Уильям Мейкл - Operation - North Sea

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.

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?”