Marine A SBS

by Shaun Clarke

  They soon heard the rescue helicopter. It was flying from east to west just ahead at a very low altitude. Masters immediately stopped the boat, then went back to the stern. The deck had been shot full of holes and the water was pouring in.

  ‘We were lucky,’ he said. ‘Another ten minutes and we’d have sunk. We’d have frozen to death just like that lot.’

  He threw the anchor overboard and returned to the wheel-house, where he rummaged about on the floor, then stood up with a flare gun, which he aimed at the sky. There was a short, dull explosion. The flare burst in the sky high above, streaking the darkness with green and purple light. Masters fired a second signal and the coloured streaks formed an umbrella, racing outward, then curving back down to fade above the dark sea.

  The Dragonfly’s pilot saw the flares and descended to approach. Soon the helicopter was hovering just above the boat, its props causing a whirlwind.

  A searchlight cut through the darkness as the helicopter hovered thirty feet above them, swaying dangerously in the wind, its engine making a deafening noise. The spinning props whipped the air and made the sea swirl and roar, the waves rushing across the deck of the launch to drench the PM and Masters. They held on to the sides, blinking against the powerful light. Falling out of the Dragonfly, the abseil harness blew out wildly on the fierce wind. The PM looked up and saw the wildly swinging harness, then looked higher at the bottom of the helicopter and felt his head spinning. Masters was shouting and waving at him, trying to give him instructions. The PM glanced down and saw the water creeping over his ankles.

  ‘. . . boat’s going down!’ Masters was shouting. ‘We’ve no time to lose!’

  When the PM reached out for the harness, it flew away from his grasp. The helicopter continued roaring above him, the waves rushed in to drench him. Masters reached for the harness and caught it, then waved at the PM, who stepped forward, gripping the side of the boat. The boat was rocking in the violent, surging water, sinking down at the stern. Masters indicated the harness, holding it up to the PM. He saw two loops for his arms, and an encircling belt, so he held his arms out. The boat rocked and he nearly fell. Masters was speaking, still trying to give instructions, but the PM couldn’t hear a word. Masters attached the harness to him, tightening the belt around him, as the wind continued howling about them.

  The SBS sergeant stepped back and waved at the helicopter. The PM felt the pounding of his heart, an absurd, childish dread. The cable above him went taut and he sucked his breath in. He was picked up and flew out on the wind and then was swinging in mid-air.

  The PM gripped the straps, gasped for breath and closed his eyes. His stomach heaved and he suddenly felt hollow, so he opened his eyes again. He heard the roar of the helicopter, felt himself swinging freely, and glanced down to see the sea far below, its dark waves flattening out. He kept swinging back and forth as he was winched up on the cable. The roaring of the helicopter increased and the wind beat more fiercely.

  The PM swung in space, seeing dark sky and the sea, feeling the wind and tasting the salt in the air before being jerked up and in. Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and dragged him in farther, until he saw the cluttered interior of the helicopter and a pair of wide, staring eyes. Seeing these, the PM realized who he was: that he was the Prime Minister. He said his thanks to the nervous eyes, smiling kindly as he did so. Grateful, the young, wide-eyed Royal Navy loadmaster unclipped the harness, took it off the PM, then threw it back out again and watched it fall to the sea.

  The PM looked down and saw the dark sea. The boat below seemed too small to be real and its stern was sinking under the water. Masters stood on the prow, which was pointing at the sky. He swayed to and fro as if about to fall, then reached up to the harness. The sea washed across the boat, engulfing most of it. The prow suddenly lurched up and fell back and Masters jumped into space, swinging away from the sinking boat as it disappeared beneath the waves. Masters dangled momentarily in the harness and then started ascending.

  It seemed to take a long time. The wind howled through the Dragonfly. Masters floated far below in the darkness, moving up, coming closer. Then his head appeared through the floor. The loadmaster hauled him in. Masters turned around and looked back through the doorway at the black void below. There was no sign of the boat. The sea was merging with the darkness. Masters gasped and rolled on to his back and just lay there and smiled.

  ‘Now we’ve got them,’ he said.

  13

  ‘The situation is this,’ Masters said to his CO, Lieutenant-Colonel Edwards, and Captain Pancroft. ‘The terrorist bomb is now inoperative. We’ve knocked out their radar. That means we can get close to the rig without being detected. I suggest that we do so and that we do it this morning, while it’s dark, before the dawn breaks.’

  ‘Right,’ Captain Pancroft said keenly. ‘First light is always the best time. Catch the buggers napping.’

  Masters grinned at Rudy Pancroft. He admired him greatly. Captain Pancroft had often been referred to as a legend in his own lifetime for his sterling work with the anti-smuggling patrols in Hong Kong, his surveillance activities in the ‘bandit country’ of Northern Ireland and, in particular, his heroic performances during the war in the Falklands, which had ended only a few months earlier. He was a good man to know.

  ‘I agree,’ Lieutenant-Colonel Edwards said. ‘The sooner we clear this mess up the better. So let’s be getting on with it.’

  The two officers wore the full Royal Marines uniform, including the Commando green beret, plus parachuting wings and a badge denoting that they were Swimmer Canoeists. Both also had numerous military awards stitched to their tunics. Compared with them, the other men in the boardroom of Bravo 1 looked almost anaemic.

  Masters was standing at one end of the table, wearing spotless overalls. The Prime Minister was sitting at his right hand, in a new, dark-grey suit with white shirt and silk tie. The rest of the men looked tired and pale from lack of sleep and anxiety. Turner played nervously with his beard; Sir Reginald McMillan kept drumming his fingertips on the table; and only Dalton, the American troubleshooter, had managed to retain his sardonic, hard-edged pragmatism.

  Turner glanced at the two immaculate RM officers and said: ‘I’m still worried. Who the hell backed the terrorists? You say they’ve got a man aboard this rig. Which one of us is it?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Sir Reginald said. ‘We can sort that out later. What matters at the moment is Charlie 2. We have to get that rig back.’

  ‘I disagree,’ Dalton said. ‘I think Turner has a point. If McGee says their man’s aboard this rig, then that man could be dangerous. McGee said he was one of us. He’s right here in this boardroom. If, as McGee said, he has a radio, he could contact the terrorists. If he did, we couldn’t take them by surprise; they’d just be sitting there waiting. I don’t think the SBS can launch a successful assault if the terrorists know they’re on the way.’

  There were twelve men around the table and they stared at one another, all of them suddenly uncomfortable, self-conscious and edgy.

  ‘One of us?’ a Frenchman asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ Masters replied. ‘They definitely said that the man was in this boardroom, so it could be me . . . you . . . anyone. We’ve no way of knowing.’

  There was another lengthy silence. The men fidgeted, coughed, or stared at the table. The Under-Secretary put his chin in his hands and looked extremely annoyed.

  ‘Incredible!’ he exclaimed. ‘Becoming more so every minute. This whole situation defies belief and it’s truly quite sickening. First the terrorists sink a rig, then they take over another. Now we find that one of our own senior executives has ordered the assassination of the Prime Minister. I find this whole thing appalling.’

  Sir Reginald sighed. ‘We’ve been through all this before. Let’s stick to the issue at hand and sort this mess out.’

  ‘It’s your mess,’ the Under-Secretary told him. ‘And it’s a disgusting mess. The lack of security th
roughout your organization is utterly scandalous.’

  ‘I agree,’ the PM said. ‘I’m still appalled by the whole affair. If word of this ever gets out, the repercussions will be devastating to us all.’

  ‘We’d be a laughing-stock,’ the Under-Secretary said.

  ‘Precisely,’ the PM replied. ‘Worse still: confidence in the viability of the North Sea would be lost internationally.’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ Dalton said. ‘My side would definitely pull out. I don’t see any Americans staying in the North Sea if this mess is made known to them.’

  They all slumped back into a silence that was filled with nervous coughing. More cigarettes and cigars were lit and their smoke turned the air blue.

  ‘He has a radio,’ Turner reminded them. ‘Whoever he is, he has a radio. We better search every cabin in the rig and make sure we find it.’

  ‘No,’ Lieutenant-Colonel Edwards said. ‘I don’t think so. For one thing, he’s possibly got rid of the radio already, to avoid being caught; for another, such a search is bound to arouse the suspicions of your crew. You want this kept as quiet as possible. If, as McGee says, the man is here in this boardroom, then let’s just make sure he stays here. We’ll attack the rig immediately. It’ll all be over by first light. Until then, don’t let anyone other than the SBS leave this boardroom. That should solve that particular problem.’

  The CO glanced around the table. Most of the men seemed to be in agreement. The PM could not resist a slight smile when he gazed at Sir Reginald.

  ‘And what then?’ Dalton asked. ‘We still have to find out who he is. If he can pull this stunt, he’ll pull others and that isn’t acceptable.’

  ‘I think you should leave that problem until tomorrow,’ Captain Pancroft said. ‘Right now, the major concern is the recapture of the rig held by the terrorists.’

  ‘I agree,’ the PM said. ‘We must get the terrorists off Charlie 2 and then hush this thing up. That’s our prime concern.’

  ‘But why attack?’ Turner asked. ‘I don’t see the point. An assault like that requires a lot of men – and a lot will be killed. Why not just sit tight? The terrorists have lost their bomb. Why attack when we can just leave them there until their food runs out?

  ‘It would take too long,’ Masters said. ‘Fresh supplies went out to Charlie 2 yesterday. That gives them four normal weeks, which they could stretch out much longer.’

  ‘So what?’ Turner responded. ‘I say sweat them out.’

  ‘No,’ Dalton said. ‘I back Masters in this. If we let them sit on Charlie 2 for four weeks, they’ll start using their radio. They’ll talk to the press – to the whole damn media. Before we know it, the entire world will know about it. We have to prevent that.’

  ‘The media will learn about it anyway,’ Turner insisted. ‘If we capture the terrorists, they’ll talk. You can’t keep a thing like this quiet. It’s too big for secrecy.’

  ‘I disagree,’ the American said. ‘Nothing’s too big for silence. If the terrorists are captured, they’ll be rushed straight into prison and allowed no access to the press. This is, after all, a matter of national security. On those grounds we can ensure that the trial takes place behind closed doors. The oil companies will then agree their own version of events, the terrorists will each be given twenty years to life, and by the time the dumb bastards are released this episode will be ancient history. And by then the North Sea will be drained dry of oil and we’ll be drilling elsewhere.’

  ‘That’s important,’ the Under-Secretary said. ‘A total lock-up is vital. The only people who know about this affair are the terrorists and us, so we’ve got to make sure it remains that way.’

  ‘The terrorists’ backers know,’ Turner reminded him.

  ‘They won’t talk,’ Masters said. ‘As McGee kindly informed me: they can’t ever discuss this affair without giving themselves away.’

  ‘McGee really screwed them,’ Dalton said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Masters replied. ‘He screwed them and now they have to sit tight and keep their mouths shut.’

  ‘So,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘We attack them immediately. We launch a full-scale assault and get them off that rig, and then throw them in jail and forget about them.’

  ‘Correct,’ Dalton said. ‘McGee’s given us our story. We say it was an earthquake on the seabed. We put that out as our press release.’

  ‘It’s rather risky,’ Sir Reginald said. ‘We’ll have to use a lot of men. I can’t see how we’re going to keep it quiet with so many men knowing.’

  ‘SBS men,’ Lieutenant-Colonel Edwards emphasized. ‘My men always operate in strict secrecy and they never talk afterwards.’

  ‘So,’ Dalton said, ‘we use the SBS to recapture the rig, then we put out our own press release and replace the whole crew with new men who don’t know what’s been happening. I think that solves the problem.’

  He smiled and glanced around him, receiving nods of agreement from everyone except Masters, who was looking out through the nearest porthole at the dark Forties Field. He was recalling Barker standing up in the motor launch, his eyes widening with stunned disbelief as he went over the stern. Now Barker was dead and drifting somewhere out there; he was at the bottom of the sea with the other dead, rig workers and terrorists alike, and those bastards on Charlie 2 were responsible. Masters glanced at the Under-Secretary and saw his handsome, shocked face. He knew that the civil servant wasn’t shocked by the body count; that his hatred of the oil companies had totally erased the dead from his thoughts. He was a political animal and this was all politics. In the end, it was always politics. Masters knew it and felt deep revulsion, but he had to live with it. He still had a job to do.

  ‘All right,’ the PM said gravely, after considerable thought. ‘I authorize the assault.’

  The wave of relief that passed around the table was jarred when the red telephone rang. Looking startled, Turner picked it up.

  ‘I’ve got Charlie 2 on the line,’ the operator informed him. ‘They want to speak to the boardroom.’

  Turner frowned. ‘Anyone special?’

  ‘No. It’s their leader, McGee. He just wants the boardroom.’

  Turner visibly trembled and focused on the floor. ‘All right,’ he said, sounding defeated as he switched to the open line. ‘Tell him I’m here.’

  McGee came on the phone, clearly angry, his voice hoarse. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘you bastards fixed my bomb, but I’m not finished yet. Let me speak to Masters.’

  There was a brief, tingling silence as Turner stood there with the receiver in his hand, not knowing what to do. Eventually, after nods of permission from the PM and Sir Reginald, he handed the phone to Masters.

  ‘This is Masters speaking.’

  ‘You’re a smart bastard, Masters.’

  ‘Thanks for the compliment,’ Masters said. ‘Now what do you want?’

  ‘I want your hide,’ McGee said.

  ‘You’re not going to get it.’

  ‘I just might. Sure, I’m not finished yet. I’ve something else up my sleeve.’

  Masters glanced at the others around the table and saw the return of their fear. ‘What’s that, then?’ he asked the terrorist leader.

  ‘You think I’m dumb, Masters? You think you’ve fucking beat me? Well, don’t think too soon.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Masters repeated.

  ‘I want what I’ve always wanted. I want a million in cash and my four comrades out of the Maze.’

  ‘You’re too late,’ Masters told him. ‘You’ve nothing left to offer. You can’t even bargain with your bomb. I took that away from you.’

  ‘Ackaye, you did. But that doesn’t mean I’m sitting here stranded. Not by a long chalk.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. Sure, if you weren’t so fucking dumb you’d have guessed. I can still sink this rig.’

  Masters glanced around the boardroom. The men sitting at the table leant forward, looking tense and confused.

&nb
sp; ‘We came prepared,’ McGee said. ‘We’ve got plastic explosives. We can’t blow up the whole of the Forties, but we can still sink this rig. I’ll blow a pontoon leg off, Masters, and you know what that means. This whole fucking rig’ll go down – and that isn’t good news.’

  Turner groaned audibly and covered his face with his hands. The other men looked at each other, some turning pale, but Dalton stood up, walked deliberately around the table, then stood beside Masters and studied him with eyes slightly narrowed.

  ‘Plastic explosives?’ Masters asked.

  ‘Right,’ McGee confirmed. ‘Enough to blow a hole in one pontoon leg and sink the whole rig. And that, Masters, is what I’m gonna do if we don’t agree right now.’

  When Masters glanced at Dalton, the American shrugged and nodded, telling him to agree.

  ‘All right,’ Masters said. ‘How do we do it?’

  The PM stared disbelievingly at Dalton, who shrugged again, then raised his hands in the air in a gesture of resignation. Turner groaned, his head still in his hands, and Sir Reginald sighed.

  ‘You’ve got till dawn,’ McGee said. ‘I don’t need the Prime Minister. I’ve already stolen a million from our backers; I’ll take the rest from you bastards. You’ll deliver the cash by dawn. By helicopter. You’ll personally fly the chopper, Masters, and then we’ll have words. That leaves my four men in the Maze. I want them out by six a.m. tomorrow. I expect one of them to ring me as soon as they’re all free and I also want the pardons announced in the evening papers in England.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘We’ll leave. Flying out by helicopter. We’ll land on a private airstrip and then disappear and we’ll keep our mouths shut as long as we’re free and untouched. If you touch any of us, we’ll talk; if you don’t, we’ll keep quiet.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Masters asked.

  ‘No,’ McGee said. ‘You’ve got till dawn to fly here with the cash; if you don’t, this rig sinks. And don’t try a sneak attack. That wouldn’t please me at all. At the first sign of an assault, we’ll blow up the pontoon leg. That’s all there is to it.’