Devlin and the Deep Blue Sea

by Merline Lovelace

  She savored the sizzle for a moment, maybe two, before breaking the contact. Feeling the loss of warmth immediately, she buried it in biting sarcasm.

  "Finished flexing your masculinity, cowboy?"

  "Guess so."

  "Then I'll chalk this little interlude up to my stupid remark last night and let you walk out of here." She looked him square in the eye. "Touch me again without my permission, however, and you'll be drilling for something besides Mexican crude."

  Spinning on her heel, she strode out into the smothering heat. Jorge was waiting beside the pad with a question in his eyes. Liz answered it with a small shake of her head and brisk order tossed over her shoulder to the man who'd followed her from the operations shack.

  "Get aboard and buckle up."

  Devlin joined his companions in the passenger compartment. Only after Liz had climbed into the cockpit and buckled her seat harness did she realize she'd bought his story about the supposed thief he'd gone to meet last night.

  Frowning, she strapped on her kneeboard and forced herself to concentrate on the power-up se­quence checklist. The engines whined. The forty-four feet of main rotor blades churned up dust, slowly at first, then in a reddish whirlwind. The aircraft began to shimmy as Liz radioed the tower.

  Once she received clearance to taxi, her years of training and experience kicked in. Flying an aircraft that operated in both horizontal and vertical planes required a level of coordination not all pilots pos­sessed. As always, getting her bird in the air and shifting smoothly from one plane to the other pro­duced an adrenaline rush.

  Her second in less than twenty minutes, Liz thought as she banked and aimed for the blue, spar­kling Pacific. Her mouth still tingled from the kiss Devlin had laid on her.

  Scowling behind her mirrored sunglasses, she set a course for floating the platform designated Amer­ican-Mexican Petroleum Company Drill Site 237.

  * * *

  She must have made the run to AM-237 forty or fifty times in the past seven months. Every time, the sheer immensity of the ultra deep water semi-submersible rig inspired awe. It was as big as a city block— a floating platform spiked by two giant cranes and a derrick that rose to impossible heights.

  Anchored to the ocean floor by chains and 45,000-pound anchors, the superstructure sat on massive pontoons and four corner columns. Once the platform was positioned over a drill site, the columns were flooded with seawater. This caused the pontoons to sink to a predetermined depth and lessened the plat­form's surface movement, making it relatively stable.

  Relative being the key word. To a pilot aiming for the helideck that jutted out over the rig's bow some seven stories above the water, even slight up and down movement had to be taken into consideration. The trick was to contact the helideck at its highest point and ride it down. Slamming into it on the way up stressed the landing gear and made the passengers just a tad nervous.

  Liz chose a leeward approach and put the helo into a descending spiral a quarter of a mile out. The fat orange flanges for pumping the crude into tankers stood out like beacons on the east side. She lined up on the flanges to begin her final approach.

  "AM-237, this is Aero Baja 214 on final."

  "Roger, 214. We have you on the scope. We're putting out the welcome mat."

  While the rig's two crane operators lowered the booms to clear the airspace, a support ship maneu­vered into position at the pontoon closest to the helideck. The ship's mission was to pick up survivors if the incoming aircraft hit the drink instead of the deck.

  "The LO is standing by."

  The rig's landing officer climbed onto the pad, clearly visible in his bright yellow vest.

  "I see him," Liz acknowledged.

  Although this was only a secondary duty for him, she knew he'd been doing it a long time and trusted him to guide her in. Keeping one eye on his arm signals and another on the instrument panel, she put her aircraft into a hover above the deck and brought her down.

  The skids touched, lifted and settled with a small thump. While the red-vested tie-down crew ducked under the blades to anchor the helicopter to the deck, Liz powered down. Once the blades had chugged to a halt, she keyed her mike.

  "Welcome to AM-237, gentlemen."

  Swinging a leg over the stick, she clambered into the cargo compartment.

  "Claim your gear and pass it to the deckhands," she instructed the new arrivals. "Make sure you hang on to the lifelines when you climb out onto the pad."

  The old-timers knew the drill, but there were ques­tions in the eyes of a couple of obvious newcomers. Liz repeated the instructions in Spanish, then in elab­orate pantomime. Looking both doubtful and ner­vous, the newbies poked their heads outside the hatch. Liz saw several Adam's apples bounce and knuckles turn white as the crewmen measured the distance from the pad to the ocean below.

  "Don't piss yourself," the beefy Irishman advised one of the Venezuelans. "Just hang on to that strap. Out you go now, there's a good lad."

  Since the brawny oilman supplemented his friendly words of encouragement with a solid thump between the shoulder blades, the cargo compartment soon emptied of everyone but Liz and Devlin. Passing his gear bag to a waiting deckhand, he turned back to her.

  "How often do you make this run?"

  "Five maybe six times a month. Depends on whether they need supplies or there's a crew rotating off."

  "Maybe I'll see you on your next run."

  "Maybe."

  He took a step toward her, his sun-streaked hair ruffled by the wind whistling through the open hatch. "Do I have your permission?"

  "My permission? For...? Oh! No, as a matter of fact, you don't. No touching, Devlin, and definitely no kissing."

  "Sure you won't reconsider? It's going to be a long twenty-eight days out here." "Just grin and bear it." "I'll do my best."

  Tipping her a two-fingered salute, he exited the aircraft and made his way to the stairs leading to the main deck.

  Liz saw to the unloading of the replenishment supplies and accepted the sealed outgoing mail pouch, but instructed the landing officer to wait before bringing up the departing crew members.

  "I need to talk to the company rep," she informed him, holding back her wind-whipped hair with one hand. "Do you know where he is?"

  "Try the galley. Conrad is usually there this time of morning, swilling coffee and shooting off his... Er, shooting the breeze."

  She gave the LO a wry smile. She'd dealt with AmMex Petroleum's on-site representative before. She had no doubt she would find him pontificating to anyone unfortunate enough to be stuck in his im­mediate vicinity.

  She took the stairs, crossed the deck to the main superstructure and entered a world like none other. The ever-present reek of fresh paint and diesel fuel flavored the air. Machinery constantly in motion thumped out the rig's steady heartbeat. Metal creaked as the massive platform rode the waves.

  The giant anchors and stabilizers minimized the motion until it was almost imperceptible, but Liz had to lay a palm against the bulkhead once or twice as she followed the scent of fried onions to the galley. Sure enough, the AmMex on-site rep was sprawled in a mess chair at the officers' table, holding forth.

  Big and amiable and impervious to all attempts to shut him up, Conrad Wallace never seemed to tire of the sound of his own voice. Today's topic appeared to be a crew Ping-Pong tournament that evidently didn't come off to Wallace's satisfaction. The rig's Pakistani-born doctor sat across from him with a glazed expression on her face. When she spotted Liz, relief sprang into her eyes.

  "Hello, Elizabeth. Did you bring the waterproof cast liners I ordered?"

  "Sure did."

  "What about the metronidazole tablets?"

  "They're on back order, but marked priority. I'll fly them out as soon as they arrive."

  "Thank you. I need them. Excuse me, Conrad. I must go inventory the new supplies."

  She hurried out, leaving Liz to help herself to the coffee before joining Wallace at the gleaming teak
table reserved for the rig's officers. The of­ficers lived well out here on the patch, as did the hundred-plus crew members. Accommodations included hotel-class rooms, a galley that served in­ternational cuisine, a cinema showing satellite TV and movies and a gym that would get a gold stamp of approval from Arnold Schwarzenegger. Oil com­panies had to provide such facilities along with high-dollar salaries to induce men and women to live surrounded by miles of empty water for months at a time.

  Cradling her coffee, Liz sank into a padded cap­tain's chair. The company man shifted his bulk in her direction and picked up almost where he'd left off.

  "We were talking about the fluke shot that won the crew Ping-Pong tournament last night. Did anyone tell you about it?"

  "No, I just got down."

  "It was crazy. The ball ricocheted off a steam pipe, hit the forehead of one of the watchers and slammed back on the table. No way the referee should have allowed that shot, but you know how these foreign­ers are. They make up their own rules as they go."

  Liz started to remind the man the rig sat in Mexican territorial waters and he was the foreigner here but didn't want to set him off on a new tangent. Instead, she cut straight to the point.

  "I need an advance on next month's salary."

  Wallace blinked at the abrupt change of topic and pursed his lips. Liz recognized his pinched expres­sion. She categorized it as his company face.

  "Payday was last week," he pontificated, as if she weren't well aware of that basic fact. "Don't tell me you've already run through the exorbitant flight pay AmMex shells out to you."

  Her supposedly "exorbitant" flight pay was an old issue, one that came up every time Liz renewed her contract.

  "What I did with my pay is my business, Conrad."

  Frowning at the cool reply, Wallace shifted in his seat. He was a big man, but soft around the middle. Not lean and hard like the roughnecks who wrestled pipe or the roustabouts who performed general main­tenance work.

  Not like Joe Devlin.

  Irritated at the way the man kept popping into her head, Liz laid out her requirement. "I need six hun­dred."

  Living was considerably cheaper in Mexico than in the States, thank goodness. That amount would cover the payment due on the loan and get her though to the next payday with no problem.

  "Six hundred?" Wallace echoed, looking as hor­rified as a man asked to sacrifice his firstborn child.

  Liz should have known he'd balk. The man man­aged a multimillion-dollar operating budget, yet was so tight he squeaked when he walked.

  "You know, Conrad, you're the perfect company man. You think every cent you dole out comes out of your own pocket."

  "Well, it does! Anything that impacts the com­pany's bottom line affects its profit margin, which in turn affects its stock value. Since I receive a large portion of my compensation and retirement in stock options, I'm obligated—"

  "I know the spiel," Liz interrupted ruthlessly. It was the only way to get through to the man. "You're obligated to act as a responsible guardian of com­pany funds. Are you going to give me the six hundred or not?"

  "All right. All right. I will. But you'll have to sign a voucher. Let's go down to my office."

  Liz lifted her bird off the patch a half hour later with a check for the six hundred zippered into her jumpsuit pocket and an exuberant crew strapped into the passenger compartment.

  Ahead stretched forty minutes of open sea. Liz had flown the route so many times she could put her conscious mind on autopilot and switch her thoughts to the mess Donny had landed her in.

  She thought briefly of hiring a lawyer and going after him. Pride and utter disgust at her own stu­pidity quashed that idea. She'd just have to tough it out down here in Mexico for a while longer. If she watched her pennies, she should be able to repay the loan she'd taken out for that blasted non­refundable deposit and get back on her feet within a few months.

  Which meant she'd probably ferry Devlin back to shore when he rotated off the patch.

  Hell, there he was again! Bouncing around inside her head like a damned yo-yo. She couldn't seem to get him out. Or his outrageous offer of stud service.

  What the heck. If Liz did ferry him back to shore a few weeks from now, maybe she should take him up on the offer. She didn't quite trust the man. And she wasn't sure she bought his story about last night's events. Yet she had to admit the kiss he'd laid on her this morning had curled her toes inside her boots.

  Like a DVD played in digital high definition, she saw again the glint in Devlin's eyes as he bent toward her, felt the heat of his mouth on hers and cursed herself for being a fool.

  Dumped less than ten hours ago by one man and here she was, fantasizing about another! How many kinds of an idiot did that make her?

  Thoroughly disgusted, Liz skimmed her bird toward the postcard-perfect shoreline.

  The men poured out as soon as the skids touched down and Jorge set the chocks. Most clutched e-tickets and were eager to get through customs and onto the bus to La Paz. Once there, they'd board the jets that would carry them to homes scattered from the Azores to the Strait of Malacca. A few intended to head for town and the women who would soon relieve them of a healthy portion of their accumulated pay. First they had to be cleared by the Mexican official who routinely met Liz's incoming flight.

  Today there were two officials. She recognized the bored-looking bureaucrat who usually rubber-stamped the crew's papers. The other she hadn't seen before.

  "What's up?" she asked Jorge as she hefted the mail pouch from the empty copilot's seat. "Why the extra funcionario ?

  "I do not know."

  Interesting. Maybe Devlin's story had basis in fact. Maybe a deckhand had stolen some valuable equipment and authorities were now shaking down all crews coming off the rig. Funny Wallace didn't mention the theft to her, though. The company rep was such a motor mouth about everything else.

  "Perhaps it has something to do with this," Jorge said.

  He dragged a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his overalls. It was a flier with a Xerox photo of a man Liz didn't recognize. Her eyes widened as she translated the Spanish under the picture.

  "Does this say what I think it does?"

  "Si! There is a reward. Fifty thousand pesos for information about whoever shot this man last night."

  "Last night, huh?"

  Liz licked suddenly dry lips. The image of a body floating in the surf jumped into her head.

  "This is Martin Alvarez," Jorge said grimly.

  The name didn't register. Her expression must have indicated as much, as Jorge clicked his tongue like a hyperactive cricket.

  "Ayyyyy, Lizetta! You do not know him?"

  "No."

  "He is the nephew of Eduardo Alvarez. The one known as El Tiburon."

  El Tiburon. The Shark. That registered.

  Goose bumps prickled Liz's skin. Gulping, she stared at the grainy photo of the nephew of one of the biggest, baddest members of the Mexican mafia.

  Three

  El Tiburon. The nickname echoed in Liz's head all day. She'd heard about the man from various sources during her months in Mexico, and what she'd heard was not good.

  She drove home after work to peel off her sweat-soaked flight suit and to shower. Cool and comfort­able in flip-flops, jeans and sleeveless cotton blouse, she got back in the Jeep and navigated the narrow streets to her favorite cantina for dinner. A few tourists wandered through the shops, but most had re­treated to the luxury resorts strung along the cliffs for cocktails by the pool.

  El Poco Lobo was crowded with shop owners, street vendors and boatmen back from fishing char­ters and swim or snorkeling tours. The locals jammed elbow to elbow at the smoky bar. Empty Corona bottles filled with red pebbles formed a pyramid against the flyspecked mirror backing the bar. Liz usually ate at one of the rickety tables outside, but the cantina owner waved her inside.

  "Hola, Elizabeth."

  "Hola, Anita."

  Avid interest filled the w
oman's black eyes. "Is it true what we hear? You were at the beach last night?"

  "Yes. What's the special this evening?"

  "Beans and roast pork. I will get you a dish and you will tell us what happens, yes?"

  Hunching over her heaping plate of succulent carne asada, Liz did her best to play down her role in the night's events. Yes, she'd heard the shots, she said in a reprise of her conversation with Subcom-mandante Rivera. No, she didn't see who fired them. And no, she didn't know who'd been shot until Jorge told her this morning.

  She managed to dodge most of the more persistent of her questioners. Unfortunately, she couldn't dodge the two men who were waiting for her when she parked her Jeep in its usual place under the droopy jacaranda tree that shaded the stairs to her apartment.

  The two tough-looking strangers stepped from behind the massive, twisted trunk. One was short and squat and walked with a limp. The other wore a lavender shirt, pleated black slacks and black-and-white wingtip shoes. The wingtips were bad enough. The shoulder holster he didn't bother to conceal was worse.

  "El Tiburon wishes to speak with you," the shorter of the two said in English.

  "What if I don't wish to speak with El Tiburon?"

  The men obviously considered the question rhe­torical, as neither bothered to answer. Nor did they seem particularly worried about the hand she'd slipped into the side pocket of the driver's door. She discovered why when Wingtips produced the col­lapsible baton she usually kept there.

  "Is this what you search for?"

  With a small smile, he passed her the baton and folded himself into the Jeep's cramped backseat. Short Guy settled in the front passenger seat.

  "Take the coast road south, toward Cabo San Lucas. We will tell you where to turn off."

  Liz weighed her options. She could refuse to comply but suspected that might result in something unpleas­ant. Like a gun barrel whacked up alongside her head. She could try shouting for help while wielding the baton, which would no doubt result in similar conse­quences. Or she could go along for the ride.