Megalodon: Feeding Frenzy

by JE Gurley

  Finally resorting to calling in old favors and practically begging, he got a job aboard the Shell Oil Vanguard. Even that would have been impossible but for the fact that he worked through a contract labor firm. They paid less than his old job on the Global Kulik, but at least he was working. He did his job, took his pay, and avoided any conversation that dealt with that dark time in his life. A few fellow workers recognized his name as the lone survivor of the ill-fated drillship. He could see in their faces that they wanted to know what had happened, but were afraid to broach his carefully constructed façade of indifference. At times, he did not know which was worse, their antipathy or their sympathy. He wallowed in his self-imposed solitude and called it penitence, atonement for the sin of surviving.

  Unlike the self-propelled Global Kulik, the Vanguard was a towed semi-submersible drillship. Delivered to her destination, her tow ship left her on station and returned to port. Like the Kulik, it remained on station with eight thrusters and anchored mooring lines. As second mechanic, Asa maintained the winches, generators, HVAC systems, and anything else with moving parts not maintained by the roughnecks or drillers. It kept him busy, allowing him less time for brooding.

  At least he did not have to deal with his fellow workers while perched sixty feet above the frozen waters of the Beaufort Sea. He knelt beside the frozen sewage discharge pump carrying wastewater from the crews’ quarters to the waste holding tank where it was biodegraded before shipment to a treatment facility on land. Literally, he was up to his elbows in shit. At least the 40-mph wind gusts kept the smell to a minimum. His hands, numbed by the minus-twelve-degree temperature, had trouble tightening the last bolt to seal the pump cover. He cursed his lack of coordination and his luck at his reduction to the status of second mechanic, two pay grades below his usual title of master mechanic.

  He finally managed to seal the pump housing, stood, and stretched his aching back before gathering his tools. The pump was working. The fecal slurry was making its merry way to the waste tank, and the added insulation would help keep it from refreezing—another tedious job well done. The crew could safely take a dump again. Where’s the applause?

  The Vanguard was smaller than the Global Kulik, with a crew of only fifty-six. She was essentially a drilling platform perched atop four eighty-feet-long vertical hollow pylons attached to two horizontal pontoons. On station, water pumped into the pontoons lowered the platform into the sea helped stabilize it. She presently sat at 75020’20’’N, 148050’35”W, some 215 miles NNE of Barrow, Alaska, just off the continental shelf in twenty-five-hundred feet of water. Normally, in December, the Beaufort Sea would be a frozen wasteland of pressure ridges and crevasses, and the Vanguard would have returned to her homeport. The surface water temperature was 38-degrees, but warmer, deeper currents were keeping channels in the ice open.

  Asa found a spot out of the wind to smoke a Pall Mall and watched as a Sikorsky S-92 supply helicopter landed on the helipad. A stiff crosswind blew the red, white, and blue, thirteen-ton craft back and forth above the pad like a yo-yo on a string, as the pilot fought the controls to set her down. Watching the flapping windsock for a lull in the wind, he placed the chopper in a sideways dive across the deck, hit the pad with one skid, and immediately powered down the twin GE CT7-8A turboshaft engines. The chopper settled down firmly if not gracefully. It was a rough ride for the passengers, but they had made it. Fifteen passengers spilled out of the door, got their bearings, and headed for the stairs, swaying like drunken sailors from their harrowing ride.

  More rookies.

  He tossed the stub of his cigarette to the wind and sauntered toward the main building for a closer look. He enjoyed watching the stunned faces of newbies getting their first glimpse of an offshore drilling platform. The maze of cables and pipes that looked like a prey animal’s guts strewn about by a wild beast; the bitter, biting wind slicing exposed skin like invisible razors; the dull roar like someone jackhammering your eardrum—all were mysterious and unnerving to first-time offshore visitors. A few looked frightened, as if ready to turn around and climb back aboard the helicopter. One or two looked eager, ready for the challenge. Most of them simply appeared confused.

  A woman from human resources wearing ridiculous high heels and a spotless blue hardhat met them at the foot of the steps and ushered them into the building to fill out their paperwork. They looked relieved that they would not have to wander the platform on their own. Asa wondered if he had looked as green the first time he went offshore some twelve years ago. Two years at inshore facilities had not prepared him for the major differences between drilling on land and ocean drilling. The main distinction: On land, if something went wrong, you could run as far away as necessary or hop in a vehicle and drive. On the Vanguard in the middle of the ocean, in an emergency, you rushed for one of the four freefall lifeboats suspended nose-first in the canted racks on the side of the platform, hoping you made it in time and praying the lifeboat survived the sixty-foot plunge into the water. On a drill platform at sea, if the shit hit the fan, you were in the shit.

  An involuntary shudder racked his body as he remembered the Global Kulik. No one had time to reach the lifeboats then. Given the monstrous shark that he saw circling the drillship afterwards, he doubted it would have mattered. Why did I live? He had asked himself that question every morning since the incident after waking up bleary-eyed and exhausted from a troubled sleep wracked by nightmares. He still did not know the answer.

  He followed the new hires into the building, but broke away from the group to go downstairs to the cafeteria for an early lunch. The one thing oil platforms provided was food—lots of it. A bad chef risked being chucked over the side. The quality and quantity of food aboard the Vanguard was excellent. Unlike most rigs her size, the culinary staff included a pastry chef. Freshly baked bread, croissants, and an assortment of pastries accompanied every meal.

  The cafeteria was less than half full, mostly supervisors and administrative staff getting their fill before the Roughnecks plowed through the serving line like a head of grazing caribou. Silver and gold garlands draped from the ceiling reminded him it was Christmas Eve. A live Douglas fir tree stood in the corner, festooned with little twinkling lights, ornaments, and candy canes. Soft Christmas carols drifted from the overhead speakers filling the room with holiday cheer. Trays of sausages, peppers, and onions resting in a spicy tomato sauce, baked salmon in a butter cream sauce, herb roasted chicken smothered with roasted root vegetables, potatoes, and pan au jus were the main entrees. A carving station held a fat roasted turkey with a gravy boat holding thick giblet gravy beside it. The catering staff had done all it could to bring the Christmas spirit to an oil rig in the middle of the Beaufort Sea, but he felt no lifting of his spirits or abundance of joy.

  Stir-fry vegetables, bright yellow turmeric rice with peas, French fried potatoes, mashed potatoes, brown gravy, grilled asparagus, and sautéed polenta cakes were the sides. Various soups, breads, sandwiches, cheeses, and fruits finished off the thirty-foot-long serving line. His months sitting at home had not been good for his waistline, so he chose black coffee, a turkey and Swiss croissant, a bowl of clam chowder, and an apple for later.

  A couple of people glanced up as he chose a table in the corner. One man wore a bright red Santa cap over his head. He nodded a perfunctory greeting at Asa, but most continued their conversations or ignored him completely. He saw no looks of disdain or open sneers, which was a welcome relief. He wondered if any of them knew who he was or anything about his checkered past. It was a small rig, and gossip was as good as news from home and more abundant. He took a few bites from his meal, but the food seemed tasteless and unappetizing. He laid his fork on his plate and sighed.

  The faces around him seemed to stare at him even when they weren’t, and the quiet whispers were veiled accusations. His psychologist at the hospital had called his condition survivor’s guilt. He didn’t know about the survivor part. That had been pure luck. Except for the frostbitten tip
of the little toe on his right foot and a dislocated shoulder, he had escaped unscathed. Physically, he reminded himself. Inside, I’m a mass of scar tissue. His guilt irritated the mental scars and exacerbated his anguish. Why did I alone survive? He had played no part in the destruction of the Global Kulik, but months of deep, often liquor-induced retrospection brought up the dire specter of his inadequacies. Could he have helped save more people? Could he have saved Ilsa?

  It was becoming more difficult to tell fact from fantasy. Large slices of the frantic flight from the lab to the lifeboat station had vanished, as if sliced away by a surgeon’s scalpel. The doctor had called it self-induced retrograde amnesia, a trick employed by his brain to reduce the shock of the event, a mental safety valve. Were the snippets he did recall real or simply false images his imagination supplied for the sake of continuity? Did a giant shark exist? Certainly no one else thought so. The psychologist, Doctor Merkel, suggested the giant shark represented the trauma of the sinking, a boogey man. He was no longer sure, his mind thankfully disguising the truth in a fog of uncertainty. In a way, he no longer cared.

  The problem was that forgetting was easy. The difficult part was getting his subconscious mind to forget. It remembered every little detail and fed them back to him in his nightmares or in sudden sounds or smells, a kind of non-combat PTSD.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t like my cooking?”

  Asa glanced up and saw Simon, the ship’s chef, staring down at him, his beefy arms crossed over his barrel chest. His face bore a glum expression. The sudden shift from his dismal thoughts to Simon confused him. The chef was the only man who went out of his way to speak to him. He wasn’t sure why Simon singled him out, but the attention made him a little uncomfortable.

  “No, er, it all smells great. I’m just, er, not too hungry,” Asa stammered out in explanation.

  Simon relaxed, uncrossed his arms, and grinned. “Just screwing with you. I’ve seen you wolf it down before.” He narrowed his eyes and stared at Asa. “Something on your mind?”

  “Not much. I’m a mechanic. They hired me for my hands not my mind.” His attempt at levity sounded lame even to him.

  “We should talk sometime. You play chess?”

  Simon’s offer of companionship bewildered him. Before he could form a polite refusal, Simon continued, “Meet me in the lounge at seven tonight, and we’ll start a game. I need a challenge. Most of the roughnecks play chess like they drill, straight ahead and full bore. No finesse.”

  “Uh, yeah, okay, uh, maybe,” he stammered. “Seven sounds fine.”

  “Good. See you then.”

  Simon walked back around behind the serving line and began examining chafing dishes on the hot line, leaving Asa confused, wondering if he had just been hustled. Maybe he did need something to take his mind off his problems. He hadn’t played a game of chess since … Ilsa had been the last person with whom he had played chess.

  “Iverson.”

  He looked up and saw Ellis Brock, the chief mechanic, walking across the cafeteria with one of the new hires in tow. The pair stopped beside his table.

  “Iverson, this is Marcus Settlemires. He’s a new apprentice mechanic. Show him the ropes this afternoon when you repair the stabilizer pump in pillar three.”

  Asa didn’t know if Brock was trying to goad him because the chief mechanic didn’t like him, or if he thought he would be the best teacher for the apprentice. Either way, he couldn’t refuse. He nodded.

  “Good. Pick him up in the shack when you finish eating.”

  Asa sighed. No reason to put off the inevitable. “I’m ready now.”

  “Good.” Brock turned to Settlemires. “Watch him closely. He’s pretty closed mouth, but he knows his shit.”

  It was as close to a compliment as Brock had ever given him. Asa stared at Settlemires, who glanced away nervously at his scrutiny. He didn’t want an apprentice, especially one he didn’t know. He had grown used to his solitude. First a chess game with the chef, and now an apprentice to deal with—it was too much too soon.

  He nodded his chin in non-committal greeting and asked, “How much on-hands experience do you have?”

  “A year as a pumper’s helper and six months at vocational school.”

  Asa let a quick smile play on his lips. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. “A pumper’s helper, huh? At least you’re not a virgin. So I guess you at least know which way to turn a valve.”

  Settlemires’ eyes flashed his anger at Asa’s barbed comment. “Yes, I do.”

  “Good. I’ll let you handle this next job replacing gaskets on one of the stabilizer pumps while I supervise. You might as well get your hands dirty right off.”

  “Do you dislike everyone, or is there something in particular about me that annoys you?”

  The question surprised Asa, but he answered as truthfully as he dared. “I got nothing against you, kid. I just prefer working alone.”

  “I thought maybe …” His voice trailed off.

  Asa sighed. He could see in the kid’s eyes that he knew something about him. “What did you hear about me?”

  Settlemires hesitated, and then blurted, “That you claim you saw a sea monster.”

  Asa chuckled. “So you’re afraid I’m crazy. Well, it ain’t catching, so don’t worry.”

  “Did you?”

  Asa shook his head in dismay. The kid wasn’t going to let it lie. “Jeez, kid. Maybe I was hallucinating from shock and hypothermia like they said, or maybe I lied to cover up some part I played in sinking the Global Kulik, as some blowhards claim.” He stared hard at the young apprentice, but to his credit, Settlemires did not flinch. “Or maybe I really saw something, something so fucking horrible I still piss my pants when I think about it. It doesn’t matter. You show me you got some talent, and I’ll teach you what I know. Just don’t get too chummy with me, or you’ll find yourself ostracized, and lonely is a bad place to be on an oil rig.”

  Settlemires took a deep breath and nodded.

  “Okay, let’s go.” He had been crosser with the young man than he had intended, but a particularly bad round of nightmares had left him miserable and short tempered. At least he won’t try to buddy up with me.

  * * * *

  Chef Simon had run some of the finest restaurants in San Francisco. As the head chef, he had paid particular attention to detail in his kitchens. All ingredients that went into each dish, each garnish, and every plate that left his kitchen passed his personal inspection. His meals aroused first the diner’s sense of smell; then, sight, texture, and taste, in that exact order. His name, his reputation demanded no less. Cooking aboard an oil rig in the middle of the Beaufort Sea presented its own distinctive set of challenges.

  He still demanded excellence from his staff. The rig workers expected both quality and quantity, and he strived to provide a varying menu that satisfied as well as provoked taste buds too used to mediocrity. He wished to make each meal something to which they looked forward instead of merely a means to fill their bellies and store calories to stave off the cold. He fought boredom with a knife and a spatula as others fought it with books, cards, television, and video games. He liked to think he was winning.

  Lunch shift over and the kitchen staff well along in preparations for the evening meal, Simon returned to his quarters on Level 3 for a short rest. Space aboard the Vanguard was extravagant compared to some drill rigs. Most quarters were doubles, but as head chef, he enjoyed a single-bunk room. This allowed him the privacy to unwind between shifts. While posters of semi-naked women, photos of tropical locales, or of family decorated most cabin walls, Simon’s wall bore a single item, a wrinkled, well-worn map of the Arctic Ocean, including the Bering, Chukchi, and Beaufort Seas. At first glance, the numerous red X’s dotting the map could be mistaken for oil rigs, but closer examination of the scribbled notes beside each X described the dates, circumstances, and locations of mysterious ship sinkings and odd sightings. So far, he had pinpointed forty-two separate events—twenty-
six ship sinkings and sixteen reports of strange sea creatures. The largest X and the earliest date on his map marked the sinking of the Global Kulik in the Chukchi Sea, the epicenter of a pattern of events spreading south into the Bering Sea and eastward into the Beaufort.

  The sinking of the Kulik had changed his life forever. His sister had been a marine biologist on the drillship. She had died with all the others, all except Asa Iverson. Now, fate at placed Iverson on the Vanguard, and he intended to learn all he could from him about what really happened to the Global Kulik. He had read the initial reports and had dismissed them, as had so many, as the ravings of a madman, but the continued sinking of vessels and sightings in the area had eventually convinced him factors other than simple fate were at work.

  Pushed by his desire for answers, Simon had quit his job in San Francisco, and to the bewilderment of friends and acquaintances, accepted the job as head chef for an offshore catering company. The job paid far less than his previous salary, but traveling the polar oil rig circuit allowed him the anonymity to continue his investigation without arousing undue suspicion. He did not actually think the military or Homeland Security would break down his door, but they made it quite clear that they frowned upon questions concerning the Global Kulik and similar disasters at sea. He wanted answers, not more red tape.

  He sat at his small desk staring at the map for a long moment. His wooden chair, strained by his bulk, creaked with each movement. His vision misted, remembering his younger sister’s face. He turned away with a tear in his eye. “Ilsa.”

  He had watched Asa Iverson carefully since he had arrived on the Vanguard. Though quiet and abrasive, he did not seem unhinged. He hoped to gain Iverson’s trust. Other than a much-disputed report from a Russian icebreaker, Iverson was the only survivor of any sinking under unusual circumstances. Iverson might have answers, and Simon desperately needed answers.