The Black

by Paul E. Cooley

  Calhoun visited twice and both times she told him to get the hell out. She didn’t like people hovering over her while she worked. That went double for Thomas. She knew he was excited to see what they’d brought up from the well, but he could wait until she had some definitive answers.

  With that in mind, a beaker of black liquid sat atop the steel table. She’d already taken a few drops and run them through a gas chromatograph. When she’d looked through the readings, her breath had stopped and her white teeth flashed in a large grin.

  She fought the urge to call in Calhoun; he was going to freak out when he saw what she had. But until she finished studying the oil beneath the microscope, she wasn’t going to get his hopes up.

  The chromatograph was simply the first step in the process. The mud log report had indicated the liquid was oil, but it was impossible to simply look at the mud and know you had anything more than that. She needed to determine the sweetness of the crude.

  Rigs didn’t have large labs; they didn’t need them. Exploration rigs tended to have better facilities, but they were still too small to do precise analysis. Exploratory wells were just that. If the samples from a core looked good, then the drill would drop the bit through the drill string back down to the spud and bring up enough oil to fill a small barrel. Four gallons was all that was needed. Because of the anomalous geology of the drill site, Leaguer had more than enough oil to ship out to Houston for in-depth study.

  Proper petrochemical labs usually take a week or two to complete any kind of serious analysis, but PPE had already paid for expedited service. When the barrel arrived at its destination, the lab would drop everything and analyze the molecular structure and provide a chemical breakdown. Their report would be forwarded to PPE and Calhoun’s team.

  Before email, it could take up to a month for a finished report to reach the field. By then, an exploratory rig would have punched at least three more test wells and shipped their contents to the same lab.

  Since the rig had satellite communications, the moment the chemists in Houston did their jobs, the results would be transmitted to Leaguer. But that was still at least a few days away—the sample had to be taken off the rig by helicopter or ship and then flown all the way to the lab. Technology might have made information gathering near instantaneous, but it had yet to create a teleporter.

  That meant her analysis was all they’d have to go on. She checked the digital timer on the desk and then stared up at the oil. Particles floated on top of the thick dark liquid. Looking at the black wasn’t going to be enough; she needed to figure out what those particles were.

  Shawna rose from her chair and stretched. Between taking apart the cores and setting up the equipment, she hadn’t left the lab in nearly seven hours. Her stomach was a growling, starved carnivore. Unlike Standlee, she didn’t have a cache of snacks. When you were working with chemicals, having food or drink around was a bad idea.

  She grabbed the thermometer lead and placed it in the beaker. The digital readout immediately jumped to 75°. She smiled and removed the lead. Time for the fun, she thought.

  A gleaming gravity stand composed of a series of funnels and filters sat on one of the large tables. She used a pair of large forceps to pick up the beaker. As carefully as she could, she walked to the gravity stand and slowly poured the liquid into the first funnel.

  Shawna might not have a degree in chemistry, but part of her focus had been on Petrosciences. That meant studying chemistry and a lot of it. Calhoun had no doubt hired her all those years ago for more than just geology. Like this, for instance. She could separate the oil, measure its gravity, and analyze enough of it to determine if the crude was acceptable for the refining operations their employer had in mind. All oil was “commercial” so to speak, but heavy oil or reserves that had a high concentration of water were more difficult to refine. With the continual rise in the price of oil, however, more and more companies were interested in the heavier and nastier stuff. Refining heavy oil was more expensive, but if the price was high enough, it was worth it.

  She stepped away from the stand and pulled off her gloves. They were heat-resistant and protected her from any kind of chemical residues left by the mud. If that stuff got on your skin, it was bad news. A rash was the best case scenario. Third degree chemical burns were common when the chemicals were mishandled.

  The liquid burbled from one stage of filters to another. She watched the dark liquid as it flowed through the clear glass tubes. Its color was changing. After the second filter, it was no longer jet black, but a sweet mocha brown. Shawna grinned. A few more minutes passed and the liquid poured into the return beaker. Her smile widened. After passing through the filters to remove the mud fluid, the oil was a healthy amber instead of midnight black.

  Shawna stifled a yawn as she waited for the dripping to stop. With a sigh, she pulled on the heavy gloves and took the beaker she’d originally had the oil in and placed it beneath the gravity stand’s spigot. Any remaining oil in the system would drip harmlessly into the already contaminated beaker. She took the beaker with the filtered oil to a clear table against the wall.

  First, let’s take a picture, she thought. She moved a small box in front of the glassware. Her fingers adjusted knobs on the box as she peered through a viewfinder. When the beaker was completely in view, she pressed a button. The box clicked. She smiled at it, pulled an SD card from its side, and slid it into her pocket. Once that was done, she returned the box to its spot on the table.

  A hydrometer and several other measuring tools were in an organized tray with labels. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Evidently PPE wanted to make sure its personnel knew what each instrument was. Although why any of the drilling crew would be using a hydrometer was beyond her.

  She picked up the tool and ran her gloved fingers over the heavy glass instrument. It was bulbous at the end and relatively thin up top. A digital screen stared at her from the end in her hands. She slowly lowered the bulbous end into the liquid and waited.

  The hydrometer’s digital readout blinked as it measured the sample’s water content. She didn’t manage to choke off the next yawn and the sound echoed in the relatively small lab. After a moment, the digital readout went blank. She cocked an eyebrow at it and then a series of numbers replaced the empty space. “No fucking way,” she said aloud.

  Water content was commonly found in samples. Very common. Therefore, a bit of guesswork was involved in interpreting the results of any tests. But this made no sense. “10 ppm,” she said aloud. That just couldn’t be.

  Oil always had water in it. Period. That was the rule. Oil was viscous and lighter than water. It floated atop any moisture that seeped out of the rock or sand. But this was…impossible. She removed the instrument and quickly cleaned it using the chemical bath sitting in the nearby sink. She set it aside to dry and stared at the beaker. She wasn’t sure she wanted to tell Calhoun about this; he wouldn’t believe it.

  The black liquid defied the rules of geology and of oil itself. Where the fuck was the water? There had to be more to this.

  As she watched the beaker, she noticed a tiny air bubble pop to the surface. Her mouth opened and then closed. Air bubbles? In oil? Her heart beat fast in her chest. She didn’t know why she was suddenly so afraid of what was in the beaker, but she was. The reptilian part of her brain was telling her to leave the room and leave NOW. In the past, Shawna had obeyed that ancient holdover from evolution. But not this time. Instead, she walked to the stand next to the specimen table and grabbed a filtration mask off a hook.

  With her hair tied back, she was able to put the mask on and tighten the straps without too much pinching. She kept her eyes on the beaker as her fingers felt for the tabs on the straps. Once it was secure, she felt better. But not as good as she felt when she put on the safety glasses.

  She should have put them on in the very beginning. It was, after all, procedure. But she was always careful. Now she was scared and wanted a bio-hazard suit.

  Han
ds shaking as she approached the beaker, she forced herself to calm down. It’s just oil, she told herself. Maybe a little odd, but it’s just a fucking collection of hydrocarbons. Get over it! But that reptile part of the brain wouldn’t stop screaming at her.

  Once her hands steadied, she picked up the beaker using forceps and carried it to the small centrifuge in the corner. It was filled with test tubes. She grabbed a small glass funnel and placed it inside the mouth of the closest tube. Using the forceps, she lifted the beaker inch by inch until the amber liquid poured out. When the tube was little more than half full, she righted the beaker and placed it back on the table.

  Her deft fingers arranged the other tubes to counterbalance the sample’s weight. If you didn’t do that, the centrifuge would wobble and possibly break the glassware. She put a top on the tube and then pushed the hood down over the apparatus.

  She swiveled the knobs to 2k revolutions per minute, set the timer for 2 minutes, and started the machine. It whirred and spun. The noise wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was loud enough to obscure quieter sounds. She didn’t hear the burbling and bubbling inside the gravity stand. Nor did she see more air bubbles pop inside the beaker.

  Shawna waited while the centrifuge did its work. Her stomach continued its insistent grumble and she continued to ignore it. She could feed herself once the centrifuge was done. Just a couple of more tests, she told it. Her stomach didn’t care.

  While the seconds ticked down, she stared over at the LCD display hanging from the east wall. The screen was split into four equal sections. In the upper right, a camera view of the rig deck showed the men inspecting the pipe stands. Next to it was a view of the ocean waves. They were a little choppy today. The lower screens had a satellite view of the ocean weather report.

  She didn’t like the look of that storm to the south. When they’d barreled through it on the supply ship, it had been a severe annoyance, but not hazardous. 48 hours later, it seemed to have grown. No mention of tropical storm winds. Yet.

  The centrifuge engine ceased its growling and the whir slowly dissipated as it spun back down. The digital timer beeped twice. She turned back to look at the machine and sighed.

  As she reached the centrifuge, the loud hum of the air conditioner stopped. She guessed the thermostat was happy with the temp. She put her gloved fingers on the edge of the centrifuge hood and then stopped. It was barely audible, but something was crackling.

  She looked around the room for the source, but only saw the test equipment. It sounded like acid chewing through something. She stared at the decanters on the back wall. The liquids were still in their beakers, deathly silent, and inert. The noise stopped. Shawna took one last look around and then focused her attention on the centrifuge.

  Stifling another yawn, she lifted the hood and stared down at the test tube. She carefully unlocked it from the compartment and squeezed on the removal tool. The metal forks slid past one another and created a gap larger than the cylindrical Pyrex specimen. She released the pressure and the grips locked around the glass. She lifted it up into the light.

  The oil was an even deeper shade of amber than before. She stared at the bottom. There were no particulates. There was no stratification. The oil was absolutely free of sediment.

  That wasn’t right. At all. Oil always had water. Oil always had sediment. Crude was never just crude. A bubble popped inside the test tube. She jumped, the tool still in her hands. The liquid tried to slosh out of the glass, but didn’t. Her heart thumped in her chest and blood pounded in her ears.

  Treating the test tube like an explosive, she walked to the west wall and placed it in a test stand. She squeezed the tool and the tube slipped into an open slot. She stepped away from it. Searing halogen light blazed down from lamps above the tube stand. Another bubble popped from the tube. Then another. And another.

  The oil sizzled as though carbonated. She walked backwards, eyes riveted on the sight. What is this shit?

  She was afraid to go near it. Shawna looked around the lab. A metal tray hung from the wall. It was too big, but it would have to do. She pulled it from the wall and placed it atop the tube stand.

  The metal covered it fine, but looked as though it might slide off the stand. Shawna walked to the lab’s hatch. She stripped out of her safety gear and threw it to the floor. She wasn’t coming back to the lab. Ever. Her fingers found the hatch handle and she opened it. Eyes still fixed on the metal tray, she stepped backward into the hall and slammed the hatch behind her.

  #

  The crew had stowed the pipes. The crew was cleaning out the mud traps. The crew, his crew, was kicking ass. Vraebel was happy.

  Once the drill string had been brought up, he’d handed over the bridge. He’d been awake for 20 hours and it was time to sleep. Although he was the rig chief, he was supposed to work the same 12 hour shifts as his crew. That was company policy.

  For the first few days of drilling, Vraebel found it impossible to rest. The bridge was where he wanted to be to handle any emergencies. His former boss had told him that he had to learn to let go and trust those he hired. Which is why he spent so much time finding the best people possible. But as far as letting it go? That was still a work in progress.

  Down in the lab, Sigler would be examining the drill core and analyzing the liquids they’d pulled up. Gomez was going over inventory reports and inspecting the equipment. His men, those that were on duty, would be doing the same. Any anomaly, no matter how small, was to be reported immediately. Vraebel had made that clear to the men over and over again.

  All it took was one drill string section with a crack or metal fatigue to destroy an entire drilling operation. Pressure, mud, the actual rotation of the drill bit, all those different variables put a lot of stress on the steel pipe sections. Each of the 600 plus tubes had to be inspected and reinspected after every drilling event.

  Production rigs carried a large number of spares. Sections on the drill string would eventually weaken and have to be replaced. A small exploratory rig like Leaguer? Not as many spares as he’d like. But they could always get more from the supply ship. And if they had to wait a week or two to get them, tough shit. PPE would wait. The operation could wait.

  Companies like BP didn’t perform their due diligence and people died as a result. Vraebel wasn’t ever going to let that happen, regardless of the deregulation Congress constantly pushed through. The lobbyists could go fuck themselves—this wasn’t just a business; people’s lives were at stake.

  He blew steam off his coffee. The sun was high in the sky, but obscured by fluffy clouds. He’d checked the weather from his stateroom the moment he’d regained consciousness. The storm that had been cycling near the coast was still there. It was pounding the outer islands, but was no threat to them. Yet.

  Every hour the storm existed was another hour for it to shift and drift toward them. If the waves rose high enough, the relatively small rig would start moving around. Rigs were built to survive that kind of turmoil, but undersea volcanic activity or hurricanes had a habit of damaging them. Leaguer, built with the latest safety and semi-submersible technology, was capable of surviving fifty foot waves. Beyond that? Who could say?

  He tapped the keyboard on his console and pulled up reports. Gomez and his men were reading the RFID tags on the pipe inspection apps and putting in data. Vraebel remembered when all this was done with paper and pen and damn, but that was messy. Thankfully, technology had made the process a lot easier. But every report had to be checked; the human capacity for mistakes would always exist.

  Gomez had marked a pipe section as suspect and put it aside. According to the inventory, he’d already had a replacement pulled and reinspected. They had ninety-nine spares now. Vraebel wondered how many they’d have by day’s end.

  He sipped his coffee. An email alert popped up on his screen. He read the summary and sighed. It was from Executive VP Simpson. He clicked the mouse and the email filled the screen. He read it and sipped more coffee. Simpson had gott
en his message regarding the first test well and wanted Sigler’s report as soon as she was done. “Micro-manage-itis,” he said to the empty bridge.

  Of course he’d send the goddamned reports when they were done. What did the asshole think Vraebel would do? Sit on them? The exec also wanted to know when they were going to send the samples to Houston.

  “As soon as fucking possible,” he said aloud and drank the rest of his coffee. Fighting the urge to send a flame-mail to the big boss, he clicked “reply” and started crafting something more diplomatic. “It’ll be done when it’s fucking done” was not an appropriate response, no matter how badly he wanted to write it.

  When he finished the email and clicked “send,” he leaned back in his chair and tried to calm himself. Between Calhoun’s team and Simpson breathing down his neck, he was going to get an ulcer.

  “Gomez to chief,” the radio growled.

  Glad for the distraction, any distraction, he pulled the mic from the clip. “Chief here. Over.”

  There was a slight pause. “The team has finished the reports on the mud trap and recycle. We have another two-hundred pipes to inspect. Over.”

  Vraebel nodded to himself. “I’ll check out the reports on the mud. Take your time on the pipes and be sure. Over.”

  “Understood. Over and out.”

  He put the mic back on the clip. Gomez was a good man. Vraebel was damned glad he’d found him. It had required a hell of a job offer from PPE to get him off contract, but Gomez had agreed to come work as an actual employee.

  The oil biz was a mess. Job-jumping was a constant threat even with lower-paid workers. For the best people in the industry? It was more dire. PPE knew that. That’s why they made sure their people were highly paid and well taken care of. That included benefits, stock options, bonuses, paid vacation, you name it. Although they were hourly employees, they might as well be on salary.