in the first five minutes.”
Seton spoke up to diffuse the tension.
“Will you give me ten minutes of your time to at least listen to my idea, Colonel?” he said.
“No,” came the blunt reply. “I’ve enough on my plate explaining the thing to the minister without adding mambo-jumbo and ancient Scottish mysticism to the mix. We’re going with the military solution.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“I say we take off and nuke the site from orbit,” Wiggo said. “It’s the only way to be sure.”
Everybody except the colonel laughed; it was obvious he didn’t get the reference. But it was equally obvious he was in no mood to hang around and find out.
“I’m already late for my meeting. Do me a favour all of you—don’t get pissed. You’ve got four hours before I can get transport for you to head back to base. Sleeping might be your best option.”
With that, the colonel left them to it.
“Right. Who needs another beer?” Wiggo said.
Banks wasn’t paying too much attention, his gaze on the TV screen. They’d shifted away from the talking heads in the studio to go live to Aberdeen. Banks recognised the man they were interviewing. It was the radio operator from the rig’s control room. Somehow he’d slipped whatever bonds the company had tried to put on him. Now here he was, standing at the police cordon at the airport, and the first words out of his mouth were going to make the minister’s job in the morning all the more difficult.
“It was a monster. Biggest bloody thing you ever did see, like something out of a film. It ate our supply boat, took out a chopper, and demolished the rig. I was damned lucky to get out of there alive.”
Then the picture switched again, to Aberdeen’s dockland area. Bright headlights were washing a broad area of water just beyond the harbour entrance. They swept back, forward and, on their way back again picked out a wall of greyish silver flesh sliding through the dark waters less than a hundred yards out to sea. The only sound to be heard was a high, wailing drone, the same keening piper’s lament they heard on the rig.
“Drink up, lads,” Banks said. “I think we’re going to be on the move earlier than the colonel thought.”
15
The colonel passed Wiggo the keys to the SUV. It was going to be a tight fit, what with the squad members, Seton, and their kit, but they’d got it all stowed in double quick time. A mere ten minutes after seeing the news broadcast they were on their way, the colonel waving them off, as they sped down the Barrack’s driveway and took a left, heading for the city center then the docklands.
“I meant what I said back there, Cap,” Wiggo said, rolling down the window and lighting up a smoke. “Maybe nuking it from orbit isn’t that bad a plan for this fucker.”
“And take out Aberdeen as collateral damage? I doubt the brass would swing for that, Wiggo.”
“It’s not as if they’d be losing much of any value,” Davies spoke up from the back, getting another laugh from them all.
“Spoken like a true Glaswegian and a man after my own heart,” Wiggo said. “But seriously, Cap. If we could lure it out to sea…”
“And take out a few oil rigs in the process? The brass would probably like that even less.”
They saw lights ahead as they went past the railway station and headed for Torry docks. A barrier had been erected across the road. Wiggo slowed and stopped to let a young policeman poke his head through the window.
“I’ve been told not to let anyone through,” he said.
Banks spoke up.
“Just as well we’re not anyone then, isn’t it? We’re on official business. We could get you to check with your superiors but we’re on the clock and don’t have time for any of that bollocks. Let us through, there’s a good lad.”
There must have been just enough weary contempt in the captain’s voice to convince him, for a few seconds later they were waved through and made their way into Torry.
The roadblock must have only gone up recently for there were several media crew already in place in the inner dock and Wiggo had to carefully weave around them before having to stop at another checkpoint, this one manned not by police but by military.
This time, th
e captain gave his rank and credentials, mentioned the colonel by name, and once again they were waved through into the wider expanse of Torry docks. The harbor was full; cargo vessels in the main and several more of the rig supply boats of the kind they’d used to get to the rig the day before. An evacuation seemed to be in progress for crewmembers were coming off all the docked boats and being shepherded in a line back off the quays to somewhere beyond the roadblock. The large searchlights they’d seen on TV were being provided by three strategically placed fishing boats that bobbed just offshore in the estuary, pointing their lights out the main harbor mouth past the harbor control station on the far side of the river. They were currently lighting up only water and the splash of waves on the old stone of the outer harbor. Of the monster, there was no sight or sound.
“If we’re lucky, it’s already fucked off back to where it came from,” Davies said.
“Us? Lucky? When has that ever been true?” Wiggo replied.
“Hold the fort, Wiggo,” the captain said. “I need to find out who’s in charge here and have a word.”
“I’ll come with you,” Seton replied, and the pair departed towards the harbormaster’s office, leaving Wiggo, Davies, and Wilkins standing at the side of the SUV.
“Smoke them if you’ve got them, lads,” Wiggo said, leaned back against the still warm SUV and lit up a smoke. He checked his watch…four a.m. It felt like an eternity since they’d left Lossiemouth at the start of this operation, although it had been quite a bit less than twenty-four hours previously. His legs were still telling him that they were bobbing around in a boat and the whole world had taken on a weird swimming sensation that he knew would eventually pass but, for now, felt like he’d had one beer too many. Besides that, it kept reminding him of the rescue and his last sight of the beast as it swallowed the dinghies below him.
“Nuke you?” he muttered. “I’ll ram it down your fucking throat.”
“Did you say something, Corp?” Wilkins asked.
“Nah, just wool-gathering. But it’s not Corp, not tonight. Until we get the sarge back, it’s Acting-Sergeant Wiggo to you.”
Of course he then had to go over the conversation he’d had with the captain in the barracks and suffer good-natured ribbing from the privates, but at least it passed some time and took his mind off other matters…for a while at least.
Two things happened almost simultaneously to break his newfound calm.
The night air was pierced with the now well-known droning wail washing in from somewhere out in the dark sea waters. It was quickly accompanied by a loud alarm coming from speakers hung at intervals along the tall lights that lined the quays, a rhythmic whoop-whoop that seemed to carry a beat for the invisible piper offshore. Wiggo was remembering Seton’s words about the thing being affected by…drawn to…noise, and remembering the attacks on the rig.
“Turn that bloody thing off,” he shouted. “Right fucking now.”
Even if someone had heard him and acted on it, it was going to be too late. A wave surge, ten feet high, foam-tipped and rising ever higher as it came in, rushed in from out at sea and, pushing it forward from behind, caught in the glare of the fishing boat’s lights, came the great bulk of the beast with its head raised and jaws open ready to snatch its next meal.
The wave rushed up the dock. It lifted the fishing boats up and took them further inside to smash with a grinding crash against the rear wall. As they broke up, the boats’ lights washed up, down and sideward in a macabre imitation of a manic disco. Cold water rose up in the quay, washing around the SUV’s wheels and over the squaddies’ feet. Wiggo was momentarily alarmed that they were going to be washed away completely but the flow of water lessened when the serpent, having made its way onto the harbour itself, stopped displacing water, and instead turned its attention towards carnage.
It tore at cargo ships and supply vessels alike, tossing tons of metal in the air with no seeming effort, steel crashing against steel, hulls collapsing and metal ripping like so much paper, all to the accompaniment of the wailing claxon. As if still unsatisfied, the beast threw itself in ever-increasing frenzy against the remaining boats. The harbor walls and quayside crumbled and disintegrated under the onslaught of its slapping tail and Wiggo saw that the section of quay they stood on was directly in the path of the beast’s marauding havoc.
“Get in, lads, we’re leaving,” he said and, trusting the privates to obey, threw himself into the driver’s seat and got the engine started. The others were still getting in when he looked out the windshield to see it full of a wall of shimmering silver-grey flesh coming at him like a moving wall. He switched into reverse, put his foot down and, trusting to luck more than judgement, barreled backwards down the quay leaving a wash behind in the shallow water. Davies was still trying to shut his door when they reached the end of the quay. Wiggo threw the wheel ‘round and they spun 270 degrees to be facing the inner roadblock. He switched gears put his foot down again and, weaving like a drunk on a Saturday night, went through the roadblock, smashing the thin wood like a matchstick. He only stopped when they were two hundred yards inland and had spun the vehicle ‘round in a squeal of tires on tarmac to look back at the harbor.
The beast was still rampaging, throwing boats, bits of boats, lumps of quayside, and buildings high in the air.
It was only then that Wiggo remembered the others.
The captain and auld Seton were still in there, somewhere amid the continuing carnage.
16
Banks and Seton had been arguing with the harbormaster when the claxon went off, deafeningly loud in the man’s small office. They’d been trying to press the case for him to broadcast Seton’s chant over the very speakers that were now blazing the alarm.
“I don’t care if you’ve got authority from the fucking Queen,” the man said. “It’s utter nonsense and I won’t have it.”
The claxon kicked in and coincidentally Banks was the only one looking out the wide window overlooking the mouth of the harbor. He saw the wave coming, saw the wide head of the serpent as it came on at speed.
“I don’t think the utter nonsense gives a fuck what you think,” Banks shouted above the noise and waved at the scene beyond the window. The harbormaster had one look at it, took to his heels, and fled.
“Well, that solves one problem,” Banks said, looking to Seton. “Do you think you can hook into their system?”
“I think I can try,” the older man answered and made for what Banks assumed to be the tannoy control panel. He caught movement in the corner of the eye, turned back to the window, and saw the beast start to tear the boats in the harbor apart like an angry dog with a pile of toys. It was only going to be a matter of time before the building they were in became one of those toys.
“Try faster,” he shouted.
He looked down over the quay, heart in his mouth as Wiggo and the young privates made their high-speed reverse getaway. He tried and failed to peer ‘round the corner of the window when the SUV disappeared from sight.
The tannoy alarm continued to scream and the beast continued to rampage. The wall of flesh of its flanks crept ever closer to their position.
“Time we were leaving,” Banks shouted as a fragment of cargo boat bigger than a house passed by feet to their left and crashed away into the dark somewhere behind them.
“Nearly there,” Seton shouted. “This might help.”
The claxon went silent as the older man flipped a switch. The beast paused in its rampage, as if confused by the sudden quiet. The pause was only for a matter of seconds though. With a flick of the thick tail it sent another boat careering like a missile across the docks to flatten everything in its path. The wall of flesh moved closer to them again, threatening to engulf the building. Banks strode quickly across the room, intent on forcibly removing Seton if he wouldn’t move. It wasn’t needed; as he got within arm’s length of the man, Seton shouted out.
“Got it.”
The now well-known sound of the chant filled t
he air.
He sleeps and he dreams with the fish far below.
He dreams and he sings in the dark.
Banks wasn’t in any mood to wait to see if there was a result; the wall of flesh filled the window behind him. They could be crushed at any moment.
He grabbed Seton and together they barreled through the doorway and out into the night.
They hit the ground running.
They only stopped as they approached the shattered remains of the roadblock barrier at the dock entrance. Banks saw Wiggo and the lads a hundred yards or so farther along the road and he waved to show them he was okay. At the same moment, Seton tugged at his arm, making him turn.
“Something’s happening,” the older man said.
The chant still played over the tannoy.
And the Dreaming God is singing where he lies.
As it had before at the rig, the sing-song chant appeared to have a soporific effect on the beast. Its movements slowed. The small stubby limbs moved lethargically, as if dancing in time to the chant, and a huge tongue lolled, dripping gallons of drool and saliva over the harbormaster’s room that Banks and Seton had recently left.
The chant looped and continued blaring from the tannoy system.
He sleeps and he dreams with the fish far below.
He dreams and he sings in the dark.
The beast’s eyes struggled to remain open.
A new sound split the air, a roar coming from the north. The beast roused itself for several seconds at that, raising its head. That was enough, for when the head lowered again it fell onto the harbormaster’s office.
“Look, do you see?” Seton said. Something had excited the old man, but Banks wasn’t looking at the beast…he was searching the sky for what he knew was coming.
Several things happened at once.
Two jet fighters, side by side, came in from the north, low, just above what remained of the harbor walls.
“Get down,” Banks shouted and threw Seton on the ground, dropping himself on top of the man and covering his ears as well as he could manage. The tannoy cut off as the beast’s head crushed the building below it. There was a double whoosh—rockets from the jet fighters—and then everything went hot and red. Twin blasts almost blew Banks and Seton along the quay, the whole harbor area filled with flame and the beast howled, although it sounded more like rage than agony.
Operation: North Sea (S-Squad Book 10) Page 8