Marine A SBS

by Shaun Clarke

  There was a long silence. Masters sucked in his breath and then let it out again. His gaze came to rest on the portholes, on the darkness beyond. He coughed and took another deep breath and then let it out slowly.

  ‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘Dawn.’

  McGee rang off and Masters put the phone down, then he scanned the many faces around the table. The PM leaned forward, scratching his chin, looking at the SBS man as if trying to take his measure. Masters offered a slight smile.

  ‘Yes?’ the PM asked.

  ‘No,’ Lieutenant-Colonel Edwards replied on Masters’s behalf. ‘We’re going to take that rig back tonight. We’ll start the whole thing right now.’

  ‘We can’t do that,’ Sir Reginald insisted. ‘We all heard what the man said. The minute he sniffs an attack, he’ll blow a hole in that leg.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ the Under-Secretary asked.

  ‘The rig will sink,’ Turner explained.

  ‘Can we afford to lose another one?’ the PM asked. ‘Can we sacrifice that much?’

  ‘No,’ Sir Reginald replied. ‘I really don’t think we can. Charlie 2 is the most important of all the rigs and we can’t let it go.’

  ‘Why the most important?’ asked the Under-Secretary.

  ‘It’s a refinery,’ Turner explained. ‘It’s a floating refinery, controlling the flow of all oil north of the Beryl Field.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ the Under-Secretary said. ‘It’s only one rig. Surely a single rig is disposable.’

  ‘One more rig we can afford,’ Turner said. ‘But not Charlie 2.’

  ‘Why?’ the Under-Secretary persisted.

  Turner stood up and went to the large map of the North Sea that was pinned to a blackboard. He placed his index finger on the Forties Field, moved it north to the Beryl Field, then moved it farther north until it passed Eagle 3 and came to rest well above the Frigg Field.

  ‘More than half our oil – by which I mean the oil in the British sector – now flows from a single undersea pipeline linking the five major oilfields to Peterhead. As you can see, that single pipeline connects every major field north of the Forties Field. The oil from all the fields north of the Frigg Field flows down through Frigg, from there down to Beryl, through Beryl to here, and then on from here back to Peterhead. In this link-up, Charlie 2 acts as a refinery, controlling the speed of the oil flow. If McGee blows a hole in that leg, Charlie 2 will certainly sink – but to sink, it first has to topple over. That would almost certainly tear out the extractor pipes, which in turn would split the main pipes. We’d lose the oil then. The pipes would just break apart. The oil would pour into the sea and miles of pipe would be lost. We wouldn’t be able to repair that damage – at least not for a long time – and in the meantime, all the oil north of here would be lost for good. That amounts to almost half our total output.’

  ‘You mean Britain’s output,’ the Prime Minister emphasized.

  ‘Yes, sir, Britain’s output.’

  ‘And what if we can’t avoid this?’ the PM asked. ‘Just how bad would this be in general economic terms?’

  ‘Very bad,’ said the Under-Secretary, now on more familiar ground. ‘Oil is our primary machine-driving fuel. We also need it for power stations and domestic fuel. It’s also the raw material for all kinds of substances, such as plastics, and without it the petrochemical industry would die. As of this moment, Britain is dependent on oil for almost two-thirds of its fuel needs. To lose over half now, for the length of time envisaged by Mr Turner, would almost certainly be catastrophic.’

  ‘All right, Mr Turner,’ the PM said. ‘Just how long would it take to repair the damage?’

  ‘One to two years,’ Turner replied, ‘depending on weather conditions and always assuming that the damage could be repaired.’

  ‘Also,’ Sir Reginald cut in, ‘since government taxation and British organized labour forced us to have the rigs made in France and Norway, rather than at home, those two countries, seeing our predicament – and being already annoyed by our ongoing concentration on US and Middle East markets – would doubtless get their own back by charging the earth for future rigs and by enticing foreign investors to deal only with them. In short, Prime Minister, it would be disastrous.’

  The PM knotted his hands, cracked his knuckles, flexed his fingers, then glared at the Chairman.

  ‘Laying the blame on this government,’ he replied icily, ‘is scarcely appropriate.’

  ‘So,’ Lieutenant-Colonel Edwards said, to avoid a lengthy debate. ‘We attack them tonight.’

  ‘If we attack them,’ Sir Reginald responded stubbornly, ‘they will sink Charlie 2.’

  ‘No,’ Masters said, ‘they won’t sink it. They’ll just blow a hole in it.’

  ‘And that won’t sink it?’ the PM asked.

  ‘Not immediately,’ Turner explained. ‘It would take at least twenty minutes. It depends how big the hole is, but the SBS would have some time.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Masters said. ‘And the terrorists won’t know we’re coming. They won’t know until we’re actually on that rig, which gives us a head start.’

  ‘The submersibles,’ Captain Pancroft suggested.

  ‘Exactly,’ Lieutenant-Colonel Edwards said. ‘We’ll use our miniature submarines. They normally carry two men, but we can squeeze three men in each and still leave just enough room for the weapons. We’ll leave from Peterhead. The boats will take us close to Charlie 2. About five miles from Charlie 2 we’ll dive in the submersibles, travel to the rig, and surface right beneath the main deck. We can climb up the ladders. The terrorists won’t be expecting us. A lot of the terrorists will be asleep, which is to our advantage. Another advantage is the weather. There’s a storm due in three hours. If that makes our climbing difficult, it’s also certain to make the terrorists more lethargic. So, we get on board. The first wave attacks the terrorists. While they’re doing so, the second wave enters the damaged pontoon leg – we can assume the terrorists will have blown that hole in it by then – and blocks the hole up before the rig sinks. Once that’s done, they return to the rig and help the other SBS troops mop up the terrorists.’

  ‘This all sounds terribly efficient,’ Sir Reginald said. ‘But are you sure the terrorists won’t see you approaching, even though you’re submerged?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Masters said, glancing at his CO and answering the question for him. ‘I knocked out their radar and their undersea cameras, so they won’t see us coming in. They might see us on the ladders, but that’s a chance we’ll have to take. Even if they do see us there, at least we can fight our way up. Obviously they’ll blow that hole in the pontoon leg as soon as they see us, but we’ll still have that twenty minutes left. If we manage to get down that leg in time, we should save the rig.’

  ‘But the rig will still be damaged,’ Sir Reginald insisted. ‘It will be severely damaged by all the fighting.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Masters replied. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to accept that. But at least if we can keep it afloat, we’ll be able to repair the damage that’s been done. Besides, according to the story you’re going to put out in your press release, that rig’s supposed to have been damaged by an earthquake under the seabed – so I think it should look that way.’

  ‘Good point,’ Dalton said. ‘As soon as the press release goes out, we’ll see planes flying over. The media will want photos. They’ll want to see a damaged rig. So let the terrorists knock the hell out of Charlie 2; it fits in with our story.’

  The PM sat back to gaze at each of them in turn. Placing his hands flat on the table, he shook his head in amazement. ‘I don’t believe this,’ he murmured.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ Lieutenant-Colonel Edwards said. ‘We have to hit that rig while it’s dark and it’s two o’clock now.’

  ‘I agree,’ Dalton said, pushing his chair back and rising to his feet. ‘Let’s get going. We’ve no time to waste.’ Everyone stared at him in surprise. ‘I’m going as well,’ he
explained. ‘I want to have a talk with that McGee. I want to know who his backer is.’

  ‘You can’t go,’ the Under-Secretary told him. ‘The man who backed the terrorists is right here in this boardroom. We must all stay here until the SBS complete their attack. That’s what was agreed.’

  ‘With all due respect,’ Turner replied, ‘it hardly seems likely that Dalton would be that man since the survival of the rigs is in his own interests and those of his company.’

  ‘I agree,’ Lieutenant-Colonel Edwards said. ‘If he wants to come, let him. Mr Dalton’s not only widely experienced at counter-terrorism on behalf of the oil companies; he was also in the US Special Forces SEAL unit – the Amphibious Sea Air Land unit – which indeed is where he and I first met. So if he wants to come along, I have no objections.’

  They all stared at the PM, who shrugged wearily and said: ‘I agree.’

  ‘Good,’ Dalton said.

  Silence reigned over the boardroom for what seemed like a long time, though it was, in fact, only a matter of seconds. There were rumblings outside, distant shouting and muffled banging; as usual, work was continuing throughout the night, conducted by roughnecks and roustabouts, oblivious to what was happening inside.

  Masters glanced at his watch, then at the Prime Minister. He was held by the sharpness of the blue eyes in that flushed, knowing face.

  ‘I’ll stay here,’ the PM said, addressing Lieutenant-Colonel Edwards. ‘The rest of us will all stay here until it’s over. I’ll personally ensure that no one leaves this room until you give us a call.’

  Edwards nodded, then smiled at Masters. Turner stood up and yawned and stretched himself as if no longer nervous. Masters glanced around the room. It was bright and filled with smoke. The realization that it was two in the morning suddenly made him feel tired. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, feeling slightly unreal. Opening his eyes, he saw Dalton grinning like a schoolboy as he walked to the door. Turner opened the door to let the American walk out. He was followed by the two SBS officers. Masters glanced this way and that, at the men around the table. Every one of them looked guilty as he walked from the room.

  14

  Walking with the others across the enormous platform, feeling the cold wind at his face, seeing the lights of the derricks tapering up to the dark sky, where the clouds formed a low, oppressive ceiling, Masters experienced a feeling of elation, a fresh surge of energy. He walked quickly and impatiently, between Edwards and Pancroft, just behind the enthusiastic Dalton, who appeared to be leading them. The American cut around the cranes and stacks of wooden crates, exposing them to an even stronger wind and the sound of the pounding sea. Reaching the end of the deck, he led the way up a steel ladder, then diagonally across a smaller deck to the cramped radio shack. The door was closed, but Dalton opened it and walked in, followed by the others. The operator looked up in surprise.

  ‘Mr Dalton!’ he exclaimed, fazed by the sudden appearance of the feared but respected figure.

  ‘Take a break, kid,’ Dalton said. ‘Close the door after you.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said the operator.

  ‘I want you to leave,’ Dalton said.

  ‘I’m not supposed to do that, Mr Dalton. You know I can’t.’

  Masters walked up and jerked his thumb towards the door. The operator, recognizing him as a top tool-pusher, stood up, looking very confused, and walked to the door. He left, but then stuck his head back in.

  ‘Do I wait here?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ Masters said. ‘Just wait there. When we want you, we’ll call you.’

  ‘Righto, chief!’ the operator said chirpily, then stepped out and closed the door.

  Masters sat at the radio, contacted onshore security, and told them to put Blackburn on as quickly as possible. The line was crackling with static. The storm was obviously brewing. After what seemed like a very long time, Blackburn came on the line.

  ‘Masters?’ Blackburn asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Masters said.

  ‘What’s up?’ Blackburn asked. ‘I was sleeping. This better be good.’

  ‘It’s an emergency, Andy. Can you connect us from here on a scrambled line to the SBS on hold at the old training centre at Achnacarry?’

  ‘Sorry, Tone. I’d need higher authority for that. What the hell’s going on?’

  Dalton moved up behind Masters and leaned down to the microphone. ‘This is Paul Dalton,’ he said. ‘I’m your higher authority.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t accept that. As far as I’m concerned, you could be anyone. Do you have your ID?’

  ‘Good man,’ Dalton said, then he recited the lengthy, confidential personal number by which he could be identified over the phone. There was a pause while Blackburn checked it in his pocketbook of ID numbers, then he said: ‘Fine, sir. Go ahead.’

  ‘I’m going to put the Commanding Officer of the SBS squadron at Achnacarry on the line. Lieutenant-Colonel Edwards. I want you to put him though to his second in command at Achnacarry. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’ve got it. Just bear with me a minute or so and I’ll make the connection.’

  ‘Scrambled.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The radio emitted static that crackled loudly and faded out as Masters stood up and gave the chair to his CO. Lieutenant-Colonel Edwards sat patiently in front of the radio, listening to the rise and fall of the static until another voice came on the line: ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Edwards?’

  ‘Yes, this is Edwards. Please identify yourself.’

  ‘Major Laurence Lockyard speaking.’

  Edwards chuckled. ‘That voice couldn’t belong to anyone else, Major. You just sound a bit sleepy.’

  ‘I’m in my pyjamas, boss, and was having a good sleep. What’s up out there?’

  ‘This is confidential, Laurence. I want a seal placed across it.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be using this line, boss, if that wasn’t the case. So what’s the situation?’

  ‘Emergency. Action immediate. An oil rig has been seized by a large group of terrorists – sixty men – and we’re going to launch an assault to take it back. It has to be before first light.’

  ‘Read you loud and clear, boss.’

  ‘The requirement is for five submersible-carrying boats to leave Peterhead as soon as you can get your men there. The lead boat, Victory, will carry four submersibles and the remaining four vessels will carry two each, making a total of twelve. The boats will sail directly to the Beryl Field. I want thirty-two battle-experienced SBS Marine Commandos to go with the twelve submersibles, with myself and three others, all here, making up a total compliment of thirty-six men. The men are to be equipped with full combat packs, including Sterling sub-machine-guns and Armalite rifles with M203 grenade-launchers. Six of the men will work as a maintenance team equipped with spare plates for the pontoon leg and emergency wet-welding equipment. Have you got that so far?’

  ‘Yes, boss, I’ve got it.’

  ‘Good.’ Edwards coughed into his clenched fist, clearing his throat, then continued in his clipped, precise manner: ‘I want the boats to leave as soon as your men reach the secured dock at Peterhead. You will fly there by helicopter. The British United Oil security chief, Andy Blackburn, will be there to greet you and see you into the dock. Once the boats leave, I want them to sail with all due haste. The RV is five miles east of Charlie 2 on a grid reference being sent through on a burst transmission when Mr Blackburn informs us of your arrival at the Peterhead dock. Once at the RV, you will anchor and await my arrival. Launch the submersibles while you’re waiting. We’ll put three, repeat three, men plus weapons in each. You can tell them that they’re going to make an assault against Charlie 2 and that I’ll be giving them further instructions when I arrive. Place the maintenance team on hold. I’ll be set down by chopper on Victory and will want to have a word with them, so don’t let them get into their submersibles until I arrive. Is all that understood?’

  ‘Understoo
d, boss.’

  ‘Can you give me an estimate for arrival time at the RV?’

  There was a pause while Major Lockyard calculated the time required to gather the men together, get them into the helicopters, flying them from Achnacarry to Peterhead, transfer them to the boats, then carry them on the boats to the RV. Eventually, having completed his calculations, Lockyard said: ‘About four hours.’

  ‘That’s too long,’ Edwards told him.

  ‘There’s a limit to how fast those submersible-carriers can go. And, of course, there’s the unpredictability of the weather. I can’t promise a faster time than that.’

  ‘It’s too long,’ Edwards insisted.

  They all heard Lockyard sigh. ‘How soon?’

  ‘Three hours maximum,’ Edwards said. ‘I can’t launch the assault later than 0600 hours, so that will give me four hours to co-ordinate everything.’

  ‘I’ll need at least an hour to get the men together,’ Lockyard insisted, ‘and get them into those choppers.’

  ‘Cut that time down by half. You can make it in thirty minutes. Once you get to the docks, Blackburn will clear the way and ensure that you save another thirty minutes in getting to, and into, the boats. The journey from Peterhead to the Beryl Field should take no more than two hours. One and two makes three.’

  This time they heard Major Lockyard chuckling. ‘Right, boss, I’m convinced. We’ll be at the RV in three hours. Anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Roger. Over.’

  ‘Over and out.’

  The radio went dead and a happier Lieutenant-Colonel Edwards sat back in the chair. ‘So what about a helicopter?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll attend to it,’ Masters said. He picked up a telephone and called the surgery of Bravo 1, then asked for Dr Seymour. When the doctor came on, Masters said: ‘How’s that American kid?’

  ‘Schulman? He’s OK, but he’s sleeping.’