The Devil's Whelp. Vin Hammond Jackson
had collected there, but only a few, because he wasn't making the dive - Eddie was. Unless something went wrong, Bill would be up here, high and dry, keeping the door open for his partner.
Then MacFarlane was by his side. "Stupid name," commented the youngster.
The sounds of Eddie's voice seemed to echo right around the catwalk before finally returning to Bill. He couldn't make sense of the words. "What?"
"Moon pool," explained Eddie, pointing with his rat-hat, first at the water, then to the underside of the rig floor above their heads. "Ye cannay see the Moon at a' fram here."
"That's 'cos it's quarter to twelve in the morning, you bloody Galah."
"I did nay mean..."
Rose cut him short. "I know what you meant, Eddie. Now, are you going down, or do you want me to?" Another knot appeared in Bill's gut and he caught himself mentally crossing his fingers.
"I can manage very well mah sel', thank ye kindly, and I dinnay need a Sassenach tay hold mah hand."
Rose covered his relief by shaking his head in mock despair. "You can't even talk bloody English, you wee Scotch bogon."
"Scottish bogon, if ye don't mind," Eddie corrected. "Now quit blaytherin' an' hook me up, will ye?"
In the shack above, the diving super listened to the knocks and scrapes from the intercom speaker as Eddie secured his hat to the neoprene seal around his neck. Pierce adjusted the microphone stalk on his headset. "As soon as you're ready, son,"
"On mah way, Jack." Eddie's voice blared around the room.
Jack wondered whether he ought to switch off the speaker to keep the conversation a little more private. He decided against it, for the time being. "Give me a commentary on the way down, Eddie. Anything unusual, no matter how small, I want to know." He paused with his mouth open as if unsure whether to say what was on his mind. He shrugged off the thought: if Eddie started talking crazy, he could always shut him down.
His eyes flicked to the other two in the shack. Meyer was hovering buzzard-like in the background, no doubt keeping his options open for a full-frontal assault of interference, or for beating a hasty retreat should something go wrong that he couldn't handle. Clem Berry was standing between Meyer and Pierce which was advisable in all respects: Clem was both huge and laid-back, a gentle, Texas giant. If anyone on board could pour oil on the troubled waters that were Les Meyer, Clem could, and from a great height.
When he began to feel his earlier hatred for Meyer returning, Pierce went back to concentrating on his equipment and his diver. Eddie's hollow narrative was drifting through the speaker, losing itself in the space of the room. He was just talking his way down, telling of things they already knew. Jack was never bored by it. As long as he could hear the commentary, no matter how routine or mundane it might seem to an outsider, to him it meant that his man was okay and functioning as normally as anyone could under the circumstances.
MacFarlane's voice stopped. Pierce's hand flew to the switch and cut off the intercom's speaker. He realised too late that it was a mistake he would probably regret and was aware of movement as Meyer shuffled closer. "Eddie?" Jack enquired casually, as much for Meyer's benefit as the young Scot's.
"It’s okay, Jack," Eddie returned almost immediately. "Just having trouble clearing mah head." He paused for a few seconds. "Alright, now. Going down again."
Pierce signalled to the two behind him that all was well. The room darkened suddenly and he glanced at the door to see why. Doug Bromley was standing there, blocking the sunlight. They all knew where the toolpusher had been - in the sick bay with Con O'Reilly. It was typical that it would be Clem and not Meyer who asked: "How is he?"
Doug half-turned to face Clem. "He should make it, eventually." He shucked his head to indicate Pierce. "What's happening?"
Meyer was annoyed that Bromley had not addressed the question to him. "Nothing yet," Les drawled sourly, "MacFarlane's on his way down."
Unable to hear the young diver's commentary now, they waited in relative silence, Bromley and Meyer re-asserting the extent of their individual authority over each other with their eyes, Clem recording points scored with casual interest. At least, he seemed indifferent to their silent feud, when, in fact, he was more than a 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.