The wind howled over the metal deck as the three men walked across it. The energy of the storm hadn’t dissipated since it had reached its peak a few hours earlier and as they moved into the light falling from the deck above everything seemed to be coming loose. Spotlights shuddered in their housings and rattled on the ends of poles. The dead worker’s corpse swung from the crane’s hook in the gale.

Deacon stopped beside the crane to look down at a lifeboat in its cradle suspended over the side of the deck below. ‘We’ll take that one,’ he said. He glanced across to the stairs that led up from the accommodation block. ‘Where are those blokes? You’d think they’d be ’ere like a shot.’

‘Nobody move.’ The voice came from the darkness.

Jordan and Binning recognised it instantly and Deacon did not take long to guess who was speaking.

‘Let’s have a show of hands. I have a light trigger finger.’

Binning released the G43 bag, letting it hang from his shoulder, and put up both hands. The other two men held their hands away from their bodies, palms out.

Stratton stepped from the shadows, the muzzle end of his SMG leading the way. He positioned himself where he could see each of them, his back to the rails. ‘Why do I get a bad feeling about this picture? You don’t look or sound much like a prisoner, Jordan. Nor you, Binning.’ Stratton looked at the third man. ‘How many of you are there?’ he asked.

Jordan stuck his chin up stiffly, trying to be assertive despite his feeling of extreme guilt. ‘There’s six more guns out there.’

Stratton wondered if they knew about the Somali or the other four he’d killed. If not, that meant only one armed man was still at large. One was enough to kill him, though. He put the thought to one side, comfortable for the time being with his back close to the rails. He needed some back-up. Flown onto the platform. That would mean he’d have to be able to contact ops. He was going to have to secure these three, and that might not be simple. ‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’

Jordan glanced at the others, wondering what they were planning, knowing that the ticking-bomb countdown would provoke an act of desperation sooner or later. ‘We don’t have time for talk right now.’

‘Why’s that?’ Stratton asked, sensing a tension in all three.

A figure appeared, hurrying across the deck towards them.

‘This place could get pretty crowded soon,’ Deacon said, his tone cocky.

‘Not with your people,’ said Stratton, shrinking back into the shadows.

Deacon’s smile faded. He wondered exactly what the man meant.

‘I don’t advise anyone to try and take advantage of any distractions. I don’t need to bring any of you in alive. That goes for you too, Jordan.’

‘Boss,’ Banzi called out, unable to make out the individuals in the poor light. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he said as he got to them, his assault rifle gripped firmly in his hands. ‘I saw Viking and the Bulgarian on the floor. I’m sure they were dead. I think the workers have weapons. They must have the other two inside the galley.’

Banzi realised something else was wrong when Deacon and the others remained still.

‘Put the gun down,’ Stratton ordered. His own was pointed at the Japanese man.

Banzi turned to look at the figure emerging from the shadows.

‘Put it down,’ Stratton repeated.

Banzi crouched, lowered his gun to the deck and held out his hands as he stood upright again.

‘You were saying,’ Stratton said to Jordan.

Jordan was about to answer when two more figures moved across the deck, walking stealthily, flitting between the light and shadows.

Stratton started to shrink back once again, wondering if it was more hijackers or perhaps even workers. He suddenly recognised Rowena and then Jason. ‘Over here,’ he called out.

The pair recognised Stratton’s voice and made their way towards the group.

‘Don’t get too close,’ Stratton warned. ‘They’re still armed.’

‘Binning?’ Rowena exclaimed on seeing her fellow scientist with his hands out. ‘I thought something had happened to you.’

‘I don’t think Binning’s on our side any more,’ Stratton said.

Rowena noticed the G43 container hanging from his shoulder.

Jason stared at Binning in disbelief.

‘Sorry, Jason,’ Binning said. ‘I meant to tell you I was leaving but I didn’t have the chance.’

‘What is this, Jordan? More than just a hijacking?’ Stratton asked.

Jordan couldn’t see the sense in keeping quiet now. As far as he was concerned, the game was up. ‘A lot more. The platform was just a front.’

‘That’s disappointing. I came all the way here just for you, old friend.’

Jordan’s feeling of guilt deepened further.

Stratton looked over at Deacon. ‘Who’s your mate?’ he asked Jordan.

‘Ex-regiment. I never met him before. He took the platform.’

Stratton kept the muzzle of his weapon trained on Deacon, sensing that he was the most dangerous. ‘And you, Binning?’

Binning became his usual light-hearted self. ‘Unlike your friend here, I don’t think this is the time to start revealing facts and admitting guilt. There’s more of this game left to play, just in case you happen to think it’s all over because you currently have the upper hand. As your friend keeps trying to warn you, we don’t have a great deal of time. You should think about taking him seriously.’

Stratton was not about to be manipulated. ‘Before we do anything else I want you all to get down on the deck . . . on your bellies.’

‘You’re not listening,’ Jordan pleaded. ‘We don’t have time for that.’

Stratton took his old friend seriously. ‘Why not?’

‘Charges have been critically placed. We’ve just enough time to get to the lifeboats. I’m serious,’ Jordan assured him, seeing the doubt in Stratton’s face. ‘I was never in agreement with that part of the plan but it’s done—’

‘Don’t be such a wuss,’ Deacon interrupted.

‘Explain the explosives,’ Stratton commanded Deacon.

The man shrugged. ‘Like he said. And there’s an anti-lift built into both dets that’ll take you longer than you ’ave just to find ’em.’

‘He has the initiator,’ Jordan said.

‘I ’ave to say, Jordan, I’ve lost all respect for you.’

Stratton levelled his SMG at the former SAS man. ‘Give me the initiator.’

Deacon shook his head. ‘I start a job, I finish it.’

‘I’ll kill you in five seconds if you don’t hand it to me and then he’ll search you for it,’ Stratton said, indicating Jason. He raised the business end of the SMG.

Deacon knew that a round leaving the gun’s barrel would strike his head. And he had no doubt that Stratton was about to pull the trigger. ‘It’s in my pack.’

Stratton didn’t move.

Deacon reached into the bag and removed the safe-box that had contained his secret instructions. ‘It’s in here,’ he said, a smirk on his lips. He tossed the box to Jordan who caught it. ‘I’ll let the rat give it to you.’

Binning was the first to take advantage of the distraction by suddenly grabbing Rowena, pulling her in front of him and drawing his pistol. He held its muzzle to the back of her head. ‘That’s enough,’ he said, stepping backwards, putting distance between himself and Stratton’s lethal SMG. ‘I don’t have time to play these games any more. I’m going to walk down to one of the lifeboats. If anyone tries to stop me I’ll kill her. Please don’t doubt me. Time is running out.’

‘Stand still,’ Stratton said coldly. The confidence of his tone checked Binning. ‘Take one more step and I’ll shoot. You won’t make it to the boat whether you kill her or not,’ Stratton said. With finality.

Whatever Binning thought about Stratton he suddenly had no doubts that the man would kill him. He couldn’t let go of Rowena but neither could he take another step towards the lifeboats.

‘What’s the number?’ Jordan asked Deacon.

‘Could take you a while to open that without it,’ Deacon chuckled.

‘I’m going to start shooting in three seconds,’ Stratton growled.

‘One, two, three, four, then the open button,’ Deacon said quickly. ‘I don’t have a memory for complicated numbers.’

Jordan punched in the first number on the digital keyboard.

Deacon watched. He took a quick glance at Stratton, who was watching him, jaw tight and finger on the trigger. If Deacon moved he knew the SBS man would shoot him.

Binning held Rowena tightly to him, desperately wondering how to get out of this situation. Freedom was only metres away but Stratton would kill him and maybe Rowena if he moved, he was sure of it.

Deacon’s stare flicked back to Jordan. There was less explosive in the box than in a hand grenade and since it was made of toughened plastic, which the heat would soften, there would be less lethal shrapnel. But the blast would be enough to injure all of them, perhaps seriously. Jordan would die, of course. All Deacon had to do was survive it, get the upper hand and escape. There was time.

Jordan touched the number three on the pad. Deacon tensed himself for four.

Jason was watching Jordan but a glance at Deacon suddenly warned him of something. The way the man’s stare bored into Jordan’s fingers, his body trying to lean away.

Jordan had pressed the four button. Only ‘open’ to go now. Deacon was trembling with the urge to dive away. If he did so too soon Jordan could stop, and Stratton would shoot him.

The operative saw the change in Deacon, the tension in his expression and the way he was leaning backwards. He didn’t know whether to shoot him or shout at Jordan to stop. Either alternative would have been too late to save Jordan.

As Jordan’s finger hit the final button Deacon launched himself backwards. Stratton crouched instinctively and tightened his finger on the trigger. The explosion lifted each of them away from Jordan, a wall of heat sending them reeling across the deck.

Jason came to crumpled against a piece of machinery, his head spinning, unsure of where in the world he was. All he knew was that he was in a dangerous place. He fought to pull his thoughts together. The seconds before the blast came back to him and he pushed himself up onto his hands. He realised that he couldn’t see out of one eye and in a fit of panic he felt for it, expecting to find that he had lost it. The skin was sticky but the eyeball felt like it was there. He wiped it and blinked furiously. He realised blood was flowing from a cut across his forehead.

Jordan lay still, his smouldering upper body cruelly distorted by the blast. It had taken off both his arms and removed his face completely. Against the rails Stratton heaved in lungfuls of air and tried to bring his knees beneath him, to get up. Deacon was on all fours, shaking his head like a deranged drunk. The Japanese mercenary lay planted across a tool bench and, although dazed, his face peppered in bloody cuts, he was stretching an arm towards his weapon that was a foot away.

Jason could see no sign of Binning and Rowena. He got shakily to his feet and saw the Japanese man going for the weapon. If either thug regained control of the situation it would not be ideal.

Jason aimed himself at the man, put a foot on the weapon as Banzi took hold of the barrel to pull it closer, then dropped onto him. The mercenary was no slouch when it came to self-defence and with a lift of his knee somersaulted Jason over him and onto his back. Banzi got to his knees and picked up the weapon but Jason kicked him in the face from where he lay and sent the mercenary rolling.

Both men scrambled for the gun, both grabbing it at the same time, and a fierce battle for its control ensued.

Stratton had absorbed a heavy impact from the explosion. His vision was askew and he fought to control it. Oddly the blast brought back memories of other explosions that he had survived. In a strange way the memories helped him. He knew it had only been seconds since the detonation and that he had to get to his feet. If he did not gain control of himself, someone else might. He became aware of two men slamming into a piece of nearby machinery, fighting over possession of a rifle. As the rain pelted his face he saw a man on his knees a few metres away reaching for a backpack on the soaked metal deck, his hand rooting inside it. Deacon. Stratton had to get to him before he got what he wanted out of the pack.

The operative put all his weight onto his toes and hands and shoved off like a sprinter. He managed to stay on track after tottering slightly and barrelled into his target, hurting himself in the process but sending the man reeling. The pistol that Deacon had in his hand clattered along the gridded floor and dropped through a gap to the deck below.

Stratton pressed home the attack with little ambition beyond smothering his adversary and controlling him. But Deacon had taken less of the blast. He flipped over and swung a punch that connected with Stratton’s face. Stratton held him like a boxer hanging on to an opponent to gain breathing space. But the man fought feverishly, raining blow after blow onto Stratton and, finally freeing himself, rolled away to the top of a stairway and scrambled down the steps.

Despite the blows, Stratton could feel his senses returning, perhaps due to a combination of the cold rain and the adrenalin shooting through him. He grabbed a rail and pulled himself to his feet at the top of the steps.

Deacon had nearly reached the bottom and Stratton did the only thing he could think of: he launched himself from the top and let gravity do the rest. He hit Deacon square in the back, propelling him along the rails and into one of the lifeboat cradles. Both of them were winded but Stratton more so than the ex-SAS man. Deacon held Stratton around the neck in a powerful grip and began to force his head onto one of the guides so that the swinging vessel above might crush it. Stratton avoided the first roll but his face ended up back on the guide. Deacon held him firm and reached for the boat’s release lever that if pulled would sever Stratton’s head. As Stratton twisted free his harness strap got caught on a bolt-head. Deacon yanked the lever. The lifeboat swung down on its rollers along the guides and out above the water in preparation for lowering. Stratton threw himself out of the way with less than a second to spare.

Deacon was about to move in for another attack when he saw the pistol lying on the deck between several duct pipes. He decided it was his best chance. Stratton recovered to see the mercenary grabbing a firm hold of the gun. He was too far away to charge the man. As Deacon turned to shoot, Stratton launched himself in between a dense section of piping and, bouncing between one and another, scrambled for all he was worth as the first bullet exploded from the gun and slammed into metal, ricocheting several times. A high-pressure pipe burst loudly, spurting black oily liquid in all directions. Stratton hit so much metal with his body as he ran recklessly that he could not be sure if he’d been struck by the bullet. But as long as he could still move that was what he would fight to do.

He ducked beneath spars, grabbed ahead for pipes to pull himself on. He darted between pieces of machinery, trying not to allow his pursuer a clean shot. Deacon stalked him deliberately, moving confidently over pipes, around valves, between machines, not taking his eye off his prey flitting in and out of sight and only barely managing to deny him a clean shot.

Deacon knew that he would get his man if he remained calm and controlled. He had been in similar situations before, all in the desert, following up failed ambushers or opportunist attackers who had underestimated their intended victim until it was too late. None of those past experiences would be as satisfying as this one. Not only was there more at stake but his prey was a professional like him. A man of pedigree. A member of the SBS. It would be a worthy kill.

Stratton could sense the ability of his pursuer and desperately fought through the obstacles, first one way, then another. He grabbed a steaming-hot pipe, groaned with the pain and pulled himself forward anyway. One clean shot was all the bastard would need and it would be over.

Stratton risked a glance back, only to see the muzzle flash of the gun as Deacon fired. Inches wide. Stratton searched ahead. It was going to have to be over the side. Yet even that looked doubtful. He still had half the deck between him and the edge.

Another round slammed into a girder inches from Stratton’s head. Deacon knew he had at least ten left. Another shot slammed into a storage container. Stratton suddenly emerged from the nest of piping to find himself in open space. A round sliced across his arm, cutting through his dry-suit, burning the skin.

Stratton saw his only chance: across the gap was a diving habitat, the hatch open at the end of the tube. He sprinted towards it with every ounce of strength he could muster.

As Deacon stepped out from the pipes and came up on aim, fancying his chance at a moving target, Stratton dived into the manhole-sized hatch and bounced into the tube. Deacon’s shot slammed into the steel pipe. Unperturbed, he walked briskly towards the housing. As far as he could see, Stratton had run into some kind of diving bell and was trapped. The final moment was coming. Such was his confidence that Deacon paused to calculate the time remaining: he had around fifteen minutes before the charges went off. Ample time to blow this prick away and launch a lifeboat.

The habitat was basically a saturation-divers’ surface-living accommodation for use between diving tasks. The entrance tube that Stratton had dived through led into a living chamber containing a couple of bunk beds and a table. A further tube led from the living chamber to another hatch that was used to connect to the actual diving bell after it was brought to the surface with the divers inside. They could remain at pressure on the platform, sleep and eat in the habitat without having to decompress, and so could go back to work the following day.

Stratton climbed from the tube into the chamber. He turned himself around and began to reach along the tube to shut the hatch, which opened inwards. As he did so Deacon appeared. Stratton knew he wouldn’t make it and shuffled back into the cramped accommodation section, looking around for anything he could use. When Deacon leaned in through the hatch with his pistol gripped in his outstretched hand Stratton hit a switch on the wall and the light went out. The boom of the gun echoed loudly in the bell. The bullet struck the metal skin and bounced around inside several times before its energy dissipated.

Deacon listened for any clue that he had struck his man. ‘Come on, matey. All you’re doin’ is delayin’ the end. Let me finish you off cleanly so I can get about my business.’

The silence within the grim habitat persisted, the only sound the wind whistling past the hatch opening. Deacon checked his watch. He still had twelve or so minutes before detonation. There was time to finish the job in hand. With an irritated sigh, he lifted himself inside the tube.

He inched his way along, keeping the pistol close in front of him, confident he could get the shot in even in the darkness.

A heavy metal object flew into the tube, bounced off the side and struck Deacon hard in the face, only serving to rile the man further. ‘You bleedin’ twat!’ he shouted, his voice echoing in the cavelike dwelling. ‘Right,’ he muttered, more determined than ever to get the bastard. He stopped before the end of the pipe and fired into the blackness of the accommodation. The round ricocheted across the metal room. He fired again and again in different directions, certain that he would hit the man eventually. Deacon was well aware of the risks of being struck himself but his obsession with killing Stratton was muddying his judgement. ‘Come on, you little shit! The SAS are ’ere now. The boss men. The numero unos! Your betters! Accept it and take it like a man!’

Deacon fired again and as the echoes of the gun’s discharge and the bullet’s ricochet subsided he could hear a sound. A change in the dim light came from the opening of another tunnel at the other side of the accommodation section. Deacon squinted, wondering what it could be. He realised there was movement in the tunnel and that the light was coming from outside. Stratton was climbing out through another hatch.

Deacon fired wildly towards it and scrambled as quickly as he could. He dropped onto the floor of the habitat and ran across it to the other tube. He struck the table with his hip and cursed, lunging into the pipe. In the dim light he saw a hand reach in to grab the handle in the middle of the hatch. Deacon struggled to bring the weapon up on aim, then changed his mind and grabbed for the edge of the hatch before it closed. It was ripped from his hand and slammed shut. He lunged for the internal wheel in the darkness but it spun in his hand and bolts moved into grooves to lock the hatch solidly into place.

Deacon pulled as hard as he could on the wheel but it would not budge. The bastard had blocked it with something. The implications of his predicament filled him with panic. He had been outsmarted. But there was still the original entrance. He slid back into the living chamber as quickly as he could.

Stratton finished hammering the cleat into the hatch wheel and ran around the outside of the habitat. He paused at the control panel and quickly scanned the valves and gauges. Time was running out. He identified the valve he needed and turned it brutally several times. Something behind the panel began to hiss. He rushed to the original entrance hatch to complete the manoeuvre, reaching inside as Deacon scrambled into the tube.

Deacon raised his gun to fire and as Stratton pulled the wheel of the hatch towards himself the pistol went off.The round bounced off the inside of the hatch. Deacon lunged forward, grabbing for the wheel, this time getting hold of it before Stratton could close it. They began a desperate tug-of-war.

Stratton raised a knee up against the outer seal as Deacon hooked his feet around the edge of the tube. Stratton almost had the hatch closed but he could not pull it that last inch to turn the wheel. The gas building up inside the chamber began to escape through the hatch. Stratton put all he had into one big effort and almost managed to close the opening. It was the escaping gas that eventually worked in his favour and the hatch suddenly slammed shut like a safe door under the internal pressure.

Stratton slumped limply, hanging from the wheel in pain. He did not need to turn the handle to lock the hatch. The increasing pressure inside would ensure it remained firmly shut. Just a few pounds’ difference in pressure between the inside and outside was enough to keep the door closed against the strength of a team of horses.

Stratton was in pain, his bullet wounds giving him hell after his efforts. None had penetrated deeply since all had been third- or fourth-generation ricochets. But they had done some damage.

He forced himself to his feet, all too aware of the imminence of the explosion. He checked the pressure gauges on the control panel and felt the side of his chest and dug a flattened bullet out of his dry-bag.

As he was about to set off to the main deck there came a crash nearby as a body landed from above. It was a hellish fall and if the person hadn’t been dead beforehand they had to be close to it now.

Another figure scurried down a duct pipe to land nearby. Jason walked over to inspect his work, then realised the presence of someone close to him and prepared to face another attacker.

Stratton was impressed. Until then he’d considered the man to be little more than a highly intelligent stuffed shirt but it appeared that he could turn his dojo skills to some real use. He’d also clearly decided to do something about Binning. Credit had to go to Rowena for coming with him, wherever she was. But the situation for all of them was about to get much worse, Stratton was sure of it.

Jason didn’t relax his stance when he realised it was Stratton before him. ‘Are there any more?’ he said.

Stratton straightened up, his body aching. ‘I hope not,’ he said, stiffly.

‘Where’s the other one?’

Stratton indicated the habitat. ‘We need to get to the main deck.’

‘Inside?’ Jason asked. ‘I hope I look better than you.’ He looked through a glass porthole no bigger than a tennis ball on the control panel. ‘He’ll need to be questioned.’

‘He has a gun and he’s very angry and I don’t think we have the time.’ Stratton glanced at the gauges. ‘He’s also at the equivalent depth of a saturation dive. He’s not getting out of there any time soon . . . We need to get the workers to the lifeboats.’

‘Right,’ Jason agreed, about to move away when he saw movement inside the habitat. He flicked a switch on the panel that turned on the chamber light. ‘I see him.’

Stratton couldn’t resist a last look at his beaten enemy. As both men peered in through the thick glass porthole, Deacon looked up at them, his face red and sweating. His lips formed into a snarl as he brought up the pistol and fired at them.

They both jerked back as the tiny window fractured but held for the moment. Yet the glass continued to crack under the pressure building inside. Deacon angrily approached the porthole to look through it.

Jason and Stratton stepped away and the porthole exploded. Pieces of shattered glass shot from the rim like bullets as the highly compressed gas blasted from the small opening. Deacon couldn’t prevent himself being sucked towards the hole, his face acting like a plug. In seconds the pressure began to push him through it. The man screamed as his flesh started to protrude through the hole.

Jason and Stratton backed away in horror as a mass of flesh emerged.

‘Oh my God,’ Jason muttered.

They ran across the opening to a set of stairs. As they looked back the skin balloon burst and Deacon’s face exploded into the swirling wind. Fine strings of mangled flesh filled the air, coming back down to coat everything on the platform, Stratton and Jason included.

They ran from the grisly spectacle up to the top of the stairway and onto the deck, hurrying towards the living quarters.

‘Have you seen Binning and Rowena?’ Stratton asked.

‘No.’ Jason went suddenly to the rail to look down onto the line of lifeboats. One of the cradles was empty. He looked out onto the black, rolling water, moving along the rail to cover a greater area as he searched it.

‘There! A lifeboat!’ he shouted, pointing. ‘It’s Binning, I know it.’

Stratton could see the orange craft rolling up and down on the heavy swell as it drifted away from the platform. ‘And Rowena?’

‘He wouldn’t hurt her.’

‘You still think you know him?’

Jason realised the stupidity of his comment.

‘Why would he take her?’

Jason shook his head. ‘I don’t know!’

Stratton looked around at Jordan’s body and as he hurried away he said, ‘Go to the galley and tell the workers to get to the lifeboats.’

‘Where are you going?’ Jason shouted after him.

‘To the control room - I’m going to call the navy, tell them to come in and pick up Binning and the rest of us. Get going!’

As Jason moved to go a massive explosion rocked the entire platform, throwing both men off their feet as the giant rig slewed to the side. A sheet of flame lit up the air beyond the furthest corner of the platform.

The deafening sound of yawing, cracking metal rent the air like satanic thunder. Seconds later there came another, lesser explosion that echoed across the sky. One of the massive steel anchor cables that held the huge platform in position snapped like a rubber band and whiplashed out to sea. Another boom was followed by a second cable snapping and the entire rig rocked once again before slowly turning on its axis and leaning heavily to one side.

The deck began to tilt. Containers and heavy machinery moved as the angle increased. Stratton got to his feet and rolled away as a section of decking buckled and snapped out of position. A crescendo of popping rivets and twisting joints joined the cracking and tearing of metal as welds failed and spars bent like sticks of licorice under the immense strain. A rack of high-pressure gas bottles spilled from their frames, rolling and dropping onto the lower decks, exploding as they smashed or roaring like rockets as their valve necks snapped and were ignited by flames.

Workers, many of them bloodied and battered, ran from the collapsing accommodation buildings. Some carried the injured, others staggered, their legs and arms mangled. Those who could sprinted for the lifeboats rocking in their cradles on all sides of the platform on several decks. A falling spar crushed one man as he reached the stairs, another fell through the deck. The section simply dropped open like a trapdoor.

A fuel-storage tank came loose from its mooring and slid down the main deck where it was punctured by a jagged girder. Its inflammable contents gushed from the hole, washed across the deck and down through the gridded floor to the lower levels and the sea, soaking one lifeboat as men crammed aboard it. The platform’s exhaust flame, burning on the end of its extended gantry, turned inboard as its supports buckled. The flames roared over the fuel oil, creating an instantaneous fireball that without the storm would have been seen for a hundred miles. It incinerated the fuel-soaked lifeboat and its human load in seconds. The flames fell through the platform and set fire to the sea.

A paint-and-flammables storage bay exploded in the heat, going off like a vehicle bomb that rocked the platform once again.

Now it became impossible to stand without holding on to something. Stratton dug his fingers through the deck grille to make his way to a set of stairs. He looked up at a screeching, rending sound and scrambled out of the way as a giant shale shaker line eased past on its way to the edge where it crashed through the steel rails as if they were ribbons and plummeted into the ocean.

Another terrible sound of failing metal - the big crane leaned over the rails, the rivets at its base popping under the strain, and went crashing through the decking, flattening several men.

A lifeboat swung out prematurely, with men still scrambling into it. As a falling spar struck one of its supports the pulley connection snapped off. The nose of the boat swung down heavily, ejecting those on the outside and cramming those already inside into the wedged end.

In a calm sea the platform might have maintained its structural integrity for an indefinite period despite the horrendous damage. But the storm continued to rage and the heavy seas attacked the weakened Morpheus unrelentingly. One of its huge legs had separated from the upper structure and had fallen into the sea. The platform continued to turn and go down until the remaining anchor points took the strain. One broke at sea level under the immense pressure and the end of the three-inch-thick cable came down onto the deck like a ferocious bullwhip only feet from Stratton. Sections of the living quarters broke away, exposing rooms, toilets and offices and spewing out beds, wardrobes, cookers and fridges to fall into the water.

The central oil derrick that towered over everything buckled at its base and toppled and for a few moments described an arc through the chaos. Then came a shrieking crash as it cut through the decks. Several lifeboats managed to launch and Stratton and Jason joined a dozen workers in a combined effort to release one that had become snarled. Inspired by utter desperation, they freed the roller and the craft moved out over the water where it swung at an unhealthy angle.

Stratton grabbed the release mechanism. ‘Get on!’ he shouted to the remaining men. Pelted by a combination of falling metal, licking flames and rain, they scrambled across the gap to waiting arms that dragged them inside. ‘Go!’ he shouted to Jason.

The scientist moved to obey when a heavy spar crashed down in front of him. As he leaped over it to get into the boat the sight of Stratton, his body battered and bloody, holding his wounded side and heroically waiting to release the boat and be the last man on board was too much for him. He wanted to be that man and without a second thought he scrambled to Stratton and took hold of the mechanism. ‘You go!’ he shouted.

‘Just get on the boat!’ Stratton shouted back angrily.

‘I’m not as injured as you!’ Jason yelled. ‘Go!’

The ridiculous argument was costing precious time. The men inside the lifeboat looked desperate enough. Stratton let go of the mechanism and jumped for it, painfully grabbing hold of the boat’s side. Men pulled him aboard.

Jason yanked at the release mechanism with all his strength and it gave way. The lifeboat began to drop towards the water and Jason jumped after it. Stratton and others grabbed him as he hung over the side.

The small orange vessel dropped like a lift with its cables cut, the lines whipping through the pulleys. Men leaped off the disintegrating platform - their only chance of survival lay in the water.

Stratton’s lifeboat hit hard and the men recovered to release the lines. The force of the impact threw Jason off and he disappeared below the water. Seconds later he popped back up and Stratton grabbed his harness and hauled him on board.

Yet they were far from safe as the platform threatened to collapse on top of them. The remaining legs couldn’t keep it upright as the wind and tide forced the rig against the remaining anchors.

The lifeboat had come down on the weather side of the platform and the tide pushed it into the guts of the decaying structure. After the last down-line had been disconnected the rolling sea swept the boat up into the cavernous mass. A massive girder plunged into the water beside the small fibreglass boat and another struck its side.

They could only pray, well aware that one spar or chunk of machinery hitting the boat would smash it like a toy. Metal rained down. The boat struck a collection of smashed spars and for a moment was held fast. Stratton, Jason and others fought to push it off.

‘Down!’ Stratton shouted as the swell raised the boat and the roof slammed into a heavy beam, which split it open like an egg. A sliver of steel stabbed into the boat and passed through a man’s body like a kebab skewer. The vessel dropped into the following trough that freed it from the collection of spars and it turned on its axis to sail on sideways. A couple of the men fought to start the engine and as it suddenly boomed into life Jason grabbed the wheel.

The lee side of the platform was fast approaching but the structure looked like it was going to collapse on them before they would make it. Jason pushed the throttle fully open and steered for clear water. The little boat weaved between a series of spars and rose onto a peak. As it dropped down below a hanging section of spider deck they sailed out from beneath the claws of raking spars and raining metal and were suddenly free from the jaws of the groaning beast.

Every man on the boat watched in silent disbelief as the gap between them and the platform increased. Despite the thunderous seas, the massive structure somehow maintained its unnatural position and for the time being seemed to roll with the punches it was taking from wind and tide. Chunks of it still fell away. Drill pipes clattered between the decks and down into the water. Fires burned. Thick smoke billowed. An entire section of lights flickered before going out completely while others glowed brightly.

They began to search the water for survivors. Everywhere men struggled to stay afloat, holding on to debris or swimming for their very lives. Many of the men they hauled into the lifeboat were already dead, either drowned or battered.

Stratton went over in his mind all that had happened. A single nagging thought kept returning: how much of this had he caused, how much was the consequence of his actions? Heads were going to roll for this one. He fully expected his to go on a spike at the Tower of London.

His thoughts went to Jordan and his strange involvement in it all, wondering why the man had done it. Had Stratton been the reason for his old friend’s turnabout? Had he caused it? He wondered about Binning and Rowena who he supposed were not far away, awaiting their fate. It was a bloody disaster - in so many ways.

‘There she goes,’ someone shouted. They all looked in the direction of the Morpheus.

The great platform’s end had finally arrived. The monster structure had given up the struggle and succumbed to the forces massed against it. The decks once parallel to the surface of the ocean turned vertical, levering one of the enormous legs out of the sea before it bent under its own weight and collapsed. The last of the lights went out and the fires were extinguished as the twisted wreck sunk in the black broiling water.

The storm’s strength had by now lessened and the rain started to subside. Lighter skies appeared to the north. As they continued to search for survivors the sun broke over the far horizon and other lifeboats came into view.

Someone shouted and pointed at a man in the water not far away. As the lifeboat closed on him he stood up, his knees at water level. He was standing on something below the surface. Stratton and Jason realised who it was at the same time. Jackson. In the mini-submarine.

Jackson was more than relieved to see them both, having witnessed the disaster himself. The mini-sub’s batteries had run out of power so they tied the vessel alongside the lifeboat. Jackson was very cold and glad to get into the covered boat where he was handed a blanket. He seemed to know there was more to the story of Binning and Rowena after Jason had told him about it but he asked no further questions. As if he understood that it wasn’t the time or the place.

The sound of distant rotor blades gradually came to them. Stratton got stiffly to his feet as half a dozen military helicopters flew overhead. He had a reasonably good idea how the day would unfold and resigned himself to it being a very long one indeed.