by Shaun Clarke
‘Where?’
‘In the surgery.’
‘Drugged?’
‘No, just sleepy. He had a couple of beers and fell asleep, so I just let him lie there.’
‘Wake him up,’ Masters said. ‘Send him up to the bar. Tell him to be there in half an hour. I want to talk to him.’
‘Will do,’ Dr Seymour said.
Masters put the phone back in its cradle, then yawned and stretched himself.
‘The good sergeant is tired,’ Captain Pancroft said with a grin. ‘We should put him to beddy-byes.’
‘Instead of dragging him along on this mission,’ the CO said sardonically. ‘It’s bound to be too much for him.’
‘Do you think you can make it, Sergeant Masters?’ Pancroft asked.
‘I always finish what I start,’ Masters informed him. ‘It’s the SBS way.’
‘Good man,’ Edwards said. ‘Now let’s get out of here.’
They all left the radio shack and found the operator standing outside. He was shivering and flapping his arms vigorously against the cold.
‘Can I go in now?’ he asked.
‘You can go in,’ Masters told him. ‘But don’t let anyone – and I mean anyone – make a call out. I don’t care who it is.’
‘I don’t think I can argue with . . .’
‘I’ll authorize that,’ Dalton said. ‘Any arguments, use my name. And if anyone does comes to make a call, I want to know who they are.’
‘Right, chief,’ the operator said, then went into the hut and closed the door.
Dalton led the way across the deck and back down the ladder. The wind was growing stronger, moaning around the derricks, and the great platform was a patchwork of bright lights, white spaces and shadows. Walking across the main deck, they were surrounded by men still working, climbing up and down ladders, crossing catwalks, carrying crates and huge pipes. Dalton climbed another ladder, followed by Masters, then Edwards and Pancroft. They all entered the modules, made their way along narrow corridors, went down more steps and then found themselves in the canteen, also used as the bar. Some of the shift workers were eating, cutting into thick steaks with piles of chips. The three SBS men leant against the counter while Dalton ordered them coffees, just like one of the boys.
‘When do we leave?’ he asked, turning around to face Edwards.
‘As soon as we can,’ the CO replied.
‘Just as soon as Schulman gets his chopper going,’ Masters clarified. ‘It won’t do any harm to be early.’
‘Do you think the boats will make it, Tone?’
‘Yes, Paul, I do. That storm isn’t due until 0600, so we should have a smooth trip. But the storm’ll be rough. It won’t make the climb easy. On the other hand, it’ll put the terrorists off their guard. They won’t expect us to arrive in such weather, so that could be a help.’
‘Thirty-six men,’ Pancroft said. ‘Against sixty terrorists. I don’t see that as good odds.’
‘Shame on you,’ Edwards admonished him. ‘I’d have thought they were terrific odds for us. Not even two terrorists to each SBS man. Hardly worth another thought, Captain.’
‘To hell with it,’ Masters said, taking note of Pancroft’s grin, but deciding to be serious all the same. ‘We’re just going to have to risk it. Besides, half the terrorists will be asleep. We can hit them really hard before they even get their eyes open. That should bring their numbers down, even the odds a little, and with the storm and the element of surprise they’ll be pretty confused.’
‘I hope so,’ Pancroft said.
‘What the hell!’ Edwards exclaimed with a cheerful grin. ‘It’s all up for grabs now.’
They glanced repeatedly at their watches while drinking their coffee. The roustabouts and roughnecks at the tables were still eating, drinking, smoking and talking a lot. Masters was thinking how unreal it all was. Everything had taken place in twelve hours and these men had continued working right through it. They still didn’t know about it and probably never would. They would read about an earthquake beneath the seabed that destroyed one oil rig, badly damaged another and killed many rig workers, and they would simply see it as part of the job, par for the course in the North Sea. Masters shook his head at the thought.
The four men had just finished their coffee and were returning their cups when Jack Schulman walked up to them.
‘Hi,’ said the helicopter pilot, grinning wryly at Masters, but looking curiously at Dalton and the two Royal Marine Commando officers with him.
‘You look tired,’ Masters told him.
‘I am tired,’ Schulman said. ‘I’m fucking beat, so what the hell did you want me for?’
‘We need you,’ Masters said.
‘At this hour?’
‘At this hour.’
‘Don’t tell me another goddamn rig’s sunk. I still haven’t recovered from the last one.’
‘No,’ Masters said. ‘It’s nothing like that. We just want you to fly us out to Beryl. We have to fly there immediately.’
‘Charlie 2?’
‘Five miles east.’
‘What the hell’s there?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ Masters told him. ‘Now go and get ready.’
Schulman, who still believed that Masters was a top tool-pusher, looked at the Royal Marine Commandos standing on either side of Dalton, but didn’t ask what they were doing there. ‘I don’t believe this,’ he said.
‘You better believe it, Jack.’
‘It’s two-thirty in the morning, for Chrissakes. What the fuck’s going on?’
‘It’s an emergency,’ Masters said.
‘Jesus Christ, not another.’
‘The same one, in a sense,’ Masters lied. ‘Eagle 3 was the victim of an earthquake on the seabed. The bottom split open right beneath it, then that crack spread as far as the Beryl Field.’
‘That’s what sank Eagle 3?’
‘That’s what sank it,’ Masters said firmly.
‘And now the earthquake’s gone as far as the Beryl Field?’
‘Yep.’
‘Here,’ Dalton said. ‘Have a coffee, kid. It might wake you up a bit.’
‘Gee, thanks a lot, chief.’ Schulman took the coffee, drank some, then wiped his lips with his hand. ‘So what’s happening out there in Beryl?’
‘It’s Charlie 2,’ Masters told him. ‘It’s been badly damaged, so we’re mounting a rescue operation.’
‘From five miles east?’ Schulman asked.
‘That’s right,’ Masters said. ‘We don’t want to land the chopper because the rig might be sinking, so we’re planning to move in slowly by boat.’
‘I’m supposed to drop you on the boat?’
‘In a nutshell,’ Masters said. ‘You drop us and then you fly back here and wait for our call.’
‘If you get aboard I’ll pick you up?’
‘If we save the rig you’ll pick us up.’
‘So what if you don’t save the rig?’
‘Then we might go down with it.’
Schulman glanced at the men eating, as if yearning for steak and chips. ‘OK,’ he said, turning back to Masters, ‘what time do we leave? I could do with a hearty meal.’
‘We leave yesterday,’ Masters said. ‘We’re a day late already. I want you to go straight up to the flight deck and call us here when you’re ready.’
‘Jesus!’ Schulman groaned.
‘Have a sandwich,’ Captain Pancroft suggested.
‘Thanks,’ Schulman said. ‘That’s a thought. I mean, I like the high life.’
He grabbed a sandwich from the counter, jammed it into his mouth, started chewing and waved a hand in farewell as he walked out of the canteen. Dalton ordered more coffees and the man was quick in getting them. Dalton passed the cups around and they all sipped their coffee.
‘You’re pretty smart,’ Dalton said.
‘I hope so,’ Masters replied.
‘I know that’s how you made it to the SBS, but you should come work for me.
The pay’s an awful lot better.’
‘Don’t tempt him, Paul,’ Edwards said. ‘We need him more than you do – and you’d just spoil him rotten.’
Pancroft looked at his watch. ‘0245 hours,’ he said. ‘Those boats should have set out from Peterhead by now. They’ll be well on their way.’
‘I hope so,’ Dalton said.
‘They’ll be moving,’ Edwards said. ‘Major Lockyard is a very good man. He knows what he’s doing.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Pancroft said. ‘I want to get out of here. I wish that young Yank pilot would get moving and pick up the telephone.’
‘You take the maintenance men,’ Edwards told him. ‘You know all about that business. When we reach the deck, go straight to that pontoon leg and get them to fix up the hole.’
‘I may not get there,’ Pancroft replied.
‘You’ll be protected,’ Masters assured him. ‘I’ll make sure you’re covered all the way. I’ll make sure you get there.’
‘I want McGee,’ Dalton said quietly.
‘So do I,’ Masters told him.
‘I want him alive,’ Dalton said. ‘I want to talk to that bastard.’
‘Who backed him?’ Pancroft asked. ‘I’d really like to know that. McGee . . . he must know.’
‘That’s right,’ Dalton said. ‘McGee knows. And we’ll make sure he tells us.’
The telephone ran and the man behind the counter picked it up. He was hot and wiped sweat from his forehead as he put the phone down.
‘The helicopter pad,’ he said to Masters. ‘They want you all up there.’
They left the canteen and climbed to the flight deck. The lights on the structures beamed down, cutting swathes through the darkness. Masters heard the wind moaning mournfully through the derricks; it was stronger than it had been before and that made him feel good. They all crossed the catwalk, where the wind was even stronger; it came from the north and blew straight across them, sweeping south. The sea was very far below, but obscured by the darkness; they could hear it smashing into the concrete legs as they passed over open space. Then they were on the landing pad, where the Dragonfly was already roaring, its rotors whipping the air about them as they hurried towards it. They bent low beneath the rotors, leaning into the slipstream. Two men in yellow overalls were pulling the blocks away from the wheels as the wind howled about them.
‘You going as well, chief?’ one of them asked Dalton.
‘Yep.’
‘You better get that suit off and put on some overalls,’ the man said.
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Dalton replied.
The man grinned and jerked his thumb towards the hut at the edge of the landing pad. As Edwards and Pancroft clambered up into the helicopter, Dalton hurried to the hut, remained inside for a few minutes, then emerged wearing a pair of orange overalls. To Masters’s surprise, he also had a 9mm Browning High Power handgun holstered at the hip.
‘I always carry one,’ he explained without being asked. ‘Even when I’m wearing my nice grey suit. It comes with the territory.’
Masters nodded and stood aside to let Dalton climb into the Dragonfly. When the American had done so, Masters followed him.
With its narrow fuselage, the Dragonfly wasn’t really suitable for four passengers, the pilot and a loadmaster, but they gamely squeezed in. As Schulman made his way to the pilot’s cabin in the nose, the loadmaster slid the side door closed, then indicated that they should strap themselves in. Then, with Schulman at the controls, the Dragonfly roared even louder, shuddered violently, bounced a little and lifted off the ground. The deck fell far below them, a deeper darkness closed in, and then the Dragonfly lurched in the wind and headed towards the Beryl Field.
Masters looked out at the sky to see the moon lighting up the huge clouds. Glancing to his right, he saw the winking lights of Maureen, though he couldn’t discern the oil rig itself. The Dragonfly rose and fell, roaring, shuddering, and swaying, fighting against the wind that was blowing fiercely down from the north, between Shetland and Norway. Masters was pleased to feel its buffeting; it was just what he wanted. Let the sea rise up and smash the whole bloody rig; let it provide the SBS with cover and distract the terrorists.
Schulman chewed gum ceaselessly and glanced keenly around him. Masters grinned at the sight of him, strangely comforted by the younger man’s presence. He closed his eyes, put his head back on the seat and tried to let the time pass.
‘What time is it?’ Dalton asked.
‘0430 hours,’ Pancroft told him.
‘What time do you think we’ll get there?’
‘About 0500 hours,’ the captain said.
The time seemed to pass slowly. The helicopter bucked and roared, battered by the wind. Masters opened his eyes and glanced left to see lights far below. They were the lights of the Piper Field, winking fitfully in the darkness. Although Masters couldn’t see the oil rigs, he knew the work was still going on there, twenty-four hours a day. He shifted uncomfortably in his narrow seat, watching the lights moving backwards, falling behind until nothing was left but darkness.
‘What time is it?’ Dalton asked again.
‘0440 hours,’ Pancroft told him.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Dalton said, ‘we’re in a black hole, with time running backwards.’
‘We’re nearly halfway there,’ Schulman informed him.
‘Good,’ Dalton replied.
‘It’s a bitch of a night,’ the pilot said. ‘There’s a storm coming up.’
They said nothing after that, concentrating on the sky outside, seeing only the moonlight rippling and gliding over clouds that were black painted on blackness. Schulman chewed his gum. Pancroft checked his watch. Dalton was lost deep in thought, his face hidden in shadow. The Dragonfly kept going, its roar filling their heads, shuddering and bucking more with each mile, battling against the growing wind. Masters emptied his mind. It was a trick he had learnt somewhere. He went down through himself to find peace, then slowly surfaced again. Opening his eyes, he glanced down and saw more lights, winking in the blackness far below.
‘Beryl,’ Schulman announced.
‘Just keep going,’ Masters told him.
‘The rig’s still afloat,’ Schulman observed. ‘You want me to take you lower to have a look?’
‘No,’ Edwards said. ‘We have other fish to fry.’
They flew over Charlie 2, recognizable by its lights. Slowly those lights passed below and behind them and then the darkness returned. Schulman studied his chart, looking for the RV, then snapped his fingers and said: ‘Here we go!’ as he began his descent. They dropped to a thousand feet, passing through some thin clouds. Looking down, they saw nothing but darkness, a black abyss streaked with grey light. Schulman flew back and forth, circling around the void. He was looking for the lights of the boats, but so far there was nothing.
‘We’re too early,’ Masters explained.
‘I gathered that,’ Schulman replied.
‘Head direct for Lerwick,’ Edwards said. ‘We’re bound to pass over them.’
The pilot did as he was told, keeping at low altitude. The Dragonfly rocked crazily, shuddered rapidly, then steadied again. Masters checked the sea below, but it was still lost in darkness. The clouds above had cut off the moonlight, and that would help the assault. Still, he kept looking, wanting to see those damn lights. If the lights didn’t appear pretty soon, they’d be too far away. The Dragonfly growled and shook. A black mass passed overhead. The helicopter was fighting the wind and flying under the clouds. Another five minutes passed and then finally, far below and just ahead, they saw the moving lights of the SBS boats.
‘There they are,’ Schulman said.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ said Pancroft. ‘I thought they might still be in Peterhead, bottled up by the storm.’
‘I’m going down,’ Schulman told them.
‘Right,’ Edwards said. ‘Get down there and drop us on Victory. That should be the lead boat.’
As the Dragonfly dropped lower, the lights ahead raced towards them. The lights were like candles in a black room, appearing to float in space. Then they grew larger, illuminating the ploughing boats. There were five boats and they formed a large triangle with its tip pointing towards the Beryl Field. Schulman dropped lower, coming down over the lead boat. The Dragonfly dipped forward, rocking lightly, shuddering, but continuing its oblique, almost vertical descent until the boats could be made out in detail. Dimmed lights illuminated the sunken decks and their off-white submersibles.
‘The first boat?’ Schulman checked.
‘The first one,’ Edwards confirmed.
‘OK,’ Schulman said. ‘We’re right on top of it. I’m going down now.’
The Dragonfly started falling, in a perpendicular descent. As it did so it rocked wildly, shuddered more violently, and roared even louder against the howling wind. Masters looked down on Victory. The deck was expanding dramatically right below him, a pattern of dim light and shadow, rising up, then falling back again. As the Dragonfly hovered over the deck, swaying dangerously in the wind, the sea was whipped up by the slipstream and sloshed over the vessel. The waves were ribbons of black and white, forming circles around the boat. The circles rushed in to explode and soar skyward and then sweep out again. The submersible-carrier had dropped anchor and the Dragonfly stayed right above it, hovering about thirty feet above the deck, hammered by the fierce wind.
‘Right, men,’ Edwards said. ‘Let’s get down on that boat.’
Everyone except Schulman unclipped their safety belts and gathered around the sliding door in the side, where already the loadmaster was working at the lowering harness of the rescue winch. Satisfied, he slid the heavy door open, to let in a freezing wind that howled and pummelled at those gathered near the opening.
With a wave of his right hand the loadmaster indicated that the CO should put on the canvas harness. Experienced at this, Edwards did as he was told. He then sat in the doorway, his legs dangling over the side, and carefully let himself slide out. The straps went taut above him and then he was winched down, with the loadmaster controlling his rate of descent and Edwards controlling his own position in the battering slipstream.
Masters leant forward to look down. He saw Edwards swinging out on the slipstream, then back in the other direction in a dangerous arc. Nevertheless, he was going down, veering this way and that, bobbing up and down, spinning, but gradually shrinking as he descended over the boat. The wet deck dipped and climbed. The deck hands were looking up. Edwards swung right above them, still spinning in the slipstream. When he had dropped low enough, two pairs of hands reached up to pull him aboard.