Уильям Мейкл - Operation - North Sea

Over to his right, some fifty yards away now, the other two dinghies bobbed in the water. Two men were being winched up from the one farthest from Wiggo. Everything appeared to be going smoothly. He looked up to see the empty harness come down towards him. As the others had done, he had to wave instructions to maneuver the line to the right position, but in seconds he had the harness in hand, climbed into it, and locked himself in position. He had his pack on his back and his weapon in his right hand as he gave the thumbs up and was lifted away from the dinghy.

He saw it coming when he was little more than ten feet up. The beast’s broad back carved the water on either side and it came on like an accelerating speedboat, heading in a direct line for the other two dinghies which were now eighty yards away to Wiggo’s right.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Wiggo shouted. He managed to get turned around enough so that he could take aim and he sent a volley of rounds in the beast’s direction, but if he hit anything it didn’t show and the beast didn’t slow.

“Fuck off!” he shouted and fired again but he was already being lifted up and away and the harness swung him round so that his shots headed into the sea somewhere to the beast’s left. He could only watch in horror as the head came up, the jaws gaped open, and the two dinghies were scooped up. Teeth clamped down. The other chopper’s harness line was severed, the two men who’d been on it taken away with however many had still been in the dinghies. The serpent’s tail came up, not fluked like a whale’s but a single solid slab of flesh and muscle, the head went down, and the whole length of it slid smoothly into the dark waters with scarcely a ripple.

By the time Wiggo was pulled into the chopper, there was only the dark sea below and a single floating dinghy. There was no sign that the other two had ever been there.

Tom came through from the pilot area as Wiggo was getting out of the harness.

“Seven,” he said, his face pale and tears in his eyes. Wiggo didn’t have to ask what he was referring to.

My first command. And I’ve lost nearly half of them.

Banks heard of the others’ rescue as they came in on approach to Aberdeen airport. The co-pilot relayed the news.

“Your guys are okay. The one called Wiggins is turning the air blue and causing the air-traffic controllers to have kittens, but they’re safe. Some of the rig crew that were on the floatel didn’t make it though.”

Something loosened in him that he hadn’t realised was tense. The sarge was still out of it, lying on a stretcher in the belly of the chopper, but Banks bent over him anyway.

“Our lads are safe, Sarge. Wiggo got them through.”

He didn’t think Hynd would hear but it felt right to tell him.

He looked for Seton, couldn’t find him at first, then saw him up front in the co-pilot’s seat, using the radio. The older man spoke for a few minutes before coming back into the body of the chopper to talk to Banks.

“I’ve been on the blower to your colonel again,” he said. “I tried to talk him into giving my theory another try but I was told in no uncertain terms that my role here is at an end. They’re calling out the big guns and they’ve declared a state of emergency. They’re going to throw everything and the kitchen sink at our beastie.”

“Your beastie, not mine,” Banks answered. He remembered the enormity of the thing he’d seen taking down the rig. “I hope they’re fetching plenty of firepower. They’re going to need it.”

A flurry of activity met them on arrival at the airport. Hynd was wheeled off rapidly to an ambulance. The doc took a second to turn and talk to Banks.

“We’ll be at the Royal Infirmary when you’ve got time to come and see him. Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”

“You might need to tie him down when he wakes up,” Banks said. “He’ll be wanting to get on his feet.”

“Wanting and doing are two different things,” the doc replied. “Anyway, they’ve got nurses at ARI who can strip paint with their tongues. They’ll keep him quiet, trust me.”

And with that, the doc was gone.

The other rescued men were all whisked away in a bus put on by the oil company responsible for the rig. There was a small ring of reporters beyond the choppers’ landing area, but the company had made sure that no one who came off the rig would talk to them. They’d done it for purely financial considerations of course, protecting their bottom line, but Banks knew it would be in line with his own superior’s thinking; the fewer who knew the truth, the better. For the time being at least.

He was left on the tarmac with Seton.

“Looks like we’re on our own, wee man, at least until the rest of the squad gets brought in. Do you think we can get a drink anywhere at this time of night?”

Seton went into his pocket, took out the hip flask, and shook it against his ear.

“Empty. Bugger. But if we can get a taxi, I ken a place in the docks that’ll let us in for a few drams no matter what time of the night.”

Any chances of that were quashed when a black SUV rolled up beside them. Banks was surprised to see his colonel at the wheel; he was usually in the back with his PA doing the driving up front. This was turning into a special night all ‘round.

“Get in, chaps,” the colonel said. “I need to debrief you; the minister’s going in front of the cameras in the morning. The shit’s hitting the fan and we have to move fast if we don’t want to get caught in the blowback.”

They got in the back and drove, mostly in silence, out of the airport, past a still-being erected police cordon in the car-park and down towards the city. The colonel didn’t speak until they pulled into the driveway of the Gordon Barracks on the north east side of town.

“I’ve commandeered a wing here for the duration,” he said. “Away from prying eyes. We’ll be able to talk safely and you can bring me up to speed.”

Banks was pleased to discover that the colonel’s view of ‘commandeering’ also included supplying the place with his usual comforts. They were soon sitting in comfortable chairs in a well-appointed office, each with a full glass of scotch and a fresh smoke. A large plate of freshly made ham sandwiches sat on the table but Banks preferred a liquid diet at that moment, if only to blunt the memories of the preceding hours.

When the colonel waved to indicate he could start, it all came back in a flood.

“It was a total shitstorm from start to finish, sir,” he began. “As soon as we got on the rig the manager was working against us…”

It took the best part of an hour, several more smokes, another glass of scotch and numerous interventions from both the colonel and Seton but in the end the story was done to the colonel’s satisfaction.

“How big?” he said, and Banks heard the skepticism. It was Seton who answered.

“Too big,” he said. “The head’s bigger than a row of houses on its own. You could lay the whole thing inside Hampden Park and the head would be poking out one end, the tail out the other.”

The colonel shook his head, still taking it all in, and knocked back his scotch on one gulp before answering.

“I’m going to have the devil of a job convincing the minister of the truth of the matter,” he said ruefully. “But he saw yon thing at Loch Ness for himself. He knows it’s not just BS and old soldier’s tales.”

“Well, not all of it,” Banks said, and even got a laugh in return from the colonel who then turned to Banks.

“Don’t take it hard on yourself, John. You saved lives tonight. You got that part of the job done.”

“Lost some too,” Banks replied.