Marine A SBS

by Shaun Clarke

  The derricks towered above him. The lights tapered up into nothing. Floodlights beamed down on the deck, illuminating the terrorists. They were wandering back and forth, carrying AK47 assault rifles and MP5 sub-machine-guns, walking under the massive cranes, past the stacked pipes, with the darkness beyond them. Ignoring them, Masters made his way to the end of the deck until he was parallel to the radio shack. The same two guards were still standing outside the door, looking bored and lethargic.

  Masters checked the time: he had five minutes left. He started walking along the edge of the deck, towards the radio shack. The sea murmured far below and the wind howled across him, but he made it to the hut and then slipped in behind it. It was very dark in there. He glimpsed the corner of the rig. Glancing down, he saw the huge pontoon leg, disappearing in darkness. He thought of Barker and the Prime Minister, silently praying that they had made it. They should both be down there in the barge, checking the time. Masters looked up again, beyond the roof of the radio shack; he saw the radar antennae thrusting skyward, halfway down the deck.

  Breathing deeply, he put his arm through the sling of the rifle, then carefully climbed the ladder right in front of him. He reached the roof of the radio shack, slithered across it on his belly, only stopping when he reached the far edge and could see the whole deck. There he made himself comfortable, but remained on his belly. He pulled the rifle off his shoulder, checked the magazine, ensured that the grenade-launcher was working, then took the safety-catch off. The guards below made no sound. Masters looked along the deck, where the radar antennae were being bent by the wind.

  He had one minute left. Still on his belly, he adopted the firing position and took aim with the combat rifle. The two guards were still below him, but the others were far away. Masters aimed at the guard to his left and then fired the first shot.

  There was a crack; it was not very loud at all. The guard jerked violently, staggered in a circle, then went down. The other guard dropped to his knees, turning around, raising his weapon, looking shadowy and unreal in the gloom as Masters aimed for his chest. The rifle cracked again in his ear. The guard’s arms flew out sideways. He spun away but had not yet hit the deck when Masters rolled from the edge.

  He heard shouts and running feet, then the roar of many guns. Knowing they were confused, he reset his rifle and fixed a grenade to the barrel-mounted launcher. The running feet were approaching. A machine-gun stuttered. Still on his belly, he twisted to the side and aimed his rifle at the radar antennae. He didn’t have much time. The shouting and shooting were spreading. He took aim at the base of the antennae and fired the grenade. It seemed to take a long time. Shadowy figures advanced towards him. Guns flashed and then he saw the flaring, silvery-white explosion, followed instantly by a roaring and the screeching of scorched, buckling metal.

  He didn’t wait to check the damage, but instead attached a second grenade, took aim and squeezed the trigger. He felt the recoil as the butt punched his shoulder. The second blast seemed even louder, with metal shrieking over the explosion as the antennae burned, buckled and twisted in searing white heat.

  Masters put another grenade in the launcher and fired it at the terrorists. It exploded in the darkness, flared up and faded away. The antennae swayed to and fro, then caved in before the wind and crashed down over the deck and the running men. Steel exploded in all directions, a shower of sparks shot skyward, as Masters slithered back across the flat roof and climbed down to the deck.

  He was behind the radio shack, on the corner of the rig, and looking down he thought he saw the sea below, a black mat in the void. The wind was pushing him against the wall as he fought his way to the catwalk. He saw a steel ladder that ran down past the decks to the top of the pontoon leg. Starting the climb down, he heard gunshots and shouting. He also heard the door of the radio shack banging against the wall, followed by McGee’s voice bawling angrily.

  Masters had no time to deal with McGee, so he kept climbing down. The wind howled and tried to sweep him from the rungs, but he didn’t dare stop.

  He finally reached the pontoon leg, where the wind howled dementedly, but he found the hole in the catwalk, put his feet on the ladder, and started to descend once more. It took a very long time. He passed under the lower deck. Looking through the silvery web of the supporting legs, he saw the darkness beyond. The wind here was fierce, howling under the rig. He glanced up and saw searchlights beaming down, raking the sea below.

  Masters clambered down as fast as possible, hearing the firing of guns above his head, very high up and muffled. Then he heard the clang of boots above. There was shouting and the ladder vibrated and he knew they were following him. He climbed down even faster, forgetting the wind and the dreadful height, hearing the smashing of the sea against the legs, a dull metallic cacophony. The men above were shouting. That made him move faster. He climbed down and heard the roaring of a motor launch and knew that Barker was leaving.

  He started yelling crazily, letting Barker know who he was, as the rifle slung over his shoulder pummelled his ribs.

  Masters jumped from the ladder and fell down through darkness. He landed on the barge and rolled over and crashed into some crates. Barker called out his name, not sure what was happening. Masters jumped up and stumbled across the deck, hitting boxes and cables.

  Suddenly, he saw Barker, not too far away, silhouetted against the cloudy night, at the prow of the loading barge. He lurched towards him, but he disappeared from view, then Masters reached the prow and saw the boat below him. Barker was at the wheel. The Prime Minister was waving at him. The sea was rough and the engine was roaring as Masters jumped down, almost hitting the PM, before crashing into the cabin wall. Barker ceded his place at the wheel to the SBS man and the engine roared louder as the boat moved off.

  They saw the rig high above them, and searchlights beaming down on the water, then heard the gunfire. Wood splintered all around them. Barker screamed and threw his hands up. Masters saw his eyes, in them an awful incomprehension, before he jerked back and appeared to somersault and went over the side.

  There was no point in stopping.

  12

  The small boat’s motor roared against the wind. The sea was rough and it sloshed across the deck and drenched Masters as he struggled with the wheel. He heard the louder roar of the guns as the terrorists fired from the loading barge. They were shouting and then another engine growled into life, which meant they were following him. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw the Prime Minister at the stern, fully exposed to the gunfire, gazing into the water.

  ‘Get down!’ Masters shouted. ‘Get your head down! They’re trying to kill you!’

  An automatic rifle cracked and he heard the bullets whipping past him. Fragments of wood exploded off the prow of the boat and as Masters dropped low the wheel started spinning. Cursing, he glanced up and saw the rig soaring above him, its many lights blazing out of the darkness. Glancing back, he saw that the PM was crouching low, peering from the stern of the boat, trying to see the men following them.

  ‘Keep down!’ Masters bawled.

  ‘What about Barker?’ the PM shouted back. ‘I can see him! He’s floating out there in the water! I’m sure I can see him!’

  The boat had gone into a spin with waves sloshing across the deck, then it rose and plunged down into the waves, almost submerged. Masters jumped up, reaching for the runaway wheel. The terrorists’ guns barked and more splinters of wood flew about him as he yanked the wheel back. The boat started straightening out, heading away from the oil rig. He heard the terrorists’ launch ploughing through the waves as more bullets whipped past him.

  ‘What about Barker?’ the PM shouted above the roar of the motor and the sea.

  ‘It’s too late!’ Masters yelled back.

  ‘We can’t just leave him!’

  ‘There’s no choice! Keep your head down, sir!’

  Masters gave the engine full throttle, and the launch nosed up and plunged back down through the
spray and waves. The PM yelped with shock as he stumbled back to Masters; soaked to the skin, he was looking down at himself as if not quite believing it. ‘It’s freezing cold!’ he shouted. Masters didn’t respond. He was gripping the wheel and heading into the darkness, the rough sea and the cutting wind. As the boat rose and fell the PM held on to the side. From behind they heard the rumble of the other boat and the shouts of the terrorists.

  ‘They’re following us!’ the PM shouted.

  ‘I know that!’

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Just keep your head down!’

  Sub-machine-guns snapped behind them and bullets whined past on both sides. The PM dropped low behind Masters and mumbled something inaudible. Glancing back over his shoulder, Masters was temporarily blinded by a searchlight that passed across the boat, wavered, then came back towards him. He glanced down. The PM was crouched low. Masters grabbed him by the shoulders and tugged him up and placed his hands on the wheel.

  ‘Hold her steady!’ Masters shouted. ‘Don’t let the wheel move! Don’t let the boat change direction!’

  The PM’s eyes widened, staring at Masters as if stunned, but he grabbed the wheel and looked straight ahead at the dark, surging sea. Masters unslung his combat rifle, then he heard the snap of automatic fire from behind him and dropped to the deck. The sea growled and washed over him as he crawled to the stern. There he looked up just as the searchlight found him, filling the launch with a dazzling light. The PM was exposed, so there really wasn’t time to spare. Masters set the weapon on automatic fire, then aimed directly at the source of the blinding light. He could hardly keep his eyes open and the boat was pitching wildly, but he fired a short burst, a second, then a third, and was blessed with the distant sound of smashing glass as the darkness rushed back in.

  He had knocked out their searchlight, but this respite was all too brief. He knew that the terrorist boat would have flares and emergency lights. Still growling behind him, banging noisily through the waves, it was starting to catch up. Masters hurried back along the boat to find the PM still holding the steering wheel. When the PM saw Masters, he gave a shy smile, as if embarrassed to be there.

  ‘I’m no good at this,’ he said.

  ‘You’re doing fine, sir.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever forget this experience.’

  ‘I’m sure you won’t, sir.’ Masters took over the steering wheel once more. ‘Can you fire a rifle?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ the PM replied. ‘I’m no good at that either.’

  The wind howled about them, the boat bucked and plunged back down, and the water sloshed across the deck to their rear and poured back out again. Masters held a steady course and knew just where he was going. Glancing briefly over his shoulder, he saw the lights of the distant rig, soaring up to the black sky, a diamond web illuminating the darkness. The other boat was closing the gap all the time, growing larger, a black shape on the light-flecked waves. Masters heard the men shouting and saw lamps flickering on, then another powerful light beamed down on the water and started inching towards him. Suddenly, the boat was looming large to the stern, cutting around Masters to run parallel to him.

  ‘They’ve caught up!’ the PM called out.

  ‘Not for long,’ Masters rasped, reaching down to grab a rope from the deck and lash the steering wheel to its support. ‘Get into the cabin!’ he shouted, but the PM just stared at him. The guns roared and Masters grabbed the PM and threw him down to the deck. ‘In the cabin!’ he bellowed. ‘Get in the cabin! Move!’ The terrorists’ guns roared and again wood fragmented all around Masters, so he grabbed the PM by the shoulders and threw him bodily towards the steps. The PM crawled forward and made his way down the steps. Masters glanced at the wheel and saw that the rope was holding it steady. Reassured, he crawled forward as a stream of bullets stitched the whole boat, causing large chunks of wood as well as splinters to fly through the air.

  He went to the starboard side, huddled up there and waited, listening to the rumbling of the other boat as it attempted to come close enough for the terrorists to board him. The terrorists were excited, shouting a lot as they fired their weapons. Masters heard their boat crashing through the waves, coming closer each second. Still, he didn’t move. The sea hissed as it poured over him. The guns roared and bullets riddled the deck near the stern and made streams of water shoot upwards either side of the boat. Masters cursed: they were punctured below the water-line. He could tell by the noise that the other boat was coming in broadside. It was practically on top of him and would ram him any moment now.

  Masters unclipped an American M26 hand-grenade, pulled the pin out, then jumped up and threw it. The other boat filled his whole vision. He saw the crazed eyes of his pursuers. They seemed startled as the grenade sailed through the air and he dropped low again. The grenade exploded with a deafening, staccato roar. He heard shrieks and the sound of tumbling bodies as he stood up again. He fired his combat rifle, still set on automatic, without looking. White flames were daggering up from the other boat, silhouetting the spinning, staggering men. Masters kept firing in short bursts, spraying the deck from prow to stern. Men screamed and tumbled over the sides or threw themselves to the deck.

  The boat was pulling away from him, obviously out of control, with yellow flames licking over the wheel-house, turning blue, edged with black smoke. The grenade had ignited their spare petrol and the flames hissed and crackled.

  A silhouette was jerking frantically by the smoking wheel-house – on fire, screaming dreadfully. Masters fired a burst at him and the burning man fell. A light winked and Masters dropped to the deck and heard the roar of the gun. He crawled back to the wheel-house, reached up and untied the rope. Opening the engine, he let the boat rush forward, then turned it to starboard.

  The Prime Minister reappeared, looking up from the wheel-house steps. Masters told him to stay there, but the PM ignored him and clambered up the steps to crouch beside him. They both looked back and saw that the burning boat was falling well behind them, the flames clawing at the darkness and casting shadows on the sea’s glowing surface. Human screams rose up from the water near where the blazing launch was drifting, out of control. Their own boat was now circling around it, cutting across to its starboard side.

  The PM glanced at Masters, wondering what he was doing. Looking back, he saw the flames of the burning boat, which was turning and bobbing, moving across on their right, drifting very close to them. An inflatable dinghy had been thrown over the side, into the sea, and some terrorists clambered down on a rope ladder and fell into the dinghy. More screaming came from the deck – someone burning to death. The terrorists in the dinghy started rowing as the yellow flames licked out over them.

  ‘Take the wheel,’ Masters said.

  The Prime Minister took the wheel, hardly thinking, just watching. Masters had turned the engine off and the little launch was just drifting. The PM held it steady as Masters picked up his rifle and aimed it at the terrorists in the dinghy. ‘No, Masters!’ the PM shouted. ‘For God’s sake, you can’t . . .’ But Masters was ignoring him and taking careful, deliberate aim. The PM released the wheel and rushed at Masters and tried pushing the gun up. Masters cursed, grabbed his shoulder and threw him aside. ‘Damn it, let me go!’ he said harshly. ‘I won’t let them go back!’

  The PM stood where he was, shocked by Masters’s venom. He glanced across the choppy, freezing sea at the men in the dinghy. Then Masters fired. It was a short, decisive burst. Someone screamed and a man threw up his hands and splashed over the side. Masters lowered the weapon. Air hissed out of the dinghy. The men shouted and waved their arms wildly as the dinghy collapsed. The PM closed his eyes, listening to their frightened screaming. Opening his eyes, he saw them splashing in the water and swimming frantically towards him. Masters went back to the wheel-house and turned the motor on. The launch growled and the water boiled around it as it moved away from the swimming men. Their cries for help were loud and cl
ear. The PM was in shock. Masters steered a wide arc around the burning vessel and headed into the darkness.

  Looking back, the PM saw the other launch sinking slowly. He heard the pleas of the men in the water, first receding, then fading out completely as the darkness took over.

  ‘They’ll freeze to death,’ the PM said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Masters said. ‘But at least they won’t go back to that bastard McGee and help him tomorrow.’

  He headed out to sea, keeping the launch on an even course, while the PM lowered himself to the deck, stunned and exhausted. The darkness was all around him, having swallowed the terrorists’ boat; the lights of the rig had long since vanished and the moon hid behind the clouds. Drenched and extremely cold, shocked by what he had witnessed, the PM gave in to a fear that he could scarcely control.

  Masters’s ruthlessness had startled him. He understood it, but it had unnerved him. Knowing that Masters was a sergeant in the legendary SBS, he also knew just how well he had been trained and how courageous he had to be. Masters lived in another world, one in which violent death was the norm; he had been trained to use his wits and not give in to doubt; and to kill without hesitation when he deemed it necessary. Now, with all the skills at his command, he would ensure, even at the cost of the lives of the terrorists, that he, his Prime Minister, would be returned safe and sound.

  In Masters’s view, the PM knew, the terrorists burnt alive, drowned or frozen to death in the sea behind him had merely received their just rewards. This knowledge was what frightened the PM, but he could not avoid the truth. The others had died that he might live and he and Masters both knew it.