by Shaun Clarke
‘It’s broken loose!’ Masters bellowed.
Schulman dived at the landing pad, hit the deck and rolled over. He heard the mangling of metal as the catwalk tore loose, then felt something fall across him and roll off. Blinking, he saw Masters sprawling beside him, then clambering back to his feet with great agility and rushing forward again.
The American sprang to his feet as the catwalk disappeared. The whole rig was now tilting towards the sea. Turning towards the landing pad, Schulman saw Masters at the helicopter, which was sliding dangerously close to the edge as he tugged its door open. Masters hauled himself up and Schulman raced up behind him. As Masters disappeared inside, the pilot hauled himself in and scrambled past him like a madman to get at the controls.
Schulman hardly knew what he was doing, but his training saw him through. The engines roared into life and the props picked up speed. Glanced out, he saw the deck veering down, the edge curving away from him. He worked the controls, felt a feverish, fearful clarity, then glanced down at the sea far below, the upturned loading ship and the drowning men.
Schulman tried to control the helicopter, but it swung towards the edge. The deck disappeared beneath him and he felt his stomach lurch. The helicopter dropped into space, fell a little, then rose again.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Masters groaned.
They climbed to eight hundred feet and hovered there to survey the wreckage. The huge rig was sinking down at the north-east corner, slipping into the sea, the massive deck a hideous mess of tangled steel and broken crates. A deluge of men and equipment was pouring over the sides. The corner of the rig sank, the sea boiling and swirling around it. The rest of the deck was pointing at the sky, swaying to and fro, before sinking slowly. Two pontoon legs surfaced, rising up three hundred feet in the air, and then slid under the water. The water churned and closed over them. A black hole materialized and turned into a whirlpool that imprisoned the men and machinery and sucked them all down. It was a ghastly, silent spectacle; a dark, eerie dream. The whirlpool swirled and sucked everything down and then folded in on itself.
Eventually the sea settled. It was calm and utterly desolate. Schulman looked down and saw nothing but those grey Arctic wastes.
‘Head for the Forties Field,’ Masters said.
4
The first interruption came in the middle of the Prime Minister’s opening remarks. Keith Turner, sitting at the long table in the boardroom of Bravo 1, looked exasperated as he picked up the telephone. ‘Excuse me, Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘I have to leave this line open.’ He put the receiver to his ear and saw the Prime Minister watching him. He had never met the PM before, and found him intimidating.
There was some static on the line and Turner, the general supervisor of all the North Sea oil rigs, flushed with annoyance. He had told them specifically not to call him unless it was urgent. Now he heard the radio operator and it was clear that he was upset. ‘I think you better get here right away. Eagle 3’s in bad trouble,’ the man said. Turner coughed into his fist and glanced apologetically around him. The PM had his chin in his hands and was staring straight at him.
‘Trouble?’ Turner asked. ‘What kind of trouble?’
The boardroom was crowded. It overlooked the Forties Field. There were isolated oil rigs in the distance, and Turner couldn’t stop staring at them. They suddenly filled his whole consciousness. The PM and his executives and the oil men and the secretaries – all disappeared from his vision and his thoughts as his heart started racing.
The operator’s voice was high-pitched, almost hysterical. The man was babbling about a message from Eagle 3 and Turner sensed it was serious. He mumbled something to the operator, put the phone down, then glanced at the men all around him and shook imperceptibly.
‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘but I have to leave. We have an emergency.’
‘Emergency?’ someone repeated. It was Sir Reginald McMillan, the Chairman of British United Oil, and he was drumming his fingers. ‘What kind of emergency?’
‘I’m not sure, sir,’ Turner said, standing up and tugging at his neat black beard. ‘We’ve just had a call from Eagle 3 and I’ll have to attend to it.’
He didn’t wait to discuss it further. He wasn’t too sure of what he’d heard. Smiling nervously, he rushed from the boardroom and headed straight for the radio shack. It took him quite a while to get there. Bravo 1 was immense; it was a platform with five drilling units and numerous decks. Turner hurried across the catwalks, feeling a warm, southerly wind. He saw the sea far below, all around him, and it gave him no comfort.
Could Eagle 3 really be sinking? The question rang in his head as he raced across a deck and wove his way between fork-lifts and modules. He felt the pounding of his heart and felt distinctly unreal. When he saw the antennae rising above the radio shack, he thought of the gibbering operator and felt even more concerned. Is Masters all right? he wondered, anxious about his SBS man. Then he opened the door of the radio shack and hurried inside.
The first thing that struck him when he entered was how pale the operator looked. The man was trying to contact Eagle 3. He was cursing as he looked up at Turner and took off his earphones.
‘I can’t get a response,’ he said.
The radio shack was small and cluttered, uncomfortably hot and badly lit. The operator had his sleeves rolled up and was spattered with oil.
‘They said they were sinking?’ Turner queried, still not able to grasp it.
‘That’s right,’ the operator replied. ‘That guy on Eagle 3, he was practically screaming and he said they were sinking. There was a hell of a lot of static. His radio wasn’t working properly. I asked for confirmation, but he just went demented. Repeated that they were sinking. Said they were going down fast. I tried to get some more details, but the line just went dead and I haven’t been able to get them back since.’
‘You didn’t get any other calls?’
‘No, chief, not one.’
Turner bit his lower lip and glanced anxiously about him. This was something he didn’t want to accept; it just didn’t seem possible. How could it sink so suddenly? What the hell had gone wrong? A rig didn’t just sink in a matter of minutes. . . Turner tugged at his black beard, his broad bulk trembling slightly, then he blinked and looked down at the operator, trying to order his thoughts.
‘Any other calls from Eagle 3 this morning? Any messages at all?’
‘No. We’ve been keeping the lines clear. All the rigs had instructions not to call except in an emergency.’
‘No message from Masters?’
‘Not a thing, chief. The first call I got was from Eagle 3 – and he said they were sinking.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Turner said. ‘An accident, yes, I can accept that; but I can’t see it sinking.’
‘It sounded like it,’ the operator said. ‘That fucking guy was hysterical. And his radio was really in a mess, even before it went off. Since then, nothing, and that can’t be a good sign.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Turner said. He reached for a telephone, punched out a number, and glanced distractedly out of the open door at the sea. ‘Hello, Jackson? Turner here. I want a helicopter over the Frigg Field to survey Eagle 3 . . . No, not from here. That would take too long. What’s the closest rig in the Beryl Field?’ He drummed his fingers on the desk, then nodded and put the phone down. ‘OK,’ he said to the operator. ‘Ring Charlie 2. Tell them to get their chopper to Eagle 3 and check out what’s happening.’
The operator nodded and put on his earphones. Turner walked out of the radio shack and looked up at the sky, wondering what the hell was happening out there. The afternoon light was hazy. The southerly wind was turning cold. He suddenly remembered the conference in the boardroom and his stomach churned.
Could the rig have gone down? The possibility was enough to make him shiver with a fearful fatigue. He wouldn’t tell anyone yet. He would keep it quiet until he knew. The very thought of having to announce such a catastrophe was bey
ond his imagining.
The operator came to the doorway to stare at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.
‘I can’t get them,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I can’t get them. I can’t get in touch with Charlie 2.’
‘What the hell do you mean?’
‘I can’t get them to reply. Their line’s open, but there’s no answer. They’re just not replying.’
Turner could hardly believe his ears. He glanced out at the murky sea. When he turned back, he saw that the operator was scared and confused.
‘You mean there’s no one at their radio? The operator isn’t there? Are you trying to say there’s no one on duty?’
The operator threw up his hands. ‘I just can’t get a reply. I’m saying that the line’s definitely open, but they just won’t reply.’
‘This is crazy!’ Turner exploded.
‘Yeah, it’s crazy. I know.’
‘For Christ’s sake, keep on trying,’ Turner said. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
The operator disappeared and Turner paced up and down beneath the modules that had been piled upon modules as this platform had grown bigger. He was dwarfed by its immensity. The five derricks towered above him. The grey sky loured beyond them, the sea was all around them and the silence of the platform was eerie. None of the drills were in operation; they hadn’t been working for weeks. Nevertheless, the enormous platform was busy, working as a refinery. Men were hurrying across the catwalks. Cranes and fork-lifts were in action. New buildings were still being erected. Turner looked all around him, surveying his vast domain. He pondered the riddle of Eagle 3 and Charlie 2 and it didn’t make sense.
He went back to the radio shack. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he snapped, more to himself than to the operator, who lifted his left hand and waved him into silence, then said: ‘OK. Roger and out.’ The operator switched to Receive, placed his earphones on the table, swivelled around in his chair and stared straight at Turner.
‘Charlie 2?’ Turner asked.
‘No. That was Masters.’
‘Eagle 3?’
‘No. In a chopper. He says he’s coming in now.’
Feeling confused and fearful, Turner fiddled with his beard and glanced through the open door. There was no sign of the helicopter. Sighing, he turned back to the operator and noticed again how pale he looked.
‘Did he say anything other than that?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ the operator replied. ‘He asked if you were here.’
‘Did he say anything about Eagle 3?’
‘He said to tell you to be here.’
That wasn’t like Masters. It sounded like a command. Turner cursed and paced back and forth, trying to order his thoughts.
‘What about Charlie 2?’ he asked.
‘There’s still no reply.’
‘What’s going on?’ Turner asked, his tone more resigned now. ‘I don’t get the connection.’
He left the radio shack, climbed down a steel ladder, then crossed the deck between towering blocks of modules, and skirted around the soaring steel derricks. The wind was growing colder and the sea rose and fell. He passed some men on an enormous pile of pipes, then went under a raised crane which. Turner felt his heart pounding. He didn’t like to feel this nervous. He reached the end of the deck, climbed up another ladder, then mounted the steel catwalk to the landing pad.
The Bravo 1 helicopter was parked there, beside an empty space. Turner went to the phone in a booth near the landing pads. He rang a tool-pusher, Dwight Bascombe, and told him to send up two roustabouts. Having done so, he put the phone back on its cradle and walked to the empty landing pad. He looked up at the sky and saw the Eagle 3 helicopter descending.
Turner cursed and paced the deck, keeping his eye on the helicopter. The two roustabouts came up the catwalk, wearing bright yellow overalls. They nodded at Turner, then glanced up at the sky. The Wessex Mk 3 was dropping towards them, sounding muffled and distant. The roustabouts went to work, unlocking the holding clamps. When they were finished, they stepped back beside Turner and, like him, looked up at the approaching helicopter. It was roaring right above them now, its props whipping the wind about them. They held on to the railings of the catwalk and watched it come down. It landed with some precision, bouncing only a little. Its engines stopped and the props turned more slowly and then the side door opened.
Masters emerged first. Schulman followed him too quickly. The broken features of the tool-pusher’s face were like granite and his brown hair was windswept. He hurried towards Turner with the pilot close behind him, letting the other passengers disembark by themselves, most looking dazed. Turner noticed that Schulman was drained of colour and looked scared. The roustabouts went to work, blocking and clamping the chopper’s wheels. Masters walked up to Turner and stared at him with bright, anguished eyes.
‘Eagle 3 has gone down,’ he said.
Turner didn’t know what to say. It seemed incomprehensible. He swallowed and then glanced at Schulman, who seemed physically ill. There was shock and disbelief on the American’s face and he was visibly shaking. Then Turner stared hard at Masters, who nodded and turned to Schulman. He told him to go down to the bar and get himself a stiff drink. The pilot did what he was told, turning away without a word. They watched him go along the sloping catwalk and enter one of the modules. Then Masters went to the phone and rang through to the doctor. He told him to go down to the bar and take a look at Schulman. When he had done so, he hung up the phone and turned back to Turner.
‘What happened?’ Turner asked.
‘It went down,’ Masters replied. He took Turner by the elbow and led him away from the listening roustabouts. They stopped beneath the catwalk, above the murmuring of the sea. Masters ran his fingers through his short brown hair and glanced sharply about him. ‘We were bombed,’ he said quietly.
Turner felt a little dazed. He also felt a creeping chill. He was trying hard not to think of the Prime Minister and of what he might have to tell him.
‘Jesus,’ Turner said.
‘Yeah,’ replied Masters. ‘Some bastard planted a bomb in the north-east pontoon leg.’
‘A bomb?’
‘You’ve got it – a bomb. It blew a hole in the leg, the platform tilted, and the whole rig went crazy.’
‘It’s totally gone?’ Turner asked.
‘Yep. The whole rig fell apart and then it sank and took everything with it.’
‘No survivors?’
‘Apart from the few in the helicopter, no. No other survivors.’
‘My God,’ Turner said. He looked at the other man’s eyes, which were glinting with shock and anger. They kept flitting back and forth around the deck, as if searching for clues. ‘Who the hell . . . ?’
‘I don’t know,’ Masters said. ‘I’ve considered various possibilities, but most don’t make sense.’
‘It had to be someone on the rig.’
‘You’re pretty smart,’ Masters said.
‘A fanatic. Someone who didn’t care if he went down with the rig. Some dumb bastard who wants to be a martyr.’
‘Maybe,’ Masters said. ‘But he didn’t have to go down with it. He might have used a long-delay timer; He didn’t have to be there himself.’
‘Why?’ Turner asked.
‘The Prime Minister,’ Masters suggested. ‘The time and dates can’t have been accidental. It’s just too close for comfort.’
‘But why Eagle 3? It’s a hundred and fifty miles north.’
‘I know. It doesn’t add up. There must be something else coming.’
Turner glanced around him, drawn by the sea’s murmuring. He tried to focus on the roustabouts and roughnecks swarming over the platform.
‘They’re still in conference?’ Masters asked.
‘Jesus Christ, don’t remind me.’
‘Do they know?’
‘No, they don’t. They know there’s an emergency, but they don’t know what it is and I doubt whether
they suspect the extent of it.’
‘What about the radio operator?’
‘Well, he knows it went down. He knows that, but he doesn’t know what happened. Your man didn’t get that far.’
‘OK,’ Masters said. ‘We better make him stay quiet. We can say there’s been a very bad accident. We needn’t say what it was.’
‘A bomb,’ Turner said distractedly. ‘Jesus Christ. Do you think it’s us next?’
‘I doubt it,’ Masters said. ‘I mean, I really can’t believe it. This whole platform was checked from top to bottom – by your men and the SBS. Our divers were down there today. We’ve got cameras on the seabed. We’ve X-rayed every crate and every pipe, and the boardroom’s well guarded. No, I don’t think it will be here. I don’t believe so. But I still can’t work it out.’
‘Why Eagle 3?’ Turner asked for the second time. ‘They must have known it was closing down. Why the hell would they plant a bomb on Eagle 3? They must be out of their minds.’
‘I can’t figure it out,’ Masters said, staring at the ground.
‘Charlie 2,’ Turner recalled. ‘When we heard what had happened, we tried to get in touch, but they simply wouldn’t answer our calls.’
Masters jerked his head up and stared hard at Turner. ‘You received no reply from Charlie 2? You think they might have sunk as well?’
‘No,’ Turner replied. ‘The line was clearly open. Their radio was definitely turned on.’ He shrugged. ‘They just wouldn’t respond.’
‘Oh, my God,’ Masters said.
He hurried away. Turner blinked and rushed after him. They walked across the main deck, past the stacked pipes and crates, beneath the cranes, around the derricks and modules, to a vertical ladder, which Masters climbed with practised ease. Turner followed and stood beside him on the platform, where the wind moaned about them. Masters massaged his forehead, blinked, rubbed his eyes, looked briefly at the leaden sky and the sea, then studied the radio shack.
‘Let’s keep it quiet for now,’ he said. ‘The last thing we want is panic. Let’s just say there was a very bad accident and we’re working it out.’
