‘Okay, so they’ve lowered this huge aluminium cone onto the seabed. Technically, we should have logged this operation into the project book, so you can do that now and make up some sort of figure in the time column. Now the next thing we do is to use sonar to find its exact position and keep adding on bits of pipe until the drill bit wobbles around in the inside of the cone.’
The trainee seemed genuinely interested. ‘How do we know when it gets there?’
‘We can see it; there’s a camera on the end of the drill. We can even take a photo to show the captain it’s there.’ Sam’s right eyelid flickered. ‘Keep him in the loop, if you know what I mean.’
‘And then?’
‘And then we fill the cone up with concrete so the drill tip stops wobbling and bites when we switch it on.’
‘Amazing! How far down will we drill this time?’
‘Three miles; enough core sediment to show the changes in climate over the last ten to twenty million years. But before we go too deep we have to bring up a sample from a few hundred metres. It’s a pain but it’s procedure. And with the mood the captain’s in right now we can’t afford to skip it, however stupid it seems.’
‘What do you mean “stupid”, Sir?’
‘Well, it’s never happened; a gas bubble, that is.’
Sam could see that he was losing his trainee. The poor boy had been thrown in at the deep end. Three years at university studying oceanography and then, as some sort of government PR exercise, a two-month postgraduate jaunt on the IOD Revolution, the most sophisticated deep-sea laboratory drilling ship in the world. No one had really thought through what to do with these students. Once on board, there was no way they could get off before the end of the trip. Two of the three had spent the last few days throwing up below decks. The survivor was an enthusiastic lad, although not the sort of experienced assistant Sam would have chosen.
‘You’ve seen some of the clay cores that we’ve brought up in the lab, haven’t you…’ Sam said this rather as a statement than a question. ‘They are soft cylinders of striped sediment encased in plastic tubes, yes? Well, when the first core hits the deck someone rushes up with a syringe and sticks it into the clay. They pull the plunger out and literally run back to the lab to see if it contains any gas. If it does, we get the hell out of there as fast as we can.’ Sam folded his arms and waited for the inevitable question. It didn’t come so he asked it himself.
‘Why? The theory is that if there is gas in a core, there could be a gas chamber in the sediment under the ocean. And if our drill punctures that chamber it could release the gas into the ocean as a massive bubble. A bubble you don’t want to be sitting on top of.’
The student sat there trying to think of something to say. Sam made an upward waving motion with his fingers. When his hands had reached eye level he clapped them together.
‘Bloop,’ he said and then laughed at the look of surprise on his trainee’s face.
‘You needn’t worry, I’ve checked the surveys; we are nowhere near any gas fields. Tonight, you’re going to do the syringe sample and take the negative results to the captain because…?’
‘Because it’s procedure, Sir.’
Sam handed over the paperwork to his student and began to struggle back into his wet oilskins. ‘Absolutely, young man; you should go far.’
On deck Sam could hear the familiar rumble of metal pipes as an underscore to the high-pitched, gusting winds. Otto had given the order to prepare the drill. It was an odd system, partially automated but with the final joints being made manually by two riggers on either side of the drilling rig. The fifty metre-long drill pipes had to be brought up horizontally from the hold and then turned through ninety degrees to hang in the cage-like derrick. Two ‘fucking idiots’, as Otto liked to call them, then positioned one pipe on top of another so that they could be screwed together. Drilling on a stable oil platform is dangerous; drilling on a ship in high seas borders on the insane. Sam found Otto on the viewing platform.
‘Jumping the gun a bit, aren’t you? I said I’d give the captain the coordinates in writing.’
‘Well, give them to him then. By the time he reads them the bit should be near the seabed; that is if the bloody sea hasn’t snapped it off by then.’
The noise from the drill rig and wind was now so loud that Sam had to cup his hands like a megaphone and scream out his words. ‘I thought you said the conditions were okay for drilling.’
He couldn’t hear Otto’s reply and it was obvious that Otto wasn’t going to make the effort to repeat it, so he pulled his oilskin hood over his hard hat and headed for the instrument room.
The front of the ship was a haven compared to the metal mayhem of the drilling quarters. Three floors of pristine laboratories packed with screens, computers and scanners. Bespectacled, white-coated technicians shuffled between rock samples and the space-age technology. Normally, Sam would have stopped to ask for some of the latest paleoclimate results but this evening he headed straight for the positioning computer terminal.
‘I need a printout of the entry cone location for the captain.’
The technician turned to look at him. ‘I could just phone it up to the bridge, if you want.’
‘Not today. We have to do it by the book. I’ll send one of the students down to collect it. Oh, and while you’re at it, could you show him how to analyse the test core gas sample; I expect the captain will want that in writing too.’
The technician gave him a knowing look. ‘Sure thing, Sam. You look whacked, why don’t you take a rest? It will be a while before we cut the first core. Promise I’ll wake you when it comes up.’
The hammering on the cabin door was getting louder. Surely the drilling hadn’t started yet; he had only just closed his eyes. Sam turned over in the bunk and pulled his arm from the blanket so that he could look at his wristwatch. The muffled noises outside had now reached fever pitch.
‘Dr Armstrong, open the door, open the door!’
Sam leapt from the bunk and threw the catch. His trainee was standing there, his face as white as the paper he was clutching. Sam, still drowsy with sleep, tried to take in the scene.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘It’s the sample core; it’s got gas in it.’ The piece of paper was thrust into Sam’s hands. ‘Sixty per cent hydrocarbons; it could be a gas field.’ Sam looked down at the paper.
‘Calm down, Jeremy, there are no gas fields around here.’ He nodded to the charts on the table. ‘The surveys are pretty clear about that. Who took the measurements?’
‘I did, Sir. The “chem ops” person showed me how to do it.’
Sam reached for his shoes and belt and began to put them on. ‘Has he checked these results?’
‘No, Sir, I came down here as soon as I saw the figures. You said it could be dangerous and that we would have to get out quickly.’
Sam smiled. ‘I said we would have to get the hell out of here. I also said no one’s ever heard of a ship being sunk by a gas bubble. Look, it’s the first time you’ve done this test and…well, never mind that. Let’s go up to the lab and we’ll stick another syringe into that clay.’
Sam was still smiling as he led the trainee across a wave-swept A-deck when it happened. The ship bucked like a rodeo bull. Sam was thrown into the air like an athlete off a trampoline. The breath was crushed out of him as his body smashed back onto the metal surface. The skin on his face started to rip as he slid down the seawater-soaked incline. His arms and legs flailed to take a grip but the deck was now nearly vertical. The guard rail hurtled towards him – the only thing between him and the ocean – when he was pulled up sharply with a jolt and a sharp pain stabbing through his thigh socket. A thick coil of metal chain had wrapped around his ankle. For a moment his body dangled in the air, crashing from side to side into the air vents. A screaming, howling noise and then icy darkness. The foam and black freezing water entered his lungs. Sam tried to kick free but the huge iron links of
the chain around his leg were pulling him down. He tugged frantically at them but it was pointless; they were impossibly tangled. Below him was six miles of water. He would either die of cold or the pressure would crush him like an imploding drink’s can. He thought about inhaling a deep draft of seawater when his bruised hand caught on something. In his belt was a large serrated work knife. He pulled it from its sheath, screwed his eyes shut and placed the blade just below his knee bone. To his surprise he didn’t feel a thing as it made the first deep cut into his flesh.
About the author
Martin Granger has been making documentary films for thirty years. In that time he has won more than one hundred international film awards. His work has ranged from directing BBC’s Horizon to producing a BAFTA nominated science series for Channel 4. His novels, although fiction, are based upon his experience in the film industry. He lives in Wimbledon with his wife Jacqueline.
www.martingrangerbooks.com
NATHALIE THOMPSON
RETURNS IN
OUT OF
SIGHT
COMING SOON…
Drugs to Forget Page 33
