“I’ll return a promise to you then,” Banks said. “You watch our backs, and I promise to watch yours.”
They stood smoking in silence for a while looking out over the North Sea, each lost in thought. It was a chill, grey day despite it being only August, the promise of autumnal winds and swell to come already evident across the face of the water. Banks’ recent adventures in the heat of the Congo seemed farther than a world away and he pulled his jacket tight around his chest as a fresh breeze threatened to cut him in two.
“Discretion is the better part of valor in this weather,” he said, more to himself than to Seton, but the older man seemed to agree, and they went back together to the coffee room. All of the other members of the squad were already there around the small table playing three card brag for cigarettes. As usual, Sergeant Hynd was winning, and Banks knew better than to get involved when the sarge was on a streak; it had taken him years of bitter experience to gain that solitary bit of wisdom. He could only hope the other lads didn’t take that long to gain it for themselves; there might not be enough cigarettes in the world.
Over the next few hours, he was proved right—the sarge accumulated smokes on his side of the table while emptying the others out; young Wilkins got wiped out first, then Davies. Wiggo held on pluckily but in the end, the sarge was able to squirrel away all four packs that had been on the table. The game had been of some use though, for Wiggo seemed to be back to his old self.
“Hey, wee man,” he said, addressing Seton. “Any chance of an advance on that whisky? I’m gasping here.”
Seton surprised them by reaching into his inside pocket and bringing out a hip flask.
“I never leave home without it,” he said, smiling. “Slainte.”
He passed the flask to Wiggins who took a long gulp then passed it on. Both privates turned it down, but first the sarge and then Banks took slugs of their own. He knew as soon as it touched his lips it was the best quality stuff, going down smooth like warm honey and immediately bringing a glow to his belly that quickly spread out; the water of life indeed. Banks had a look at the flask before handing it back. It looked old, burnished silver at a guess, and carved with an intricate depiction of a serpent eating its own tail. He raised an eyebrow as he passed it back to Seton. The smaller man smiled again.
“As your corporal would say, that’s a long story for another time over a pint. Let’s just say it’s a family tradition. The rest of the story will have to wait. I believe we are nearing the rig.”
As if in reply to Seton’s words, the sound of the engines changed somewhere below and the boat took a slight lurch to starboard. The rig came into view on the porthole window on that side.
“All ashore who’s going ashore,” Seton said.
It only took Banks two minutes to get the squad in order, kitted up, and ready to move out.
Sergeant Hynd held Banks back as they were about to leave the room.
“John,” he said. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“John, is it?” Banks replied, laughing. “It must be serious.”
He saw that the sarge wasn’t joking and they’d been friends long enough for him to also see that wherever it was, it was troubling the other man a great deal.
“We don’t have time now,” Banks replied, “but when we get a quiet moment I’ll cadge the auld man’s hip flask, we’ll share the whisky, and you can tell me what this is all about. Deal?”
“Deal,” Hynd replied. “But don’t leave it too long, eh?”
By the time they arrived on deck, the boat was already being tied up and there was an open cage elevator waiting on the other side of the docking bay.
A small man clad in a bulky over jacket several sizes too big for him ran across the open area towards them.
“The boss is in his office. He says to go on up; second floor, second on the right, you can’t miss it.”
There was no sign that any provision had been made for the squad or their kit and Banks wasn’t about to leave any of either standing on a cold, windy dock, so they squashed together, men and kit all squeezed into the elevator which wheezed clanked and clattered as if protesting against the weight as it took them up to the second-floor corridor. The rig manager’s office was likewise basic and cramped, but they all fit inside well enough. They dumped their kit on the floor as a burly bear of a man came ‘round from behind his desk to greet them.
He shook Banks by the hand, ignored Seton’s outstretched offer of a handshake, and took Banks by the arm, over to the desk.
“Sorry to have to drag you and your men all the way out here for nothing,” he said in a broad Northern English accent. “You were on your way before I could stop you; that wee scaremongering ginger bastard’s fault no doubt. It’s all a big misunderstanding, a prank that got out of hand. The man’s been disciplined and the rig is fully operational. There’s nothing to see here. You can go home as soon as the boat has delivered its supplies.”
- 3 -
Wiggo was standing next to Seton and saw the older man bristle at the manager’s tone and insult. Seton made to step forward, but Wiggo put a hand on his arm and when Seton turned to him, Wiggo whispered.
“Let the captain deal with it diplomatically.”
Banks was already replying to the manager.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir,” he said. “I have my orders.”
“And this rig belongs to the company. You have no jurisdiction here.”
“Actually, sir, that’s incorrect. In matters of civil defence, the Armed Forces have authority over the country’s sovereign waters and any vessel operating therein.”
“Civil defence? What the fuck are you here to defend against?”
Banks’ voice never rose at all, but he was smiling as he replied.
“That’s what we’re here to find out. Now if you’ll excuse us, sir, we have a job to do. Is there somewhere we can billet?”
The manager’s mouth opened, but he took one look in Banks’ eyes and shut it again fast. The conversation was over, it had just taken him a while to realize it.
Wiggo winked at Seton.
“See, I told you he was a diplomat.”
The rig manager—the badge on his shirt said his name was Ian Smith—appeared to have lost what little fight he had in him and had all the appearance of a defeated beach ball as he replied to the captain.
“You can kip down in the floatel,” he said, “but there’s no bunks, we’re running at a full complement at the moment. You can bed down in the mess hall if you’d like, although there’s people in and out of there all the time as we run a rotating shift system.”
If he thought that was going to put Banks off, he was quickly put right as the captain smiled again.
“No problemo. Show us the way and we’ll get out of your hair.”
The floatel proved to be an almost cubical floating hotel that appeared to slowly move around the rig attached to a rotating platform.
“Computers,” the man who had been given the job of showing them off the rig said. “They keep the thing head on into any weather that’s around so that it stays relatively stable in the water.”
“And does that work?” Wiggo asked and got an answering laugh.
“No’ as often as the bosses would like it to.”
Wiggo looked out to sea. There was a heavy swell on now and the floatel bobbed and tossed in it alarmingly. He turned to Seton again.
“I hope you’ve got more of that good whisky, wee man. I think it’s going to be a long afternoon and night.”
They left the rig itself and traversed a walkway that swayed and bucked alarmingly. The man with them took it as calmly as if he was out for a stroll in the park and laughed again at Wiggo’s obvious alarm.