The Norwegian continental shelf is home to fish, seabirds, and some of the largest oil deposits in Europe. This latter feature has, in recent years, attracted major oil companies to Norway, bringing with them a fleet of rigs which now tower like giant spiders over the North Sea. A substantial number of Norwegians make a living on these massive structures, pumping "black gold" out of the sea floor. But while the oil brings money, it also brings discord.
"Get out! Get out!" The Norwegian oil workers didn't seem to be heeding the megaphone-amplified cries coming from below their platforms. Few were even outside their quarters. A stocky, red-faced British man held the megaphone up on the bow of his converted fishing boat. "Get out! Free the waves!"
It was the second day of a Greenpeace "attack" on the Norwegian oil platforms. The British Greenpeace crew had decided early on the first day that the best way to deal with the language barrier between them and the inhabitants of the monstrous structures was to use a homemade mortar to fire various items over it. A paint bucket splattered red drops over the deck. If the paint signified blood, as Gerry Bullfinch, Greenpeace UK commander, was now claiming through his megaphone, then the platform had merely received a scratch. From the deck, a Norwegian shouted angrily back at the small flotilla and sprayed a hose ineffectively at the foreigners below. He was sent fleeing out of sight by a can of rancid butter.
"Boss, how long's 'is gonna last?" A scrawny Englishwoman had left the mortar and was making her way toward Bullfinch. "I don't see much happ'nin."
"Until the reinforcements show up, or theirs do." Gerry scanned the horizon to the west of the platforms with a pair of spray-laced binoculars. "There's a ship headed this way, might be ours." He turned towards Norway. "Nothing that way. They're probably in helicopters if they’re coming, though. Let's hope our boys get here first." Bullfinch stomped back towards the cabin. "Are we out of things to shoot yet?"
"No, boss! Running low, though." A college dropout pulled some rotten peppers from a black trash bag and loaded them into the mortar. He pointed the clumsy gun at another shouting Norwegian and dodged a spray of rotting pepper which mostly fell into the water. The Norwegian retaliated by flinging the paint can at the boat. Gerry picked up his megaphone and launched into a fresh chant.
***
Three men sat around a steel table in the ship's sparse kitchen. Several more chairs were scattered around the room, but their owners were in other parts of the ship, preparing for the next job.
Rene Levancon sighed. "Bob, this whole idea is terrible."
"You're terrible." Robert Sadeski didn't even look at the younger man. He made a mental note not to hire another girlfriend's brother, then added it to a large stack of identical mental notes. "Hey, Taylor! Remind me again what we're allowed to shoot at them with."
"No shooting. Just hit and run." Zachary Taylor grumbled. He sipped a mug of instant coffee. "The Brits don't want lawsuits or something like that."
Sadeski stood up and stretched his arms. "Right. I'll read 'em the riot act, get the riot ready." He trudged over to the nearest door and left the kitchen.
Whether it was mist, sea spray, or drizzle that had obscured the ship's identity for so long was the least of Gerry Bullfinch's concerns. The MV Northern Cross resembled a floating bunker, with various positions for light armaments and an armored bow. This was not the supply ship Greenpeace Ireland had sent to support Bullfinch's operation. Standing above the gleaming steel plate that jutted like a knife from the bow was a tall, lean man in his early thirties, scowling down at the activists with something that resembled disdain. His Marine-cut hair and piercing gaze gave the distinct impression that this was not a man to be trifled with.
Bullfinch was not pleased with this new arrival. His supplies were too low to sustain bombardment of the oil platforms, and this ship would probably prevent other ships from approaching. Even now the Norwegians were returning to the deck of their rig. Gerry raised the megaphone to his mouth. "You! What do you want with us?"
"Put that damn thing down." Robert Sadeski's face barely moved, but his voice reached the Greenpeace ships. "I'm not deaf. I think you know why I'm here."
Bullfinch's thick face reddened, and the megaphone did not move. "We're holding a legitimate protest of this crime against nature! We will stop this pillaging! Go back to whoever sent you and tell them they can sod off!"
The woman who had been operating the mortar grasped Bullfinch's shoulder. "Gerry, you sure this is a good idea? They don't look too friendly and we can't really do much er anythin’ if they start shootin’."
"They're not gonna shoot us. They're mercenaries. Whoever sent 'em wants us out of here without a mess, or they'd send soldiers. Or, they’d ‘a shot us already. We can't get anywhere near as much press if we get run out of here by mercs." Gerry turned to the man operating the mortar. "'Ey, Trev! Shoot something at 'em!"
Sadeski watched a spray of rotten produce land in the ocean, with a few chunks of tomato splattering on the hull of the Northern Cross just above the waterline. He fixed Bullfinch with a brief stare before turning and heading back towards the armored cabin of his ship.
Gerry grinned broadly and hugged the woman next to him. "Ha! Look at that! They're running off! Shoot those Norwegian buggers, Trev!" His sense of triumph drained away along with the color from his face mere seconds later. The larger ship's engines were running louder than before, and it was slowly starting to move towards the assembled Greenpeace flotilla. The protesters scrambled towards the cabins of their small craft as the accelerating juggernaut bore down on them. Two motorboats were able to back out of the mess before the Northern Cross slammed into Bullfinch's boat, bending the flimsy hull and crushing it into the next craft. The impact knocked several of the activists off their feet and pushed the whole interlinked Greenpeace fleet away from the towering platform. The larger ship glanced off and continued on to the east before making a wide turn and gradually coming to a stop facing the fleet again.
Sadeski's voice came over a loudspeaker this time. "Now you can go home, or we can do that again. This thing can hit a tanker and not spring a leak. Your boats will sink. Get moving."
A few more small boats had extricated themselves from the flotilla and heeded the mercenary's warning. Gerry Bullfinch stood on the deck of his badly damaged ship, shaking with rage. He grabbed his megaphone from where it had fallen and was only stopped from defying the larger ship a second time by the arrival of a flight of helicopters. Norwegian Special Forces dropped in on the flotilla from rope ladders. A man in what Gerry did not recognize as a major's uniform dropped onto the lead ship and headed straight for the stocky Englishman.
"You are illegally in Norwegian waters. Come with me or we will consider you hostile." His English was fairly good. "You have an unauthorized weapon." He gestured to the mortar. "And you are firing on citizens of Norway. Your charges will only be worse if you do not cooperate."
Bullfinch glanced across his flotilla, past a few boats frantically pushing away from the platforms and others with Norwegians detaining the protesters, to the heavy ship which had rammed him. The boat was accelerating southward now, with a Norwegian helicopter in hot pursuit. He looked back to the major. "All right, I'll go quietly. But this isn't over!" He allowed himself to be led to the ladder.
"Oh yes it is." The Norwegian signaled to the pilot, then followed Bullfinch up the ladder. A tugboat approached from the direction of the coast, and more Norwegians began attaching ropes to the remnants of the Greenpeace "fleet."
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