Уильям Мейкл - Operation - North Sea

“I hate to admit it,” he finally said. “But that might be the best idea anyone’s had yet.”

He turned to his operators.

“You heard the man. Find me a rig that’s got a wide enough blast radius that we won’t be blowing up anything we shouldn’t be. And remember, it’s got to be totally inside British waters; the brass are going to have enough trouble explaining a nuke going off without us fucking about in somebody else’s territory.”

Five minutes later, they had their target and were headed for it at speed.

“Do you carry all the equipment we’ll need?” Seton asked Green.

“I believe so,” he replied. “As I said, we’ve got the seismograph survey gear. I’ve detailed a technician to get it set up for remote operation, and he’ll get the video link and electric batteries set up for it at the same time. He’ll have it ready for transport by the time we reach the rig. We’ll be there in two hours.”

Wiggo piped up.

“And what about the beastie in the meantime? What if it decides it enjoyed itself so much that it wants to run riot somewhere else; Inverness maybe, or going the other way, even Edinburgh?”

He suddenly had a mental picture of the thing coiled around Edinburgh Castle amid the crumbling, smoking ruins of the auld city. It didn’t bear thinking about too closely. The more he thought about it, the more he hoped that Seton was wrong; he needed the nuke to work, he needed the beast dead, not just for his own peace of mind, but for the memory of all that had already been lost.

He’d been wool-gathering and missed some of Green’s response, but caught the gist.

“…and every camera in Scotland is watching the sea right now, you can be sure of that. If the thing does turn up anywhere else, the brass will have a welcome waiting for it.”

“Aye,” Wiggo replied. “And how many more will die then? Can we no’ go any faster… it’s high time we nuked this fucker into oblivion.”

The next two hours passed painfully slowly for Wiggo, even allowing for another trip back to the cabin for a snifter of the auld man’s whisky. Even after they reached their destination, time kept crawling for Green insisted that his own men went over to the rig to install the gear and wouldn’t hear Seton’s pleas to accompany them. He allowed two concessions; Seton was allowed to have his chant installed in the broadcast equipment that was being installed on the rig and, much to Wiggo’s relief, the squad were allowed to go out on deck for a smoke while the installation was taking place.

The storm of the night before was now little more than a memory left in the swell. The sky was clear with only light clouds scudding across it and there was a warm breeze on Wiggo’s face as he lit up. The rig itself showed signs of disuse, even from quarter of a mile away, its gantries and walkways sagging, its pillars and buildings reddened with rust. They saw the crew members working on the flat area that had been the helipad.

Wiggo sucked smoke before addressing Seton.

“Is this going to work, wee man?”

Seton lifted his hand and made a see-saw motion.

“Fifty-fifty at best,” he said. “Don’t place any bets.”

Then finally, the waiting was over. The crewmen returned from the rig, everybody went back below then the sub made its way at full speed out of range of the expected blast. A little over an hour later, they were at periscope depth, the scopes screen showing the sea in the direction of the rig, another screen showing the seismic gear sitting on the rig’s helipad.

“Start her up,” Green said. “And weapons ready. Fire on my signal.”

The rhythmic ping echoed around the bridge.

“Can I ask a favor?” Seton said. “Can we start my chant too? Please? After all, what harm can it do? It might even slow the beast down and keep it still.”

“I see no harm in it,” Green replied and echoed Banks’ words of earlier with a smile. “Make it so.”

Seton’s chant rose to join the beacon.

He sleeps and he dreams with the fish far below.

He dreams and he sings in the dark.

As before, the result was almost immediate. The radar operator shouted out.

“Got it, sir. It’s back. Twenty miles out and headed straight for the rig.”

“This is it, lads,” Green said. “Let’s get this bastard.”

“Ten miles, closing fast,” the radar operator said a minute later.

Above the sound of the chanting, they heard the beast’s bagpipe-like wail in counterpoint to Seton’s words.

He sleeps and he sings and he dreams far below.

And the Dreaming God is singing where he lies.

On the video feed from the rig, they saw the grey bulk of the beast approach the helipad, although it seemed to be almost insubstantial, fading in and out of reality.

“The chant’s working again,” Seton said. “Can we just…?”

“No,” Green replied, and without a pause gave the order. “Fire.”

The sub shuddered and a deafening roar echoed around the bridge as the missile was launched. The scope view showed it arcing up and away; Wiggo was reminded of the flares he’d sent up from the dinghy in the storm. Then it began to fall. Wiggo switched his gaze to the view of the helipad, just as the screen went brilliant white, then black.

“Got it. We got the fucker,” Green said.

The scope view showed a rising column of light and smoke in the distance rapidly rising and forming into the classic mushroom-cloud shape.

“Good job, lads,” Green said.

The radar operator shouted out.

“We’ve got incoming, sir. It’s big, and it’s coming right at us.”

The wailing howl of the beast filled the bridge.

Seton was first to speak.

“Switch on the chant, loud as you can get it. Do it now, no time for discussion.”

Green seemed momentarily to have lost his composure, so Banks stepped in and took charge.

“You heard the man,” he said to the operator. “Start the chanting. It might be our only hope. And while you’re at it, arm the torpedoes or whatever you call them.”

The chanting rose to overpower the wail of the beast.

He sleeps and he dreams with the fish far below.

He dreams and he sings in the dark.

“Ten miles and closing,” the radar operator said.

He sleeps and he sings and he dreams far below.

“Five miles.”

“Get that torpedo ready,” Banks said.

“No,” Seton shouted. “It’s slowing down. Look, the chant’s working.”

“Two miles, and slowing,” the operator confirmed.

“Can we surface?” Seton asked.

Banks wasn’t ready to make that kind of decision for the submarine crew but was surprised when Green capitulated immediately.

“Sure, why not,” he said. “Nothing else has worked. It’s your show now.”

The sub rose and surfaced.

“One mile out and closing slowly,” the radar operator said.

Banks followed Seton up and outside onto the deck with the other squad members close at his back.

The beast lay quiet in the water, the huge head almost touching the prow of the submarine, eyes wide and fixed directly on where the squad stood. The chanting seemed to come from everywhere around them.

He sleeps and he dreams with the fish far below.

He dreams and he sings in the dark.

The beast sang in time, its wailing bass drone sending vibration thrumming through the hull.

He sleeps and he sings and he dreams far below.

The serpent faded and solidified in time with the beats of the chant, becoming fainter with each beat.

It began to sink, fading fast. Its song faded with it. Seton added his voice to the chant as it sank beneath the swell and was gone.