The Rig 1: Rough Seas (3 page)

He pointed at a large helicopter and began walking towards it.

“That's us by the way.”

“Really? He opened a restaurant there?”

“Yeah, he did. No idea why, seeing as the whole place is still running on supplies from shore. He probably did it as a favor to the boss.”

Sheila lifted her eyebrows.

“I wouldn't know, I'm just impressed a multiple Michelin star chef opened a restaurant on your rig.”

“Maybe you'll join me there tonight?”

“You are insistent, aren't you?” Sheila smiled at him. “Sure, why not?”

“Excellent!”

The helicopter ride was quick and calm, which was a blessing after the journey. Conversation was sparse though, as the noise of the helicopter made it hard to understand each other. But Sheila enjoyed the ride nevertheless, and she was spoiled by a great view of the coast line of Southern California every time she looked out of the window.

Soon ‘The City’ came into view and the helicopter pilot began to talk to flight control to make sure the helipad was clear. Not long after, they hovered over the helipad and slowly the pilot brought the craft down to the deck. Wes opened the door and helped Sheila down from her seat.

“Thank you. Not many gentlemen out there anymore.”

“I'll show you to your quarters and then we'll have a look at things in the lab,” Wes shouted over the roar of the rotors that were slowly powering down.

They ducked through the door and went down a flight of stairs. Sheila was surprised to find they were now walking outside a gallery overlooking a swimming pool, which was a level below them. Another flight of stairs down there was a glass elevator and they used it to travel downward for several decks. Sheila saw a deck with restaurants and theaters pass, some decks that looked somewhat like old fashioned apartment blocks, some that looked like the corridors of a luxury hotel.

“You're on Deck 15. We have some good apartments there which are designated for our honored guests. We resident scientists are crammed into Deck 12, close to the labs.”

“Really?” Sheila asked, curious as to the situation of her host on the rig.

Wes grinned.

“Nah, it's smaller than my apartment, but it's luxury compared to some other situations I have had.” Sheila smiled at the remark, thinking her question must have seemed a bit naive.

“And the good apartments?”

“Quite a bit bigger and you have stuff like a bath.”

At Deck 1, they got out and Wes began fishing into his pockets for a key as they walked along the deck.

“Number 33,” he said, when he had found the key.

They walked past another few doors and found number 33. Wes opened the door and showed her in.

Sheila was surprised to find a bathroom, a kitchen-diner, a big living room and a large bedroom with a king-sized bed. This was definitely not a normal oil rig. Wes placed the key on the coffee table.

“There are coffee and tea in the cupboard and some cold water in the fridge, but we don't stock these with food. I'll show you around the shopping decks when we go down to the lab.”

Sheila just nodded and walked to the window. She could just about see San Clemente in the distance. Further south there were ships moving towards the coast.

“Hour and a half good for you?” Wes asked.

She turned around, a puzzled look on her face.

“Hour and a half to freshen up? I'll leave you alone for that.”

“Oh yes, that'd be great.”

Wes turned around and walked out of the apartment.

“I'll come and get you in an hour and a half then.”

Chapter Four

Akhmed was nervous. He was walking through one of the bad neighborhoods of San Diego and he did not like it. Everywhere there were signs of Mexicans and African-Americans vying for control of the area, for control of the drug trade and the smuggling. He did not like this at all, but it was where he had been told to go.

He had been in touch with Mr. Smith earlier in the week, and he had been told this was where he should come to talk. Smith did not want to discuss any plans over the phone, claiming you never knew who might be listening in. With all the things coming out about the NSA, Akhmed could completely understand that, so he had agreed, but he cringed when he heard where the rendezvous was going to be.

He found the address he had been given and looked the house over. The paint was coming off the window and door frames and gutters and shutters were hanging down. He noticed the lawn had not been tended in a long time either. He carefully opened the gate in the fence, slowly walked down the path to the door, and pushed the button of the doorbell. There was some scuffling in the house, but nobody opened. Akhmed looked around and noticed a black car in the street. It had tinted windows and somehow he got the feeling someone was watching him. He shrugged. He must be getting paranoid.

The door opened. A young muslima was standing in the door opening. Akhmed frowned, he had not expected that. He noticed the very conservative dress she wore and felt his paranoia rising again. He turned around, feeling that tickle in the back of his neck that tells you when you’re being watched. But there was nothing there, apart from that black car in the street.

The woman let him into the house. He looked around and found the place to be quite modern. He looked at the woman again and frowned. His father had been a Muslim, his mother a Coptic Christian. He had been born in the U.S. and been raised with both belief systems, the liberal faith of his father balancing out the religious tendencies of the country of his birth, and his mother's putting everything in context.

As soon as she had closed the door, the woman stripped off her headscarf. This surprised Akhmed. No sooner had she gotten rid of the headscarf then the woman pulled the wide garment she had been wearing over her head. Underneath she was wearing skin-tight jeans and a tank top.

“Sorry about the disguise. Never know who might be watching. Have to be careful.”

She spoke with an Oakland accent. She had a darker skin and was probably of North African descent, but he was not sure.

“Fátima de Medina Garcia,” she introduced herself, extending her hand.

So, she's of Spanish descent,
he thought as he grasped her hand.

“And you're Akhmed Hussain Abbasi?”

“Yeah.”

He was taken aback again by the use of his full name.

“Smith and Garcia are going to be here soon. Do you want some coffee?”

Akhmed nodded and sat himself down on the sofa. He noticed the garden at the back of the house was well maintained, which he had not expected from the ramshackle outside of the house and overgrown lawn at the front.

Fátima came to him with two cups of coffee and sat down beside him.

“So you want to do something about that damned rig as well?”

“Yeah,” he affirmed. “Something has to be done. The thing is a failure and if they stop me talking about it, then I'll have to find another way to protest it.”

“Too right.”

Fátima shifted in her seat, crossing her legs but turning fully towards him. She placed her elbow on the back of the sofa and supported her head with that hand.

“The thing's a menace to the environment, and something really has to be done about it.”

“Totes,” she smiled at him. She placed a hand on his knee. “I like you,” she said sincerely.

Chapter Five

Dave was watching Joy closely. He saw how stiffly she greeted Dr. Briggs. He got to his feet the moment the meteorologist entered and shook her hand with a big smile. She was pretty, this one. Most actual female meteorologists of any name that he knew of were quite nerdy, but he understood immediately why Wes was so taken by the woman. She looked like a movie star. Which must be why Joy was so cool towards her, he reasoned. Joy had been by far the most gorgeous woman to walk around the laboratories, but this woman made her pale in comparison.

As Wes showed Sheila Briggs around in the lab, Dave sat down on a chair next to Joy. He nudged her gently.

“She's got nothing on you, you know.”

Joy turned around and shot him a very dirty look.

“Shut up, Dave.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“What did I do?”

“Just shut up,” she snapped.

Slowly, Dave got up and went back to his own seat. He looked at Joy and then turned his interest to Wes and Dr. Briggs. He noticed how Wes was smiling at her and he looked at Joy again. Then he understood why Joy was in such a foul mood. She was staring at Wes and she was fuming. Dave realized that was also why she had kept holding him off. He sighed. He felt defeated.

He turned back to his computer screen and pulled up the window in which he monitored the sea below them. He opened another window and began checking how the sea life reacted to the drill that was being engaged. It was dull work, but it had to be done.

Two hours later Wes guided Sheila away and Joy was getting ready to leave. Dave got up and came to stand beside her.

“Joy...” he started hesitantly.

“What?” she snapped.

He sighed.

“He's never going to feel that way about you...” He let the phrase trail off. Joy's eyes were trying to burn a hole in him. “Let it go. He's not going to.”

She sighed and looked down at her feet.

“God...”

She sat back down again and buried her head in her hands. She sobbed and Dave placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. Joy sat there for a while. Her sobbing eventually stopped, and Dave sat down beside her.

“Hey,” he mumbled.

With tears in her eyes, she looked at him.

“Dry your eyes. I'll take you to dinner and a show.”

“I don't want to date you, Dave,” she sounded angry, thinking Dave wanted to take advantage of her vulnerability.

“Not a date. Just to take your mind off it. Could go for drinks as well, if you prefer.”

Joy blinked.

“Drinks would be nice.”

They went to the Irish Pub on Deck 9. Dave had been surprised to find there was an Irish Pub on the rig. Those things really cropped up everywhere, he thought. It was the only place to get stout though, and they had by far the best selection of whiskey.

“My shout,” he said, as they sat down at the bar. “Guinness for me, Cill.”

He ordered his drink from the bartender. He had known Cillian for ages, but he had not known the Dubliner worked here until he had discovered the pub in ‘The City.’

“Pint of Magners,” Joy said, still feeling down and ashamed.

Cillian frowned at her, and then looked at Dave to check what was going on, but Dave shook his head. When he put her cider in front of her, she put the glass to her lips and drank half of it in one go.

“
Sláinte
. Thirsty, lass?” Cillian asked.

“Yeah, busy day.”

Joy drained the rest of her pint before the bartender could even top up Dave's Guinness.

“Well, in that case, have another one on me.”

Cillian smiled at her, immediately pouring her another pint. The Guinness had settled and he topped it off, putting both pints on the bar. He moved over to the register to put the drinks on the right tabs. There was no physical money used on ‘The City,’ every purchase was simply taken out of the wages.

“So, are you guys going to go to the gig in Central tomorrow?” Cillian asked them.

Dave had to think for a moment and he took a long draught of his stout as he thought. Joy just made an effort to see the bottom of her glass as fast as possible.

“Do you mean that deejay that’s going to be playing?” Dave finally remembered.

“Yeah, should be good
craic
,” Cillian began washing some dirty glasses. “She's supposed to be one of the best around.”

“Not my sort of music. But it could be a nice party.”

“Yeah, let's go there tomorrow,” Joy chimed in.

She waved her empty glass at Cillian.

“Refill?”

“Yep.”

Dave noticed she was getting tipsy already. He sort of regretted taking her for drinks now, but at least she was not busy obsessing over Wes, which was good.

“Do you think W...” Joy began.

“When did you have to be back in San Diego for that court appearance, Cill?” he asked the bartender, wanting to shift the conversation from anything that could remind Joy of Wes and Sheila.

“Fucking Guards...” Cillian swore. “Fucking have it in for me, like. Fucking smash one over the head once and every fucking one of them thinks you're a criminal every time they pick you up.”

“I did tell you to stop doing the robot in front of ladies.”

“You fuck off too!”

Joy laughed at that. She decided she liked Cillian.

“You were doing the robot?”