Monster: Tale Loch Ness

by Jeffrey Konvitz

  Yet there was something about this place that reminded him of home, the small town in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains outside Denver where he'd grown up as an all-American jock. There was a serenity that seemed to have already taken an enormous weight off his back. Never again would he allow himself to be the professional hero, the rallying flag for all kinds of causes, the conscience of his peers. He'd never been cut out for it. Had never aspired for it. It had just happened. Christ, that one crack-back block in Philadelphia, that one broken neck, that one poor bastard confined to a wheelchair, had changed his life. Led to martyrdom. The pursuit of his conscience. And what had he accomplished? Not much. He'd made a lot of noise. He'd punched out some crooked asshole executives who'd deserved a good thrashing. He'd uncovered some legitimate wrongs and cabals, pursued some worthy causes along with the bogus, those figments of his imagination. And he'd ultimately screwed up his life but good, been fired from a handful of companies, been branded a pariah.

  Now he wanted peace, quiet. He did not want to confront management, any management, anymore.

  He just wanted to do his job.

  Geminii might very well be his last if he fucked up again. He wasn't kidding himself. He'd disrupted too many corporations already. He'd caused too much financial and personal damage. And private consultancy had been a sham. He hadn't been able to get an assignment in two years. So what if the populace and the press considered him a crusader, a hero? He was broke!

  Thank God Reddington and Whittenfeld had come to his rescue. And even though he wasn't sure why Geminii had gone out on the limb to hire him—hell, there were better, certainly less controversial petroleum engineers around—he damn well was going to keep his nose to the grindstone, avoid questions and controversy, become a normal wage-earning executive once again.

  He walked along the main deck, hugging the railing, then glanced up at the drill floor, smiled, and disappeared into the interior of the ship.

  Chapter 3

  Jerry Foster, Pierre Lefebre, and William Whittenfeld disembarked the huge Bell helicopter followed—by an older, white-haired gentleman supported by a cane, a young man, and a woman.

  Scotty Bruce and the Columbus's executive staff were assembled on the main deck. It was four o'clock.

  "Getting a bit rough up there," Whittenfeld said, adjusting the handkerchief in his blazer pocket.

  The crew members on the drill floor were in position, watching. The rotary table was still. The drill bit had already been changed, and the drill pipe had been run back into the bore. And everyone was holding steady, waiting for the entourage to pass and enter the forward cabins.

  "Well," Reddington said. "The Bell looked beautiful coming in. Like a big prehistoric bird."

  Everyone smiled except the woman. She was about thirty, attractive, brown haired, full faced, and blue eyed. Unlike most Highland women, she had a ballerina's figure and walked with an effortless, feminine grace. Her facial expression, however, was rigid, her features frozen into a leer of defiance. Whittenfeld introduced her as Mary Ann MacKenzie.

  Scotty turned to Foster. "The MacKenzie?" he asked, whispering.

  "Yeah," Foster whispered back.

  "Why the hell didn't you tell me MacKenzie was a woman?"

  "You didn't ask."

  "What's she doing here?"

  "She's part of the package. Yes, Farquharson's here for an orientation visit, but that's only part of it. This is a political gambit. A sop to the opponents of the loch project. The theory is we bring them out, show them how it works, convince them it's safe, and then hope they buy the caviar treatment and go into hibernation." He smiled as Whittenfeld began to detail the history of the Columbus. "The young bureaucrat is Peter Droon, a member of the Development Department in the Scottish Office. He was a rising star until he took the side of the Caucus. Since then, he's been given nowhere assignments, but he wouldn't be here unless they were considering resuscitating his career. Of course, the old gentleman's Andrew Farquharson, the undersecretary of state for Scotland and a member of the House of Commons. Apart from his new oil and gas duties, he's the secretary of state's trouble-shooter."

  Fascinated, Scotty stepped away from Foster, then turned his attention to Whittenfeld.

  "The Columbus, Mr. Farquharson," Whittenfeld was saying, "is a true ship as opposed to North Sea submersibles. Subs are basically pontoon-supported decks specifically designed for extreme conditions. We were able to use a drill ship here beeause the waters are nowhere near as rough as those in the offshore sector." He smiled. "The Columbus is operated completely by Geminii, which is one of the only integrated oil companies to own an offshore drilling subsidiary."

  Farquharson hobbled around on his cane. "Ay, she's a big ship!" he said matter-of-factly. "Haven't been aboard one like her in some time. Since the war, in fact. That's where I injured the leg. I was a gunner on a destroyer running convoys. We got trapped by a phalanx of U-boats and Messerschmitts. Lost a lot of tonnage. Men, too. I took a big-caliber round. Wound up spending the rest of the war in the hospital." He laughed, far more raucously than his reserved appearance would have indicated. "But I didn't leave warfare behind me, Mr. Whittenfeld. I just exchanged Messerschmitt attacks for forays by the Labor opposition in Parliament."

  Whittenfeld smiled politely, then introduced the members of the Columbus executive staff, taking particular care to pinpoint Scotty Bruce.

  "So this is your first time in Scotland, is it, Mr. Bruce?" Farquharson asked.

  "First time," Scotty declared, watching MacKenzie, who seemed extremely aloof. "Though I hope and expect to be here for a while."

  "Scotty's your real name?"

  "No, it's Peter Bruce. Peter Robert Bruce."

  Farquharson coughed—slightly consumptively—then dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief. "That's very parochial of Geminii."

  Scotty shielded his eyes from the receding orb of the sun. "Sir?"

  Farquharson limped to the ship's railing and looked down at a small tender tug. "Bruce was a noble family. Robert Bruce himself became Robert the First, King of Scotland."

  "I feel humble," Scotty said.

  "A Bruce humble?" Mary Ann MacKenzie asked, finally speaking in a near brogueless voice. "Come now, Mr. Bruce, you don't look the humble sort. Robert the First crowned himself king. Today, oil makes kings. And you look like the type of man who would be king. That reality might prove irresistible."

  Scotty smiled awkwardly. "I'm sorry. I have no aspiratiom toward kingship. Do you?"

  MacKenzie said nothing. Instead, she glanced at Droon, who offered no responseas well.

  Farquharson rapped his cane against the deck and laughed. "You give a Highlander a chance to fight and swords will flash within minutes. Right, Mr. Droon?"

  "I wouldn't know," Droon said. "I'm not a Highlander."

  Farquharson bristled. "That's nit-picking, Mr. Droon. You've got a Highland head filled with all kinds of rebelliousness. You and Miss MacKenzie are a fine pair. A wrong word and it's war."

  "I don't war over words, Mr. Farquharson," MacKenzie said. "Only the ideas they represent and the problems they cause."

  Farquharson turned to Whittenfeld. "MacKenzie is a proper Highland lass, Mr. Whittenfeld. Filled with courageous sayings. Morals. Proverbs. And valiant clichés. And she has the will of a lion. She's been a worthy opponent as well as fitting heir to the spirit of Robert the First."

  Whittenfold arched his brow. "I'm sure Robert the First was a brilliant warrior and king. But he didn't know a damn about the oil business." He bowed slightly in the direction of Mary MacKenzie. "Scotty Bruce does."

  Whittenfeld climbed the steps to the drill floor. Farquharson followed, bemused. He understood people, politics, personal conflicts. He was enjoying the show.

  "I've asked Mr. Bruce and Mr. Reddington to explain the operation of the vessel," Whittenfeld said, moving in front of the drill crew, all protected by hard hats, their clothes covered with grease. "As soon as you've all donned protective hea
dgear, we'll begin."

  One of the roustabouts doled out helmets.

  Scotty moved to the fore. "Most of the procedures and equipment are identical to those used on land. There are four systems: power, hoisting, rotating, and circulating. Simply, the power system consists of diesel and electric engines, located below deck." He paused, looking upward. "Above is the derrick." He pointed across from where they were standing. "The big drum is the draw works, the main hoist, which lifts and lowers the rotating drilling assembly. The drilling assembly consists of the swivel, the square Kelly pipe, the rotary table, the drill pipe, drill collar, and drill bit. As the rotary table rotates, it turns the Kelly, which turns the drill pipe and, thus, the collar and bit downhole."

  Farquharson pointed to the swivel. "And the purpose of the hose entering the swivel?" he asked.

  "To introduce mud to the system," Scotty replied. "Mud pumps, located below deck, pump mud through the hose and down through the drill pipe to the bottom of the hole. From there the mud turns right around and comes back up the hole between the drill pipe and the bore wall. The mud cools the rotating bit, carries cuttings up from the bottom, fortifies the bore wall, and most important of all, exerts tremendous downward pressure, balancing any upward pressures from gas, oil, or other fluids. It keeps the well from flowing inadvertently or kicking, as we say." He paused, glancing at Lefebre, who poked his thumb into the air. Lefebre approved of his performance; he hoped, however, the others did, too. "The mud system is closed. Mud coming up is cleaned, then recirculated back down into the hole. Now we can vary the content of the mud. If we need more downward pressure, we add weight by adding solids. If we need a greater cleaning capacity, we add other substances." He pointed at the drill-floor crew. "The men you see," he said, continuing, "work in twelve-hour shifts. The tool pusher is the boss on the drill floor. The driller operates and monitors all the drilling and blowout-prevention equipment. The derrick men and rotary helpers attach and disconnect equipment, add additional lengths of drill pipe as the well gets deeper, change drill bits, run wall-support casing into the bore hole and cement casing in place, using cement pumped from tanks below deck."

  Whittenfeld led the entourage off the drill floor and on to the main deck.

  "Mr. Whittenfeld," MacKenzie suddenly called out. "Mr. Bruce said the mud exerts a downward pressure to prevent an inadvertent upward flow from the well. What if there is a flow?"

  "It can't happen," Whittenfeld explained. "The downward pressure is always kept higher than the upward."

  "Excuse me, but I've come to understand this is often not the case. That pockets of very high pressure can be inadvertently penetrated, causing a kick."

  "Downhole conditions are closely monitored by the mud logger and mud engineer."

  "But it can happen!"

  Whittenfeld stared at MacKenzie before answering. "Yes," he said deliberately. "It's rare but possible. And if it does happen, we take care of it very quickly."

  "Or else there can be a catastrophic blowout? Isn't that correct?"

  Reddington quickly interceded. "No chance. A blowout preventer sits on top of the wellhead. We communicate with the preventer through two control hoses which run down to the well from the ship. If we detect excessive upward pressures,

  we stop drilling, and we hydraulically close the blowout preventer's rams. Then we increase the weight of the mud to counteract the upward pressure, pump the heavier mud into the hole, and open the preventer once the pressures have

  balanced."

  "But sometimes a kick goes unnoticed!" MacKenzie charged.

  "Not on the Columbus," Whittenfeld said.

  "Who says so? God?"

  "Every precaution has been taken."

  Droon joined. "What if the blowout preventer malfunctions?"

  "It can't," Reddington said.

  "They have in the past," MacKenzie challenged, playing to Farquharson. Having taken part in the public hearings, she knew the questions and answers already, and she knew Whittenfeld was well aware of it. "The Ekofisk platform blew out on the North Sea several years ago. Everyone knows the Ekofisk engineers installed their blowout preventer upside down. Maybe you've installed yours upside down, too!"

  Whittenfeld laughed, very calm, very amused. "Mr. Farquharson, this tour was undertaken for your edification. It was not planned as a review of arguments made during licensing procedures. Those are all part of the public record, which I would be happy to supply."

  Farquharson smiled obliquely. "I have a copy already. And I shall be reading it soon."

  "Good," Whittenfeld said. "I encourage it." He waved toward the forward cabins. "Dinner is ready. I suggest we let Mr. Bruce explain the riser system. Then we can go into the dining room."

  "You are our host," Farquharson said. "We are merely guests. We bow to your wishes."

  There was silence. Nobody moved. Least of all Whittenfeld.

  Scotty climbed up to the storage racks. Foster had revealed the existence of emotional opposition. Observing it first hand, however, was far more interesting. "Those large pipes are components of a system peculiar to offshore drilling. They are marine riser sections, which we join together. Essentially, the assembled marine riser connects the ship to the blowout preventer and the wellhead. In fact, if we were to go below deck into the moon pool area, we could see the riser descending down into the water under the ship. Now the drill pipe runs to the wellhead through the riser, and mud is circulated inside. And we have a tensioning system on board which helps keep the riser firm and mitigates against overstressing." He led them back toward the drill floor and pointed out several sets of pneumatic tensioning cylinders feeding wire lines down into the moon pool. "Those larger wires are attached to the top of the riser. The cylinder winds the wires in and out as the ship moves up and down. The smaller cylinders to the side perform the same function for the ship's guide wires, which descend to the wellhead and facilitate the movement of television cameras and other equipment. Both systems alleviate the problem of vertical motion, keeping the riser and guide wires taut."

  "What if the wires were to break?" Farquharson asked.

  "It's unlikely," Scotty replied. "However, if they did, we would close down the tensioners to prevent damage and replace the broken wires as quickly as possible."

  He looked to Whittenfeld. What now? He'd just about covered everything. Whittenfeld asked if there were any questions, expecting some from MacKenzie and Droon. There were none.

  Satisfied, Whittenfeld led everyone toward the bow.

  The executive dining room was located on the lower-bridge deck. It was large, elegantly furnished. There were five tables. The Columbus staff and Whittenfeld's guests were clustered about the center three.

  Undersecretary Farquharson was speaking. "What intrigues me is how you begin to drill in the first place. From up here to down there. From nothing to something. It's all very fas.cinating."

  "Believe it or not," Scotty said, sipping from a wine glass, "we don't use divers, though we keep them available in case some of our underwater connections don't grip properly or the television cameras fail. Basically, it's pretty much a mechanical operation. Once the ship is positioned over the well site, we lower a temporary guide base on the guide wires to the ocean floor, along with television cameras. Then we guide down the drill pipe, cut an initial hole, insert casing, lower a permanent wellhead, the blowout preventer and marine riser, and begin to drill. Fact is, Mr. Farquharson, in a short time, you've become an expert in offshore drilling."

  Farquharson laughed facetiously. "If I could make you an expert on British politics as quickly, Mr. Bruce, I would be hailed a genius."

  Smiling, Scotty listened to the sound of the pumps and rotary table. The crew was drilling ahead with the new bit.

  "For example, the Labour Party," Farquharson said, "ran the country for years, burying Britain under mountains of costly social programs. And the electorate correctly threw them out. But . . ."

  Farquharson's words were sudden
ly muffled by a roar, followed by a violent jolt that sent dishes and food all over the floor.

  "What the hell was that?" Whittenfeld screamed, jumping to his feet. The boat lurched again. The rotary table stopped.

  "Topside!" Scotty yelled.

  "Monsieur Farquharson," Lefebre commanded. "You and your people stay here with Monsieur Foster!"

  Scotty, Reddington, Whittenfeld, Lefebre, Nunn, and Grabowski ran up to the drilling platform.

  The tool pusher rushed over. "We lost one of our anchors. Damn thing just pulled right out."

  "That's impossible," Reddington countered. "They're cemented in place."

  "Impossible, my ass!" the tool pusher screamed.

  "Are we stable?" Whittenfeld asked.

  "Yes," Reddington replied. "As long as we don't lose any others. We shift our position too much, we'll bust the drill pipe and maybe even rip the riser right off the wellhead."

  They waited, everyone perspiring heavily. A popping sound turned them all around. Two of the ship's four guide wires had snapped somewhere below the water line and had spiraled upward; their pneumatic tensioners were beating furiously, fighting to restore tension, building up internal pressure to critical levels.

  "Close the tensioners down!" the tool pusher yelled.

  The driller shut down the system, then called everyone to his control panel and pointed to the riser position indicator screen, which illustrated the riser's vertical position relative to the wellhead. "The riser's way out of line."

  "Current?" Whittenfeld asked.

  "No way," Scotty shouted. "The current's minimal tonight. The wind's nowhere near critical, and there are still five anchors holding. There! Feel it? The ship is moving." He looked at the screen. "The riser is pushing the ship, and something is pushing the riser!"

  "Close the preventer!" Reddington ordered, shoving the driller to his control panel.

  Hands shaking, the driller manipulated the dials on the blowout preventer control panel. Lights flashed, indicating the signals sent down the control hoses had been received.