Уильям Мейкл - Operation - North Sea

Wiggo drove them down to Stonehaven. Traffic was almost non-existent and the quietness of the road only served to remind him of the sound and fury they’d left behind at the docks. But the drive did a lot to calm his inner thoughts and allowed him to focus on the straight line ahead and into the distance. The events on the floatel and in the dinghy were already taking on the slightly dream-like quality that memories gather, pushed aside by the rest of the night which had needed room of its own in his mind. He just hoped there wasn’t something even larger again coming along in the near future.

The drive proved uneventful, with the coming day being announced by a lightening of the sky way over to his left-hand side. They arrived to a glorious red-lined dawn rising over the old harbor. Wiggo pulled into a parking bay beside the harbor wall, killed the engine, wound his window down fully, and sat in silence, listening to wavelets wash against the harbor wall and a single seagull welcoming the morning somewhere high above them.

“I used to come here as a lad with my father to buy fish,” Seton said. “A great many years ago. It hasn’t changed much, thank the Lord.”

“Just our luck, though,” Wiggo said, waving a hand at the harborside pubs. “All that booze just yards away, and they’re bloody shut.”

“Not necessarily,” Seton replied. “I ken the owner of The Marine. Give me a minute, I’ll see if I can rustle up some breakfast.”

Ten minutes later, they were sitting around a table in the otherwise empty public bar of the Marine Hotel, each with a beer in hand and the smell of frying bacon wafting through from the kitchen.

“Do you ken everybody, wee man?” Wiggo asked as Seton made steady inroads into his beer.

“Benefits of a long life of debauchery, lad,” Seton replied. “Don’t mock it unless you’ve tried it.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Wiggo replied. “If I live that long.”

He saw the look that passed across their captain’s face at that.

“What is it, Cap? You look like you’ve unwrapped a sweetie and found a shite.”

“Maybe I have at that, Wiggo. Maybe I have.”

Banks told them the colonel’s order.

“Christ. I joke about it on every bloody mission; I never expected anybody to take me seriously.”

“Aye, it’s serious, right enough,” Banks replied. “And these Tridents the subs carry have the potential to start World War Three all on their own. The brass are taking a big risk just considering it, but what happened to the rig, and last night at the docks, has them spooked.”

“Them and me both,” Wiggo replied.

They all went quiet ‘round the table until Seton spoke up.

“And what if it doesn’t work?” he said.

“Of course it’ll bloody work,” Wiggo replied. “It’s a fucking nuke.”

“And those missiles earlier at the docks, what were they? Sidewinders or some such? Serious bits of kit in any case, and the beast just brushed them off. And did you see what was happening just before the missiles hit?”

“That’s not the first time you’ve mentioned that,” Banks said. “I think you were the only one to see whatever it is you’re going on about, so out with it. What did you see?”

Seton took a long pull of beer before replying.

“I know you don’t really believe in my ‘hocus pocus shite’ as Wiggo so eloquently puts it, but I can only tell you what I saw. The chant was still going on, the beast was going to sleep… and it had begun to fade out of this reality, might even have done so if those bloody jets hadn’t arrived when they did.”

“Faded out of this reality?” Wiggo said. “What, like ‘Beam me up, Scotty’?”

Seton smiled.

“Something like that, yes. It’s not of this world, at least not entirely. It’s supernatural more than it is natural.”

“Bollocks,” Wiggo replied.

“It doesn’t have any, didn’t you notice?”

Seton turned to address Banks.

“That’s what I meant by asking what happens if the nuke doesn’t work. I think you need to be prepared for the possibility that it’ll still be here after the dust settles.”

“I’m not sure I even want to think about it, never mind prepare for it,” Banks replied.

“I’m just saying,” Seton said. “You might need me yet.”

“If I’m reading you right, you want to try your chant again? That’s not been going too well so far, has it?”

“On the contrary. It slowed the beast at the rig, might have done the job if we could have maintained the volume level. And it was working at the docks… you’ll have to trust me on that, but it was working.”

Wiggo could see that the captain was still skeptical.

“Let’s just hope we don’t have to resort to it, eh?” Banks replied.

“I’ll drink to that,” Wiggo said and downed half his beer to try to quell the grumbling in his guts that signaled trouble to come.

They kept the drinking to a minimum, just one more pint each while devouring a mound of eggs, sausages, bacon, and toast washed down with a large mug of coffee. After that, they adjourned to the harbor wall for a smoke.

“So, wee man, how much of this supernatural bollocks do you really believe?” Wiggo said as they lit up.

“All of it, of course. And don’t give me any talk of it all being bollocks… I remember you telling me of your experiences in Antarctica and the Amazon. Those weren’t bollocks, were they?”

“Actually, I’ve never been quite sure either way,” Wiggo replied. “I try not to think about it too much.”

“That’s the trouble,” Seton said. “Everybody tries not to think about the supernatural then when they come across it they have to evaluate it every time as a special case. Personally, I’ve found that gets exhausting, so I just start from a point of belief and go on from there.”

Wiggo nodded.

“Aye, I can see how that might work for you. As for me, I like to shoot the buggers first, and only ask questions when that disnae work.”

That got him a laugh in return.

“And I can see how that might work for you in your line of business,” Seton said. “But this time, we’re upping the stakes. I hope your nuke works, I really do.”

“But being a good Boy Scout you’ll be prepared if it doesn’t?”

“That’s the plan,” Seton said. “Keep everything crossed.”

“Man, I’d cross my dick if I thought it would make a difference.”

“My suggestion… try it and see,” Seton replied.

They were still laughing when a dinghy arrived in the harbor mouth and made its way towards the docking area at the foot of the old stone steps nearest to them.

A dour-faced seaman welcomed them on board the dinghy but didn’t offer to help with the kit, leaving Davies and Wilkins to lug it over from the SUV.

“You’ll be the experts then?” the man said as Wiggo got aboard. Wiggo almost laughed, thinking it was a joke then realised the man was deadly serious.

“Aye, I suppose we are,” he replied. “Any reports on the beastie’s whereabouts?”

“That’s a wee bit above my paygrade,” the seaman said.

“Aye, well, I always pay a ferryman, just in case. Can I interest you in a fag?”

The man’s face lit up in a smile.

“Thanks, man. I’m gasping. It’s not allowed on board. Fucks with the recycling system, or so I’m told.”

“Ah well, take your time getting over there,” Wiggo replied. “We can fit two in to tide us over.”

Still with a cigarette clamped in the side of his mouth, the seaman cast off and took them out, slowly, from the old fishing harbor, past the high outer wall and into the open sea, where the swell immediately got ten times worse.