Operation: North Sea

- 14 -

Banks heard of the others’ rescue as they came in on approach to Aberdeen airport. The co-pilot relayed the news.

“Your guys are okay. The one called Wiggins is turning the air blue and causing the air-traffic controllers to have kittens, but they’re safe. Some of the rig crew that were on the floatel didn’t make it though.”

Something loosened in him that he hadn’t realised was tense. The sarge was still out of it, lying on a stretcher in the belly of the chopper, but Banks bent over him anyway.

“Our lads are safe, Sarge. Wiggo got them through.”

He didn’t think Hynd would hear but it felt right to tell him.

He looked for Seton, couldn’t find him at first, then saw him up front in the co-pilot’s seat, using the radio. The older man spoke for a few minutes before coming back into the body of the chopper to talk to Banks.

“I’ve been on the blower to your colonel again,” he said. “I tried to talk him into giving my theory another try but I was told in no uncertain terms that my role here is at an end. They’re calling out the big guns and they’ve declared a state of emergency. They’re going to throw everything and the kitchen sink at our beastie.”

“Your beastie, not mine,” Banks answered. He remembered the enormity of the thing he’d seen taking down the rig. “I hope they’re fetching plenty of firepower. They’re going to need it.”

A flurry of activity met them on arrival at the airport. Hynd was wheeled off rapidly to an ambulance. The doc took a second to turn and talk to Banks.

“We’ll be at the Royal Infirmary when you’ve got time to come and see him. Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”

“You might need to tie him down when he wakes up,” Banks said. “He’ll be wanting to get on his feet.”

“Wanting and doing are two different things,” the doc replied. “Anyway, they’ve got nurses at ARI who can strip paint with their tongues. They’ll keep him quiet, trust me.”

And with that, the doc was gone.

The other rescued men were all whisked away in a bus put on by the oil company responsible for the rig. There was a small ring of reporters beyond the choppers’ landing area, but the company had made sure that no one who came off the rig would talk to them. They’d done it for purely financial considerations of course, protecting their bottom line, but Banks knew it would be in line with his own superior’s thinking; the fewer who knew the truth, the better. For the time being at least.

He was left on the tarmac with Seton.

“Looks like we’re on our own, wee man, at least until the rest of the squad gets brought in. Do you think we can get a drink anywhere at this time of night?”

Seton went into his pocket, took out the hip flask, and shook it against his ear.

“Empty. Bugger. But if we can get a taxi, I ken a place in the docks that’ll let us in for a few drams no matter what time of the night.”

Any chances of that were quashed when a black SUV rolled up beside them. Banks was surprised to see his colonel at the wheel; he was usually in the back with his PA doing the driving up front. This was turning into a special night all ‘round.

“Get in, chaps,” the colonel said. “I need to debrief you; the minister’s going in front of the cameras in the morning. The shit’s hitting the fan and we have to move fast if we don’t want to get caught in the blowback.”

They got in the back and drove, mostly in silence, out of the airport, past a still-being erected police cordon in the car-park and down towards the city. The colonel didn’t speak until they pulled into the driveway of the Gordon Barracks on the north east side of town.

“I’ve commandeered a wing here for the duration,” he said. “Away from prying eyes. We’ll be able to talk safely and you can bring me up to speed.”

Banks was pleased to discover that the colonel’s view of ‘commandeering’ also included supplying the place with his usual comforts. They were soon sitting in comfortable chairs in a well-appointed office, each with a full glass of scotch and a fresh smoke. A large plate of freshly made ham sandwiches sat on the table but Banks preferred a liquid diet at that moment, if only to blunt the memories of the preceding hours.

When the colonel waved to indicate he could start, it all came back in a flood.

“It was a total shitstorm from start to finish, sir,” he began. “As soon as we got on the rig the manager was working against us…”

It took the best part of an hour, several more smokes, another glass of scotch and numerous interventions from both the colonel and Seton but in the end the story was done to the colonel’s satisfaction.

“How big?” he said, and Banks heard the skepticism. It was Seton who answered.

“Too big,” he said. “The head’s bigger than a row of houses on its own. You could lay the whole thing inside Hampden Park and the head would be poking out one end, the tail out the other.”

The colonel shook his head, still taking it all in, and knocked back his scotch on one gulp before answering.

“I’m going to have the devil of a job convincing the minister of the truth of the matter,” he said ruefully. “But he saw yon thing at Loch Ness for himself. He knows it’s not just BS and old soldier’s tales.”

“Well, not all of it,” Banks said, and even got a laugh in return from the colonel who then turned to Banks.

“Don’t take it hard on yourself, John. You saved lives tonight. You got that part of the job done.”

“Lost some too,” Banks replied.

“Same as it ever was,” the colonel added, the sadness clear in his voice. “But we can only do what we can do. And what we can do now is ensure that the politicians don’t make a pig’s arse out of what happens next.”

“Same as it ever was,” Seton added, and got a laugh all ’round.

Then it was the colonel’s turn to quickly bring them up to speed on the response so far.

There wasn’t much to tell; the storm was hampering any efforts to locate the beast. A squadron of fighter jets was in the air over the North Sea looking for it, the Russians were getting frisky at all the non-planned activity, the minister was shitting his breeks, and the oil company was already demanding enormous sums in compensation from the government, trying to lay the blame on Banks for much of what had happened out on the rig.

“It was that twat of a rig manager that caused most of the trouble,” Banks said indignantly, before guiltily remembering that the man had died in the first chopper.

The colonel nodded and smiled.

“And the rig staff are even now backing you up on that. Don’t get distracted by the smoke and mirrors, John. I still need you and the squad on this; you’re the chaps with the experience, even if this thing’s a tad bigger than anything else you’ve come up against.”

“You know us, sir. We’re up for anything. But apart from blowing it to fuck with a nuke, I don’t know as we can do much in the way of stopping it.”

“I might have a plan,” Seton said quietly, but didn’t get time to explain as the colonel’s PA came into the office.

“The rest of S-Squad are here as you requested, sir. The corporal is demanding beer.”

The colonel surprised Banks again when they went downstairs to the small private bar and mess hall overlooking the inner quadrangle.

“Get somebody to open up the bar,” the colonel said to his PA. “The first round is on me.”

Banks saw that Wiggo was rather subdued compared to normal. He waited until a sleepy private had been found to open the bar, beers were poured for everybody, and frozen pizzas were in the oven before taking the corporal outside to the quadrangle for a smoke.

“How’s the sarge?” Wiggo asked as they lit up.

“He’ll be fine, or so the doc says. A few broken ribs but a bit of rest and he’ll be good as new. Never mind him. How are you holding up?”

Wiggo stared away into the night before replying.

“I never knew it would be so hard. I mean, we’ve lost guys before, and I took them personally. But it’s different when you’re actually in charge of them. And they weren’t even in the force; they were just regular guys, doing their jobs, making money to keep their families. And what are those poor women and kids going to do now? I’m taking it sore, Cap, if truth be told.”

“It never gets any easier,” Banks replied. “And the fact that it bothers you so much just proves what I’ve always known.”

“And what’s that, Cap?”

“That you’re a good man, Corporal Wiggins. Or rather, Acting-Sergeant Wiggins. I need a wingman, and you’re it. Want the job?”

“Until I die or someone better comes along?” Wiggo said, smiling for the first time.

“As I said, Wiggo. You’re a good man. But you watch far too many crap films.”

They went back into the mess to discover everyone watching a satellite TV news report. The headline ran, white on red and in bold capitals along the bottom of the screen.

As the news item progressed, it became clear that the channel actually had no news at all beyond the fact that there had been a rescue from a rig and that there may, or may not, have been casualties. It did not, however, stop the talking heads assembled on screen from speculating, anything from terrorist attack to catastrophic system failure brought about by cost cutting. Nobody mentioned a fucking huge singing monster.

“The D notice seems to be holding, so that’s something at least. What’s the minister’s story going to be?” Banks asked the colonel.

“I doubt he knows yet. But I’m also sure there’ll be no mention of any monster. Can you imagine the panic, never mind the media circus, that would ensue? No, he’ll want to play it close to his chest. If I were a betting man, I’d guess bad weather will take the blame.”

“The men who died deserve better than that,” Wiggo said.

“The government will make sure their families are supported,” the colonel replied. “What else can they do? What’s done is done.”

Banks saw that Wiggo was getting angry and ready to interject. He put a hand on his shoulder to get his attention and shook his head when Wiggo looked at him.

“I just promoted you, Wiggo,” he said so that only the two of them could hear. “Don’t blow it in the first five minutes.”

Seton spoke up to diffuse the tension.

“Will you give me ten minutes of your time to at least listen to my idea, Colonel?” he said.

“No,” came the blunt reply. “I’ve enough on my plate explaining the thing to the minister without adding mambo-jumbo and ancient Scottish mysticism to the mix. We’re going with the military solution.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“I say we take off and nuke the site from orbit,” Wiggo said. “It’s the only way to be sure.”

Everybody except the colonel laughed; it was obvious he didn’t get the reference. But it was equally obvious he was in no mood to hang around and find out.

“I’m already late for my meeting. Do me a favour all of you—don’t get pissed. You’ve got four hours before I can get transport for you to head back to base. Sleeping might be your best option.”

With that, the colonel left them to it.

“Right. Who needs another beer?” Wiggo said.

Banks wasn’t paying too much attention, his gaze on the TV screen. They’d shifted away from the talking heads in the studio to go live to Aberdeen. Banks recognised the man they were interviewing. It was the radio operator from the rig’s control room. Somehow he’d slipped whatever bonds the company had tried to put on him. Now here he was, standing at the police cordon at the airport, and the first words out of his mouth were going to make the minister’s job in the morning all the more difficult.

“It was a monster. Biggest bloody thing you ever did see, like something out of a film. It ate our supply boat, took out a chopper, and demolished the rig. I was damned lucky to get out of there alive.”

Then the picture switched again, to Aberdeen’s dockland area. Bright headlights were washing a broad area of water just beyond the harbour entrance. They swept back, forward and, on their way back again picked out a wall of greyish silver flesh sliding through the dark waters less than a hundred yards out to sea. The only sound to be heard was a high, wailing drone, the same keening piper’s lament they heard on the rig.

“Drink up, lads,” Banks said. “I think we’re going to be on the move earlier than the colonel thought.”