This is Not A Drill

by This Is Not a Drill- Just Another Glorious Day in the Oilfield (retail) (epub)

  The big dog would follow its flight path through the air, her tongue yo-yoing from the corner of her mouth, then with all she could muster she would jump into the abyss after it, treading air for a second then dropping. The guys swimming about below would get the plop of a tennis ball first, followed by the disturbing howl, before looking to see a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound out-of-control Rottweiler tumbling towards them. Summer loved it, but the plop of the tennis ball was to have the same effect on these guys as throwing a hand grenade into the pool.

  Drew thought up another trip after that. Some of us had our dive tickets, so he rented a liveaboard dive boat and took us out into Malaysian waters to dive a wreck that was relatively new. We got to the right coordinates, set ourselves up and by mid-morning we were descending a rope towards the hulk of a cargo ship. It lay on the bottom in fairly shallow water at a peculiar angle, its bow pointing up towards the light. Drew entered first, through a missing window in the bridge. I followed. We secured a paracord line to a railing and descended a black corridor, our flashlights cutting through the water. Marine life had already taken hold of this vessel; instant reef followed by everything that lives off it had made this fallen beast their new home.

  The odd fish twisted off, startled at our presence. I knew no-one lost their life when the ship went down so my fear was only based on getting lost or stuck somewhere and drowning. But the anticipation of exploring this wreck far overwhelmed my concern at the time. Curiosity would not get the better of me here, I thought. I started cracking glow sticks and dropping them like breadcrumbs to show us the way out.

  This was only my second wreck dive, so I was still unused to diving within confined spaces. It’s easy to become disoriented, which leads to the sort of confusion and panic that can kill a diver. The corridors we glided down gave way to more and more direction changes and stairwells cluttered with debris. I was fast approaching my bottom time limit, and we needed to turn back and start our assent with plenty of time and air for safety stops.

  Drew pulled up near an open door. My torch lit up his face, and he pointed first at his gauges and then up. I checked my air gauge; it was time to go—now.

  On the way back he pulled up again, spun around and gave me an excited wave, pointing off to his right through another open doorway. Why, I thought, am I risking my life here? Then Drew pulled his bag open. We were looking for the captain’s cabin, so we could take photos of each other on the toilet.

  Later that night, standing on deck, Drew finished his whisky, leaned over the railing and stared into the sea. He was in his early forties then, and still vehemently single. ‘You ever going to settle down, mate? Have a couple of kids and live in the burbs?’ I asked.

  He laughed. ‘Maybe.’ He had another plan forming in his head and spat a wad of chewing tobacco into the sea. ‘Pauli, there are two things every man should hear in his lifetime: “I’m pregnant” and “We have the building surrounded”.’

  With Clare standing there, test strip in hand, those words lit up in my mind like a giant neon tribute to my idiotic youth. Right, that’s one down, I thought, as I watched the realisation of pregnancy and an upcoming wedding creeping across her face.

  My immediate reaction was joy: firstly, because after years of hammering my body I wasn’t firing blanks; and secondly, I knew that Clare loved the idea of being a mother. I did a little dance and hugged her, although I was shitting myself inside.

  ‘I hope my wedding dress will fit.’ She sat on the edge of the bed and smiled.

  Huge plans were underfoot. I sold one of my bikes, thinking of all the baby kit we would need. I lay awake at night staring at the ceiling, making lists and worrying about money. Now and again the debate and conversation in my head would get so loud I thought I’d woken up Clare, but it was just the sleep kick she does sometimes. ‘Myoclonic jerk’ is the medical term. As you fall asleep your brain interprets it as your body shutting down, so it sends out a signal to wake it up. I wrestled with my ghosts of responsibility night after night; great changes to my work life and home life were forming, as our baby was forming. I thought about it constantly, our DNA combining in a split second, a future human genetically preprogrammed in a few nanograms of matter, defined on a cellular level instantaneously, the miracle of life. But what will our offspring be like? I peeled the onion late at night. I think I was dealing with it like I would a new offshore campaign—you know, logistics, consumables, equipment, paperwork—assuming all along, of course, that I’m infallible, and that naturally our child would be too. I’d look at Clare’s sleeping face next to me, her peaceful breathing, in time with chance rolling invisible waves through our curtain. Only months later did I understand how fragile it all was.

  Our identities are the sum of our life experiences, and each of us processes our world according to our individual mind and the neurons therein. At the time all I could do was think about making that world as safe and happy for us as I could. I guess what we are never changes, but who we are never stops changing.

  I’d look back at Clare and start all over again. I should have relaxed, I should have gone to sleep, but I couldn’t because somewhere deep inside me I had to have a plan. It’s funny, but now I’m more prepared to accept things on faith.

  Our wedding was going to be simple, straightforward and uncomplicated, and right up to the big day itself, it was. Clare had managed to dye her hair pink; her scalp had reacted to the chemicals in the hair dye and she was forced to rinse her hair early. She was already worried about a hundred and one things that breezed by me like a Hare Krishna at the airport, but this new pink hairdo was the last straw and the tears finally welled up.

  Normally I’m a proponent of telling the truth in these circumstances—‘Do you think this bag goes with these shoes?’ etc.—but having gained experience in dealing with a pregnant stressed-out partner, I say lie, lie until your pants are on fire. ‘You look great, baby,’ I beamed back at her. She saw through me in a second.

  Erwin and his wife Lucy arrived the day before. Clare was dealing with her pink hair while sorting everything else out at the same time, all our friends and family chipped in, and the next thing I knew my wedding day had arrived and I didn’t have a hangover from the night before.

  It was early on Saturday morning, I was standing on my balcony drinking coffee and Erwin came out. ‘Big day, buddy,’ he grinned at me. ‘You nervous?’ Of course I bloody was.

  ‘Let’s go for a ride,’ he suggested. So we split, tearing off down my street and waking everyone up. The sun was rising over the harbour as we skirted round Double Bay. Not much traffic yet, I opened up the throttle just a little, this day could not start any better. I’m going to marry the love of my life, my best man, in all respects, was right there on the machine next to me, even the air smelled sweeter. We rode on through the city, enjoying the space before the traffic descended into the morning gridlock. Erwin got pulled over by a cop, but in the spirit of the day he turned out to be more interested in the bike than how fast Erwin was going. Magic.

  We returned home to an empty flat, and two suits laid out complete with pressed shirts. I quietly shaved and dressed. The boys would be here soon to pick us up. We were getting married in a beautiful garden only a few kilometres away, and by the time I got there everyone was arriving. I took my place under a tree with Erwin next to me. Then I saw her, walking with Philip, her father. She looked amazing, I was speechless.

  The ceremony itself was simple and short. I looked around and saw all the people who have been there for Clare and me. Ruby, my closest friend, winked at me. This is it. Clare looked at me through her veil, I had never felt so happy.

  Recalling your wedding is a lot like trying to remember a car accident: you remember specific moments with astonishing clarity, in slow motion, but other parts are just a blur. The reception is just a blur, but I can remember dancing badly, drinking too much scotch, and running away from Steve, who in a kind of bizarre tradition puts me in a headlock at every wedding I go t
o.

  It started some sixteen years ago, when Steve was just a scrawny kid. I was good friends with his older sisters and went to school with his cousins. Every now and again I would put him in a headlock and sometimes slam his head into the fridge door. Steve grew up, and now he’s bigger than me and much much stronger, and he likes to get his own back. I know at some point he will get that look in his eye, and when he does there’s nothing I can do about it. He’s done it to me at five weddings including his own.

  At one wedding in a very posh restaurant, everyone was in tuxedos and gowns, standing around an elaborate bar that slipped out into a wonderful courtyard garden, sipping cocktails and making polite conversation, when Steve’s switch got flipped by that last drink. He turned from the charming, charismatic man he can be into what can only be described as Big Foot in a suit. He came at me in that half-run, his tongue slightly protruding, shoulders forward, with that low, deep laugh. I saw movement from the corner of my eye and turned to look. Steve was sending wedding guests out of the way in a hurried scurry, their mouths agape. I smiled at the nice people I was talking to and asked the lady standing next to me if she wouldn’t mind holding my drink. Then I took off through the garden with Steve chasing me. We ended up on the grass outside a big window, where people who had paid hundreds of dollars for their meal got a breathtaking panoramic view of two grown men rolling around on the lawn in tuxedos, one screaming while the other laughed and made grunting noises.

  So there was Steve at my wedding doing that half-run with that laugh, that look in his eye. I tried to run but it was too late. You can’t stop him, I’ve tried that before—everything from punching to kicking to smashing things over his head. I even stabbed him with a fork once, but it just makes him more determined.

  The next day I woke up next to my wife. Clare was so happy. She was looking forward to the baby’s arrival and talking about painting the spare room. I was set to go offshore in a few days so I decided when I got back to start preparing our home for our new arrival.

  Three months later, Clare was doing well, she had excellent test results and everything was on track. Then at the end of the third month we lost our chance to be parents. Sometimes life can only really begin with the knowledge of death, that it can all end, usually when you least want it to. Clare showed a strength of character that astounded me and made me proud beyond words. I had no idea how much power lies just beneath the surface of a woman’s drive to motherhood. So for us, we will try again.

  7 KABUL ON THIRTY

  ROUNDS A DAY

  Everything in Afghanistan is the same shade of light brown, even the air.

  Decades of war have left this once fertile jewel in central Asia with nothing . . . absolutely nothing. Bullets change governments faster than votes in Afghanistan, and that’s why all the trees are gone, and along with them all the topsoil. Follow that up with seven years of drought and a population that dares not set foot in an open area for fear of stepping on a landmine, and you’re left with air that’s thick with dust and a frightening amount of faecal matter as open sewers run in all directions—I could feel ‘Kabul belly’ ready to leap out and strike me down at any moment.

  My first glimpse of Afghanistan was through the dirty window of an old PIA A300. Impressive snow-capped mountains dropped fast into a giant dust-bowl shambles the size of Texas. The flight had been awful, though at least Pakistan International Airlines gave me a laugh when I picked up my ticket in Dubai. The airline’s current advertising tag line, emblazoned on the front of my ticket read, ‘PIA: We’re better than you think we are’.

  Tom was sitting nearby, asleep. He’s made this trip so many times it would take a man with a bomb strapped to his waist screaming ‘Jihad, jihad!’ to wake him up. Tom’s a polite, quiet man who looks like he could be your local GP or plumber, but he is far from it. He is a PMC or private military contractor.

  There are basically four types of expat in Afghanistan: those who are there to help, those who want to make lots of money, those who do both, and the rest who are there to fight. After twenty-five years of perpetual war the country’s infrastructure is shattered, and as for the economy—well, what economy? Afghanistan is on aid, billions of dollars of aid, but because it’s just so dangerous the work that is starting to slowly change Afghanistan for the better needs protecting. All those engineers, aid workers, medical staff—all of the people in Afghanistan who are from somewhere else—are relying on good security. Enter the world of the PMC. It’s a growth business. These guys are former professional soldiers, using their skill sets and trade craft in this new booming private sector. And believe me, there’s plenty of work.

  Although most big oil companies will never admit it, they use PMCs all the time. I had been around these guys before on rigs in nasty parts of the world, but they were always too busy doing their jobs, and I was too busy doing mine. I had always wanted to write about them. My chance to embed myself with one such organisation and to quietly take a look at Afghanistan came in the form of Chris and Tom one rainy Saturday in Sydney three years ago. They were with a firm who was moving from land-based operations into offshore security work, and not just in far-off war-torn parts of the world. Just look at the amount of piracy in the Strait of Malacca just off Singapore, where there’s a gun-related incident every day. With 70 per cent of our planet covered in water, you’d think there would be more protection out there, but no, piracy is becoming a common occurrence. Forget the romantic gloss made popular in films—good-looking roguish but lovable buccaneers just having a romp through your cargo hold. Modern piracy is cold-blooded murder.

  I was involved in a brainstorming session on the potential threat faced by offshore drilling rigs, and lots of specialists were there. That’s how I first met Tom and Chris. They talked about Iraq and Afghanistan, and for me the seed was sown. I wanted to understand what’s happening there, why it was so important to the oil business, why guys on rigs all over the world are talking about it. I had a chance to see it first-hand, not as a writer or oilman, but simply as the grey man in the corner; all I had to do was follow Tom—he had the access after three years in the country. And now, after a long wait and a lot of meetings, here I was retrieving my bag from the carousel in Kabul Airport.

  We walked straight through customs into the mostly empty arrival hall. The sun made me squint as we hit the steps outside. I glanced over to my right where eight large four-wheel drives were parked alongside a dozen heavily armed Westerners standing around looking as menacing as their automatic weapons, shaved heads, wraparound shades and goatees would allow—almost every expat is a former military been-there-done-that-kill-you-as-soon-as-look-at-you kind of chap.

  ‘It’s all about posture and appearance,’ said Tom as we walked towards the carpark where his driver was waiting. Not having a gun in your hand here is a bit like going out and forgetting your belt. ‘Holding your weapon a certain way can make all the difference to how the locals react to you. That goes for how you dress, how you look, it sends a certain signal.’ Tom has been in the country long enough to know. He has experienced the best and worst Afghanistan has to offer, and in credit to his character maintains a smile and a positive presence that instantly puts me at ease.

  For me, arriving in Afghanistan was a lot like arriving in Sakhalin in Russia or Lagos in Nigeria, or a mixture of both; there were the same dodgy-looking heavy-set men loitering in corners with AKs slung across their chests, the same concrete meets fluorescent light strewn with bad plumbing, the same shitty roads. If you have a back problem, don’t under any circumstances go on a driving holiday in Afghanistan; you’d be better off strapping yourself into a car seat and jumping off Everest.

  We arrived at the Kabul InterContinental Hotel. It’s not what you would think of normally when you hear the word ‘Intercontinental’. This is not the sort of place with posh décor and uniformed bellboy waiting to take your bags to your plush room. However, it is one of the few buildings in this city that won’t fall over if you p
iss on it. It sits on top of a hill with the Hindu Kush Mountains behind and a commanding view over the city spread out in front. My room was near the entrance on the second floor. It looked good for Kabul—that side of the building was obviously harder to hit with artillery. By the time I had relaxed and settled in, the first problem raised its ugly head. ‘Oh no,’ I wailed, and my hand shot to my belt as I scurried to the bathroom.

  Twenty-four hours later I emerged ten pounds lighter and more dehydrated than a Kabul traffic cop. Just to be sure I would live, Chris and Tom drove me to the German Medical Diagnostic Center. The German doctor scrutinised my vaccination card, asked all the right questions, took blood, made me drink four litres of water, gave me the ‘peel it, boil it, cook it or forget it’ speech and set me free into the waiting city.

  Surprisingly, there is a lot to do in Kabul other than get blown up and/or shot at. It has a golf course that contains real bunkers, a soulless zoo not worth visiting if you have any feelings for animals whatsoever, and a mine museum. I decided on the zoo. It has 116 unlucky inhabitants that are fed on handouts from Britain. In January 2002 the most revered resident of the zoo—Marjan the one-eyed lion—died. He had survived there for thirty-eight years through the Russian occupation, through countless rocket attacks, through the bitterly cold winters and dust-blown-faecal-matter stinking hot summers.

  In the 1990s, when rival Afghan groups shelled the city into rubble, the zoo was on the front line. At one point a Taliban combatant scaled the wrong wall and ended up face to face with a waiting Marjan. The starving lion dispatched and ate the man. The following day the man’s brother arrived, chasing revenge, and tried to frag Marjan by tossing a fragmentation grenade into his tiny enclosure. Marjan lost an eye and was lame for the rest of his life, but against the odds he survived. There are two new lions at the zoo now, ‘Zing Zong’ and ‘Dolly’, donated by China. I wish I could have paid my respects to Marjan though.