He wouldn’t have survived had it not been for a local who’d happened to come out of a driveway. God only knew why the man had chosen that moment to go for a drive. Iraqis tended to put all survival judgements in the hands of Allah. Operating on full survival mode Jock had shot the man through the head, yanked him out of the car, jumped in and hit the accelerator.
Within a couple of months he’d been back on the convoy route. The man was part crazy, Deacon was certain of that.
Deacon headed back to the accommodation block and went in through a door and then another immediately after it that acted as an airlock. The doors closed with a bang behind him, slammed shut by the rising wind. ‘Viking, this is Deacon,’ he said into his walkie-talkie. ‘I’m heading to the galley to set up the first media scenario.’
‘Understood,’ a voice came back.
Deacon pocketed the radio and walked along a narrow corridor of rooms, some with their doors open to reveal beds and closets. Bedding and clothing lay on the floor of the corridor as if there had been a hasty exit. There was no one here.
Deacon pushed through a door at the end, past vending machines, emergency firefighting equipment and signage, through a pair of swing doors on his left and then into another long corridor. Near the far end Viking and the Lebanese thug stood outside yet another door, carbines to hand, magazine pouches on belts around their waists, pistols in holsters on their thighs and radios dangling around their necks.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ Deacon called out as he approached.
The red-headed warrior glanced at his Arab colleague and then back at Deacon.
‘Yeah, you,’ Deacon said, looking at Viking.
‘I answered,’ Viking explained.
‘So what are you still doing here? Go set up the bloody camera!’
The Norseman understood, grabbed his foul-weather jacket off a hook and hurried away.
‘Viking idiot,’ Deacon muttered as he pushed in through the door they had been guarding. The Lebanese thug jammed it open with his foot, his weapon at the ready.
Inside the large dining room a hundred and sixty-four platform workers minus those maintaining the rig’s life-support systems sat on the floor, hands secured behind their backs with heavy-duty plastic cuffs. They were a variety of shapes and sizes, many of them big or just overweight, dressed in dirty clothes and looking dishevelled. Among them were the rig manager and the security supervisor. They all eyed Deacon, their expressions ranging from curious to self-pitying, from coldly calculating to angrily malevo - lent. The room felt uncomfortably warm with that number of bodies crammed into it and the smell of sweat and other body odours was almost overwhelming.
Banzi and Pirate squatted on the edges of the counter in opposite corners of the room with guns held easily in their hands. Queen walked between the hostages, offering water which he squirted none too accurately from a plastic bottle into their open mouths. He looked approvingly at one handsome young man and gave him an extra helping.
Deacon took a moment to look them all over before stretching out a hand and pointing to one after another. ‘You, you, you, you, you, you. Stand up.’
The randomly selected six men looked from one another to Deacon, each waiting for the others to make the first move. Several of them looked concerned about their possible fate.
‘Come on. Hurry up. Get to your feet,’ Deacon called out.
‘Piece o’ shit,’ someone grumbled loudly.
‘Who was that?’ Deacon asked, not particularly annoyed and even somewhat admiring of the man’s spirit. He managed a smirk. ‘You six selected men. Stand up and file out of the room. Nothing’s gonna happen to you. The only shootin’ we ’ave planned, for the moment at least, is a little TV show.’
‘Lying bastard,’ another voice called out.
The men still did not move.
‘If you make it difficult for me, I’ll make it difficult for you,’ Deacon assured them.
‘Gutless bastard,’ another man muttered.
Deacon pulled out his pistol, walked over to the outspoken hostage and stopped behind him. The man was suddenly horrified about the outcome of the move. He had good reason to be. The hijacker slammed the pistol into the side of the man’s head, almost knocking him senseless. The man fell onto a colleague, blood pouring from a wound across his ear.
‘If you men don’t stand up in five seconds I’ll kill this gobshite,’ Deacon snarled, placing the muzzle of his pistol an inch above the man’s skull. ‘And then I’ll kill another, and another . . . If you think we went to all the trouble to hijack this bloody platform to be jacked around by its staff you must be on drugs.’
One of the men began to get to his feet, though he struggled to gain his balance with hands tied behind his back. It was more than this that hampered him. One of his legs was giving him trouble.The man was Jordan Mackay, Stratton’s old mate. He gritted his teeth and dragged his faulty leg beneath him, making a determined effort to get upright.
Jordan breathed deeply with the exertion and set his stare coldly on Deacon.
Another five men got to their feet.
‘Good,’ Deacon said, stepping back through the hostages to the galley entrance. ‘Now follow me.’
They paused in the corridor to await further instructions. ‘That way,’ the Lebanese thug said to Jordan, giving him a firm shove.
With his short temper Jordan did not appreciate the push but he controlled his anger and headed along the corridor. Deacon took up a position in the rear and followed the line of men.
The Lebanese led them through the swing doors and along to a staircase, which he climbed. He pulled on a foul-weather jacket, pushed open a door at the top and stepped into a narrow airlock that led to another door that required an effort to open. The fierce wind ripped into the structure, tugging and chilling the men in their jeans and T-shirts as they filed outside.
Jordan stopped once again, waiting for further instructions.
The Lebanese thug pushed him on, this time more aggressively. ‘That way,’ he snarled.
Jordan almost fell over and when he regained his balance he faced the hijacker, baring his teeth. ‘Don’t push me again,’ he warned in a low, deliberate voice.
Jordan’s impudence astounded the Arab, who slammed him in the gut with the butt of his weapon. The ex-SBS man doubled over as the wind went out of him, his face spasming. The thug wasn’t finished with him and took a firm hold of his hair. ‘You don’t talk to me, ever.’
As Jordan pulled away the thug belted him across the face, sending him sprawling across the metal decking.The sea was visible far below through the grillework. Blood seeped from a cut on his mouth. He rolled onto his face, his hands tied tight behind his back. Using his forehead to support his weight, he brought his knees underneath him in order to stand up.
‘Stay down if you know what’s good for you,’ the Arab growled.
Jordan ignored him and fought to get to his feet. He had never been a man to bend easily.
The Arab poised himself to deal Jordan another severe blow with the stock of his weapon.
‘Easy, shit-for-brains. You need to chill out. No one dies unless I say so,’ said Deacon from behind them. He looked at Jordan as the man finally managed to get to his feet.
Jordan was out of breath with the effort and the blow to his gut but his eyes found the Arab’s and stared into them. The thug smirked at him.
Deacon felt like remonstrating with the idiot but knew that he couldn’t in front of the prisoners. He had orders not to harm the rig’s workers unless it was absolutely unavoidable, and if he did he would have to prove that there’d been no alternative. An unsatisfied client meant a reduction in pay. He had already lost one hostage to the Lebanese fool, which he felt he could get away with by docking the Arab’s pay. The man was a liability, no question.
Deacon decided to use the situation to his advantage. ‘I warned you people not to step out of line,’ he said, addressing Jordan and then the others. ‘We’ve already had one execution.’ He pointed to the body swinging from the crane. A look of revulsion came over the faces of all the prisoners except one. Mackay’s. ‘Don’t give me a reason for another. As you can see, my men are enthusiastic . . . That way.’
Jordan glared at the Lebanese hijacker before shuffling off. The others followed him across the deck towards the crane where Viking was setting up a video camera on a tripod.
‘Stand in a line along here,’ Deacon said, positioning them between the camera and the crane.
Some of the men began to shiver. Jordan refused to.
Viking looked through the lens. ‘Put your hood up,’ he told the Lebanese thug. The Arab reached for the hood at the back of his jacket and pulled it over his head. Viking struggled to adjust the settings on the camera with his oversized fingers. ‘You,’ he called out, pointing to Jordan on the end of the line-up while looking through the lens. ‘Move a little over.’
Jordan did as he was told. The wind suddenly picked up and whipped at them all.
‘A bit more,’ Viking ordered.
Deacon moved beside him to view the scene. The Lebanese stood at the other end of the line, pointing his gun at the men aggressively.
‘I like the shivering. Adds something. Abdul’s got the ’ang of this,’ Deacon muttered to Viking. ‘Bet ’e’s done this before.’
Viking grinned. ‘They’re good,’ he said, holding the tripod to prevent the wind from blowing it over.
‘Take a long shot of ’em. Pan from one side to the other and back again. End on the dead guy. Zoom in on ’im. That’ll be a nice finish.’
Viking did so. ‘That’s it,’ he said finally, standing upright.
‘Take it to the control room. Jock’ll meet you there. I want that on YouTube soon as you can.’ Viking picked up the camera and tripod and headed away.
‘And tell Jock not to forget to send a copy direct to CNN,’ Deacon shouted.
Deacon looked out to sea at the blackening sky. The clouds really were building. ‘Get ’em back to the galley. And Abdul - in one piece if you can manage that.’
Abdul removed his hood to reveal a disgruntled expression. ‘Get going,’ he said, aiming his remark at Jordan.
The line of men traipsed off the way they had come, the wind whipping at them. Freezing drops of rain began to fall. Deacon pulled up his collar and headed towards the control room.
The theory chamber was locked when Stratton got to it. He pushed a buzzer beside the keypad and after a pause stepped inside to find Jason, Binning, Rowena and two other men standing around one of the tables. He felt like he’d interrupted something.
‘I should call Poole. They need to know what’s happened in case London hasn’t told them yet,’ he said.
None of them replied. All of the scientists looked strangely conspiratorial.
‘I need to use your phone,’ Stratton said, taking a step towards Jason’s office.
Jason held up a hand. ‘Can I ask you to hold off on that for one moment.’
Stratton looked at him enquiringly. ‘They need to know right away.’
‘Another minute won’t hurt . . . There’s something we need to discuss.’
Stratton found the mood odd indeed. ‘Why can’t it wait until I’ve talked to Poole?’
‘It’ll be too late then.’ Jason looked thoughtful, as if he was searching for the right approach. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. The task to the oil platform should continue, and immediately rather than tomorrow.’
‘What’s that got to do with you?’
‘The SBS are not the only ones who can carry out the task.’
Stratton’s brow creased as he realised where this might be going. Every scientist was looking at him, except Rowena, who sat in front of a computer terminal typing something on the keyboard.
‘Do you want to explain that?’ Stratton asked, not particularly keen to hear the answer but curious nonetheless.
‘It’s obvious what I’m saying,’ Jason said. ‘
We
can do it.’
‘You’re joking, right?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘You must have your heads up your backsides. Do you think you can just climb aboard that chopper and do the task like you’re the reserve team? For a bunch of geniuses you’re pretty stupid.’
‘You’re right. We are all geniuses. Don’t you think we’d work out how we could do it before we mentioned it?’
Stratton tried unsuccessfully to suppress a chortle. ‘Why don’t you guys go and have a pink gin while I make that call? Then we’ll forget whatever madness you’re thinking about.’ Stratton headed towards Jason’s office.
‘You can’t call out without a code,’ Jason said.
Stratton hesitated a moment, then pressed on to call his bluff. He picked up the phone. There was no dial tone. He replaced the phone and looked back towards Jason. ‘I suppose I can’t walk out of here without a code, either.’
No one replied, making the answer an obvious one.
‘Take a moment to listen to us, please,’ Jason asked.
‘It doesn’t look as if I have much choice.’
Jason was determined to press on with his idea. ‘Let me first ask you this. Why do you think we’re not qualified to carry out the task?’
‘I said I’d listen to you because I have to. I’m not going to humour you beyond that.’
‘We’re more qualified than you think,’ Jason said with confidence.
Stratton’s expression remained blank.
‘The surveillance equipment they want to install on the platform, the G43, is a multi-purpose static surveillance system. We built it, making us more qualified than anyone else to install it. But your doubts about us would naturally concern our ability to actually get onto the platform. Let me tell you a little bit more about us. As far as fitness is concerned, we’re all accomplished triathletes.Take Smithy there.’ Jason indicated one of the newcomers. ‘He came third in this year’s Hawaiian Iron Man competition. Jackson here came eighth. Binning was fifteenth. I came a modest twenty-fourth.’