The Devil's Whelp. Vin Hammond Jackson
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 bein' called stupid, Sam."
"Then you shouldn't use a brick to keep your ears apart," snarled Sam.
"Dere's noth'n' wrong wid moi ears, and fer your information Oi'm from County Cork, not Dublin!"
Gault's hand tightened on the safety railing beside him. "I don't care if you're from Afghani-bloody-stan, you shit-for-brains bog-trotter, when I give you an order, you either jump, or you're off this rig!"
"Dere you go again, t'rowin' yer weight around. Just because you're de driller...."
"Listen, you stupid Irish bastard," growled Sam, "I'm just trying to save your useless hide, although God knows why. I don't reckon you'd even notice. Now, put a sock in it and wait, will you?"
O'Reilly shrugged. "Well alright, seein' as you put it loik dat, but if Oi've come all de way down fer noth'n', Oi'll be havin' a few more words to say about it!"
Under normal circumstances, Paddy's and Sam's little one-act play would have had the men on the rig floor in fits. On this occasion, as a very minor comic relief, it raised a few smirks and the odd chuckle, but no more. The atmosphere was electric. Eyes watched seconds ticking by. Filthy or not, nails were being chewed, breaths held, and fingers crossed.
Pierce's hip had begun to ache. It did that when stormy conditions were on the way. He massaged it absently and tried to take his mind off the waiting by watching the sea. It hadn't changed, at least nothing visible had, but he could sense something approaching.
Eddie was thinking about his mother and home. If he closed his eyes, he could picture the grimy, terraced houses and the narrow streets. He could see the rain, feel the cold, hear the kids shouting as they kicked the soccer ball around and replayed last week's Celtic versus Rangers match. It was a strange term - home. You were supposed to feel alright there. It should have been somewhere you could go back to and know it was where you were meant to be. He hadn't left it that way. In fact, he'd been glad to leave the damp and the squalor and was beginning to feel more at home on the rig than he did in Glasgow. But now, at that moment, he wanted it all back. He wanted to be there because he hadn't taken sufficient notice of it. There were places he hadn't really seen, words had been left unsaid which his mother might never hear. He wished he could start over again, so that