Traitor (27 page)

The deck began to tilt. Containers and heavy machinery moved as the angle increased. Stratton got to his feet and rolled away as a section of decking buckled and snapped out of position. A crescendo of popping rivets and twisting joints joined the cracking and tearing of metal as welds failed and spars bent like sticks of licorice under the immense strain. A rack of high-pressure gas bottles spilled from their frames, rolling and dropping onto the lower decks, exploding as they smashed or roaring like rockets as their valve necks snapped and were ignited by flames.

Workers, many of them bloodied and battered, ran from the collapsing accommodation buildings. Some carried the injured, others staggered, their legs and arms mangled. Those who could sprinted for the lifeboats rocking in their cradles on all sides of the platform on several decks. A falling spar crushed one man as he reached the stairs, another fell through the deck. The section simply dropped open like a trapdoor.

A fuel-storage tank came loose from its mooring and slid down the main deck where it was punctured by a jagged girder. Its inflammable contents gushed from the hole, washed across the deck and down through the gridded floor to the lower levels and the sea, soaking one lifeboat as men crammed aboard it. The platform’s exhaust flame, burning on the end of its extended gantry, turned inboard as its supports buckled. The flames roared over the fuel oil, creating an instantaneous fireball that without the storm would have been seen for a hundred miles. It incinerated the fuel-soaked lifeboat and its human load in seconds. The flames fell through the platform and set fire to the sea.

A paint-and-flammables storage bay exploded in the heat, going off like a vehicle bomb that rocked the platform once again.

Now it became impossible to stand without holding on to something. Stratton dug his fingers through the deck grille to make his way to a set of stairs. He looked up at a screeching, rending sound and scrambled out of the way as a giant shale shaker line eased past on its way to the edge where it crashed through the steel rails as if they were ribbons and plummeted into the ocean.

Another terrible sound of failing metal - the big crane leaned over the rails, the rivets at its base popping under the strain, and went crashing through the decking, flattening several men.

A lifeboat swung out prematurely, with men still scrambling into it. As a falling spar struck one of its supports the pulley connection snapped off. The nose of the boat swung down heavily, ejecting those on the outside and cramming those already inside into the wedged end.

In a calm sea the platform might have maintained its structural integrity for an indefinite period despite the horrendous damage. But the storm continued to rage and the heavy seas attacked the weakened Morpheus unrelentingly. One of its huge legs had separated from the upper structure and had fallen into the sea. The platform continued to turn and go down until the remaining anchor points took the strain. One broke at sea level under the immense pressure and the end of the three-inch-thick cable came down onto the deck like a ferocious bullwhip only feet from Stratton. Sections of the living quarters broke away, exposing rooms, toilets and offices and spewing out beds, wardrobes, cookers and fridges to fall into the water.

The central oil derrick that towered over everything buckled at its base and toppled and for a few moments described an arc through the chaos. Then came a shrieking crash as it cut through the decks. Several lifeboats managed to launch and Stratton and Jason joined a dozen workers in a combined effort to release one that had become snarled. Inspired by utter desperation, they freed the roller and the craft moved out over the water where it swung at an unhealthy angle.

Stratton grabbed the release mechanism. ‘Get on!’ he shouted to the remaining men. Pelted by a combination of falling metal, licking flames and rain, they scrambled across the gap to waiting arms that dragged them inside. ‘Go!’ he shouted to Jason.

The scientist moved to obey when a heavy spar crashed down in front of him. As he leaped over it to get into the boat the sight of Stratton, his body battered and bloody, holding his wounded side and heroically waiting to release the boat and be the last man on board was too much for him. He wanted to be that man and without a second thought he scrambled to Stratton and took hold of the mechanism. ‘You go!’ he shouted.

‘Just get on the boat!’ Stratton shouted back angrily.

‘I’m not as injured as you!’ Jason yelled. ‘Go!’

The ridiculous argument was costing precious time. The men inside the lifeboat looked desperate enough. Stratton let go of the mechanism and jumped for it, painfully grabbing hold of the boat’s side. Men pulled him aboard.

Jason yanked at the release mechanism with all his strength and it gave way. The lifeboat began to drop towards the water and Jason jumped after it. Stratton and others grabbed him as he hung over the side.

The small orange vessel dropped like a lift with its cables cut, the lines whipping through the pulleys. Men leaped off the disintegrating platform - their only chance of survival lay in the water.

Stratton’s lifeboat hit hard and the men recovered to release the lines. The force of the impact threw Jason off and he disappeared below the water. Seconds later he popped back up and Stratton grabbed his harness and hauled him on board.

Yet they were far from safe as the platform threatened to collapse on top of them. The remaining legs couldn’t keep it upright as the wind and tide forced the rig against the remaining anchors.

The lifeboat had come down on the weather side of the platform and the tide pushed it into the guts of the decaying structure. After the last down-line had been disconnected the rolling sea swept the boat up into the cavernous mass. A massive girder plunged into the water beside the small fibreglass boat and another struck its side.

They could only pray, well aware that one spar or chunk of machinery hitting the boat would smash it like a toy. Metal rained down. The boat struck a collection of smashed spars and for a moment was held fast. Stratton, Jason and others fought to push it off.

‘Down!’ Stratton shouted as the swell raised the boat and the roof slammed into a heavy beam, which split it open like an egg. A sliver of steel stabbed into the boat and passed through a man’s body like a kebab skewer. The vessel dropped into the following trough that freed it from the collection of spars and it turned on its axis to sail on sideways. A couple of the men fought to start the engine and as it suddenly boomed into life Jason grabbed the wheel.

The lee side of the platform was fast approaching but the structure looked like it was going to collapse on them before they would make it. Jason pushed the throttle fully open and steered for clear water. The little boat weaved between a series of spars and rose onto a peak. As it dropped down below a hanging section of spider deck they sailed out from beneath the claws of raking spars and raining metal and were suddenly free from the jaws of the groaning beast.

Every man on the boat watched in silent disbelief as the gap between them and the platform increased. Despite the thunderous seas, the massive structure somehow maintained its unnatural position and for the time being seemed to roll with the punches it was taking from wind and tide. Chunks of it still fell away. Drill pipes clattered between the decks and down into the water. Fires burned. Thick smoke billowed. An entire section of lights flickered before going out completely while others glowed brightly.

They began to search the water for survivors. Everywhere men struggled to stay afloat, holding on to debris or swimming for their very lives. Many of the men they hauled into the lifeboat were already dead, either drowned or battered.

Stratton went over in his mind all that had happened. A single nagging thought kept returning: how much of this had he caused, how much was the consequence of his actions? Heads were going to roll for this one. He fully expected his to go on a spike at the Tower of London.

His thoughts went to Jordan and his strange involvement in it all, wondering why the man had done it. Had Stratton been the reason for his old friend’s turnabout? Had he caused it? He wondered about Binning and Rowena who he supposed were not far away, awaiting their fate. It was a bloody disaster - in so many ways.

‘There she goes,’ someone shouted. They all looked in the direction of the Morpheus.

The great platform’s end had finally arrived. The monster structure had given up the struggle and succumbed to the forces massed against it. The decks once parallel to the surface of the ocean turned vertical, levering one of the enormous legs out of the sea before it bent under its own weight and collapsed. The last of the lights went out and the fires were extinguished as the twisted wreck sunk in the black broiling water.

The storm’s strength had by now lessened and the rain started to subside. Lighter skies appeared to the north. As they continued to search for survivors the sun broke over the far horizon and other lifeboats came into view.

Someone shouted and pointed at a man in the water not far away. As the lifeboat closed on him he stood up, his knees at water level. He was standing on something below the surface. Stratton and Jason realised who it was at the same time. Jackson. In the mini-submarine.

Jackson was more than relieved to see them both, having witnessed the disaster himself. The mini-sub’s batteries had run out of power so they tied the vessel alongside the lifeboat. Jackson was very cold and glad to get into the covered boat where he was handed a blanket. He seemed to know there was more to the story of Binning and Rowena after Jason had told him about it but he asked no further questions. As if he understood that it wasn’t the time or the place.

The sound of distant rotor blades gradually came to them. Stratton got stiffly to his feet as half a dozen military helicopters flew overhead. He had a reasonably good idea how the day would unfold and resigned himself to it being a very long one indeed.

Stratton sat alone at a table in the windowless basement bar of the Blue Boar in Poole, eating a plate of stew. It was early evening and in the large room voices filtered through to him from around the corner. A few people stood at the bar itself.

A pretty waitress collecting used glasses came over to him. ‘How’s the crockpot, Stratton?’ she asked, with a bright smile.

‘Almost as good as mine,’ he replied, returning her smile.

‘Can I get you anything else?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Okay. Enjoy,’ she said, leaving him alone but with a parting look that did not disguise her interest in him.

He put down his fork, took a sip of wine and leaned back in thought. The bruises around the wounds on his face, those not covered by several weeks of beard growth, had mostly disappeared. The deeper cuts on his hands were now thin black lines. He looked generally gaunt and tired, his eyes dark, his skin pale.

Stratton emptied the wine glass and stretched out his legs. His body still felt stiff, particularly the healing flesh around the bullet wounds. It was time to start working out but his heart wasn’t yet in it. The medic had said he was to do nothing too strenuous for another week but he knew his body better. It was his spirit that needed healing more than anything else at that moment.

He lowered his hands to his knees, continuing to bend forward slowly, stretching the backs of his legs until he could touch his toes with outstretched fingertips. It wasn’t so bad. A week earlier the same exercise had been far more painful and he had reached half the distance.

He was not only disheartened but thoroughly bored.

Within hours of being picked up from the lifeboat and taken on board the operations vessel Stratton had been treated in the sickbay while being debriefed by a London suit. The debriefing had taken several hours after which he’d been returned promptly to Poole and to his home and ordered to remain in the vicinity until further notice. He wasn’t under house arrest or anything like that. He could attend the camp hospital, go shopping and to the pub. But he was told that he was not to spend time with work associates and should not encourage friends to visit him. The bottom line was that under no circumstances was he to discuss any aspect of the operation. It was made very clear to him that there would be severe repercussions if he were to ignore this instruction.

It was all quite bizarre, really. Stratton hadn’t experienced anything like it. He was not being admonished as such. Everyone had been cold towards him, the powers that be, but there was no official hearing, no inquiry that he had been asked to attend. It was as if he had been placed inside a box until they decided what to do with him.

Stratton hadn’t seen Jason or any of the others involved in the operation since they had been rescued. He was questioned about everything and everyone but had been given nothing in return other than the news that Smithy had been picked up in the middle of the ocean and was doing fine. The futures of Binning and Rowena, however, remained a mystery to him. When he asked about them he drew a blank. They told him not to discuss the subject with anyone and that the only reason he was being allowed to police his own isolation was because of his track record with MI6.

A criminal mole inside MI16 was a serious situation and London would undoubtedly want the lid kept very tight on it. The television and newspapers had been full of the Morpheus disaster and had blamed the hijackers. The MoD hadn’t been criticised for its lack of response to the incident. The suddenness of the destruction of the rig seemed to have struck everyone. But the press were curious about what they described as its ‘premature’ blowing-up. Theories abounded. All kinds of expert witnesses espoused various views, the most popular being that the explosion had to have been an accident of some kind. The hijackers had cocked it up and sunk the bloody thing by mistake. It must have been something like that since they could never have received a ransom payment in such a short time. And since none of the hijackers appeared to have survived, it was up to Scotland Yard to find out who was ultimately behind it - the mastermind behind the scenes. Another popular theory. Terrorism had not been discounted as a plausible reason for the explosion but the varied nationalities and backgrounds of the hijackers seemed to have muddied that idea. Three weeks into the investigation the police had officially uncovered very little. Of course they were divulging nothing.