Sea of Greed

As the tool push, Cox got an office connected to the control room. He didn’t do much in there, except sip scotch at the end of the day, but the room had a large window that looked out onto the Gulf. Normally, it would be a sixty-foot drop to the water, but considering the list and the flood coming down the corridor, the window couldn’t be more than a few feet above the water now.

Working together, the men crossed the room, thankful that they were heading toward the high side. They pushed into the office and found that all the furniture had slid down against the near wall.

The window was on the far side. It was scorched in places and covered in a spider’s web of cracks. They could see no daylight through it, only thick, dark smoke and the occasional tongue of orange flame.

“So, we either drown or burn,” one of the injured men said bitterly.

Cox doubted they would do either, the fumes were growing toxic. They would pass out and die from smoke inhalation long before anything else.

Hoping to avoid all three of those fates, Cox went to the jumble of furniture and looked for something to attack the window with. He would have preferred a fire axe, but all he could find was the old 9 iron he kept by the desk, which he used to hit golf balls off the top deck from time to time.

He moved back toward the window and swung with all his might. The steel head of the club hit and rebounded, causing little more than a chip in the window. Summoning all his strength, Cox swung again and again and again. He swung until he dropped, but the window, made from multiple layers of high-strength plexiglass, was still intact.

“It’s no good,” he said. “That window is designed to take a direct hit from a sixty-foot wave.”

He sat down, coughing and exhausted. Across the tilted floor, water began seeping under the office door.

Nash tried to stand and take the golf club from his boss, but he could hardly move. The fumes had begun to choke them and the fire in the corridor was consuming all the oxygen.

He made only one swing and then dropped to the ground, his chest heaving. “There’s… no… air…”

The rig suddenly settled further and the view through the window changed. Half was smoke and fire, while the lower portion was now a blue-green shimmer like that of a dimly lit pool. They would be underwater soon. The only reason the room hadn’t flooded was the bubble of air trapped in there with them.

Cox knew it was over. “I’m sorry, boys… I shouldn’t have…”

His eyelids drooped but he kept them open. He thought he’d seen movement on the other side of the splintered and frayed window. It looked like a reflection, but it continued growing brighter, coming closer and moving faster.

Just as the light got blindingly bright, something slammed against the window from the outside. This time, the plexiglass shattered and green water began pouring in over the sill. The yellow nose of a strange-looking vessel remained lodged there for a moment and then pulled out of the way.

Cox recognized it as a submersible, much like the ROVs they used to inspect the pipelines and wellheads.

The submersible pulled back, the main hatch popped open and a figure in advanced firefighting gear climbed out. By now, Cox thought he was hallucinating, but the man jumped into the water, swam up to the shattered window and allowed himself to be washed inside.

Once he’d escaped the torrent, the man came over to Cox. He wore a full-face helmet, but, as he spoke, his words came through a small speaker on the outside of the helmet. “How many men in here?”

“Five,” Cox stammered. “Five of us. Who are you?” he added. “Where did you come from?”

“We’re with NUMA. Our ship is about five hundred yards away. That was as close as we could get. We heard your radio call. Sorry it took us so long to find the control room, but it’s not where it’s supposed to be.”

“NUMA? I know a few guys in NUMA. What’s your name, son?”

“Kurt Austin,” the man said. “Now, let’s move.”

Cox didn’t know if he was dreaming, seeing reality or already dead, but the room was half filled with water and the fire was burning outside the door. Whether this was real or not, Cox didn’t want to miss the ride.

He grabbed one of the injured men and helped him through the window into the water. Nash and Haney followed with the other injured crewman and Austin followed behind, helping them paddle to the side of the submarine, where they crawled aboard and up toward the hatch.

Cox helped pull the last man up before squeezing into the submersible himself. There was almost no room to breathe. The small submarine, designed for two men, now held six people, the five who’d been rescued and the pilot, an athletic-looking man with close-cut dark hair and the name Zavala stitched to his jumpsuit pocket.

“This will be a short trip,” Zavala said. “So, I’m afraid we won’t be serving drinks.”

Austin’s helmeted face appeared over the hatch above. “Looks like this bus is full,” he said. “You guys get out of here, I’ll catch the next one.”

“You can’t be serious,” Cox said.