JP moved behind him and stared over his shoulder as Catfish ran diagnostics. “Any ideas?” he asked.
The long-haired tech sucked his teeth. “Ballast control failure.” He shook his head. “We’re going to have to open her up and replace the controller. Goddammit.”
“Well,” JP said, “so much for the fishing.”
“You got that right,” Catfish said. “We need the bitch online tomorrow.” He turned to the former SEAL. “Calhoun wants full coverage of the drill string and the well-head. If we don’t have it,” he licked his lips, “it’s going to be my ass.”
“Well, you could always send down an ROV to check most of the drill string.”
Catfish shook his head. “No. The ROVs aren’t pressurized for that depth.” He gritted his teeth. “Thirty-thousand feet’s a bit over their design params. One of them might make it down there, but I can’t guarantee it won’t implode.”
“And then we lose another two million dollars?”
Catfish rubbed his chin. “Right. PPE already freaked out about the lease of the equipment. Not to mention our hourly costs. I can’t afford to lose any of them.”
JP walked over to the row of toolboxes. When he and Catfish had arrived, the first thing they’d done, after stowing the AUVs, was unload boxes of parts and tools for the electronics. He’d hoped they wouldn’t have to use them, but that had been yet another pipe-dream.
He pulled out a cordless drill, set the bit, and held it up. “Let’s get into surgery,” he said. Catfish groaned and moved to help.
#
The support ship arrived early. The rig crew was on break and hadn’t even eaten yet.
By the time he reached the lower decks, the ship’s crane was already raised in the air. Vraebel announced over the loud speaker that all personnel were to immediately hit the chow line. Instead of joining them, he headed to the support ship’s catwalk.
Calhoun and his geologist were walking off the ship and on to the rig. Calhoun eyeing the empty deck. He offered Vraebel his large hand. The rig chief shook it, but didn’t smile.
“Welcome back aboard Leaguer,” he said.
Calhoun looked around. “Where’s the crew? We got to get this stuff offloaded.”
Vraebel shook his head. “You’re over an hour early. They haven’t eaten. Soon as they get done with their dinner break—“
“Dinner break?” Calhoun interrupted. “The support ship has to do a turn around ASAP. The captain busted his ass getting us here early.”
The rig chief clamped down on the urge to tell this asshole to go to hell; Simpson would have his balls if he was that rude to their drilling brain. “After they get some chow, they’ll be down here. I promise. We’ll get it unloaded.”
Calhoun sighed. “Okay, fair enough. Sorry, Martin. Been a damned long day and that storm kicked our ass.”
Sigler stood behind her boss. The short, thin woman stepped out from behind him and smiled at Vraebel. She offered her hand. Vraebel shook it. “Ms. Sigler,” he said.
The woman’s strong grip brought a smile to his face. He’d met her twice before, but every time he shook hands with her, he was surprised how strong she was.
“Martin,” she said. “And Shawna, please.”
“Right,” he said. “Shawna.” He pointed to the stairs. “If y’all are hungry, you’re welcome to hit the chow line.”
Calhoun glanced at his geologist. “Shawna? Go ahead and get up there. Going to be a long night. And Martin and I need to discuss a few things.”
She raised her eyebrows and then nodded. She swept a lock of raven hair out of her eyes. “Guess I’ll do that. Where are Catfish and JP?”
Vraebel rolled his eyes. “They’re on the lower deck. Doing some maintenance on one of the robots.”
She smiled. “I’ll go say hello before I get some food.” She started walking to the metal staircase.
“Make sure they eat too!” Calhoun called after her.
Sigler didn’t turn, but raised a hand to show she’d heard him.
“Martin?” Calhoun said, “Got time for a little walk?”
Vraebel gritted his teeth, but nodded. He pointed toward the back of the loading deck. As they walked in silence toward the generators, the roar drowned out the sound of the waves and the crew. When they reached the furthest point, he slowed and turned to Calhoun.
“Well, Thomas, what do you need to babble about? I’m sure it has to do with—“
“First off,” Calhoun said, “I want to apologize for Standlee and Harvey.”
Vraebel blinked. “Apologize?”
The older man nodded. “Yes. I’ll make sure they behave themselves. No one wants this operation to go more smoothly than I do. I’d rather we focus on getting to the black than have everyone pissed at everyone else.”
“Well,” Vraebel smiled, “that’s good to hear.”
“But,” Calhoun said and pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket, “I need a little something from you too.”
“And that would be?” Martin said, dreading Calhoun’s response.
The engineer smiled. “We need this crew to work together, Martin. I can’t have my guys treated like outsiders anymore than you can afford my team walking all over you and your rig. There has to be some mutual respect.”
Vraebel nodded. He’d hated both Harvey and Standlee on sight. The rest of the crew had picked up on that, not to mention his constant bitching about them. He had expected some kind of blowout with Calhoun, some epic showdown including calls and emails to Simpson. But Calhoun had caught him off guard.
“Okay,” he said. “Agreed.”
The older man offered his hand. “I hope we can put this unpleasant shit behind us and focus on getting the job done.”
Vraebel shook it. “All right, Thomas. I’ll do my best to get along.”
“And I’ll do my best to rein in those two assholes,” he smiled.
“Okay. I still don’t like them,” Martin said.
Calhoun chuckled. “You don’t have to. Just know they’re damned good at their jobs.” He leaned in close enough for Martin to smell the ghost of old tobacco. “Otherwise, I would have fired them both a long time ago.”
Vraebel laughed. “Glad to hear that.” He pointed at the cigar. “You can light that down here or up on the top deck if you like. Just, um, be careful about the cherry.”
Thomas pulled the wet-ended cigar from his mouth. “Sorry, nervous habit of mine,” he said. “I promise not to smoke until the lamp is lit, so to speak.” He tapped his foot. “You eaten yet?” Vraebel shook his head. “Then let’s get some chow.”
#
The lower deck was damned hot. The sun was quickly disappearing over the horizon, but between the day’s humidity and the heat from the generators, the air was stifling. Her brow was beaded with sweat.
She walked down the metal stairs, work boots clanging against the steel. Above the din of the generators, she heard cursing and power tools. Catfish was throwing a tantrum. She sighed. It was time to play mommy again.
When she reached the bottom, she saw what she’d feared. An AUV hung low from the ceiling, buoyed by steel cables. The top of the machine lay on the deck. Catfish typed furiously on his laptop while JP watched a voltage meter.
“Is it clicking?” Catfish asked.
“How the fuck should I know?” JP yelled back. “I can’t hear a damned thing!”
“Well, it should at least be moving!”
“BOYS!” Shawna yelled.
JP and Catfish swung their heads toward her. Catfish’s patented glare turned into a wide smile. JP just groaned. It was his usual greeting to her. “Look out,” JP said, “the worrier has arrived.”
Shawna stepped forward and shook JP’s hand. Catfish walked from the control box and hugged her.
“Good to see you, girl. Guess you guys arrived early?”
She nodded. “Good to see you too,” she said. She pointed to the AUV. “Having problems?”
Catfish’s easy grin d
isappeared into a snarl. “You could say that. Damned thing just won’t get its shit together.”
“Gremlins,” she frowned. “What’s the problem?”
JP laughed. “Ballast control. Today, that is. Yesterday? Propeller. Day before? Radio signal.”
She shook her head. “Faulty actuator?”
“Think so,” Catfish said and pointed at JP. “I’d know for sure if that deaf guy over there could hear it clicking.”
She walked to the AUV. The leads were connected to a tiny clear box with a visible switch. She leaned down and studied it. “Try it now?”
Catfish walked back to the laptop and hit a few keystrokes. A tiny arc of light, barely visible, spread between the metal contacts in the clear box. “Stop,” she said and turned to the engineer. “You realize it’s fried, right?”
“What?” JP asked. “What are you talking about?”
She pointed to a black smudge on the outer case. “It shorted out. JP? Grab me a new one from the case.”
The former SEAL opened his mouth to protest and then closed it. He walked to one of the black equipment cases and rummaged until he put his hands on a new actuator.
“Gimme,” Shawna said and put out her hand. He put the plastic in her palm. With her other hand, she loosened the connections and pulled the actuator from the AUVs innards. Craig yelped as she tossed it to the deck.
“Hey! I only have so many of those!”
She glanced at him with a grin. “And that one is toast.” She wriggled the new box in until the connections clicked. She didn’t hear the contacts slide in, but she felt the sharp snap of the female/male plugs lining up. “There. Try it now.”
Shaking his head, Craig typed a few keys. The tiny actuator arm flipped and the light went green on the control board.
“I’ll be damned,” JP said.
Catfish whooped. “Dammit, girl, where you been all my life?”
Shawna smiled. “Sometimes it takes a woman’s touch.”
“Or a clue,” JP said.
Fingers flying across the keyboard, Catfish stared at the laptop as the commands went through. After a moment, he grinned. “I think we might be in business.”
“Good,” Shawna said. “Now let’s get this damned thing back together again so we can get some food.”
“Food,” JP growled. “Hungry hungry diver.”
Shawna reached over and petted the AUV’s side. “Calhoun told me to make sure you kids ate.”
“Kids,” JP said. “We’re both older than you.”
She glared at him. “And yet you still need a mother to make sure you behave.”
Catfish chuckled. “True dat.” He closed the laptop. “Before we get up there, is Thomas in a bad mood?”
She shrugged. JP put the top fitting back on the AUV. “He’s not happy about all the screaming and bitching Vraebel’s been doing.”
“Great,” Catfish said. “That man is a fucking killjoy.”
“Language,” she said and shook a finger at him. Catfish blushed beneath his scraggly beard. “And yeah, he’s a serious fucktard. But we have to work with him.”
JP fitted torque screws into the holes. “We know,” he said and guided the power tool’s bit onto the head. “He’s just such an officious prick.”
He thumbed the trigger and the deck filled with noise. The bit whirred and tightened the screw. When it reached the torque limit, the bit slipped and clicked. JP turned it off, and slotted the next one.
“I know,” she said. “But we’re going to be living with these folks for at least six weeks. Might be good for you two to make amends before we kill each other.”
Catfish rolled his eyes. “Yes, mom.”
She nodded. “Now let’s get this sucker put to bed so we can eat. I’m freakin’ starved.”
Chapter Two
Calhoun awoke to a purple sky. He smiled at the porthole in his stateroom. The horizon wore a heavy suit of clouds, but the rising sun colored them in dark pastels. It was the kind of morning he lived for.
The rig stank of diesel, grease, and metal. In other words, like every other rig on the planet. The breeze added the ocean’s saltwater perfume to the mix. Once the purples faded to orange, Calhoun dressed and headed to the top deck after securing a cup of coffee.
He stared out at the ocean. Below the grind and hum of the rig’s engines, he could hear the rig crew working on the drill string. In an hour or so, they’d begin feeding the string down to the well head.
Even before JP and Standlee had boarded the rig over a week ago, Vraebel and crew had started the process of prepping the site. They sunk the lines, an emergency cap, and other gear. All of it was sitting in over 30,000 feet of water. The trench didn’t even have a name besides M2, but from the early seismic and magnetic surveys, they should be able to drill anywhere along its spine and find the black.
Catfish had sent his AUVs down to film the bottom and ensure the equipment was where it was supposed to be. Simpson, the PPE vice president over the project, had told Calhoun Vraebel’s crew was the best in the industry. Without any help from electronic surveillance, they’d managed to place the gear perfectly. He hated to admit it, but he was impressed. Vraebel might be an uptight asshole, but he knew what he was doing.
It had taken the crew over four hours to perform the load out from the supply ship. The cranes ran fast and efficiently. PPE had paid a lot of money to ensure they had the best personnel covering every aspect of the venture. Just getting the equipment on the rig should have taken at least seven hours. But Vraebel’s people had gotten it done in no time.
Then they’d sacked out for a total of six hours before having breakfast and getting back to work. JP, Catfish, and Shawna had all turned in as soon as the crew was done. Calhoun had stayed up another two hours going over the AUV/ROV reports and footage. Four hours of sleep? Perfectly fine for the first day. If he was lucky, he’d get a hell of a nap once the drilling was up and running. At least after the first couple of hours.
When a team drilled a test well, Thomas wanted to be awake and apprised of every little detail. If anything went wrong, he wanted to know as soon as possible. The difference between hitting the sweet spot or drilling into a pocket of dangerous gas was pretty thin. Geologists and mud loggers constantly watched the readouts to ensure that didn’t happen, but it was hardly real-time. Some of the engineering companies had spent millions and millions of dollars on creating real-time tools, sensors, and software to assist in decision making, but it wasn’t foolproof. Shawna had learned to trust her instincts more than any software or technology and Thomas trusted her. Between the two of them, they’d never made a mistake during drilling. At least not a fatal one.
Bits break. Machines malfunction. Parts fracture. That was the reality. When it happened, you fixed them and moved on. As long as you had a good design and a good plan, you could encounter anything and succeed. Unless, of course, the oil wasn’t there.
The seismic and magnetic surveys showed it was there. The only question was how much water sat below the surface and how sweet the crude was. But the surveys showed no echo from water. And that was strange to say the least. It was that little detail that had excited PPE and Calhoun. If the trench was truly free from underground water, much less salt water, then it would be a unique offshore find; processing the crude would be simple and inexpensive.
He took a deep drag from the cigar and let the smoke sit in his mouth. Besides a good single malt, cigars were his only vice. When you spent most of your time drilling, smoking was a privilege. Long ago he’d learned there was always at least one spot on the rig for the smokers.
Larger rigs had more space. Something as small as Leaguer only had the top deck. It would suck if there was a storm, but it was workable. He’d have to ration out his habit. It was going to be a long month. Longer if they didn’t find a strike and had to hunt for the sweet spot.
But Shawna had a feeling. He had it too. This was going to be the big one. The big strike that he could retire on.
He and Catfish could spend the rest of their lives designing better AUVs and ROVs. Shawna could go do…well, whatever she wanted. And JP? That bastard would probably move back to the Keys or maybe Hawaii and spend the rest of his days beneath the ocean.
Calhoun heard a shout below decks and grinned. The roughnecks were doing their jobs. The drill string would be ready by late morning. And then, the fun would begin.
#
Even high up on the bridge, he heard the pandemonium from the deck. Large men walked with wrenches the size of a baseball bat. Others dragged lines and cables. The machinery was getting going and it wouldn’t be long before the rig was in action.
Vraebel sipped a cup of coffee. Dinner with Calhoun had been…well, interesting. They traded the usual war stories, but Calhoun had more than he did. The older engineer had been all over the world including Algeria, Nigeria, and South Africa. Vraebel was thankful he’d never been to those hell-holes.
“Thomas,” Vraebel had said, “how the hell did a guy like you end up with Harvey and Standlee?”
Calhoun had laughed. “Harvey’s the easy one. Met him while he was doing a demonstration on underwater demolition to put out well fires. Plus, he did some work with Boots and Coots. So I’d heard of him. Didn’t take long for him to decide to join up with me.” The older man had paused and then tapped the table with his fingers. “Standlee?” He shook his head. “That bastard came to me.”
Vraebel raised his eyebrows. “Came to you?”
“Yeah,” Calhoun said. “About fifteen years ago, I was giving a seminar on AUV technology and how it was the future. Some long-haired punk of a kid kept asking questions about artificial intelligence and automated sensor tech.” He grinned. “He was basically interviewing for a job. Or so he thought.”
“He wasn’t with anyone?” Vraebel asked and sipped his coffee.
Calhoun shook his head. “Standlee bought a ticket to the conference representing his own company—Catfish Technologies. He had a degree in Engineering from Houston and thought he was hot shit.” Thomas’ Cheshire grin returned. “And he was. I had no idea how to do what I was proposing. I mean, I knew how to put the AUVs together. That’s pretty damned simple. But the programming?” He tented his hands and rested his chin on them. “That’s mostly Standlee.”
The Black: A Deep Sea Thriller Page 3