The Daredevils' Club ARTIFACT

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Pacing around to the western corner of the platform, he saw the two exhaust flares extended like spitting dragons into the darkness, bleeding off belches of unwanted gases from the simmering oil well deep under the waters. On the opposite side, the living quarters rested under the helideck. At this time of night most of the workers would be off shift, playing billiards, watching action movies, cheating each other at cards. Separate from the habitation modules, the shack of the radio room was lit; undoubtedly Hercules, the Trinidadian man on duty, was chatting with radio pen pals from across the world.

  As his uneasiness built, he strode to one of the phones that allowed communication between the distant parts of the rig and punched in the code for the small coffee room where his security men often took a break. “Gonzales. Get everyone outside. No more breaks this shift. Do your rounds every fifteen minutes tonight, not every half hour. I want all of you to keep an eye out.”

  “What’s wrong, sir?” Gonzales said.

  “Just do it. There’s nothing wrong with being on your toes.” McKendry made sure his men did their jobs, but never bothered to get cordial with any of them. He couldn’t imagine why the guards would rather sit in a confined room on plastic chairs drinking sour coffee instead of walking around the rig decks in the warm night and stretching their legs. In the tropics he had found that some men just plain took pride in their laziness.

  On the other end of the line, Gonzales grumbled to the others in the coffee shop, “It’s the dark of the moon. Makes him paranoid.”

  McKendry scowled and said in a gruff voice, “You can complain to Mr. Van Alman if you don’t like my orders. I’m sure he’ll be happy to let you find another job.” Angrily, he hung up. Maybe he was being over-cautious, but it only took one mistake, as the captain of the Yucatán had discovered.

  He walked to the edge of the platform and again scanned the vast stretch of water between the rig and the invisible mainland of Venezuela.

  Why did he really care what happened to the Valhalla? Because he’d promised Frikkie that he’d protect the rig? It wasn’t as if Frik was much of a friend. After the assault on the Green Impact camp, the billionaire had been concerned only with the recovery of his mysterious artifact. The dead mercenaries on his side and the half-dozen dead terrorists on the other didn’t matter to the man. All he cared about was that somehow Selene Trujold had gotten away, even though she had been shot.

  After what the terrorists did to Joshua, McKendry thought, it matters to me.

  O O O

  Drifting across the water like a black-clad fly on a dark lily pad, Joshua Keene closed the distance to the Valhalla platform. He moved without lights, circling his motorized inflatable raft to the Trinidad side of the rig so that he could come in opposite the additional glow of the exhaust flares at the ends of their extended booms.

  As he turned the Zodiac toward the rig, he cut the motor. In the ensuing silence he could hear the industrial buzz, even from a distance of more than a mile.

  Entering the rich, warm waters around the Valhalla, he trailed streamers of potent shark repellent. Though sharks rarely attacked inflatable rafts, he wanted to avoid any commotion at all.

  It took a long time for him to paddle the raft up to the elephantine concrete legs that held the huge production rig high above the calm water, but he didn’t dare use the puttering outboard. If all went well, Keene thought, he would be calling enough attention to himself in a little while. He tied up to the emergency ladder built onto the closest concrete strut, the same one he and Terris had used the night his friend died. Before climbing out of the Zodiac, he secured all of his weapons around his legs, chest, and back, fastening packages of compact explosives, his igniters, and grenades. He even had the knife that had killed Selene: the most appropriate weapon to use while destroying Oilstar, he thought.

  In his pocket he could feel the weirdly curved edges of the strange but unknowably precious piece of the artifact. He kept it to remind himself that Selene had died for it.

  Though it made his own movement more difficult, he wrapped a dull black rain cloak around his shoulders, which would keep him all but invisible in the shadows.

  Rung after rung, he began to climb; it was eighty feet from the water to the lowest deck of the production platform. It would have been so much easier to use one of the lift platforms, he thought, but he knew the clanking and ratcheting noise would be sure to draw investigation by one of the rig’s newly inspired security guards. Now that he had heard so much about the draconian new security chief Oilstar had hired, he expected he’d have to be much more cautious than on his first visit.

  Keene reached the first deck, opened the small access gate, and pulled himself up onto the platform. Though he’d thought he had recovered from his wounds, he felt exhausted from the climb, especially with the extra weight he was carrying. Not for the first time, he wished that some of the other members of Selene’s team had escaped Oilstar’s assault on the jungle base. He would have liked some help in this operation; commandos willing to sacrifice their lives.

  Wishing and hoping, though, wasn’t going to change the fact that those who hadn’t died had been captured and turned over to the Venezuelan government, which made them as good as dead, anyway. Joshua knew he was all alone, with only his anger, his need for revenge, and a half-baked plan.

  On a rig like this, however, one person could cause a lot of damage.

  There were enough explosives strapped to his body to create a substantial disaster. Given good placement and a lucky break, he would be able to rig the explosives and get away from the Valhalla, before his fireworks display turned the rig into a seaborne version of The Towering Inferno. He was determined to accomplish his goal at all costs, but this was no deliberate suicide mission. A lot had happened in the last few months that he needed to mull over. Selene Trujold’s death, the loss of Terris McKendry, Frikkie’s betrayal.

  After shucking his dark rain cloak, so that it would not hinder his movements, Keene stole across the metal decks. He moved toward the cluster of fractionation pipes. Ahead of him he could see the closed-down electrical and mechanical workshops, the crew change rooms, circuitry lockers, and mudrooms that surrounded the smelly drill floor around the main wellhead. He looked up and saw business offices; they looked like tiny cubicles on a spaceship.

  During the two months it had taken him to gather the explosives he needed, Joshua had studied as much as he could about production rigs and their numerous vulnerabilities. He ignored the optimistic and reassuring press releases from Oilstar and other major petroleum companies, instead paying particular attention to the infamous Piper Alpha disaster from July 1988 in the North Sea just off Aberdeen, Scotland.

  A smoldering fire in one of the modules had built up until it set off a small explosion in an adjacent chamber, which had then triggered another explosion, tearing apart half of the giant oil platform. Rig workers had been trapped in the habitation module as fire and smoke spread. Emergency sprinkler systems had failed. Radiomen had called “Mayday” repeatedly until finally they had to abandon the communications offices as the fire and smoke advanced.

  Some crewmen had been stranded by the advancing flame front while they raced to lifeboat stations; others were trapped high above the turbulent and cold North Sea. Given no choice, some men had leaped sixty-eight feet from one of the decks into the water. A handful of desperate, doomed workers had even jumped from the heliport, faced with either being burned to death in the advancing fire or dying as they plunged from skyscraper height to the sea. Several crewmen had climbed down knotted ropes or hoses to reach sea level as explosion after explosion rocked Piper Alpha.

  Rescue crews had raced in boats and helicopters from nearby drilling platforms, but the fire was so bad that few of them could even approach the burning rig to fish survivors out of the water. The debris from one explosion killed half the crew on an approaching rescue craft.

  In all, 165 people had died on Piper Alpha, making it one of the worst disaster
s in oil-drilling history.

  Keene tried to imagine seeing the same inferno on the Valhalla. In front of the vision in his mind he saw Selene’s face, heard her last words as she died beside him in the clearing near the Green Impact encampment. The fires grew brighter in his imagination.

  Yes, he thought, that would just about do it.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Oilstar’s security squads grudgingly did what their boss had ordered, but McKendry noticed without surprise that they walked their routes together, sticking to the brightly lit decks, chatting with late-shift crewmen—in other words, going out of their way to avoid anywhere that trouble might occur.

  The big man patrolled the darker ways himself, slipping through the claustrophobic and tangled pipe forests and chemical storage areas, letting a sixth sense prickle his skin.

  He felt uneasy.

  Looking up into the dark and moonless sky; he was positive this uneasiness wasn’t his imagination.

  Of course, he had been just as positive month after month, ever since the night Joshua Keene had died.

  His doubts ended when he reached the fourth deck and stopped, feeling electricity go up his spine. Someone—perhaps a survivor from Green Impact—was here on the Valhalla platform.

  His flashlight beam revealed no movement in the dark corners; not that he expected any. No professional would have waited around. Then he discovered that one of the access hatches leading up from the support legs and the distant water was open. It was near the central wellhead and the shut-down mechanical shops. When he examined it more closely, he saw that one of the naked yellow lightbulbs had been smashed. Crumpled in the shadows, he found a lightweight black cloak—the kind he himself would have chosen for camouflage.

  Whoever had been here, or was still here, apparently thought that security on board was as lax as it had been in the past.

  He directed the beam of the flashlight all the way down to the water. Though the beam diffused, he saw something dark tied up to the ladder attached to the wide concrete leg. Running to the nearest lift platform, he descended to water level, where he studied the unobtrusive black boat tied to a ladder rung. The single rubber raft could have carried only a few of the terrorists, but even a small group could cause extreme damage to the rig, if they knew what they were doing.

  McKendry took out a knife and, with a quick motion, slashed the rope holding the Zodiac in place. He shoved with his foot so that the raft drifted into the water.

  Whoever had come to his rig wouldn’t get away now. He’d have them cornered on the Valhalla platform where he could deal with them in his own way.

  O O O

  Creeping across the decks and ducking the rig’s still laughable security, Keene found a set of lockers that contained Oilstar work clothes. Diligent practices on the rig had been increased, and he thought he saw more guards on patrol, but they didn’t appear to be doing a better job than before. They talked loudly and walked in packs, making it easy for him to elude them.

  From one of the lockers, he pulled on a greasy, thick jumpsuit that had the hand-lettered name Virata written on the left breast in bold strokes with a black Magic Marker. The jumpsuit smelled like grease and piss, but he’d endured worse. He found a hardhat adorned with crudely placed racing decals and snugged it against his hair.

  Walking away from the lockers he was less stealthy, and instead walked as if he belonged on the rig. The explosive packs strapped to his chest and legs, as well as the packages he carried in one hand, made him look bulky and cumbersome, but if all went well, he wouldn’t have them for long.

  Outside the mechanical rooms and shop offices, he found the central pipes and controls for the fire-suppression systems and alarms. He was relieved to see that the safety valves were split into two systems, one of which went toward the habitation quarters to protect the crew complement. An independent set dealt with the production facility, the pipes and chambers and machinery of the production rig itself.

  He shut down, then permanently disabled the alarms, sprinklers, and safety systems in the production portions of Valhalla. Once the explosives went off, the alarms and sprinklers would activate inside the habitation module, getting the snoozing, off-duty teams out of bed. That would give the crew members a chance to get away, but nothing would stop the flames in the production area. These sleepy South American crewmen certainly wouldn’t try to save the rig. They’d rush to the lifeboats, which would drop them like padded sledgehammers into the water far below.

  Keene supposed that kept him from being a cold-blooded murderer; now he qualified as just a warm-blooded one.

  He worked for ten minutes setting up his explosives against a thirty-foot-high distillation tank connected to three systems that led to the heavy-gases storage chambers and out to the flame boom. His examination of design blueprints of the Valhalla had showed that even his token amount of explosives would ignite this one tank. Once it blew, it would set off the second, which would set off the third, and so on like red-hot dominoes until nothing was left of the oil rig’s production facilities.

  Given a huge supply of Oilstar funding, Van Alman might be able to repair and eventually restart production on Valhalla. But the cost to him in damage to public relations would be insurmountable.

  Keene twisted the last wire onto the timer. He still had a few small grenades clipped to his belt, just in case he needed a little help getting away. If he got out of here and climbed down to his inflatable boat in time, he could roar off in the Zodiac with the outboard cranked full. With the rig blazing behind him, he could make his way back to the Venezuelan mainland and eventually return to North America.

  This year he’d have one hell of a story to tell the remaining members of the Daredevils Club on New Year’s Eve. He would take great pleasure in rubbing Frik’s nose in it. First he had to finish his job and get off the rig alive, though.

  He stood up. Before he could turn, there was a click as the hammer of a pistol was drawn back.

  “Don’t move.”

  Keene froze. Thoughts raced through his mind. He hadn’t even heard footsteps.

  The background white noise of the drilling rig showered like snow around him. He rested a hand on one of the small grenades at his waist, cradling it. He could easily yank the pin out, toss it next to the other explosives. The grenade would blow up before the security guard behind him could stop it. The only problem was that he would be gunned down in an instant, or the explosion would take him with it.

  He considered trying to bluff his way out; hold onto the grenade as long as possible. If he could redirect the guard’s attention, maybe he could toss the grenade far enough so that he could get away as the explosions rippled through the rig. In the meantime, he would have to dodge bullets, too. It was a near-zero chance of survival.

  But near-zero isn’t zero.

  “Turn around very slowly and show me your hands,” the security guard said.

  Something in the voice tickled the back of Keene’s memory, but he tried to ignore it and stay focused on the mission. He turned, keeping his eyes fixed on the explosives and his hand covering the grenade. Maybe if he could fool the guard, act like a regular Joe.

  He started to set a smile on his face and looked up to make eye contact with the stranger. When he did, he saw the impossible: Terris McKendry, very much alive, aiming a pistol at his chest.

  Keene blinked. McKendry’s face looked like an astonished child’s as his jaw fell open. “What the hell?”

  Stupefied, Keene almost dropped the grenade. The motion startled McKendry, who jerked the pistol.

  Involuntarily, Keene ducked. “You’re dead,” he muttered.

  McKendry looked at his friend as if that was the stupidest thing he had ever heard, but he clamped his lips shut. Keene knew that the same words had been about to come from the other man’s mouth.

  “I watched you die,” the bigger man said. “Blown overboard. They never found your body. The sharks got it.”

  “I saw the bull
ets hit. I saw you thrown off the bicycle.”

  For a moment the two men held their weapons, facing each other. Keene kept his hand on the grenade; McKendry’s pistol was still targeted at his partner. Finally Joshua laughed out loud, the braying chuckle that had always annoyed his friend.

  “What are you doing here?” McKendry lowered his weapon a fraction of an inch.

  Keene tucked the grenade in his jumpsuit pocket. “What are you doing here, Terris? Helping out those bastards at Oilstar?” He raised his hands to indicate the totality of the Valhalla platform. “Don’t you know what Frik did?”

  “Why are you doing the dirty work of those Green Impact scum, Josh? Selene Trujold has the blood of dozens on her hands. Probably more. You saw yourself what she did to the crew on the tanker.”

  “Yes,” Keene said, uneasy. “But I also saw what an Oilstar assassination squad did to her and all the other members of her team; slaughtered most of them and sent the rest off to rot in some Venezuelan jail.”

  McKendry turned gray. “You were there?”

  “I was off in Pedernales getting supplies. When I came back, I found the camp destroyed. Selene died in my arms.” He gritted his teeth. “Dammit, Terris! I loved her.”

  “She would have killed you eventually. Maybe I saved your ass.”

  “Maybe you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “She was a killer, Joshua. A mad dog, willing to murder innocent people to make her point. I had to shoot her.” McKendry sounded as if he was working as hard to convince himself as he was to convince Keene.

  “You’re full of shit, Terris,” Keene said. “She wasn’t shot, she was stabbed.”

  “What do you mean she was stabbed?”

  “I mean she was stabbed. With this.” He pulled the knife from his waist and held it pommel-out to his partner. The etched initials J.R. caught the light.