Operation: North Sea

- 15 -

The colonel passed Wiggo the keys to the SUV. It was going to be a tight fit, what with the squad members, Seton, and their kit, but they’d got it all stowed in double quick time. A mere ten minutes after seeing the news broadcast they were on their way, the colonel waving them off, as they sped down the Barrack’s driveway and took a left, heading for the city center then the docklands.

“I meant what I said back there, Cap,” Wiggo said, rolling down the window and lighting up a smoke. “Maybe nuking it from orbit isn’t that bad a plan for this fucker.”

“And take out Aberdeen as collateral damage? I doubt the brass would swing for that, Wiggo.”

“It’s not as if they’d be losing much of any value,” Davies spoke up from the back, getting another laugh from them all.

“Spoken like a true Glaswegian and a man after my own heart,” Wiggo said. “But seriously, Cap. If we could lure it out to sea…”

“And take out a few oil rigs in the process? The brass would probably like that even less.”

They saw lights ahead as they went past the railway station and headed for Torry docks. A barrier had been erected across the road. Wiggo slowed and stopped to let a young policeman poke his head through the window.

“I’ve been told not to let anyone through,” he said.

Banks spoke up.

“Just as well we’re not anyone then, isn’t it? We’re on official business. We could get you to check with your superiors but we’re on the clock and don’t have time for any of that bollocks. Let us through, there’s a good lad.”

There must have been just enough weary contempt in the captain’s voice to convince him, for a few seconds later they were waved through and made their way into Torry.

The roadblock must have only gone up recently for there were several media crew already in place in the inner dock and Wiggo had to carefully weave around them before having to stop at another checkpoint, this one manned not by police but by military.

This time, the captain gave his rank and credentials, mentioned the colonel by name, and once again they were waved through into the wider expanse of Torry docks. The harbor was full; cargo vessels in the main and several more of the rig supply boats of the kind they’d used to get to the rig the day before. An evacuation seemed to be in progress for crewmembers were coming off all the docked boats and being shepherded in a line back off the quays to somewhere beyond the roadblock. The large searchlights they’d seen on TV were being provided by three strategically placed fishing boats that bobbed just offshore in the estuary, pointing their lights out the main harbor mouth past the harbor control station on the far side of the river. They were currently lighting up only water and the splash of waves on the old stone of the outer harbor. Of the monster, there was no sight or sound.

“If we’re lucky, it’s already fucked off back to where it came from,” Davies said.

“Us? Lucky? When has that ever been true?” Wiggo replied.

“Hold the fort, Wiggo,” the captain said. “I need to find out who’s in charge here and have a word.”

“I’ll come with you,” Seton replied, and the pair departed towards the harbormaster’s office, leaving Wiggo, Davies, and Wilkins standing at the side of the SUV.

“Smoke them if you’ve got them, lads,” Wiggo said, leaned back against the still warm SUV and lit up a smoke. He checked his watch… four a.m. It felt like an eternity since they’d left Lossiemouth at the start of this operation, although it had been quite a bit less than twenty-four hours previously. His legs were still telling him that they were bobbing around in a boat and the whole world had taken on a weird swimming sensation that he knew would eventually pass but, for now, felt like he’d had one beer too many. Besides that, it kept reminding him of the rescue and his last sight of the beast as it swallowed the dinghies below him.

“Nuke you?” he muttered. “I’ll ram it down your fucking throat.”

“Did you say something, Corp?” Wilkins asked.

“Nah, just wool-gathering. But it’s not Corp, not tonight. Until we get the sarge back, it’s Acting-Sergeant Wiggo to you.”

Of course he then had to go over the conversation he’d had with the captain in the barracks and suffer good-natured ribbing from the privates, but at least it passed some time and took his mind off other matters… for a while at least.

Two things happened almost simultaneously to break his newfound calm.

The night air was pierced with the now well-known droning wail washing in from somewhere out in the dark sea waters. It was quickly accompanied by a loud alarm coming from speakers hung at intervals along the tall lights that lined the quays, a rhythmic whoop-whoop that seemed to carry a beat for the invisible piper offshore. Wiggo was remembering Seton’s words about the thing being affected by… drawn to… noise, and remembering the attacks on the rig.

“Turn that bloody thing off,” he shouted. “Right fucking now.”

Even if someone had heard him and acted on it, it was going to be too late. A wave surge, ten feet high, foam-tipped and rising ever higher as it came in, rushed in from out at sea and, pushing it forward from behind, caught in the glare of the fishing boat’s lights, came the great bulk of the beast with its head raised and jaws open ready to snatch its next meal.

The wave rushed up the dock. It lifted the fishing boats up and took them further inside to smash with a grinding crash against the rear wall. As they broke up, the boats’ lights washed up, down and sideward in a macabre imitation of a manic disco. Cold water rose up in the quay, washing around the SUV’s wheels and over the squaddies’ feet. Wiggo was momentarily alarmed that they were going to be washed away completely but the flow of water lessened when the serpent, having made its way onto the harbour itself, stopped displacing water, and instead turned its attention towards carnage.

It tore at cargo ships and supply vessels alike, tossing tons of metal in the air with no seeming effort, steel crashing against steel, hulls collapsing and metal ripping like so much paper, all to the accompaniment of the wailing claxon. As if still unsatisfied, the beast threw itself in ever-increasing frenzy against the remaining boats. The harbor walls and quayside crumbled and disintegrated under the onslaught of its slapping tail and Wiggo saw that the section of quay they stood on was directly in the path of the beast’s marauding havoc.

“Get in, lads, we’re leaving,” he said and, trusting the privates to obey, threw himself into the driver’s seat and got the engine started. The others were still getting in when he looked out the windshield to see it full of a wall of shimmering silver-grey flesh coming at him like a moving wall. He switched into reverse, put his foot down and, trusting to luck more than judgement, barreled backwards down the quay leaving a wash behind in the shallow water. Davies was still trying to shut his door when they reached the end of the quay. Wiggo threw the wheel ‘round and they spun 270 degrees to be facing the inner roadblock. He switched gears put his foot down again and, weaving like a drunk on a Saturday night, went through the roadblock, smashing the thin wood like a matchstick. He only stopped when they were two hundred yards inland and had spun the vehicle ‘round in a squeal of tires on tarmac to look back at the harbor.

The beast was still rampaging, throwing boats, bits of boats, lumps of quayside, and buildings high in the air.

It was only then that Wiggo remembered the others.

The captain and auld Seton were still in there, somewhere amid the continuing carnage.