‘I like that,’ Deacon said.
‘Too much had been left to chance on this one.’
‘I don’t see why it was allowed to go on.’
‘Sure you can. The SAS has had more cock-ups over the last twenty years than anyone.’
‘That’s because they’ve done nearly all the bloody work,’ Deacon said defensively, feeling his hackles rising.
‘That may be a part of it,’ Jordan said, unaware of the hurt and venom in Deacon’s reply. ‘But you’re missing the point. Many of those ops were damned before they started. It didn’t stop ’em from going ahead, though. It’s still about peer pressure and egos causing a lot of the problems.’
‘So what happened?’ Deacon asked, controlling his anger at the digs against his beloved former unit. His foul temper had grown worse over the years and once it turned physical he knew he was apt to lose control altogether. He had spent so long in lawless environments, where he had not been held to account for his actions, that he was no longer able to check himself. The oil platform was just such a place. The only law was that imposed by Deacon and his men, all answerable to him. The only chance of keeping him in check here was the risk of screwing up the task and losing the money.
Jordan had no inkling of his colleague’s murderous intent and how his talk was eating away at the restraints on the man’s madness. To him it was just a conversation, albeit a contentious one, with a fellow ex-special forces operative who was under the illusion that he was the senior figure in charge of the operation. ‘As I’d expected, the hit didn’t go as planned and I had to go in and hot-extract the team with vehicles. It was a mess. We were only lightly armoured and we took a lot of fire.’
‘And you took one in the leg.’
‘As a result I had to leave the mob.’
‘What about the team leader?’
Jordan gave him a look. It was an interesting question. He hadn’t intended to discuss that side of it. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you blame him, right?’
Jordan did blame Stratton but he experienced an internal conflict whenever he thought about it. He had always liked and respected Stratton. The man was highly rated by everyone in the SBS and to accuse him of incompetence did not sit well with most of them. It felt awkward - traitorous, even. ‘I suppose so,’ he finally admitted.
‘What do you mean, you suppose so? It was ’is fault. You got shot. Why didn’t you take it out on ’im?’
‘Because that’s not how it’s done.’
Deacon, seething inside, studied Jordan. ‘Don’t take this wrong - just like you said to me with your comments about my old regiment - but I think you’re a pussy.’ ‘What’s that?’ Jordan asked, surprised. He hadn’t seen it coming. This was one old soldier telling a war story to another.
‘I’ve been in so many contacts, some that’d make yours look like an exercise on Salisbury Plain. Getting shot at is all part of the big show. Listen to your crap. You know what the difference is between the SAS and the SBS? You’re all a buncha whingeing pussies.’
Jordan’s eyes narrowed. He felt a cross between brimming anger and confusion.
‘Sorry, mate, but I ’ave to call it as I see it.’
Deacon’s radio came to life. ‘This is Pirate. I think there’s someone on the lower spans.’
Jordan and Deacon remained staring at each other despite the significance of the interruption. Jordan was the first to disconnect. This was why he was here, in command. There were more important things to deal with.
Deacon was far more self-destructive in nature and could easily value emotional issues above practical essentials. It would have needed a similar madness from Jordan to sustain their dispute. Deacon’s only respect for Jordan came from how decisively he had dealt with the Lebanese thug. That was warning enough not to give him any advantages. He suspected Jordan would not do anything to jeopardise the operation. It was the same weakness that had stopped him from challenging his team leader on that Afghanistan mission.
Jordan got to his feet. ‘Tell all your call signs to go silent unless it’s an emergency,’ he said as he pulled on his coat.
‘Why’s that?’ Deacon asked, remaining in his seat and looking at Jordan.
‘Because if your bloke’s right and someone has climbed onto the rig, it will most likely be the forward recce. It’s too soon for an assault. That means in turn they’ll be putting in a technical option, which means they’ll be able to hear you.’ Jordan felt a little better, talking down to Deacon like this. He made his way to the door. ‘Where’s this Pirate feller?’
‘I’ll show you,’ Deacon said, getting to his feet and pulling on his waterproof as he stared at Jordan. He disliked him even more for the way he was talking to him.
In the driving wind and rain outside Jordan squinted beyond the rails into the blackness where the join between the sea and sky had disappeared. It was as if the platform were shrouded in a tempestuous cloak that allowed no light in from the outside world. The cold rain beating against his face was refreshing, a cleansing balm against the anger that had engulfed him back in the control room.
He wondered who might be on the platform and if he knew them. His thoughts went to Stratton, not just because of the discussion with Deacon. Bumping into him at the airport the other day had been a strange coincidence and he wondered what the chances were of him being in the first wave. He dismissed the idea as quickly as he had thought of it. If Stratton was involved in any way it would be leading one of the assault teams, not the recce. He felt grateful for it.
‘This way,’ Deacon shouted, walking past Jordan, his hood pulled over his head.
Jordan followed. Deacon deliberately walked too quickly. He paused at the top of a flight of riveted metal steps to wait for the former SBS operative, a mean glare in his eyes that Jordan would never be able to see in the darkness and inside his hood.
They descended to the low-blocked accommodation deck and walked across an open space in front of the cabins to another flight of stairs going down. They followed these to the lower deck and on down a set of narrower, steeper steps to the machine deck, the lowest operating deck before the spiders. There was a mixture of machine equipment, storage containers and piping of every description stacked everywhere. The thunderous boom of the powerful swell pounding against the rig’s legs grew louder with each step down. The black-painted metal railings were wet and slippery.
They halted beside one of the four massive legs. A wide ladder leading down was welded to its side. Here the wind was even more turbulent, its pressure dropping and increasing alternately as it pushed between the supports.
Deacon’s pace slowed and became more cautious as his concentration focused ahead. Partway around the curved surface of the huge leg he stopped and pressed himself against it. He removed his hood and slowly leaned over a rail in order to look below.
Jordan gradually closed on him.
Deacon had to search for a while before he eventually spotted the Pirate squatting on a cross-brace some twenty feet below. Only when the jet-black Somali looked up and revealed the whites of his eyes could Deacon make out which part of the dark bundle was the man’s head. The Pirate pointed down and diagonally opposite.
Deacon could see nothing except shadows and shimmers of light absorbed by the white water breaking around the rig’s legs. He looked around at Jordan. ‘I’ll bring the team in. We can ambush them as they come up.’
Deacon brought his radio to his lips but Jordan stayed his hand. ‘They won’t be coming up.’
‘Then we’ll go down and get them.’
‘Bring your man up in case he’s seen,’ Jordan ordered.