The Scotsman looked up, grimacing unhappily. ‘It’s coming,’ he said as he fixed a thick malleable plastic pack horizontally to one of the massive supporting legs that reached down into the foaming grey water thirty metres below. The metre-long pack joined the end of a string of others fixed around the leg. The Bulgarian handed Jock another pack from one of several large plastic containers that the team had brought with them.

‘That storm front’ll be here in an hour,’ Deacon shouted. ‘That stuff’ll need to withstand a good pelting.’

‘You do your job, I’ll do mine,’ the Scotsman shouted back without looking up.

‘Good enough,’ Deacon mumbled to himself. His satellite phone buzzed in his pocket and he took it out to read the screen. He pushed the call button and put it to his ear. ‘Yeah.’

‘You are cleared to go to the next phase,’ a rugged male voice said.

Deacon checked his watch. ‘We’re ahead of schedule, then.’

‘The schedule was always meant to be flexible.’

‘Will do,’ Deacon said, unconcerned. He turned off the phone. ‘How much longer will you be?’ he called out.

‘Ten, maybe fifteen minutes,’ the Scotsman shouted.

‘Head up to the control room when you’re done. I need you to do that video feed.’

‘Am I the only bastard with any brains in this outfit?’ Jock shouted.

The Bulgarian paused to look at the Scotsman as he handed him another explosive charge.

Deacon knew that the man actually relished the responsibility. Jock was one of only two on the team whom he’d met previously. The first time had been in 2004 in the Green Zone US military hospital in Baghdad. Jock had had three bullet holes in him. Deacon had only had a piece of shrapnel in his leg. The Scot had been the sole survivor of an ambush on a six-vehicle, thirty-man convoy to Mosul.

A couple of hundred insurgents had hit them from all sides on the outskirts of the city. It had been a soldier’s worst nightmare. They’d had no support, no air cover, no reinforcements and no hope. Jock’s steel-plated black pick-up had been riddled with armour-piercing bullets within seconds and the next thing he remembered was running down the road back the way they’d come with a couple of colleagues on his tail. They’d all taken hits. The others had gone down but Jock had managed somehow to keep on going. Stopping would have meant death.

He wouldn’t have survived had it not been for a local who’d happened to come out of a driveway. God only knew why the man had chosen that moment to go for a drive. Iraqis tended to put all survival judgements in the hands of Allah. Operating on full survival mode Jock had shot the man through the head, yanked him out of the car, jumped in and hit the accelerator.

Within a couple of months he’d been back on the convoy route. The man was part crazy, Deacon was certain of that.

Deacon headed back to the accommodation block and went in through a door and then another immediately after it that acted as an airlock. The doors closed with a bang behind him, slammed shut by the rising wind. ‘Viking, this is Deacon,’ he said into his walkie-talkie. ‘I’m heading to the galley to set up the first media scenario.’

‘Understood,’ a voice came back.

Deacon pocketed the radio and walked along a narrow corridor of rooms, some with their doors open to reveal beds and closets. Bedding and clothing lay on the floor of the corridor as if there had been a hasty exit. There was no one here.

Deacon pushed through a door at the end, past vending machines, emergency firefighting equipment and signage, through a pair of swing doors on his left and then into another long corridor. Near the far end Viking and the Lebanese thug stood outside yet another door, carbines to hand, magazine pouches on belts around their waists, pistols in holsters on their thighs and radios dangling around their necks.

‘Did you hear what I said?’ Deacon called out as he approached.

The red-headed warrior glanced at his Arab colleague and then back at Deacon.

‘Yeah, you,’ Deacon said, looking at Viking.

‘I answered,’ Viking explained.

‘So what are you still doing here? Go set up the bloody camera!’

The Norseman understood, grabbed his foul-weather jacket off a hook and hurried away.

‘Viking idiot,’ Deacon muttered as he pushed in through the door they had been guarding. The Lebanese thug jammed it open with his foot, his weapon at the ready.

Inside the large dining room a hundred and sixty-four platform workers minus those maintaining the rig’s life-support systems sat on the floor, hands secured behind their backs with heavy-duty plastic cuffs. They were a variety of shapes and sizes, many of them big or just overweight, dressed in dirty clothes and looking dishevelled. Among them were the rig manager and the security supervisor. They all eyed Deacon, their expressions ranging from curious to self-pitying, from coldly calculating to angrily malevo - lent. The room felt uncomfortably warm with that number of bodies crammed into it and the smell of sweat and other body odours was almost overwhelming.

Banzi and Pirate squatted on the edges of the counter in opposite corners of the room with guns held easily in their hands. Queen walked between the hostages, offering water which he squirted none too accurately from a plastic bottle into their open mouths. He looked approvingly at one handsome young man and gave him an extra helping.

Deacon took a moment to look them all over before stretching out a hand and pointing to one after another. ‘You, you, you, you, you, you. Stand up.’

The randomly selected six men looked from one another to Deacon, each waiting for the others to make the first move. Several of them looked concerned about their possible fate.

‘Come on. Hurry up. Get to your feet,’ Deacon called out.

‘Piece o’ shit,’ someone grumbled loudly.

‘Who was that?’ Deacon asked, not particularly annoyed and even somewhat admiring of the man’s spirit. He managed a smirk. ‘You six selected men. Stand up and file out of the room. Nothing’s gonna happen to you. The only shootin’ we ’ave planned, for the moment at least, is a little TV show.’

‘Lying bastard,’ another voice called out.

The men still did not move.

‘If you make it difficult for me, I’ll make it difficult for you,’ Deacon assured them.

‘Gutless bastard,’ another man muttered.

Deacon pulled out his pistol, walked over to the outspoken hostage and stopped behind him. The man was suddenly horrified about the outcome of the move. He had good reason to be. The hijacker slammed the pistol into the side of the man’s head, almost knocking him senseless. The man fell onto a colleague, blood pouring from a wound across his ear.

‘If you men don’t stand up in five seconds I’ll kill this gobshite,’ Deacon snarled, placing the muzzle of his pistol an inch above the man’s skull. ‘And then I’ll kill another, and another . . . If you think we went to all the trouble to hijack this bloody platform to be jacked around by its staff you must be on drugs.’

One of the men began to get to his feet, though he struggled to gain his balance with hands tied behind his back. It was more than this that hampered him. One of his legs was giving him trouble.The man was Jordan Mackay, Stratton’s old mate. He gritted his teeth and dragged his faulty leg beneath him, making a determined effort to get upright.

Jordan breathed deeply with the exertion and set his stare coldly on Deacon.

Another five men got to their feet.

‘Good,’ Deacon said, stepping back through the hostages to the galley entrance. ‘Now follow me.’

They paused in the corridor to await further instructions. ‘That way,’ the Lebanese thug said to Jordan, giving him a firm shove.

With his short temper Jordan did not appreciate the push but he controlled his anger and headed along the corridor. Deacon took up a position in the rear and followed the line of men.

The Lebanese led them through the swing doors and along to a staircase, which he climbed. He pulled on a foul-weather jacket, pushed open a door at the top and stepped into a narrow airlock that led to another door that required an effort to open. The fierce wind ripped into the structure, tugging and chilling the men in their jeans and T-shirts as they filed outside.

Jordan stopped once again, waiting for further instructions.

The Lebanese thug pushed him on, this time more aggressively. ‘That way,’ he snarled.

Jordan almost fell over and when he regained his balance he faced the hijacker, baring his teeth. ‘Don’t push me again,’ he warned in a low, deliberate voice.

Jordan’s impudence astounded the Arab, who slammed him in the gut with the butt of his weapon. The ex-SBS man doubled over as the wind went out of him, his face spasming. The thug wasn’t finished with him and took a firm hold of his hair. ‘You don’t talk to me, ever.’

As Jordan pulled away the thug belted him across the face, sending him sprawling across the metal decking.The sea was visible far below through the grillework. Blood seeped from a cut on his mouth. He rolled onto his face, his hands tied tight behind his back. Using his forehead to support his weight, he brought his knees underneath him in order to stand up.

‘Stay down if you know what’s good for you,’ the Arab growled.

Jordan ignored him and fought to get to his feet. He had never been a man to bend easily.

The Arab poised himself to deal Jordan another severe blow with the stock of his weapon.

‘Easy, shit-for-brains. You need to chill out. No one dies unless I say so,’ said Deacon from behind them. He looked at Jordan as the man finally managed to get to his feet.

Jordan was out of breath with the effort and the blow to his gut but his eyes found the Arab’s and stared into them. The thug smirked at him.

Deacon felt like remonstrating with the idiot but knew that he couldn’t in front of the prisoners. He had orders not to harm the rig’s workers unless it was absolutely unavoidable, and if he did he would have to prove that there’d been no alternative. An unsatisfied client meant a reduction in pay. He had already lost one hostage to the Lebanese fool, which he felt he could get away with by docking the Arab’s pay. The man was a liability, no question.

Deacon decided to use the situation to his advantage. ‘I warned you people not to step out of line,’ he said, addressing Jordan and then the others. ‘We’ve already had one execution.’ He pointed to the body swinging from the crane. A look of revulsion came over the faces of all the prisoners except one. Mackay’s. ‘Don’t give me a reason for another. As you can see, my men are enthusiastic . . . That way.’

Jordan glared at the Lebanese hijacker before shuffling off. The others followed him across the deck towards the crane where Viking was setting up a video camera on a tripod.

‘Stand in a line along here,’ Deacon said, positioning them between the camera and the crane.

Some of the men began to shiver. Jordan refused to.

Viking looked through the lens. ‘Put your hood up,’ he told the Lebanese thug. The Arab reached for the hood at the back of his jacket and pulled it over his head. Viking struggled to adjust the settings on the camera with his oversized fingers. ‘You,’ he called out, pointing to Jordan on the end of the line-up while looking through the lens. ‘Move a little over.’

Jordan did as he was told. The wind suddenly picked up and whipped at them all.

‘A bit more,’ Viking ordered.

Deacon moved beside him to view the scene. The Lebanese stood at the other end of the line, pointing his gun at the men aggressively.

‘I like the shivering. Adds something. Abdul’s got the ’ang of this,’ Deacon muttered to Viking. ‘Bet ’e’s done this before.’

Viking grinned. ‘They’re good,’ he said, holding the tripod to prevent the wind from blowing it over.

‘Take a long shot of ’em. Pan from one side to the other and back again. End on the dead guy. Zoom in on ’im. That’ll be a nice finish.’

Viking did so. ‘That’s it,’ he said finally, standing upright.

‘Take it to the control room. Jock’ll meet you there. I want that on YouTube soon as you can.’ Viking picked up the camera and tripod and headed away.

‘And tell Jock not to forget to send a copy direct to CNN,’ Deacon shouted.

Deacon looked out to sea at the blackening sky. The clouds really were building. ‘Get ’em back to the galley. And Abdul - in one piece if you can manage that.’

Abdul removed his hood to reveal a disgruntled expression. ‘Get going,’ he said, aiming his remark at Jordan.

The line of men traipsed off the way they had come, the wind whipping at them. Freezing drops of rain began to fall. Deacon pulled up his collar and headed towards the control room.

‘I should call Poole. They need to know what’s happened in case London hasn’t told them yet,’ he said.

None of them replied. All of the scientists looked strangely conspiratorial.

‘I need to use your phone,’ Stratton said, taking a step towards Jason’s office.

Jason held up a hand. ‘Can I ask you to hold off on that for one moment.’

Stratton looked at him enquiringly. ‘They need to know right away.’

‘Another minute won’t hurt . . . There’s something we need to discuss.’

Stratton found the mood odd indeed. ‘Why can’t it wait until I’ve talked to Poole?’

‘It’ll be too late then.’ Jason looked thoughtful, as if he was searching for the right approach. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. The task to the oil platform should continue, and immediately rather than tomorrow.’

‘What’s that got to do with you?’

‘The SBS are not the only ones who can carry out the task.’

Stratton’s brow creased as he realised where this might be going. Every scientist was looking at him, except Rowena, who sat in front of a computer terminal typing something on the keyboard.

‘Do you want to explain that?’ Stratton asked, not particularly keen to hear the answer but curious nonetheless.

‘It’s obvious what I’m saying,’ Jason said. ‘We can do it.’

‘You’re joking, right?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘You must have your heads up your backsides. Do you think you can just climb aboard that chopper and do the task like you’re the reserve team? For a bunch of geniuses you’re pretty stupid.’

‘You’re right. We are all geniuses. Don’t you think we’d work out how we could do it before we mentioned it?’

Stratton tried unsuccessfully to suppress a chortle. ‘Why don’t you guys go and have a pink gin while I make that call? Then we’ll forget whatever madness you’re thinking about.’ Stratton headed towards Jason’s office.

‘You can’t call out without a code,’ Jason said.

Stratton hesitated a moment, then pressed on to call his bluff. He picked up the phone. There was no dial tone. He replaced the phone and looked back towards Jason. ‘I suppose I can’t walk out of here without a code, either.’

No one replied, making the answer an obvious one.

‘Take a moment to listen to us, please,’ Jason asked.

‘It doesn’t look as if I have much choice.’

Jason was determined to press on with his idea. ‘Let me first ask you this. Why do you think we’re not qualified to carry out the task?’

‘I said I’d listen to you because I have to. I’m not going to humour you beyond that.’

‘We’re more qualified than you think,’ Jason said with confidence.

Stratton’s expression remained blank.

‘The surveillance equipment they want to install on the platform, the G43, is a multi-purpose static surveillance system. We built it, making us more qualified than anyone else to install it. But your doubts about us would naturally concern our ability to actually get onto the platform. Let me tell you a little bit more about us. As far as fitness is concerned, we’re all accomplished triathletes.Take Smithy there.’ Jason indicated one of the newcomers. ‘He came third in this year’s Hawaiian Iron Man competition. Jackson here came eighth. Binning was fifteenth. I came a modest twenty-fourth.’

‘With a pulled shoulder muscle,’ Binning added.

‘Pain is not an excuse,’ Jason countered. ‘Rowena came eighteenth in the women’s competition. I wonder where you would’ve come, Stratton.’

‘In the women’s?’ Binning muttered.

‘No need for that, Binning,’ Jason said. ‘But you do have a point.’

Stratton couldn’t have cared less about the insult. Some things were beginning to add up for him. ‘This isn’t a coincidence, is it?’

Jason’s eyes narrowed as he wondered what Stratton meant by the remark. ‘What isn’t?’ he asked.

‘The varied skills you’re accumulating. You’re all pretty young when I was expecting most of you to be quite old. You keep yourselves fit. You have a killing house. I suppose you’re all good shots too?’

Jason smiled thinly. ‘I see what you mean. You’re right. It’s not a coincidence. We’ve been preparing for a more active operational role for some time now.’

‘Since you got here,’ Stratton suggested.

‘Since I got here,’ Jason admitted happily. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

‘Why should I?’

‘If you were in a position to, would you approve?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Would you be specific? Please. We’d all like to know. What are we up against?’

Stratton felt reluctant to answer.

Jason pushed him. ‘Come on. You criticise, but without an explan ation. I would respect your thoughts more than most.’

Stratton gave in. ‘It’s simple. You’re not soldiers.’

Jason looked at the others. ‘I happen to agree with him. I have said as much myself.’ He looked back at Stratton. ‘However, we can learn to soldier. But if, for instance, that surveillance device went wrong in the field, you couldn’t fix it. You couldn’t defeat a sophisticated alarm system with a couple of old cellular phones. I could go on.’

Stratton was growing irritated with the conversation. ‘And you couldn’t take part in the operation without London’s say-so.’

‘True.’

‘Then what is the point of this conversation?’

‘We could do it, though.’

‘Because you can run, swim, ride bicycles and shoot a gun at a rubber target?’

‘I accept that we lack the know-how for climbing the oil platform.’

‘Which is only one of many reasons why London wouldn’t let you do it.’

‘Let’s just play this through a little further, then I’ll let you make your call. If we went together, you and us, that would give us all the expertise we would need to complete the task. That’s my point right now.’

‘That’s it? Are we done? Can I make my call now? I’ll keep this conversation to myself. No one would take me seriously, anyway.’

‘What are you afraid of?’

Stratton sighed. ‘If London called right now, gave you permission to go ahead and ordered me to go with you, I’d tell them to get stuffed. Okay?’

Jason was disappointed.

‘I don’t think he’s going for it,’ Binning said.

‘CNN has just released some breaking news on the Morpheus,’ Rowena piped up, scrolling through a web page.

Stratton looked up at the mention of the name. ‘Morpheus?’ he asked.

‘The hijacked platform,’ Rowena explained.

Binning looked over Rowena’s shoulder at the monitor. ‘Put it up on the screen,’ he asked.

She hit a couple of keys and swivelled in her chair to face a flatscreen television on the wall across the room.

It came to life, showing the CNN newsroom and an anchorman talking about the hijacked oil platform. A picture of the structure filled the background. It had the attention of everyone in the room, including Jason.

The news anchor was saying that only moments ago video footage from the platform hijackers had appeared on YouTube. They were threatening to kill six workers within the next twenty-four hours if their demands weren’t met.

The image changed. Six oil workers stood in a line on the windswept deck. The camera panned across their faces before zooming to a body hanging from the crane in the background. The picture was grainy, as if it had been processed for several generations.

Stratton stood transfixed, certain the man on the end of the line was Jordan. ‘Is there any way you can play that back?’ he asked.

Rowena typed something and the image began to rewind to the beginning of the footage and then played again at normal speed. Stratton watched intently as the camera panned to his friend once more.

In the live broadcast the news anchor was reiterating that the selected workers were to be shot within twenty-four hours if the hijackers’ demands weren’t met. The anchor cut to a man in a studio and Rowena reduced the volume.

A myriad of issues went flying around inside Stratton’s head. But there was really only one that mattered. Jordan, an old friend, had been singled out for execution. The two men’s relationship was a more complex one than that of mere former colleagues. Jordan had saved Stratton’s life. Of course that was all part of the job: the teamwork, covering each other’s back. Stratton owed his life to others in the SBS who’d fought alongside him over the years, as several owed theirs to him. But the situation with Jordan differed greatly. Jordan had almost died trying to save Stratton because of a decision that Stratton had made in the first place. Jordan would still be in the SBS - and as an active member - had it not been for that decision.

Things sometimes went wrong on operations, and when they did it was down to human error, equipment failure or interference from the gods. You went into the special forces knowing this. In fact you volunteered. You had to. The extreme risks and the inevitable failures demanded it. Those responsible for the mistakes were rarely dealt with severely. It could not be described as forgiveness, more a level of understanding, among the top brass at least. Yet the operatives were harsh on themselves as well as on each other. Those who failed colleagues could never forget it, even if others chose to leave it unmentioned.

Stratton had not failed Jordan officially, not according to the subsequent inquiry. Opinions among the operation planners and those who had been on the ground at the time differed depending on who you talked to. Justifiable or not, Stratton had never truly come to terms with the results of his decision. At the time he had stood by it as the best he could have done under the circumstances. That had not made the outcome for Jordan any easier to accept, particularly when the man had knowingly risked his life in order to comply with the order. Time could not heal the wound for either man. If any opportunity came along for Stratton to make amends he would grab it with both hands.

Stratton was well aware that the kidnappers could be bluffing, if not about the execution then about the timing. That was often the case and a part of the strategy of negotiation. But not always. Quick executions had sometimes proved helpful in speeding up the decision-making process in the kidnappers’ favour. The group that had hijacked the Morpheus had already killed one worker. They had to be taken seriously.

Stratton felt a sudden jolt of fear: this could be his only chance to make amends. He needed to think it through - he couldn’t afford to be rash. Time was the major factor. He just wouldn’t be able to work out every phase. He’d have to go step by step until he got to the point of no return. By then he would hope to know if the risks of continuing were acceptable.

His first thought was to get out of this nuthouse and back to Poole as soon as possible. If the SBS were planning to act fast, another team would have to be put together and he would probably be the ideal person to lead it - if he could get there. But that would take time. And if they didn’t have the manpower they couldn’t mount the operation, which would put him in the wrong location. The planners might have to ignore the threat, wait for the time lock, and use the original team. Jordan would be screwed if they did.

Stratton wondered if he could find a way onto the platform alone - a private operation. Even a brief consideration of the idea led nowhere. He didn’t have the right kit, for one thing. For another, he would never be able to get a vessel within fifty miles of the rig without being stopped by the Royal Navy. It might theoretically be possible in a small rubber inflatable, if he could carry enough fuel. But if the weather was anything like it usually was in the North Sea that plan could only lead to disaster.

Stratton looked around at the scientists as he pondered these choices and he felt suddenly horrified. Out of all of them, theirs seemed to have the best chance of success in the time-frame. Yet it was rife with obstacles.

London would not go for it, of course, so he would have to begin with subterfuge. The first step was to get on board the waiting helicopter and convince the crew to continue the task with the new team. But even if he could get them airborne, keeping them in the air and heading towards the objective was another big obstacle.

Unable to think of a solution, he moved on to the next major problem: getting this lot onto the platform. It would be putting them at too great a risk. These arrogant nutters were no doubt capable of much but learning to climb an oil rig for the first time in operational conditions was madness.

He had to be mental for even considering it. But as soon as he tried to put the idea from his mind, Jordan was there instead, looking at him, waiting for him to come and pay him back. That was one image Stratton could not delete so easily. The answer was to use what he had available to get as close to the platform as he could and then go it alone. If the scientists were crazy enough to try, he would use them to his advantage. How, he was not yet sure.

Jason realised Stratton was staring at him and with a strange look in his eyes. Binning saw the same thing.

Stratton went over the Poole options once again just in case he had missed anything. He imagined arriving in Dorset that night, and also the airlock opening to free Chaz. In both cases he heard Mike saying he could not be a part of any team because he was not ‘operationally fit’. The thought of it made him angry.

The only option that had any hope lay with the nutters. Even then, it didn’t have much chance of success but it looked like it was all he had. He thought fast. Equipment. What did they need? MI16 had dry-bags, and the chopper would already hold nearly everything else they’d want in the team’s boxes. One step at a time, he reminded himself. Up until the point of no return.

‘I’ll do it,’ Stratton said.

The other men stopped talking to each other and looked at him.

Rowena turned in her chair to face Stratton, her eyes not filled with expectation like those of the others but with suspicion. ‘What changed your mind?’ she asked. ‘Five minutes ago I’d have said there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of you going along with it.’

‘I don’t particularly care,’ Jason said, jumping in. ‘We can’t get the operation going without him.’

‘You trust him so easily, don’t you?’ Rowena flashed Mansfield a look. ‘You’re really that naive?’

Jason resented the dig but respected her point and faced Stratton in the hope of an explanation.

‘Tell us. Why the change of heart?’ Rowena asked the operative again. ‘It would have to be an exceptional reason. Let’s face it, you’d need to be insane to even attempt the operation with this lot.’

Her directness required a response.

Stratton suddenly found himself in the most bizarre position of having to convince them. He ran his fingers through his hair as he pondered the answer. The truth was more convincing than any story he could come up with. He saw no harm in telling them. ‘One of the men they’re threatening to execute on the Morpheus is an old friend.’

‘The one on the far end?’ Rowena asked, remembering how Stratton had looked at that hostage.

‘Yes.’

‘That’s it?’ She did not believe him.

‘I owe him my life. Call it an unpaid debt.’

Rowena studied him, still unconvinced. She turned back to the computer keyboard and began tapping away.

Jason appeared to believe him, whether from desperation on his part or not. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you, about doing it?’

‘I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t.’

Binning’s energy soared at the prospect of going on the adventure and he immediately began to plan ahead. ‘Is there anything else we can bring? We have a few items that your service is unaware of that might be useful.’

Stratton didn’t want them bringing anything else along. But neither did he want to dampen their enthusiasm. ‘The final approach will probably entail a surface swim followed by a climb. Trust me when I say that climbing a caving ladder out of a heavy swell is not easy, even for you super-athletes. It’s more technique than strength.’ He needed to sound serious about taking them all the way onto the platform itself, regardless of his own reasons for going. ‘I advise you to carry as little as possible,’ he added.

The men began discussing various items of equipment and their pros and cons.

‘What was his name?’ Rowena asked, cutting through the chatter.

Stratton paused to consider the wisdom of saying anything else. ‘Jordan Mackay.’

‘Dates in the service?’ she asked, typing.

Stratton had to think. ‘I don’t know how long he was in the Marines but he was in the SBS for about ten years.’

Rowena studied the screen, which displayed the faces of several men. She had scanned Jordan’s features from the news report and was matching it to a database of SBS operatives past and present. A match came up quickly.

‘He’s telling the truth.The man on the Morpheus is Jordan Mackay, former member of the Special Boat Service, retired a year ago.’

‘You’re going to the oil platform to rescue a friend?’ Mansfield asked.

‘Did you think I was going for you?’

This didn’t satisfy him. ‘The surveillance system will be set up on the lower levels of the rig without anyone needing to go up top and become exposed. If you go in search of this man, you’ll put the whole operation at risk.’

‘I guess it’s not perfect for either of us. I thought this was a chance for you to prove yourselves.’

‘And for you too, perhaps,’ Rowena added. ‘After your last cock-up.’

Stratton clenched his jaw. The woman was an arse, to be sure, but he was not going to let her get to him this time.

‘That’s irresponsible, isn’t it?’ Jason asked, pressing the point.

‘Look who’s talking,’ Stratton responded.

The scientist remained unsure. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for but the question was: could he achieve his aims under these conditions? ‘How do we get on board the helicopter?’ he asked.

There was a moment’s silence while everyone took in the likely reality of the situation. It was a serious step in itself to try, even if they didn’t get out through the door. If London knew they were even considering it they would not be amused.

‘We get fully rigged and walk on board,’ Stratton said. ‘Leave the rest to me.’

‘The crewman will know we’re not the same team,’ Smithy said.

Stratton had been aware of an air of nervousness surrounding the tall, skinny, pale-looking man. Now that they seemed to be going ahead with the task it was getting even more noticeable.

‘Obviously,’ Stratton replied. ‘So we don’t try and pretend otherwise. We tell them the truth.’

‘Tell the crew that the SBS team are stuck in the airlock, you mean?’ Jackson asked. Jackson was bigger than all of the others but none of the man’s bulk tended to fat. He looked the type who liked to take supplements and press weights, and he did not look apprehensive in the least. He held Stratton’s gaze.

‘Won’t they want to verify any changes with the operations officer?’ Smithy asked, looking to the others for agreement.

‘That’s the bit we need to delay,’ Stratton said.

Jason nodded his understanding. ‘What’s the lost-comms procedure?’

‘They’ll proceed with the plan,’ Stratton replied.

Jason faced Binning. ‘We need to block their comms.’

‘That’s easy enough,’ Binning said. ‘Would they go all the way without comms?’ he asked Stratton.

Stratton shook his head.

‘Then what do we do?’ Jason asked.

‘Baby steps,’ Stratton said. ‘Options may present themselves.’

‘Rather like a trapeze artist releasing the swing without knowing where the other swing is,’ Rowena offered.

‘Welcome to my world. You sure you still want to play in it?’ Stratton asked.

Jason had heard enough. ‘Are we agreed?’ He looked at the other four scientists.

Binning nodded. ‘Most definitely.’

Smithy nodded.

‘Yes,’ Jackson said.

Rowena hesitated. The others waited for her answer.

Her stare was fixed on Stratton. It was him she was unsure of.

‘We need you,’ Jason said.

‘Got to have a babe in the team or they won’t make the movie,’ Binning said, grinning.

Rowena eventually lowered her eyes and remained where she was.

Jason knew her well enough. ‘We’re all in,’ he announced.

Stratton felt his awareness of the insanity of it all rising up in his consciousness once again but he suppressed it. ‘Just one thing,’ he said. ‘I’m in charge, all the way. No arguments, deals, negotiations. I want that understood.’

Jason accepted the condition without hesitation. ‘Agreed. You’re the boss.’

Stratton checked the others to ensure that it was unanimous. There did not appear to be any objections apart from the unvoiced ones from Rowena who remained looking at the floor. ‘How do we get up to the chopper?’ he asked.

‘Same way you came down,’ Binning replied.

‘Then let’s get rigged,’ Stratton ordered.

‘Do you mind if I have a brief word with my troops first?’ Jason asked. ‘Kind of a pep talk, really. You’re welcome to stay.’

Stratton checked his watch. ‘One minute. Let’s not keep the crew hanging around much longer or they may start making calls before we can get up there.’

Jason understood and faced his colleagues with some urgency. ‘You too, Rowena,’ he insisted.

Rowena got to her feet to join them, although a level of reluctance from her was still evident.

‘Up until now we’ve only fantasised about going live, as it were . . . getting stuck into a real operation,’ Jason began. ‘There’s a good chance it will now happen. Granted, it isn’t because of our renowned capabilities but due to a series of unexpected events. Nonetheless, it could put us in the spotlight as a team of operators as well as the boffins we already are. But I want you all to be aware of the risks involved. This may be a surveillance task but it is the nature of this business that when things go wrong it can be costly. I want you all to be completely sure that what it is you’re about to attempt is dangerous and that it could cost lives as well as save them. Frankly, if you’re not prepared to take such a risk for this opportunity you should not be embarking on this task. Am I clear?’

They all nodded.

‘Are you prepared to carry on with this task with the understanding that some of us may not come back?’

They each nodded in turn as Jason looked at them, Rowena last. She made him wait.

‘Good,’ Jason said, straightening up. ‘I’ll take you to the equipment room,’ he said to Stratton who was waiting by the door.

The storeroom was packed with special-forces operational equipment: a rack of hanging dry-suits, fireproof undersuits, a box of harnesses, boots, leather gloves and so on. ‘You guys are well stocked,’ Stratton said.

Jackson, a head taller than Stratton, was beside him, attaching a flare to a diving-knife sheath with a thick rubber band. ‘We trial every piece of equipment we design for special forces and the other clandestine departments in the conditions in which we expect them to get used. That means having similar operational equipment.’ He took his dry-bag and left the room to get rigged.

Stratton searched along another shelf. ‘Do you have any karabiners? ’ he asked the figure in the next row. As he looked between the boxes he realised it was Rowena. She pushed a box towards him through the shelving, gave him a cold look and went out.

Stratton sat alone on a chair. He pulled off his boots, followed by his outer garments, and climbed into the one-piece under-suit. After putting on a pair of rubber-soled climbing boots he got to his feet, ready to go. He picked up the bag containing his dry-bag and harness and looked for somewhere to leave his civvies. He spotted an empty shelf at the top against the far wall.

As he reached up and shoved the bag onto the shelf he heard someone talking softly on the other side of a door. He was about to step away when he recognised Jason and Rowena’s voices. Something about the situation, maybe a defensive suspicion of this crowd, and also the lowered voices, stopped him from leaving. He moved so that he could see through the narrow opening. Rowena and Jason stood close to each other, unaware of Stratton’s presence.

Jason placed his hands on the young woman’s hips and wrapped them around her waist, pulling her against him. She rested her arms on his shoulders, her fingers entwined behind his head. Their lips came together and they kissed passionately, their hold on each other tightening.

It was the point beyond which Stratton felt uncomfortable.

He headed back to the theory room, where he bumped into Smithy.

‘Hi,’ Smithy said fumbling with the fingerprint analyser. ‘I’m excited to be coming along.’

Stratton doubted that very much.

As they went in they saw Binning and Jackson in fireproof suits, looking ready to go. Binning held up a rigid laptop-sized plastic box. ‘This is the G43 overlook device.’

‘How will we block the Chinook’s comms?’ Stratton asked, interested in the more immediate problem.

‘Same device,’ Binning said.

‘You can do that from here?’

‘No. Nothing can transmit from down here except through the secure cabling. It’s already active. Soon as we’re through the screens it’ll block all comms.’

Jason and Rowena walked into the room wearing firesuits and carrying kitbags. It didn’t surprise Stratton that Rowena’s suit fitted her shapely body very well. ‘What else are we taking apart from the G43?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ Jason replied. ‘We’ve taken your advice and gone for lightness.’

Stratton nodded. ‘Okay. Look after your kit. Make sure it works. In the middle of the North Sea in the dark when the chopper has left is not a good time to discover you have a leak.’

‘We’re ready,’ Jason assured him. ‘Let’s go,’ he said to the others, forgetting for a moment that Stratton was in charge.

As they walked, Binning came alongside Stratton. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’

Stratton glanced at the man he didn’t think he could ever warm to. It was more than Binning’s cocky, condescending attitude. The scientist had an underlying greyness, an indistinctness about him. Stratton couldn’t put his finger precisely on it but it was ever-present. ‘What?’

‘The story between you and this Mackay chap who’s on the platform. What is that?’

Jason overheard the question and glanced back as if he too was interested to know the answer. Stratton didn’t particularly want to talk about it, not with this lot. ‘It was just an operation in Afghanistan that didn’t go to plan.’

‘Rowena found a watered-down report on the incident,’ Jason said. ‘It implied that some bad decisions were made but did not lay blame. You were the team commander.’

Stratton suspected they were trying to wind him up.Yet a twinge of guilt rippled through him. ‘If you’re wondering whether or not it was my fault, the answer is yes, it was.’

‘You made a mistake?’ Binning asked.

‘I made a decision. There are always choices in any operation. Sometimes none of them are any good.’

Stratton had never explained the incident in detail to anyone, other than in the clinical post-operational report he had written. He was suddenly attracted to the notion of telling the MI16 lot about it. There was no harm in them knowing. He thought back to that dark and dangerous night. ‘It was in Helmand. We went into a village a few hours before sun-up to lift a guy, a warlord,’ he said. ‘He was a grower - heroin - and he’d kill anyone, coalition forces, locals, to protect his business. He paid off the Taliban, who also protected him.

‘We knew where he was. A small army, three fifty, four hundred men, surrounded the house. Our surveillance showed they weren’t very alert at night. Sentries slept at their posts. We went in on foot, walked right into the village. We took out anyone in our way . . . At the first sentry position half a dozen Taliban lay on the ground, sleeping. We killed them all. The next lot in our way were talking and smoking around a fire. We took them out, too. The silenced weapons we used weren’t really silent. You can’t hear the bullets coming out of the muzzles. But you can hear the machinery, the clatter of the working parts inside the weapon, pushing the next round into the breech before it fires. Click, click, click. That became our catchphrase for killing. Click-click.What are you doing tonight? Click-click. We did a lot of that over there.

‘We went in through the back door of one of those mud-walled houses, a bungalow filled with the smoke from kerosene lamps. They were sleeping on the floor. People all over the place. We divided up and shot every one of them simultaneously, except in the end room where the target lay. We gagged him and he woke up and we bound his arms. Our Afghan guide told him we would kill him if he tried to raise the alarm. He understood.’

They had stopped walking now, a few steps from the compound’s lift. Stratton had the scientists’ attention.

‘I went to the front door and looked out onto the street. We intended to walk on out of the village with this worlord. But men were up and walking about in every direction. We didn’t know why. Maybe they’d found bodies. A couple of men approached the house. We let them enter and then we killed them. Click, click, click. But we couldn’t do that all night. If one of them had managed to get off a round none of us would have got out of there alive. They would have hit us with everything they’d got, even if it meant killing their warlord. We could only carry so much ammunition and no one would have been able to get to us in time.

‘I had two options, as I saw it. We could walk out of there and hope we didn’t bump into anyone. Or we could call in our vehicles. That was Jordan’s team. In the original plan he would pick us up beyond the village, when we were clear. But we had discussed the possibility of him driving through. The white Toyota pick-ups we used were the same as the Taliban used in that area. Convoys of them came through the village at any time of the day or night. We felt we could get away with it. A one-off. When I signalled Jordan he asked if we could get closer to the edge of the village. He could see movement on the road and thought he might be challenged. Once the Taliban got a look at the occupants of our Toyotas there would be a battle. I said no. He had to come in and get us. I thought he had more chance of success that way than us going to him.

‘Jordan wasn’t the type to argue, not in a situation like that. So he came on in - the three pick-ups, loud as hell, headlights cutting through the blackness. A handful of Taliban challenged them on the edge of the village but they pushed through. The Taliban didn’t fire, they hadn’t seen enough. Jordan kept on coming. Men walked out of houses as the pick-ups passed, or stood where they had been sleeping, wrapped in blankets. They always had AK-47s, as if the guns were part of their bodies.

‘It was obvious it had to be a moving pick-up. We moved out of the house. A couple of Taliban came towards us. The warlord decided this was his best chance of surviving. We took the Taliban out. Click-click. Others came. We took them out. As the pick-ups arrived we ran to them and dived into the backs. The warlord began to scream, he could see we were succeeding. We shot him through the head. The op was over. We’d failed. It was survival time. It’s not unusual. Not every op is a success. You can only plan for so much. You let go of the trapeze a hundred feet above the ground and look for another.’ Stratton glanced at Rowena.

‘The Taliban opened up on us. Our vehicles weren’t armoured. All we had was the dust we kicked up and the rounds we could put down. Every vehicle got hit but somewhow we all made it out of the killing zone. We lost one vehicle with a stalled engine outside the village but everyone managed to get into another Toyota. Two of my lads were hit - nothing serious. I didn’t know Jordan had been shot until we got to the air-extraction RV. He’d driven without a complaint for twenty minutes until he lost so much blood that he started to fall unconscious.

‘He kept quiet, hoping it was nothing serious so that I wouldn’t get blamed for it. When he told me this later it was his only admission that he thought I’d made the wrong call. Within months he’d been invalided out of the service.’

The lift doors stood open before them and they stepped inside.

‘Do you still believe you were right?’ Jason asked as the doors closed.

‘That’s not the point,’ Stratton said.

‘What is the point?’ Jackson asked.

‘If you need to ask you wouldn’t understand.’

The lift came to a halt and they walked out into the tacky lobby. The others were dissatisfied with Stratton’s answer. ‘Was Jordan a good operative?’ Jason asked.

‘Very.’

‘Did he get the point?’ Jason persisted.

It was an interesting question. That was Stratton’s only complaint about his old friend. ‘You know how beekeepers deal with getting stung? They can’t blame the bees.’

Stratton left them to ponder the comment and he opened the exterior door enough to look towards the helipad. The sound of the helicopter’s purring engines increased measurably. ‘That thing working?’ he asked Binning.

Binning held the plastic case in his hand. ‘I promise you it is.’

Stratton opened the door fully. ‘Give me one minute.’

As the operative closed the door behind him it aroused Rowena’s suspicions once again. ‘Have you considered the possibility that he’ll simply tell the helicopter crew what we’re doing and bring this to an end?’ she said.

‘Don’t you believe him?’ Jason asked.

‘Does he need us to achieve his mission?’ she wondered.

‘I think he needs us - for the initial stage, at least.’

‘Want to bet he doesn’t plan on taking us all the way to the platform, though?’

Jason opened the door enough to let the noise back in and saw Stratton walk up the steps of the helipad and out of view. ‘We’ll have to watch him.’

With the rotors unengaged only the hot exhaust from the engines bothered Stratton as he entered the Chinook. The relatively spacious cabin had a line of hammock seats halfway down one side, while on the other dozens of various-sized plastic moulded boxes were lashed to rings on the bulkhead. Taking up most of the centre of the floor was a reinforced fibreglass SBS mini-submarine that looked like a fat and stubby black cigar, rounded at the front like a revolver bullet. The propeller, at the rear, sat inside a housing designed to protect a diver from swimming into it. Directly behind the nose was the open cockpit with seats for pilot and navigator. A compartment behind that, separated from the cockpit by a grille, was just about large enough to accommodate four people. The craft had breathing umbilicals attached along the inside of the bulkhead with nozzles for six divers. With no doors in the cabin or cockpit, just gaps where the crew climbed in and out, the sub was termed a ‘wet ride’: it flooded fully when it was underwater.

As soon as Stratton saw the sub he had a fairly good idea what the SBS plan was. In the cockpit the pilots and the crewman were in a discussion about something. Stratton put down his bags, reached inside and tapped the crewman on the back.

The man looked around and broke into a broad grin on seeing the face he instantly recognised. ‘Stratton. What’re you doin’ ’ere?’ he asked, immediately wondering why he was wearing a firesuit.

‘How’s it going, George? You well?’

‘Not bad. Not bad. Chaz didn’t mention we were picking you up.’

‘Who’re the drivers?’ Stratton asked, trying to get a look at the faces inside the helmets worn by the two guys sitting with their backs to him.

‘Charles and Steve,’ George said, tapping both men on the shoulders and indicating the new visitor.

Charles, the pilot, smiled a hello on seeing Stratton and Steve gave him a wave. ‘What are you doing here?’ Charles shouted.

‘Complicated story,’ Stratton said.

‘Got a comms problem,’ the pilot continued. ‘We were in the middle of a sitrep from ops when everything shut down.’

‘Can you fix it?’

‘It’s not us. I’m certain of that.’

‘Maybe it’s this complex.They have a lot of security here. Haven’t you spoken to ops at all?’

‘Told them we arrived.’

‘Did they mention our situation?’

Charles shook his head. Stratton got a little closer. ‘There’s been a security breach inside the complex. One of the team tripped a lockdown.’

The pilot’s gaze moved to look beyond Stratton at the bunch of new faces outside, all wearing firesuits and carrying kitbags. ‘Who are they?’

Stratton glanced over his shoulder to see Jason and the others. ‘What I thought you’d already know by now. Chaz and the others are stuck in a security vault for the next twenty-four hours. They took something into the complex that tripped the lockdown. London has given us the okay to continue with the task. These guys are up to it. Luckily enough I happened to be here.’

The pilot looked from his own crew to the newcomers. It was definitely an odd situation. ‘I need to confirm this with ops.’

‘Of course,’ Stratton agreed.

‘But I don’t have any comms,’ he reminded Stratton.

Stratton needed to help him along. ‘We can’t jeopardise the task,’ he shouted above the noise of the Chinook’s engines. ‘I suggest we get airborne, see if your comms clear, then confirm it with ops.’

The pilot agreed. ‘Get them on board and I’ll wind us up.’

Stratton waved Jason aboard and the team filed into the cabin.

The entire crew gave Rowena a double take and George looked approvingly at Stratton.

Stratton moved his lips close to the crewman’s ear. ‘Careful, George, you’re just her type.’

George suspected that Stratton was joking but a part of him hoped it could be true. Smiling, he faced the team as the engine noise increased and he indicated for them to sit in the seats. ‘Buckle up!’ he shouted and mimicked buckling the seat belts.

They felt at their sides for the belts. George was on his knees and in front of Rowena like a shot. He slid his hands past her thighs in order to retrieve the straps from beneath the thin nylon seat. She watched him but George was too thick-skinned to read her disdain. He went as far as to buckle it up for her.

‘I’ve never seen a strap tighten that small before,’ he said, raising his eyebrows and grinning.

Her look froze even further.

George stood up and took a step back. He walked around the mini-sub where Stratton was checking the boxes for the equipment they contained. ‘Does she always look like that?’

Stratton glanced over at her. ‘Yes,’ he said.

George took it to mean nothing but then was unsure. He moved away to prepare the chopper for lift-off.

Stratton lifted a silenced H&K sub-machine gun out of a box to inspect it. The helicopter shuddered as it ascended. He looked through a porthole at the shrinking old compound. They’d done it. Now how the hell were they going to get to the coast, never mind get into the water?