Sea of Greed

Cox brushed off the comment. “We’ve got measures in place. Just check the drill angle and punch it down another hundred feet.”

Nash didn’t argue further. With great care he double-checked the setup and reactivated the bit. In the center of the huge oil rig, a thick pipe began to turn. Six thousand feet below, a carbide drill bit started burrowing deeper into the earth, churning through the mud, salt and layers of porous rock. Slurry came rushing up the pipe, but nothing more.

“Fifty feet,” Nash said. “Seventy feet.”

“Anything?”

“No increase in flow,” Nash said.

Cox was puzzled, they should have been well into the active oil by now. “Careful, now,” he urged. If the oil was there, it was being held under great pressure, then more pressure from the water being pumped down beneath it. Tapping it too cleanly could result in a sudden release, also known as a blowout. Like opening a soda bottle after you’ve vigorously shaken it up.

“Thirty feet to go,” Nash said. “Twenty…”

The needles on the panel flickered. The pressure in the collection grid began to rise.

“Stop it there,” Cox said.

“We have liquids and gas in the pipeline,” Nash said, pumping his fist. “Pressure coming up.”

The roughnecks behind them cheered.

Before Cox could join them, a series of indicators on his screen went from green to yellow.

At the same instant, the radio came to life. “Pressure buildup in the collection grid,” the foreman at Alpha 2 said. “We’re getting some awfully high numbers here.”

Cox could see that. He turned back to Nash. “Are you still drilling?”

“Negative.”

The radio chatter increased. Soon, Alpha 2 and Alpha 3 were talking over each other.

“Ten thousand psi and rising.”

“Heat buildup in the main line.”

“Shut off the injectors,” Cox said.

Levers were thrown from open to closed and the sound of the whining pumps in a distant part of the rig died. With no more water being pumped into the underlying rock, the pressure should have stabilized. It didn’t.

“Twelve thousand psi,” Alpha 2 reported. “Thirteen…”

Cox didn’t need the running commentary. He could see it right in front of him. The yellow indicators started blinking and then turned to angry, flashing red.

“Shutoff valve failure,” Nash said from the other side of the room. “Pressure in the main line at fifteen thousand. Vent the pipes or the whole line is going to blow.”

Cox had no choice. He palmed the button for the emergency pressure release and pressed it.

Down below the rig, a network of crisscrossing pipes connected the oil platforms to one another and the collection grid. At critical points along the network, large valves opened to vent the gas pressure into the sea.

It should have caused a massive but harmless release of bubbles as vented natural gas funneled upward, spreading and thinning while it rose to the surface. Instead, a rumbling sound traveled through the platform.

“We got fire on the water,” Alpha 2 called.

In the gap between the two rigs, a towering blaze erupted from the sea. It spread across the surface in a snaking motion, joining other waves of fire and soon engulfing all three platforms.

“Seal the rig,” Cox ordered.

Doors to all compartments were slammed shut against the smoke and flames, but as they buttoned up the platform, a shudder ran through it from deeper down. It shook the floor and buckled knees.

“Pressure spike in the well,” Nash called out. “Blowout failure.”

This was the worst news yet. It meant a surge of gas had burst past the bit and was traveling up through the hole they’d drilled.

The pressure gauge went off the scale. The bubble of gas exploded through the blowout preventer and surged upward into the heart of the platform. It ignited the instant it hit the air, detonating in the heart of the rig like a thousand-pound bomb.

4

THE SAPPHIRE WATERS of the Gulf of Mexico surrounded Kurt Austin, buoying him as he kicked rhythmically. He wore a wetsuit and fins, but no diving gear, as he swam toward a submersible that bobbed on the surface a few yards away.

A dark-haired figure sat on the nose of the small submarine. “About time you got here,” Joe Zavala said. “I was about to call Triple A.”

Kurt reached the small craft and grabbed onto a handhold, floating beside it in warm water. “You couldn’t afford their rates.”

Fact was, the submersible was sitting no more than a hundred yards from its mother ship, the NUMA vessel Raleigh, a two-hundred-foot ship packed with scientific instruments, operated by Kurt and Joe’s mutual employer, the National Underwater and Marine Agency.

“What happened?” Kurt asked. “You were supposed to be on a two-hour dive. By my count, you’ve only been down thirty minutes.”

“Hit something,” Joe said. “Or, I should say, something hit me. On the underside of the hull.”

“Any damage?”

“Not sure.”