Hellfire

by Richard Turner

  Brightly lit up like a Christmas tree, the oil rig looked a city that had been transplanted out in the middle of nowhere. A bright red-orange flame shot high into the black night sky, the flammable gas venting from a tall tower leaning out over the side of the rig. Numerous cranes hung over the side of the platform like so many metal skeletons. The Bolivar V was a semi-submersible platform with part of her tall pontoons submerged under the water to keep it buoyant. Four massive, tower-like legs that disappeared thirty meters below the surface supported the platform. Sitting twenty meters above the warm waters of the Caribbean, the rig was one hundred and fifty meters long and one hundred and fifteen wide. Like an apartment block, it had multiple levels built onto it. In all, the Bolivar V weighed in excess of thirty-two thousand metric tons. It truly was a marvel of engineering.

  “Well, that’s something you don’t see every day,” said Jackson to Mitchell as he joined him out on the deck of the old fishing boat.

  “No, no you don’t,” replied Mitchell.

  Both men were dressed in black shirts and pants. Bought for twice what they were worth from a tailor who was locking up his shop when they ran up and asked him to keep it open for ten more minutes.

  A couple of seconds later, Grace walked over. “We can’t risk going any closer. If we do, we’ll most certainly draw the attention of the people on the platform, and they’ll have the Venezuelan Navy breathing down our necks in the blink of an eye.”

  “What can you tell us about the oil rig?” Mitchell asked Grace.

  “It works on a two-week cycle. A crew change took place only a couple of days ago; that’s how I managed to insert one of my people onto the rig. There are fifty people working day and night to extract the oil. They’re split into two shifts, so there shouldn’t be more than twenty-five people awake when we climb aboard. They’re focused on the drill and all of its equipment, so we should be able to move about without drawing too much attention.”

  “What’s the old guy’s story if someone comes nosing around?” asked Jackson.

  “Squid,” replied Grace. “Night is the best time to fish for them around here.”

  Mitchell looked over his shoulder at the black Zodiac secured to the back of the fishing boat. “I guess you’re telling us that it’s time to get into the water.”

  “Correct. The three of us will take the Zodiac over to the rig while my partner, Midori, remains with the fishing boat. We’ll be able to talk with her using these,” said Grace as she held up a pair of military-grade Motorola radios.

  “What’s her cover?” asked Jackson.

  “Trust me, no one will ever find her if they board this old rustbucket,” replied Grace confidently.

  “Enough chitchat,” said Mitchell. “What else do you have for us?”

  Grace pulled back a canvas tarp on the Zodiac, revealing three assault rifles, pistols, a set of NVGs and several sets of coveralls with Bolivar V stenciled on the back.

  “I see you come prepared,” said Mitchell to Grace as he picked up a set of coveralls and put them on over his clothes.

  “No point going off half-cocked,” replied Grace.

  A couple of minutes later, the captain slowed his boat and dimmed the lights in his cabin as the Zodiac was lowered into the water. Quickly jumping into the boat, Jackson sat down beside the electric outboard motor and turned it on while Mitchell and Grace picked up their weapons and made themselves comfortable near the front of the craft. Designed to be as quiet as possible, the Zodiac’s outboard motor barely made a sound at all as it propelled the boat towards the waiting platform.

  Mitchell leaned over towards Grace. “I take it you chose to approach from the seaward side because the majority of the platform’s surveillance equipment is facing the shore.”

  Grace nodded her head.

  The Zodiac skimmed over the water at just under twenty knots. Jackson aimed for the nearest leg of the massive platform. A minute later, he brought their boat to a complete halt alongside the huge, square, metal support.

  Grace raised her arm and triggered a small hand-held laser in her hand, immediately blinding a camera situated directly above them. “We’ve got to hurry. The camera will only be out of commission for about one minute, so let’s get moving. Jackson, once we’re gone, move the Zodiac directly under the platform. You won’t be spotted if you stay to the shadows.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Jackson asked Mitchell.

  “Trust me, I’d rather you came with us. But we need someone down here in case we run into trouble,” replied Mitchell as he jammed a Glock 9mm pistol into a pocket of his coveralls.

  Mitchell looked at his watch, “Okay, Nate, it’s coming up on two in the morning; if we’re not back in one hour, we won’t be. If that happens, I want you to head back to the fishing boat, make for shore, and call for the marines.”

  “One hour,” repeated Jackson.

  Mitchell knew that his friend would drag it out until the very last possible second, as it was precisely what he would do for him.

  “Okay, see you soon,” said Mitchell as he shook his friend’s hand.

  He turned his head and saw a metal ladder running up the tall support. Mitchell prayed that Grace was right and that the bulk of the security cameras were on the other side of the rig or this was going to be a very short mission, indeed.

  Mitchell, climbing hand over hand, followed Grace up the metal ladder until they came out on a slender metal deck that arched around the leg. He turned to ask Grace where they were going when she raised a finger, telling Mitchell to wait.

  Grace dug out her cell phone and made a quick call. Mitchell was surprised to learn that Grace spoke fluent Spanish.

  “My contact is on her way down to meet us,” said Grace. “Come on, let’s climb up to the next floor, and wait for her there.”

  Less than a minute later, Grace’s agent climbed down a set of stairs and joined them in the shadows. She was a short, thin Hispanic woman dressed in sweatclothes. Mitchell guessed that she had been off-duty when Grace called her. She dug into a laundry bag that she brought with her and handed Mitchell and Grace each a plastic orange safety hat. “You have to wear one at all times when you are moving about the rig,” explained the woman in English.

  “Is the probe still on board the rig?” asked Grace.

  “Si, I think it is,” replied the woman. “I haven’t seen anything resembling it leave the platform since I arrived. There is a secure section on the other side of the platform that is strictly off-limits to the workers. I tried to take a look around yesterday, but was shown off by a couple of security guards. If it’s here, I’m certain that’s where you’ll find it.”

  “What about McMasters?” asked Mitchell.

  “He’s never far from the secure area. There is a small command post down there. Apart from the odd meal, he never leaves his post,” explained the woman.

  “Okay, you’re done here,” said Grace to the woman. “Grab what you need and then wait for us here. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

  With a quick nod, the woman spun around on her heel and bounded back up the stairs.

  Mitchell put his hat on his head and indicated to the stairs with his right hand.

  “Gentlemen first,” replied Grace with a smile on her face.

  Mitchell shrugged his shoulders, climbed the stairs, and saw that they had come out on the main platform deck. White, compartmental living quarters three-stories high filled this section of the platform. Above them was a large square helipad that jutted out over the side.

  He pointed down the narrow pathway that led to the back of the rig. “According to your friend, we know that it’s not around here, so I suppose we should take a look back there.”

  “Lead on,” said Grace. “I doubt there are too many women working the drill, so if we bump into anyone it should be you they meet first, not me.”

  “Also, I can act as a human shield should they open fire,” remarked Mitchell dryly.


  “Well, there’s that, too.”

  Mitchell pulled his hard hat down to cover his face in case there were any security cameras covering the walkway. He strode down the metal path trying his best to look like he belonged there. A minute later, they arrived at a set of stairs that led up to the next level. He quickly climbed the stairs and then froze in his tracks when he saw McMasters standing there talking to two armed guards. With his heart racing, Mitchell ducked down and waited a few seconds before slowly raising his head. It was difficult to hear what was being said over the sound of all the machinery operating in the background. However, Mitchell could clearly see McMasters giving orders to two well-armed men outside of a closed door, who nodded their heads each time he spoke.

  “What’s going on?” asked Grace from behind.

  “I think we may have found what we’re looking for,” replied Mitchell, barely above a whisper. “McMasters is busy talking to a couple of goons guarding a door.”

  “What do you think is going on?”

  “I haven’t a clue. All I know is that unless we want to start a fight, we can’t go that way. Come on, let’s double back a bit. There was another set of stairs back about fifty meters behind us. Let’s take them and see if we can find another way around.”

  Mitchell took one last look at McMasters. The image of Maria lying dead on the ice filled his mind. He gritted his teeth in anger. Mitchell had to fight the urge to draw his pistol and kill McMasters where he stood. Although it would have given him great satisfaction to see McMasters die, he knew that it would have to wait, for now.

  Quickly making their way back to the other set of stairs, Mitchell ran up to the next level and looked around.

  The hallway was empty.

  Mitchell swore when he saw that the passageway stopped short of the guarded secure area on the floor below. “Up,” was all he said to Grace before climbing to the next floor. As before, the hallway stopped short.

  “What is with this place?” Mitchell muttered to himself.

  He led Grace up one more flight of stairs. They came out into the open. Directly in front of them Mitchell could see the helipad brightly lit up. Turning his head, he saw on the other side of the platform a wall of massive pipes that ran back and forth like the iron intestines of some insatiable beast. In the middle of the platform, men in oil-stained coveralls worked to keep the drill running at peak efficiency.

  Mitchell was about to head off and try to find a way back down when he heard a sound. A couple of seconds later, running lights from a helicopter emerged from the dark as it sped towards the platform.

  All around the helipad, more lights burst to life, bathing the pad in light. Mitchell placed a hand on Grace’s arm and pulled her back towards him. They took refuge in the shadows. From belowdecks, a couple of men in bright-orange suits ran up onto the helipad. One man with large orange paddles in his hands stood ready to guide the helicopter in to land. From out of the night sky, a large helicopter painted dark-gray descended towards the landing pad. Mitchell recognized it as a Russian-made MI-38 transport helicopter. Capable of carrying thirty passengers or up to five metric tons of cargo internally, the MI-38 was a popular helicopter with the Venezuelan military.

  Landing smoothly, the helicopter’s pilot switched off the engine and powered down the helicopter. A squad of heavily armed soldiers jumped out of the back and took up position around the helicopter.

  A feeling of foreboding fell over Mitchell when he saw that the soldiers were all dressed in chemical suits. “I don’t like the look of this.”

  “Nor do I,” replied Grace.

  “We’re wasting time, let’s get back to work.”

  They hurriedly walked along a narrow path when unexpectedly a man turned a corner in front of them with a pissed-off look on his face.

  “You two, what are you doing here?” called out the man.

  Mitchell looked over at the man without making eye contact. “Sorry, sir, we must have taken a wrong turn,” Mitchell said in Spanish.

  “Who are you?” asked the man “I don’t recognize you.”

  “Sorry, sir, I’m new here.”

  “Give me your name and yours too,” demanded the man, looking past Mitchell at Grace.

  Before Mitchell could say a word, Grace stepped out from behind him and smashed her upturned palm into the man’s nose, shattering it. Blood poured like a river from the man’s broken nose.

  The stunned man brought his hands up to his face, leaving his midsection wide-open to attack. In a flash, Grace shot out with her right leg and slammed her foot into the man’s stomach, painfully doubling him over. A second later, she reached over, grabbed hold of his coveralls, turned the stunned man about on his heels, and smashed his head straight into the wall, knocking him unconscious.

  “Well, that was none too subtle,” said Mitchell.

  “You said it, it was time for us to get to work,” replied Grace as she grabbed the sleeping man by his coveralls and dragged him out of sight.

  Mitchell opened up a storage closet, grabbed some rags, and helped Grace bind and gag the man before jamming him inside the metal locker. Mitchell grinned when he saw stairs nearby, leading below.

  “Follow me,” he said to Grace as he walked over and looked down below to make sure the coast was clear. A minute later, they were back on the same floor as the guarded secure area; only now, they were somewhere behind it.

  “This place is worse than a maze,” whispered an exasperated Grace.

  “Where’s a clever mouse when you need one?” replied Mitchell.

  McMasters checked his watch; the helicopter was ten minutes early. He strode back along the walkway towards the oil rig’s command center, cursing the helicopter pilots under his breath. If there was something he couldn’t abide, it was people who couldn’t stick to a simple schedule. He brusquely motioned for a guard to step aside as he reached for the door to the control room. Inside, two men sat behind a console that looked like something out of a science-fiction film. The wall in front of them was covered with multiple screens, showing over a dozen camera feeds all at once.

  “Is everything quiet?” asked McMasters.

  “Aside from a flare up on camera nineteen a little while ago, there’s nothing to report,” responded one of the technicians.

  “Where is camera nineteen located?”

  “It covers support number four on the seaward side of the platform,” explained the technician.

  “Bring it up.”

  The technician brought up an image from camera nineteen on the main monitor. All it showed was the dark sea below the rig.

  “What about radar? Anything unusual to report?” asked McMasters.

  “Nothing to be concerned about,” replied the other technician, an older man with short, white hair. “There are a few fishing boats a few kilometers away and that’s it.”

  “Good, keep me informed if anything changes,” said McMasters before leaving the room. As he headed back through the labyrinth of passageways, his mind was awhirl with questions. He hadn’t heard a word from the men he had hired to kill Mitchell and Jackson and in his line of business, it could only mean one thing. They had failed. With a pissed look on his face, he quickly made his way back to the secure area belowdecks.

  Before they could say anything, McMasters walked past the two guards, stopped at the closed front door, and entered his passcode into a panel built on the wall next to the airtight entrance.

  The door slid open, revealing a small sterile room.

  McMasters walked in and waited while the door sealed behind him. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and held it. A second later, the fluorescent light in the room changed to ultraviolet to kill any microorganisms that he may have had on his skin and clothes. Next, a powerful blast of air shot at him from dozens of nozzles built into the walls. In seconds, it was done. Lastly, a vacuum in the floor kicked in and sucked away any impurities in the air. The lights in the room turned back to fluorescent and the door directly in f
ront of him slid open.

  McMasters let out his breath and walked over to the far wall. He stood there with his hands on his hips, watching through a large glass window as a couple of men dressed in chemical-protective suits placed several long, metal vials into a hardened carrying case the size of a military barrack box. Built to withstand a tremendous shock, the container could be dropped from the top of the tallest building in the world and wouldn’t shatter.

  McMasters reached over and pressed a button on the wall. “How much more time do you need?”

  “A couple of minutes at most,” replied one of the men with a strong Italian accent. “We only have four more vials to fill, and then we’re done.”

  “Okay, but get a move on, the helicopter is here already.”

  “Mister McMasters, we will be done when we are done,” replied the man. “I don’t think you want us to drop something and contaminate this room in our haste, do you?”

  McMasters bit his lip. He knew the man was right. He was growing impatient. He couldn’t wait to move onto the next phase of the operation. It felt as if he had been cooped up on the oil rig for months. He told the man to do his best, stepped back, and watched. On a table behind the two technicians sat the Luna 15 probe. It had been cut open with a laser and the precious sample held inside taken. McMasters glanced down at his watch. It was almost time for him to call Houston and provide him with an update. Starting to feel the pressure of meeting Houston’s tightly laid-out timetable, McMasters began to nervously tap his right foot on the white ceramic floor.

  Mitchell knew that time was slipping away. He was debating the best route to take when a man in a white lab coat, carrying a clipboard, turned a corner and walked past Grace and him as if they weren’t even there.

  “Excuse me, sir, but my friend and I are new here. We seem to be lost,” said Mitchell in Spanish, playing a hunch. “Would you be heading back towards the crew quarters?”