Outpost

Jane blessed her small congregation. Rawlins stood and gave the news. The Oslo Star hadn’t left port but a second ship was on its way. Oil support vessel Spirit of Endeavour. It would arrive at nine the following morning but wouldn’t stay long. Everyone better be packed and ready to go.

Time to put the rig in hibernation. Rawlins assigned everyone a task.

Jane shut down Main Street. She threw breakers in a wall-mounted fuse box and extinguished the broken neon that blinked and buzzed above each vacant retail unit. Starbucks. Cafe Napoli. Blockbuster. Signage flickered and died.

Jane took a bunch of keys and closed C deck. Punch tagged along.

‘Nice prayer,’ said Punch. ‘I heard a couple of guys say they liked it. Yakov. He’s Catholic.’

Each corridor had a series of blast doors set in the ceiling. In the event of an explosion the doors would drop to prevent the spread of fire. Jane twisted a numbered key into the wall at each intersection and a blast door rumbled downward like a portcullis.

‘I bet most of them didn’t even know we had a chapel.’

‘Do you think prayers are ever answered?’ asked Punch.

‘It helps to voice your fears.’

‘It would be nice to think there was a cosmic parent ready to kiss it all better.’

‘I wrapped my car round a tree a few years ago,’ said Jane. ‘They say I was dead for three minutes. I can tell you for sure there is no God, no happy afterworld. In fact that’s why I became a priest. It’s a short life and people deserve more than work and recreational shopping. They need meaning. A place to belong.’

They stood in the doorway of the stairwell. Jane took a radio from her pocket.

‘C deck clear.’

The steady hum of heating fans died away. Somewhere, high above them, Rawlins flicked a bank of isolator switches to Off. The corridor lights were extinguished one by one.

Next morning the crew gathered in the canteen. They brought kit-bags and suitcases. They wore parkas and snowboots. They looked like tourists in a departure lounge.

They watched TV.

Berlin in chaos. Looting. Riot vans and burning cars. The Brandenburg Gate glimpsed through tear gas.

Bilbao docks. Refugees try to climb a mooring rope and board an oil tanker. Sailors blast them with a fire hose.

The White House south lawn. The President ringed by Secret Service armed with assault rifles. ‘… may God defend us in this dark and difficult hour..! Brief wave from the hatch of Marine One.

Punch found a box of crisps in a kitchen storeroom. He upturned the box and scattered crisp packets across the pool table.

‘May as well use them up, folks,’ he said. ‘A ton of food going to waste.’

Nail and his gang hogged the jukebox.

Rawlins sat by the window.

‘They’ll be coming from the north-east.’

Time dragged. Punch took a pack of playing cards from his pocket. He shuffled and re-shuffled.

‘There it is,’ said Rawlins.

They crowded round the window.

‘That ship don’t look right,’ said Nail.

The plastic canteen window was pitted and scratched, scoured by fierce ice storms. The approaching ship was a blur. The crew ran upstairs to the rooftop helipad for a better view. They stood on the big red H and braced their legs against a buffeting wind. A small tug approached from the north.

‘Spirit of Endeavour my ass,’ said one of the men.

‘That’s a dinghy,’ said Punch. ‘That’s a fucking rubber duck.’

The ship drew close. It looked like a small fishing trawler. The wheelhouse was little bigger than a phone booth. Maybe a couple of bunks below.

‘I think some of us might be staying behind,’ said Jane.

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.’