Уильям Мейкл - Operation - North Sea

“Dinna fash, lad. It’s safer than Sauchiehall Street.”

“Aye, but that’s not saying much, is it?” Wiggo replied, but followed when Banks led, relieved to reach the other side without mishap. “If I’d wanted a roller coaster, I’d have gone to Blackpool.”

The man showed them inside. The mess hall was in the dead center of the floating hotel and as such bucked and rolled to a lesser extent than the area around it.

“Yer boss did us a favor after all,” Wiggo said to their guide.

“Aye, a lot of us spend most of our free time here,” he said. “Here or up top if the weather’s good.” He pointed to a spiral staircase in the center of the room. “There’s a pair of storm doors at the top; the code’s 1234 so don’t forget it.”

He was still laughing as he waddled away, leaving the squad in the echoing mess hall. A Scottish voice called out from behind the long food counter.

“Can I help you, boys? The boss said you’re to have anything you want from the menu.”

“Grub. It’s about bloody time,” Wiggo said. “I’m starving here.”

“It’ll have to wait,” Banks said. “Wilkins, you get to stay here with the kit. Don’t let anybody play with it. The rest of you are with me. It’s time we had a look-see up top and figure out why we’re here.”

Wiggo had a despairing look back at the food counter, dumped his kit with the rest at a spare table then followed the captain up the spiral stairway.

They emerged into what felt like a strengthening gale. The sea roiled in white horses all around and a heavy swell rocked the floatel so much that the horizon disappeared below the rim and appeared again with each wave. Above them, up on the rig they could see men clambering around as if indifferent to the weather.

“They’re not still drilling in this, are they?” Wiggo asked, having to raise his voice to be heard. It was Seton who answered.

“From what I can gather, this is considered mild, almost clement.”

“I’d hate to see what they call bad weather.”

“We might get a chance,” Sergeant Hynd replied. He pointed north and east, to where the sky was noticeably darker. The rising wind was coming out of that direction and it looked like it was driving a storm before it.

“We’re no use to man nor beast standing here,” Banks shouted as the wind rose another notch. “Wiggo had the right idea after all. Let’s get some grub inside us and see if this blows over.”

Seton wanted to argue.

“But what if the beast shows up?”

“If it’s as big as you’ve suggested, our weapons won’t make much difference, considering we’re unlikely to get a decent aim with all this rocking and rolling. What do you suggest we use? Harsh language?”

A burst of rain accompanied the next gust of wind and that was enough even for Seton. They all fled inside, eager to escape the wind that whistled in their ears and tugged at their jackets.

Wiggo was last in the queue for food when they approached the serving area. The cook on the other side of the counter made a point of waiting until everyone else had moved off before leaning over and whispering, almost conspiratorially.

“I hae the gen on whit happened wi’ Willie McLeod, if you’re interested?”

Wiggo answered in kind, keeping his voice low.

“Was he the mannie who saw the beastie?”

“The very man. Meet me at the rear of the scullery when you’ve had your dinner; I’ll be out the back having a smoke and we can talk there where naebody will hear us.”

‘Dinner’ proved to be a stodgy quarter-pound cheeseburger and greasy chips and it was still sitting like a heavy brick in Wiggo’s belly when he made his way through the scullery and out a door to the rear.

The wind hit him immediately, slamming the door hard at his back.

“Over here,” a voice shouted to his left, and Wiggo followed it ‘round a corner into an alcove completely sheltered from the elements. The cook—his name badge said he was Tom—stood there with a cigarette cupped inside his hand against the wind. He shifted to one side to make enough room for Wiggo beside him. Wiggo lit up one of his own smokes before talking.

“So, the story that the big boss up on the rig is spinning is a load of shite, is it?”

The cook laughed.

“Shite, pish and bollocks all at the same time, although it’s nothing new coming from him. He’s just trying to cover his arse, but you’ve seen him. So you ken it’s too big to be hidden away. It’s the talk of the rig, even if he’s trying to whitewash it.”

“I’ll tell you whit happened…” He paused, took a long drag at his cigarette then began. “We were in the mess last night, about nine o’ clock. The afternoon shift came off the clock, hungry after a long day’s drilling. Willie wasn’t with them at that point; he was up top having a fag. It was a calm night, not like now so it came as a wee shock to us all when the whole floatel swung to one side then back again. I damn near got a hot pan of oil down my crotch, three lads tumbled to the floor off their chairs, and a wheen of dinners, plates, and cutlery slid off the tables and smashed on the floor. It was a hell of a mess, I can tell you.

“And then doon the stairs comes Willie, white as a sheet and ranting about a bogle out on the water. Now Willie’s no’ the most imaginative of men; in fact, I’d go as far as to say that his brain is sawdust most of the way through and the only use it gets is figuring the odds at the bookies. So we lads in the mess were inclined to believe him when he said he’d seen something, although there was only the dark waters to be seen when we went to have a look for ourselves. But Willie was adamant, and caused such a stooshie that the boss heard of it.

“That was when the story started to change. The boss had Willie in his office for near an hour, and when they came out, the tale went ‘round that Willie had been caught drinking and that no more was to be said on the matter. Of course, somebody’s mouth kept working, otherwise you lads wouldn’t be here, but the rest of us ken which side our bread is buttered and have been keeping schtum.

“But here’s the thing… Willie was brought up in the Dippers, his folks are strict Baptist and I ken he goes to services religiously when he’s ashore; if he took a drink, then I’m Mickey Mouse.”

Banks listened without speaking while Wiggo reported on his conversation with the cook.

“And you don’t think he’s having us on?” he asked when the corporal finished.

“No, Cap. I think I trust him a damned sight more than the bag of wind upstairs.”

Banks spoke quietly, as if to himself.

“And it fits Seton’s story better than the brush off that was given to us earlier. I think it’s time I had another wee word with the man up top. You hold the fort here, Wiggo. The sarge and I will go and see if the boss man wants to change his story.”

“I’ll tag along too,” Seton said. “The big fart owes me an apology.”

“You going tooled, Cap?” Wiggo said, nodding towards the kit bag where the rifles were stowed.

Banks patted the pistol at his hip.

“This will do for now. We’ll be back in half an hour. Don’t get up to any mischief.”

“You ken me, Cap.”

“Aye. That’s what I’m worried about.”

By the time the three of them arrived outside the manager’s office, they were soaked through. The trip across on the walkway had been a hair-raising one, Wiggo’s earlier comparison with a roller-coaster being even more apt now that the wind and swell had gone up another notch and horizontal rain lashed into their faces. But there was a stout guard rail to hold on to and they were never in any real danger. Likewise, the elevator clanked and creaked alarmingly in the wind but Banks reckoned it had seen plenty of such journeys in this kind of weather and worse so wasn’t worried for their safety. All the same, they were all soaked through and dripping wet in the corridor when he raised his fist and rapped, hard, three times on the manager’s door.