It was like a massive earthquake. Everything shook. Unsecured steel tubing rolled and clanged. Men shouted and tumbled. He thought for a moment that the derrick was going to fly to bits and come crashing down on them. He clung tighter, his arms aching with the jolting, his hands numb from the vibrations passing through the steel tubing. He watched open-mouthed as his derrick man bounced off one more strut before hitting the monkey board with a sickening thud.
A second or two later, the shaking ceased.
Sam didn't notice at first. He pushed off the rail and hurried in the general direction of the ladder, all the time looking up. He couldn't see O'Reilly's body, just part of his arm dangling over the edge of the walkway above. Then Sam's feet went from under him and he was airborne. It wasn't until he had slammed down onto the rig floor and was laying flat on his back, refilling his lungs that he became aware of how calm and peaceful it was.
The realisation was a passing thought. Then he was on his feet and running once more. Someone was already at the foot of the ladder. In too much of a rush, Sam failed to put a name to the face. He simply growled at it and flung the man aside, then started up.
By the time he was climbing out of the guard hoops onto the walkway, he was puffing and wheezing. Paddy was laying half-way along the platform face up, his eyes closed, one arm beneath him and both legs bent at impossible angles. A few short paces and Sam was kneeling beside the derrick man, fumbling for a pulse with a trembling hand. "Don't you die on me," he gasped hoarsely. He couldn't find a pulse. His head went down on Con's chest. "Don't do this, you great, stupid Irish bastard. You don't die until I tell you."
Sam pushed himself up and turned the big Irishman on his side. Plunging fingers into the lacerated, bloody mouth, he tried to clear the air passage. When he had scooped out what he thought to be all of the broken teeth, he rolled the unconscious man onto his back. He hit O'Reilly's sternum with a clenched fist and proceeded to pump the chest rhythmically with both hands and all of his weight. "One, two, three.... Come on, shit-fer-brains, come back." He dived for Paddy's mouth. Holding the nose, he tilted the head back and blew hard into the mouth. Through the blood he could taste liquor. "You sneaky bludger," he panted and went back to the external heart massage. "Drinking on the rig. You could lose your job for this. Come on, come on!" He blew into Con's mouth again, then, went back on the chest. "I'll make a deal - come back so's I can kick your fat arse and I won't say anything. Tell you what - I'll even buy you a drink when we get back to Karratha. Hell, I'll buy you a bloody case. Now come on, for Christ's sake! I'm doing all the work. You could at least help."
Sam was lowering his lips towards the Irishman's mouth for the third time when he felt a waft of warm air rising. He tried again for the pulse. It was there, only faint, but it was there. He sat back on his heels, breathing heavily. "You bastard, O'Reilly." Sam felt both exhausted and elated. He shook his head and chuckled. "You big, stupid, beautiful...." Emotion choked off the rest of his words. He smiled as he watched the steady rise and fall of Paddy's chest. Tears began to roll down Sam's cheeks. He hadn't cried for a long time. Considering the relief he now experienced, he decided it had been too long.
4
Work did not re-commence until they had brought Con O'Reilly back down and the medic had performed his hasty examination. He discovered a broken arm, two broken legs, a possible fractured pelvis and numerous lacerations and contusions. There was, he said, a good chance of cracked ribs, maybe a pneumothorax, then threw in concussion for good measure. The broken teeth were so obvious that he didn't bother to mention them. When asked if O'Reilly could be expected to live, Jerry Dennis had shrugged and said: "He's a mess, that's all I know."
Along with the rest of the crew, Jack Pierce watched as Con was carried to the sick bay. As the small procession moved out of sight, he made his decision and went below. He knew he'd find the Company representative in his office: whenever there was real trouble or responsibility to shoulder, that was where he ran to hide. Pierce walked purposefully to the door and went in without knocking.
Les Meyer was in his chair with his back to Pierce. He didn't bother to turn at first, although he must have known he had a visitor. He was probably contriving the expression of a man about to make a momentous decision. The fact that he had never made one in his life, spoke well for his powers of imagination. Pierce had stopped beside a metal filing cabinet. He pulled out the top drawer a few inches, then slid it back in noisily to announce his arrival. "I didn't see you on deck," he said woodenly.
Meyer's chair turned slowly. His fingertips were together as if in prayer and he touched them to his full lips. "Nothing I could do, Jack," he said quietly through the fingers. His eyes were partially closed and because of this he appeared bored, but he always looked that way. The corners of his mouth curled up slightly. It was hard to tell if he was smiling or sneering.
Pierce studied the face and shuddered. He had heard once that Meyer's ex-wife had put a private investigator onto him. When asked for a description of her husband, she'd replied: "He's a lousy, insipid, selfish puss-bucket," which just about summed him up to a T. Having failed dismally as a husband and lover, he was now trying to reach the pits in his professional career, and was succeeding admirably. It was unlikely that a company drilling superintendent had ever been as useless, despised, and ignorant of his own incompetence as Leslie Rudolph Meyer. He started to rise out of the chair. "I suppose you're ready to dive?"
"No," Pierce stated categorically. Meyer froze statue-like and Jack began to wonder if he'd over-estimated his own determination. It was true he was scared and the O'Reilly incident had compounded his fear, but the way he felt was only responsible for what he was about to say; it wasn't a sufficient justification of it. "I'm calling the dive off."
Meyer jerked upright. "Like hell you are!"
Pierce looked away momentarily, re-building his composure, trying to find an objective excuse. "It's too dangerous right now. The yellow pod’s secure..."
"For how long?" Cut in Meyer. "What if it happens again? What if that gets damaged too? I want the blue pod repaired and back on line before the next tremor hits."
"It's my diver's life you're talking about." Jack was starting to plead. He could hear it in his wavering voice, and that wasn't good because it gave the advantage back to Meyer. "You can't just go on as if nothing's happened. There's one man in the sick bay and..."
"Christ, Pierce!" Meyer leaned heavily on his desk and glared across it into the diving supervisor's eyes. "This is the oil business, not some bloody geriatric rest home! We're sitting on top of a powder keg and the stack's the only thing keeping the lid on it! If you refuse to send a man down and the yellow pod gives out as well, we're up shit creek! We've got no backup, nothing!"
Jack could feel the heat rising in his face. "Clem says the blue pod's still working, it's just that...."
"It's pissing hydraulic fluid all over the bloody ocean," Meyer interrupted again. "That's what it's doing!" His eyes narrowed to mere slits as he grated: "Make that dive, Pierce, or by God I'll have you replaced and see to it that you never work in oil again!"
Before he knew what had happened, Jack was on his way to the communications shack. He couldn't remember whether he'd replied to Meyer's ultimatum, only that he hated the man enough to wish him dead. The main reason for his hatred was probably because the arrogant incompetent was right for once - the leak on the pod had to be fixed.
He was almost at the shack and still fuming when he noticed Eddie MacFarlane sauntering towards him. The young diver should have been waiting beside the Moon Pool for his instructions. Jack scowled at him. "Where do you think you're going?"
The edge on Pierce's voice stopped the young Scot in mid-stride. He shrugged.
