Marine A SBS

by Shaun Clarke

  Bent by the explosions, the legs were buckling and breaking apart; the tiered platforms started shrieking and tearing loose, then they plunged down the centre. The roof of the drilling room caved in, men and machinery poured down through it, and black smoke billowed up from a wall of flame to form a great mushroom. Finally, the derrick fell, toppling over to the right, exploding in a mass of wood and steel, then crashing over the main deck. Many men screamed as the massive girders fell, bounced over the deck, smashed through men and modules, then flew off the edge of the deck, to plunge into the sea.

  Masters scrambled to his feet, feeling dizzy and unreal. He turned around and picked up his Sterling. Then he saw the blond giant.

  Hubbert was crawling towards him. His hair had been burnt off. His face was blistered and his wet suit was in tatters and appeared to be smouldering. He crawled right up to Masters and stared at him with dazed eyes. He raised one limp hand in greeting or farewell, then coughed blood and died.

  Masters felt a searing rage. He cursed and looked all around him. He saw the dawn light pouring over the sea – but he did not see McGee. Now he wanted McGee; wanted justice for all the dead. He stepped forward and stumbled over another dead man. He cursed again and walked on.

  The air was filled with smoke, guns were firing from all sides, and he heard the clatter of booted feet across the catwalks, along with more shouting and screaming. One terrorist flopped across a railing; another swung his legs up; a third cried out in agony as he fell through the air and thumped on to the deck. Masters just kept walking, his nose filled with smoke and cordite. There was a flash and then he heard the explosion and dropped to the deck. The blast pummelled his body; he felt scorched and suffocated. When the explosion subsided, he climbed to his feet and saw a huge wall of yellow flame. One of the oil tanks had exploded, the oil pouring out on fire, and a man rushed from the blaze, screaming dementedly, beating at his own body. He spun around and fell; his body twitched and then was still. Whether a terrorist or SBS, he was still burning badly as Masters stepped past him and walked to the landing-pad catwalk.

  The wall of flame scorched Masters and the smoke almost choked him as he stepped on to the narrow, windy catwalk. The storm had passed on and the huge waves had subsided. Masters gazed down two hundred feet and saw a sea strewn with debris. Dead men were drifting down there, bloated, gradually sinking. Weapons and discarded oxygen cylinders were sinking beside them. Farther out, but drifting in towards the rig, were the empty submersibles.

  Masters crossed the catwalk, which sloped up to the landing pad. Hearing the sound of gunfire and shouting, he broke into a trot.

  He jumped on to the landing pad and saw a Dragonfly at the far side, sliding along the badly tilting deck towards the edge of the landing pad. McGee was going with it. His right arm was stretched above him. The sleeve of his blue overalls had caught on the door handle and he was being dragged backwards along the deck. McGee was covered in blood and screaming wildly as he struggled. Dalton, looking angry, was walking towards him, taking aim with his Browning.

  ‘You cheated us,’ Dalton said clearly. ‘You won’t do that again.’

  The helicopter slid towards the edge, taking the screaming McGee with it. Suddenly, Masters realized what was happening and ran towards Dalton. He was too late. He saw Dalton cocking the hammer. McGee was still being dragged backwards along the deck as Dalton aimed at his head. There was no need to shoot him – he was going over the edge, anyway – but Masters saw the American aiming at McGee and he knew it was vengeance.

  ‘No!’ Masters roared.

  Dalton spun around. Seeing Masters, he knew that the SBS sergeant had overheard his remark and so aimed the handgun at him instead. Masters didn’t stop to think. He fired a short, precise burst from his Sterling. The sub-machine-gun roared and Dalton flung his arms out and staggered back like a drunken man, dropping his own weapon. The helicopter kept sliding, with McGee screaming and kicking, as Dalton collapsed to the deck and made no further movement.

  McGee screamed again. His heels were dragging along the deck. The tail of the Dragonfly shot into the air and the nose pointed down towards the sea. The wheels caught on the edge, the helicopter flipped over, and McGee flew up and somersaulted with it and seemed to hang in the air. Then the helicopter fell, disappearing from view. McGee’s screaming grew faint, then was cut off abruptly when the helicopter plunged into the sea far below.

  Masters walked across the deck and checked that Dalton was dead. He then walked to the edge of the landing pad and looked down at the sea. The water boiled up and bubbled, rushed in circles and formed a whirlpool. The tail of the Dragonfly disappeared and then the swirling sea settled down.

  Masters went back to the catwalk and looked across the main deck. The deck was sloping down to the right, but it was no longer sinking. The gunfire had ceased. There were dead men everywhere. A few terrorist prisoners with their hands on their heads were being herded by armed SBS men into a module. The whole deck was strewn with debris and covered in drifting smoke. A wall of flame was rising up from the oil tanks and being fanned by the wind.

  Crossing the catwalk, Masters looked down at the sea and saw dead bodies, pieces of equipment and bobbing submersibles. He walked on across the main deck and saw Pancroft coming towards him. The captain had taken off the oxygen cylinders, mask and flippers, though he still wore his wet suit and webbed belts. He grinned, waved and then gave the thumbs up, indicating that the hole in the damaged pontoon leg had been sealed and the rig had been saved.

  Masters waved back and then turned to survey the choppy grey sea. He saw a rig in the distance, burning off its waste gas. So close to the horizon, it seemed small, isolated and defenceless.

  Captain Pancroft walked up beside Masters and placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. The two men stood there and looked out to sea in silence.

  17

  Masters and Turner, both wearing British United Oil overalls, stood on a catwalk on Bravo 1 and looked out at the Forties Field. The sea was quite calm, the sky was grey and cloudy as usual, and the distant rigs, scattered along the horizon, seemed fragile and lonesome.

  As one they glanced down at the landing pad just beneath them. They heard the roar of the Wessex Mk 3 transport helicopter, watched its rotors spinning, and then saw the armed SBS bodyguards emerging from the nearby module. The guards fanned out across the deck, forming a path to the helicopter, their green berets worn proudly on their heads, weapons at the ready. The Prime Minister emerged soon after, walking between the watchful guards, bent against the strong wind and shivering visibly. His silvery-grey hair was ruffled and he was slightly stooped, clearly weary, but when he reached the helicopter and was standing on the top step, he turned back and waved up at the catwalk. Masters and Turner waved back. The PM studied them for what seemed like a long time, then he turned away and entered the Wessex.

  ‘He’s bloody angry,’ Turner said. ‘It was our mess and yet it trapped him. He had to give us our reduction in oil tax and he won’t like us for it.’

  ‘I’m surprised,’ Masters replied. ‘I thought he had you by the short and curlies. I thought he could have used this whole mess against you and made you settle for less.’

  ‘It doesn’t work that way, Tone. You can’t fight the oil companies. With the loss of Eagle 3 and the virtual destruction of Charlie 2, Sir Reginald threw up his hands and said we couldn’t go on. The PM was flabbergasted. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But Sir Reginald just looked him in the eye and pointed out what our losses were. He mentioned the cost of rebuilding the rigs, said how long it would take to do it, suggested that British United couldn’t possibly survive all that without a substantial reduction in oil tax. The PM was outraged and said the Chairman was blackmailing him. He said the government couldn’t pay for the mistakes of incompetent oil companies. Sir Reginald just smiled at him. It was a hell of a smile. He said that the oil companies couldn’t afford to return to drilling if they weren’t given a reduction i
n tax to offset their losses. He also told the PM that if the oil companies stopped drilling, the press would want to know why and then word of the terrorist outrage would be bound to slip out. He then pointed out what that would mean: an international loss of confidence in the North Sea in particular and the UK in general. The PM surrendered – and British United Oil is back in business, bigger than ever.’

  Masters smiled and glanced down at the landing pad. The Under-Secretary was entering the Wessex, stooping low at the door. The SBS guards followed him in, moving backwards up the steps, their weapons at the ready. The last guard vanished into the helicopter and the loadmaster slid the door shut.

  Masters smiled to himself. Though he was now back as an undercover man on Bravo 1, acting as a tool-pusher — just as other SBS men were on other rigs – he knew that if anyone asked about SBS involvement in the North Sea they would be given an official denial. SBS involvement in the North Sea, though vital and ongoing, retained its top secret classification.

  ‘You were right,’ Turner said. ‘The man behind the hijack was Dalton. It was him all along. Andy Blackburn phoned through with the proof. He’d questioned some of the people listed in McGee’s address book and they confirmed that McGee had been seeing Dalton. They first met in the Middle East, when Dalton was negotiating on behalf of the oil companies and McGee was buying weapons for the IRA. They met later in Paris and it’s believed they sealed the agreement there.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Masters said. ‘That means one of your overseas backers was behind the whole thing.’

  ‘Correct,’ Turner replied. ‘It certainly seems that way. We can assume that someone in the conglomerate instigated the whole operation.’

  ‘Why would they do that? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Yes, it does, my friend. It certainly does if you think in international terms. The conglomerate must have known that if the British government reduced North Sea oil taxes, all the revenue they were giving to their overseas interests would have been diverted into Britain. The conglomerate knew that it was exorbitant British taxes that had forced the subsidiaries to cut back on drilling and invest their capital in the conglomerate’s tax-free havens. It was therefore in their own interests to get rid of the Prime Minister, discredit the British oilfields, and ensure that future British oil revenue continued to be dependent on the conglomerate’s tax-free – therefore more lucrative – overseas markets.’

  ‘But it backfired,’ Masters said.

  ‘Yes. Because of McGee. They didn’t think for a minute that the Irishman would stop short at killing a British Prime Minister. They also forgot that it wasn’t in the IRA’s own interests to instigate the destruction of North Sea oil revenue. Fanatics or not, the IRA are, in their own bloody way, fighting for an Ireland which, though independent, would still require the benefits of North Sea oil. If McGee hadn’t wanted that, if he had assassinated the Prime Minister, the North Sea would now be finished and the UK would be forced to buy from elsewhere. As it stands, by what’s almost pure chance we’ve been given the winning hand.’

  They looked down at the landing pad, where the Wessex was ready to take off. Its spinning rotors had created a slipstream that lashed at the roustabouts. The landing pad vibrated, roughnecks pulled the blocks away, and the helicopter roared even louder and lifted awkwardly off the deck. It hovered a few seconds, framed by sea and sky, then swayed a little and began its ascent. It climbed steadily, hovered again above the derricks, then turned away like a huge, crippled bird and flew towards the mainland.

  ‘So,’ Masters asked, ‘what do we do?’

  ‘We do nothing,’ Turner said.

  Startled, Masters stared at him. ‘What the hell do you mean, Keith? You’re not trying to find the men behind Dalton? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes, Tone, that’s what I’m saying.’ Turner tugged at his beard, ran his fingers through his hair, gazed out across the desolate sea and then shrugged forlornly. ‘What can we do? Not a damn thing! Dalton was with the conglomerate for years and he knew lots of powerful men. Which one of them gave the order? Which company stood to gain most? Was it the Americans or the Germans or the French or our Middle Eastern friends? We’ll never find out. The conglomerate’s too big to investigate. Like most of the conglomerates, it’s a multinational affair, divorced from any single jurisdiction and removed from morality. And what if we mentioned Dalton? Or accused the conglomerate in general? We’d just receive a faultlessly worded missive denying all knowledge of Dalton’s political, financial or criminal activities. They’ve got us whipped, Tone. There’s not a thing we can do about it. We’ll just have to get on with our jobs and forget that this ever happened. There’s no evidence for their guilt, no authority that can find the truth. The politicians no longer rule the world – the multinationals do.’

  Masters sighed, glanced up at the cloudy sky and saw the Wessex, a tiny speck in the distance, flying over another rig before disappearing beyond the horizon as if it had never been.

  It’s been like a dream, he thought. It might never have happened. Twenty-four hours have passed and apart from the many men dead and wounded, nothing has changed.

  Sergeant Masters, SBS, sighed again as he gazed across the sea to the distant horizon. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘at least for the moment Britain still has its oil.’

  ‘Thanks to the SBS,’ Turner replied. ‘Let’s hope it stays that way.’

  PRESS RELEASE BRITISH UNITED OIL

  DATE: 20 August 1982

  UNCLASSIFIED

  1. On 18 August 1982, at approximately 1830 hours, an earth tremor travelling from north to south along the bed of the North Sea caused extensive damage to some of British United Oil’s major oilfields. Shock waves from the tremor caused extreme turbulence on the sea’s surface with winds of approximately 150 miles per hour and waves as high as 120 feet. As a result, Eagle 3, the main semi-submersible rig on the Frigg Field, was sunk with all hands. The tremor then travelled on a south-westerly course until it reached the Beryl Field where, before dissipating, it caused considerable damage to the main rig, Charlie 2, and led to the unfortunate deaths of twenty crew members who were trapped beneath a collapsed section of the drilling floor.

  2. As Eagle 3 (Frigg Field) was being prepared for shut-down and towing to another site, no plans for its reconstruction are envisaged.

  3. Charlie 2 (Beryl Field) has been shut down temporarily for extensive repairs and the surviving crew members repatriated for medical examination and subsequent transfer to other rigs.

  4. As many of the crew members are suffering from severe trauma it is felt by this Company that their names should be withheld from the media and general public. Private settlement of compensation for the dependants of the deceased is currently being negotiated.

  5. A full investigation into the nature of the earth tremor has been ordered and a complete, top-classified report will be submitted in due course to the Under-Secretary of the Department of Energy. For reasons of internal security British United Oil has agreed with the Department of Energy that no further information regarding this matter should be released.

  OTHER AVAILABLE TITLES IN THIS SERIES

  MARINE B SBS: The Aegean Campaign

  MARINE C SBS: The Florida Run

  MARINE D SBS: Windswept

  MARINE E SBS: The Hong Kong Gambit

  MARINE F SBS: Royal Target

  MARINE G SBS: China Seas

  MARINE H SBS: The Burma Offensive

  MARINE I SBS: Escape From Azerbaijan

  MARINE J SBS: The East African Mission

  MARINE K SBS: Gold Rush

  MARINE L SBS: Raiders From The Sea

  OTHER TITLES IN SERIES FROM 22 BOOKS

  SOLDIER A SAS: Behind Iraqi Lines

  SOLDIER B SAS: Heroes of the South Atlantic

  SOLDIER C SAS: Secret War in Arabia

  SOLDIER D SAS: The Colombian Cocaine War

  SOLDIER E SAS: Sniper Fire in Belfast

  SOLDIER F SAS
: Guerrillas in the Jungle

  SOLDIER G SAS: The Desert Raiders

  SOLDIER H SAS: The Headhunters of Borneo

  SOLDIER I SAS: Eighteen Years in the Elite Force

  SOLDIER J SAS: Counter-insurgency in Aden

  SOLDIER K SAS: Mission to Argentina

  SOLDIER L SAS: The Embassy Siege

  SOLDIER M SAS: Invisible Enemy in Kazakhstan

  SOLDIER N SAS: The Gambian Bluff

  SOLDIER O SAS: The Bosnian Inferno

  SOLDIER P SAS: Night Fighters in France

  SOLDIER Q SAS: Kidnap the Emperor!

  SOLDIER R SAS: Death on Gibraltar

  SOLDIER S SAS: The Samarkand Hijack

  SOLDIER T SAS: War on the Streets

  SOLDIER OF FORTUNE 1: Valin’s Raiders

  SOLDIER OF FORTUNE 2: The Korean Contract

  SOLDIER OF FORTUNE 3: The Vatican Assignment

  SOLDIER OF FORTUNE 4: Operation Nicaragua

  SOLDIER OF FORTUNE 5: Action in the Arctic

  SOLDIER OF FORTUNE 6: The Khmer Hit

  SOLDIER OF FORTUNE 7: Blue on Blue

  SOLDIER OF FORTUNE 8: Target the Death-dealer

  This electronic edition published in 2015 by Osprey Publishing Ltd

  First published in Great Britain in 1995 by 22 Books, Invicta House, Sir Thomas Longley Road, Rochester, Kent