Traitor (7 page)

When the British military pulled out of Iraq and the Americans were preparing to do the same, Deacon wanted to try something else - along similar lines, of course, because he couldn’t do anything different. He had no real idea what that was until the mysterious caller a few months back offered him the task of capturing an oil platform for more money than he had made during his entire time in Iraq and Afghanistan. He hesitated when he learned of its North Sea location: anything in the UK, Europe or the States would have given him pause. It meant taking on sophisticated surveillance and investigative technology and lethal-quality security forces. The money and an assuredly watertight plan brought him on board. Half a million US dollars had been deposited into a Cayman Island bank account in his name. Another half-million would follow on completion of his part in the operation. These people had serious money. The rest of the team were making less than Deacon - half his salary, reputedly - but still a fortune compared with what they were normally paid for far greater risks. The audacity of the escape plan sealed it. Deacon was going to enjoy this.

One thing alone bugged him. He couldn’t figure out the true motive of those who’d given him the job. Many things about it didn’t add up and he didn’t know who the ultimate client was, which was not altogether a surprise. They were obviously expecting a serious return on their investment. Deacon didn’t care enough to stress about it. He was going to make a cool million, tax free, doing something he really enjoyed.

The helicopter flared as the craft slowed and aimed its underbelly at the centre of the helipad. Deacon went to the main cabin door and, steadying himself against it, eyed his crew. All still in their seats, most looking out of a porthole. When the wheels bumped down all eyes turned to him. Like Deacon, none of them had done anything quite like this before. The Pirate came the closest. Apparently he had hijacked half a dozen ships in his time, including a supertanker. Deacon had to wonder what he had done with the money, if it was true. He thought piracy paid even more than gigs like this.

The shifty-looking Lebanese guy seated in front of the Viking had played a key role in the hijacking of an airliner, or so he claimed. Once again Deacon wondered if there had been any logic to the selection of this crew, or was being a hardened mercenary the only qualification required? Scary appeared to be another criterion. They all looked pretty fearsome. That made sense. North Sea oil platforms were generally populated by tough guys and ex-servicemen, types more likely than most to have a go at a terrorist. With fewer players in his team, Deacon needed fearsome as well as armed.

The helicopter’s engines changed pitch as the torque went out of the rotors. Deacon turned the handle and pulled open the door. The wind rushed inside along with the sunlight. Beyond the steps leading up to the helipad, half a dozen platform workers waited with packs and suitcases, part of the rig’s hot-bunk routine, which meant that with every new arrival there were departures. This batch was going to be disappointed, as were the eleven original members of the shift currently locked inside the bowels of a boat somewhere off the coast of Scotland. They’d been surprised when the helicopter had made an unscheduled stop alongside the boat and even more so when Deacon had stepped into the cabin with his assault rifle levelled to order them off.

Deacon stepped down onto the pad and walked towards the exit stairway. One by one his crew followed.

As the line passed them the two standby fire-crew guys both had the same thought: in their day they had seen enough brutes climb in and out of the rig helicopter but never such a collection in one batch.

Deacon headed along the main deck followed by the Lebanese thug and a large dark-skinned Bulgarian with a massive head draped in a mop of brown hair. The Pirate and Banzi went calmly to the edge of the platform and down a stairway. The red-headed Viking, the tallest of the team at almost seven feet, crossed to the opposite side of the deck and went down another staircase, followed by the shortest team member, a growling Scotsman with half an ear missing. It looked as if it had been bitten off.

Queen alighted last and stood at the chopper’s door, signalling to the waiting passengers to remain where they were. The firemen stared at the transsexual. Now they had seen everything.

 

The oil platform’s control room was divided into two, the larger area tightly packed from floor to ceiling with electronic devices and machinery, the room hum constant. Some of the several technicians present were wearing ear protectors. Gauges just about everywhere measured every essential pressure, temperature, fluid level, voltage and flow rate involved with the running of the platform’s production, life-support and safety systems. The smaller adjoining administrative room contained the platform’s security and radio and satellite communications systems. A couple of flatscreen monitors displayed split CCTV images of various parts of the rig including the Eurocopter on the heli-deck, its rotors turning. A tall long-haired individual in green overalls stood at the cabin door with his back to the camera.

The Morpheus’s security officer, sipping a cup of hot chocolate from a Union Jack china mug, sat at a small paperwork-covered desk jammed into a corner. He looked at the screens and saw two of the newcomers in green overalls and carrying bags come into view, walking purposefully along a deck corridor. Another screen showed two more of the men heading towards the main power room. An exterior camera showed the backs of three more approaching the entrance to the control room. One of them pushed a button by the door. A buzzer sounded in the room.

The supervisor put down his drink. Something about the images niggled him.

The handful of technicians in the main control room remained busy with various systems while the platform’s general manager stayed seated in a corner. ‘Is someone gonna get that?’ he called out.

‘Just a second,’ an engineer yelled as he entered some data onto a console.

The security supervisor leaned closer to the monitors, looking from one to the other. The new arrivals hadn’t booked in with the shift operations manager or checked into the accommodation complex, which was the normal routine. It looked most unusual.

The control-room door buzzer sounded again. ‘Okay, okay,’ shouted the engineer. He put down the recording device and reached for the access-control button on the wall.

The security supervisor watched the two men outside the power-generating room open their bags and take out weapons. At the same time the long-haired individual at the helicopter pointed a rifle at the firemen, who put up their hands.

‘Don’t open the DOOR!’ the security officer cried.

Everyone in the control room stopped what they were doing to look at him jump out of his chair and into the room. The engineer’s finger was already pressing down on the button. The door opened with a clunk. The security supervisor stared in horror at it.

Deacon walked in, brandishing his short automatic rifle, followed by the Bulgarian, who stood by the door. The Lebanese remained outside.

‘Gentlemen,’ Deacon announced, with a broad smile. ‘I hope you appreciate from the outset that this is a no-win situation for you and that you won’t do anything stupid. And don’t feel bad about opening the door for us,’ he said, looking at the security supervisor. ‘This entire operation was not dependent on you letting us in.’ He held up an explosive charge the size of a cigarette packet. ‘I brought my own key, just in case.’

The rig’s general manager pulled himself together and stepped out from behind his desk. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded. ‘What are you doing here and what do you want?’ The weapons in their hands gave him a pretty good idea.

‘It’s really quite simple, Mr Andrews. General manager, yes? We’re taking over the platform.’

‘What on earth for?’ the GM asked, dumbfounded. ‘You can’t seriously hope to gain anything from this. It’s ridiculous.’

‘No need to go off on one now, Mr Andrews. My boys and I didn’t just all meet up in a pub, ’ave a few beers and decide to knock off an oil platform for a giggle. I might sound a bit thick but I’m not. So respect that. Respect us. Respect the threat. Be good. And no harm’ll come to you. But if you come the ’ero, you’ll only piss me off. You’ve all been around this crazy world long enough to know that things like this can end in tears if it all gets bollocksed up.’

The GM remained stoic, along with the security supervisor. Several of the technicians looked about ready to piss their pants.

‘Your emergency distress button is over there,’ Deacon said, pointing to the wall-mounted red box with a small hinged panel on its front. ‘I suspect you’re itching to press it.’

‘And I suppose you’ll kill me if I try,’ the platform boss said, jutting out his chin defiantly. ‘I was in the Royal Air Force and my father fought in the Battle of Britain.’

Deacon raised his eyebrows. ‘I love the RAF. The only military unit that sends its officers to war first. I won’t kill you if you try. In fact, I
want
you to go ahead and press it.’

The GM glanced at his security supervisor, suspecting a catch of some kind. The security man had nothing to offer apart from a fearful stare.

‘Go ahead,’ Deacon said, encouraging the man. ‘It’s all part of the plan.
You
wanna do it.
I
want you to do it. So let’s just do it.’

The manager remained anxiously hesitant, suspecting a trap.

‘Go on,’ Deacon urged.

The GM took a step towards the button, scrutinising the hijackers for any sign of a reaction. There was none. He took another step.

Deacon gestured for him to get on with it, looking at his watch as if he needed to be somewhere else. ‘I don’t ’ave all day.’

The GM clenched his jaw and decided to go for it, whatever the outcome. He felt close enough to activate the alarm even if they did shoot him. He faltered just before pressing it in order to take a look and see if the large thug with the machine gun had it aimed at him. He did not. The GM gritted his teeth and depressed the button all the way. Seconds later a red LED light above the box began to flash, accompanied by a soft beeping sound.

Everyone remained still, waiting for the terrorist’s next move. But the man simply checked his watch, looking as if he was impatient for something else to happen.

The phone on the general manager’s desk rang.

‘I expect that will be a response to your general-emergency activation,’ Deacon said. ‘You can go ahead and answer it.’

The manager remained uneasy. ‘What do you want me to tell them?’

Deacon shrugged.‘Whatever you like. Start with what’s ’appenin’. The truth . . . Go on, then.’

The GM brought the phone to his ear. ‘This is Andrews . . . Yes. We . . . we have a situation. The Morpheus has been hijacked . . . Yes, that’s what I said. Hijacked. Armed men arrived by helicopter and . . . well, it would seem they have control of the platform . . . No. No violence yet. No damage as far as I’m aware,’ he said, glancing at Deacon. ‘I don’t know what’s happening outside the control room but they appear to be quite serious . . . They’re in the room, with me, here, right now. Their leader. They’re armed.’ He listened to a further question and looked at Deacon. ‘What exactly is it you want?’

‘The usual. A shitload of money or we destroy the platform. And if anyone tries to attack us we’ll kill everyone on board.’

The manager was unbalanced by Deacon’s casual manner. ‘How much money?’

‘A small percentage of the platform’s value plus loss of productivity if it met with a disaster. Two billion dollars, US. Pretty cheap, really.’

The GM cleared his throat. ‘They want two billion dollars,’ he said into the phone.

‘That’s enough,’ Deacon said. ‘You can put the phone down now. We can get into the details with them later. They’ve got enough to be getting on with for the time being.’

The manager hesitated, wanting to say something that might be of use to the crisis-management team. But he could not, partly because of the possible repercussions and also because he could not think of anything to say anyway. It was all so surreal, all so quick. He placed the phone’s headset back into its cradle.

‘Good. That’s that part over. Now for the next step. All outside communications sources will come under my control. I’ll allow one engineer at a time in here to keep the place running. Same goes for engineering. What are you pumping right now?’

‘We’re at around sixty-three per cent of capacity,’ the GM replied.

‘You’ll maintain everything as normal. You,’ he said to the secur - ity supervisor. ‘Turn off all your CCTV now. Go.’

The security supervisor walked quickly through the cluttered room to his office and turned off the cameras.

‘Unplug the hard drive and bring it here,’ Deacon ordered.

The officer carried the small heavy box through the room and held it out to Deacon, who took it.

‘You try to turn on any of the cameras, I’ll find out about it and you’ll end up going for a swim without a life jacket. Understood?’

The security officer nodded.

‘I like to run a pretty loose ship,’ Deacon said, facing the GM. ‘But don’t get carried away with it. This is how it will play. As we speak, radio-controlled explosive devices are being placed at key points around the platform. If anyone makes any attempt to interfere with my operation, the charges will be detonated. If any of my men are attacked, the charges will be detonated. In a little while, when I tell you, you’ll address your personnel over the platform intercom. You’ll tell them exactly what’s going on. You’ll also make it absolutely clear that there are to be no heroics. Tell them the consequences as I’ve laid them out to you.’ Deacon headed back to the entrance, pausing to look at the manager. ‘Don’t be fooled by my easygoing manner, Mr Andrews. I’m not the mastermind of this operation. But the people who hired me knew what they were doing. How many men do you currently have on this platform?’