“Cap said to sit tight, so we sit. As I see it, there’s bugger all else we can do, even though I don’t fancy just sitting here if we are slowly sinking. Go see if Tom’s willing to rustle up some coffee for everybody would you, Davies? I think we could all use a brew. I’ll go and check upstairs, see if there’s any progress on getting through to somebody.”
He made his way gingerly back up to the control room, having to keep a tight hold of the handrail all the way up the stairwell. The storm had gone up another notch and rain lashed at the windows, completely obscuring the view. The vessel rolled alarmingly, first left to right, then backward and forward, and Wiggo crossed the floor to the control panel like a drunk trying to find a way home. The operator that had shown them to the engine room was back at the main control board.
“Any joy?” Wiggo asked.
“Nothing yet. We’re broadcasting a general SOS as wide as we can but can’t tell if anybody’s getting it.”
“And still nothing from the rig?”
The operator merely shook his head. He saw that Wiggo was smoking.
“You got a spare one? I’m gasping.”
“Swap you for some whisky?” Wiggo said, joking, but he was taken seriously. The operator went into a desk drawer and came up with half a bottle of Bells and two paper cups.
“I keep it here for medicinal purposes,” he said, laughing.
“I’m pretty sure this qualifies,” Wiggo replied, passed over a smoke, and got a double measure of Scotch in return.
“I call that a good deal. Cheers.”
He drained it in one smooth motion, welcoming the heat in his belly, but refused a second; that surprised even him, but somehow duty had now become even more important. He had people depending on him, so this was no time to get sloppy. He waved a hand in the direction of the windows.
“How long does this shite last?”
“They can last anything from two hours to two weeks,” the operator replied. “But if our last report was right, this one should blow itself out overnight if we’re lucky.”
“And if we’re unlucky?”
“Yon big beastie will have us for dinner. Or we’ll sink, take your pick.”
- 8 -
Banks watched the rain lash against the window. He had men lost out there in the storm and there was little he could do about it. The thought of it was driving him mad with frustration, and it was all he could manage to retain his calm. When the radio squawked, he almost jumped in the air.
The operator turned and handed him the mike.
“It’s your guys, for you.”
“The floatel,” he said, hope momentarily leaping in his chest.
“Sorry, sir. No, the mainland.”
It was the colonel again, and he sounded fierce, as if he’d just been giving someone a bollocking. Banks knew the tone well of old and was glad it wasn’t being directed at him this time for it was strong enough to strip paint.
“I put a rocket up Air Sea Rescue’s arse,” his superior officer said. “They’re going to have choppers in the air within the hour; they asked for volunteers and got plenty so at least somebody’s showing some spunk. Sit tight, they’re coming for you.”
“And the floatel?”
“They’re going to try for that too. That’s going to be trickier in the high seas, but they say they can get it done. Any word from your lads?”
“None, sir, they’ve gone dark.”
“Wiggins is a good soldier. He’ll bring them home.”
“Aye, sir. That he is.”
There was no more left to say. He handed the mike back to the operator.
“I need a smoke. Anywhere around here we can have a crafty one?”
“Just stand in the doorway and prop it open with your foot. That lets enough air in and smoke out without you getting soaked. It’s what I do.”
Hynd joined him on the doorway and they both lit up. A stiff breeze blew in through the partially opened door, but the operator had been right, very little rain made its way inside.
“Might be a good time for yon wee talk you were after, Frank?” he said.
“Not just now, please. I’m feeling like a spare dick at an orgy here, Cap,” Hynd said. “There’s nowt to get our teeth into. But I’m worried about the lads, especially the younger ones…”
“I know, Sarge. I’m feeling the same way. But the colonel was right about one thing—Wiggo’s a good man. He’ll see them right.”
Seton came to join them. He already had his pipe lit, and took out his hip flask and passed it ‘round.
“Well, Sandy,” Banks said as he handed the flask to Hynd, “is this what you expected?”
“In truth, I don’t know what I expected. I hoped, though, I hoped for some time to study the thing, and maybe test a theory.”
Banks laughed. “You have a theory? There’s a surprise.”
“It’s something I’ve been working on for years and relates to how what we think of as magic is merely the result of rhythm, repetition, and force of will.”
Banks wiped a hand up over the top of his head.
“Whoosh!” he said, and Seton laughed before continuing.
“You remember the Loch Ness thing, how the song brought the monster to heel, or at least calmed it down?”
Banks’ own laughter died as quickly as it had come as he remembered that day on the dark waters of the loch.
“I’m no’ likely to forget,” he said.
“Sorry,” Seton replied, although he looked anything but. “But remember the song. If it, or something like it worked once, there’s no reason it won’t work again. I’ve found some chants encoded in The Concordances of the Red Serpent and…”
“You’re going to sing at it? That’s your plan?” Hynd interrupted.
Seton shrugged.
“Do you have a better idea?”
The operator turned from his seat and broke into the conversation.
“If you’ve got a plan, it might be time to put it into effect. We’ve got something incoming on the radar, and it’s bloody huge.”
Banks flicked his still-lit butt out into the rain and went back to the control board. The radar pinged and showed a dim outline closing in on their position.
“I’ll tell you something else for nowt,” the operator said. “Its no’ a fucking whale. And it’s coming right at us.”
Banks calculated time and distance in his head. They had seconds at the most.
“If you’ve got an alarm, hit it,” he said.
The almost deafening honk of the claxon started up then, five seconds later, the whole rig shuddered and rang as if hit by a giant hammer. Another claxon joined the first.
“What the fuck’s that one?” Banks asked.
“Imminent structural integrity failure,” the operator shouted back, his face white. “Another hit like that and the rig will go over.”
“I’m not waiting here to die like some caged hamster,” Banks said and headed for the door. Hynd and Seton moved to join him as he got his pistol out of its holster at his hip. Just having a weapon in his hand improved his mood—a miniscule amount at best, but at least it felt he was doing something.
He stepped out into the rain and almost knocked over the rig manager.
“What the fuck’s going on now?” the burly man shouted.
“I thought that was your job to know?” Banks answered. “Best get inside; things are liable to get hairy.”
The manager noticed for the first time the gun in Banks’ hand, and his eyes went wide.
“I can’t have shots fired on the rig,” he said.
“And I can’t have useless full-on fucking fuckwits telling me what I can and can’t do,” Banks replied, pushed the man aside, and stepped to the edge of the gantry overlooking the docking area.
Below him, the waters seethed and roiled as if being churned from below, but there was no sign of the beast.