Adam Baker: Outpost

‘Nobody blames you. No one at all.’

‘We’ll tell people you’re here. We won’t let them forget you.’ They hauled the pallet truck down the corridor to the Level Four elevator.

‘I’ll head back to the canteen,’ said Punch. ‘Fetch you some stuff.’

‘Thanks,’ said the captain. He stepped into the elevator and pressed Down.

Nail and his buddies waited by the elevator doors on Level One. They each held a knife. A screen displayed floor numbers. They monitored the elevator’s descent. ‘Here he comes,’ said Nail.

Jane looked down at her hands.

‘No,’ she heard herself say. ‘I appreciate what you are saying. I want to go home and yeah, I don’t bring much to the party. Just another mouth to feed. But I’m not going.’ ‘Can we skip the ritual objections?’

‘I want to get on that boat. I’ve got folks back home. But there are plenty more deserving than me.’

‘Executive decision. You’re leaving.’

‘You’ll have to Taser me aboard.’

‘Happy to do it.’

‘Some of these guys have kids. Bardock. Doesn’t he have a son? Half the guys on this rig took the job to pay child support.’

‘Bardock runs the pipe.’

‘We won’t be pumping any time soon. He’s a spare part, just like me.’

‘It’s the same for me,’ said Sian. ‘I’m alone. Just a step-dad. Pick a couple of men with children and put them on the boat.’

‘Is that how you want to do it? Dependants? Last chance to change your mind. No shame in seizing an opportunity.’

‘Put their names in a cup.’

They drew RICKI COULBY and EDGAR BARDOCK.

‘Bardock and Coulby,’ said Jane. ‘A couple of well-liked guys. Can’t see anyone objecting if they won a ticket back to the world.’

‘Coulby has four daughters,’ said Sian, checking the files. ‘And yeah, Bardock has a son. Pretty much settles it.’

‘Unless we put Nail on the boat,’ said Jane. ‘That’s our other option.’

‘Why the fuck would we do that?’ asked Rawlins.

‘Because he’s trouble.’ She turned to Sian. ‘How many times has he hit on you? We barely see you these days. You’re a prisoner in your room. Call it gut instinct. We could be stuck here a while. It might be easier all round if we mailed him home.’

The elevator doors opened. Nail ran into the lift, knife at the ready. His buddies ran after him. A pallet truck stacked with jerry cans. No captain.

‘Hi, fellas.’ The skipper was behind them. He stood in the stairwell doorway, shotgun at his shoulder. ‘Drop the knives.’

Nail was holding a diver’s serrated knife. He adjusted his grip. Four metres between him and the captain.

‘Seriously, guys. The choke on this thing is set for a wide spread. I can put all of you down with a single shot. Drop the fucking knives.’

Yakov inched along the wall like he was getting ready to attack. Shaved head. Cyrillic knuckle tattoos.

Nail shook his head and threw down his knife. They all reluctantly dropped their weapons.

‘Kick them over here.’

They kicked their knives into the stairwell.

‘Hands on your head. All of you.’

‘No hard feelings, all right?’ said Nail. ‘If you were in our position, you would do the same thing.’

‘Grab some cans, fellas. You’re going to help me load up.’

They carried fuel cans to the ship and stowed them in the hold. The captain and first mate stood on the transom, shotguns at the ready.

The men reluctantly disembarked and stood on the dock platform.

‘Sorry, guys,’ said the captain. ‘Wish there was room for you all. Now why don’t you folks fuck off and let us get going?’

Nail and his gang of muscle freaks were nowhere to be seen.

The remaining crew stood on the docking platform and shouted questions to the first mate. Jane watched from the helipad. The mate stood at the prow, shotgun over his shoulder. He kept his answers non-committal, said less than he knew. He watched for any sign the Rampart crew might make another attempt to storm the boat.

The four chosen crewmen climbed aboard. There wasn’t room for their luggage so they left it behind. They stood on deck and waved as the tug pulled away. Spirit of Endeavour. A little ship on a big ocean. Jane wondered if the boat would reach Scotland. It was a long journey south, but they might make it if they ran ahead of the weather.

The remaining crew retreated to their cabins to unpack.

There was nothing new on TV.

CNN was down.

Sky News was a test card: ‘ We apologise for the break in transmission. We are currently experiencing technical difficulties. Normal programming will resume shortly .’

BBC: a haggard newscaster repeated the same advice. Keep calm. Stay off the street. Stay tuned for updates. Jane remembered the young man. He used to present the weather. He used to stand in front of a map and forecast sunny spells and rain. Now he found himself reporting the end of the world.

Punch muted the sound and cued some tunes on the jukebox.

‘Hope you feel good,’ he told Jane. ‘You did something heroic today. You could be on your way home right now.’

‘I’m not sure my mother would agree.’

‘She’ll be all right.’

Jane looked out to sea.

‘Check out the cloud bank. There’s a weather front moving in. Waves are starting to build.’

‘I went aboard with a box of food. It’s little more than a rowing-boat. I wouldn’t want to be out there right now. Not with six people crammed inside. It’ll be touch-and-go. Take a lot of luck for them to reach land.’

‘Think we’re better off here?’

‘How can we know? Did we give our folks a ticket home or send them to die?’

Rawlins led Jane and Sian to an observation bubble on the roof.

The bubble was at the edge of the helipad. A circle of windows gave a three-sixty view of the refinery, the sea and the jagged crags of Franz Josef Land.

‘Since you two are staying you better make yourselves useful.’ He pulled dust sheets from transmission equipment. ‘We should have done this days ago.’ He pointed to a swivel chair. ‘Sit there,’ he told Sian. ‘Don’t touch the sliders.’ He powered up a bank of amplifiers. ‘A bloke called Wilson used to play DJ after each shift. Had his own little drive-time show. I filled in for a couple of days when he broke his wrist. This kit is designed to broadcast to the rig but if the atmospherics are right we could reach two, three hundred miles.’

‘What about the ship-to-shore?’

‘Too patchy. I want to try short-wave. Go broad and local. It’s a big ocean. We can’t be the only people stuck out here.’

‘What do I do?’ asked Sian, positioning her chair in front of the mike.

‘Press to talk. Release to listen.’

‘Mayday, mayday. This is Con Amalgam refinery Kasker Rampart hailing any vessel, over.’

No response.

‘Mayday, mayday. This is refinery platform Kasker Rampart requesting urgent assistance, over.’

No response.

‘Mayday, mayday. This is Kasker Rampart broadcasting to the Arctic rim, is anyone out there, over?’

No sound but the static hiss of a dead channel.

The radar in Rawlins’s office sounded a collision alarm. Iceberg warning. His desk screen showed a massive object closing in, moving slow.

They watched from the observation bubble. A mountain of ice passing five kilometres distant. A table-berg, a colossal chunk of polar shelf. Ridges and canyons. Blue ice marbled with sediment. A strange hellworld.

‘I walked on a berg once,’ said Rawlins. ‘They fizz and crackle. Trapped air. Sounds like a bonfire.’

‘Some big waves down there,’ said Jane.