‘Yes.’
Mike smiled. ‘Take a few days off, then. How’s the shoulder?’
‘Fine.’
‘Go for a long run . . . a couple of long runs. I’ll tell ’em you’ll be up there first thing Monday morning.’
Stratton got to his feet and went to the door.
‘Everyone has dips and bumps, Stratton. Don’t take it so hard.’
‘This isn’t a rugby club, Mike.’ He opened the door and walked out.
Mike had to ask himself whether he would give Stratton a call if a special landed on his desk tomorrow morning. For the first time he wondered if he would.
4
A white and red Super Puma Eurocopter thundered across the blue-grey waters of the North Sea into the Beryl Oil Field, midway between the Shetlands and the Norwegian coastline. Without a cloud in the sky the sunlight reflected off the sea like the glittering of a million crystals.
Eight people wearing dark green overalls occupied the two dozen cabin seats, spread about the craft as if they did not want to know each other. Of different races and complexions they all had one thing in common - they looked like thugs. At first glance they appeared to be typical roughnecks but a closer inspection revealed more sinister characteristics. Each bore some kind of scar or other mark of past hardship or hostility. An observer could have seen it in their eyes, too.
A robustly built man sitting in the frontmost passenger seat got to his feet, opened the cabin door and looked between the pilots through the windscreen. He had mousy hair cropped short, his European features disfigured by a pudgy, broken-looking nose. He focused his gaze below the horizon on the only solid object in view. From a couple of miles away it looked box-like, as though dozens of giant containers had been piled randomly on top of each other and balanced on four gigantic cylindrical legs that rose from the ocean. A bright orange flame burned on the end of a derrick high up and out to one side of the main structure.
The pilot glanced over his shoulder. ‘We’ll touch down in less than six minutes,’ he said.
‘Any problems?’ the man asked, his accent from somewhere close to London.
‘None,’ the pilot assured him. ‘We’re looking good, Deacon - don’t worry.’
Deacon ignored the man, stepped back into the main cabin and regarded his motley crew. They had been together as a team for almost two weeks and he was still not used to the sight of the strange collection of individuals. When Deacon had mentioned it to the bosses the first time he’d seen the assembled team they’d told him that it was intentional. Deacon never really understood why, beyond the obvious theatrical value, and he didn’t enquire further. If they were as able as they were odd-looking he did not care. He was used to working with different nationalities, just not so many in the same team. ‘We’re approaching the target,’ he called out above the sound of the engines.
Most of the others looked up at him, though not all appeared to understand fully.
‘Five minutes,’ he shouted, holding up five fingers. ‘Comms check,’ he mimed, reminding them that the five-minute warning indicated a prearranged order.
Each had a large bag. Those that had not understood Deacon saw the others opening them to retrieve a radio and earpiece and caught on, doing likewise.
Deacon produced a radio from his pocket, turned it on and placed an earphone with a microphone attached into his ear. ‘Onetwo, one-two. If you can hear me loud and clear raise your hand,’ he said slowly.
All of them put up a hand.
‘Good. Final weapons check,’ he said, holding up an old Armalite M-15 carbine and extending the short plastic butt that locked into place.
The others removed the weapons from their bags and did the same.
‘Put one up the spout,’ he shouted, making sure the gun’s magazine was firmly in place before snapping back the cocking mechanism and releasing it to allow the heavy internal spring to slam a round back home.
The sound of several weapons being cocked.
‘Apply the safety catch and put them back into your bag.’
Each man obeyed, except one.
Deacon walked down the aisle to the end row and stopped to look at a familiar enough sight that he could never quite get used to. It appeared to be a woman, or at least that was a possibility. She had the athletic build of a man - angular shoulders, thick neck and muscular arms and hands - yet her complexion and make-up belied this: her unblemished Indonesian skin cared for, her eyebrows plucked to form a thin curving line, a ring of pale blue pencilling around the eyes. She was adjusting her make-up using a small mirror.
‘Queen?’ he said.
She sighed and ignored him.
‘Is that really necessary?’
She finished what she was doing, put the lipstick away and snapped the compact closed. ‘I’ve been asked that all my life, Deacon dear,’ she said in a rugged accent. She removed an M-15 from her bag and deftly pulled back the working parts. ‘I think you asked me the same question that first job I did with you.’ She let the mechanism spring back into place. ‘The high-profile convoy from the Kuwaiti border to Mosul - remember?’
‘Yeah. You were winding up the Iraqis.’
‘They didn’t know what the hell I was when we ran into the first ambush. They pretty much loved me by the end of the second one.’
‘No one’s doubtin’ your fightin’ skills. I just don’t want you weirdin’ out this lot. Some are a bit confused about you already.’
‘They’re only confused about themselves,’ Queen said, applying the safety catch with her thumb and placing the weapon back in the bag.
Deacon shook his head and turned away, heading back to the front of the helicopter. The large red-headed Viking-like man he passed twisted in his seat to take a look at Queen. She pushed her breasts together and gave him a wink. He looked to the front again, his brow furrowed.
Deacon stopped beside a man with short spiky ink-black hair, his nose to the window. ‘Banzi?’
The man looked at Deacon. He was Japanese, his serious expression distorted by a false porcelain eyeball bearing the Japanese flag instead of a pupil, the red stripes of the rising sun disappearing into the surrounding edges of the socket.
Yet another weird characteristic that Deacon could not quite get used to. ‘You happy with the route to the power room?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ Banzi said in an abrupt manner. ‘Make sure the Pirate does,’ he added, jutting his chin with obvious contempt towards the man in the seat in front.
Banzi went back to looking out of the window and Deacon moved forward to the tall slim Somali seated in front, his expression blank as if in a trance. A deep scar ran from his chin, across an eye and into his scalp where it continued to the back of his head through short wiry hair. ‘You happy with the route to the power room?’ Deacon asked. The jet-black man did not respond. ‘Pirate?’
He half looked towards Deacon and gave a solemn nod.
The man’s lack of communication skills had begun to frustrate Deacon but he put it to one side. It was too late to do anything about it, anyway. He’d wanted to leave the Somali behind but the boss had insisted that he should remain with the team, assuring Deacon that he had extraordinary killing abilities. The Pirate’s partner, the Jap, seemed reliable enough.
Deacon went back into the cockpit.
The pilot was on the radio to the oil platform. ‘Roger that, Morpheus. Understood.’ He gave Deacon a thumbs-up.
The Morpheus, one of the North Sea’s biggest oil platforms, filled the windshield as the helicopter drew closer, its series of exposed decks like a massive denuded steel tower block. The main platform, at least half the size of a football field, lay covered by building blocks with workspaces in between and a huge crane on one side. The flame derrick stuck out a long way on the far side. The deck below, like a layer of a thick sandwich, was crammed tight with more box shapes, all the same height but with different widths and lengths. Below that was a collection of large pieces of machinery amid more storage structures. A large heli-deck, with its red circular target, came into view on its own level to one side and on top of the platform. They saw the brightly dressed standby fire crew on the side of the deck. As the helicopter came in they could see workers on the various levels. Deacon had never been that close to an oil rig before but he had studied the Morpheus’s blueprints and knew pretty much all of its facilities and features.