by Geoff Wolak
Back at the pilots, headset on, I told them, ‘When we get there you drop me off, don’t wait for me or worry about me, get as many men off as you can, drop them on the beach, then go back for more. Inform the other helicopters, please.’
Back with Stretch, he was looking worried. ‘Got no tools!’ he shouted above the roar.
‘We make do!’ I shouted back.
He did not look happy, the scrub below us shooting past, and now we seemed to be at about 300ft off the deck. Villages flew by, roads with trucks, soon a glimpse of the ocean, some nice beaches – if somewhat deserted, and soon we were over the ocean, our crewman in the rear looking worried.
Stretch pointed at his rifle, and I still had mine, both of us in full kit. I shrugged.
The crewman finally pointed, and out the door I could see several rigs on the horizon, dozens of large oil tankers, and finally we started to slow as we neared the granddaddy of all rigs, our Puma heading for its lofty helipad. I could see a starfish pattern of pipes radiating outwards from the rig, each pipe supported above the waves by brown metal, the pipes connecting to smaller platforms and to docked tankers.
As we neared I could see men lined up, neat lines of men with orange life vests, all wearing worried expressions.
We hit with a bump, puzzled faces staring at us. Down and out with Stretch, I waved men forwards, eight counted, and the Puma slid sideways quickly, the next Puma making a noise above us, two Seahawks floating on the breeze 500yards out.
I slung my rifle and led Stretch down a set of steep clanking steps, a large fat man approaching, and he could have been Mutch’s twin.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he shouted, sounding South African.
‘British Army, French and American helicopters, get your men off the rig. You in charge?’
‘Day shift production manager. Where the hell did you come from?’
‘Special Forces base, Mauritania.’ I spun him by an elbow as puzzled faces stared at me, frightened men keenly moving past and up to the helipad. ‘If you wanted to blow this rig, where would you place a bomb?’
‘Well ... the control room would be one place, flow control electronics another, but it’s tough metal, would have to be a big bomb.’
Men clanked past us along the metal walkway, past white and red signs warning of dangers, and to always wear your hard hat!
‘Where else? Where would cause a fire?’
‘Well, the pipes are solid, like I said, but a bomb that breached a main pipe could start a fire, but bombs don’t ignite oil unless they’re designed to.’
‘Let’s assume it’s designed to. Have your best men searching those areas you just listed, we have thirty-five minutes.’
‘Thirty-five? Hardly time to get the men off, they’d have to use the escape boats, or jump! There’s three hundred of us here!’
‘More help on the way. Now, those locations...’
Looking most put out, he led us off along clanking metal walkways, names called into a radio, orders shouted and then shouted again – it seemed that some of the men were not that keen to be searching for bombs right now. In the offices, which were huge and well equipped and covered four storeys, men were frantically searching under tables and behind things.
‘And what if we find the damn thing!’ the manager complained. ‘We shouldn’t touch it!’
‘We’re good with bombs, leave that to us.’ I stopped a man who had been giving orders. ‘You. If you wanted to put a bomb on this rig, where’d you put it?’
He exchanged a look with the fat bastard and took a moment. ‘Junction loop flow control.’
‘Take some men, go search it, you have thirty minutes. Go.’
He called names and headed out shouting into a radio.
I faced the fat bastard. ‘How many men can you get on the boats?’
‘Say ... eighty.’
‘They don’t provide enough boats?’ I puzzled.
‘The men are not usually all here together, today is different.’
‘Why is today different?’ I pressed as men continued to search the room.
‘Some upgrades, some new kit.’
‘What’s that?’ a man shouted, pointing.
All faces peered out the window, a line of Seahawks coming in, a staggered height formation and looking like some old Vietnam War movie.
I told them, ‘There’s an American carrier battle group nearby. Get your men to the helipad. And if you can, radio those helicopters, tell them to set your men down on the beach and to come straight back.’
I led Stretch outside, to a viewing platform high above the waves, and we observed as the Seahawks dropped in, grabbed men and sped off, and each helo seemed to take ten men as I checked my watch, a look exchanged with nervous Stretch.
He told me, ‘I don’t won’t to be stood here when this fucking thing blows!’
‘Water all around.’
‘A hundred foot jump! And a long fucking swim!’
‘Stop whinging,’ I told him. ‘You’ve taken bigger risks.’
It grew quiet for five minutes, the two French Pumas soon back, a few additional men grabbed, a lull before more Seahawks appeared. I checked my watch just as the blast registered. We spun around, a huge plume of black smoke rising from an oil tanker moored to a small platform some 600yards away.
Stretch noted, ‘Bomb was on the fucking ship,’ as the managers piled out and stared at the ship.
‘We searched the wrong fucking place,’ I told them. ‘Unless there are two bombs.’
The fat bastard told us, ‘If that ship burns long enough, the fire will reach the pipes that connect back yer!’
‘Can you shut off the pipes?’
‘All the men went off on the fucking helicopters!’
‘Can you electronically shut it down?’ I pressed, ready to hit the guy.
‘It is all shut down, we did that straight away, all now in standby mode, pumps down, valves closed, but I’d not want to risk it. They say the fire won’t go up the valves, but I’d not want to test that fucking theory by being stood next to them!’
‘Can that ship be moved?’ I pressed.
He pointed. ‘Ship’s crew are in the fucking water!’
I was getting frustrated. ‘If I walk along that gangway above the pipe to the far end, is there a valve to turn?’
‘You mad? Smoke would kill you if the flames didn’t, and that tanker will have vapour in the empty holds, so it’ll blow sky high like a fucking atom bomb!’
Sighing, I turned back to the ship, a huge black column of smoke now rising. ‘You said a bomb would not ignite oil, but would it blow out a fire, like John Wayne in that old movie?’
‘John Wayne? Oh, I see what you mean. Well, yes, it’s a technique they still use.’
I called Franks. ‘The bomb was on a ship, not the rig. Get Admiral Jacobs to call me. Fast!’
We waited with the roar of helicopters in our ears, orange flames now seen on the ship, but a Seahawk had closed in on the tanker, and as we keenly observed it winched three men off. A second Seahawk moved in, the black smoke swirling away, the helo suddenly enveloped in smoke. A blast of orange flame, and we all held our breath as angry black smoke expanded outwards.
A grey Seahawk suddenly emerged from the smoke with a man dangling, and it sped away.
‘Fucking ... bollocking hell,’ Stretch let out.
‘There are still men on the upper works!’ the fat bastard shouted, pointing.
A third Seahawk approached the stricken ship, winching men from the water, but a fourth flew straight in, black smoke pushed aside.
‘What the fuck..?’ Stretch let out as the Seahawk dropped, touched down on the roof of the bridge, men quickly aboard, and it slid away, suddenly a huge blast, the entire tail end of the ship engulfed, the flames chasing after the helo.
My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Admiral Jacobs -’
‘Listen, can you rig a bomb and drop it on a ship on fire, it should bl
ow out the fire like an old John Wayne movie.’
‘How the hell would I know? And what about insurance claims!’
‘We got nothing to lose, sir, the ship is burning, and if we don’t get the fire out we’re toast over here, and the terrorists get what they want – a victory in the press.’
‘I’ll get the munitions guys to rig something up, I’ll recall a helo.’
‘Next, I need some F18s with 2,000lb bombs -’
‘What the hell for?’
‘The ship on fire is connected to a small platform, and the fire will spread to the other rigs. I need that platform sunk!’
‘Sunk?’
‘Bomb the fucking thing, sir, and fast. Your pilots can’t miss it, they just look for the smoke column a mile high. Work fast, sir!’
Call cut, the fat bastard said, ‘Bomb what?’ whilst looking horrified at the idea.
I pointed. ‘The platform that the ship is connect to. F18 aircraft are available.’
‘Well ... that would stop the fire reaching us, but ... would cost us a fortune as well.’
‘Blame the Americans, you never requested it. Or just stand here and burn.’
The radios burst into life. ‘We found a bomb, dropped it in the ocean -’
The rig wobbled slightly, the dull blast heard, water spray shooting out from below us as if the ocean was boiling.
‘Fucking ... bollocking hell,’ Stretch let out as he stared down.
I faced the fat bastard. ‘Will that have damaged anything?’
‘Unlikely, this rig will withstand a hurricane. I’ve felt worse from a hundred foot wave hitting us.’
I took a big breath, and called Max. ‘Max, get a story out on Reuters right away. Men on Petrobras Oil Platform Twelve discovered a bomb on the rig, dropped it in the sea and it blew, second bomb went off on an oil tanker, fire raging.
‘French and American helos airlifted rig crews, Seahawks rescued men from the ship in daring move through black smoke, ship exploding just as last Seahawk departed, flames missing helo by a matter of a few feet. American and British special forces, and bomb disposal, on board the platforms. Then get your paper to do a good story on the rescue.’
‘OK, I’m on it.’
‘Reuters?’ the fat bastard queried, and not with his happy face on.
‘We put out our story, not what the terrorists want.’
The Seahawks continued to take men off this rig till a hard core of volunteers were left, the helos contacted and thanked by the manager here. So when a Seahawk touched down, its rotors winding down, I wondered if someone had sent it for me and Stretch.
The Seal bomb disposal guy, Bob, led his team up clanking metal steps to us – and they had tools, as I pointed out to Stretch – telling Stretch off for not bring his and getting a colourful response.
I told them, ‘Bomb on this rig was found and dropped in the sea, bomb on the ship went off, no others found here. So we hope that’s all of them – or we’re jumping and swimming.’
Bob stared down eighty feet to the ocean below. ‘Need a fucking chute if we’re jumping, sir. And that’s a fucking big shark!’
We all leant over the side and peered down.
‘We ain’t jumping!’ Stretch insisted.
‘Got your rifle, don’t you,’ I teased. I faced the fat bastard. ‘Have those men left with us keep searching, you never know.’
He issued instructions over the radio.
A screech, and we all looked up as two F18s arced gracefully by, circling around, a second pair higher. The first F18 came around, flaps down, dead slow, a gentle descent, bomb released and nose up, a blast of white water below and around the platform.
‘Hard to hit thin metal,’ the fat bastard complained.
The second F18 came in slow, bomb away, a similar affect; it went through the legs of the platform.
We waited.
‘Look!’ Bob shouted, and we peered up, hands over eyes, an F18 coming in almost vertically, bomb released, nose up and it screeched away, the platform blown to bits, the blast reaching us a few seconds later.
‘There, look,’ the fat bastard enthused. ‘The pipe is down.’
‘Will that cause an oil slick?’ I asked.
‘Only a small one, it was all shut down.’
‘Time for a cuppa then,’ I suggested. I faced the fat bastard. ‘You ever meet an oil worker call Mutch?’
‘That fucking idiot. How’d you know him?’
‘We ... came across the fat bastard on a job,’ I responded. ‘Found him to be very useful.’
‘Snores like a train!’ came with a huff.
Bob pointed, so we turned, a Seahawk hovering high above the ship on fire, the helo’s nose in the smoke. A blast on the deck, and no orange flames were seen, the Seahawk pulling back.
We waited, all staring across at the ship as smoke billowed. Bit by bit the smoke dissipated, no flames seen.
My phone trilled. ‘It’s Admiral Jacobs, what’s happening your end?’
‘Your F18s brought down the platform, so this rig is safe, and your helo dropped a bomb that blew out the flames, so the ship might be saved. Petrobras oil company in Brazil owe you about three billion dollars.’
‘I’ll send them the damn bill.’
‘There’ll be excellent news coverage from this, I’ll make sure of that, your helo pilots risked their lives to save men, and one helo missed being blown up by two seconds.’
‘Some good coverage then. I’ll send it up the line now.’
‘You can recall most of your helos, sir, and the F18s, leave some on rotation just in case.’ I put my phone away.
The fat bastard said, ‘We have cameras, so what them helicopters and planes did is on tape.’
‘I want a copy, or we start shooting people.’
I called Max and detailed the story, and he would release it to Reuters, an exclusive for his paper, no doubt a two-page spread. Next call was Bob Staines, and a big thank you. I told him to take the rest of the day off, making him laugh.
Stood alone on metal deck plating, the ocean far below, I called Mutch and updated him. He knew the fat bastard here, and he keenly gave me a story about the man.
Back in the command room, tea accepted, I faced the fat bastard as ten men checked computers. ‘So ... I hear you were arrested a few years back.’ All faces turned to me. I added, ‘In a brothel in Port Harcourt, with a lady boy.’
All faces were now on the fat bastard, who was suddenly looking very uncomfortable.
‘The charges were dropped, and ... and I never knew it was a lady boy.’
‘You were arrested in the morning, so ... how come you never noticed the dangly bits?’ I teased.
‘I ... I was so drunk I just passed out and slept.’
‘Ah, that explains it,’ I said in a loud and exaggerated voice, the workers hiding their grins.
‘Nothing to be ashamed of,’ Stretch told the fat bastard. ‘Some men like a bit of cock with some boobs.’
A man stepped in, checking the faces of myself and Stretch. ‘One of you known as Wilco?’
‘I am,’ I told him.
He pulled out a paperback, The Ghost. ‘Sign that, might be worth something when you’re dead.’
I laughed loudly. ‘Cheeky bastard.’ But I did sign, a second man bringing another paperback over.
‘We read a lot onboard,’ he explained. ‘How much of it is true?’
I had taken off my webbing and bandolier, they were on a desk with my rifle, so I unbuttoned and eased my shirt off.
‘Jesus mother of Christ...’ the man let out, the Seals staring wide-eyed at me.
‘Read the book again, this time believing the detail. I edited the book.’
Navy Seal, Bob, asked, ‘How’d you pass a medical, sir?’
‘Boys in Intel have their own doctor, and he just signs without looking me over.’
‘Bending a few rules,’ another Seal noted.
I told him, ‘Rules help the terrorists, not
us.’
With a Seahawk available to me, I led Stretch up after the oilmen thanked us, and we clambered aboard, soon speeding across a blue inviting ocean and heading northeast for the short trip back. Sand led to scrub, scrub led to a fence, perimeter track, black runway, and we bumped down on the apron, out and running bent-double, a “thank you” wave issued to the pilots as the sun hung low.
Our ride departed as I headed to the command room – Stretch in need of a cigarette, fifty questions fired at me as I entered. I gave them the short version, checked that Max had all the detail he needed – video tape handed over, spent five minutes with the French colonel, a chat to Franks, and I badly needed a bite to eat.
In the canteen I found my lads, the story relayed over half an hour, and Moran updated me on what the Wolves had been up to today, the RAF Regiment lads and 1 Para lads static-line dropping a long way off, due to be back at dawn tomorrow.
Leaving the canteen my phone trilled, an odd number. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Branco. My bosses wished to express their thanks.’
‘I saw something on Reuters, but what happened today?’ I pretended.
‘Helicopters arrived from a military base, they took off many men, and the US Navy bombed a pipeline that connected a burning ship, and put out the fire as well, so the damage was contained but still considerable.’
‘Well, not too bad then.’
‘We wish to hire you to go after Dupree.’
‘No need, someone else just did.’
‘Ah, so he’s not popular today. And who is he in bed with?’
‘A Nigerian, al-Sheek.’
‘Ah, that fucking idiot.’
‘I’ve been hired to deal with him as well.’
‘My bosses will send you a little gift. But how?’
‘I’ll call you back with a bank account, just put whatever you feel is appropriate in, I don’t ask for anything, my friend.’
‘Thank you again.’
I called London and gave them an update, followed by an update for Tomsk since he had channels to Branco and Petorbras. In with the Wolves, in their barracks, I gave them the detail of what happened, a very attentive group of young men listening in.
