by Matthew Rief
“I love you too,” Ange said, then the trawler picked up speed and quickly became a silhouette in the darkness.
TWENTY-THREE
Pete and I cruised over to the Tarpon Cove Marina, tied off to a temporary moorage, and sat around the topside dinette. Jack gave us updates along the way, letting us know how far they were from the oil rig. It was just over two hundred miles from Key West, which meant that at the trawler’s top speed, it would still take right around five hours to reach the rig. Ange’s Cessna could easily cruise at one hundred and fifty knots, so we killed a few hours telling sea stories before getting ready.
At 2330, I climbed down into the main cabin and changed into my blacked-out tactical pants, long-sleeved shirt, and boots. I strapped my holstered Sig, along with two extra magazines, to my right hip, then attached my dive knife to the back of my belt. I liked to secure it parallel with the ground with the handle facing my right side for ease of access. Grabbing a small throwing knife, I strapped it to my ankle. Before stepping out, I did a quick inventory of my backpack, verifying that my night vision monocular, sat phone, the coil of rope, and my emergency first aid kit were all inside. I also grabbed my bulletproof vest from my duffle bag, though I wouldn’t don it until getting ready to jump.
Once I was ready, I threw my bag over my shoulder and grabbed my full water bottle as I headed through the galley. I locked up the Baia and met Pete over at Ange’s Cessna, where he was already going through the preflight checklist. Stowing my gear on the backseat, I grabbed one of the parachutes along with a helmet and set them alongside my backpack. Once Pete gave me the all clear, I untied the lines, climbed aboard, and plopped down into the copilot’s seat.
He didn’t even bother with requesting takeoff from ATCs at NAS Key West. We’d agreed it would be best to keep our flight on the down-low so as not to risk alerting anyone on the rig about our plan. With the water clear ahead of us, he started up the 230-hp engine and piloted us slowly out of the no-wake zone. The pontoons splashed over the surface of the dark water as we picked up speed. Pete pulled back on the yoke and hit the throttles even harder, causing the engine to roar and the plane to take off into the night air.
He kept our elevation low, then jerked us up over ten thousand feet once we were well past the outlying islands on the Gulf side of the Keys. He wasn’t nearly as smooth of a pilot as Ange, and I instinctively grabbed onto the nearby handle for support.
“You alright?” Pete said through the headset.
“Just trying to keep my dinner down,” I said.
He laughed, looked down at the GPS, then adjusted our course sharply. My body slid and I tightened my grip on the handhold.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I crash-landed off Puerto Rico?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not the best time to bring up something like that.”
“You don’t have faith in me?”
“It’s waning a little, to tell you the truth.”
He chuckled and took his left hand off the yoke, holding the plane steady with only his metal hook.
“We should reach the rig just before zero-one-hundred,” he said. “We’ve got a twenty-knot wind at our backs.”
Twenty knots?
“Great,” I said with a sarcastic thumbs-up.
Landing on the rig wouldn’t be the issue. The main deck had a surface area of over a hundred thousand square feet, or almost two and a half acres. Even with the wind conditions, that wouldn’t be a problem. The issue would be trying to land somewhere relatively flat. The top of the rig was a maze of pipes, shacks, cranes, moving machinery, strung-out cabling, railings, and metal staircases. And let’s not forget about the 260-foot derrick that stuck up like a massive cell tower in the middle. There were a lot of things to tangle my chute on and even more to cause a rough landing. The possibility of breaking a leg or some other bone weighed heavily on my mind. I needed to maintain control and I needed to land just right if I was going to be ready for the following engagements. Ideally, I also wanted to land without anyone seeing me, if possible.
“Logan?” Ange said through the radio comms.
“Ange, go ahead,” I replied.
“We’re two miles due southeast of the rig,” she said. “We’re stopping here and putting in the water in fifteen minutes.”
I glanced at my dive watch. Timing was key as I didn’t want them to have to float around waiting for me under the rig. My sea scooters could pull them through the water at a max speed of seven knots, but with the extra drag of their gear, I estimated it would be closer to five. That meant that they’d be reaching the rig in approximately thirty-five to forty minutes. I checked the instruments and saw that we were twenty minutes from my drop zone.
“Alright,” I said, satisfied with our pace so far. “Be careful. And warn me before you switch on the jammer.”
“Will do,” she said. “And you be careful too.”
I reached to the backseat and grabbed my backpack, bulletproof vest, chute, and helmet. Grabbing my night vision monocular, I zipped it secure in my front pocket. I did a quick check of my gear, then slid my bulletproof vest over my body and secured it with the Velcro straps. Donning the parachute, I clipped the harness across my body and tightened the straps. Since my chute was on my back, I had to make do and wear my backpack over my chest. Once everything was snug, I placed the helmet over my head and tightened it down as well.
As we approached the drop zone, Pete slowed us down to sixty knots, making it easier for me to take the leap without having to deal with incredibly strong winds that would likely knock me back inside or slam against the fuselage.
I gave Pete a fist bump, or a hook bump in his case, and told him I’d see him back in Key West.
“In one piece, preferably,” he said.
I nodded. “That’s the plan.”
I did a final check of all my gear, making sure that I’d secured my chute correctly and that my backpack wouldn’t come loose during the fall. I glanced at the GPS and saw that we were almost over the rig. A quick check of the windspeed indications told me that it was still blowing in from the east at over twenty knots.
Shifting my body to the right, I grabbed the door handle, slid it over, and shouldered the door open. It wasn’t easy, as the door caught the wind like a sail. I gripped the wing brace and stepped out onto the pontoon. Ferocious wind slammed into me as I fought for a stable position outside the aircraft. The rain had left every surface of the Cessna slightly damp, making it more difficult to hold myself in place without slipping. I kept my body streamlined as efficiently as possible as I released the copilot door and let it slam shut behind me.
Turning around, I gave a final thumbs-up to Pete, which he reflected back at me. With a firm hold on the brace, I bent down slightly, wanting to avoid being struck by the elevator when I jumped. I looked down at the night sky and the ocean’s surface two miles beneath my feet. I could see the faint glow of the rig below. It stood out like a burning firefly in the darkness.
Here we go.
I took in a deep, slow breath, then let it out. Looking forward, I leaned back, then launched myself forward and let go of the brace. My body hurtled over the side of the Cessna and flew into the windy darkness. My stomach rose up into my chest as my direction shifted, gravity pulling me down toward the Earth. I stabilized myself, controlling the chaos with intricate body movements developed from years of training as I quickly reached terminal velocity. With my arms extended to my side, my chest open, and my head up, I was freefalling at over a hundred and twenty miles per hour.
My mind flashed back to my first night jump. It was back in ’96 at the Military Free Fall School in Yuma, Arizona. I remembered the feeling of freefalling into the utter blackness for the first time, feeling that dry desert air whoosh past my face. I’d made twelve night jumps since then in the service and as a mercenary. I felt comfortable as I kept my body in control, but the wind was going to make landing tricky.
I flew through the air and did my
best to position myself so that the rig was just west of me. I knew that once I opened the chute, the wind would drag me toward it and allow me to make an easier approach. At my terminal velocity, I knew that twelve thousand feet would give me roughly sixty seconds of freefall. I kept a sharp eye on my watch in addition to gauging my height using the oil rig. I’d performed a few quick calculations while on the plane, taking into account all of the variables, and pulled my chute open at roughly thirteen hundred feet above the water.
The chute unraveled, flapping violently in the wind as it spread apart above me. A main parachute usually takes around eight hundred feet to open. When it did, it ripped me back, jerking at my harness and decelerating me with over three Gs of force. In the blink of an eye, my body slowed to a snail’s pace, the wind around me ceased, and I soared calmly through the air.
I took in a few deep breaths, positioned myself on a direct course for the rig, then reached for my night vision monocular I’d stowed in the front pocket of my pants. Under the open parachute, my fall had slowed to roughly seventeen miles per hour and I’d intentionally given myself a nice cushion of elevation in order to survey for a good landing site.
I peered through the monocular, zooming in on the rig below. I was still a few hundred feet above its highest point at the top of the derrick, but I could make out details by zooming in and focusing the lens. The oil rig produced a constant humming, an orchestra of various machinery, and soaring under the open parachute was so quiet that I could hear my beating heart in my chest. I was taken aback by its size, having never seen one from so close before.
I scanned over its surface, keeping an eye out for movement. After a few seconds, I switched off the night vision and used my monocular as an ordinary scope. The light from the rig made it difficult to see with the night vision on.
We had been informed by Professor Tran that the crew would be split, with each half working shifts of twelve hours on and twelve hours off. That meant that roughly sixty guys would be awake, not including the guys from Darkwater. Most of them would be indoors, either on the drill floor, in the various machinery rooms, in one of the shacks, or in the offices and crew quarters. But I was certain that Darkwater would have patrols topside standing watch, keeping an eye out for boats on the horizon.
Sure enough, after a few minutes of searching, I spotted a handful of guys patrolling various portions of the rig. Most of them were near the edges, huddling together and looking out over the water. My initial idea had been to land on the round, flat helipad. The same Eurocopter helicopter that had chased us down a few days earlier was parked right over the white H, but it still left a decent amount of unoccupied flat area around it. But I quickly realized that there was a problem with landing there. Zooming in closer and scanning around the helicopter, I counted six guys standing, looking out toward the water with rifles in their hands. I knew that I might be able to take on that many by myself, given I had the element of surprise. But I was sure that one of them would manage to sound an alarm, alerting the entire rig of my presence.
No, I needed a new plan. And I needed one fast.
I scanned the rig carefully, observing which parts were darkest and which were lightest. Fortunately, most of the lighting was focused downward so that workers could see what they were doing. The sky above the rig was relatively dark, and I knew that if I approached it right, I could remain fairly well hidden, even if anyone happened to be looking up.
I adjusted my course as my elevation continued to drop, bringing me closer and closer to the rig below. I aimed for a metal walkway halfway up the derrick that wrapped around the entire structure. It was a small target to aim for, but it was flat and relatively dark, and I didn’t see anyone nearby.
I soared down beside the top of the derrick, sweeping in from the shadows toward my target. Just as I glided over the metal railing, a strong gust of wind blew in off the ocean, howling at my back and jerking my body forward. I lifted my legs up into my chest to avoid being slammed into the top of the railing, but my speed and trajectory had already been adjusted more than I’d expected. In a flash of movement, I ripped the breakaway handle, releasing the chute from my harness and causing it to lift up and fly away in the darkness like a kite.
I tried to roll into my landing, but I hit the metal deck hard, my momentum launching me forward and causing me to tumble against a massive metal support brace. I spun sideways and flew over the side. With my heart pounding, I extended my hands in desperation and gripped the metal edge, holding on for dear life as my body dangled over a hundred feet above the oil rig’s main deck.
TWENTY-FOUR
The old rusted trawler rocketed through the water at over forty knots, cutting through the veil of darkness like a massive demon. Jack stood at the helm inside the pilothouse and kept a sharp eye on the horizon, glancing down occasionally to check his instruments and verify the path ahead of them was clear. Ange and Scott stood beside a table on the port side, taking inventory of their gear.
“This beast is unreal,” Jack said.
He looked like a kid on Christmas morning as he held tight to the helm and played around with all of the boat’s gadgets.
“Seriously,” Jack continued. “It must’ve set somebody back a few million at least. I’ve never seen a trawler move through the water like this.”
He piloted them through the Northwest Channel, then thundered into the Gulf on a direct course for the oil rig.
“I’m sure whoever Carson stole it from misses it,” Ange said, going over the sets of rebreather gear.
She and Scott did a full integrity check of all straps, hoses and valves, verifying that everything was snug and airtight. Then they checked the batteries, verifying their ability to hold and maintain a charge. Once the main checks were complete, they verified that the CO2 scrubbers were working properly, confident that Logan wouldn’t have handed them over if they weren’t.
Scott had already loaded up the trawler with the gear they’d requested back near Miami, including the high-end jammer. He lifted its black case up onto the table and opened it beside Ange.
“She’s fresh off the technology train,” Scott said. “Hasn’t even hit the market yet.”
He unclasped the plastic hinges and lifted it out. It was small, about the size of a normal toaster, and had three buttons, a light, and a knob down the side.
“This baby weighs just ten pounds and can disrupt any radio or cellular signal within half a mile.”
He then went on to explain to Ange how it worked, though it was pretty straight forward. The plan was to transport it underwater by placing it in the case, then enclosing it in a watertight bag. It would make Scott less streamlined and slow him down, but they’d accounted for that already.
“I also brought this,” Scott said, reaching down and pulling up another box.
This one contained a black device about the size of the jammer, but unlike the jammer, it had a handle in the middle and a small motor sticking out the back.
“This is the lift ascender we’re gonna use to reach the main platform,” he said. “Holds up to four hundred pounds and should get us up to the rig in under a minute.”
Ange smiled, impressed as she looked it over.
“That’s great,” she said. “Because I wasn’t looking forward to climbing up sixty feet of nylon rope with gear on my back.”
Like the jammer, Scott went over its operation briefly and Ange caught on quick. She’d been climbing since she was a teenager, so she easily figured out its mechanics and basic operation.
“I’ve just got the one harness though,” she said. “Guess we’ll need to share.”
Scott grinned, reached into his bag, and held up a second climbing harness.
“I thought you might say that,” he said.
Most of the trip was quiet and uneventful inside the pilothouse. The humming of the engines and the splashing water at the bow continued for hours as Jack motored them closer and closer to their destination. They brewed a pot of coffee a
nd kept themselves hydrated with bottled water as they closed in on the rig.
“Alright,” Jack said at 1240. He eased back on the throttles slightly. “We’re about two miles from the rig. Gonna bring her to a stop so we can take a look around. You guys ready to get wet?”
As the sounds of the engines quieted and the trawler slowed, Ange grabbed her sat phone and pressed Logan’s speed dial number. He picked up after the second ring.
“Logan?” Ange said.
“Ange, go ahead,” his voice replied on the other end.
Ange explained that they were two miles due southeast from the rig and were slowing to a stop. She added that they’d be in the water in fifteen minutes. After another minute of talking, Ange told him to be careful, then ended the call.
As Jack slowed the big trawler to a stop, Scott grabbed a pair of binoculars and stepped forward onto the bow. He could see the well-lit rig easily as it towered over the dark water’s surface. Looking over the rig, he saw a few silhouettes walking about, but there was no action at the boats or aboard the nearby freighter floating a quarter of a mile north of it.
Jack killed the engines, and he and Ange stepped out to join Scott.
“Any action?” Ange asked.
Scott shook his head.
“If they’ve spotted us, they don’t seem to care,” he replied.
He handed the binos to Ange and she took a look.
“When we cruised over here on the Baia a few days ago, they stirred like a kicked anthill,” she said. “I think we’re in the clear.”
Jack didn’t bother with the anchor. He wasn’t planning on sticking around in one place for very long. If he was going to play the part of a shrimping trawler, then anchoring down wouldn’t be the best idea.
They headed back into the pilothouse and Jack helped them don their gear. They did quick calibrations of both rebreathers’ oxygen sensors, then did a final check of the batteries, filters, and pressure to make sure everything was ready for the dive. Scott and Ange both donned their dry suits, strapping them right over their clothes and tightened bulletproof vests, then sliding their feet into the built-in booties. Underneath, they each had a holstered Glock 19 along with a dive knife and an extra magazine.