Deep Sea One (2 page)

"Roger that, Alpha 2. Proceed. Over and out."

Purdue checked everything on his tables; his data disks were there and his desk drawers still locked. Nothing was amiss, which was more disturbing than finding his safes raided or his work disturbed. What the hell was the intruder looking for?

Outside the dogs went wild, barking like bloodhounds on a hunt as the black figure negotiated its way over the breaks between ledges. Regrettably the ancient architecture of the house made it easy to mount and climb with all its ornate protrusions and decorative niches, and they watched the spider-like moves of the trapped burglar from two stories down.

"Shall we shoot?" asked one of the security guards.

"No, hold fire. We don't know what he wants. If we kill him, we will not know who sent him," the captain said plainly. Then he stepped closer to where the intruder was crouched and shouted upward, "Looks like you have run out of ledge there, lad!"

Obviously desperate not to be apprehended, the intruder gave him a quick look, and then tested the footing of the wet stone.

"My God, is he going to jump?" Purdue cried from his vantage point, behind the safety of the window. He watched the burglar look right, up, left and then jump. It was an impressive leap, found unfortunately short of sufficient reach, and with a blunt thump the burglar's body scraped the loose masonry and plummeted to the bushes below. Immediately the hounds were on the fallen prowler, and the guards quickly gathered, guns at the ready.

"Don't do anything! Wait, I want to see who had the balls to break into my house," Purdue called to them.

Two of the powerfully built guards pulled the culprit from the thick brush. They noticed that the intruder was a lot smaller now. One of the men pulled the hoodie off to reveal a woman's dainty face. Her large, brown eyes were filled with an expression of pain as she whimpered in their grasp.

"What have we here?" Purdue sneered, intrigued beyond measure at the interesting revelation.

"Keep the dogs away!" she cried. "Please."

Purdue gestured for them to remove the dogs. Her hair was black as coal, taken into a ponytail that reached to the small of her back. He noticed a big scar at the left corner of her mouth.

"You are afraid of dogs but not guns?"

"I have selective fear. Besides, your boys can't shoot for shit," she snapped in a faint accent of Latin in her impeccably English tone.

"Is that so?" Purdue smirked in amusement. "And what makes you worthy of judging? What were you doing in my house? You were nowhere near the safe, you know, and it would be impossible for such a small-fry criminal to crack anyway."

"Oh, don't flatter yourself, old boy. You don't have anything I want," she said, "besides food."

They grew silent. Purdue stepped away from her in mock surprise, but truthfully, he was taken aback by the absurd excuse. Then they burst out laughing.

"Bring her inside. Her right arm needs medical attention," he ordered.

In Purdue's large west-wing living room a hearty fire was toasting the immediate vicinity. The woman was given a towel to dry her hair and face while one of Purdue's men splinted and wrapped her sprained wrist.

"Let us start with your name," Purdue said, as he poured himself a whisky, refusing her any.

"Calisto," she mumbled. Now that she sat in the light, her beauty was evident. He guessed her at about thirty-seven years old, hardened by life. Next to the large security men she was dwarfed, but there was no mistake that, on her own, she was by no means tiny. Calisto was physically staunch and tough, although the femininity of her ponytail and her face contradicted her body's threatening frame.

"What were you doing in my house?" he reiterated his question.

"I was looking for food! Don't you pay attention?" she barked, winding at the pain in her arm.

"I'm not buying your bullshit, dearest," Purdue said calmly, as he drank his liquor, grunting as it burned in his throat.

"Listen, pal, if I wanted to steal shit from you I would have stolen it, wouldn't I?" she clenched her jaw. "Have you checked your fridge?"

He hadn't. Why would he?

"Captain, get the coppers, would you?" Purdue nodded and stood up. He waited for her to protest, to come clean, but she did not.

"Yes, sir."

The captain knew by his employer's tone that he was bluffing—for now—and waited before actually making a call to the police to arrest the thief. She did not move. In fact, something about her mannerisms told them that she was quite comfortable just sitting in the warm glow of the hearth. Purdue checked his kitchen, shaking his head to himself at actually giving her the benefit of the doubt. In his main fridge he found missing the last half of his
zigeunerbraten,
which old Franz Grutzmacher had made especially for him the night before. Franz was a dear friend and chef who worked at a posh little place in Queensbury.

"No!" he gasped.

Storming into the living room, exasperated, he cried, "You ate my pork? You ate my pork! My favorite dish!"

"Told you."

"What kind of savage takes a man's meat?" he exclaimed, throwing his arms up.

"A hungry one," she mumbled.

Purdue looked at the intruder in astonishment—for once, speechless.

☼

Chapter 2

About 140 km offshore from Scarborough, cradled by the North Sea, the Deep Sea One oil platform towered from the heaving dark waters. It was a massive structure, its long steel legs pinned to the ocean floor, fixing it firmly. Permanent structures did not peak anywhere near the Deep Sea One and it looked like a lost robotic lighthouse above the rising and falling waves. On the supported platform its drilling rigs rose majestically like steeples of steel and electricity over the various production facilities, which lay dwarfed against it on the platform. The crew quarters were separate, spaced out in several sections of box-like assemblies. Although the weather was wild most of the time the small crew was accustomed to it and professional in the duties that ran around the clock. Most of the men got along swimmingly, as much as a group of different nationalities and cultures could cope in the cabin-fever conditions of such a living and working space. Most of the time things ran smoothly, both personally and productively, on the giant drilling platform.

"Jaysus," Liam exclaimed, as he came rushing into the small office of the production manager, "helluva day we havin' out 'ere!" He was referring to the untimely storm, which had hit them harder than expected. They knew it was coming, two days before, but it was not supposed to be so violent. Liam was shaking from the cold, his hard hat askew on his wet hair and he bolted straight for the coffee machine. For once he would take a warm beverage over a Guinness and he rubbed his hands together as the machine steamed away.

"We have to check the north post, Liam," said Darwin, the shift's subsea engineer. "I am not sure, but what I got after checking the old bottom of Drill 3 didn't sit well with me. I could be mistaken, but it looks as if we might have some problem down there on the electricity line or maybe the structure is faulty at some point."

"How urgent is it? Can it wait until I chug this 'ere cuppa and thaw me bones? That last wave had the hand of God in it, I tell ya! Swept right halfway up the rig where I was fixing that rusted plate, and then I still had to weld the damned thing, otherwise we'd fall right through," Liam gasped, taking off his hat and running his hand over his head so that his hair was left in matted disarray. He had been a mechanic extraordinaire for more than thirty years, yet he still could not get used to the frigid shock of sea spray on days like these.

"No rush, Liam. Just finish up there and join me at the bottom. I'm going to prepare the ROV for inspection so we can get that bitch sorted before the storm comes in," Darwin said, himself silently craving a stiff whisky for the cold. He walked onto the platform deck, feeling dreadfully exposed for a moment as it dawned on him that he was but a speck on a manmade piece of tangled iron in the middle of the furious ocean. Darwin had great respect for the ocean. He was fully aware that, at any time, the water could enfold them like in the disaster movies his children liked to watch. Things like that scared him—those sudden reality checks where he realized just how small he was in the grand scheme of things . . . and he had nowhere to run.

Quickly he slipped down the iron stairs, four flights, to get to the sub-launching bay where they kept the Remote Operated Vehicle for examinations of ocean-floor conditions and also for repairs to the platform and its components. Isolation was dangerous and all aspects of the oil rig had to be kept running efficiently at all times. He had noticed topographical discrepancies when he sent down the ROV a few hours before to check on any abnormalities in the structure's tubular steel members, which were driven deep into the seabed. Darwin readied the machine for a dive, checking the electrical wiring and settings for optimal feedback. He activated the high definition (HD) cameras, making sure that their tilts had a full range of motion so that he could observe the entire area when they panned. Then he waited for Liam to help launch the submersible.

The strange little minisub looked like a bug caught in a web of wires with bright green stripes across the bottom between the two skids on the side that accommodated its movement once it was below on the seabed. There was no way Darwin was getting into his diving suit today. It was simply too rough in the North Sea. Normally he preferred going under the water, just to make sure that he could catch whatever the cameras did not, especially where the umbilicals hid in the murky parts. However, the machine went where Darwin and Liam could not—the depths that would crumple their bodies like flimsy beer cans.

"Position the LARS, Tommy!" Liam called, using the acronym for the launch and recovery system vehicle, as he raced down the stairs.

"So glad you could join me before the tsunami comes," Darwin snorted. His colleague gave him a long steely look and said, "You shouldn't be jokin' like that, Darwin. It's not that far-fetched that it could happen 'ere today, y'know?"

"Get to it," Darwin said evenly, as he looked at the LARS mechanical arm, which hummed lowly into action, lifting the submersible and sweeping to the right to launch it into the churning waves.

"There she goes," he announced, as he watched the tiny minisub bob on the waves for a few moments and then sink beneath the surface in a halo of foam and bubbles. He was not sure if it was rain or sea spray, but he was soaked within the small amount of time it took him and Liam to get to the bay. Now he could have used that cup of coffee, or whisky, of course.

"Don't you just love technology, Liam?" Darwin asked, as he watched the feed on the monitor.

"Normally I hate it, dunno how t' use it, but with this, yes, I am very glad I don't have to go down into those gloomy depths where Davy Jones' Locker lurks, my friend," Liam groaned through his grey and brown beard, which still had some crystal droplets lodged in its strands.

"Right, let's get some tea and get our blood running again," Darwin suggested, and his colleague eagerly led the way up to the kitchen. It would be about thirty minutes before they would recover the minisub and a hot cup of tea would be a nice break for the men. The oil rig ran with a small efficient staff and most of the men shared responsibilities, some doing up to four different jobs on the platform. Expertly trained men who could perform tasks in several capacities were very productive, especially when someone fell ill or could not spare time for a breakdown while handling drilling duties. There was always someone to fill the gaps and handle the overlapping tasks.

"Tiamat is pissed," Liam said, as he wrapped his hands tightly around his cup. He looked out the wet window, through trickling droplets that twisted the world outside. It was grey and miserable. Looking out over the endless expanse of ice cold water he could see the sea breathing steadily around them, heaving and falling in great swells of frigid power.

"Who the hell is Tiamat?" Darwin asked, if only to make conversation. He knew his colleague enjoyed spinning yarns about maritime superstitions and he allowed him his fabled therapy.

"The sea goddess of chaos, o' course!" came the answer from Liam, who still stared out as if he expected to see her.

"You are such a pirate, Liam."

"Pirate? I am a distant descendant of Boadicea, you know," he boasted and left his colleague with yet another anticipatory expression and a twinge of befuddlement. He was forced to explain.

"She was a feared seafaring warrior, she was. Foe of the Roman Empire and leader of the Iceni tribe who sailed from Wales to kick some Roman arse back in
AD
61or somethin'," he bragged. Darwin did not have the heart to torment him with the question of how he could possibly have traced his lineage that far back, and he dare not mention that the woman in question was in fact Welsh and not Irish. He let Liam have his moment and simply nodded with an affirmative smile.

A while later they set out to facilitate the recovery of the minisub. Shivering from the sudden shock of cold sheets of salt water, the two cowered down in the booth to get the green bug up and stashed before the brunt of the storm hit the solitary tower. As they entered the booth Tommy, the assistant engineer, looked ashen.

"What? Tommy. What?" Liam asked, as he stood staring with a measure of devastation.

Looking helpless and nursing an impending breakdown of nerves, Tommy said, "The ROV is gone."

"Gone where?" Liam asked quickly, before he could fathom what Tommy really said.

"Gone. Vanished. Nowhere to be found. Fucking GONE!" he cried, in an unstable tone that compelled Darwin to calm him with a pat on the arm.

"Calm down, Tommy boy. Now, how do you know it's gone? Did the umbilicals detach? We could always make a plan to retrieve—"

"No, you're not listening, Darwin. The minisub disappeared without a trace. He is going to fire me for sure, but I swear to God, I have no idea how it happened. Everything was secured. You checked it yourself," Tommy wailed, seated on the control desk cradling one cheek in his hands.