The Ghost Pattern

…3

Chief Ramsay looked at the men seated next to and across from him. They had the same expression, curiosity mixed with concern, and the determination one sees on a soldier’s face before going into battle.

“People, listen up,” he said, and everyone turned toward him. “In a minute or two we will be touching down on NB64. The platform has been out of contact and has missed the established communication touch point, which was at 8:00AM today. All video and comm links are down. Our protocol,” he said, slowing his rhythm of delivery a little, making sure everyone understood, “our protocol requires us to assume the worst-case scenario, which is a terrorist attack.”

Most men knew the protocol well and were not surprised. Two younger men from the emergency response unit lifted their heads slightly.

“An offshore oilrig is strategic infrastructure,” he clarified, “hence a prime target for terrorists. It’s isolated and immobile, relatively easy to approach despite all security, and therefore vulnerable. Please explain what types of attack we should be mindful of when landing on the rig,” he said, inviting one of the veterans to explain it to the team.

“The attack could be chemical, biological, or traditional, with explosives. Do not assume you know what’s wrong with the rig’s crew or the rig itself until it’s actually confirmed, and you hear the clear signal given either by me or by—”

“Chief Ramsay,” a young man interrupted in a high-pitched voice, bearing horror written on his face. “Look!”

They looked in the direction of the rig, now in close proximity as the chopper was making its final approach. The deck was covered in blood. Bodies were scattered everywhere. It was the scene of a massacre.

“Masks on,” Ramsay ordered. “Keep chatter to a minimum.”

They disembarked quietly, then almost all of them stopped in their tracks, taking the details in.

Right next to the helipad, a man lay in a pool of blood with his head split open, the ax still stuck in his skull. A few yards out and to the left, another man had found his demise strangled with a piece of chain. A third man lay on his side, and the unnatural position of his head indicated his neck had been broken violently. Toward the mess hall entrance, a man’s blood still dripped into the ocean, as he hung halfway over the guardrail, with a knife stuck deep in his heart. Everywhere they looked, it was the same… countless bodies, all violent deaths, inexplicable. It was as if the entire crew had suddenly turned on one another and fought to their deaths.

Chief Ramsay ordered the teams to split up and go below deck with a few hand gestures. He also gestured the quick unspoken signal for “be careful,” a rapid succession of the gestures advising them to listen and watch. Then he led one of the teams below deck, into the mess hall.

The same horrific scene extended below deck. The floor was almost entirely covered in blood, and they had to be careful not to slip and fall. Someone had been killed with a hammer blow to the face, and had fallen on top of one of the mess hall tables, lying there with his eyes still open, gaping from the middle of the bloody, mangled mess that was left of his face.

Chief Ramsay advanced cautiously, his weapon drawn, and froze in his tracks seeing someone alive, eating quietly at one of the tables. The man didn’t acknowledge anyone’s presence, seeming entirely absorbed in his thoughts. He had some difficulty cutting pieces of his visibly undercooked meat, but he continued nevertheless, unperturbed.

Chief Ramsay approached a little more, then asked, “What’s your name, son?”

“Jim,” the young man answered without looking up from his plate, continuing to chew his food.

“What happened?”

“Something happened… yeah…” Jim replied thoughtfully, as if trying to remember.

“Who did this to you?” Ramsey insisted.

“Everyone… no one…”

Ramsey paused for a second, then changed his approach. The man must have been in shock after all that violence.

“What are you eating, son?”

“Me?”

Ramsey nodded, encouragingly.

“Charlie… He’s the best… I owed him that.”

One of the men stepped a little to the side of the table, to see behind a row of pantry cabinets. “Oh, my God…” he exclaimed, then gagged. He yanked his mask off his face, covered his mouth with his hand, then made a run toward the sink, where he retched spasmodically.

On the floor, right behind where Jim sat, a young man’s body lay ripped open savagely, as if wild animals had feasted on his internal organs. His nametag, still intact, read, “Charlie Hernandez.”