He reached into a pouch built into the side of the dinghy and came out with some bottled water, a flare-gun, and a small box with six flares in it. He handed the gun and flares to Wiggo before taking a swig of water then passing it around.
“Outstanding,” Wiggo said. “Now all we need is a pack of cards.”
“Funny you should say that, Corp,” Davies replied and produced a battered pack from his jacket pocket. “Five fags buys a seat at the table. Three card brag, Aces high, one-eyed Jacks floating. Who’s in?”
The operator… Wiggo realised he’d never asked the man’s name… spoke up.
“You can’t play cards at a time like this, surely?”
“Watch us,” Davies replied. “And don’t call me Shirley.”
As before, the card game did much to keep their minds off their situation but Wiggo’s heart wasn’t in it. He lost all his smokes within twenty minutes and let Tom take his place. He shuffled over to the zipped-up entrance, opened the zip six inches, and parted the opening to have a look out. He saw another dinghy almost next to them, separated by three feet of water, presumed the third was on the far side beyond that, but there was nothing else to see but darkness and sea and all he got for his trouble was a faceful of spray. He zipped it up again quickly and attempted to stand, meaning to take a look out of the transparent window-like area above. But the buck and sway in the swell made standing impossible and he slumped back down to join the others with a grunt of frustration.
“If anybody’s got any bright ideas, now would be a good time to share them,” he said.
Tom spoke up first.
“They’ll be looking for us. Or rather, they’ll be looking for the floatel. We’re now a much smaller target, and we’re lost in a big dark sea. If it were up to me, I’d send up a flare every so often, maybe every twenty minutes or half an hour? It might improve our chances.”
“Good thinking, Batman,” Wiggo replied. “Do all the dinghies have flares?”
“Aye. But we’d need to get outside and over to them to coordinate; that’s not safe.”
“Agree. But if they see ours, they might get the message. Okay, I’m convinced.”
He loaded the flare gun with a flare from the box while Tom unzipped the opening far enough for him to aim it outside and upward. When he pulled the trigger, the flare fizzed away like a firework and exploded in a wee red sun high above them before arcing away out of sight.
“One down, five to go,” Wiggo said. “We’ll go again in twenty. Let’s hope we get lucky.”
Ten minutes later, they heard the distinctive hiss again and on looking up saw that another of the dinghies had fired a flare, the red glow lighting the sky for several seconds.
“They got the message,” Tom said. “Our chances are improving.”
Wiggo wasn’t too sure of that but kept his mouth shut. What he really needed was a cigarette but having everyone light up in an enclosed space like this was going to make the air unbreathable so he fought down the urge, promising himself that he’d light up at the first opportunity.
The dinghy continued to lurch violently in the swell and several times they again came close to tipping over completely. Once Tom had them all move quickly to one side to shift weight and avoid such a tipping. Another hiss and flare that Wiggo guessed came from the third dinghy light up the sky.
But nothing came in response; the only sound from outside was the splash of waves against their side and the whistle of the wind.
Anytime now would be good, guys. Anytime.
- 12 -
Banks made his way back into the rig’s control room.
“Are you in contact with the other incoming choppers?”
“Yep,” the operator replied. “They’re ten minutes out.”
“Ask them to slow down a tad,” Banks said. “We need a new plan of action.”
He turned to Seton.
“It was working. What happened?”
“A guess? Not loud enough, the storm is dissipating the effect.”
“Can you boost it?”
“We can try,” Seton said. “Unless you have any other ideas, I think it’s our only shot.”
“Crank it up then,” Banks said, and, to the operator, “Belay that order to the choppers. It’s time we got ourselves the fuck out of here.”
Banks returned to his spot on the gantry and lit up another smoke. Rig crew were already beginning to make their way along the pathway towards the helipad but, understandably, none had yet gone out to the pad itself. Banks felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see the doctor there.
“We’ve got your sergeant ready to move. I won’t bring him out until the last minute in this weather,” he said, then looked Banks in the eye. “Is it true about the chopper? The beast took it down?”
Banks nodded.
“Lost, all of them.”
“So what’s to say it won’t happen again? Is it worth the risk?”
“Yon beast is likely to take the whole rig down on one of these visits. We need to get off here. We’ve got a plan.”
“That song on the tannoy? That’s your plan?”
Banks didn’t reply to that, but he didn’t have to; he saw skepticism written large on the doc’s face before he turned away.
A minute later, the tannoy kicked in, almost deafeningly.
He sleeps and he dreams with the fish far below.
He dreams and he sings in the dark.
Banks looked out past the heliport. Two searchlight beams were sweeping the sea, coming closer fast.
Showtime.
He went back into the control room.
“Can we leave it running like that in a loop?” he said, having to shout to be heard above the tannoy.
“Already done,” the operator said. He had left his post and was getting into a waterproof survival suit that appeared to be eating him. “It’ll keep going as long as there’s power here in the room.”
“Then pray it stays on,” Banks replied. He turned to Seton. “Ready to get the flock out of here yet, wee man?”
“More than ready.”
When they went back out onto the gantry, the first of the two choppers had already landed and a line of crew were making their way across the accessway to the helipad. The second chopper came in at a steeper angle, the pilot expertly using the wind against itself to land dead center on the second parking bay on the pad.
There was no sign of the beast.
Not yet anyway.
He saw the doc and two of the crew pushing a trolley bed across the causeway, the sarge’s pale face showing clearly in the gloom. Banks made for the causeway with Seton beside him.
The tannoy was still broadcasting the chant.
He sleeps and he dreams with the fish far below.
He dreams and he sings in the dark.
The first chopper had filled rapidly and the rotors were spinning up ready for take-off. The noisy clatter and whirr echoed around the rig and Banks noticed, too late, that the sound was deadening the chanting. The first chopper rose slowly off the pad, the pilot clearly fighting against the wind to stop being blown horizontally across the landing area.
Ahead of Banks, the doc and his helpers were getting the sarge loaded into the second chopper. Banks and Seton were the last two people to arrive on the helipad.
“Get her up,” he shouted, realising there was no way the pilot could hear him, and broke into a run, hoping that Seton was smart enough to do the same. He’d got halfway across the helipad when the whole rig shook and shuddered from a heavy hit. The lights flickered and dimmed and the chanting could barely be heard now above the chopper noise and the wind.