Power Down

by Ben Coes

  Dewey went back to the deck and talked with each of his other foremen individually. He warned them to keep the men working hard, to drive them today, and to be on the lookout for fighting.

  He returned to the infirmary and found Serine unconscious again.

  “How long until the chopper gets here?” Dewey asked.

  “Soon,” said Barbo. “Half hour tops.”

  “I’ll help you carry him to the pad when it gets here.”

  Dewey went back to his office and sat down at his computer. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. He considered e-mailing Dallas, but if he reported what happened last night, God knows what they’d do. Bring in the authorities, even shut down Capitana for a few days, a week, a month? Over one death; a fight at that, a worthless fight between two replaceable workers in international waters in the middle of nowhere? No, Dewey had to sit tight for the moment and get this fire under control.

  Mackie’s words ran through his mind again. Pierre was right. He’d talk to Esco. Esco was an elder statesman as far as the roughnecks went. Around forty, old for a rig worker. He’d been aboard Capitana nearly five years. He was pleasant, even jovial, got along with everyone. If anyone could, Esco might help keep Serine’s buddies in line.

  Meanwhile, it would be up to Dewey to pacify Mackie’s group. They were pissed off. They would want revenge. Haig might be able to help keep the peace, Dewey thought. He’d talk to him and Esco after the chopper removed Serine.

  Dewey closed his eyes as the concerns raced in his mind. He leaned back in the big chair, rubbing his temples when the door to his office flew open. It was Pierre.

  “You better come,” Pierre said. “It’s Serine.”

  Dewey followed him quickly across the steel platform. A few of the crewmen looked up and moved to join them.

  “Back to work, boys,” barked Dewey. “You heard me.”

  He walked through the door to the infirmary.

  “I didn’t touch anything,” Barbo said. “That’s the way I found him.”

  Dewey looked down at the bed. Serine’s shirt, his face and his pants, the sheets, the bed itself; it was all a riot of blood. In the middle of the mess, the kid’s right hand poised above his chest, fingers clenched tightly around the shaft of a knife. The blade had punctured the heart. It was a fresh cut; the blood continued to flow out of the wound.

  “Radio the chopper,” said Dewey. “We won’t be needing it.”

  4

  SAVAGE ISLAND PROJECT

  By 7:15 A.M., Jake White’s assistant Vida was concerned. She called Arnold Mijailovic, director of security at Savage Island.

  “I called his home and his mobile,” said Vida.

  “Nothing?”

  “No answer.”

  Mijailovic was a squat, bald man with a big forehead. He was born in Yugoslavia, and his face was creased with smile lines around the mouth and eyes. Despite a tough early life, Mijailovic radiated an easy, friendly warmth.

  “He’s always here by six at the latest. I called the dam. Neither operations or front desk has seen him.”

  “I’m sure there’s an explanation. Let’s retrace his steps. We’ll look in the dam. I’ll send someone over to his home. I’m sure he’s somewhere.”

  He sighed. It wasn’t the first time White had gone missing. He was probably asleep somewhere. Or perhaps he’d gotten locked in a room in the dam by accident. If there was something wrong, it was likely that it was a heart attack. White was a heavy drinker, smoker, and eater.

  Mijailovic went to the dam, just a short walk from the squat brick building that housed the administration offices. The dam itself straddled the tip of the Frobisher Nunavut and stretched for a half mile across an orphan finger of the Hudson Straits to the northernmost tip of the Lower Savage Islands. At the same latitude as Greenland and Iceland, the temperature here, even in the short summer months, rarely climbed above fifty degrees. In winter, Savage Island remained gray for months. Temperatures during daytime didn’t climb above minus forty. When the wind screamed off the Labrador Sea, the wind chill could reach a hundred below zero. Today, in late December, the temperatures hovered around minus fifteen. Mijailovic was bundled in a big red North Face parka as he walked from the office building to the front entrance of the dam.

  Inside the gatehouse, he showed his identification card, then placed his right thumb on the black screen. The entrance area was soundproof. You could still hear the din of the turbines, but it wasn’t very loud.

  “Morning, Arnie,” the guard said.

  “Steve. You seen Jake?”

  “No, I haven’t. Not this morning.”

  “What time did you report?”

  “I came on at six.”

  “Let me see the log.”

  The security guard punched a few keys on the keyboard in front if him. Mijailovic moved around from in front of the desk and looked over his shoulder.

  “There,” said Mijailovic. “Nine thirty-eight last night. He signed in. No sign out. Keep an eye out. If he shows up, call me. I’ll be in ops. If he’s not up there, we’ll need to go floor by floor.”

  Mijailovic walked to the large steel door at the back of the entrance area and opened it. As it opened, the sound of the dam came booming in. He took a pair of orange earplugs from his coat pocket and popped them in his ears.

  Mijailovic climbed aboard the elevator. He pulled the yellow latch down and went skyward. After several minutes, the elevator stopped at the top of the dam. Mijailovic got out of the elevator and walked through a door into the operations room.

  “You guys seen Jake?”

  “No, sir,” said one of the engineers. “Not since switch.”

  “Midnight.”

  “Yup.”

  “Do you remember who was on last shift?”

  “Ned’s crew.”

  Mijailovic picked up a phone from one of the desks and dialed Ned Waters, one of five foremen who managed the engineering crews.

  “Hello,” a groggy voice answered.

  “Ned, it’s Arnie.”

  “Hi. What’s up?”

  “I’m up here in ops. They said your crew was on through switch.”

  “That’s right.”

  “We’re looking for Jake. He’s gone. He signed in last night but didn’t sign out.”

  “Yeah, I saw him. He was in operations until almost midnight. Went out to have a smoke.”

  “Did you see him come back in?”

  “Come to think of it, no. Not unusual, though. He goes out there and smokes, sometimes for hours.”

  Mijailovic put the phone down and walked quickly through the operations room to the door to the observation area on top of the dam. He climbed the stairs to the platform. As he came to the top of the dam, the wind ripped mercilessly into his face.

  “Fucking A!” he muttered to no one.

  It was a stormy day. To the eastern horizon, the black of the ocean was dotted in whitecaps. The waves slammed into the wall of the dam just below. Mijailovic crossed the observation deck and looked to the outflow area half a mile below. A steady torrent of water cascaded through the turbines below.

  In the distance, people were gathered on the shore of the reservoir. His cell phone rang. He started walking quickly back toward the operations room door.

  “Mijailovic.”

  “It’s Rand. Better get down here.”

  Mijailovic closed his eyes. “Be right down. Don’t touch anything. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Five minutes later, as he approached the grim gathering of people at the shore’s edge, Mijailovic recalled the first time he’d met White. At Perry Nuclear Facility, Mijailovic had been a night security guard. He’d found White passed out one night beneath his desk, dead drunk. Rather than report the incident, he drove White to his home in Shaker Heights. He never said anything to anyone, not even to Jake. They’d been best friends ever since.

  A few dozen people had gathered around the corpse. He pushed his way thro
ugh the crowd.

  Face down, the exposed skull of Jake White stared up blankly into the cold December sky. His head had been turned almost completely around on its spine, so that his face stared up while his chest pressed against the cold, wet ground. His neck, Mijailovic saw now, had been nearly severed. His clothing, what was left of it, a pair of green khakis and a white T-shirt, was in tatters. His left arm was gone, torn off at the shoulder. One of his legs had been amputated squarely midthigh.

  Mijailovic walked through the stunned crowd to the corpse, pulled off his own parka and covered White’s head and upper body with it.

  “Get the kids out of here,” Mijailovic said without looking up. “Someone go get the stretcher out of the hospital.”

  “Who is it?” asked a young boy.

  Mijailovic looked at the young boy. He didn’t answer. He walked quickly through the crowd, back toward the administration building.

  “That’s Jake White,” he heard a woman tell the child as she ushered him away. “The man who built this dam. He’s in heaven now.”

  5

  CAPITANA TERRITORY

  By evening, Serine was wrapped in tarpaulin and tied with weights. As the sun went down, the ritual at water’s edge repeated itself. Barbo brought the corpse to the platform riser. Two of Serine’s friends attended the burial. Dewey descended the stairs just as the sun settled on the horizon.

  “Want to say anything?” Dewey asked.

  Hammoud, an electrician, stepped forward. He knelt next to the corpse. He whispered something in Arabic.

  Suddenly, a commotion came from the deck above the platform riser. Dewey heard shouts and looked up. Pierre stood in the middle of a small crowd. He was ordering the group to get back to work.

  Barbo turned the metal winch and the riser tilted until the body went sliding down into the sea.

  Dewey walked to the stairs and climbed back up to the main deck. Pierre stood in front of the railing at the deck, facing four of Serine’s friends.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “These guys were just going back to work,” said Pierre.

  “Why can’t we watch the burial?” asked one of Serine’s friends.

  “Because I said so, that’s why,” said Pierre.

  A large man with long black hair and a stained, sleeveless Yankees T-shirt stepped forward. “He was my friend.”

  Dewey moved in front of Pierre, his chest less than a foot from the speaker. The other three men moved forward, toward Dewey.

  “What’s your name?” Dewey asked calmly.

  “Rick.”

  Dewey stared at the man for several moments. “You work here at my pleasure, Rick. Do you understand that?”

  Rick stared back.

  “I’m going to ask one more time. Do you understand that you’re here to work and that’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  Dewey walked forward and bumped him backward, then pushed him aside with his left arm. He was surrounded by the others.

  “This thing is over.” Dewey stared down each man, daring them to make a move. None of them did.

  He moved back to Rick. He looked at him and then turned to walk away.

  As he did, Rick spat on the ground.

  Dewey whirled and grabbed him around the neck, squeezing hard. Rick made a choking noise as Dewey held him.

  Behind, Pierre warned back the other three. One of them said something in Arabic and they all took a step away, then held their ground.

  Dewey grasped the man’s neck a few more moments. He pressed his thumb into the space next to the man’s larynx, which caused severe pain and made it impossible for Rick to move. As the choking sound grew worse and Rick seemed to struggle from a lack of air, Dewey suddenly let go. He fell to his knees.

  “Lock this one in the brig,” Dewey said. “You, back to work.”

  Pierre took Rick by the arm and led him toward the brig, a small room attached to the equipment shop.

  “It’s growing,” Pierre said as he walked into Dewey’s office a few minutes later and shut the door behind him. “Have you spoken to Haig?”

  “No. Or Esco. But I’m about to.”

  “Serine’s people are planning something, I swear it.”

  “And Mackie’s crew?”

  “They’re pissed,” said Pierre. “Gonna be another round of this tonight.”

  Dewey looked out the window. In the distance, a tiny specter grew, framed by the faded orange of a setting sun: the approaching supertanker Montana. Judging from its size on the horizon, it would be there in three or four hours. “Go get Esco and Haig.”

  Pierre walked out.

  Dewey closed the door. He walked through the office to the small chamber that served as a bedroom. He took off his clothing. It had been several days since he’d changed. He quickly showered and got dressed again.

  He put a brush through his hair, with some difficulty, then brushed his teeth.

  Back in his office he looked out the window. The Montana was one of forty supertankers owned by Anson Energy. Two tankers came every week like clockwork, and Dewey knew all of their captains. It took twelve hours to load each tanker with oil. During that time it was customary for Dewey to share a meal aboard the tanker with the captain of the ship in the officer’s quarters. Even aboard an oil tanker, the officers enjoyed amenities, and great food was one of them. Each of the tankers had a chef; typically they served steak or fresh seafood caught over the side of the ship.

  He wasn’t hungry, but he liked the captain of the Montana, Pablo Pascoe, a Brazilian. Pablo would no doubt open a decent bottle of wine, an added bonus.

  Better yet, Dewey realized, the Montana held a potential solution to the rising tensions aboard Capitana.

  There was a knock at the door. Esco, followed by Haig and Pierre. All three came in and stood in front of Dewey.

  “Close the door,” he said to Pierre.

  “You wanted to see us, Chief?” asked Haig.

  “What are you hearing?” asked Dewey.

  Haig and Esco glanced at each other.

  “You start,” Dewey said to Haig.

  “I think there’s a lot of hatred of the Arabs right now,” Haig said, hesitating. “Jim was popular.”

  “Are we talking about revenge?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t get involved.”

  Dewey looked at Esco.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  Esco shrugged. “Two men got into a fight. One died, and his people took their revenge. Now Serine is dead.”

  Dewey studied the expression on his face. There was nothing, no movement, frown, or anything readable on Esco’s face. “Can you help?” Dewey asked.

  “I’ll try, Chief. I don’t know how much influence I have.”

  “Same here,” said Haig. “There’s right and wrong on both sides. I’ll talk to the guys. Do what I can.”

  Dewey glanced out the window at the approaching tanker, still far in the distance.

  “I know you two aren’t causing the trouble. I asked you here because hopefully you can convince others to listen to you. I want you to bring a message to the men. If there are any fights tonight, the men involved will be locked in the Montana’s brig. They’ll be brought to Buenaventura where I will have the Colombian state police arrest them and charge them with attempted murder, assault, and whatever else I can dream up. Anson Energy will use whatever influence it has to see that these men are put away for a long time.”

  Dewey paused for a moment to let his words sink in.

  “There’s a prison called Picalea, in the foothills below the Andes. It’s an awful place. In winter, there’s no heat. It gets bitterly cold. They don’t even have windows in the cells, only holes and bars. The snow comes right in, and all they give you is a crappy little blanket. In summer, well, in summer it gets so goddamn hot you wish winter would get there.” Dewey took a step forward and looked at Esco and Haig in turn. “Anything happens tonight, any violence, the fighters’ll spend the ne
xt decade of their lives in that prison.”

  “Got it,” said Haig.

  “I’ll tell the men,” said Esco.

  After they left, Dewey sat down to do something he knew he could avoid no longer: draft a memo to the director of security at Anson back in Dallas. After completing the note, though, he decided not to send it. A couple of deaths, he thought. That’s all. It’s over now.

  He deleted the e-mail as the tanker Montana arrived, docking at the derrick’s eastern side. It was a massive ship, tall enough to rise darkly above the edge of the platform. Its six-story height would decrease dramatically as the tanker filled with oil.

  At nine o’clock, Dewey boarded the Montana. At the top of the gangplank waited Captain Pablo Pascoe.

  “Hey, buddy,” said Pablo. “Hungry?”

  “Starved,” said Dewey. “Thirsty too.”

  They walked down the length of the ship to the navigations center, then took the elevator up to the bridge, the top level of the supertanker.

  Dewey said hello to the crewmen in the bridge as he walked to the dining room.

  “Whiskey, straight up?”

  “Be great.”

  “No ice, as I recall. ‘Neat,’ yes?”

  “You got it.”

  “How’s business?” asked Pablo.

  “Steady as she goes. Same old. You know the drill.”

  Pablo poured two drinks. They took their glasses to the outside deck area. The Montana hadn’t been to Capitana for several months. Dewey found the temporary relief in its refuge more pleasurable than he’d thought possible. The view from the deck wasn’t bad either. The fading sunlight to the west, coloring into a spectacular sunset. To the east, Capitana’s massive city of pipes, steel, and flame stacks reflected the retreating light.

  “Where you in from?” Dewey asked. “New York?”

  “New York, Miami, then London,” said Pablo. “My sister lives in London. We had a good weekend there. Cricket match, picnic, that sort of thing.”

  “I like London.”

  They spoke about London, and England, for some time. When they finished their drinks and Pablo went to pour another round, Dewey thought back to the brutal knife fight atop the deck, the deck that from here appeared so quiet and peaceful in the fading evening light. Pablo’s tone helped ease him, relax him, and made him forget about the violence of the night before.