by Shaun Clarke
‘They’re not bluffing,’ Masters insisted.
‘We don’t know that,’ Sir Reginald said.
‘So what if they’re not bluffing?’ the PM asked. ‘I don’t think we can risk that.’
‘You’re the head of the British government,’ the Under-Secretary said. ‘You can’t give yourself up to the terrorists on the chance that they’ll spare you.’
‘Is there a choice?’ the PM asked. ‘I can’t see that there is. A bomb like that will finish off the North Sea, not to mention the UK. So I don’t think there’s a choice. I side with Sergeant Masters. We’ll just have to see what they want and hope it isn’t my neck.’
‘Once you’re there, there’s not a thing we can do,’ the Under-Secretary said, ‘and they can do what they want. They could kill you and still set the bomb off – or set it off while you’re on the rig.’
‘True enough,’ Masters said, ‘but we still don’t have a choice. And at least, if we can get on that rig, we have the chance to do something.’
‘Do something, Sergeant?’
‘That’s right, sir – do something. It’s a long shot, but at least we’ll be aboard and that counts for something. I might be able to get away. I don’t know how, but it’s possible. I might be able to disappear long enough to find out where the bomb is. If I do, I can disarm it. I know enough about those things to do that. I can ensure that it won’t work and then we’ll take it from there.’
‘They’ll kill you,’ Dalton said.
‘At least they won’t have their bomb. And if they don’t have their bomb, then the only thing they have is the rig.’
‘They’ll kill you,’ Dalton insisted. ‘You and the Prime Minister. If you take their bomb apart, they’re going to kill you. I’m certain of that.’
‘It’s our only chance,’ Masters said. ‘Our only possible hope. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only one we’ve got, so we might as well take it.’
‘It’s suicide,’ the Under-Secretary insisted. ‘There’s no other word for it.’
‘It’s a chance,’ Masters said.
The PM stared at him. It was a hard and searching look. His penetrating blue eyes were set in a rough worker’s face. He saw that Masters was looking back. There was no sign of intimidation. He saw intelligence and a growing frustration and a fierce, controlled anger. There was no other option. While they talked the bomb was ticking away and the future was shrinking. The PM didn’t like it. He didn’t really want to do it. He studied Masters and wondered what would happen if they sat it out. The bomb might go off. The oilfields would be destroyed. His own future and the future of Britain would go down with the rigs. There could be no doubt about it. The PM studied the SBS sergeant and saw his one hope on earth. ‘We’ve no choice,’ he said.
9
The black sky was all around them. Below was nothing but darkness. The RN Dragonfly helicopter rose and fell on the wind as it headed for the Beryl Field, powered by its single Pratt & Whitney R-985 450bhp engine. Masters was at the controls with Barker beside him. The Prime Minister, seated close behind them, coughed lightly to clear his throat.
Masters glanced down at the sea and saw a dark, vitreous void. He didn’t like to look down – it was the black void of a dream. They were fifteen hundred feet above the sea but couldn’t see a thing. Masters felt very strange, slightly high, his nerves tingling. Excitement was mixed up with his natural fear and clinging sense of disbelief.
He was a Royal Marine Commando, a member of the SBS, trained rigorously at the Amphibious School of the Royal Marines at Eastney and elsewhere in a remarkably wide variety of specialist activities, including offensive demolitions, close-quarter combat (CQB), firing rifles and automatic weapons from the hip, stalking, fighting in densely wooded country and on the streets, abseiling, navigation, assault-opposed landings, elementary bridging, the use of assault boats and scaling ladders, tactical manoeuvres involving endurance, living on concentrated rations, ambushes, night operations, general boating, parachuting and flying single-pilot aircraft and helicopters – all that and he was still nervous, not because of the nature of this operation, but because he was now in charge of the fate of the British Prime Minister.
Luckily, if he survived this op, he would no longer be alone. Just before flying from Bravo 1 with the PM, he had been ordered by the latter to obtain proper authorization from his CO to make this flight and engage with the terrorists. Shocked by what he had been told, the CO, Lieutenant-Colonel Ben Edwards, had insisted on flying out to Bravo 1 to confer with the others in the boardroom and personally supervise all further SBS activity in the matter, including, if necessary, a full rescue assault against Charlie 2. On hold with his SBS squadron in the old Commando Basic Training Centre at Achnacarry, near the foot of Ben Nevis, Lieutenant-Colonel Edwards had decided to fly with one of his most experienced officers, Captain Rudolph ‘Rudy’ Pancroft, to Bravo 1 even as Masters was en route to Charlie 2. By the time Masters returned from Charlie 2 – if he returned – his two superiors would be relocated on Bravo 1. This thought gave him some comfort.
Masters looked down again and saw blackness everywhere. There was no moon, but he did see the clouds as deeper stains on the darkness. He shivered a little, his excitement warring with fear, as the Dragonfly dropped into an air pocket, shook violently, then picked up speed again and flew on.
‘Are we close?’ the PM asked.
‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ Masters replied. ‘We should be seeing their lights any minute now. We’ll be descending soon.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Eighteen-fifty hours,’ Barker informed him.
‘Ten minutes,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘I trust they’ll be amenable now.’
Masters didn’t reply. His brain was racing with possibilities. He wondered where he would be held, where the bomb was hidden, if he could make his escape and stay out of sight long enough. It wouldn’t take long to dismantle; the time spent would be in locating it. He had to elude his captors long enough to find and destroy the bomb. And what if he succeeded? Would that help in the long run? He tried to think of a way of escaping but couldn’t come up with one. After all, he had the Prime Minister and Barker to think about as well. He couldn’t simply disarm the bomb and run away, leaving them trapped with the terrorists. His mind was racing, yet his eyes scanned the dark sky systematically. Looking down, he saw distant, winking lights and knew they were close.
‘That’s it,’ Barker hissed.
‘Yeah, I can see it.’
‘I feel trapped,’ Barker said. ‘Utterly useless. What can we do down there?’
Masters looked ahead and saw the distant lights approaching, pinpoints growing bigger in the darkness to become stars in space, then lamps floating on high. There was something chilling in that sight, something unreal and frightening. Suddenly, he felt all alone, floating free in the cosmos. He blinked and swallowed, torn between dread and excitement, then gave in to a cold, competitive rage against the men on that rig. He had to beat them somehow, deprive them of victory. His own future, and that of his country, both hung in the balance.
‘I’m starting the descent now,’ he said.
‘I’m glad,’ the PM replied gamely. ‘I want to get this over and done with. I don’t like not knowing.’
The distant lights were approaching rapidly. Moonlight fell on the water. The Dragonfly, shaking a little, dropped lower and Masters saw Charlie 2. It was a pyramid of lights that rendered the rig invisible. The lights seemed to be floating in the dark sky above the moon’s reflection in the water. That water was almost black – a bottomless well. The lights of Charlie 2 shone above it, danced and leapt in the lapping waves. Masters tried to concentrate, taking the helicopter lower. He had a vision of the lights of Manhattan, sweeping out, soaring skywards. It was a beautiful sight that made him catch his breath. He looked down and saw the silhouetted derricks, the black mat of the platform.
‘There they are,’ he said. ‘The bastards are waiting d
own there for us. Now let’s find out what’s happening.’
He turned the Dragonfly around and started descending towards the rig, heading for the circle of lights on the edge of the platform. Now he could see the whole rig, the towering derricks and tiered modules, a patchwork of shadow and light, stark black and white brilliance. There were dots in that mosaic, moving back and forth, gradually taking shape and becoming the human beings surrounding the landing pad. The Dragonfly shuddered as it dropped below the lights. Far below, beneath the illuminated landing pad, was the dark, surging sea. The helicopter descended vertically until the derricks towered above it. Dropping lower, it touched lightly on the deck and finally came to a halt.
Masters switched off the engine and waited patiently until the props had stopped rotating and the slipstream had subsided.
‘Here we go,’ Barker said.
The men moving in on all sides were wearing overalls and were armed with 5.56mm Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine-guns, 7.6mm Kalashnikov AK47 semi-automatic assault rifles, and a variety of handguns, including the 9mm Glock 17 semi-automatic and the .455-inch Webley Mark 6. The lights washed across their faces, rendering them ghostly white and featureless. They closed in, surrounding the Dragonfly, as Masters moved towards the door. The PM hesitated when he saw those floodlit faces. Beyond them were the blazing lights of the derricks and the stark, jet-black shadows.
Masters smiled reassuringly at the PM, then unlocked the door. After sliding the door open, he threw out the short ladder and made his way down, followed by Barker. A cold air rushed into the helicopter as the PM stood up, bit his lower lip, then moved to the exit and stared down at the brightly lit landing pad. The terrorists were keeping Masters and Barker covered, but otherwise they seemed calm. The PM took a deep breath and made his way down the ladder until he stood between Masters and Barker.
‘So,’ Masters asked, ‘where’s McGee?’
One of the terrorists stepped forward and grabbed Masters by the shoulder, jerked him around, threw him against the side of the helicopter and then roughly kicked his legs apart. Masters offered no resistance. The terrorist ran his hands up and down the SBS man’s body, then stepped back and motioned to Barker.
‘Your turn,’ he said.
Barker faced the Dragonfly, putting his hands above his head and spreading his legs. The terrorist frisked him expertly, then stepped back and nodded at the Prime Minister.
‘You, too,’ he said quietly.
The PM straightened his broad shoulders and stared straight at the terrorist. ‘I am the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom,’ he declared. ‘I do not carry weapons.’
The terrorist raised his MP5 sub-machine-gun and aimed it at the PM. ‘I don’t give a fuck,’ the terrorist said. ‘Put your hands on that chopper.’
The PM bristled, but did as he was told. The terrorist frisked him and then stepped away, saying: ‘Right, turn around.’ The three men did as they were told, facing the circle of armed terrorists. The wind moaned and stark shadows formed a web on the steel of the platform.
‘Where’s McGee?’ Masters asked again.
‘In the radio shack,’ replied the terrorist who had frisked them.
‘I know where it is,’ Masters said. ‘Are we going there now?’
‘Right now. After you.’
The terrorist motioned with his MP5, the surrounding men parted to form a pathway, and Masters, followed by the PM and Barker, headed for the catwalk. The PM glanced left and right and saw the weapons pointing at him. He felt a tension that wasn’t quite fear – more a heightened awareness. Some armed terrorists went on ahead while others fell in behind. Masters mounted the catwalk, Barker close behind, and then the PM also stepped forward and felt the blast of an icy wind. Following Barker across the catwalk, he glanced down and felt dizzy. The surging sea way below was a dark pit flecked with silvery lights. The PM took a deep breath and gripped the railing tighter. There was nothing on either side but the sea and the sky, both black, both offering lonesome sounds: splashing water, the moaning wind. The PM stopped once. He was prodded with a gun barrel. Advancing again, he walked carefully down the catwalk, eventually finding himself standing on the main deck, beside Masters and Barker.
‘Keep going,’ the leading terrorist said. ‘You’re not here for the scenery.’
The gunmen formed a circle around them as they crossed the main deck. There were more terrorists standing along the modules, looking on with great interest, some laughing, others shouting derisory remarks. The PM kept his dignity, not responding in any way, following the others past huge oil tanks and derricks, under cranes and catwalks. The deck was slippery under foot, filmed with mud and oil, and they walked either through the dazzling brilliance of the floodlights or through a stark, blinding blackness. It was very quiet here. The drilling floor had been silenced. They heard the wind, the sea, their boots banging on metal.
They came to a steel ladder leading up to another deck. The terrorists in front climbed up, Masters and Barker followed, and then the PM, breathing heavily. It was a vertical climb and he wasn’t used to such exercise; when he reached the top he found himself gasping, felt the strain in his muscles. Barker was grinning at him, at once amused and admiring. Masters was intently studying their surroundings, fixing them in his memory. Following the SBS man’s gaze, the PM saw the radio shack. The front door was open, light was flooding out, and a man was silhouetted in the doorway, surrounded by armed guards.
‘Is that McGee?’ the PM asked.
‘Yes,’ Masters replied.
‘Obviously he has a flair for theatrics,’ the PM said.
They walked across the deck and stepped into the light. McGee, unarmed, was in the doorway, a grin on his face.
‘Have you come?’ he said to Masters, using that oddity of speech peculiar to Ulster.
‘Yes. Here we are.’
‘Did I surprise you?’
‘Yes, McGee, you surprised me. I would never have guessed.’
McGee’s grin was not good-humoured. His brown eyes, bright and hard, turned from Masters to Barker to finally settle on the PM, whom he studied for some time. The PM was unflinching. McGee turned away and motioned the three men inside. Brushing past him, they entered the radio shack, which was small, bright and sweltering. McGee stepped in after them, flanked by two armed guards. One of them closed the door, the other moved up beside him, and both of them levelled their MP5s at the three visitors. McGee grinned, sat down by the radio and looked up at his hostages.
‘Sure, I thought I’d make this radio shack my HQ,’ he explained. ‘Particularly when we’ve so much to talk about.’
No one smiled. ‘All right,’ Barker said. ‘You’ve got us here, so just tell us one thing. Is there really a bomb?’
‘Ackaye,’ McGee replied.
‘Where?’
‘Where do you think? Inside one of the pontoon legs – just like the first one.’
‘Which leg?’ Masters asked.
‘Don’t be daft, Tone. Do you think I’d be dumb enough to tell you? Ask me something else, like.’
‘Would you really use it?’ the PM asked.
‘Ackaye, Prime Minister.’
‘You must be mad,’ Barker told him.
‘No, I’m not. And you damn well know it.’
McGee stopped grinning, looked at each of them in turn, then settled his gaze on Masters.
‘Tell us about the bomb,’ Masters said.
‘Sure, Tone, why not?’ McGee grinned again. ‘It’s about the size of a tea chest and weighs . . .’
‘We already know that,’ Masters interrupted.
‘Right,’ McGee said, grinning even more broadly, though with no sign of humour. ‘It was shipped in in separate parts in various supply crates, over a period of time, and the parts were hidden in the rig’s regular storage space. A lot of my men were on the night shift and often had to check the pontoon legs; so bit by bit they took the parts down into the pontoon leg and gradually reassembled the bo
mb down there. It’s now resting on a girder halfway down – and it’s all primed to go.’
He grinned at the three of them. They all looked at him in silence. The floor was undulating from side to side, very slowly, hypnotically. Eventually the PM coughed into his fist, clearing his throat.
‘What are your demands?’ he asked quietly.
‘I speak for the IRA,’ McGee responded portentously. ‘I want you to understand that. These demands are on behalf of the Irish . . .’
‘I don’t wish to hear your nonsense,’ the PM snapped. ‘I just want your demands.’
‘We want one million pounds sterling. Then we want four of our men out of the Maze prison. It’s as simple as that.’
‘What men?’ the PM asked.
‘You mean you agree to the money?’
‘I haven’t said that,’ the PM replied firmly. ‘Now who are these men?’
‘Seamus McGrath, John Houlihan, Kevin Trainor and Shaun McGurk – the four best men we’ve got.’
‘That’s rather a large demand,’ the PM said after a lengthy pause. ‘I seriously doubt that I could order their release.’
‘Sure you can, Prime Minister. You can dream up an excuse. They’re political prisoners, there’s already doubt that you can hold them long, but we want them to be pardoned and set free before this week’s out. We won’t settle for less.’
‘That’s impossible,’ the PM said.
‘Sure, nothing’s impossible, Prime Minister. We don’t care how you explain it to the public; we just want them pardoned.’
‘I can’t do it,’ the PM said.
‘Yes, you can,’ McGee insisted. ‘They’re in the Maze awaiting trial, their guilt hasn’t been proven yet, so you can say that the evidence against them was all circumstantial and wouldn’t have held up in court.’
‘That will make fools of our intelligence people.’
‘That’s part of our general plan.’
