The Rig 1: Rough Seas (9 page)

He stood on a couple of rocks on the northwest side of the island, looking for crabs when he heard the blast. Immediately he jumped up and looked for the source, wondering whether he and his boat might be in danger. But they were not. It took him a while to locate the source of the blast. It must have come from the west, further out to sea, but he could not see anything. Then there was a second blast and he knew where it came from. It came from ‘The City.’

Juan jumped from the rocks into the water and swam to his boat. He clambered on board and hauled his little anchor. It took him a while to start his outboard engine, but then it spluttered into life and he steered his little boat back to Santa Catalina. But barely had he begun to make headway into the waves then his curiosity got the better of him. He stopped the engine and looked west. He saw something glimmer there now and he felt he needed to know what was happening. So instead of heading home to his family, he changed course and went out to sea.

Fifteen miles off San Clemente Juan stopped his engine again. He stood up in his boat and instinctively took off his baseball cap. Then he crossed himself. What he saw before him was an inferno. It was how he had always imagined Hell would look like. Tears sprang into his eyes as he thought of the poor people and knew he could not even get close to look for survivors of that blast. He turned around and headed for shore.

The tears were still in his eyes when he walked along the dock and down the quay to his house on Santa Catalina. He was still wiping his eyes when he walked into the kitchen and hugged his wife. He told her about what he had seen and she smiled.

“I feel so sorry for them, but at least the fire means the oil won't wash up here.”

“That's a harsh way of thinking.”

Juan could not believe his ears when his wife said that.

“They shouldn't have built it in the first place.”

She shrugged.

***

Commander Lovell of the USCG Hurricane ran out onto the deck with his binoculars in hand when he heard the explosion. He saw the smoke rising and put the binoculars to his eyes. He saw the oil spill forming rapidly underneath the platform.

“Fuck!” he swore. “Radio San Clemente. Get us closer, we might be needed!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the coxswain and the radio officer replied.

They powered ahead as fast as their cutter could go, but then the second explosion hit and suddenly there was no longer a city before them, there were just flames. They saw a fishing vessel and a few pleasure boats veer away as they could no longer hope to reach it and help. The coxswain instinctively pulled the throttle back and let them drift towards the rig at a leisurely pace.

The radio officer had finished his call to the naval base at San Clemente and tried to make contact with ‘The City,’ but he got no answer. He kept calling their sign on their frequency, tried to pick them up on the emergency frequency, even called their phone link, but no luck. Everything was dead.

Soon there were US Coast Guard and US Navy helicopters and planes in the air above their heads, flying over ‘The City.’ They watched as they circled and then headed back to the airfield at San Clemente. They heard the reports from the pilots. Nothing could be done to help the people on that rig until the blaze had gone out. They could not get anyone on board from up there.

Lovell sighed and just stared. He saw a yacht head to the blaze and promptly commanded the coxswain to head them off. He wanted to help, but right now, the only thing he could do was to make sure nobody else got hurt.

***

The news of the explosion on ‘The City’ and the subsequent fire rolled into the office of CBS in San Diego and the editor in chief immediately sprang to life. He pushed his chair back to liberate his large belly from behind his desk and jumped to his feet. His mind began working out whether he knew someone on that rig, and when he had decided he did not, he began working out whom he could send to report on it and how he should conduct the coverage.

There was a pretty multi-cultural girl who had just graduated from college in the office. He reckoned she deserved a shot. He would let her take a camera crew out in a helicopter and fly over to the site of the accident. If she messed up, then the helicopter would have to turn back anyway and he could have her replaced.

He called her in and told her to get a move on. When she had gone, he called up the technical crew and told them to ready a chopper and a van.

When Elizabeth “Elly” Boukhari arrived at the heliport she went straight for the CBS chopper. She shook hands with the pilot and every man of the crew and squealed in her excitement. She hurried to get into the chopper and get her gear in order, but just as the pilot told them to buckle up for takeoff a black car raced onto the tarmac and came towards them. The tires screamed as it stopped next to them. Out jumped two men in black suits and white shirts.

“Sorry but you won’t be reporting on that rig fire just yet.”

“Says who?”

The pilot demanded, putting his hand on the throttle.

“Says us.”

One of the men put his hand into his jacket and pulled out what looked like a small black leather wallet. he flicked it open and showed them the badge and ID it contained.

“FBI. We won't let you report on that just yet. Not until we have the facts and know it's safe.”

***

Senator Jacobs' PA trotted through the corridors of the Capitol on her high heels. She wore a skirt that barely covered her ass and so tight around the hips that it limited her movement to small steps. She wore towering heels, a tight blouse and a bra that pushed her breasts up and gave her a massive cleavage, which was always on show. She hated dressing in this super sexy, provocative way. After six years in college, she found it degrading to have to present herself as little more than a sex object. But even if she hated the sort of clothes the senator made her wear and the man himself made her want to vomit, she was glad she had a job. And he paid her well, though she suspected the pay was more for her assets than for her skills.

She waited outside the room she suspected the senator was in. He was supposed to attend four hearings and meetings at once, but she guessed he would be in the one on climate change now. That was his big passion. Several other PA's were standing outside the room. There was one mousy-looking woman and the rest were men. A few of them looked very young. They were probably interns. She felt uncomfortable under the stares of the men and looked down. She began to play with her long brown locks as she waited.

After a good five minutes Senator Jacobs came out. He had just finished his speech and was running out to get to another meeting. He would not even bother to hear the response to his statements by the scientist they were talking to. He had his reply for the end of the meeting ready and that would suffice for the PR and the media. Nobody wanted to hear what some boring scientist has to say, he figured.

“Sir,” the secretary said, touching his arm as he passed her.

He turned and looked at her. He did not bother to look into her eyes, instead he kept his gaze fixed on her bosom.

“Tell me while we walk.”

He set off at a fast pace and his secretary tottered after him. It was almost impossible for her to keep up and she again cursed the clothes she had been made to wear.

“Sir.”

She felt it was a miracle she could talk with the effort it took to keep up and to stay on her feet.

“Sir, we just got a call from California. There’s been an explosion at ‘The City.’ It caused an oil spill. A second explosion set the oil on fire.”

To her relief the senator stopped.

“What? How?” he bellowed. “Come on, answer me, you stupid bitch!”

The secretary felt her lip quiver. She held back the tears she could feel welling up. This sort of abuse was hard to take. She would never get used to it and she wondered then how much more she could take before quitting a job she needed so desperately.

“Well?” the senator demanded again.

“It... it seems there was a terrorist attack, sir,” she said, as soon as she could control her voice.

“God damn it!” the senator roared and rushed off to his next meeting. It was one on security.

Then halfway down the corridor he turned.

“Get on the phone to Portis! If there's a spill, my head is on the line!”

***

Portis was playing golf with a previous president when his phone rang. He answered and was slightly annoyed to hear the voice of Jacobs' secretary. He did not talk to secretaries. He wanted to hang up, but the first phrase she uttered was, “There's been an attack on ‘The City.’”

“Really?” he asked, almost casually. “Oh God...”

His tone was very calm and he smiled as he heard the news.

“Yes, si
r
.
Senator Jacobs asked me to call you as it seems they struck oil just before it all happened. There is a massive oil spill and it's on fire.”

The blood drained from Portis' face. He grew pale as a sheet of paper.

“What?”

“I heard the Coast Guard report, Mr. Portis. There is a massive fire all around it. And they have lost all contact. Senator Jacobs asks if you can call him. He is quite worried.”

Portis swore and hung up.

“What's going on?” the former president asked.

He leaned on his golf club and looked at Portis. He had hoped to close a deal to link their two big charity foundations, which had been working on similar projects for a while now.

Portis sighed and closed his eyes.

“‘The City.’”

The president frowned. It seemed he knew something he was not saying.

“What happened?”

Portis looked up and gazed straight into the president's eyes.

“Thirty-three. But they struck oil earlier in the day.”

The president shook his head and reached down for his ball. He put it into his pocket and put his club away. He nodded to his caddy and got into the golf cart.

“Sort it out.” he said, and was gone.

Portis swore again and sunk down onto the green. He selected Stryker's number and called. There was no reply. He swore again and laid down his phone. He stood and picked up his golf club. He walked over to his own cart and swung. The headlight shattered. He swung again. And a third time. Then he threw his club over to his caddie and picked up his phone again. He selected another number. There was a reply on this one.

“Where are you?”

“On board. Something went wrong. We're about to get in a sub to get out.”

“You stay where you are. You wanted to do this, you did this, you make sure it's done properly. In the morning, you had better have this mess sorted out or I will personally make sure you go down for this. Understood?” he raged into the phone.

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line.

“Understood.”

And then they hung up.

Portis called another number. This call was not long. He just heard the phone being answered and spoke six words.

“Portis. Find Stryker. Deal with him.”

This was a nightmare. But he would make sure the dream would be brought to life again.

To be continued in:

The Rig: Storm Warning

(read on for a sample)

Prologue

Elly Boukhari was finally airborne. The FBI had finally released the CBS helicopter and it was on its way to ‘The City’. She could see the blaze of the flames from miles away. In her hand, she held the clipboard she had been given by the agents. One of the men in black suits had gotten on board the helicopter with her and now sat beside her. He had his arms crossed and his hands tucked under his armpits. She kept looking at the small bulge underneath his jacket.

She kept looking him up and down, trying to make out what he was thinking and feeling. But he wore dark aviator sunglasses that completely shielded his eyes. She noticed he looked at her from time to time and it creeped her out, but there was nothing she could do about it.

The rig came closer and closer. They flew over a US Coast Guard ship that lay several miles away from ’The City’. The pilot flew closer to it and the radio crackled into life.

“This is the United States Coast Guard Hurricane. You are now flying into restricted airspace. Identify yourself.”

“This is N6933NA, working for CBS, San Diego. We plan to fly over the oil rig to shoot some footage and then return to a safe distance.”

“Negative N6933NA. The airspace for five nautical miles around ‘The City’ is closed. You will limit yourself to filming from outside that parameter.”

Elly looked at the pilot. She wanted this story to be done well. It could be her big break as a news reporter.

“Keep going.”

“USCG Hurricane, we will only be a few minutes inside the parameter before returning.”