Operation: North Sea

- 19 -

The sub captain’s plans proved to be short-lived. They were only a mile or so away from the site of the frigate tragedy when the radar operator spoke up.

“Lost it again. It was there, and then it wasn’t.”

“How in hell could it do that?” Green asked.

“You saw how,” Seton replied. “I showed you how.”

“All you showed me was how daft you all are,” Green answered.

“Aye, well, show us how smart you are then,” Wiggo said. “What’s your plan now?”

“Same as before. We find it and nuke the bugger.”

“Good luck with that,” Seton said and without another word turned and headed out of the bridge.

Wiggo followed him out and found him in the cabin, taking his hip-flask out of a pocket.

“At least I managed to fill this from your colonel’s supply back at the barracks,” Seton said. “The one good thing to come out of this mess so far. Will you join me?”

“Aye, just don’t let on to the captain. He just prompted me and I don’t need to give him a reason to go back on it.”

Seton passed him the flask. The whisky went down smooth and warm and set a wee fire in his belly like all the best stuff does. He passed it back reluctantly and spoke while Seton took a swig for himself.

“You really think the nuke won’t work?”

“I think it’s a possibility… maybe even a probability. But although I had a go at the captain back there, I can’t really see another option unless we can lure it to some known location away from people. And I can’t see how we could do that without being too close to it when the nuke went off.

“Some deserted island?” Wiggo said, accepting another swig of the whisky.

“In the North Sea? Not much chance of that… but…”

It looked like Seton had just been hit by a eureka moment. Without finishing the sentence, he left the cabin in a hurry.

Wiggo was right behind them as they returned to the bridge.

“I’ve got an idea,” Seton said.

Green looked skeptical until Banks spoke up.

“You still have your orders, Captain. And the beast has vanished. Would it hurt to listen?”

Green waved his hand that Seton should continue.

“I was thinking about the rig again,” Seton said. “And I remembered. There are numerous derelict rigs out in these waters. What if we find one far enough from everything so that the nuke could go off without killing anyone… including us? We set up a beacon, a pinger like the one that drew it to the castle, then we back off out of range of the nuke, set off the pinger and wait for the beast to approach. If we leave a camera with the pinger, we should be able to see it on screen, and then the captain here can do his thing, take it down. Or at least try to.”

Wiggo saw Green thinking.

“I hate to admit it,” he finally said. “But that might be the best idea anyone’s had yet.”

He turned to his operators.

“You heard the man. Find me a rig that’s got a wide enough blast radius that we won’t be blowing up anything we shouldn’t be. And remember, it’s got to be totally inside British waters; the brass are going to have enough trouble explaining a nuke going off without us fucking about in somebody else’s territory.”

Five minutes later, they had their target and were headed for it at speed.

“Do you carry all the equipment we’ll need?” Seton asked Green.

“I believe so,” he replied. “As I said, we’ve got the seismograph survey gear. I’ve detailed a technician to get it set up for remote operation, and he’ll get the video link and electric batteries set up for it at the same time. He’ll have it ready for transport by the time we reach the rig. We’ll be there in two hours.”

Wiggo piped up.

“And what about the beastie in the meantime? What if it decides it enjoyed itself so much that it wants to run riot somewhere else; Inverness maybe, or going the other way, even Edinburgh?”

He suddenly had a mental picture of the thing coiled around Edinburgh Castle amid the crumbling, smoking ruins of the auld city. It didn’t bear thinking about too closely. The more he thought about it, the more he hoped that Seton was wrong; he needed the nuke to work, he needed the beast dead, not just for his own peace of mind, but for the memory of all that had already been lost.

He’d been wool-gathering and missed some of Green’s response, but caught the gist.

“…and every camera in Scotland is watching the sea right now, you can be sure of that. If the thing does turn up anywhere else, the brass will have a welcome waiting for it.”

“Aye,” Wiggo replied. “And how many more will die then? Can we no’ go any faster… it’s high time we nuked this fucker into oblivion.”

The next two hours passed painfully slowly for Wiggo, even allowing for another trip back to the cabin for a snifter of the auld man’s whisky. Even after they reached their destination, time kept crawling for Green insisted that his own men went over to the rig to install the gear and wouldn’t hear Seton’s pleas to accompany them. He allowed two concessions; Seton was allowed to have his chant installed in the broadcast equipment that was being installed on the rig and, much to Wiggo’s relief, the squad were allowed to go out on deck for a smoke while the installation was taking place.

The storm of the night before was now little more than a memory left in the swell. The sky was clear with only light clouds scudding across it and there was a warm breeze on Wiggo’s face as he lit up. The rig itself showed signs of disuse, even from quarter of a mile away, its gantries and walkways sagging, its pillars and buildings reddened with rust. They saw the crew members working on the flat area that had been the helipad.

Wiggo sucked smoke before addressing Seton.

“Is this going to work, wee man?”

Seton lifted his hand and made a see-saw motion.

“Fifty-fifty at best,” he said. “Don’t place any bets.”

Then finally, the waiting was over. The crewmen returned from the rig, everybody went back below then the sub made its way at full speed out of range of the expected blast. A little over an hour later, they were at periscope depth, the scopes screen showing the sea in the direction of the rig, another screen showing the seismic gear sitting on the rig’s helipad.

“Start her up,” Green said. “And weapons ready. Fire on my signal.”

The rhythmic ping echoed around the bridge.

“Can I ask a favor?” Seton said. “Can we start my chant too? Please? After all, what harm can it do? It might even slow the beast down and keep it still.”

“I see no harm in it,” Green replied and echoed Banks’ words of earlier with a smile. “Make it so.”

Seton’s chant rose to join the beacon.

He sleeps and he dreams with the fish far below.

He dreams and he sings in the dark.

As before, the result was almost immediate. The radar operator shouted out.

“Got it, sir. It’s back. Twenty miles out and headed straight for the rig.”

“This is it, lads,” Green said. “Let’s get this bastard.”

“Ten miles, closing fast,” the radar operator said a minute later.

Above the sound of the chanting, they heard the beast’s bagpipe-like wail in counterpoint to Seton’s words.

He sleeps and he sings and he dreams far below.

And the Dreaming God is singing where he lies.

On the video feed from the rig, they saw the grey bulk of the beast approach the helipad, although it seemed to be almost insubstantial, fading in and out of reality.

“The chant’s working again,” Seton said. “Can we just…?”

“No,” Green replied, and without a pause gave the order. “Fire.”

The sub shuddered and a deafening roar echoed around the bridge as the missile was launched. The scope view showed it arcing up and away; Wiggo was reminded of the flares he’d sent up from the dinghy in the storm. Then it began to fall. Wiggo switched his gaze to the view of the helipad, just as the screen went brilliant white, then black.

“Got it. We got the fucker,” Green said.

The scope view showed a rising column of light and smoke in the distance rapidly rising and forming into the classic mushroom-cloud shape.

“Good job, lads,” Green said.

The radar operator shouted out.

“We’ve got incoming, sir. It’s big, and it’s coming right at us.”

The wailing howl of the beast filled the bridge.