by Shaun Clarke
‘Let’s hope so,’ the PM said.
‘We’re going down,’ the Under-Secretary noted. ‘We must have reached the Forties.’
Glancing out through the window, the PM saw the bleak, wind-whipped sea. There was a derrick on a platform far below, looking terribly desolate. Then the helicopter dropped lower. He saw a second rig, then a third. One of the rigs was burning off its waste gas and the smoke billowed sideways. The helicopter dropped lower. The rigs started looking bigger. He saw a square-shaped concrete platform with huge legs and crossbeams and a couple of frail-looking derricks. The platform didn’t move as the sea poured between its legs. The helicopter continued its descent, and the platform grew wider and taller, taking on shape and detail.
It was huge, like a giant Meccano set. The towering derricks and cranes, steel catwalks and metal tanks, piles of crates and a plethora of prefabricated buildings impressed the PM; he felt an unaccustomed, childlike awe. The helicopter dropped lower, to below the tallest derrick . . . and then suddenly the massive platform was spread out to his right like some monolith from an unknown world.
The legs were incredibly wide and webbed with thick steel beams. The sea surged up to smash against the legs, then fell back and rushed in again. The PM held his breath. He saw the helicopter pad. Circled in blue and white, it was on the edge of the platform, and loomed nearly 200 feet above the sea, just above the main deck. The helicopter dropped towards it. The steel-webbed derricks grew taller. The PM glanced up, but he couldn’t see the tops of the derricks, so he looked down again. The landing pad rushed up towards him with the sea far below it. The monstrous steel maze swung around him in a grey haze, then suddenly it was towering above him, reaching up to the stormy sky.
The PM licked his lips. The helicopter roared even louder. It bumped on to the landing pad and bounced a few times, then finally came to a shuddering rest. Its engine died and the spinning rotor blades separated. Staring out in a daze, the PM saw a huge factory where men hung from metal girders, clambered up swaying ladders, crossed catwalks swept by spray, crawled along lengths of steel pipes that swayed dangerously above the roaring waves. Then the PM looked down. He saw the sea far below. An enormous concrete leg plunged towards it and made him feel dizzy.
‘Home and dry,’ someone said cheerily.
3
The rotors of the Wessex were still spinning when Tony Masters jumped out of the helicopter and stood on the landing pad of Eagle 3, Frigg Field. The wind whipped his face and he breathed the fresh, freezing sea air. When a man in red overalls waved at him, he grinned and waved back. The chopper’s engine tapered off and the rotors finally stopped spinning. Two men in yellow overalls placed blocks around the wheels as the pilot jumped down behind Masters. The pilot combed his brown hair, chewed gum and grinned at nothing in particular as he gazed about him.
Masters looked at the floating factory that soared up to the grey sky and heard the savage roaring of the drilling shaft. Too big to be imagined, the rig never failed to impress him. It was a factory built for giants and the men were like ants beneath the huge structures. They were working on the muddy deck, which was a maze of cranes and loading bays, countless lamps and antennae, three-ton pipes and Portakabins. Though a quarter of a mile wide, the deck rose and fell constantly. Beneath it there were two other floors; beneath those, the massive legs.
‘Shall I get them out?’ the pilot, Jack Schulman, asked.
Masters nodded and glanced down at the sea way below him. It was grey and quite rough, washing around the pontoon legs, stretching out to the distant horizon, now obscured in a dismal haze. This was a semi-submersible rig. It had four main pontoon legs, thirty feet wide and nearly three hundred feet long, which plunged eighty feet beneath the sea to the massive pontoons. The pontoon legs were hollow and webbed with steel ladders. The pontoons themselves were filled with water and attached to the seabed with huge anchor chains.
‘All right!’ Schulman bawled. ‘Shake your asses!’
Glancing over his shoulder, Masters saw the first of the replacement crew clambering down out of the Wessex. Beyond the helicopter, stretching out to the horizon, was the featureless grey mass of the North Sea. The chopper seemed to rise and fall. The deck was swaying to and fro. The men were clambering down and piling up their luggage on the vibrating landing pad. In fact, the whole rig was vibrating. The central shaft continued roaring. The jib of a distant crane swung out over the sea and its thick chain rattled over the side.
Masters shivered and clapped his hands. The wind was constant and always icy. Eagle 3 was two hundred miles north of Aberdeen, halfway between the Shetlands and Norway. Originally its oil had been piped down through Beryl to the Orkneys, but threats from the IRA had put a stop to that and now it went on through Beryl to the Forties Field, where about now the Prime Minister would be landing.
‘OK,’ Masters said to the men grouped around the Wessex. ‘Sort out your gear, then follow that man in yellow overalls – that’s Jim Webb, by the way – down to your quarters. Let me remind you new men to watch your step. Don’t trip on anything, don’t fall off the edge, and don’t let the wind blow you away.’ Some of the men laughed at that, but they stopped when Masters stared coldly at them. ‘I’m not kidding,’ he said. ‘These rigs are extremely dangerous. The decks are slippery with mud and oil, machinery often breaks loose, and the wind can unexpectedly turn fierce and blow men off the catwalks. The sea’s two hundred feet below. The water temperature’s five degrees Celsius. So if you don’t break your neck when you fall, you’ll freeze to death in minutes. OK, let’s get moving.’
The men sorted out their gear and followed Jim Webb to the steps that led down from the landing pad to the deck below. The deck was swaying, dipping towards the sea and back up, the waves growling and smashing against the pontoon legs and sending spray fanning into the air. Masters looked at the derrick. Grey clouds drifted above it. It was a hundred and fifty feet tall, its tapering legs webbed with steel, and its square base rested firmly on the roof of the semi-enclosed drilling deck. The drill shaft was rotating, making a Godalmighty roaring. Around the shaft, on the edge of the immense deck, cranes shrieked and turned back and forth.
‘You gonna sign for this lot, Masters?’
Schulman, chewing gum, was standing beside the tool-pusher and holding out the passenger list. When Masters signed it, Schulman winked and spat out his gum. He put his hand in his pocket, pulled out another stick, unwrapped it, slid it between his teeth and started chewing again.
‘Why did you bring those new kids?’ he asked. ‘I heard this rig’s closing down.’
‘It is. We’re towing it away next week. The work on board will be light and we can teach the new ones easier that way.’
‘Hi-ho,’ Schulman said in his broad Montana accent. ‘I have another load to go back. What time are they leaving?’
‘About an hour,’ Masters told him. ‘One, maybe two. I’ve got to check the new ones in before I can check out the old. So just hang on to your balls and we’ll get there.’
‘Fireball Masters,’ Schulman said. ‘Read you loud and clear, chief.’ He grinned as he chewed. After glancing at the stormy sea far below, he zipped up his bright-red flying jacket. ‘A nice place to work,’ he said, shivering in the wind. ‘It sure beats air-conditioning.’
Masters grinned at him. ‘You’re getting soft, Jack. It’s the curse of being born an American; your bones have gone soft.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Schulman replied. ‘Don’t I know it? Now you, Masters, you’re just a goddamn monster. You’ve got no sensitivity.’
‘I eat a healthy breakfast,’ Masters said. ‘I try not to masturbate. I’m a clean-living, all-British lad, and I work for my tuppence.’
‘How’d you get to be a tool-pusher?’
‘I worked for my tuppence.’
‘Come on, Tone! Most of the tool-pushers are American, so how did you get the job?’
‘I honestly can’t remember.’
‘Bu
llshit! You’re snowing me. Anyway, my friend, you sure climbed fast. You must’ve been pretty good. The oil companies don’t normally think so highly of Limey rig workers. Yeah, you must’ve been sharp.’
‘Thank you, Jack, for those kind words.’
The pilot grinned. ‘You going down now?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll come down for a beer.’
Masters picked up his rucksack and they both walked away from the helicopter. Located above the main deck, the landing pad was joined to it by a steep catwalk. Beneath the catwalk was nothing but a dizzying plunge to the water. Stopping halfway across, Masters looked out over the sea. On the horizon was a rig, barely distinguishable except for the dark smoke from waste gas coiling skyward. Masters looked down and saw the huge, slanting leg. Hollow supports, a yard thick, formed a web beneath the decks and angled down about a hundred and forty feet to join the pontoon legs. The sea smashed against the legs, making a hollow drumming sound. The shifting shadow of the rig turned the grey water black and made it look even more frightening.
‘Hey, Masters, what the fuck are you doing? Planning a swim?’
Already on the deck, Schulman was waving up at Masters. He looked small and he was shouting against the noise as the wind beat at him. Masters waved and clambered down, keeping his hand on the railing. He stepped on to the deck with great care, seeing patches of oil and mud.
‘These rigs are fucking filthy, man,’ Schulman said. ‘I don’t know how you can work here.’
They started across the open deck. The oil and mud had made it slippery. From the centre of the deck, to their right, came the roar of the drilling room. They passed stacks of iron piping, then went under a raised crane which was rumbling fifty feet above their heads on a broad, round steel base. Masters stopped to glance up. The crane was picking up some large wooden crates with men standing on top of them and holding on to the thick chain of the jib. The crane whined and turned around, swinging the men out on the crates. They swung out beyond the deck, high above the sea, shouting instructions as the crates were lowered to the supply boat below.
‘Goddamn roustabouts,’ Schulman growled.
‘Yeah,’ replied Masters. ‘They’re obviously taking off the heavier equipment before the tow starts.’
They started walking again. When a yellow fork-lift trundled past them, the driver shouted a greeting and waved at Masters. Masters waved back as he passed some cursing roustabouts. They were leaning on a spanner that was bigger than a man, straining to disconnect two massive pipes, forty-five feet long and each weighing three tons. The men cursed and strained. The wind lashed across the deck, which constantly vibrated, swayed from side to side, and gave off an insane metallic shrieking and the roar of the drilling shaft. The sea smashed relentlessly against the hollow pontoon legs and made them reverberate.
Schulman reached one of the modules, opened the door and bowed to Masters. The tool-pusher grinned and stepped in, followed by the American. They heard a deep, muffled rumbling.
‘Just show me the bar,’ Schulman said. ‘I could do with a drink.’
Masters unzipped his jacket. ‘No spirits allowed,’ he said. ‘We do permit two cans of beer a day. You can take it or leave it.’
Schulman grinned and chewed his gum. ‘Fucking hot in here. Yeah, I’ll take you up on that offer. It’s the beer I came down for.’
They were in a narrow, low-ceilinged, brightly lit corridor. It was just like a ship, with many steps, steel doors, and passages leading off in several directions. It was one of the many prefabricated buildings known as modules. Erected after the rig had been towed to its site, they could easily be dismantled and offloaded.
‘It’s a morgue,’ Schulman said.
‘The living quarters and operations rooms,’ Masters informed him.
‘Christ, I feel buried here.’
Masters led the pilot along the corridor, turned the corner at the end, then went along another corridor, its steel walls painted white, and disappeared through an open door. Schulman followed him into a cluttered office module. It had a single porthole, through which the hazy horizon could be seen. Another white-painted wall was occupied by a large map of the North Sea, while a third was covered with various nautical charts and graphs. A heavy, suntanned man was sitting behind the desk. Schulman recognized a redneck when he saw one and knew this Yank was a redneck.
‘How are you, Tone?’ the man drawled. ‘You bin gettin’ your rocks off?’
‘Dipped it once or twice,’ Masters replied. ‘Academic interest, mainly.’
‘Jesus,’ the redneck said, ‘you goddamn Brits. Always quick with the come-back.’ He scratched his nose and stared at Schulman. ‘Who the hell’s that?’ he asked Masters. ‘Looks like Jack Nicholson.’
‘First name’s right,’ Schulman informed him. ‘Jack Schulman. I’m the pilot who’s taking your old crew back. When do we leave?’
The man yawned and stretched. After rubbing his face with his hands, he stood up and gazed through the porthole.
‘They’re already waiting in the canteen,’ he said. ‘They’ve been cleared to leave.’
‘Any problems in my absence?’ Masters asked.
‘No problems. Apart from the fact that most Brits are lazy cunts, it’s all been hunky-dory on Eagle 3.’ Grinning, the redneck turned back to face Masters. He was wearing grey trousers and a shirt that advertised Twentieth Century Oil. ‘We’re offloading the heavy gear and extracting the blow-back preventer. We’ll soon be putting the locks on the cranes and then it’s all set to go. It’ll look like a ghost ship.’
He yawned again and rubbed his eyes. Schulman noticed that his shoes were covered in oil and a thin, slimy mud.
‘Are you going back?’ Masters asked him.
‘Yeah, I’m goin’ back. I’m having two weeks onshore and then I’m taking over a rig in the Forties.’
‘There’ll be a lot of work there shortly.’
‘There hasn’t been in the past. That fucking government of yours has killed it off and we’re not playing ball.’
‘That’s going to change,’ Masters informed him. ‘The Prime Minister’s there right now. I think he’s going to reduce the oil tax. If he does, we’ll start drilling.’
‘I hope so,’ the redneck drawled. ‘I sure as hell hope so. I don’t want to be pensioned off.’ He grinned again at Masters. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I better get ready to leave. Go and get your new boys organized – and send mine up to the chopper.’
Masters and Schulman left the cabin, and made their way down a flight of steel stairs and into the canteen. It was a functional, brightly lit room with white tables and blue-leatherette chairs. The replacement crew were eating T-bone steaks with chips and mushrooms. The departing crew were drinking at the bar. Since hard liquor wasn’t allowed on the rigs, they were all guzzling beer.
‘Hey, Masters!’ one of them shouted across the room. ‘When the fuck are we leaving?’
‘Leaving?’ Masters replied dourly. ‘You want to leave? I just don’t understand that.’
Most of the men laughed. ‘I want the night-life of Aberdeen,’ one of them said. ‘I’m in need of a quick thrill.’ More laughter followed. ‘Two weeks on shore, that’s all,’ someone else said. ‘What’s the delay?’
Masters grinned and put his hands up as if holding them at bay. ‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘The chopper’s being refuelled right now and when that’s done you can go.’ The men at the bar cheered. ‘OK,’ Masters said when the cheering had died away. ‘I want you to wait in the recreation room. You can take your beer with you. We’ll call you when we’re ready to leave. That’s it. On your way.’
The men cheered again, traded ribald remarks, slapped each other on the back, then picked up their luggage and filed out of the canteen.
‘Right,’ Masters said, remaining standing to address the men still at the tables, ‘put your knives and forks down and listen. You regular crew members know what I’m going to say, but you’ll just h
ave to bear with me. You new men, please note these facts. Most of you have probably worked in a factory before and an oil rig resembles a factory. But that resemblance is deceptive. An oil rig is very different. For one thing, it floats. That means it’s always rolling. The decks are slippery and it’s easy to lose your footing and slide right off the edge. It’s a two-hundred-foot drop. If you survive the fall, you won’t survive the sea, so try not to fall. A rig is also exposed. An average North Sea wind can be something like fifty miles an hour and it often reaches a hundred and sometimes a hundred and fifty. We get waves the size of your average office block. They wreck machinery and swallow men. Even a modest gale can cause chains to snap and then all hell breaks loose. Watch out for flying bolts. Beware of sliding equipment. It’s easy to get crushed between crates when they slide on the decks. And be careful on the catwalks. Keep your hands on the railings. When a man gets too cocky he gets careless and that’s something he can’t afford. Men have been swept off the catwalks. They’ve fallen down the moonpool. They’ve been hit by flying bolts, crushed between machines, and killed by equipment falling from cranes or the platforms above them. Believe me, all this happens.’
The men, he noticed, were all listening carefully, impressed by the sound of his voice and his air of authority. He had picked up this skill in the SBS and he was now grateful for it.
‘About your work,’ he continued. ‘It’s two weeks on and two weeks off. What you do on shore is your own business, but on the rig you’ll obey all the rules. Work on the rig goes on all around the clock in two shifts. You work twelve hours a day, seven days a week. You sleep four to a room, but since you all work in shifts, there’ll only be two of you sleeping at any one time. Work is hard on the rigs and you’ll find that you need your sleep, so you won’t want to be disturbed by the other two men. Bear this in mind if you have to go to your room, and try not to disturb the ones sleeping. If you do and a man complains you’ll be dismissed and that’s that. You have a recreation room with a film on every evening. You’re only allowed to smoke in off-duty space and off-duty time; and the only alcohol permitted is your free allowance of two cans of beer a day. Anyone caught breaking these rules will be flown back on the next available chopper with no chance to appeal.’
