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