little concerned by it.
Really, they were two chiefs scrapping over who should lead the tribe. That was okay: as one of the Indians, Clem took orders and didn't pay no never-mind to who was calling the shots just so long as they were the right ones and only one chief was doing the calling. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case in this particular instance. As the drilling superintendent responsible to Denoco Inc for expenditure and results, Meyer figured he was Top Gun, only he didn't know a rat's ass about drilling for oil and even less about how to handle people.
Then there was Doug Bromley - the toolpusher. Now, the toolpusher worked for the drilling contractor - in this case, International Exploration and Drilling (Australia) Ltd - and, by virtue of the fact that 98% of the crew did as well, he really ran the whole shooting match. He was like the sergeant of Clem's platoon in 'Nam. He was the one who fought the real war. The officers gave the orders, but it was Sarge Paxton who made it all work. The big difference between the officers and the Sarge was that, for him, the guys always came first.
That was how Bromley came across. He was a good toolpusher who knew his job and wasn't afraid to take calculated risks to bring it in, but the bottom line was always the safety of his men. That was how it ought to be, but Meyer couldn't see it. Bromley saw the danger and said: "No." Meyer counted the dollars and said: "Go." In the final analysis, a toolpusher like Bromley who had experience and the respect of his men - and that meant the entire drilling crew - could pull the plug in a second. But it wasn't likely to come to that because Meyer would get in the last word, and if he did that, considering his connections, Bromley would be labelled as black as a Little Rock night and would wind up picking cotton till his dying day.
"He's at the top of the blowout preventer," Pierce announced, breaking individual trains of thought. Three very long minutes passed, then Jack turned to the sub-sea engineer. "He's ready and waiting, Clem. You can change over now."
The big Texan was glad to leave the claustrophobic atmosphere of the communications shack. Now he could get back to doing what he was paid for. Before going to his control panel, he paused by the TV monitor to take a quick look. The camera was down below, trained on the stack. That was how he'd seen the leak in the first place. There was no sign of Eddie, but the camera couldn't see everywhere at once. He was around somewhere.
Clem went to the panel and switched from the yellow pod back to the blue, then returned to the screen. If anything, the water around the stack had become even more cloudy. He didn't think it was caused by the leak which he could see quite clearly and, in his opinion, wasn't big enough to have made such a difference in so short a time. Anyway, this wasn't hydraulic fluid, he was sure of it. This was more milky and it had a kind-of glow to it. He panned the camera and watched for a minute or so. It was probably spawn, or something similar. He'd report it as a matter of course, but it was most likely nothing. After a final check, he turned his back on the screen and retraced his steps along the deck.
Cooking smells drifted on the wind. Clem was able to pick out onions and the distinctive aroma of chilli. It was his favourite and under different circumstances a single whiff would have made him feel hungry. But not now. Now he didn't know how he felt, but it sure wasn't hungry.
5
By the time Clem Berry was entering, the air in the communications room was so heavy it could have been cut with a knife. Pierce was waiting. Clem couldn't see his face but even a blind man would have been hard put to miss the build-up of tension within the diving super. Doug Bromley was close by. His expression was strained and the way his eyes flicked quickly from Clem back to Pierce was another sign. On top of this, and the daddy of them all, was Meyer. He didn't appear to be breathing and the dead give-away was his hands. They were jammed into the pockets of his jacket. You could see them working beneath the material, nervously clenching and unclenching. It was making Clem jittery just watching him, so he turned his attention to the man with the radio.
Pierce had been listening to static. For some reason Eddie had stopped in mid-sentence. Thinking his diver might be affecting some awkward manoeuvre, Jack had waited. Then he could hear breathing again, but it had become heavy and erratic. He waited a further ten seconds, counting down mentally. When MacFarlane still hadn't come back, he pressed the talk button. "Eddie? Is anything wrong, Eddie?"
Stupid question. Then something really weird came through. Jack could feel the hairs on his arms beginning to tingle. What was that sound? It was like gurgling or slurping. His mouth was open in dumb surprise and had gone very dry. "Eddie?" More slurping. "Eddie, for Pete's sake, talk to me!"
Pierce's hand dived for the switch that would connect him with the speakers in the moon pool. "Eddie's in trouble. Get down to him, quickly!"
Bill Rose had been chatting to Kenny Pratt, one of the other divers. Their conversation was drowned out by the static-laden gabble coming from the speakers. Bill hurried over to the intercom and spoke into it. "Say again, Jack."
"Eddie's in strife." Pierce's voice repeated his message, with more control and precision the second time. It was laced with concern that he apparently wasn't even attempting to disguise. "Go down, Bill, but do it right - no risks. Do you copy?"
"On my way, Jack." Pierce heard the scrape as Bill picked up his rat-hat, then his breathing as he put it on. "Jack?"
"Receiving, Bill."
Pierce's acknowledgment of the simple communications check filled Rose's helmet. "Got you too, Jack." Rose was already on his way to the ladder that led down into the moon pool. The ball in his stomach was there. It seemed to be bigger than usual and was making it hard to breathe.
Pierce said: "How's your air?"
Rose inhaled as deeply as the tightness in his gut would allow. "She'll be right." He was descending the ladder and the water was up to his waist, then his chest. Suddenly he could feel it around his neck and he had a terrible premonition that it was about to fill the rat-hat. He watched it come up the outside of the visor until the surface was just level with his bulging eyes. Thank God, it had stayed out.
He was starting to breathe easier, but not much - he was too intent on catching one last glimpse from the reality side of the moon pool mirror. Releasing the ladder, he was through the secret door, looking back up at the lights shining beyond the surface and wanting desperately to break through and see them once more. He gathered his senses and thought about Eddie, only Eddie. "Going down, Jack."
Pierce double-checked the air controls while listening to the mixture of sounds being fed through his ear-phones. Bill was still talking his way down, but Eddie's slurping - if it was Eddie's - had been replaced by something he couldn't discern. "Bill," he said as naturally as he was able, "Can you hold the talk for one?" He listened. Before he could stop himself, he said: "My God, what's he doing now?"
It was barely a whisper, but Meyer's ears were like radar dishes when there was something around he wasn't supposed to hear. He pushed his way past Doug Bromley and leaned over Pierce. "What's going on? What's wrong?"
Pierce didn't even hear him. His finger was trembling as it pressed the talk button. "Eddie." His voice wavered too. Would his divers be able to detect that? If so, it was no good. They were relying on him to be calm and rational, supremely confident. He tried again: "Eddie?" That sounded better. "If you can hear me, Eddie, just take it easy. Breathe easy. Save your strength. Bill's on his way down. He'll bring you up. You're going to be alright."
Eddie was whimpering.
"There's nothing to worry about, son," coaxed Pierce in the most confidence-boosting tone he could muster. "Hang on for a few minutes longer and....." Pierce staggered as a terrified
