corridor. Both of the men were big. One had red hair. The other looked Slavic. They reacted slowly to him striding towards them in his black dry-bag, shoulder harness, kit hanging from hips, pistol strapped low on thigh, another weapon levelled in front just below his face, both eyes in short-range battle mode staring into theirs.
Viking and the Bulgarian began to move apart and brought their weapons up to fire. Stratton pulled the trigger. Click, click. No other sound. The first silenced bullet struck Viking in the chest, the second hit the Bulgarian in a similar spot. The initial rounds were intended to destabilise whoever they hit, the centre of the torso being a bigger and easier target than the head, which required the shooter to take a millisecond longer aiming to ensure a hit. Operatives still did this even if the targets were wearing body armour since the purpose was to disrupt the enemy’s aim and increase the time they would take to return fire.
Both men rocked back as the bullets entered their bodies. Stratton neither slowed nor speeded up his deliberate pace. He fired again, the weapon going clickety-click as two more bullets spat from the end of the silencer extension. These hit both men in the head. The life went from their limbs and they dropped as if they had been switched off, the sound of their falls the loudest noise of the firefight. But the clatter of their weapons on the solid floor had been significant relative to the quiet of the corridor.
Stratton speeded up as he approached the galley doors. He found himself in a classic hostage situation. He’d breached the first line of the kidnappers’ defence and bodies had begun to drop. He knew the surviving kidnappers’ choices: give up and surrender, lie down and toss their weapons aside, mingle with their captives; defend themselves and engage the attackers; or turn their weapons on the hostages in an attempt to kill as many as possible before dying themselves. It was his single responsibility to make sure he reached his objectives as swiftly as possible and kill every one of the enemy in the quickest possible time.
Stratton pushed through the galley doors and stopped dead, unable to move in further to dominate the room because of the bodies sprawled on the floor in front of him. He kept the weapon against his shoulder, looking along the top of it, analysing the panoramic image he was presented with.
Jock and Queen stood at either end of the long serving counter, weapons in their hands. They’d heard about the movement on the spider decks. The thumps and clatters in the corridor outside had snapped them out of any daydreaming. But the only way they could have been assured a fighting chance against the man who entered their space was if they’d had their weapons against their shoulders and pointing at the door.
Stratton’s two targets, being at opposite ends of the counter, presented him with something of a challenge though. He would have to pivot in a wide arc to engage them both. What was more, both of them were experienced fighters and knew the first rule of engagement: move from the static position. Precisely the type of situation in which to use instinctive shooting techniques as distinct from target-shooting methods.The second option employed the weapon as a tool, the first made it an extension of one’s body. One required the use of the weapon’s sights, the other didn’t. One needed conscious thought and deliberation, the other was all subconscious reflex and instinct. And to be effective in a close-combat situation in which the shooter was outnumbered by targets at different angles, the ‘target’ version undoubtedly required great skill, while the ‘instinct’ style demanded something extra that could not be taught.
Stratton touched his gun’s trigger and the resulting click sent a round into Jock’s chest just above his heart. Stratton swivelled his upper body to face Queen who was in a more advanced firing position, having had a fraction of a second longer to bring up her weapon.
Stratton squeezed the trigger a second time and swivelled back, his eyes focusing over the top of the SMG to see that Jock, although he’d been punched backwards by the force of the first bullet, was still intent on firing his weapon. The second round struck Queen in the face, below her left eye - Stratton had not risked firing a destabilising bullet at someone who was ready to fire.
Stratton fired a third round and swivelled again to find Queen still on her feet, the muzzle of her gun dropping down to aim at the men directly in front of her, her grip still strong.
Stratton fired again and twisted round to see Jock falling, his head crashing against the wall, his eyes half open, his gun slipping from his grip. The final bullet to strike Queen had hit her in the forehead and she died on her feet, dropping to the floor as if strings that had been holding her up had been cut cleanly. Jock slid on down the wall, leaving a streak of blood behind him, and crumpled on the floor in a motionless heap.
Stratton remained in the firing position to scan the room for more targets. Most of the platform workers were asleep and had remained so throughout the near-silent battle. Those awake were stunned by what they had seen and by the speed with which it had happened.
‘Any more?’ Stratton calmly asked a man who was sitting on the floor a few feet away and staring at him through wide eyes.
The man took a moment to gather himself and shook his head.
‘You sure?’
The platform worker pulled himself together. ‘I don’t think so. Two outside and two in here.’
‘You ex-military?’ Stratton asked the man on a hunch.
He nodded. ‘Green Jackets.’
‘Good unit,’ Stratton said, lowering his weapon and pulling his knife from its sheath. He reached behind the man and cut through his plastic handcuffs.
The men who had been awake and had seen what happened were shaking those nearby who were still asleep.
‘Stay calm and keep your voices down,’ Stratton said firmly, addressing everyone. ‘Any more ex-servicemen here?’
Heads began nodding and affirmative answers were called out around the room. Stratton scanned each row, hoping to find Jordan there.
Stratton handed the knife to the man he had freed. ‘Cut everyone free,’ he ordered. ‘Listen in,’ he addressed the room as the man did what he’d been told. ‘You soldiers take charge. I want you to stay here until I say otherwise. You’ve got four weapons to guard the entrances. If you go up there you’ll get in the way and someone could get hurt. Is that understood?’
The soldiers nodded. Those with their hands freed got to their feet and immediately picked up the weapons that had belonged to their jailers. The atmosphere was typical of what one would expect from restrained men whose lives had been threatened and were now getting a chance to fight back. They wanted blood and were ready to take it.
‘Is there a Jordan Mackay here?’ Stratton asked.
Silence. The men looked to each other for an answer.
‘He’s the bloke that they took away,’ one said.
‘Aye, there was a shot outside in the corridor shortly after and I’m certain someone died,’ another said.
‘I heard him say it was one of their own that had been shot,’ yet another offered, indicating Jock.
Stratton’s hopes of a clean grab of his friend and a getaway were momentarily dashed. He was already of no further use to the men in the galley and he turned to leave.
‘What’ll happen now?’ one of them asked.
‘Are we getting off the rig?’ asked another.
‘Can we head to the lifeboats?’
‘Where’s the rest of your team?’
Stratton put up a hand, signalling silence. ‘For the time being, stay here, stay quiet, get organised for a move but just wait.’ He looked at the questioning faces and felt suddenly guilty. He could not tell them that he was the only rescuer, that he was all alone. They would stampede onto the deck looking for a fight and many of them could get killed. There was also the issue of the platform itself. It had a lot of highly inflammable material on board and would literally become a bomb if something went wrong. But their chances of survival had increased. Now they were at least masters of their own destiny, to some extent. Depending on the number of hijackers, theirs had become a defensible position. It all now depended on how they would react to the changed situation. ‘I’ll try and get back to you soon. But be prepared to wait here for several hours.’
He couldn’t think of anything else of use to tell them and turned to the doors once again.
‘Watch out for their leader,’ a man nearby offered. ‘He’s a mean bastard.’
Stratton heard it and headed through the doors.
‘So’s he, by the look of it,’ one of the old soldiers said as Stratton left. ‘Right. Let’s get organised,’ he called out to the room.
