it won't hurt, not a bit. What was that? You're scared? There's nothing to be afraid of, trust me. I'm your Uncle Jack. Would I let you down?
Would I?
Eddie saw the diving super looking in his direction. Jack had been really funny lately, nervous. Everyone was, but Jack seemed to be taking it to extremes. As the man with the qualifications and the experience, you should have been able to rely on him for reassurance, but when the boss was worried and trying to make out that he wasn't, then you figured that maybe you ought to start worrying too.
He turned his eyes away from Jack and they fell on one of the derrick legs. His gaze travelled up, way up into the complex network of criss-crossed steel towering above him. It reminded him of a shrine, but one honouring the devil rather than any God. Only the devil could be responsible for what was happening, what they were all waiting for.
It all began two days ago, just a slight tremor at first, enough for all those on board who weren't asleep to stop and say: "What was that? Did you feel something?" Then they shrugged and carried on. When another hit an hour or so later, they said: "Peculiar," and still went about their business. Just after lunch the whole rig started trembling, not much, but enough to feel through the plating of the decks. And it didn't stop until they suspended drilling and raised the bit.
He'd overheard the driller talking with Doug Bromley, the toolpusher. They didn't seem over-concerned and were confident they could discover a remedy for the problem. They tried numerous things, including increasing and decreasing the revolutions of the drill, but instead of improving matters, the shaking got worse.
Someone with nothing better to do had timed the disturbances and discovered there was a pattern to them. They were spaced eighty-two minutes and fifteen seconds apart - exactly! When this small piece of trivia was brought to their attention, those in charge had mumbled: "Interesting." It hadn't stopped them drilling, but they were at least doing it with a deeper frown than the one they'd worn before.
That was early this morning, six-eleven, to be precise. Eddie knew because, like many others, he had taken to checking his watch, just casually, of course. At seven thirty-three, Olympian began vibrating so much that the derrick was humming like a giant tuning fork. They decided to stop drilling. At eight fifty-five it happened again, only this time the drill wasn't turning. It wasn't even in the hole! Shortly after the tremors ceased, a damage report was logged - a leak had been detected on the stack.
Jack and Eddie often talked about the oil men and how they liked to make out that they were so different to ordinary people. Jack maintained they were. "They don't even speak the same language," he'd said, and the pair of them had gone through a list of examples and laughed themselves sick. Well, here was yet another instance that caused a special kind of nausea. Here, they were talking about a stack, not the chimney sort that climbed into the sky and belched smoke. This stack sat on the ocean floor, over the hole they were drilling, performing its function quietly and inconspicuously. Take it away and what have you got? A hole, that's all.
But that wasn't all. Without the stack it was the muzzle of a cannon with a breech-load of powder and the fuse burning steadily. The un-nerving part was that it was right below you. "Right under your little pink ass," was the way Clem Berry explained it to one of the new roustabouts who was being extra-cocky. Clem was the sub-sea engineer and the blowout preventer - the stack - was his baby. He had enormous respect for it and he liked everyone else to. When they didn't and Clem found out, they usually got a lecture.
"When she goes, boy," he'd drawl in his lazy Texan accent, "You better hope you done all your prayin', 'cos sure as shootin', ain't gonna be no second chance."
Clem hadn't needed to lecture Eddie. The young Scot already cared a great deal for his little pink ass and if Clem's stack - or blowout preventer, or BOP, or whatever else they wanted to call it - was going to keep him wearing it, then that was cool. And if he had to go down ten times a day to check that it was doing its job, he'd do it. He wouldn't necessarily like it, but he'd do it.
Eddie gasped as something touched his shoulder. He spun to see Jack Pierce standing by him. Jack's frown deepened. "Are you okay?"
Eddie produced a long sigh through his nose and nodded. "I did nay see ye coming, that's all."
"You're sure?"
"D'ye ken, I'm fine, Jack. Is it time tay go?"
Pierce tried to glance casually at his watch, but the study was too long and nervous to be as indifferent as he would have liked it to appear. "We'll just wait until..." He stopped himself from saying that they'd wait until it was over, until the vibrations they all knew were coming had passed. "Until Clem's ready," he finished and was already searching for a topic of conversation which might take both their minds off the waiting. "You know what to look for?"
"A leak on the blue pod," replied Eddie, nodding.
Jack watched the red hair dance. The freckles on little Eddie's cheeks seemed to have multiplied since the last time Uncle Jack had looked. "It's probably nothing. Clem says he can still operate the valves, but he wants to make sure."
MacFarlane was fiddling with his rat-hat, passing it from one nervous hand to the other. "Have ye ever seen a blowout, Jack? I mean, from up close?"
Pierce tried a chuckle which died in his throat. He cleared it. "I'm standing here now, aren't I?" He shook his head, as if by doing so he could erase his poor attempt at a joke. "No, I haven't, and we're not going to see one. Everything's under control."
3
Like everyone else, Sam Gault was a little worried. But he was also the driller and there was a job to think about. Oil was in his blood. It showed in his tough, leathery hands and face, in the spiky hair of his bullet-shaped head and in the wispy curls sprouting from the scooped neck of his vest. It was even apparent in his movements, those slow, considered actions of a man not accustomed to making mistakes.
Sam should have been satisfied. The bit had been examined and it had checked out okay. Now it was back down and was circulating to keep the hole clear. Even if there was a tremor, it shouldn't damage any of his equipment. To Sam, however, being satisfied meant there was probably one more thing to do.
According to his watch, it was getting very close to that time again. He had been waiting patiently for the derrick man to finish the job of greasing the pipe racking gear. Paddy was still way up the derrick on the monkey board and was taking an age. In fact, he was only just starting up the ladder to the crown at the top. The casual way the Irishman was playing around, you'd think he was decorating a Christmas tree. It would have tried the patience of a saint, which, by any stretch of the imagination, Sam was not. He hailed the derrick man and called him down.
Paddy hesitated. He leaned outward and peered at the rig floor far below. Eighty feet was a long way to climb down, especially when he'd have to climb back up again to finish greasing. All this messing around for something nobody could explain and might never even happen. "Oi'll just be a few minutes, Sam," he called out, then turned back to the ladder and stepped up another rung.
Everyone on board must have heard Sam's bellowing as he ripped into the man far above him. "Get your stupid, Irish arse down here, Paddy, or I'll kick it all the way back to bloody Dublin!"
Con O'Reilly slammed a hand against the rail, shaking the entire ladder. "Alright, alright, Oi'm comin'," he shouted and began re-tracing his steps. He mumbled and muttered his way down to the rig floor, then bustled across to stand before the driller, wiping his hands systematically on a rag already black with grease. "Oi don't take koindly to
