by Leslie Wolfe
The Ghost Pattern
A Novel
Leslie Wolfe
Dedication
To my husband, for being in my life.
...1
...Tuesday, April 12, 8:45AM Local Time (UTC+1:00 hour)
...North Sea Drilling Operations, Shore Base
...Aberdeen, Scotland
Chief Ramsay paced the room impatiently, muttering curses under his breath and looking out the same window every two seconds, although the view stayed eerily the same. A cold and foggy Aberdeen morning, engulfed in fog so thick it condensed water droplets on everything it touched, including his office window.
He picked up the radio and tried again.
“Nancy Belle, Nancy Belle, this is Shore Base, come in, over?”
He released the radio button, listening intently and hearing nothing. “C’mon, c’mon, where the hell are you?” he whispered impatiently.
His typical mornings were a lot different from that particular one. He’d come in the office a few minutes before 8:00AM, shaking off the humid chills brought by the thick Aberdeen fog, and heading straight for the coffee machine. He’d brew a fresh cup, then enjoy it while making his morning rounds. That was a figure of speech, of course. He rarely left the shore base. Once a rig was in production, barring some unforeseen event, the head of shore base operations had no reason to visit in person. His morning rounds consisted of radio calls with each of the drilling platforms under his purview, making sure everything was running well. He’d check the status of operations for each rig, and receive reports for everything from staff health to outstanding work orders for parts and repairs.
That would have been a routine morning. This time, things were different.
Nancy Belle, or NB64, was one of the three offshore oilrigs he was responsible for, and it was not reading on any comm. The night before NB64 had signed off with a “status normal, nothing to report” code, and now there was nothing, not a single sound coming from the platform on any channel. It was as if the milky fog had swallowed it whole.
A quick rap on the door, and the shift supervisor came in uninvited.
“Boss?” he said, rubbing his forehead hesitantly.
“Yeah, what do you have?”
“Nothing, dead silent on radio, on sat, all of it is dead. I tried a few personal cell phones, none pick up. Even video is down, all of it.”
“What?” Ramsay stopped and turned on his heels to face his shift lead.
“Yeah, boss, all video feed is down for 64.”
“Damn…bloody hell, what happened to those boys? Have any of the other rigs reported anything?”
“No, nothing,” the man replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, while the frown on his forehead became more pronounced under the rim of his hard hat. “But they don’t have eyes on them either…fog’s too thick.”
Ramsay went to the window and pressed his binoculars against it, squinting hard against the eyecups, trying to make something out in the milky haze that had swallowed everything like a shroud. His other rigs weren’t visible yet either, but NB64 was the farthest one out; it would be a while.
“There’s one,” he said, pointing in the direction of a familiar shape almost completely hidden in the fog.
“That’s 27,” the other man confirmed. “If we can see 27, it shouldn’t be that long before we put eyes on 64.”
“Nancy Belle, Nancy Belle, come in, goddamnit,” Ramsay tried again and got no response. “Go try video again, will ya’?”
The man left quietly. He returned within minutes. “Nothing, boss.”
Ramsay stuck his face against the cold window and squinted some more.
“There she is,” he said, as the fog lifted a little more, enough for him to discern the familiar silhouette of NB64 against the gray mist. “She’s still there!”
Ramsay grabbed his binoculars and looked at 64 again. “Yeah, seems to be in one piece, no flames, no smoke.”
He made another attempt to raise the rig by radio, then turned to his lead and said, “You know the procedure. We can’t wait any longer; it’s been almost an hour. We have to assume the worst. Get SAS and emergency response ready, and meet me on the helipad.”
Minutes later, the rotor blades of a SA 330E Puma helicopter ripped through the lifting fog as it headed toward the eerily silent NB64.
...2
...Tuesday, April 12, 10:51AM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)
...Russian Ministry of Defense
...Moscow, Russia
Vitaliy Myatlev reaped the benefits of being President Abramovich’s lifelong friend, and loved it. He took a top floor office in the Russian Ministry of Defense, right next door to Minister Dimitrov, another one of his lifelong friends. Although at the center of a starving, frozen, and desperate Moscow, Myatlev’s office was lavishly decorated in Western fashion, with imported furniture and art pieces worthy of the world’s finest galleries. He had become accustomed to a certain lifestyle since he had started enjoying tremendous success in business, propelling him on the short list of the world’s richest men. He would have settled for nothing less.
This lifestyle contrast was nothing new to the citizens of Moscow, accustomed by now with the gaping chasm between classes. Moscow was the only place in the world where workers dressed in rags crowded on commuter busses that shared the streets with a parade of Lamborghinis and Ferraris. No, nothing new for them.
Since the fall of communism, Russia had quickly replaced one dominant class with another, leading to little quality of life improvement for the average citizen. Of course, it had been the Communist Party’s greatest, the KGB’s finest who had access to riches, connections, and business knowledge to lay down the foundations of capitalism in Russia. No one else but them, the same ruthless elite had gained access to capitalist power using the same methods as they did back in their communist days. This time they were chasing the mighty dollar, not the political favor of one communist dictator or another.
Myatlev was no exception. He’d come of age in the final days of the old KGB, cutting his teeth in foreign intelligence and gaining invaluable exposure to the West and its ways. He also gained something equally invaluable during those days: the lasting friendship of two young men he met while he was a student at the Dzerzhinsky Higher School of the KGB.
The three of them had a lot in common; they were ruthlessly ambitious; stopped at nothing to achieve their goals; and were bold, unafraid, and brilliant. They all lived to see their dreams become reality, although in different directions.
One, Piotr Abramovich, or Petya for his close friends, had become the president of Russia, and the first to stay in power for more than the typical two mandates after the fall of communism. Abramovich had started his third presidential mandate, and the Kremlin rumor mill suggested he was planning yet another Constitution amendment, to remove any remaining limitations on his path of becoming the first post-glasnost dictator. His ego moved mountains; his bruised ego started wars.
The other one, Mikhail Dimitrov, was Russia’s minister of defense, the best and brightest the country had seen in ages. A talented strategist with a cool head on his shoulders and a heartfelt desire to restore Russia’s greatness along with Abramovich and Myatlev, Mishka Dimitrov was the voice of temperance keeping impulsive Abramovich from setting the world on fire. He had to walk a fine line to do that, but no one else could do that better than Dimitrov.
Finally, Myatlev, the youngest of the three but not by much, had been born with a natural inclination for big business. Within years after he was set free by the fall of communism, he had amassed billions of dollars and business interests, ranging from banking, imported goods, food, and oil in Russia and the former Soviet republics to investments in technology, natur
al resources, and real estate everywhere else on the globe. Of course, having his best friends in high positions of power within the Russian government had helped him a little in his business ventures. Myatlev never had to worry about permits, taxes, or even staying on the right side of the law. He had become an all-powerful oligarch, grateful and generous toward anyone who helped him prosper.
Of course, there was a price to pay for all that, like his presence here, in his Ministry of Defense penthouse office. He, out of all people, held a regular day job…the thought of that made him cringe. But no one could say no to Abramovich and live to see the light of tomorrow. Abramovich might have been his friend, but that friendship survived, like with most sociopathic narcissists, just as long as Myatlev did what he was told, and obeyed wholeheartedly. Famous for his unpredictable mood swings, Abramovich could turn on a dime and decide to throw him to the depths of Siberia, or just kill him on the spot. Abramovich was the only man on earth who held the power to destroy Myatlev.
But there was a bright side to his unofficial role in the Russian government. Myatlev enjoyed power more than anything else in the world, even more than he enjoyed money. He also loved his country. He was sincerely committed to serve Russia and help restore its lost greatness.
He was deeply, wholeheartedly grateful to Mother Russia. In service to his country he had gained the skills, knowledge, contacts, and money to get him started on his way to business success; he never forgot that. Plus, he thought with a crooked smile, there are fortunes to be made when rebuilding an empire.
He and Dimitrov weaved ambitious plans to help restore Russia’s long lost greatness and rebuild the decrepit military and technology infrastructure. Dimitrov’s military instinct set the vision, the strategy, the ideal. However, Myatlev had an uncanny talent; he manipulated people into doing what he wanted. No matter how complex or diabolical Dimitrov’s vision, he found ways to build incredible plans and orchestrate their execution. Most of the times, he was highly successful.
There was mutual benefit from their partnership, and Myatlev made sure the benefit stayed just as mutual as Dimitrov liked. If Russia’s defense needed a couple hundred new helicopters, the contract would go to one of Myatlev’s companies, and an incentive would find its way into Dimitrov’s cash vaults. Then the business genius that was Myatlev would buy a helicopter manufacturer, build the choppers, then sell the plant at the height of its capitalization glory. That was, of course, if no other choppers were needed by the Russian Army.
And that’s how the world turns, Myatlev thought, filling a glass with vodka and some ice, slapped carelessly in the cut crystal glass with his chubby fingers.
At 59, Myatlev’s physical appearance told the honest truth about the abuse his body had taken throughout the years. He had telling bags under his eyes, and he had lost most of his hair. His skin hung around his jaws as if he were a bulldog, and his eyes were always bloodshot. Vodka was a constant presence in his life, and so were fine cigars and expensive foods. His gastritis was giving him some trouble lately, and the latest sip of vodka immediately bore a hole in his stomach.
“Ivan,” he called, summoning his aide and lead bodyguard.
Ivan, a well-built ex-Spetsnaz, walked promptly through the door.
“Boss?”
“Get me something to eat.”
Ivan reappeared in the doorframe within seconds, carrying a tray with beluga caviar on ice, surrounded by tiny squares of thin, white toast.
“Thanks,” Myatlev said in a rare acknowledgment, chewing with his mouth open. Then he tapped his finger on the empty glass, and Ivan promptly refilled it.
“Dr. Bogdanov is scheduled to arrive in a few minutes,” Ivan said. “Do you want me to cancel that?”
“Argh…no, I need to talk to him,” he replied, rolling his eyes in exasperation.
Myatlev wiped his mouth with a napkin and lit a cigar. He opened the window and took in the aroma of spring with his cigar smoke. Bogdanov…If this was the best that VECTOR Institute had to offer, the country was in trouble.
VECTOR, the State Research Center of Virology and Biotechnology, somewhat the Russian equivalent of the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention or CDC, was home to Russia’s most advanced medical research. Some of that research, like in any field for that matter, found its way into military applications, hitting Myatlev’s radar.
Myatlev had been laying the ground for his most recent plan, but his plan required real talent, finesse, genius. He saw none of that in Dr. Bogdanov. Yes, he was a well-educated and highly recommended medical researcher, but he was spineless, a coward trying to read Myatlev’s mind and serve him what he wanted to hear, instead of working with him, sharing his vision, and making it happen. But, alas, Bogdanov was the best VECTOR had to offer. Bozhe moi…
A tap on the door, and Ivan announced him.
“Dr. Bogdanov to see you, sir.”
Myatlev turned toward the door, not leaving his favorite spot by the open window.
Bogdanov stepped through the door, pale, staring at his feet. He held his hands tightly clasped together, probably to keep them from shaking.
“So?” Myatlev asked. “How did it go?”
“The…the results were…umm…less than we expected,” Bogdanov started, clearing his throat with difficulty, and swallowing hard.
“What happened?”
“They were…uncontrollable. Once they started, we couldn’t stop them, and—”
“So the test was a failure, another one,” Myatlev said, slamming his palm against the windowsill. “After all this work, we have nothing, that’s what you’re saying?”
“Umm…I guess we could say that—”
“Enough with the bullshit,” Myatlev cut him off angrily. “Grow some balls and admit you have nothing, or tell me what you have.”
“Y–yes, sir, we have nothing. We need to go back to the drawing board.”
“Your researchers aren’t worth much, are they?” Myatlev asked in a threatening tone. “Why can’t you find me better ones? Do I have to solve all your problems for you?”
Silence fell for a second. This time, Myatlev expected an answer.
“No, sir,” Bogdanov replied weakly.
“I need to have this done already,” Myatlev continued just as angrily as before. “Why is it so hard to get a controlled response in people? The entire goddamned pharmaceutical industry does exactly that, gets controlled response to chemicals in people. Yet you and your idiots can’t. What kind of doctors are you?”
Bogdanov stood quietly, not sure how to respond to that.
“You had the perfect environment for this test. An oilrig, in the middle of the ocean, a contained, remote environment with male test subjects of about the same build. Still you fuck it up. Why the hell is it so hard? All I am asking of you is to fix me a drug mix with controllable results. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Myatlev turned his back to Bogdanov, leaving him standing there, not sure what to do, afraid to break the silence and ask. After a while, Bogdanov found the courage to leave Myatlev’s office, quietly closing the door behind him.
Myatlev heard the door click shut and whispered to himself, “Fucking impotent idiots…all of them.”
...3
...Tuesday, April 12, 8:57AM Local Time (UTC+1:00 hour)
...NB64, Nancy Belle Offshore Oil Drilling Platform
...Near Aberdeen, Scotland
Chief Ramsay looked at the men seated next to and across from him. They had the same expression, curiosity mixed with concern, and the determination one sees on a soldier’s face before going into battle.
“People, listen up,” he said, and everyone turned toward him. “In a minute or two we will be touching down on NB64. The platform has been out of contact and has missed the established communication touch point, which was at 8:00AM today. All video and comm links are down. Our protocol,” he said, slowing his rhythm of delivery a little, making sure everyone understood, “our protocol r
equires us to assume the worst-case scenario, which is a terrorist attack.”
Most men knew the protocol well and were not surprised. Two younger men from the emergency response unit lifted their heads slightly.
“An offshore oilrig is strategic infrastructure,” he clarified, “hence a prime target for terrorists. It’s isolated and immobile, relatively easy to approach despite all security, and therefore vulnerable. Please explain what types of attack we should be mindful of when landing on the rig,” he said, inviting one of the veterans to explain it to the team.
“The attack could be chemical, biological, or traditional, with explosives. Do not assume you know what’s wrong with the rig’s crew or the rig itself until it’s actually confirmed, and you hear the clear signal given either by me or by—”
“Chief Ramsay,” a young man interrupted in a high-pitched voice, bearing horror written on his face. “Look!”
They looked in the direction of the rig, now in close proximity as the chopper was making its final approach. The deck was covered in blood. Bodies were scattered everywhere. It was the scene of a massacre.
“Masks on,” Ramsay ordered. “Keep chatter to a minimum.”
They disembarked quietly, then almost all of them stopped in their tracks, taking the details in.
Right next to the helipad, a man lay in a pool of blood with his head split open, the ax still stuck in his skull. A few yards out and to the left, another man had found his demise strangled with a piece of chain. A third man lay on his side, and the unnatural position of his head indicated his neck had been broken violently. Toward the mess hall entrance, a man’s blood still dripped into the ocean, as he hung halfway over the guardrail, with a knife stuck deep in his heart. Everywhere they looked, it was the same…countless bodies, all violent deaths, inexplicable. It was as if the entire crew had suddenly turned on one another and fought to their deaths.
