The helicopter flared as the craft slowed and aimed its underbelly at the centre of the helipad. Deacon went to the main cabin door and, steadying himself against it, eyed his crew. All still in their seats, most looking out of a porthole. When the wheels bumped down all eyes turned to him. Like Deacon, none of them had done anything quite like this before. The Pirate came the closest. Apparently he had hijacked half a dozen ships in his time, including a supertanker. Deacon had to wonder what he had done with the money, if it was true. He thought piracy paid even more than gigs like this.
The shifty-looking Lebanese guy seated in front of the Viking had played a key role in the hijacking of an airliner, or so he claimed. Once again Deacon wondered if there had been any logic to the selection of this crew, or was being a hardened mercenary the only qualification required? Scary appeared to be another criterion. They all looked pretty fearsome. That made sense. North Sea oil platforms were generally populated by tough guys and ex- servicemen, types more likely than most to have a go at a terrorist. With fewer players in his team, Deacon needed fearsome as well as armed.
The helicopter’s engines changed pitch as the torque went out of the rotors. Deacon turned the handle and pulled open the door. The wind rushed inside along with the sunlight. Beyond the steps leading up to the helipad, half a dozen platform workers waited with packs and suitcases, part of the rig’s hot-bunk routine, which meant that with every new arrival there were departures. This batch was going to be disappointed, as were the eleven original members of the shift currently locked inside the bowels of a boat somewhere off the coast of Scotland. They’d been surprised when the helicopter had made an unscheduled stop alongside the boat and even more so when Deacon had stepped into the cabin with his assault rifle levelled to order them off.
Deacon stepped down onto the pad and walked towards the exit stairway. One by one his crew followed.
As the line passed them the two standby fire-crew guys both had the same thought: in their day they had seen enough brutes climb in and out of the rig helicopter but never such a collection in one batch.
Deacon headed along the main deck followed by the Lebanese thug and a large dark-skinned Bulgarian with a massive head draped in a mop of brown hair. The Pirate and Banzi went calmly to the edge of the platform and down a stairway. The red-headed Viking, the tallest of the team at almost seven feet, crossed to the opposite side of the deck and went down another staircase, followed by the shortest team member, a growling Scotsman with half an ear missing. It looked as if it had been bitten off.
Queen alighted last and stood at the chopper’s door, signalling to the waiting passengers to remain where they were. The firemen stared at the transsexual. Now they had seen everything.
The oil platform’s control room was divided into two, the larger area tightly packed from floor to ceiling with electronic devices and machinery, the room hum constant. Some of the several technicians present were wearing ear protectors. Gauges just about everywhere measured every essential pressure, temperature, fluid level, voltage and flow rate involved with the running of the platform’s production, life-support and safety systems. The smaller adjoining administrative room contained the platform’s security and radio and satellite communications systems. A couple of flatscreen monitors displayed split CCTV images of various parts of the rig including the Eurocopter on the heli-deck, its rotors turning. A tall long-haired individual in green overalls stood at the cabin door with his back to the camera.
The Morpheus’s security officer, sipping a cup of hot chocolate from a Union Jack china mug, sat at a small paperwork-covered desk jammed into a corner. He looked at the screens and saw two of the newcomers in green overalls and carrying bags come into view, walking purposefully along a deck corridor. Another screen showed two more of the men heading towards the main power room. An exterior camera showed the backs of three more approaching the entrance to the control room. One of them pushed a button by the door. A buzzer sounded in the room.
The supervisor put down his drink. Something about the images niggled him.
The handful of technicians in the main control room remained busy with various systems while the platform’s general manager stayed seated in a corner. ‘Is someone gonna get that?’ he called out.
‘Just a second,’ an engineer yelled as he entered some data onto a console.
The security supervisor leaned closer to the monitors, looking from one to the other. The new arrivals hadn’t booked in with the shift operations manager or checked into the accommodation complex, which was the normal routine. It looked most unusual.
The control-room door buzzer sounded again. ‘Okay, okay,’ shouted the engineer. He put down the recording device and reached for the access-control button on the wall.
The security supervisor watched the two men outside the power-generating room open their bags and take out weapons. At the same time the long-haired individual at the helicopter pointed a rifle at the firemen, who put up their hands.
‘Don’t open the DOOR!’ the security officer cried.
Everyone in the control room stopped what they were doing to look at him jump out of his chair and into the room. The engineer’s finger was already pressing down on the button. The door opened with a clunk. The security supervisor stared in horror at it.
Deacon walked in, brandishing his short automatic rifle, followed by the Bulgarian, who stood by the door. The Lebanese remained outside.
‘Gentlemen,’ Deacon announced, with a broad smile. ‘I hope you appreciate from the outset that this is a no-win situation for you and that you won’t do anything stupid. And don’t feel bad about opening the door for us,’ he said, looking at the security supervisor. ‘This entire operation was not dependent on you letting us in.’ He held up an explosive charge the size of a cigarette packet. ‘I brought my own key, just in case.’
The rig’s general manager pulled himself together and stepped out from behind his desk. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded. ‘What are you doing here and what do you want?’ The weapons in their hands gave him a pretty good idea.
‘It’s really quite simple, Mr Andrews. General manager, yes? We’re taking over the platform.’
‘What on earth for?’ the GM asked, dumbfounded. ‘You can’t seriously hope to gain anything from this. It’s ridiculous.’
‘No need to go off on one now, Mr Andrews. My boys and I didn’t just all meet up in a pub, ’ave a few beers and decide to knock off an oil platform for a giggle. I might sound a bit thick but I’m not. So respect that. Respect us. Respect the threat. Be good. And no harm’ll come to you. But if you come the ’ero, you’ll only piss me off. You’ve all been around this crazy world long enough to know that things like this can end in tears if it all gets bollocksed up.’
The GM remained stoic, along with the security supervisor. Several of the technicians looked about ready to piss their pants.
‘Your emergency distress button is over there,’ Deacon said, pointing to the wall-mounted red box with a small hinged panel on its front. ‘I suspect you’re itching to press it.’
‘And I suppose you’ll kill me if I try,’ the platform boss said, jutting out his chin defiantly. ‘I was in the Royal Air Force and my father fought in the Battle of Britain.’
Deacon raised his eyebrows. ‘I love the RAF. The only military unit that sends its officers to war first. I won’t kill you if you try. In fact, I
The GM glanced at his security supervisor, suspecting a catch of some kind. The security man had nothing to offer apart from a fearful stare.
‘Go ahead,’ Deacon said, encouraging the man. ‘It’s all part of the plan.
The manager remained anxiously hesitant, suspecting a trap.
‘Go on,’ Deacon urged.
The GM took a step towards the button, scrutinising the hijackers for any sign of a reaction. There was none. He took another step.
Deacon gestured for him to get on with it, looking at his watch as if he needed to be somewhere else. ‘I don’t ’ave all day.’
The GM clenched his jaw and decided to go for it, whatever the outcome. He felt close enough to activate the alarm even if they did shoot him. He faltered just before pressing it in order to take a look and see if the large thug with the machine gun had it aimed at him. He did not. The GM gritted his teeth and depressed the button all the
