Oil Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 4)

by T'Gracie Reese

  “Sir, do you think this is funny?”

  “Do I think a nationwide demand that we shut down and dismantle our flagship oil rig––at a cost of billions of dollars—because of an absolutely ludicrous story, supplied apparently to The New York Times by a retired school teacher who stole a young engineer’s flash disk from what should have been a secure computer––is funny? No. No, I don’t think it’s funny, and the professionals who work on and are extremely proud of Aquatica don’t think it’s funny; and their families, who now may be terrified for absolutely no reason, don’t think it’s funny; and the residents of every town on The Gulf Coast, who are now imagining their beaches covered with oil and their livelihoods threatened—don’t think it’s funny either. Insane perhaps. Ludicrous. But no, not funny.”

  “Do you have any comment about the death of Edgar Ramirez?”

  “We regret it deeply, because the young man was one of us, a part of us. We have expressed our most sincere condolences to his mother, and to the rest of his family.”

  “You deny then that anyone from Louisiana Petroleum had anything to do with his death?”

  “Of course, we deny it! It’s as insane and ludicrous as everything else in this hodgepodge of a story! Also, we are demanding that The New York Times retract this garbage immediately.”

  “And if they do not?”

  “That will be a matter for our legal department to deal with. I’m not prepared to comment on it at this time.”

  “Have you been in contact with Professor Narang, or with Nina Bannister, who according to The Times is the original source of the story?”

  “Again, I’m not going to comment on that. But I do want do something else at this moment.”

  He turned and addressed someone standing behind him:

  “Are we ready? Have we got the signal? All right then…”

  He spoke once again to the reporters:

  “If you’ll look at the big screen to my right, you’ll see that we have a direct hook up with the main control room on the Aquatica.”

  The screen on the tv flashed once. Then the scene changed and Nina saw the same control room she had visited some days earlier.

  Staring into the camera were three familiar figures, all outfitted in the bright orange jump suits and yellow helmets.

  The CEO continued to speak:

  “The people you see before you,” he said, “are three of Aquatica’s top officers: Dr. Sandra Cousins, materials engineer and public relations specialist, Mr. Tom Holder, first drilling assistant, or Tool Master––and Dr. Phil Bennington, rig master. I’m going to let you ask your questions directly to them. Bill, you’ve had your hand up. Go ahead and address your inquiry to any one of them. They can see you now, and they can hear you.”

  The reporter stepped forward and shouted at the screen:

  “This question is for Dr. Cousins!”

  Sandy Cousins, looking pert and sunshiny as Nina had remembered her being, spoke up to answer:

  “Yes! I hear you!”

  “Do you feel as though you are in any danger out there?”

  She shook her head emphatically:

  “No, not in the least! I’m one of the people in charge of importing materials we use to line the well. This story—and by the way we just were able to read it a little more than an hour ago—this story is complete fiction. Please, please, please, do not believe a word of this! Also, as chief public relations officer I’m in contact daily with people who are frightened of the dangers of deep-water drilling. All that I can tell you is, we share their concerns. And we’re dedicating our professional lives to making sure that nothing harmful happens, and that we continue to follow safe drilling procedures.”

  A second reporter:

  “I’m Randy Thomas of The Memphis Star. This question is for Mr. Holder.”

  “Aye, Mate!”

  “Mr. Holder, you fill the position known as Tool Master?”

  “I do. And I have filled it for three years now. Been in offshore drilling for seventeen years, I have, my entire professional life. Started as a roustabout on a rig off Liverpool and worked my way up.”

  “The Times story says that at the bottom of the main drill pipe there are two valves designed to stop the flow of gas to the surface.”

  “Aye, that’s the only thing the damned story got bleeding’ right. Sorry about my language.”

  “That’s all right, sir. But these valves…”

  “These valves are exactly built to specifications. Not only that, but they’re checked daily. We checked them an hour ago. There’s nothing wrong with them! Also, if I might add, we didn’t do six pressure tests in the last two weeks; we did fourteen, since we do one pressure test every day. There is no increasing pressure down there, and there hasn’t been since Aquatica began operations three years ago.”

  “I see. As for the blowout preventer…”

  “There is one. It was installed two months ago. And the reason we installed it is because it is a state of the art mechanism. It was developed by The Luebke Corporation based in Bremen, Germany. It’s the best in the world. There was nothing wrong with the old preventer; but we’re constantly scouring all markets to find the best supplies available. When a better part is developed, we know about it, we buy it, and we install it.”

  “So, in your opinion, Professor Narang’s allegations are…”

  “His allegations are something that Sandy wouldn’t want me to say.”

  All three of the figures on the screen smiled.

  Another reporter:

  “Dr. Bennington, I’m Susan Baker of The Corpus Christie Caller.”

  “Yes, Ms. Baker.”

  “As Rig Master, you oversee all operations on Aquatica, is that right?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Your final comments concerning this story?”

  He shook his head.

  “I’m just…I’m just speechless. Nothing about it is true. We have had nothing but the most minor problems on Aquatica for months now. I’ve been in this business twenty three years. This installation is absolutely without parallel, in terms of safety and efficiency. We have back ups to every back up. We have only the top people working here.

  “And you feel safe?”

  “Absolutely. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t stay out here a minute. Nor would I allow my crew to do so.”

  “Thank you, Phil.”

  “My pleasure.”

  And the screen went blank.

  It lit up a second later to reveal the executives on the podium.

  More questions:

  “Are the people at Louisiana Petroleum aware that demands from environmental groups all over the country—and the world—are pouring in, demanding that Aquatica be shut down and dismantled?”

  A nod.

  “Of course we’re aware of those demands. That’s why this story is so irresponsible, so insanely thoughtless. If it were true, then all of these demands would be thoroughly justified. And we would shut down immediately. BUT IT IS NOT TRUE! THERE IS NOT A THREAD OF TRUTH IN ONE DETAIL OF IT!”

  “So what are you doing in response to the demands?”

  He huddled with two of the men on the podium with him, then addressed the reporters again:

  “All I can say is, we’re going to get to the bottom of these allegations as quickly as possible, and we’re going to have them completely retracted. Then we’re going to find the people responsible for making such claims, and we’re going to be sure that they are held accountable for the damage they’ve brought about. Damage both to our good name and to the oil industry as a whole. Now, that’s all I’m going to be able to say at the moment.”

  The men left the stage.

  Jackson turned off the tv and looked at Nina.

  “Ok. So what do you make of that?”

  She shook her head:

  “All I know is, Professor Narang is supposed to be one of the most intelligent men in the world regarding such matters.”

  “Fine. But surely
all these folks out on Aquatica wouldn’t be denying these allegations if they thought there was any danger.”

  “I wish I could talk to Narang.”

  “Nobody can find him. After he wrote the story, he apparently went into seclusion.”

  “Probably,” she said, “because he knew the firestorm that he was going to start. What about Liz Cohen?”

  Jackson merely grunted:

  “Can’t reach her either. The newspaper is not commenting, and they won’t take my calls.”

  “So how much trouble am I in, Jackson?”

  He smiled.

  A thin smile, but still a smile.

  “It depends on who you talk to. I’ve had about 50 calls from LP people this morning. They want me to produce you, and they want you to produce the disk, which they claim you stole from them.”

  “Only because I did steal it from them.”

  “Yes, there is that. Where is the damned disk?”

  “Narang has it.”

  “I guess that would make sense. Anyway, LP wants their own engineers to look at it. They’re also offering to make it available to anybody else who wants to analyze it. According to them, none of the stuff Narang claims is on it, possibly even could be. Anyway, they want a chance to clear their name.”

  “And if they don’t get the disk?”

  He shrugged.

  “They’re threatening to bring charges against you.”

  “What charges?”

  “Theft. Industrial espionage.”

  “And if they do?”

  “We’ll have to produce you in court.”

  “Well. I can’t deny that I stole the flash disk.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “How?”

  “By telling the truth. It wasn’t their flash disk. It was Edgar’s. You brought it home to his family just like you brought his shirts.”

  She thought for a time and then said:

  “I had almost forgotten the way lawyers think.”

  “Yeah, we’re all very proud of that. Of course, what they’re going to say is, it isn’t so much the physical disk you stole as the information that was on it. So it becomes an intellectual property case.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we’ve already reached a district court in New Orleans and we all get to go to Pat O’Brien’s.”

  “Hats and horns. Jackson, I’m tired. I’m tired just thinking about all this. I want to go home.”

  He looked at her.

  “You want to go home?”

  Then he shook his head and said, quietly:

  “I had forgotten. You don’t quite realize what’s happening, do you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He rose, and beckoned for her to do the same.

  “We need to take a little ride.”

  “Where?”

  “Just..oh, just around in town. There are some things you need to see. Things I can’t quite explain.”

  “What are you talking about, Jackson?”

  “Just come on. I’ll show you.”

  “Do I need the sunglasses? Do I have to scrunch?”

  “Negative on both. We’ll be going in my own car, not the one the boy picked you up in. Windows are completely tinted. No one can see you.”

  “Is it that important that they don’t?”

  “You’ll see. Terry?”

  The young man stuck his head in the door.

  “Yes, Mr. Bennett?”

  “Bring my car around back, will you?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He disappeared.

  “Still the back stairs?” asked Nina.

  “I’d take you out off the roof if I could.”

  “So it’s that bad.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just come along, and enjoy the view.”

  The first thing she noted about ‘the view,’ as they made their way down the stairs, was that a great many people were getting it from a higher vantage point than she enjoyed.

  Helicopters were everywhere.

  Red helicopters.

  Green helicopters.

  Blue helicopters.

  “My God,” she whispered, as she opened the car door and entered the front seat, “are we being invaded?”

  Jackson turned the key and started the engine.

  “Yes, we are, Nina.”

  “But why? Aquatica is ten miles offshore and LP is headquartered in Lafayette. What does everybody want with little old Bay St. Lucy?”

  “You’ll see.”

  They pulled out of the alley.

  The town had transformed itself, and was continuing to do so.

  Busses crowded the narrow streets.

  Bands of people were parading past the souvenir shops.

  “Who are all these people?”

  “These people? You haven’t seen anything. Here, I’ll turn onto Breakers and we’ll take a look at the beach.”

  He did in fact turn onto Breakers Boulevard, but the beach could not be seen.

  It was obscured by crowds of bandanna-wearing, bearded, sign-waving people.

  “I will ask again, Jackson: who the hell are all these people?”

  “These people,” he growled, slowing the car as it merged into a line of vans and RV’s, “are the environmental fringe. They’ve been pouring into town for the last two hours. As far as I can tell, all the ‘beds and breakfasts,’ all the hotels, everything—is now booked up for the foreseeable future.”

  “But why? Why are they in Bay St. Lucy?”

  “Because we are now the center of the ‘Protect the Environment’ movement. And we are that center because we have one thing.”

  “What?”

  They were passing a large and raucous crowd of people who had built a campfire on the beach and were passing around what were quite obviously marijuana joints. These people, while not sucking hard on their tokes, were waving signs.

  Half of the signs said:

  “Down with Big Oil!”

  …and had a picture of an exploding oil well on them.

  The other half of the signs said:

  “NINA!”

  ..and had a picture of Nina on them.

  “Oh my God!” she whispered.

  …while Jackson continued, saying:

  “We are the center of the ‘Protect Your Environment” movement, Nina, because we have you.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “You haven’t seen the morning edition of the Bay St. Lucy Gazette. It’s covered with stories about you. They reprinted stuff about the Robinson case, and the Reddington murder. There are about five different photographs of you, even one of you being carried off the court after the Hattiesburg game.”

  “But…but look at that poster, the big one that’s been nailed to the pier. Is that…”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s Furl! They’ve got Furl’s picture on that poster!”

  “That’s because one of the stories this morning talked about you and Furl, and your shack. It even ran a picture of Furl.”

  “But how did they get it?”

  “Beats me.”

  “And that printing…what does that sign say, those letters just under Furl?”

  “It says, ‘Furl hates Big Url.”

  “What?”

  “Furl hates…”

  “I know, I see it now. But that’s awful! That’s the worst pun I’ve ever heard!”

  “What did you expect, Nina? Whoever came up with it was probably stoned out of his mind.”

  “This cannot be happening. I’m dreaming all of this. Look! Look over there. Why are they waving those huge pictures of Willie Nelson?”

  Jackson sped up slightly in order to get the car through what was either a low-hanging patch of fog across the road, or a cloud of marijuana smoke that had drifted up from the beach.

  “It was just announced half an hour ago. Willie Nelson is coming here next week to do a special ‘save the earth’ concert. He’s also writing a ballad that will be called ‘N
ina the Queena the Good Greena Earth, that will be sung to the tune of ‘Home with the Armadillo.’

  “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Not, hopefully, in my car.”

  “But…Jackson, it’s like I said: can’t I go home?”

  He shook his head.

  “Are you joking? Your home has become a shrine. People are standing around it in rows fifty feet deep, as though it was a Greenpeace cross between Canterbury Cathedral and Mecca.”

  “But what about Furl?”

  “All I know is that he hates Big Url.”

  “Stop that, Jackson.”

  “Sorry. I thought a little humor…”

  “No.”

  “Okay, okay. Furl is at my place. The girls are loving on him. He’s having the time of his life. And I’ve already heard from two Los Angeles producers who want to make a tv series about him.”

  “Please stop joking, Jackson. This isn’t really very funny.”

  “I’m not joking. It would be a kind of cross between Rin Tin Tin and Lassie. Every week Furl would ferret out some big environmental polluter and rip him to shreds.”

  “Okay, and don’t tell me. They’d want Meryl Streep to play me.”

  “She’s too tall.”

  “She could play sh…oh, the hell with it, I don’t want to go through that all again. But Jackson, where can I go? I’m tired. I’m really confused. And I’m scared. I feel like World War I is breaking out and I’m little Nina Sarajevo, sitting there right between all these giants: the oil industry on one side and the recreational drug industry on the other. Where am I going to sleep for heavens sakes?”

  “I’ve got that covered. I and your friends. You’re not alone, Nina. This is Bay St. Lucy, you know.”

  “It looks like Woodstock.”

  “How would you know anything about Woodstock?”

  “I read.”

  “Like I say, don’t worry about it. I’m taking you home right now. It’s just that ‘home’ is going to be in a different place for a while.”

  “How long, do you think?”

  “Not long. Maybe a few years, I don’t know.”

  “I just want to walk along the beach and read mysteries. Is that asking too much?”

  Jackson nodded:

  “Nina, it seems to me you’re right in the middle of a mystery right now. And if you don’t solve it—well, there may not be a beach to walk along.