Marine A SBS

by Shaun Clarke

  Masters started climbing, but he had to rest often. When he did so, he used the jumar, snapping it over the nearest rung. The other men were all around him, above him and below him, clambering up the ladders of the pontoon legs, stretching along the support legs. They were vague in the gloom, but clearly fighting the fierce sea, using the short breaks between incoming waves to climb higher. Sometimes they failed, clamping themselves on too late; when this happened the waves smashing down upon them bore them away. Yet the other men kept climbing, advancing up into the gloom. They were swallowed by the darkness beneath the deck that loomed high above Masters.

  He, too, kept climbing, fighting the wind and fierce sea. Though now well above the waves, he still felt the icy sting of the spray. The men above were near the deck, disappearing into darkness. Masters wondered if the first men were aboard, and if so, what was happening. The storm had grown extremely violent, making the rig sway and creak, and Masters hoped that the terrorists would be indoors, hiding from its fury. He kept climbing the ladder, the wind howling and teasing at him. The waves thundered below and the spray geysered up to him and drenched him.

  Glancing back down the leg he saw men on the support legs, throwing off their cylinders and masks, unwrapping weapons and magazines. He also saw the snarling waves crashing over the swarming men, then rushing away, allowing the men to keep moving upwards, dark ants on a silvery web. Some crawled along the support legs; others climbed the great pontoon legs. They all climbed out of that roaring dark pit to clamber up the steel ladders.

  Masters looked up again, to where the bottom of the main deck was spread out directly above him. Very close to him, it was swaying up and down, its bolts and nuts squealing in protest. Then Masters heard gunfire. It was coming from the main deck. It was the sound of Sterling sub-machine-guns, dominating the howling wind.

  Masters reached the catwalk. It was dark and the wind howled across it, making it shudder and rattle. The sound of gunfire was now louder, rising above the howling wind, and the catwalk was moving up and down as the massive deck heaved. Masters reached up through the hatchway, grabbed the handles on either side, took a deep breath and pulled himself up and then rolled on the deck.

  The wind beat about him, the sea roared and hissed below, and he glanced down to see foam-capped waves, climbing high, smashing in. More shots rang out. There was a muffled, deep explosion. Masters felt the blast jolting up his legs as he grabbed for the railing. He glanced down the pontoon leg. The sea was boiling around it. Someone screamed and was grabbed by a white claw and dragged into the darkness. The whole leg shook visibly, then the massive platform tilted. The seething water fell back and gave way to monstrous waves. Masters realized that the explosives had gone off in the pontoon leg and that he was now standing right on top of it as the water poured into it.

  Cursing, shaking his head, he ran along the catwalk. He removed his Sterling from his shoulder as he ran, and managed to snap in a magazine just before he arrived at a ladder that climbed the wall of a module. He clambered up the ladder, using only his free hand; he reached the top and went through an open door where a bright light washed over him. He was on the drilling floor, right behind the stacked crates. The noise of gunfire echoed noisily and he saw other SBS men in wet suits. They were kneeling behind the crates, firing into the drilling room, and Masters looked beyond the crates and saw the terrorists, racing back and forth, shouting. They seemed small and distant. The drilling floor was very bright, its light falling across the crates and machines, casting large, bizarre shadows.

  Masters knelt beside his friends and released the safety-catch on his Sterling. There was a roaring from the far side of the deck and wood splintered near his face. He and the others returned fire and the noise was harsh, almost deafening. A terrorist screamed and threw up his arms, then turned away and collapsed.

  ‘Masters!’ someone bawled. ‘Over here!’

  Jerking his head around, Masters saw Pancroft kneeling near the door. The captain still had his oxygen cylinders and breathing mask on, the latter strapped to his belt. Masters ran over to him as the guns roared right behind Pancroft. Dropping to a crouching position, Masters moved up beside him.

  ‘They’ve blown the leg right beneath us,’ Pancroft told him. ‘That saves us a journey.’

  ‘I know,’ Masters replied. ‘Where are the maintenance men?’

  ‘Four are still making their way up to the deck, but I’ve got the first two just outside. That’s all we need, Tone.’

  The guns continued firing, someone screamed and fell down, and more SBS men were rushing through the open door, crouching low, weapons ready. Masters glanced back at the crates to see an SBS commando hurling a smoke grenade; he jumped up and his arm swung in a blur, then he dropped low again. The grenade flew far out above the drilling floor, seemed to hover there eternally, then dropped languidly towards the drilling room. The explosion came immediately, a cataclysmic roaring, with pieces of debris flying out on billowing smoke and men screaming inside.

  ‘ . . . the leg!’ Pancroft was shouting as the smoke from the grenade thinned out. ‘We’ve got to repair that pontoon leg! Come on, Sergeant! Let’s go!’

  Masters looked past the crates at the massive drilling floor, where SBS men were running, dropping low, then jumping up again. They were firing on the move and their fire was being returned. A terrorist hand-grenade exploded with a mighty roar and blew apart a large wooden crate. The smoke cleared to reveal a man writhing on the deck, screaming dementedly, his hands clawing at his lacerated, bleeding stomach. As he was wearing a wet suit, he had to be an SBS man, so another SBS man rushed up to him, intending to help him. A hail of bullets cut him down. His weapon clattered to the deck as he shuddered violently and then fell and rolled over, staring up at the sky. An SBS grenade exploded very close to the moonpool. Metal shrieked and a standpipe buckled and crashed down on some terrorists. Instantly, the SBS men in wet suits ran forward, firing from the hip, their guns roaring on both sides as the shouting of the men echoed noisily.

  ‘Now!’ Pancroft yelled, slapping Masters on the shoulder. They both jumped up and rushed through the doorway and felt the blast of the wind. Masters ran along the catwalk and saw the floor-hatch opening. The head of a terrorist emerged and the man looked up, startled. Masters glimpsed the wide eyes, that brief, scalding panic, then kicked the man’s head, which jerked back and thumped on the catwalk. The terrorist vomited and dropped back through the hatch, leaving blood on the catwalk.

  Masters dropped to his knees and looked down the pontoon leg. Something splashed far below – the body of the man he’d kicked – and then he saw another face staring up at him. The man was hanging from the ladder. The water boiled far below him. He glanced up and shouted ‘No!’ and Masters fired and saw blood and stripped bone. The man’s face split in two, his hands slid from the ladder, his body curved back like a bowstring and his arms wildly waved, then he plunged down the dark, hollow leg and splashed into the water. Masters had another look. There was no sign of other terrorists. He glanced up and saw Pancroft with two SBS corporals, both wearing full diving kit.

  ‘We’re OK,’ Masters told them. ‘I know this rig well. There are spare plates on the catwalk in the leg. I don’t think there’s a problem.’

  ‘Good,’ Pancroft replied. ‘These men have the welding kit and tools, so let’s get the hell down there.’

  Pancroft shuffled across the catwalk, his flippers around his neck. He untied them and put them on his feet and then untied the oxygen mask. The catwalk rose and fell, the wind howled, the sea roared. They heard the sound of gunfire from inside and then heard more above them. Pancroft put on his oxygen mask and waved at the two corporals. Encased in full diving equipment, they moved forward awkwardly. One of them had the welding kit in the bag on his back; the other was holding a battery-operated electric hammer and other bits of equipment.

  Suddenly, the rig tilted farther and the pontoon leg sank lower. Thus reminded that time was running out
, Pancroft sat on the edge of the hatch and then slid down and disappeared.

  The second man took the same position. Masters heard a sound behind him. Turning to face the door, he saw a silhouette framed in light . . . and the barrel of an MP5 pointing straight at him. Masters fired first, moving his Sterling sub-machine-gun left to right, and as the weapon roared the terrorist shuddered wildly and fell back through the doorway. Another terrorist appeared. Masters shot him and he fell. Masters tugged a grenade from his belt and then ran to the door. After throwing in the grenade, he flattened himself against the wall; the grenade exploded and the steel wall vibrated. Masters rushed in.

  One man was sliding down the crates, leaving a trail of blood behind him; another was rolling on the floor with his tattered clothes smoking; and the third was staggering blindly in circles, screaming in agony and fear, covering his blinded eyes with his bloody hands.

  Masters’s Sterling spat fire and he felt the backblast. The three men convulsed in a hail of bullets, then collapsed and were still.

  Rushing back out to the hatchway in the catwalk, Masters looked in and saw the three SBS men on the ladder, climbing down towards the water. That water was far below them, over a hundred feet down, boiling up and sinking repeatedly, rushing in from outside and pouring out again. Masters closed the trapdoor, then checked the wind and sea. The storm was not as strong as it had been; it was gradually fading. He looked all around him, seeing grey light in the darkness, then turned away and went back through the doorway and into the drilling hall.

  The dead men lay at his feet. Blood streaked the crates; Masters walked past these and looked out at the vast drilling floor. The SBS were still fighting and had reached the moonpool, where they were hiding behind the stacked pipes and chains, firing up at the drilling room. Masters ran across the floor, his bare feet slipping in mud; he was drenched and felt very cold, though there was sweat on his brow. The guns roared and bullets whistled, ricocheting on all sides. He kept running and on reaching a fork-lift dropped low behind it.

  Bullets whipped past his head and a grenade exploded. Glass shattered and he heard a piercing scream that made him glance towards the moonpool. His mates were stretched out around it, hiding behind what they could find, shouting at each other and waving arms and firing up at the drilling room. Masters looked at the room and saw terrorists at the windows. The glass was shattered and the terrorists were firing down at the men in wet suits. Then a grenade sailed towards the window and fell among the terrorists. When it erupted in a blinding flash of light, more shards of glass rained down.

  The SBS men darted forward. A terrorist flopped through the smashed window. The SBS men raced across the floor, firing on the move, then ran up the stairs and turned a sharp corner, disappearing from view. Masters jumped up and ran, then saw a terrorist at the window, taking aim with an AK47, its barrel pointing at him. Before the terrorist could fire, someone shot him from behind. The terrorist was punched forward, over the window frame, then slid off and plunged screaming to the drilling floor. Relieved, Masters ran up the steps and turned into the drilling room. The other SBS troops were there, examining their own handiwork. The room was wrecked and the terrorists, all dead, were drenched in blood.

  ‘Anyone seen Dalton?’ Masters asked.

  ‘Who’s Dalton?’ came the reply. ‘If he’s in a wet suit he’s one of us. If not, he’s in trouble.’

  Masters left the drilling room and hurried along a narrow corridor; the lights were bright and the ceiling was low and he felt his eyes stinging. It was quiet in the corridor. Now the gunfire sounded distant. He kept walking and turned a sharp corner and then came to more steps. Catching a glimpse of blue overalls, he raised his weapon and fired a short burst. The overalls flapped like a wind-blown flag and then the man in them started falling. His weapon clattered down the steps and he pitched forward and followed it. His head thumped on a step and split open as his body flipped over. His boots banged on the floor, his spine cracked on another step, and then he sprawled there, propped up by the steps, as Masters jumped over him.

  Masters raced up to the main deck and stepped out into the wind. He noticed that the storm had abated, though the wind was still icy. The sound of gunfire was loud here; it ricocheted and reverberated. There were men running this way and that, through shadow and light. A grenade exploded, its flash illuminating the darkness. Silhouetted figures spun in white light and crashed back down through boiling smoke.

  The immense deck was tilting. It was covered in mud and oil. The guns roared and men shouted as they ran to and fro, exposed in bright lights, lost in shadows, skidding over the deck.

  Masters glimpsed the sea far below the tilting deck, brief flashes of white through the gloom, a black void turning grey. Then he heard a shocking noise, felt fierce heat, was rendered breathless. Snatched up by a giant hand, he was smashed against a wall, blacked out for a moment, then awakened lying flat on his back. Looking straight up, he saw a towering derrick with lights blazing on its platforms. There was a scream and then he saw a man fall from a platform and plunge down through the moonpool to the sea.

  Masters jumped up and advanced, still gripping his Sterling, glancing sideways at the base of the platform and expecting to die. He saw terrorists huddled up within the web of the girders, firing down from the roof of the drilling floor, their guns winking and chattering. Masters ran across the deck, trying to avoid the hail of bullets. A man in overalls jumped out from behind a wooden crate, aiming at him with a Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol.

  The terrorist didn’t have time to shoot: Masters just bowled right into him. They both tumbled to the deck and rolled over, one on top of the other. The man straightened up, still trying to aim his handgun, but Masters kicked his kneecap and he collapsed, his head thumping the steel deck. Then Masters jumped up. The man was rolling away from him. Masters took a step forward and kicked him in the ribs and on the head. The terrorist grunted and shuddered. Masters kicked his head again. There was a muffled snapping sound and the man twitched convulsively, then froze. Masters picked up his weapon as splinters of wood from the crates beside him exploded just above him. He turned away and ran as fast as he could toward the nearest derrick.

  The other SBS troops were scattered widely around the deck, firing up at the derrick. The base of the derrick rested on the roof of the drilling room and the terrorists were firing down from there. The SBS troops were trying to storm it, rushing forward and dropping low. A CS gas grenade had fallen near the room and its smoke spiralled skyward. The sky itself was turning grey, drifting beyond the tall derrick, as the guns roared, a hand-grenade exploded and some SBS men screamed and fell.

  Masters saw Corporal Hubbert pointing up at the shooting terrorists, drenched like the rest of the SBS men, his pale face now flushed. Masters crouched low and ran, but skidded crazily in the mud; he fell down and slithered over the deck and then crawled up to Hubbert. The blond giant stared at him. He seemed startled, but then he grinned as he poked a finger in his right ear, turned it like a corkscrew and gently smacked his own head.

  ‘I’m half deaf!’ he bawled.

  ‘What happened to Walters?’ Masters bawled back.

  ‘I don’t know! I haven’t seen him since the climb! I don’t think he made it!’

  There was another loud explosion. Lumps of metal flew through the air, and a man’s head bounced across the deck, pumping blood. Then Masters saw the body. It was standing beside some gas pipes, dressed in a shredded SBS wet suit, also pumping blood from its headless neck. One hand flapped in the air, the legs shook and then the body collapsed. Another explosion was followed by flying shrapnel. The guns of both sides roared in a dreadful cacophony.

  ‘Those bastards!’ Hubbert bawled. ‘They’re holed up in that bloody roof! There’s nowhere they can go, so they’re staying there and cutting us to pieces!’ Suddenly, he stood up, fully exposed to the terrorists; he glanced at the men all around him and waved his sub-machine-gun. ‘The hell with it!’ he bawled.
‘Let’s get them! Wipe out the bastards!’

  The men cheered and jumped up and started running across the deck. The guns of the terrorists cut some down, but those left kept on going. Masters found himself near the drilling room, where he heard screams and saw terrorists convulsing as they collapsed and rolled over. A grenade exploded and tore the running men apart; another flew down from the roof of the drilling room to add its deafening explosion to the general bedlam. Glancing up, Masters saw the terrorists firing from the roof. Simultaneously a hail of bullets thudded into the deck behind him and ricocheted off the nearby modules. A grenade exploded above him, searing the gloom with jagged white light; there was screaming and a man somersaulted as he plunged to the deck.

  Then Masters saw Hubbert: he was on a ladder, clambering up the side of the drilling room, his weapon dangling from his free hand. Masters followed without thinking, but the corporal’s huge frame disappeared above him. Still climbing, Masters felt almost numb from the roaring and shouting. Reaching the roof, he saw a group of armed terrorists crouching around the hole in the drilling shaft. A lot of them fell when the SBS troops fired at them. A few screamed and staggered back against the shaft and plunged down the moonpool.

  Masters saw sticks of dynamite piled up around one leg, with the wire from a timing device running behind a module.

  ‘Get down!’ he bawled.

  He threw himself down, slithered back towards the ladder, grabbed the top rung and tugged himself over the edge of the deck and managed to place his feet on a lower rung, holding his weapon in one hand. His whole head seemed to explode, he saw white light and flames, then he dropped through a deafening cacophony, crushing pressure and fierce heat. The sky above seemed to split, there was a rainfall of debris – scorched nuts and bolts, buckled pieces of metal sheeting, dust and cement – and Masters crawled across the deck on his hands and knees, shook his head, then fell face down. The thunder imprisoned him. He was pummelled and scorched. He shook his head again, heard a ringing in his ears, then blinked repeatedly and glanced sideways. The deck was spinning around him, smoke billowed across the modules, and he rolled on to his back and looked up wide-eyed as the whole derrick fell.