Marine A SBS

by Shaun Clarke

  ‘An explosion,’ Turner suggested. ‘We’ll say the well-head exploded. We’ll say a pile of oil drums went up with it and caused complete chaos.’

  ‘Charlie 2,’ Masters said. ‘There must be a connection. They wouldn’t leave the radio open. They wouldn’t just walk away.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Turner whispered.

  ‘It’s on the pipeline,’ Masters said. ‘The main pipe runs from Frigg down to Beryl and then on to the Forties.’

  ‘You mean terrorists?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, that’s impossible!’

  ‘There’s no security on Beryl or Frigg. The security’s here.’

  ‘The Prime Minister’s here!’

  ‘That’s correct: he’s right here.’

  ‘Then why Beryl? Why Frigg? I don’t get it. It doesn’t add up.’

  ‘It just might,’ Masters said, glancing intently around him. ‘There’s a floating refinery on Beryl and the pipe runs to here.’

  ‘Then why Frigg?’ Turner asked.

  ‘The Frigg supply runs through Beryl. The oil extracted from Frigg goes to Beryl and then on to here.’

  ‘But Frigg’s drying up.’

  ‘That’s right, it’s drying up.’

  ‘Then why would they want to cut off Eagle 3 if the field’s drying up?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Masters said.

  He started walking again, heading for the radio shack. When he entered, Turner followed him in and the operator looked up, surprised. He was very pale. Staring at Masters, he opened his mouth to speak, then nervously cleared his throat.

  ‘I’ve got Charlie 2,’ he said. ‘They want to speak to you, Masters. I asked for the message and they wouldn’t give it. Instead, they told me to find you.’

  ‘There’s been an accident,’ Masters told him.

  ‘They sounded weird, chief. It wasn’t the usual guy – it was McGee, and he sounded really strange.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Masters asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ the operator replied, glancing from Masters to Turner, clearly confused. ‘He just said: “Go and get Masters.” What’s happening out there?’

  ‘There’s been an accident,’ Turner lied. ‘An explosion on Frigg. We’re still trying to find out what caused it, so we want it kept quiet.’

  The operator looked relieved. Shaking his head, he offered a tentative grin, then slowly stood up.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I see. I mean, I thought it was just me. I thought maybe I’d done something wrong and I just couldn’t work it out.’

  ‘It’s classified,’ Masters told him. ‘Accidents like this always are. We have to check it out thoroughly and put in a report. It has to be strictly confidential.’

  ‘I understand, chief.’

  ‘Make sure you do,’ Masters warned him. ‘If I hear the slightest word from the crew, you’ll be out of a job.’

  The operator licked his lips and nodded.

  ‘Go outside,’ Turner told him. ‘Close the door when you leave. Stay out there and don’t let anyone in. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, chief,’ the operator said, then hurried out of the radio shack. When the door was closed, Masters sat at the table and put on the earphones.

  ‘Bravo 1 to Charlie 2,’ Masters said. ‘Are you receiving me?’

  Turner heard the crackling radio. He couldn’t hear what was being said. He heard Masters, but he couldn’t hear Charlie 2 – only the static.

  ‘Bravo 1,’ Masters said. ‘Yes, it’s Masters. Let me speak to McGee.’

  Turner paced up and down, feeling dazed and ill. He was nervous and he looked down at Masters with a singular sympathy. Masters listened for a long time. His hands were steady on the table. He had large hands and long, calloused fingers which didn’t move once. Turner found the shack stifling. He paced up and down the short, narrow room and tried to empty his mind. Then he heard Masters curse and saw him put the earphones down. The tool-pusher swivelled around in his chair and looked at Turner with piercing eyes.

  ‘It’s McGee,’ Masters said. ‘He’s got a terrorist group on board. He says they’ve also got a plutonium bomb on board – and they’re willing to use it.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Turner groaned. ‘Oh, my God! What the hell do they want?’

  ‘They want the Prime Minister.’

  5

  Masters and Turner were both sitting by the radio when Robert Barker entered the shack. He saw the sweat on Turner’s forehead and the tension on the tool-pusher’s face. He had not seen Masters so tense before, so he knew it was bad.

  ‘OK,’ Barker said, ‘what’s the emergency?’

  ‘It’s bad,’ Masters said.

  ‘I gathered that, Tone. I’m supposed to be protecting the Prime Minister, so what the hell is it?’

  ‘We were bombed,’ Masters said. ‘Eagle 3 has been sunk. Now a bunch of terrorists has taken over Charlie 2 and they’ve got a plutonium bomb.’

  Barker was silent for a moment, trying to take in this ghastly tale. He didn’t have to ask if it was true; he could tell by looking at the two men’s faces.

  ‘Bombed?’ he asked nevertheless, needing confirmation. ‘How the hell did they do it?’

  ‘They bombed one of the legs of a pontoon and the whole rig went down.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  ‘It’s the IRA,’ Masters explained. ‘There’s a foreman on Charlie 2 called McGee and the cunt’s a terrorist.’

  Suddenly, Barker felt claustrophobic. The radio shack wasn’t well lit and it felt like a Turkish bath. He glanced from Masters to Turner and saw the sweat on the latter’s forehead. The supervisor was drumming his fingertips on the table, staring at the radio.

  ‘Why Eagle 3?’ Barker asked.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Masters said. ‘I didn’t get a chance to ask that question. They want the Prime Minister.’

  ‘The Prime Minister,’ Barker repeated flatly.

  ‘That’s right: the PM. They say they’ll blow up Charlie 2 – and if they have to, they’ll do it – if we don’t let them speak to the PM. They’ve got a plutonium bomb on board. McGee said they would use it. I don’t know how they managed it, but they’ve taken over the whole of Charlie 2.’

  ‘You mean they’ve hijacked the rig?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘There’s eighty men on that rig.’

  ‘I know. I don’t know how they did it, but they’ve certainly taken it.’

  Barker whistled, patted his blond hair and shook his head from side to side.

  ‘God,’ he said, ‘this is bad. It’s fucking disastrous. If they say they’re willing to go down with Charlie 2, then they probably mean it. Fucking IRA lunatics!’

  ‘It’s McGee,’ Masters said. ‘He seems to be the leader. He said: “This is an official announcement from the IRA. We’ve hijacked your rig.” He didn’t bother explaining any more. He just said he wanted to speak to the Prime Minister, but he’d speak to you first.’

  ‘Bastard,’ Barker said.

  ‘He’s not kidding,’ Masters told him. ‘He could be bluffing, but he certainly isn’t kidding – and he did blow up Eagle 3. They probably used a long-delay timer with the primer on Charlie 2.’

  ‘Some of the crew,’ Barker suggested. ‘The rig workers aren’t checked out. I’ve been wanting to run checks on them for years, but the bigwigs wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘They will in future,’ Turner said.

  ‘Fucking great,’ Barker responded. ‘In the meantime it costs us two rigs and now they want the PM.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Masters said.

  ‘It’s impossible,’ Turner said. ‘We can’t even let him know this has happened. We can’t let the word out.’

  ‘It’ll get out,’ Barker insisted.

  ‘Not immediately,’ Turner replied. ‘The PM’s in conference and we’ll let him stay there until we manage to sort this mess out.
We can’t tell him till then.’

  Barker looked at the floor. ‘Let me get this straight. The terrorists have bombed Eagle 3. They’ve taken over Charlie 2. We don’t know how, but they’ve managed to gain control and now they’ve got a plutonium bomb. Where the hell did they get the bomb? How on earth did they take the rig? There’s eighty men in that crew and you don’t buy plutonium bombs for peanuts. Have they got any proof?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Masters said. ‘McGee wouldn’t discuss it with me. He just said he wasn’t kidding, that he wanted the PM, and that he was willing to speak to you first.’

  ‘The PM’s impossible.’

  ‘That’s what he wants, Barker.’

  ‘It’s not feasible,’ Barker said. ‘He must be bluffing. He’s just trying it on.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Turner said.

  ‘Maybe not,’ Masters said. ‘But the only way we’re going to find out is to get on that radio.’

  Barker glanced up and smiled, chuckled sardonically, shook his head, then paced up and down the cramped hut, pursing his lips. He stopped after a short while.

  ‘OK, I’ll talk. Let’s hear what they have to say. We’ll hold them off as long as we can and keep the PM out of it.’ He studied the radio. ‘Has that got an open line?’ Turner nodded and reached out and flicked a switch. ‘Now we’ll all hear,’ he said. Barker nodded and said: ‘That’s what I want.’

  Turner leant forward and spoke into the microphone, keeping his voice low and level. ‘Bravo 1 to Charlie 2. Bravo 1 to Charlie 2. Are you receiving me?’ There was the crackling of static, swelling up and fading out. ‘Charlie 2 to Bravo 1, we’re receiving. We don’t want you, Turner. We want Barker.’ Turner couldn’t help grinning at Barker as he got out of the chair. Barker distractedly smoothed his hair as he sat down at the microphone.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘it’s Barker. Put McGee on.’

  There was silence for a moment, apart from the crackling static. Barker placed his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his cupped hands. Turner moved sideways to stand close by Masters. Their eyes met, then they both stared at the radio, feeling tense and defeated.

  ‘Barker?’ a voice on the radio asked.

  ‘Yes, this is Barker.’

  ‘This is McGee. I’m speaking on behalf of the Irish Republican Army. I’m officially notifying you that we’ve requisitioned Charlie 2 on behalf of the IRA for the . . .’

  ‘Cut the shit,’ Barker interjected. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Our demands will only be given to the Prime Minister. We won’t settle for less.’

  ‘You can’t speak to the Prime Minister. It’s impossible and you know it. There’s no way I’m going to bring him into this and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘You’ll give us what we want,’ McGee said, ‘or suffer the consequences.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘We’ve captured Charlie 2. We’ve got a plutonium bomb on board. We won’t hesitate to set the bomb off if we don’t get satisfaction. Don’t attempt to attack the rig. If we see any ships or helicopters, we’ll set the bomb off.’

  ‘Do that and you’ll blow yourselves up as well.’

  ‘We don’t care, Barker. We’re willing to go down with the rig. And you all know enough about the IRA to know we mean what we say.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Barker said. ‘You couldn’t find a plutonium bomb. If you did, you couldn’t transport it to the rig without being detected. I think you’re bluffing.’

  ‘Eagle 3 was no bluff. It was a demonstration and warning. It was a much smaller bomb on Eagle 3, but this one is the real thing. We didn’t find it – we made it. They’re surprisingly easy to make. The finished product is only thirty-six inches long and it doesn’t weigh much. It was easy getting it on the rig. In fact, it’s been on board for months. It only weighs half a ton and it was put in a packing crate and shipped out from Aberdeen with the regular equipment. I’m the foreman on this rig. Your tool-pushers are all my mates. We shipped it in with the regular supplies and now it’s all set to blow.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Barker said.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ McGee replied. ‘We’ve left the proof for you to find. Get your onshore security team to check out the Aberdeen heliport. Tell them to check the toilets, third one from the door, and look behind the cistern. I left a brown envelope there. It contains full details of the design and construction of the bomb. Ask them to check it out. They’ll soon confirm that it’s authentic. When they ring you back with that confirmation we’ll be able to deal.’

  Barker studied the microphone. He covered his face with his right hand. After rubbing his eyes, he glanced at Masters and shook his head in despair.

  ‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘We’ll check it out.’

  ‘You have one hour,’ McGee told him. ‘I won’t give you any longer. If I don’t hear back in that time I’m gonna blow up this rig. You know what that means, Barker. The blast will destroy the whole of Beryl, wiping it out completely. It’ll also cause a lot of damage to the Forties Field. And the supply pipes will go with it. You’ll lose two-thirds of the North Sea oil. There’ll be enough contamination to ensure you can’t work this sea for years. Think about that while you’re waiting.’

  Masters glanced at Turner. The supervisor was visibly shaken, leaning against the door of the radio shack, wiping sweat from his brow. Masters then studied his friend Robert Barker. The chief security man of British United Oil was tapping the table gently with his fingertips as he stared at the radio.

  ‘How many men have you got?’ Barker asked.

  ‘Sixty,’ McGee replied. ‘They were all regular crew members. We’ve been working on this plan for eighteen months, so we’d plenty of time. Your chief tool-pusher’s my man. He’s been with us from the start. He’s the man who hires and fires and he’s gradually been replacing your men with ours, as well as a lot of Scottish nationalists who’re helping us out for their own ends.’

  ‘I don’t think you could have managed that,’ Barker said, though he didn’t sound hopeful.

  ‘Rig workers aren’t asked questions. As well you know, Barker, any man who’s willing to work on a rig will be hired without question. You never approved of it. Too bad your superiors didn’t listen. It’s taken us eighteen months and we had to use the Scots, but now we’ve got sixty of our own men on board and we’ve executed most of the remaining crew.’

  ‘You bastard,’ Barker said.

  ‘We spared two,’ McGee said. ‘I thought you might want a few witnesses, so there’s two still alive. One’s John Griffith, your geologist. He’s standing right beside me now. You want proof, so I’m gonna put him on and you can ask what you like.’

  Masters felt himself burning with a murderous rage. He smacked his fist against his hand and turned away to stare out through the window. The afternoon light was dull. The North Sea was calm. It stretched out to the horizon, towards the Beryl Field, then was lost in a misty haze. Masters turned back again when he heard the voice of Griffith coming over the radio.

  ‘Barker?’

  ‘Yes, Griffith.’

  ‘It’s true, Barker. All true. They’ve got about sixty men on this rig and they’ve taken it over.’ Griffith’s voice was shaky and high-pitched. ‘They killed the remaining crew. Took them up on deck and shot them. They just shot them and threw them over the side and they made us two watch it.’ Griffith stopped and seemed to sob. They heard him trying to control himself. Masters clenched his fists and stared at the radio, wanting to smash it. ‘They’re serious,’ Griffith continued. ‘They mean every word they say. They spared me and Sutton, but they killed all the others and dumped them into the sea. Oh, dear God, I just don’t . . . ’

  Barker lowered his head. They all listened to Griffith sobbing. Masters clenched his fists and Turner turned away, looking like death warmed up. ‘Bastards!’ he whispered. Griffith’s sobbing faded out as McGee started talking again.

  ‘Is that enough for you, Bark
er? Are you satisfied? Or do you want to hear more?’

  ‘No, that’s enough. I don’t want to hear any more.’

  ‘You have one hour,’ McGee repeated, then he cut the connection.

  Barker turned off his receiver, pushed back his chair, and stood up, deep in thought.

  ‘Well?’ Masters asked. ‘Do I call in the SBS and try to take that rig back?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Barker said. ‘Not if they’ve got a plutonium bomb on board. I can’t believe they’ve made a working nuclear bomb, but we’ll have to find out first. I’ll ring Andy Blackburn. He’s the best man I have. I’ll tell him not to use the local police, but to use our own security men instead. We have to keep this thing private. We don’t want the regular Army or police involved. If word got out that a bunch of terrorists had managed to do all this, the repercussions internationally would be disastrous. Jesus, it’s so stupid! We’ve no security on these damn rigs. We’ve actually hired sixty terrorists over the past eighteen months and I don’t think we could ever live that down. We can’t let the news out. We’ve got to solve it on our own. We’ve got to check if that bloody bomb works and then take it from there. I’ll ring Andy right now.’

  Barker picked up the telephone and rang the heliport. He spoke to Andy Blackburn, told him what to look for, then told him not to ask any questions and to keep his mouth shut. Masters stood there and listened. Barker gave nothing away. Masters gazed out the window and tried hard to control his boiling rage. His hands opened and closed, clutched the air and released it. He looked out at the sea and thought of Griffith and Sutton on that rig. The terrorists had sunk Eagle 3. Most of the crew had gone down with it. The terrorists had murdered twenty men on Charlie 2 and thrown them over the side. Masters felt like exploding, like smashing the radio shack. He heard Barker speaking into the phone, sounding calm and collected. Then Barker rang off. He turned around to face Turner. The bearded supervisor was chewing a matchstick and sweating profusely.

  ‘OK,’ Barker said, ‘he’s going to check. In the meantime, we wait.’

  6