The List

 

The tug entered the shadow of the refinery, splintering ice, and docked at the north leg. The tiny vessel bobbed on the swells like a cork. Chugging diesel engine. The crew watched from the helipad railing.

Rawlins met the captain on the docking platform. He caught the mooring rope and helped the captain aboard. They saluted. They shook hands. The captain wore snow gear and carried a shotgun. No one was surprised to see the gun. Most Arctic teams carried protection against polar bears.

Rawlins led the man up steel steps to the habitation levels of the rig. The first mate stayed on the tug. He paced the deck with a shotgun held in the crook of his arm.

The captain was a short man in his fifties. He took off his parka and sat at a canteen table. He kept his gun within reach. Punch put a steaming mug of coffee in front of him.

'Got any food?'

The skipper ate two Snickers bars and started on a third. The Rampart crew stood over him and watched him eat.

'I've got room for four men,' said the captain. 'That's all I can take.'

'Jane. Sian. Upstairs,' said Rawlins.

 

Sian was the rig administrator. A timid, petite girl in her twenties. She also cut hair.

Rawlins sat the girls in his office and dumped a box of manila personnel files in front of them.

'Work up a shortlist,' he said. 'People we can live without. People who deserve to go. There's a weather front moving in. The captain says he'll stick around for a couple of hours then he wants to be gone.'

'Why me?' asked Jane, daunted suddenly to find herself in a position of responsibility. 'Why do I have to choose?'

'You're a priest. You're impartial. And I better stay downstairs otherwise there'll be a riot.'

Rawlins took his yellow Taser pistol from his desk drawer and checked the charge.

'Let's finish this quickly,' he said. 'The sooner that boat is out of here the better.'

'Christ,' said Sian, when Rawlins was gone. 'We could be deciding if people live or die, you realise that?'

'Let's start a list,' said Jane. 'See if we can narrow it down.'

There was a whiteboard on the wall next to a picture of a tropical beach. Jane bit the cap from a pen and wrote names.

'Okay,' said Jane. 'Who stays for certain? Who can we strike off the list right away?'

She put a cross through FRANK RAWLINS. 'Goes down with the ship. He'd be insulted if we even considered him.'

She put a cross through ELIZABETH RYE. 'The installation needs a doctor. Essential personnel.'

'Says here she has a son,' said Sian.

'Rawlins won't let her go. I guarantee it.'

She crossed out GARETH PUNCH. 'We need a chef.'

'Any fool can flip an egg.'

Jane shook her head. 'Everyone is talking like we will be out of here in a week or two, but truth is we might be stuck a while. We need someone who can manage a kitchen, eke out provisions.'

Jane crossed out three more names. 'Senior ops. Maintenance. Maintenance. We need people who can keep the lights on.'

'Six down.'

'Anything in the files?'

'I can give you two names right away. Rosie Smith and Pete Baxter. Rosie is diabetic. She injects insulin every day. They have a crate of the stuff on ice in medical. We're supposed to feed her sugar or something if she has a fit.'

Jane circled ROSIE SMITH. 'All right. She's on the boat. Pete Baxter?'

'Heart attack four years ago. He takes some kind of blood- thinning medication. I heard he brought his own defibrillator. Keeps it by his bed. I'm astonished they gave him a job.'

Jane circled PETE BAXTER. 'Two more. Maybe we should pull names out of a hat. It might be the easiest way.'

 

Fox News looped the same footage over and over.

'. . . may God defend us in this dark and difficult hour . .

The President's sombre wave as he climbs aboard Marine One and flees the White House.

Food riots. Flaming cars. Humvees in the street.

Nail stood, arms folded, in front of the TV. He stood close enough to see the President's face reduced to picture grain and blur.

He turned round.

The captain was sitting in the corner of the canteen. He was hunched over a bowl greedily spooning soup. His shotgun rested on the Formica tabletop easily within reach.

Nail crossed the room and sat next to his gym buddy, Ivan.

'Reckon you could pilot that boat?'

'Little tug like that? Sure,' said Ivan.

'Seriously. You could get it going? Navigate?'

'Yeah. Pretty certain I could.'

'We have to get his gun.'

'He's got his back to the wall. And look at him. He's twitchy. He's watching for someone to make a move.'

'I should go over there,' said Nail. 'Offer him another coffee.

I want to see if the safety catch is on.'

'We could wait until he's up and walking. Catch him in a stairway, a corridor. It would give us a chance to get close, but we'd have to take his gun.'

'Yeah.'

'What about the first mate?'

'What about him? We'd have a gun.'

'Could you do that? Could you shoot a man?'

'I'd fire a warning shot.'

'But if it came down to it?'

'Then, yeah,' said Nail. 'Him or us, right?'

'Okay. You and me. Gus, Mal, Yakov. You give the signal. We move at once. We do it quick. But we'd have to be on the boat and gone before anyone has a chance to react. Bags and coats ready to go.'

'I'll tell the guys. Go to the kitchen and fix yourself a sandwich. Get some knives while you are in there.'

 

Rawlins brought the captain to his office. The captain still carried his shotgun like he expected to be jumped any moment. They examined a map of the Arctic.

'They sent us to a pump station in the Kara. The place was deserted. We swung by Severnaya to see how the Russian team were doing but they had cleared out. Norway is closed for business. Don't dare approach. They have a couple of AWACS planes guiding gunboats.'

'Where will you go?'

'We'll catch the current south. Skirt Norway. Skirt Iceland. Western Scotland seems like a good place to ride out doomsday. We'll find an island. Hide ourselves away.'

'So what have you heard?' asked Jane. 'All we have is the television.'

'Dave, my first mate. He saw it for real in Roscoff a month ago. He was sitting in a cafe eating lunch. Noon. Not much happening. Suddenly people ran in, yelling for the police. There was a woman in the street trying to bite everyone like a rabid dog. She was bleeding.'

'Bleeding?'

'That's what he said. Some soldiers shot her dead. Then they shot everyone she had bitten. They made a big pile and burned the bodies.'

'Oh, my God.'

'Sorry to break it to you folks, but no one is coming to your rescue any time soon. You might have to find your own way home.'

'Christ.'

'Have you picked your men yet?'

'We're working on it.'

'I could do with some food for the trip, and any diesel you can spare.'

'We'll sort you out.'

'I'm going back to the boat,' said the captain. 'The weather is turning. Wind is getting high. Could be force ten when it hits. I'd like to be gone in thirty minutes.'

The captain left.

'Do you have any names for me?' asked Rawlins.

Jane gestured to the board. 'Two names for certain. Bunch more possible.'

Rawlins scanned the list.

'It's an easy choice,' he said. 'You two. Sorry, ladies, but I need skills. You're both surplus to requirements.'

 

The fuel store. A wide chamber. Punch switched on the lights. He led the captain between racks of fuel cans, oil drums and propane tanks. The captain loaded jerry cans on to a pallet truck. Punch struggled to help.

'So you need food?'

'We're both starved,' said the captain. 'We ate our last tin of beans days ago. We didn't expect to be at sea this long. We need enough food for two, three weeks. Not much. I don't want to clean you out. Just enough each day to keep us going until we get back to Britain.'

'I'll fill a box. Tins and stuff. How about fresh water?'

'Can you spare some?'

'We have a desalination plant. It's not a problem.'

'I'm sorry to leave so many of you guys behind, I truly am. I don't like to think of you all marooned out here.'

'You're doing what you can.'

'It's royally fucked up. Things were bad when we set sail from Rosyth a month ago. Fighting in supermarkets. Looting. Sounds like it's got a whole lot worse since then. Myself. Dave, my mate. We both have families. It's time to be a little selfish and head home.'

'Nobody blames you. No one at all.'

'We'll tell people you're here. We won't let them forget you.' They hauled the pallet truck down the corridor to the Level Four elevator.

'I'll head back to the canteen,' said Punch. 'Fetch you some stuff.'

'Thanks,' said the captain. He stepped into the elevator and pressed Down.

 

Nail and his buddies waited by the elevator doors on Level One. They each held a knife. A screen displayed floor numbers. They monitored the elevator's descent. 'Here he comes,' said Nail.

 

Jane looked down at her hands.

'No,' she heard herself say. 'I appreciate what you are saying. I want to go home and yeah, I don't bring much to the party. Just another mouth to feed. But I'm not going.' 'Can we skip the ritual objections?'

'I want to get on that boat. I've got folks back home. But there are plenty more deserving than me.'

'Executive decision. You're leaving.'

'You'll have to Taser me aboard.'

'Happy to do it.'

'Some of these guys have kids. Bardock. Doesn't he have a son? Half the guys on this rig took the job to pay child support.'

'Bardock runs the pipe.'

'We won't be pumping any time soon. He's a spare part, just like me.'

'It's the same for me,' said Sian. 'I'm alone. Just a step- dad. Pick a couple of men with children and put them on the boat.'

'Is that how you want to do it? Dependants? Last chance to change your mind. No shame in seizing an opportunity.'

'Put their names in a cup.'

They drew RICKI COULBY and EDGAR BARDOCK.

'Bardock and Coulby,' said Jane. 'A couple of well-liked guys. Can't see anyone objecting if they won a ticket back to the world.'

'Coulby has four daughters,' said Sian, checking the files. 'And yeah, Bardock has a son. Pretty much settles it.'

'Unless we put Nail on the boat,' said Jane. 'That's our other option.'

'Why the fuck would we do that?' asked Rawlins.

'Because he's trouble.' She turned to Sian. 'How many times has he hit on you? We barely see you these days. You're a prisoner in your room. Call it gut instinct. We could be stuck here a while. It might be easier all round if we mailed him home.'

 

The elevator doors opened. Nail ran into the lift, knife at the ready. His buddies ran after him. A pallet truck stacked with jerry cans. No captain.

'Hi, fellas.' The skipper was behind them. He stood in the stairwell doorway, shotgun at his shoulder. 'Drop the knives.'

Nail was holding a diver's serrated knife. He adjusted his grip. Four metres between him and the captain.

'Seriously, guys. The choke on this thing is set for a wide spread. I can put all of you down with a single shot. Drop the fucking knives.'

Yakov inched along the wall like he was getting ready to attack. Shaved head. Cyrillic knuckle tattoos.

Nail shook his head and threw down his knife. They all reluctantly dropped their weapons.

'Kick them over here.'

They kicked their knives into the stairwell.

'Hands on your head. All of you.'

'No hard feelings, all right?' said Nail. 'If you were in our position, you would do the same thing.'

'Grab some cans, fellas. You're going to help me load up.'

They carried fuel cans to the ship and stowed them in the hold. The captain and first mate stood on the transom, shotguns at the ready.

The men reluctantly disembarked and stood on the dock platform.

'Sorry, guys,' said the captain. 'Wish there was room for you all. Now why don't you folks fuck off and let us get going?'

 

Departure.

Nail and his gang of muscle freaks were nowhere to be seen.

The remaining crew stood on the docking platform and shouted questions to the first mate. Jane watched from the helipad. The mate stood at the prow, shotgun over his shoulder. He kept his answers non-committal, said less than he knew. He watched for any sign the Rampart crew might make another attempt to storm the boat.

The four chosen crewmen climbed aboard. There wasn't room for their luggage so they left it behind. They stood on deck and waved as the tug pulled away. Spirit of Endeavour. A little ship on a big ocean. Jane wondered if the boat would reach Scotland. It was a long journey south, but they might make it if they ran ahead of the weather.

The remaining crew retreated to their cabins to unpack.

 

There was nothing new on TV.

CNN was down.

Sky News was a test card: ' We apologise for the break in transmission. We are currently experiencing technical difficulties. Normal programming will resume shortly.'

BBC: a haggard newscaster repeated the same advice. Keep calm. Stay off the street. Stay tuned for updates. Jane remembered the young man. He used to present the weather. He used to stand in front of a map and forecast sunny spells and rain. Now he found himself reporting the end of the world.

Punch muted the sound and cued some tunes on the jukebox.

'Hope you feel good,' he told Jane. 'You did something heroic today. You could be on your way home right now.'

'I'm not sure my mother would agree.'

'She'll be all right.'

Jane looked out to sea.

'Check out the cloud bank. There's a weather front moving in. Waves are starting to build.'

'I went aboard with a box of food. It's little more than a rowing-boat. I wouldn't want to be out there right now. Not with six people crammed inside. It'll be touch-and-go. Take a lot of luck for them to reach land.'

'Think we're better off here?'

'How can we know? Did we give our folks a ticket home or send them to die?'

 

Rawlins led Jane and Sian to an observation bubble on the roof.

The bubble was at the edge of the helipad. A circle of windows gave a three-sixty view of the refinery, the sea and the jagged crags of Franz Josef Land.

'Since you two are staying you better make yourselves useful.' He pulled dust sheets from transmission equipment. 'We should have done this days ago.' He pointed to a swivel chair. 'Sit there,' he told Sian. 'Don't touch the sliders.' He powered up a bank of amplifiers. 'A bloke called Wilson used to play DJ after each shift. Had his own little drive-time show. I filled in for a couple of days when he broke his wrist. This kit is designed to broadcast to the rig but if the atmospherics are right we could reach two, three hundred miles.'

'What about the ship-to-shore?'

'Too patchy. I want to try short-wave. Go broad and local. It's a big ocean. We can't be the only people stuck out here.'

'What do I do?' asked Sian, positioning her chair in front of the mike.

'Press to talk. Release to listen.'

'Mayday, mayday. This is Con Amalgam refinery Kasker Rampart hailing any vessel, over.'

No response.

'Mayday, mayday. This is refinery platform Kasker Rampart requesting urgent assistance, over.'

No response.

'Mayday, mayday. This is Kasker Rampart broadcasting to the Arctic rim, is anyone out there, over?'

No sound but the static hiss of a dead channel.