by Shaun Clarke
Convinced that the situation should be kept secret as long as possible, Turner decided to return to the boardroom. Walking across the main deck, seeing the rig workers all around him, he felt himself succumbing to panic. The terrorists had a plutonium bomb. They could obliterate the Beryl Field. The bomb could also devastate the Forties Field and set them back a good ten years. The results would be catastrophic. The whole of Britain could collapse. When he pictured the faces in the boardroom, Turner felt like a drowning man.
He reached the end of the deck, started climbing the steel steps, and saw dull clouds passing slowly over the sea as if nothing had changed.
Turner didn’t want to do it. The thought of the boardroom made him ill. He would have to go in there and lie, and the thought made his heart pound. He wished that Masters was there with him. The SBS trooper had the strength he needed. But what would happen when Blackburn called? What could they do if the bomb worked? Turner desperately tried to find a way out as he climbed the ladder.
He reached the upper deck, opened the door of the nearest module, stepped inside and closed the door behind him, then took a deep breath and walked on.
Not believing he could face the meeting, he was trembling when he reached the boardroom. The guard opened the door and Turner felt himself smiling, putting on a casual mask as he walked in. Then the panic disappeared. It simply fell away from him. He walked over to the table, sat down in his chair and gazed calmly around him.
‘Sorry, gentlemen,’ he heard himself saying. ‘A spot of bother on the Frigg Field.’
The Prime Minister, who had been talking, went quiet and glanced up. Turner noticed that his eyes were very blue, with a cold, hard intelligence.
‘Oh?’ the PM said. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Anything serious?’
‘We’re not sure yet,’ Turner replied. ‘We think a well-head exploded. We don’t know how much damage it caused, but we’re having it checked out.’
Tapping a pencil on the table, Sir Reginald McMillan stared at him. He was slim, grey-haired and distinguished, with a pale, remote face. ‘An explosion?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ Turner said.
‘Dearie me. What rig was this?’
‘Eagle 3,’ Turner said.
Sir Reginald glanced at the PM. Clearly the news hadn’t pleased him. Sir Reginald turned his pencil over and started doodling, then looked over at Turner. ‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘We don’t know, sir. They’re still trying to sort it out. Apparently some oil drums exploded, which has made it all the worse. We’re waiting for further news and they’re ringing us back as soon as possible. I’ve left Masters in charge, but I’ll probably have to go up there again. I hope you’ll excuse me.’
‘Of course,’ Sir Reginald said. ‘Who’s this Masters?’
Turner hesitated. Apart from Robert Barker, he was the only man in the company who knew that Tony Masters was one of the many SBS men working under cover on the oil rigs. He wasn’t sure that the PM knew about the SBS involvement; if he didn’t, he might be outraged to learn about it by accident. Discretion being the better part of valour, Turner decided to keep his mouth shut on this particular issue.
‘A top tool-pusher,’ he said. ‘He’s one of our best men. He’s handled situations like this before and knows what he’s doing.’
Sir Reginald sighed, trying to hide his annoyance. Such accidents could happen, but it was dreadful to have one at a time like this. He glanced at the PM and saw those blue eyes staring at him with a mixture of accusation and pleasure. Of course, the PM would try to use the accident as a stick to beat the oil companies with. Any suggestion of negligence would strengthen his government’s bargaining position.
‘An explosion?’ the PM asked like a perfect innocent. ‘Is this sort of thing common?’
‘No, Prime Minister,’ Turner said. ‘It does happen, but very seldom. The North Sea’s very deep and the pressure is tremendous and that obviously leads to the unexpected. It’s happened before and it’ll happen again, but it’s by no means common.’
‘I see,’ the PM said.
‘It’s in the Frigg Field,’ Sir Reginald explained. ‘Luckily the explosion was on Eagle 3, which is closing down anyway.’
‘Closing down?’ the PM asked.
‘Yes, Prime Minister, closing down. Eagle 3 was drying up and was due to be towed away to another field. The blow-up therefore won’t be as bad as it might have been, since to all intents and purposes the rig was closed. Had she been operating it might well have been worse.’
‘That was lucky,’ the PM said brightly.
‘Yes, Prime Minister, very lucky. That no oil was coming out of Eagle 3 was very lucky indeed.’
Sir Reginald’s smile was not returned by the PM. Instead, the PM glanced in turn at each of the other men, who were all sleek and well-fed. These were the oil magnates, representing the conglomerates. They headed individual companies that were part of larger companies and the source of their power was elusive. They were an international crew, living in boardrooms and hotels, reporting behind closed doors to unknown superiors, not intimidated by politicians or the rule of law. The PM didn’t like them because they had rendered his government impotent. He could never forget that fact.
‘Anyone hurt?’ he asked.
‘We don’t know yet,’ Turner replied. ‘I would anticipate casualties, but we won’t know until they ring back.’
‘They seem slow,’ the Under-Secretary said.
‘They’re fighting the fire,’ Turner told him.
‘I trust we’ll receive a full report.’
‘Of course, sir. That’s our policy.’
The Under-Secretary smiled thinly. He sensed that Turner was being too calm. He knew that accidents on the rigs were handled by the oil companies and that the reports were written up by their own men. The Under-Secretary did not approve. He knew the reports could not be trusted. He felt that the Department of Energy should be called in at such times to conduct an independent investigation. He had been fighting for this for years, but it was a fight he hadn’t won. The oil companies had resisted all attempts to uncover their skeletons.
‘What’s happening now?’ he asked.
‘We’re simply waiting,’ Turner replied. ‘I’ve left Masters in the radio shack with instructions to call me.’
‘Excellent,’ Paul Dalton said, smiling encouragingly at Turner. He was a rough-looking, suntanned American with a shock of red hair. ‘I’ve met Masters and think he’s a good man – completely trustworthy. The guy has an air of authority.’
Knowing that this ‘air of authority’ had been instilled by the SBS, Turner was relieved to receive Dalton’s support, which would, he hoped, deflect any further questions about Masters. Dalton was one of the American top dogs, so his word carried weight here. He had worked his way up the hard way, first as a roustabout, as a roughneck and tool-pusher, then as head of security for American oil companies in Saudi Arabia and New Mexico. Now he was one of the most powerful men in the business, a top-flight executive who worked for most of the conglomerates, the kind who made lesser men uneasy, particularly because they didn’t know his specific function nor precisely for whom he was working. They only knew that he was free to roam the world at will, dropping in on any oilfield, company office or headquarters, and that he did so with alarming frequency. Where Dalton went, heads invariably rolled, which made him all the more frightening. His presence at this top-level conference had put them all, even the PM, on their toes.
‘Masters is good,’ Dalton insisted. ‘He’s really good. I don’t doubt we can trust him.’
‘I agree,’ Turner said. ‘He’s been through this kind of thing before and knows how to deal with it. He also knows what to do when the rig calls: he’ll send someone to fetch me.’
‘Will they need help?’ Sir Reginald asked, meaning the men on the rig he thought was only damaged.
‘We won’t know until they call back,’ Turner said. ‘In the meantime, we’ll sit tight.’
‘Fine by me,’ Dalton said.
‘Most unfortunate,’ Sir Reginald murmured.
‘So,’ the PM said firmly, trying to avoid Dalton’s steely gaze, ‘let’s get back to business.’
The conference continued with voices arguing back and forth as the smoke from cigars and cigarettes drifted over their heads. Turner heard himself talking, but hardly knew what he was saying, being too busy looking through the portholes at the rigs in the distance. Was the Forties Field safe? Could Barker be sure of his security? Could they be certain there wasn’t a terrorist right here in their midst? Should he not say to hell with it all and call in Masters’s fellow SBS men? Turner heard the PM’s voice, then Sir Reginald and then himself. His own voice seemed to come from far away, though it sounded surprisingly calm and reassuring. Turner gazed through the portholes. Rigs were smoking on the horizon. They were miles apart and looked very small, isolated, defenceless . . . Turner shivered. He tried to focus on the conference. He thought bitterly of the terrorists on Charlie 2 and he wished that the phone would ring.
When it rang, he felt paralysed.
7
Robert Barker knew the news wasn’t good when he saw Turner’s face. Turner was back in the radio shack, standing opposite Masters. Neither of them looked happy. When Barker entered, Turner looked out the window and Masters offered a tight smile.
‘Well?’ Barker asked.
‘Blackburn thinks the bomb would work,’ Masters told him. ‘He found the photos and technical data behind the cistern in the toilet of the heliport, as McGee had said he would. He took them to the Aberdeen munitions lab of British United Oil. They phoned him five minutes ago and said they thought it would work.’
‘Are they certain?’ Barker asked.
‘They can’t be, but they’re pretty sure. It’s about the size of a tea chest, it weighs approximately a quarter of a ton, it’s got everything it needs, all the pieces are in the right place, and with a minimum of luck it would work.’
‘Jesus!’ Turner gasped. He was looking out at the darkening Forties Field.
‘OK,’ Barker said. ‘It’s a workable design for a plutonium bomb, but that doesn’t mean the bastards could actually make it. They’re terrorists, not scientists. They’re a bunch of killers. To design a bomb like this is one thing; to actually make it is another. Where did they get the materials? How did they put it all together? And how the hell would they manage to test it? The drawings by themselves don’t mean they’ve got one.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ Masters said, thinking of the many extraordinary explosive devices created secretly in RM Commando demolition establishments. ‘According to Blackburn, they’re relatively easy to make, not that expensive, and becoming more common every day. He says that schoolkids have made them. He says that all the materials can be bought in the open market and that a large bomb, a workable one, is not out of the question. The plans McGee left were perfect. The lab thought the bomb could work. True, we don’t know if he’s actually made it, but we’d be safest to assume that he has.’
Barker smacked his forehead, then shook his head in disbelief. He walked to the door of the hut and then came back again.
‘We have to know for sure,’ he said. ‘We have to know if they have a bomb on that rig or if they’re trying to bullshit us.’
‘Blackburn’s on to it,’ Masters said. ‘He’s trying to find out right now. He’s going to check out McGee’s movements over the past few months and try to come up with more concrete information. In the meantime, we’ll have to accept that they might have that bomb.’
‘Which means that even your SBS commandos can’t make an assault on that rig.’
‘Unfortunately not,’ Masters said.
‘Let’s talk to McGee,’ Barker suggested. ‘Try to sound him out. To stretch it out a bit longer and give Blackburn more time.’ He looked at Turner, who nodded and stepped aside. Barker sat at the radio and switched it on, engaging the open line. An unfamiliar voice asked him who he was and he said tersely: ‘Barker. Now get me McGee.’ After a long silence they heard the crackling of static, a snatch of laughter in the background, then someone coughing.
‘Is that Barker?’ McGee asked.
‘Yes, McGee, this is Barker. You told me to call you back in an hour, so I’m calling you back.’
‘I’m glad you listened,’ McGee said. ‘It shows common sense. I didn’t like the thought of what would happen if you didn’t show that.’
‘How are Griffith and Sutton doing?’
‘The prisoners of war are doing fine.’
‘They’re not prisoners of war, they’re fucking hostages, so let’s cut the horse-shit.’
McGee chuckled. ‘Sure, you’re a sharp one, Barker. You can call them what you like, but we’ve got them and that’s all that matters.’ Barker didn’t reply. There was a very long silence. ‘So,’ McGee said eventually, ‘I take it you know our bomb works and we can get down to brass tacks.’
‘It might work and it might not,’ Barker replied. ‘We want proof that you have it.’
‘Eagle 3 was your proof.’
‘That blast didn’t come from an A-bomb, so don’t pretend otherwise.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ McGee said. ‘It was proof of our intentions. Proof that we could smuggle a bomb on board and that we mean what we say. You know we’re not bluffing, Barker. Sure you’re shit-scared and sweatin’. If you really want proof, try to take back this rig or simply refuse to meet our demands. You know what would happen then. If our bomb goes off, you’re finished. It’ll wipe out Beryl, devastate half of the Forties, and destroy the main pipeline to the refineries. That’s over half of Britain’s oil. We’ll wipe the North Sea off the map. Think about that if you’ve got any idea that we’re trying to bluff you.’
The radio shack was quiet but for the crackling static. It was growing dark outside and they heard the sea washing around the rig. Resting his chin in his hands, Barker stared blankly at the radio. He seemed pale and the shadows fell over him, rendering him ghostlike.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘The Prime Minister,’ McGee replied.
‘You want me to let you talk to the Prime Minister?’
‘No,’ McGee said. ‘More than that.’
Barker almost stopped breathing. He leant back in his chair. After stretching his hands out on the table, he studied his fingernails. He didn’t move for a long time and there was no sound from the radio. Barker finally sat forward again to speak into the microphone.
‘You mean in person?’ he asked.
‘Ackaye. I mean in person.’
‘And where do you plan to have this great meeting?’
‘On Charlie 2,’ McGee said.
Masters clenched his fists. He was thinking of the SBS assault squadrons presently on hold at the RM Commando base at Achnacarry. He was frustrated because he desperately wanted to call them out to deal with the terrorists, though that didn’t seem likely. Opening his clenched fists, he glanced through the window. Shadows swooped across the sea. He saw the afternoon becoming evening, heard the wind, felt the deepening cold.
‘You’re kidding,’ Barker said.
‘Sure, I’m not,’ McGee replied.
‘You know we’d never fly the PM over there.’
‘Sure, you’ve no choice,’ McGee said.
Barker listened to the static like a man in a trance. The demands were impossible. The alternative was unthinkable. He glanced despairingly at Masters and Turner, then tried as best he could to fill the silence.
‘I can’t do that,’ he said.
‘You’re going to have to,’ McGee replied. ‘I want the Prime Minister. I want him here by 1900 hours. Fifteen minutes after that, if he isn’t here, I’ll set the bomb off.’
‘You’ll go up with it,’ Barker reminded him.
‘You’ve already said that,’ McGee responded. ‘And I’m saying again, we don’t mind. We’re all committed to taking this to the limit if
necessary. We’re prepared to die for it.’
‘Why do you want the Prime Minister?’
‘I want to give him our demands.’
‘Why not let me pass them on?’
‘I want him as collateral.’
‘Collateral?’
‘That’s right, Barker, our collateral. We need a guarantee as big as our demands, so we want the Prime Minister.’
‘What the hell are you trying to pull, McGee? I want to know your demands.’
‘You won’t be told,’ McGee said. ‘I’ll only inform the Prime Minister. He’s the only man who’s got the authority to get us what we want.’
‘You might kill him,’ Barker said.
‘Ackaye, I might do that.’
‘Then you know we can’t possibly agree.’
‘Sure, you will. You’ve no choice.’
Barker broke all the rules by lighting a cigarette. He inhaled and leant back in the chair and gazed up at the ceiling. Masters studied his face, which seemed thin and very pale. There were beads of sweat shining on his forehead, just beneath the hairline. It was quiet in the module, and they were all aware of the murmuring sea. Turner tugged at his beard and glanced at Masters, shook his head and looked down again. The tool-pusher remained standing, opening and shutting his large hands. Barker sat up, leant forward again, and looked straight at the radio.
‘No arguments,’ McGee said. ‘No delays and no tricks. If anything comes anywhere near this rig, the whole thing’ll go up in smoke. We want the Prime Minister. We want him at 1900 hours. We want him to arrive by helicopter with no cops or soldiers. You and Masters can come with him. I want Masters to fly the chopper. If we find another pilot on board, he’ll be executed. You’ll land at 1900 hours. We’ll give you fifteen minutes’ leeway. If you’re not here by 1915 we’ll blow the whole rig to hell.’
‘I refuse,’ Barker said.
‘You can’t refuse and you know it.’
‘I won’t do it.’
‘I don’t care,’ McGee said. ‘Sure, it’s your choice, boyo.’
Barker opened his mouth to speak, but the line went dead on him. He sank back in the chair and fumbled for another cigarette.
