“Never fails,” Catfish muttered.
“What?” JP asked.
Catfish glanced at Calhoun with a grim smile and then turned to the diver. “Everything’s about safety, slow-going, precision, all the great grin-fuck words and phrases you can imagine. Until they see the gold staring them in the face. And then it’s no holds barred fucking greed.”
The diver opened his mouth to respond and thought better of it. The three members of his team had lost their fucking minds. Speaking of grin-fucking, that’s exactly what he was going to do. They could go crazy over fucked up sensors and Catfish’ trashed out AUV designs. He was going to dive and do his job.
#
Sleep wouldn’t come. The moon light barely managed to break through the clouds. She stared up at the ceiling with open eyes. She was tired, no doubt about it, but that didn’t mean she could turn off her brain.
The problem was the helicopter. It would be at the rig in the morning. Roughly forty-eight hours after it took off, the samples would get to Houston. PPE had paid the big money to expedite the sample, but it would still take at least 24 hours of non-stop work by the technicians to produce a report. It might even take two days. By then, they’d be drilling another well.
She and Calhoun had been to see Vraebel after dinner. The man was on the bridge staring out into the gloom and drinking a cup of coffee. She wondered if he ever drank anything else.
“Martin?” Calhoun asked. “You have a minute?”
Vraebel blew a cloud of steam from his coffee cup and swiveled his chair to face them. His face smiled, but his eyes didn’t. “Thomas. Ms. Sigler. What can I do for you?”
Calhoun glanced at Shawna and then back at Vraebel. “I assume you saw the reports?”
The rig chief nodded. “Certainly did. I forwarded them on to Simpson and he was ecstatic. Y’all did a good job. Found the mother lode. Or at least, you will have once the lab gets a hold of the sample.”
Shawna gulped. “So it’s going to Houston?”
“Simpson reserved a chopper the moment he heard we had brought up a sample.” Vraebel pointed at her. “You should be proud. Harobin tells me you’re the best he’s ever worked with. And obviously the geology was dead on.”
Thomas chewed his lip. “Right.” He cleared his throat. “Did you actually read the entire report, or just the statistics and chemical compositions?”
Vraebel’s smile disappeared. The hard look in his eyes intensified. “I read the whole report,” he said in a monotone. “And I can’t tell if you people are just out to sabotage me or yourselves.” He leaned back in his chair. “PPE is convinced your sensors are wrong. Maybe they were damaged in transit. Or maybe there’s something down there interfering with them. Bottom line?” he said. “We don’t give a shit.” He smiled at Shawna. “Pardon my language.”
Lips in a thin line, Thomas spoke in a clipped cadence. “The sensors are not wrong. The analysis is not wrong. We need to be careful if we’re going to drill a new well. Very careful.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Vraebel said. His smile was back and his eyes had softened. “Tomorrow we’ll be setting up for another well. Do you have a mark yet?”
Calhoun and Shawna exchanged a glance. “Yeah, we do. It’s the layer that’s deepest as far as the rock is concerned.”
Vraebel cocked an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t we go where it’s thinnest?”
“I’m concerned about gas pockets.” She hoped the lie sounded better than she thought it had. “We may have gotten lucky with that first well. But the pressure was pretty extreme.”
The rig chief sipped his coffee and looked past them toward the topographic map on the wall. “Show me.”
She stared at the map. She’d studied it for months before the rig was even constructed. She knew every line, every hump, and valley in the entire trench. Or she had. She remembered the coordinates she and Calhoun had agreed on. She stabbed a finger on the map. “Right here.”
“And that’s the deepest surface layer?” he asked.
“According to the surveys,” Calhoun said. “Even the, um, revised survey suggests it’s the deepest.”
“Okay,” Vraebel said. “Send the location to Gomez and he’ll start prepping things.” He stood from his chair and placed the coffee cup on the console. “Now if you’ll excuse us, Ms. Sigler, Mr. Calhoun and I need to have a private word.”
She’d stepped out of the hatch and closed it behind her. After a few moments, it opened and Thomas stepped into the hallway. His face was flushed and a vein in his temple throbbed. “Fucking asshole,” he said as he walked toward the staterooms.
“What’d he say?” Shawna asked as she fought to keep up.
Thomas slowed his fast walk and then stopped. He turned to her, his face a rictus of anger. “I think you need to join me for a cigar.”
Shawna rolled over on the bed and tried to get comfortable. Staring at the ceiling wasn’t shutting off her brain. She tried to find the sounds of the ocean below the hum of the rig’s generators, but she couldn’t.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the bubble in the oil. What about the filters in the gravity stand? The dense paper had been designed to filter out anything in the liquid. But besides a film of black, they were empty. Worst of all, the porous material looked like it had been shot with BBs.
Calhoun had helped her clean the lab and it wasn’t until that moment she was certain he believed everything she had said. Not only that, but he’d looked…scared. She was glad she hadn’t been the only one.
They’d handled every bit of cleaning while wearing all the safety gear they could find. The idea of the black liquid touching her skin had made her shudder while they ran chemical baths and did their best to remove any trace of the black.
The beaker and the test tube? Calhoun placed those in the sample closet after putting stoppers in both. She was glad he didn’t ask her to help with that task.
When she and Calhoun had reached the top of the rig so he could smoke, she’d finally relaxed. A little. The smell of the fresh ocean air and the light breeze coming from the south helped settle her nerves. In the red flashing lights of the helipad, Calhoun had lit a fresh cigar using a torch.
“What did he say?” she asked.
Thomas blew a thick cloud of smoke into the air. The breeze quickly decimated it into a memory. “He’s petitioned Simpson to take me off the rig. You as well.”
She blinked. “What? Why?”
A malevolent smile crossed his lips. “Because,” he took another drag on the cigar, the smoke flowing out of his nostrils like an angry dragon, “he feels the two of us are no longer essential to the mission. After the report, he feels we will only serve to hinder future exploration.”
“Hinder? How the fuck would we hinder?”
He laughed and another gout of smoke filled the air before disappearing into the wind. “By spreading rumors that something odd is going on down there. He assured me that he would proceed with all caution. Fortunately for him, I believe him. He won’t put his men at risk if he knows there’s an issue.”
“There is an issue,” Shawna said. “Shifting floor? Oil that doesn’t act like oil? New species of tube worms? I mean, what the fuck else does he want?”
Calhoun placed a hand on her shoulder and grinned. “I haven’t heard you curse this much as long as I’ve known you. Calm down, it’s okay.” He removed the hand and put it back on his cigar.
She didn’t take offense—she knew well enough he wasn’t being patronizing. And he was right. Shawna took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m cool. Now,” she licked her lips, “what do we do about this?”
“Nothing,” Calhoun said. “Absolutely nothing. We do our jobs, we keep investigating, and we make sure everyone’s as safe as we can make them. With that in mind,” he stared at the moon-glow coming through the clouds, “I want you to add something to the report before the lab in Houston gets it.”
“And what would that be?”
He turn
ed to her. “Possible biohazard or corrosive agent present.”
“Biohazard?” she asked. “They’re never going to believe it.”
“Call it a CYA. Call it being prepared. Call it whatever. Just make sure it gets in the report,” he gestured with the cigar. “I don’t want them caught flat-footed.”
She chuckled at that. “Aren’t we already there?”
“And then some,” he said. When she left him and walked back to her stateroom, he was still staring at the clouds and puffing away on his cigar.
The report, with the additions, would be ready in the morning. In order to protect PPE’s proprietary mud fluid components and their drilling methodology, certain parts of the report had already been redacted. This was SOP in the industry. You only told as much as you had to, especially when exploration was involved. All labs had to sign NDA’s about what they were testing and where it had come from, but that didn’t mean other companies weren’t willing to bribe the shit out of the staff to get a leg up.
Sliding a warning into it would be easy. She’d wake up first thing in the morning and get it taken care of. If, that was, she could sleep at all.
She closed her eyes and imagined she was on a float in the ocean. A mattress of air separated her from the cool water as the sun warmed her belly and legs. Through her imaginary sunglasses, she studied puffy clouds. In a moment, she was finally asleep.
Chapter Five
Mornings were Vraebel’s favorite time of day. He loved waking up before the sun and watching it rise over the horizon as he sipped cup after cup of black coffee. When he woke that morning, however, he wasn’t happy. Sleep had been fickle to non-existent.
The crazy shit Calhoun and Sigler had written in the report had haunted him all night. He was right to have emailed Simpson and let the exec know there was a possible problem aboard Leaguer. He’d taken great pleasure in pointing out it was Simpson’s hires that were the problem. Simpson hadn’t responded. Yet.
And that was the other problem. He’d tweaked Calhoun hard last night. Implied the engineer had gone insane, senile, or both. After the man had left the bridge and Vraebel had time to think about his words, a sinking feeling hit the pit of his stomach.
He had met masters of the “career limiting move.” Those were people on the rise who shot their mouth off one too many times. Piss off the wrong exec at the top, and you’d never get promoted. If you angered enough of them, they’d give you a window seat or just find a way to fire you. He didn’t know Simpson well enough to gauge how the man would react to the email. Calhoun? He didn’t know the engineer at all.
At least Harvey didn’t seem concerned. The man had volunteered for inspection duty. Belmont and his dive crew were scheduled to perform a routine sweep of the substructure as soon as they arrived at the second spud-site. It would take a few hours at most. As long as Harvey was off the damned rig, Vraebel could relax. A little.
But that didn’t make the bad feeling go away. Ocean floors didn’t move unless there was magma involved either through eruption or an earthquake. The idea the floor was shifting was insane. He kept trying to imagine it, but his brain wouldn’t cooperate. It just sounded…crazy.
And the oil? It’s fucking oil! That thought bounced in his head all night. But Sigler had looked terrified. When he mentioned they were going to drill another well, the color bleached out of her face. And when she pointed out the spot on the map last night, her hand was shaking.
The bullshit about a possible gas pocket? Yeah, he didn’t believe that one either. There was a reason she and Calhoun had chosen the thickest part of the crust. He had a feeling they weren’t going to tell him why.
Vraebel stood on the bridge as the morning shift appeared on deck. Gomez was out there, his bright red hard hat making him impossible to miss. The clouds had thickened overnight, and the sun was barely visible through the soup. But that wasn’t going to stop the next drill string.
Shouldn’t it? a voice said in his mind. Shouldn’t you just stop for a moment and take a look around? Vraebel shook his head to clear it. Not enough sleep. He was jittery and exhausted.
The numbers from the oil analyses kept running through his mind. An impossible gravity, an impossible water content, and an impossibly sweet crude. All PPE would have to do was filter out any particulates and then they could refine to their heart’s content. They sat on top of a goddamned gold mine of oil. And he, Vraebel, would get credit for bringing in the greatest find since Nigeria.
An acidic burp escaped his mouth and his stomach burned. This was bullshit. A goddamned nightmare Calhoun and Sigler had conjured to… To… To what? That’s what didn’t make any goddamned sense.
There was nothing for them to gain by manufacturing evidence or analyses. He could see Harvey or that asshole Standlee setting all this in motion just to tweak him, but Calhoun and Sigler?
He took another sip from the mug and realized it was empty. Vraebel swiveled in his chair and eyed the coffee machine. Another burp of heartburn escaped his lips and he sighed. Instead of rising from his chair to get another cup, he rolled the mug between his hands.
Simpson wanted another well. Calhoun and Sigler had told him where to drill. Gomez and the crew were getting ready to build another drill string. And what was Martin Vraebel doing? Martin Vraebel was thinking about how it was a goddamned bad day to be a rig chief.
The radio squawked. “Leaguer, this is Helo 115 Heavy, over,” a female voice said.
The acid in his stomach settled at once and a grin filled his face. At least something is going right today. He pulled the mic off the clip.
“115 Heavy, this is Leaguer, over.”
There was a slight pause and then the voice came back to him, the whine of engines barely audible in the background. “Leaguer. We are thirty minutes out. Please have the cargo ready. We don’t have a lot of fuel reserves. Over.”
“Understood, 115 Heavy. Should we have anything else ready for you? Over.”
The pilot chuckled. “Unless you have some whiskey, we’ll just take the cargo. Over.”
Vraebel laughed. “Sorry, 115. We have plenty of coffee and anything else you could desire, but that’s about it. Over.”
“Damn,” the voice said. “Oh, well. I tried. Helo 115 out.”
For the first time that morning, he felt as though the day might not be a complete shit sandwich. The PPE helicopter was early. That meant the oil sample would get off the rig and head to Houston sooner than he’d hoped. By tomorrow or the next day, they’d be working another drill string.
The fatigue that fogged his brain disappeared. He pulled a yellow telephone receiver from the console. He heard the buzz of the ringer on the other end until someone picked it up.
“Gomez.”
“Steve? The helo is about thirty minutes out. Please check the helipad and make sure the sample is ready for them. Sounds like an immediate dust off,” Vraebel said.
“Understood, Chief. We’ll be ready.”
“Vraebel out.” He dropped the phone back in its cradle.
He looked down at the deck. Gomez was pointing at several of his men and then to the helipad. The men nodded and then made their way up the superstructure. Vraebel smiled. Clockwork. Clockwork is how everything should work.
He stood from the chair, turned toward the coffee machine, and then stopped in his tracks. Standlee stood at the hatch threshold. His hair was clean and tied back in a braid. For once, the man was dressed in a PPE polo shirt and a pair of faded pants. He wore boots instead of sandals.
“You have a moment, Mr. Vraebel?” the tech asked.
The rig chief forced a smile. “Sure.”
Standlee cleared his throat. “I’d like permission to send out an AUV.”
Vraebel watched the tech’s body language. The man was obviously stressed. About what, Vraebel wasn’t certain. “May I ask why?”
A slight smile tugged at Standlee’s lips. “One last shake out with some new programming. Need to make sure we’re ready for the
next drill string.”
For a moment, the only sounds in the room were the occasional bang or grind from the deck below and the air conditioning. He waited for Standlee to stammer or say something else, but the man didn’t.
“Of course,” Vraebel said. “I assume you’ll want to go with Harvey?”
Standlee shook his head. “No, I’m needed at my console, sir.”
“Okay. Tell Harvey to get with someone from Belmont’s team. Let me know when it’s in the water.”
“Will do. Thank you,” Standlee said. He left the bridge and headed down the hall at a fast walk.
Vraebel watched him go. The surly tech seemed to have had a major attitude adjustment. Calhoun must have told his team they were on the verge of being fired. Bullshit, of course. While he’d threatened to have Calhoun and Sigler removed, the rig couldn’t possibly do its job without an ROV/AUV pilot. At least not in water this deep.
Stomach settled, he pushed the coffee mug into the machine and started the process. He’d thought about finding Calhoun and apologizing, or at least sending another email to Simpson to explain he’d been rash. But neither was a good idea. He’d deal with whatever Simpson threw at him. And Calhoun? If he was finally going to keep his team in line and not spread hysteria among the crew, it would be good to have the man’s expertise on board. At least until they were done with two more test wells.
Vraebel walked to the situation board on the wall and studied the schedule. Gomez’ crew was calibrating the sensors for the next coordinate. By that afternoon, they should have the laser guidance directed on the exact spot for the new spud site. They’d use Leaguer’s thrusters to float the rig on top of the target. Once they started lowering the drill string, Standlee’s ROV would hold things steady at 18,000 feet. The ROV could then make any adjustments necessary for the drill string to hit its mark.
It wouldn’t take long. A day from now, maybe two, they’d be back to drilling and get another sample. In three to four days they’d probably have the report back from Houston. If it was good news, they could drill two more test wells, and send all three sample barrels back to Houston for confirmation. Once that was done, they’d know it was a gold rush. If this was a success, Vraebel could look forward to manning the production rig that would ultimately replace Leaguer.
The Black Page 10