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.