The sky tonight is blacker than I’ve ever
seen it before. It swirls with slow malevolence,
growling in warning. My scarf is pulled up
to my eyes, but my cheeks and nose are still
burning pink with the bitter cold regardless.
I’m in line with the others, waiting to
board the ship that’ll take me from the
rig. The winds tonight are too powerful for
helicopter travel, so ship it is.
It’s a military vessel. Royal Navy. The
grey-white waves crash against its hull; spray
carries on up to the Union Jack ensign stamped
on the side. I’m not sure if the ship’s
military nature makes me feel more, or less
afraid.
But I don’t have a choice. Seven workers
are always selected to board. Always.
And tonight, I am one of those seven.
*
My name is Reg.
I spend alternating months working on an oil
rig in the North Sea.
The work is not as boring as you might expect,
and the pay grade is actually rather good.
The boredom is the worst part. The isolation.
Interspersed with moments of intense stress
and lightning-like panic. We get WiFi on the
good days, but it’s spotty at best. If you
like your YouTube at lowest quality with twenty
minutes of buffering time, then the rig is
the place for you.
There’s about 200 of us here at any given
time, and honestly sometimes it’s kind of
nice. During the day, in rare hours of warmth,
the sun sparkles off the pipes and the railings
in white and bright yellow, the mood is cheerful,
everyone has their purpose, everyone has their
role.
Then the other times… the other times…
you’ll find yourself stood on the bridge
in the grim hours before dawn, frozen in place
as you desperately try to fix the shitey job
the engineer before you did on the generator
that powers the crane… made all the more
difficult with the torn and battered gloves
that limit the motions of your already shaking
fingers… the protective goggles quickly
steamed to the point of uselessness, so you
take them off, only for the icy rain to lash
at once into your eyes…
…What can I say. There’s good days and
bad days, can’t complain.
My shifts on the rig are typical, as I mentioned-
one month on, one month off. We get helicopters
back as a squad of about twenty or twenty-five,
we go our separate ways once back on the mainland,
and then I’ll see some of them again next
month when we return to work. Occasionally
some of them will get moved to other rigs.
Pretty straightforward.
…But there’s an anomaly. One that I’ve
always wondered about. I’ve asked around,
but no-one is able, or perhaps willing to
give me a straight answer. Five days before
the end of my shift on the rig, seven of my
colleagues are selected… Randomly, or otherwise,
I do not know. They are chosen late in the
afternoon, told to gather their belongings,
and then by night, they are gone. ‘Moved
to another rig’ is all I am ever told on
the matter, when I can find actually find
someone to give an answer at all.
This happens without fail, five days before
the end of my shift, every shift, and has
done since I first began the work earlier
in the year.
The people that are selected, I never see
again.
Most times, if I even know them by name at
all, they are only acquaintances, but sometimes
I’ve known them personally. I had the details
of a man who was chosen four months ago, and
a good friend of mine, guy named Figgs, was
called for the previous assignment... but
they've both stopped answering their calls.
Most of us use crappy phones offered by the
company during our shifts on the rig, so it’s
possible the devices were just ditched in
favour of better models upon their return
to the land…
…But still. I can’t shake the unease.
And I’m not sure why I seem to be the only
one concerned.
…Not that it matters now anyway.
Today marks five days before the end of my
shift.
And for the first time, I find myself as one
of the workers selected.
*
Normally, when I am able to catch their departure
for myself, they leave by helicopter. But
tonight the sky is too fierce, so the aforementioned
military ship has pulled itself up alongside
the rig. Why exactly our departure has to
be on THIS particular night, why our journey
is important enough to warrant a Royal Navy
battleship to personally escort us to the
new location, I do not know. I ask some of
the other six, my fellow chosen colleagues,
but they know just as little.
One by one we are ushered down the line, out
of the biting rain from the edge of the platform
and into the body of the ship as the storm
hammers down overhead. We are led through
cold and narrow metal corridors and into a
meeting room of sorts, where we awkwardly
take the offered seats.
The ship groans and churns. The engine rumbles
steadily from down below.
And two men make their way between us to the
front of the room. One walks slouched, his
beard and hair are scruffy, mid 50s perhaps.
I recognise him, he makes appearances on the
rig from time to time, but he is not a regular
lodger, nor do I know his name. He places
forms on the desks before us as he meanders
from person to person.
The other man’s pace is measured and deliberate,
straight-backed. He turns at the head of the
room and takes us all in in cool silence.
He wears an immaculate white shirt beneath
a blue-grey jersey, and a naval cap, also
in white. It is ringed at the base and visor
in sleek black and shining gold, and his shoulders
are bedecked with epaulettes in the same colours.
Once the scruffier man has handed out the
last form he stands in the opposite corner,
chewing his tongue as he looks us over. The
man in white steps forward.
“Gentlemen. My name is Captain John Irons
and I am in command of this Destroyer”.
‘Destroyer’? What the hell? Why would
a tiny team of oil-riggers need to be transported
on a bloody Destroyer?
“I’ll get right to it. The forms before
you now, if signed, will bind you to the Official
Secrets Act. Your involvement in this operation
will be entirely secret, you will be forbidden
to discuss the operational logistics, machinery,
or any self-assumed purpose of the assigned
rig even to members of your own immediate
family. For all intents and purposes any ‘military
involvement’ in your assignment will be
purely extraneous, operating on an ad-hoc
basis in the event of threat-to-life weather
events”.
The captain clenches his jaw and scans the
room from left to right.
“You have all been selected for this temporary
position based on a combination of factors
including your specialist knowledge, your
time served, and the results of your personality
and psychological assessments. You are welcome
to refuse this assignment. If you choose to
do so you will be escorted off the ship and
back onto the rig where you will see out your
allocated time.
"If you accept the offer, and you must come
to a decision in the next few minutes, it
is recommended that you spend the journey
time reading through your contracts. If, upon
docking at the assigned rig, you decide that
you no longer wish to sign the document before
you, then you will be given a room and confined
to your quarters for the duration of your
service, and may remain confined for a period
of up to an additional two weeks depending
on the schedule of the ship in question.
"…Is that understood?”
His question is followed by a strained silence,
one which eventually breaks into a series
of low mumblings and bewildered nods from
the people around me.
“Should you choose to accept, your pay rate
for the following five days will be increased
tenfold, and will in practice be worth the
equivalent of two and a half months of solid
service”.
My colleagues exchange a series of glances
and raised eyebrows, The energy in the room
changes somewhat.
“You will be expected to perform your role
to the best of your abilities, of course”,
the Captain continues, “and, as discretion
is of the utmost importance, to ask as few
questions as will allow you to see out your
duties…” His sharp grey eyes stop on mine,
just for a moment, before flicking over to
meet those of the fellow in the corner. The
scruffy man who occasionally visits the rig.
My rig.
A chill passes through me, but I say nothing.
“I will now ask if anyone would like to
refuse the offered assignment and return to
the rig. Now is your one and only chance to
do so”.
Nobody moves. Nobody speaks.
I thought about it, I really did, I swear…
This whole thing has me set very much on edge…
And this assignment… This ‘offered assignment’…
This man, this military guy… who the hell
is he to issue us job terms and warnings and
ultimatums? A part of me wants to scrunch
the document into a ball and throw it into
his face, and march proudly back onto my rig
where I belong.
But this… this opportunity to venture out
into the unknown… This is some real exciting
shit. I don’t even care about the money
that much, to be honest. I have been given
a chance to see behind the curtain. To find
out what happens to the seven who leave the
rig. To find out what’s so important about
our destination. Mysteries have been presented
to us. Mysteries that demand solving. I have
to know.
I just have to know.
…So I stay seated, and listen to the dulled
roar of the wind through the walls.
Perhaps that’s how they convince the seven
to stay every time? Maybe the money is just
so we can rationalise our decisions…
A tense moment passes, then the Captain looks
over our shoulders and nods to someone at
the back of the room. I turn in my seat to
see an officer raise a radio to his mouth
as he steps through the door, speaking into
it as he walks away down the corridor, and
a minute later the rumble of the engine below
grows like rolling thunder, and the ship,
I can only presume, as there are no windows
in the room, groans into slow life.
The Captain nods to us, then to the man in
the corner, and takes his leave, strolling
away at once.
And so we begin our voyage to the ‘assigned
rig’, ploughing onwards through the storm.
I read through the Secrets Act before me as
we make our journey over the waves. There’s
some seriously cool concepts in here. Makes
me feel a bit like a spy. Though, there’s
some terrifying stuff too.
The time drags on. I wonder exactly where
it is we’re going. Left with nothing but
the sounds of the engine, the flicker of turning
paper and the occasional grunt or cough from
my colleagues, my mind begins to wander. They
swirl with curious, dark-clouded thoughts.
Dread creeps up on me. It ebbs and flows,
coming and receding like the tide, and I start
to wonder if I’ve made a huge mistake. We
were forced to decide so quickly... I tug
at my collar. My stomach turns.
I look up, and I meet the eyes of the man
still stood in the corner.
I clear my throat and sit up in my seat.
“Excuse me mate… Don’t I recognise you?
I see you on the rig sometimes”.
The man is silent for a moment, then scratches
his beard. “Aye. Work takes me from rig
to rig. You lot have a good location, less
stormy than most”.
“And what about the one we’re going to?
Will it be stormy there?” I ask.
The man sighs. Not with frustration…. Perhaps
just with tiredness. “Yeah. Yeah it’ll
be stormy alright”.
The others seem a little emboldened now. The
seal is broken, and the questions start coming.
“Which rig is it? Will any of us have been
stationed there before?”
“No”, the man replies. “No you won’t
have been. This one ain’t charted. Officially,
it don't even exist”.
“Is it military owned then? Like a secret
navy supply of oil? Is that why we’ve been
taken by battleship?”
The scruffy man’s eyes dart to the door
at the back of the room and he rubs his nose.
“It ain't an ‘oil’ rig, as such. The
machinery and the systems will be similar
to what you’re used to, however. As the
Captain said, for all intents and purposes
any military involvement in this assignment
is, officially, ‘ad-hoc’. In event of
emergency. Less said the better. Etcetera”.
“But if it isn’t oil”, I ask… my blood,
for reasons unknown, pumping fierce… “then
what is it? What’s its purpose? ...And why
is it secret?”
Silence falls.
And the man, in a low voice, replies: “Honestly
lads. You don’t need to concern yourself
with the rig’s true purpose. Nor do I recommend
you try to understand. Please. I don't even
know myself, I swear it, and it's better this
way. I appreciate that this is a frustrating
answer but I must emphasise that it is in
ALL our best interests for you to just do
your work, take your money, and get the fuck
home. Do you understand me?”
I nod quietly, and the crew alongside mumble
their acknowledgements. The gears in my mind
begin to turn and grind bitterly, as the curious
ship sails on into the night.
*
It is well into the earliest hours of the
dark morning by the time we arrive, the sky
still black and angry as we depart the Destroyer.
I slip and stumble against the rail as the
ship rocks over the surface of the swirling
sea
We all signed the Secrets Act, of course.
How could we not?
The Captain alights the ship alongside us,
and as we huddle awkwardly on the rain-soaked
platform of the rig he goes to exchange some
words unheard with a man in a uniform I do
not recognise, obscured mostly anyway by an
enormous blue jacket. I squint my eyes through
the downpour and take in my surroundings.
The rig is colossal. Bigger than the one we’d
departed, and hectic. Even at this time of
the night the place is alive with people,
in heavy overalls, in military uniforms…
soldiers can be seen patrolling at every level
of the giant metal derrick, rushing to and
fro… A group passes right by us, most have
the British flag emblazoned on their arms,
but a couple towards the back have Norwegian
insignia instead. Lamps and searchlights illuminate
the rain in thick, heavy streaks as they scan
the bridges and platforms, distorted shadows
thrown across their surfaces by the rails
and pipework.
But inside the derrick… protected by the
great iron skeleton… there is no pipeline
for any oil. There is no hose that I can see,
no drill-line at all… I raise a hand to
my eyes to shield them from the rain, I take
a step away from the group and stare, even
as a powerful beam of light washes over my
face. Inside the criss-crossed metal tower
is an enormous, monstrous chain. The largest
that I have ever seen; each link must be the
size of a car, at the least. It is colossal
and terrifying, in a way I do not quite understand,
and standing here on the platform only a few
metres away, I find myself feeling very small,
very small indeed. The chain disappears behind
the beams of the tower that supports it and
below the surface of the platform.
It extends, presumably, deep down under the
sea.
For what purpose, I do not know.
I am suddenly slammed into from behind. I
stumble in shock and turn to see who pushed
me, and a roaming light shows me a man with
a hardhat in his outstretched hand, his eyes
bloodshot red and shadowed with dark circles.
He is a mess, and when he looks at me, it
feels like he is staring right through me.
“Are you lot the takeover crew, then?”
he croaks out in a voice hoarse beyond exhaustion.
I exchange looks with the men around me. “Yeah…”
I reply uneasily, “yeah I think we might
be”.
A siren suddenly sounds at the far side of
the derrick, a loud and obnoxious wail, and
we jump and start in alarm. Well, us new arrivals
do. The embattled man before me does not even
flinch. He just closes his eyes, starts shaking
his head. “No…” he mutters, then louder,
“No, no, NO, FUCK! NO MORE!”
He slams the hardhat into my stomach and marches
past. The soldiers have begun bellowing orders,
but I cannot hear them above the wind and
the blare of the siren. The platforms and
the pipes light up alternatingly in orange
and blue. Fear ripples through me as the platform
beneath starts to shake… Captain Irons from
the ship is suddenly in front of us, barking
orders, he’s hastily reading off a list
of names, telling my colleagues where to go,
and in a chaotic scramble they do as they’re
told, this does not seem the time or place
for questioning of roles.
The ground shakes. I hear the waves crash
against the legs of the rig, and for that
to even be possible… for me to hear them
above the bellows and the roaring gale and
the shriek of the siren… they must be colossal
indeed. I can see some of the sea out of the
corner of my eye, and it’s a picture of
wild, dark and churning fury…. But my gaze
is focused on something else. Blood pounds
in my ears to join the cacophony. I am vaguely
aware of the Captain shouting my name, but
I fail to copy his orders. He’s stepped
forward now, shaking my shoulder vigorously,
but I cannot move. I am frozen in place in
blind terror, and I do not even know why.
There’s something about this whole rig that
isn’t right, it isn’t right at all…
…And I cannot tear my eyes from the great
chain.
The terrible chain, obscene in its size…
is no longer still.
It grinds and shakes with the storm, and I
watch in disbelief as it starts to unravel,
as if something, some unknown force, is dragging
it desperately deep below the surface…
