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    North Sea Nightmare
    North Sea Nightmare
    North Sea Nightmare
    Ebook90 pages1 hour

    North Sea Nightmare

    By Daniel R. Robichaud

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    About this ebook

    When US Ranger Predator is picked to be part of a multinational team tasked with protecting an offshore oil platform in the North Sea, he does not expect to see much action. The mission stinks as a favor to a former Executive Branch official with ties to a certain oil services company instead of an actual target for the evil terrorist organization, Skorpion. However, on the eve of their three week mission's completion, a rain of fire descends upon the platform. Predator and his Kinetic Force allies (Capsize, Cerise, and Boonies) must ally with members of Perestroika Patrol (formerly known as the Glorious Revolution's Guard) to uncover Skorpion's plot and drive the 'nids back into the sea before the oil drilling platform becomes a floating landmine!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTwice Told Tales II
    Release dateSep 15, 2018
    ISBN9780463008669
    North Sea Nightmare
    Author

    Daniel R. Robichaud

    Daniel R. Robichaud has lived in southeastern Michigan, central Massachusetts and southern Texas. He is a Rhysling Award nominated poet and the author of over one hundred stories, articles and poems, which have appeared in such markets as Shroud Magazine, Rogue Worlds, Goblin Fruit, Rage of the Behemoth, Green Prints, and WritersWeekly. Daniel holds degrees in both Physics and English, and his career path has reflected these passions. In addition to his numerous writing opportunities, he has been an Igor For Hire (aka a freelance research engineer), a substitute teacher, an automation engineer, and a neurophysiology lab manager. Daniel enjoys entertaining people with his words and stories. If you enjoy a good read, why not try one of his works? You might just love them.

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      Book preview

      North Sea Nightmare - Daniel R. Robichaud

      North Sea Nightmare

      A Kinetic Force Adventure

      By: Daniel R. Robichaud

      1

      Sometimes, the best cure for diplomacy woes was to get as far away from career politicians as possible, to let working men and women sit in a room with some peers from the other side of the border in question equipped with beers (optional), cards(required), and a few jokes or stories to swap. The pot could be anything from snack food to actual currency. The jokes could be outrageous and the stories could be dirty or vice versa. However, real folks talking to one another gave a human face to that nebulous, dangerous-seeming Other, be they members of an aggressive nation or a peaceful but cautious one.

      In a room that had once served as crew quarters aboard this offshore drilling platform, negotiations were currently ongoing. Four military men occupied the center of that modest space: Two Americans, one black and one white, sitting across from a pair of Slavs.

      Although four hot bunks remained along the walls, the windowless room had been efficiently repurposed as a heads up room for the soldiers. It now held tables, chairs, and equipment cases—several of which had been converted into a negotiations space. Along one wall sat an airtight door, with a massive wheel set in the center to lock it down. Above this, posted warning messages declared the door frame a trip hazard and warned about the dangers of exiting deck during bad weather. Two additional doors led to internal spaces. One of these, marked LATRINE in three languages, was closed. The last opened on a narrow hallway that would not be out of place on a battleship.

      The Slavs were a Hound Dog and Jeff pair. The heaviest of them was Georgian born (the country, not the state) and his moustaches were triumphant and rolling across his face. His body type was made for heavy weapons, layered muscles that might have first appeared as fat to the untrained observer. His blue eyes twinkled with mischief, when he said, Call, and tossed a last handful of bills from his stash into the pot. His nametag was Cyrillic, but who would not know God Bear?

      Beside him sat a weary looking Russian in khaki fatigues who was notable in this group for his lack of a moustache. An unlit cigar thrust out from between his clamped teeth. Though smoking was verboten according to all the signage, this man had managed to arrive and survive three weeks onboard without having the thing confiscated. This probably had more to do with the steel underlying the weariness in his gunmetal gray eyes, though the colonel rank indicators might have helped. His nametag was two fold, the uppermost piece was Cyrillic; beneath this was the English translation: Viatcheslav. He muttered, Call, making the world sound like cowl, and fed the pot more notes.

      The black American was a Ranger, according to the patch on his beret and the professional but low key way he carried himself. The nametag on his shirt gave his code name as Predator. His moustache was neatly trimmed and his warm brown eyes intent on the heavyset man opposite him. He offered his companions a sly grin, said I hope you boys know exactly what you got yourselves into, tonight, he then gave them three full seconds to sweat before he tossed his handful of cards down and announced he had four queens by dragging the pot of bills over into massive pile of loot.

      God Bear curled his upper lip and rubbed it beneath his nose to scratch an itch with his moustache while he considered the appropriate response. He settled on Predator, you are a Yankee capitalist pig dog swine.

      Hey, hey, Predator said, Last time I checked, the iron curtain had fallen and we were all on the same side. We're all capitalists these days.

      Doesn't make the Rooskie wrong, the last man said, leaning back in his chair. He was a tanned man in fatigues that would better serve LRRP through thick jungle than the ocean. His bush hat sat on his lap like a prized pet pug. His eyes were fixed on the cards in his left hand, while his right hand absently stroked the thick brown moustache resting atop his upper lip. His nametag identified him as Boonies, and the sweat and paleness to his face told tales of lost battles against sea sickness.

      An offshore rig's walls, floor and ceiling might provide sound dampening, but sea noise could never be completely removed. It was more than simple sound; its vibrations could be sensed by more than an eardrum. They passed unhindered through the walls and floors, affecting the mind on subconscious levels if not outright conscious ones. This evening, the sea was not quiet. Storms had roughed the waters over the last few days, ending in the early dawn hours. A full half day later and the effects were still perceivable. Each twitch of the ocean's upset caused Boonies to blanch; Dramamine had become his boon companion. Unfortunately, even the best medication like sound dampening was powerless to remove all effects of the sea's disquiet.

      Few men are so lucky as you, Yankee-Predator, Viatcheslav said.

      Boonies's eyes turned down toward his ostentatious hat, as he hid a burp beneath a heavy exhale, and then reached down to pick off a piece of lint. "I can think of a few other things to add to God Bear's list. Of course, I know you didn't cheat. If we held you down and checked your

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