Greaves used the environment to his advantage. He initially steered the boat upwind of the platform, when he’d be so far away as to be just a speck, then swung it around, able to surf almost unnoticeably, sliding over the large rollers, keeping the same speed as the wind, not stirring up a wake of white foam. Unless someone looked directly at him, he was invisible. He’d done a stint on coastal rescue helicopters, and knew how hard it was to spot anything in the twilight sea unless it was flat calm.
The platform wasn’t the biggest he’d seen, but still it reared up out of the waves like a metallic Neptune, a flare stack instead of a trident, its plume of fire and smoke streaming horizontally in the constant wind. He ran his eyes over the superstructure; the derrick, the helipad above the accommodation quarters, the bright orange lifeboats angled down at forty-five degrees, primed for fast evacuation should the unthinkable come to pass. One hand on the wheel, he stared through binoculars and made his assessment. They were drilling, not yet producing. The flare stack suggested they had already tapped into the reservoir. This was the dangerous phase, when they had to tame the well before beginning the long and incredibly profitable process of sucking it dry. For now, though, all seemed to be in order, so he tilted his angle of vision downwards to search for something that wasn’t, and found it.
The boat was still under the platform, close to one of the legs. Not a typical platform tender, but a normal boat, like a small fishing boat. It didn’t belong there. The image through the binoculars was grainy, due to the fading light, but he picked out a large form, like a cartoon of a fat man, except the fat didn’t pear out like a normally overweight person. Not fat then; muscle resting. Like an enormous bouncer. Salamander.
Greaves scanned left and right, and spotted two other men, also on the large side. There was gear on the floor of a sea-level platform. No sign of Jake. Must be down below. Greaves had studied the charts for this area before setting out, and the depth – around a hundred and thirty metres – was a bit extreme for diving. He hoped Jake had the right kit. But what were they making him do, and – because he had to ask – how had they compelled him to do it?
His own Plan A was to surprise the three men he could see, incapacitate them, find out what they were up to, and rescue Jake. But even with surprise on his side, there were too many moving parts. He didn’t like Plan B’s, but he often resorted to what he called Plan Zero, which cut through to the heart of the mission, which was to kill Salamander. So … ram their boat with his while firing with everything he had. Create a kill zone. A hail of bullets. He might not survive. It didn’t matter. In his playbook, potential collateral damage always included yours truly. Jake would surface and find he’d missed the party.
He edged the thrust lever forward, locked the wheel on a vector which took into account the wind and waves, and began prepping his gear.
***
Jake had no weapons. The giant squid had tentacles and a pretty tough-looking beak. He tried to separate myth from reality. They didn’t sink ships as in Jules Verne novels, but he knew they occasionally did battle with sperm whales, who had a bit of a taste for giant calamari. The danger was the suckers on their tentacles, powerful enough to rip skin off; they’d left ugly scars on more than a few whales’ hides. At least he had a tough suit. But it meant that once the squid latched onto him, he wouldn’t be able to break free, and it would drag him down … Even if the squid didn’t mean to kill him, the net result would be the same.
No knife. What would he do if he had one? The point between the eyes. Or into the mouth. He knew that worked, from what a dive buddy had once told him. But that was for small squids. This one’s beak was so large it could take his hand off. Back to the between-the-eyes target then. Did he have anything? Yes. The tool he’d used to open the box on the BOP. Four inches long, made of brass. It would have to do. But how to get close? Unfortunately, that was the easy part. Let it eat him. Or at least let it try.
A shit plan if ever there was one.
He pulled out the T-shaped Allen key, held it in his right hand, and finned upwards, circling around to the other side of the drill-pipe. The squid reacted instantly, its long tentacles spreading like outstretched fingers. He didn’t fin away from the pipe, because this way half the squid’s tentacles were occupied. If he moved away, they would wrap around every part of his body, his arms included, securing him the way a spider entraps a live fly, and then it might just try and bite his head off …
He circled back round, approaching the squid. Every animal on the planet had a fight-or-flight instinct, and by moving towards the squid, he would make it blink. Sure enough, two tentacles curled upwards defensively. But not for long. They whipped forwards, and he felt the suckers clamp around his thighs and torso, and begin to squeeze.
Christ, it was like a python.
Just in time, he took in as big a breath as he could manage, inflating his rib cage before a third tentacle wrapped around his stab jacket and rebreather, compressing his chest as it began the big hug. Jake had to keep his arms free, which meant he couldn’t use them to protect his lungs. A gamble. Suckers tore at the flesh on his legs, even through seven millimetres of neoprene, pulling his skin in different directions at the same time as the crush increased like an industrial-grade vice. And he was being pulled straight towards the beak. It spasmed open and shut, and Jake realised the plan wasn’t going to work, because the squid’s body was too long, the distance between the mouth and the eyes too far.
He was screwed.
A fourth tentacle secured his lower legs, and he grunted with pain as it wrapped around him like a tourniquet. He took jagged, short breaths, desperately trying to keep his ribcage from collapsing, but it felt like a building had fallen on his chest. The pain burned, and with a final gasp he relented, as the alternative was snapped ribs that would be pile-driven into his lungs, whereupon he’d drown in his own blood. So, now he couldn’t breathe.
But he could still think.
A tentacle flicked towards his head. No you don’t, you sonofabitch! Blocking it with his right arm, he grabbed the tool with his left. The beak was close now. He couldn’t move his legs, nor most of his body. His only hope was that it would try to eat him head-first. There was one shot left, and as he was suddenly jerked towards the yawning mouth, he took it.
Instead of trying to ram the tool into the squid’s mouth, which would only result in his arm being snapped off, he used it as a wedge to bar the beak open. As the mouth tried to close, Jake thrust his right arm as deep as it would go into the throat, his hand flat at first, then he opened and grabbed at the soft flesh and muscle inside, tearing, gouging, wreaking havoc as much as he could. The tentacles around his body pressed so hard that all the breath was squeezed out of him, and for a split-second the squid’s body arched and he looked directly into its two black eyes, the size of fists, their white backgrounds taut. And then everything went black as he was engulfed in ink, and thrust aside and upwards. Finally he could take a breath, though he could see nothing. He scrubbed frantically at his faceplate, wiping the black slime away, and he caught one last glimpse of the creature propelling itself into the dark depths where it belonged.
Jake drifted upwards, hearing alarms inside his helmet, warning of decompression sickness. The automated system was doing its best to compensate, ramping up the oxygen as he ascended above forty metres, trying its best to flush out the nitrogen faster. He was just grateful to be alive. He took deep breaths and shivered, not from cold, but from the intense soreness that surfaced now that the adrenaline was being reabsorbed into his system. His computer tablet blinked erratically, damaged by the squid, and seemed to be working in a more primitive mode. Maybe it was just as well – if Salamander had put a kill-switch in the software, now it might not work. Perhaps the squid had just saved his life.
He paused at twenty metres, dim lights above, the computer begging him to do another half hour of deco. But as he saw a large body drifting down from above, he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. Best he could do was a slow ascent. He watched the corpse tumble downwards, blood streaming from a chest wound. Not Salamander. XXL.
The squid would have supper after all.
***
Greaves couldn’t take a sniper shot. His boat was too unstable. He needed to get up close and personal, then open up with his semi-auto, ram their boat, storm it and shoot anything that moved until it didn’t. The wind was up, the waves bigger. He counted the four-metre peaks between swells. Twenty. Two minutes. One hand on the wheel, the other on the thrust lever, he avoided revving the engines, in case the prop came out of the water as it tipped over each towering wave. Instead he surfed down the crest into the safety of the trough. If they heard him, they would have the advantage. Two of them were standing on a relatively unmoving platform, probably a deck for unloading, or for use as a diving platform for underwater inspections and maintenance.
His two main weapons – semi-auto rifle and pump-action shotgun – were on the shelf above the console in front of him. His M9 was strapped to his right thigh, and the Bowie knife … That was the surprise element, what a SEAL buddy called his Hail Mary. It was in a sheath hanging down the back of his neck, secured by a thin cotton lanyard.
He counted the waves again. Ten. A hundred metres. The men hadn’t seen him, but he still needed to be careful. The wind was behind him now, so any noise … The boat surged, not much, but as the boat was just tipping over a crest, the propellor suddenly spun wild and free, sounding like a dentist’s drill, only a hundred times louder. He glimpsed the two men freeze in their tracks and turn. Instinctively he ducked, though it was futile; they’d either seen the boat or they hadn’t. He spun the wheel to starboard, riding inside the trough rather than banking over another crest while they were still staring, straining their eyes in the fading light. The boat rolled heavily to port, unseating the shotgun, sending it clattering onto the deck. He couldn’t stay here, the waves would capsize him. He swung the wheel to port, and climbed the wall of water.
The first shot rang out loud and clear. A chunk of the console exploded to his right. He dared a look, then ducked again. Both men – one standing, one kneeling – had rifles with telescopic sights. In the trough again, Greaves tried to figure out how to do this. His strategy was dead, and he urgently needed a new one. The trouble was that his boat would pitch up bow first, and they could shoot at it, aiming to sink him, or simply wait until it teetered over the wave-top before falling down the other side, and pick him off. Worse, as it descended into the trough, they could shoot straight through the canopy.
The boat pitched up over the wave, and as expected, three large-calibre bullets ripped through the hull and console, one of them nailing the AK47, slamming it up to the ceiling like it was a plastic toy before it crashed down to the floor, beyond repair. He bent over to pick up the shotgun, as another round splintered the wheel. As he descended into the next trough, three bullets zipped through the canopy. One of them found the engine, which stuttered and coughed badly, but laboured on.
He guessed what they were doing, because it’s what he would do in their place. One guy was targeting the boat, aiming to disable it or hit the fuel tank, while the other was waiting for Greaves to poke his head up, so he could cleave it in two with a high-velocity round.
He wouldn’t survive another barrage of gunfire. Grabbing the auto-inflatable life jacket and the shotgun, he rammed the thrust lever all the way forward, dashed to the aft of the boat and half-fell, half-dived over the edge just as the boat pitched up. The water slammed into him, and he heard the engine whine as it almost leapt out of the sea. Successive rounds found the spare fuel tank, and as he slowly sank, equalising his ears, a hazy orange bloom appeared above him.
He hoped the Rolex had been genuine.
The water stung his eyes, but he got used to it. He kicked uselessly, weighed down by the shotgun, his M9, his boots. Careful not to drop anything, he cracked open the small bronze cylinder on the bright yellow life jacket, and it began to inflate, though not fully. He stopped sinking and, aided by kicks, slowly rose toward the surface, flames on the water, bits of wood and flotsam everywhere, various items – including a blur he reckoned was the AK47 – falling into the depths, trails of tiny bubbles in their wake.
If he ascended now, he’d be a dead man. He put the inflate hose into his mouth and sucked. Nothing. Of bloody course, nothing. It was a simple one-way valve. He pushed the hose deeper into his mouth and crunched down where hose met jacket, aiming to dislodge the valve. Just as he was about to give up and bolt for the surface and take his chances, a sliver of cool air seeped into his mouth. He was thankful it was air, and not carbon dioxide, as was often used in life jacket cylinders.
Once he’d gotten a decent lungful, he kicked and lurched his way towards a black smudge up ahead that he prayed was the leg of the platform. He passed under the barnacle-encrusted hull of their boat. He carried on. On his back now, taking short, stingy breaths, he stayed about five metres under the surface so as not to start sinking again. Up above was the metal platform – a grill, really, two figures moving about, standing near the outer edge, no doubt searching for him.
He took another breath and began to sink. He had to lose some weight, so he made a choice and let go of the M9, and watched it briefly as the abyss swallowed it. Kicking hard, he swam to the far end of the grill, and waited for a wave to bring him up high enough to clamber onto it. This was going to be messy, but he was out of time and options. He had no idea if the shotgun would still work. First things first. He needed a big wave. The underside of a massive roller swept towards him, froth on its surface, and he kicked hard again and rose with it, like an underwater surfer. He rode up with the swell, and with his left hand he grabbed the grating and let the wave flick him upwards, his body bumping onto the grill, so that he was lying flat on it, already shouldering the shotgun with his right arm. He fired at the nearest guy, who had spun around at the noise, his rifle pointing at where he expected Greaves to be, a centre-mass shot, always the best gamble, except when it’s not, because Greaves was lying on the floor. Greaves’ round knocked the fifteen-stone guy off his feet, and sent him tumbling backwards off the grill, clean into the water below with a resounding splash.
The next guy had already turned and levelled his weapon at Greaves, who was fast, but not that fast.
‘Drop weapon,’ the marginally less-big man said, in heavily accented English. ‘Behind.’
Greaves had no choice but to comply, the shotgun plunging into oblivion.
‘On your knees,’ the man said.
Greaves did so.
‘Now cross one foot over other.’
The guy was a pro, knew what he was doing. Now all Greaves needed to do was put his hands behind his head, wait until the dude blinked, and then hit him in the neck with the knife. That was all. Piece of cake.
‘I like American movies,’ the guy said. ‘I watch Die Hard. Good movie.’ He grinned, as if he knew about the knife. ‘Hands by sides.’
Bugger. The guy’s rifle spiked the air, insisting. Greaves lowered his arms.
‘Who you work for? Boss will want to know.’
‘The British government. Where is your boss?’
‘Upstairs. Where rest of team?’
‘Back in London.’
‘I believe you,’ he said, which were three little words Greaves didn’t particularly want to hear, because in this kind of situation they were usually followed by a terminal punctuation mark.
The man lowered the rifle a fraction for the centre mass shot. A one-second squeeze on the trigger, a double-tap that would puncture his heart.
Out of the corner of his eye Greaves saw someone rear up out of the water in fancy dive gear, landing heavily onto the deck, as if vomited up by the sea. The guy with the rifle half-turned, a survival instinct. It was the split-second distraction Greaves needed. He rolled to the left as he grabbed the knife with his right hand and launched it, just as the guy realised his mistake, still half-turned, and pulled the trigger, the rifle round flashing through the space where Greaves had just been.
Greaves covered the distance as the man staggered backwards, the knife buried in his left kidney. He swatted the rifle barrel aside with one hand while he punched the knife hilt with the other, driving it deeper. The man screamed a flood of obscenities as they both toppled to the mesh, Greaves on top, right next to the diver he now recognised as Jake, who appeared exhausted.
Greaves pulled out the knife and tried to stab the guy in the heart, using both his hands, leaning all his weight on it. But the guy wasn’t done. His eyes said so. And he was strong, unbelievably strong. With one hand he held the knife at bay, let go of the rifle with the other hand, and reached down to his right side, fumbling in his pocket to draw his pistol. Greaves grunted and thrust down as hard as he could, but the guy’s eyes were laughing at him, knowing he was going to win this. Greaves kneed the guy in the balls, but to no effect, those wide, maniacal eyes mocking him. The guy’s pistol came free from his pocket.
A hand slammed down on the guy’s face, something metal clutched within, and blood and black fluid spurted out from beneath it. The guy really screamed this time. His grip on Greaves weakened, and Greaves didn’t hesitate. He changed the angle and thrust with all his might, and drove the knife straight up under the guy’s chin, through the back of his mouth and into his brain. The guy’s body arched, throwing Greaves off, the pistol firing once, and then the tough sonofabitch stilled, something brass sticking out of his right eye. Greaves took a deep breath. He’d had close calls before.
None that close.
Jake looked bleary-eyed, but was sitting up. He pointed to the back of his head, and Greaves darted over, released the rubber straps, and eased off the helmet.
‘Perfect timing! I owe you one!’ Greaves said.
‘Sorry … was late. Giant squid … never seen … one before.’
Greaves wondered if Jake was delirious. He was panting, and looked like shit on a stick, squinting occasionally as if he was having trouble seeing. Jake pointed to the heap of equipment at the edge of the deck. ‘Oxygen … ten minutes … I’ll be fine.’
Greaves figured out which tank to use, checked the regulator on himself once, then shoved it into Jake’s mouth, and gave him fifteen minutes, by which time night had truly fallen. While Jake recovered, Greaves took the dead guy’s pistol. It would be close quarters upstairs, so a pistol was better than a rifle. Jake propped himself up on his elbows, looking a little less like death warmed up.
‘It’s Sergeant Greaves, right? You were at Jones’s funeral.’
Greaves smiled. ‘Nice of you to promote me. It’s just Greaves.’ He filled Jake in on Nadia.
‘How is she?’ Jake asked, his voice quieter.
Greaves knew what he meant. ‘She’s one tough lady.’
Jake seemed lost in thought for a moment, then got up. ‘Anyone else joining us?’
Greaves shook his head. ‘But the people upstairs must have heard all the gunfire.’
‘He’s got this place under wraps.’
Greaves nodded. ‘Must be on account of his other son owning the platform.’
Jake raised an eyebrow. ‘His other son? I seem to have missed a few emails.’
Greaves filled him in on Michael.
‘Got a sat-phone?’ Jake asked.
‘Did,’ he replied, fishing out his ultra-expensive and ultra-dead smart-phone.
‘We need a plan,’ Jake said.
‘I’ll go first,’ Greaves said, breeching the pistol.
‘That’s it? That’s your entire plan?’
‘I’m open to suggestions.’
Jake looked around, and shrugged. ‘Okay, works for me. Just one thing,’ Jake said, retrieving the knife from XL’s neck with a slurping, sucking sound. He wiped the blood and gore off on the thigh of his drysuit.
‘Okay, let’s do this.’