Island Girl! The boat that had followed us to Foula with Stevens on board. I turned to Gertrude. 'Sand-ford's boat,' I said. 'Remember? You sent me a cutting. A West Burra boat from Hamnavoe.' She was staring out at the blunt stern now falling away in a trough, her mouth half open. 'What's she doing out here?' I demanded. 'The paper said he'd bought her as a rig supply boat.'
She shook her head, a surprised, incredulous look on her face, and the bridge silent, only the sound of the engines, the noise of the sea. Perhaps she would believe me now. The boat was gone, the night swallowing it as we swung away in a wide turn and headed back, the rig barely visible, a blurred glow through the rain. 'She certainly wasn't fishing.'
'No.'
'Then what was she up to? What was she doing out here when every other fishing vessel has headed in for shelter?' A breaking wave cascaded over our bows, solid water slamming against the windows. I cut the revs, straddling my feet, bracing myself against the forward pitch as we slammed into the trough. 'You think I'm crazy talking about bombs and sabotage, but-'
'Please.' Her voice was wild, her eyes suddenly bright with tears. 'I don't want to think about it.' And she turned abruptly and went blindly back to the cabin. Christ! I thought. Women! Why couldn't she be logical, face up to the facts? The rig was coming closer, the lit bulk of it rising solid, the red warning lights on the drill tower giving a warm glow to the low-scudding clouds.
I switched my mind back to the fishing boat, trying to understand the reason for its presence. It couldn't possibly have been responsible for the cables breaking. We had been between the rig and the buoy when No. 2 cable had parted. No sign of it then. And it had been well clear of No. 1 cable when that had gone, so a mine, or some sort of a depth charge, was out of the question. Anyway, in this weather there was no way of dropping an explosive device directly on to the slender line of a cable under water. So what was it doing?
And then Ken Stewart's voice crackling out of the speaker: 'Barge to Duchess. Cancel previous order. Proceed to No. 3 and No. 4 buoys and stay with them. We've got a shift of wind, north-west in the gusts now and we're holding. But there's a lot of strain on the marine riser. If either of those buoys move, call me. Over.'
I ordered a small change of course and reached for the phone. 'Duchess to barge. I'm heading for them now.' And Stewart's voice again, 'I can't see your lights. Where are you?' He didn't wait for an answer, but added, 'Stay on top of those buoys and if you think they're dragging…' His words were cut off, but he still had his hand on the transmitting button and faintly I heard him say, 'What's that — No. 3? Christ! Wind in on that bloody winch. Wind in!' We were so close to the rig by then that I could see him running along the edge of the helicopter deck.
'I think they are in trouble,' Johan said. I nodded. It wasn't easy to visualize the turmoil up there on the high platform of the rig, but in my mind's eye I saw the headlines — An obsolete rig moored in waters too deep and too dangerous, and Villiers trying for a fortune by risking men's lives… They'd roast him if it ever leaked out that North Star had cut adrift in a gale. Was that what Sandford's boat was doing, watching for trouble? I was back with politics again, and I cursed under my breath, visualizing another headline with my own name in black type. 'A blip,' Johan called out, and he made way for me so that I could see for myself. There was the rig showing on the screen like a great moon in the Milky Way of breaking waves. I was remembering Gertrude's words as she had fled from the bridge. I didn't want to think about it either. 'There.' Johan pointed a thick finger. 'Two of them now.' The rain had stopped and we were closing the area north-west of the rig, the two little blips becoming clearer. A few minutes later we picked up No. 4 can in the spotlight. At slow ahead we moved on to No. 3. It was out of position. I tried to report it, but no answer.
Through the glasses I could see men standing around the winches on the corner of the platform nearest to us. I kept on sending as we lay hove-to, keeping station on the buoy and watching for any further movement. But it seemed to be holding, and finally Stewart came through, his voice quieter now, a note of relief. 'We've full tension again. How's it looking out there?'
'Okay, I think. Out of position, but not by much. I've been trying to call you. No. 3 can doesn't seem to have moved much since the rain stopped and we got sight of the two of them.'
'Thank Christ!' he murmured. 'We've definitely got a shift of wind. If we hadn't got that, the riser casing would have snapped under the strain. A hell of a mess. But we're holding on 3 and 4 now, tension constant. Stay on top of those two buoys. Beam your spotlight on us if you think either of them is shifting position. I'll have somebody keep watch on you from up here. I daren't rely on the tension dials only. So watch it.'
We stayed patrolling between those two buoys the rest of the night, the wind gradually steadying in the north-west. Around 04.00 it blew very strong from that quarter, but the two anchors held and by dawn the wind was dropping and the sea with it. The night of panic was over, and North Star almost back in position above the drill hole.
Now the hustle was on to clear up the mess and get the rig operational again. Divers were down at first light and the radio traffic was incessant as scrambled fax reports were transmitted and Ken Stewart called for Rattler to bring out new cable and re-lay anchors 1 and 2. And then, just after 09.00, he called the Duchess and ordered me to report on board at 10.30. "Ed's holding a meeting to establish just what happened, and what needs to be done, so bring the ship's log with you.'
PART THREE
STORM
CHAPTER ONE
It took three days to get new cables sent out and wound on to the winch drums. Some of the big oil companies had established a supply base at Lyness in Orkney and were beginning to move back-up facilities to Lerwick, but Star-Trion was an independent and had to get supplies where it could. Mostly that meant Aberdeen, which was a long haul. Another day was lost in retrieving the anchors and re-laying them, so that it wasn't until late on 12th June that the drilling string was connected up again and the rig operational. The meeting in Ed Wiseberg's office had established nothing. Both the cables had parted at their extremities, close to the length of chain shackled to the anchor. This was confirmed later when Rattler winched in both buoys and the anchors at the end of their pennant wires. No. 1 had fifteen feet of cable still attached to the chain, No. 2, seven feet. This seemed to support the conclusion reached at the meeting that the cables were old and suffering from fatigue and that replacement of all anchor cables was essential for the safety of the rig.
Since the discussion had centred on the condition of the cables, I was not involved, except to the extent of justifying my departure from Ken Stewart's instructions in order to identify the fishing boat Island Girl. My action was accepted as being reasonable in the circumstances, Ed Wiseberg merely insisting that in future I adhere strictly to the barge engineer's orders. I made no reference to that moment when I thought I had felt an explosion under water. In view of what was discovered later it would have been better if I had, but with everybody convinced that cable fatigue was the cause, it would have introduced a new dimension. I did, however, point out that the fishing boat, Island Girl, had been steaming without lights, but they merely put that down to the determination of Shetland's fishermen to shoot their nets close in to the rig. They thought it was a political move, since the purse-seiners normally worked closer inshore, and the absence of lights was attributed to a natural desire to avoid being sighted by the guard boat.