Operation: North Sea

- 6 -

Banks and Seton had spent a frustrating half-hour on the radio trying to persuade Smith’s bosses and then a series of minor ranked politicians that the rig needed to be evacuated. Eventually, they got some kind of agreement.

“But you’ll have to wait the storm out,” a clipped, almost bored civil servant in Edinburgh said. “We can’t afford to risk any more losses. The papers are gearing up for a field day already.”

Seton stepped in before Banks said something he’d definitely regret later and surprised Banks by asking to speak to someone higher up. He mentioned a few names that Banks recognised, intimated that he was friends with them and that they might not be happy to hear that Seton’s wishes were being denied, and suddenly the corridors of power were being opened to them.

“The old boy network,” Seton said with a wry grin. “Never fails, especially if you’re a very old boy like me.”

They were waiting for a final decision from Edinburgh when an alarm sounded outside, an insistent claxon. A breathless worker burst in without knocking.

“It’s the floatel, boss. We’ve lost the floatel.”

Banks’ heart sank, fearing the same fate had befell it as the supply vessel earlier. And this time it would have taken three of his squad with it. He was ahead of everyone else on the way out the door, almost running along the corridor to the gantry that overlooked the docking area.

Relief washed over him when he saw that the floating vessel hadn’t sunk but that quickly changed to despair when he saw it was moving away from the main rig, a twenty-meter gap becoming forty in the space of seconds. The vessel bobbed and weaved, tossed high then plunged low in the swell and it was spinning anti-clockwise as it wheeled away from them.

“Get it back. Right now,” he said to the rig manager.

The burly man had gone white again and seemed incapable of speaking. The crew member who had brought the news spoke for him.

“We cannae dae that from here, sir,” he said. “If she’s to come back, it has to be under her own steam, but it looks like their engines went at the same time as the moorings. She’s adrift, and there’s bugger all we can do about it.”

Banks watched the vessel get increasingly farther away from the rig. It wasn’t going to be too long before it was lost in the growing darkness.

“Can we at least speak to them, find out if they’re okay?”

The crewman spoke up again.

“The lads in the control room will be on that. I can take you down there if you’d like. But I warn you now, it’s probably going to be a madhouse.”

The rig boss was still staring out to sea in shock. Banks left him there and, with Hynd and Seton in tow, followed the crewman out into the weather and down two flights of open stairs. They were soaking wet again as they were shown into the control room.

‘Madhouse’ was too small a word for the frenetic chaos inside but it was obvious that the three crewmen present were doing everything they could under the circumstances and any intervention by Banks at this point was just going to get in their way, so he hung back near the door and watched, ready to make a move if he was needed.

He realised that they were in radio contact with the stricken floatel; he heard near panic in the voice at the other end, then another voice came on the air, one he knew all too well.

“Cap, are you there?”

“Who is this,” the operator in front of Banks said. “I can’t allow any unauthorised personnel on the air.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you can’t allow. Get me Captain Banks and get him right fucking now.”

Before anyone could stop him, Banks stepped forward, gently pushed the operator aside, and took control of the mike.

“Wiggo, it’s me. Everybody okay over there?”

“Me and the lads are fine, Cap. One of the crew’s got some broken bones… Davies is seeing to him right now… but the rest are fine, just bashes and bruises. But tell me you’ve got a plan; it’s like the Big Dipper at the Pleasure Beach in here, and getting worse by the minute.”

“They’re working on it, Wiggo,” Banks said. “Hang in there.”

“We don’t have much choice, do we? Just give me some warning if you see yon big beastie heading our way; I’d like to make myself ready if we’re going to become its supper.”

Banks saw out of the big display window that the lights of the floatel were still receding away from them at speed; he wasn’t going to be seeing it for much longer.

“I promise you, Wiggo, I’ll see you safe,” he said. “But in the meantime, you’re in charge over there; this is going to be your first command if we lose contact. So stay tight and cool, and bring everybody home.”

“You ken me, Cap,” Wiggo said, and before Banks replied the line went dead, only crackling static coming from the speaker.

“We’ve lost comms,” the operator said, muscling his way back into his position and pushing Banks aside.

“You don’t say?” Banks replied, but stepped back to let the man work.

It quickly became obvious that it was a lost cause; nothing any of the operators tried was of any use. The floatel disappeared out of view into the storm. Night was falling out beyond the window, but even then there was no sign of the vessel’s lights. Wiggo and the two privates were lost in the storm.

“Don’t you have procedures for this sort of emergency?” Seton said at Banks’ back.

“Aye,” one of the operators said, sounding tired and resigned. “And we’ve just tried them all. The only option left is to get air-sea rescue out from Aberdeen and I doubt if anybody will be willing to chance it in this weather. The only good news is that the wind’s taking them towards the coast rather than further out to sea, but that’s the only good news.”

“Can you get me a line to my HQ in Lossiemouth?” Banks asked.

The operator nodded.

“I think so. Comms with the mainland are still operating. Who do you need to call?”

Five minutes later, Banks was in contact with the colonel back at base.

“Leave it with me,” the colonel said on being apprised of the situation. “Air-Sea rescue will be on the case in five minutes and if they’re not, they’ll be getting a rocket up the arse from the powers that be.”

And that was that as far as Banks’ ideas were concerned; as a man of action, he hated being powerless in any situation, even more so when his men were in danger and he was separated from them, but he couldn’t see any plan other than waiting it out.

That didn’t mean he had to stand around with his thumb up his arse though.

He turned to Hynd.

“Sarge, see if you can wrangle a waterproof from somebody. I need you outside, and high, somewhere we can see that beastie coming.”

The operator stopped him.

“No need for that, sir. We still have radar, and our underwater cameras are functioning. It gave off an almighty blip the last time; we’ll know if it’s coming back.”

“And then what?” Seton said softly.

Banks didn’t have an answer. But he was working on it.