Уильям Мейкл - Operation - North Sea

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.

“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 steady 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.