The Black: Arrival Read online

  The Black: Arrival

  Paul E Cooley

  Dedication

  In memory of Indiana Cooley—

  I shall forever miss you.

  Prologue

  The slate-colored ocean rippled. The sun glared down behind blankets of clouds. Vivian yawned into her mic and checked the instruments. In the service, she'd hovered just above the desert floor before dropping troops into remote fire bases. Now? It was water.

  She enjoyed racing to the rigs. Flying execs to their meetings was boring. At least the ocean was a challenge. Rig-hopping was a blast. She wished the weather system threatening Leaguer was already in her way. That would make the trip more interesting. But as it was, the waves were large, the froth white as snow, and the winds were choppy. Smile on her face, Vivian checked her fuel gauge, and then pushed the throttle another notch.

  “I know we're supposed to get this done quickly,” her co-pilot said through the radio, “but you're really pushing it.”

  She grinned. “Hines? Why don't you worry about picking up the barrel and making sure you don't drop the damned thing?”

  The co-pilot sighed. He was already in the cargo area and sitting by the door. “Yes, ma'am.”

  Vivian checked their position. “ETA 2 minutes, Hines.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  A black dot appeared on the horizon. It slowly grew in size and after a moment, she made out the blinking red lights at the top of the oil derrick. There it was: Leaguer. It wasn't the largest rig she'd ever flown to. In fact, PPE had a few other rigs in the area that dwarfed it. But Leaguer was an offshore platform, which meant in heavy weather, landing on it was like dropping atop a see-saw. She bit her lip. The waves were a little restless, but hardly dangerous.

  She made out the landing beacon in the distance. It stuck out to the side of the platform. Four men waited for her on the deck, an orange barrel between them. Vivian clucked her tongue. “Hines? You ready?”

  “Yes, ma'am.” He sounded tired and annoyed. Hines hated riding in the cargo area. She didn't blame him. He should have been in the pilot cabin and watching the ocean slide by. Occasionally, she even let him drive. But they had three other rigs to hit on the way back. And at least one refueling stop.

  PPE had expedited Leaguer's sample. But that didn't mean it was the only one heading to Houston. It was going to be a long day. After collecting the barrels and refueling at sea, Vivian and Hines would fly to the mainland. A cargo plane was already waiting for them. Vivian hoped there wouldn't be any problems with the two other rigs. As she'd said to Leaguer's rig chief, they had a tight timeline. And getting the oil to the cargo plane was only part of it.

  She slowed the chopper above the landing circle and then descended. When the helicopter touched the metal platform, the aircraft hardly twitched.

  “Nice landing,” Hines said.

  A warning light blinked. Hines had opened the door. She heard his voice through the headset as he told the roughnecks where to place the barrel. She stretched her back and tapped her foot. “Come on, Hines.”

  “Hold your water,” he said. “No, not you.”

  She clicked off her mic and chuckled. Poor Hines. Paperwork. Barrels. No flying? She'd tell him to take a nap when this was done.

  The warning light flashed green and then held steady.

  “Clear,” Hines said. “Let's get back in the air.”

  Vivian clicked her mic back on. “Roger.” She pulled on the stick and the helo rose smoothly from the platform. She turned back toward the ocean and hit the throttle. The chopper raced above the waves. She imagined Leaguer getting smaller and smaller in the distance.

  “Vivian?” Hines said over the radio.

  “Yeah?”

  “We hitting turbulence or something? Damned barrel is vibrating.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Um, no, Hines.”

  “Fucking bizarre.”

  “You need a nap. And now. We have another forty minutes before we touch down again. Close your eyes. I got this.”

  “Good,” Hines said. “I'm still a little hungover.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “I noticed. Maybe put your back against that barrel and get a massage.”

  He laughed. “Maybe I'll try just that.”

  Vivian didn't bother to respond. He could sleep. She would fly. The ocean spread to infinity in all directions. It was the kind of view she loved. Another four hours of flying today, and then she could rest. Maybe she'd even let Hines do some of the work for once.

  Book 1: The Barrel

  Chapter 1

  The tinted windows did little to keep out the sunlight. That’s why the blinds were down and the office lights were off. Simpson sat behind his desk. The widescreen monitor cast blue-white light across his face.

  The report on the screen was…interesting. PPE’s exploration rig, Leaguer, had finally brought up oil from the M2 trench. After more than two years of preparation, the company finally had a stake. And it looked like a goldmine.

  A single eight gallon test barrel of oil was in the air. The helicopter had picked it up from Leaguer, and then rig hopped to Port Moresby, Papua/New Guinea. The delivery company loaded it on a private plane and flew the barrel to Tokyo. And those were just the first steps in getting it to Houston.

  Simpson stared at the map on his screen. The barrel still had several hours before it reached Tokyo. After customs and etc., the barrel wouldn’t make it to Houston for another full day. And that’s if there were no delays.

  Delays. Simpson sighed and closed the travel map window. He brought up the email client, selected two emails, and brought them up side by side.

  It wasn’t enough to be the first company to drill M2. It wasn’t enough to be the first company using new technology to explore the trench. And it wasn’t enough that PPE was the first major offshore company to throw away the idea of contractors and subcontractors and use only corporate-owned and salaried assets. No, that wasn’t enough. On top of that? He had a major personality issue going on.

  Leaguer’s Rig-Chief, Martin Vraebel, and the head of engineering, Thomas Calhoun, were not getting along. In fact, the two men seemed to hate each other. And on a rig that far out in the ocean, it was a little disconcerting. Both men were consummate professionals, yet they didn’t seem to agree on anything.

  In the past week, he’d seen nothing but gripes from Vraebel about Calhoun’s team and their sense of entitlement. From Calhoun? Nothing but disdain for Vraebel’s pomposity and micro-management.

  Calhoun was an industry legend. That’s why Simpson had hired his crew in the first place. Vraebel had to get along with them. He just had to. Some friction was expected, but Simpson had thought for sure that it was a good match. Now he wondered. This latest incident wasn’t as much about personality conflicts as questions about expertise. And that was going too far.

  Calhoun’s team had performed the first cut analysis of the M2 oil. Calhoun’s geologist, Shawna Sigler, had written up the report. If the shareholders saw the redacted report, PPE’s share price would skyrocket. If, however, they saw the raw report, he didn’t think the share price would do anything but plummet.

  According to Sigler’s analysis, the oil in M2 was pristine, perhaps the cleanest, lightest weight crude ever discovered. Refining it would cost next to nothing. Regardless of how far the price of oil dropped, M2 would provide PPE an incredible amount of revenue for decades to come. But there was a catch.

  There always is, Simpson thought. Sigler had also included some startling, if not downright hinky, conclusions. She’d found a strange substance in the core sample that may be biological. She also suggested the oil might in fact be contaminated. While Sigler hadn’t postulated what it could be contaminated with, she had put a warn
ing in the report.

  And that’s when the shit hit the fan. Vraebel had sent Simpson an email along with the report. His assessment? Sigler and Calhoun were crazy. They were stalling for some reason and doing their best to inhibit the drilling. He wanted them off the rig.

  That, of course, was out of the question. Without Calhoun and his team, Leaguer didn’t stand a chance of mapping M2, much less finding the sweet spots. So that was a non-starter.

  To make matters worse, Calhoun had sent an email telling Simpson that he’d happily leave the rig if that’s what PPE wanted. The very idea sent a chill down Simpson’s spine.

  The oil industry was pretty incestuous. If someone screwed up, everyone knew about it. If there was friction? Everyone knew about it. And that meant the shareholders would discover it too. Oh, you could hide things from them, sure, but ultimately, the secrets got out into the world. There was no way to keep that from happening.

  He swept his eyes from one email to the other. Acid burned in his stomach. They were less than a day away from drilling the next well. He had to make a decision.

  God, he wanted a cigarette and a shot of Beam. But at ten in the morning, it was a bit early for either. He composed a different email to each man, but the content was essentially the same. Behave. Work together. Get the job done.

  While he could be blunt with Vraebel, dealing with Calhoun was a bit trickier. The legendary engineer would bite if prodded the wrong way and Simpson knew it.

  After he finished composing the two emails, he read each aloud ensuring they both said the same thing. When he was certain he was happy with the words, he clicked send on each email.

  Simpson leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. Sigler’s raw report stared at him from the left side of the screen. The right side was the redacted version they’d forwarded to the testing facility.

  He looked at the clock, saw it was nearly 1030, and sighed. He’d call Mike Beaudry over at HAL and make sure the testing department had the report. Maybe he’d even invite Beaudry out for lunch. Anything to make sure HAL did their best, fastest work on the incoming barrel. The shareholders had to know PPE was sitting on a goldmine. And HAL would prove it.

  Simpson grinned. Rise in stock price? Bonuses? Everyone riding the tide and making money? That’s what they needed. Now he just needed HAL to put the final pieces together. By next week, Simpson, PPE Vice President of Drilling Operations, would be richer than he ever imagined possible.

  *****

  The phone rang. Mike Beaudry stared at it until the caller ID lit up. He rolled his eyes, reached out, and picked up the black receiver. “This is Mike,” he said.

  “It’s Simpson.”

  “Of course it is.” Mike grinned. “And I’ll bet you’re calling to check up on us.”

  The receiver filled with laughter. Simpson was a drinker and a smoker and his gravelly voice was a stark contrast to his high-pitched belly-laugh. Mike couldn’t help but smile.

  “Well, yes,” Simpson said. “Wanted to make sure y’all got the report and are ready.”

  “We did. And yeah, Cheevers is taking lead on it, as requested. They’re going to work the sample all weekend. As long as it takes.”

  “I’m sure they’ll do a fine job,” Simpson said. “I talked to the CEO and he’s green-lit a bonus on top of what we’re paying if it’s done by Sunday morning.”

  Mike blinked. “A bonus?”

  “Call it goodwill money, Mike. I know you take care of your people and I know they’re damned good at what they do. We just wanted to provide a little more incentive.”

  “Okay,” Mike said. “I’m not going to ask about numbers. But thank you for the offer.”

  “You’re welcome. You’ll be there all weekend too?”

  Mike sighed. “As always. If my people are working overtime, I’m working overtime. That’s the deal.”

  “Not sure how you do that.”

  Mike laughed. “We’re trying to grow the company. It takes what it takes. Call it my lack of a life.”

  “To that end, you available for lunch today? We could snort a shot or two.”

  He shook his head. “No can do. Too much work. We’re still trying to get the new building online. And I have to spend the day yelling at the construction company. Not to mention getting my office ready to move.”

  “Okay. Rain check?”

  “Definitely.”

  “The barrel should arrive early afternoon. By then Leaguer should be preparing to drill the second well. So the faster we get—”

  “I get it. If we have the results fast, then you can bring up more samples, get more analysis, and start setting revenue projections.”

  “You know me all too well,” Simpson said. “I’m glad you understand.”

  “I do. I’ll be in touch if we have any questions.”

  “All right, Mike. Good talking to you.”

  “And you. Bye.”

  “Adios.”

  The phone went dead. Mike replaced the receiver and stared up at the ceiling. Bonus? No one ever pays a damned bonus on top of a hot-shot. That’s crazy.

  But money was money. He’d do his best to make sure they made the timeline. Mike tapped his fingers on the desk and then hit a button. The speakerphone sprang to life and immediately rang. Once.

  “What’s up, Mike?”

  “We need to have a quick meeting.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there in a second.”

  The line dropped. Mike heaved a sigh and swiveled his chair. Beyond the windows, the freeway stretched to infinity. Lines of cars sped through Pasadena on their way to Houston proper or points further south. Like most of his employees, he didn’t live in Pasadena itself. It was just close enough to make the commute easy and far enough away from certain zoning restrictions to allow HAL to handle volatile chemicals.

  With their new technologies, rigorous testing methodology, and the painstakingly chosen scientific team, HAL (Houston Analytical Laboratories, Inc.) was the most advanced testing facility in existence. Companies from all over the world sent their samples to HAL and the company was growing faster than anyone had dreamed.

  Hence the new building. Back in the days before Mike took over and turned it into a world renowned lab, the company had quietly prospered with only two labs. The original building was old, dilapidated, and on the cusp of falling apart. Maintenance costs, fire inspections, permits…all of it was a hindrance. And the computer systems? The old building could barely handle the power necessary to keep the servers and equipment up and running.

  But the new building was taking forever. Too many dips in the economy. Too many stalls on the labor front. But at least they finally had the new NOC up and running. Or rather, they would once Chuckles, their head of network operations, pronounced the facilities good to go. It would still be a few months before the new labs were ready. But Mike and the executive staff would begin moving to the third floor of the new building in the next two weeks. He hoped.

  For now, though, the skybridge between the two buildings was finished. He could walk down to floor two and easily check on the progress of the new building without having to go outside. The old labs would continue to serve their clients until the new ones were ready. After that, they could get rid of the nightshift and have six labs running simultaneously. He was already vetting a new crop of petrol-chemists and bio-chemists to grow the staff. But Cheevers’ team would be the first to move to the new building. He wished it was available for this PPE job. Would make life so much easier instead of having to manage the new building construction, his scientists working on the weekend, and the possible power outages.

  Tapping at the door. Mike turned from the window. “Come on in.”

  The door swung open and Darren Strange walked in. The man was impeccably dressed in chinos and a black HAL dress shirt. His clean-shaven face glowed beneath the lights.

  “What’s up, boss?”

  Mike chuckled and pointed to the tablet in Darren’s hand. “Have a
seat. We need to discuss this weekend.”

  Darren sat down on the other side of the desk. He smoothed a possible wrinkle in his shirt and stared attentively with a smile on his face.

  Darren. Always prompt. Always preened. Always ready to help. Mike didn’t know how he’d run the place without him.

  “PPE’s barrel should be here tomorrow afternoon.”

  Darren tapped his fingers on his tablet. His eyes barely flitted from Mike’s.

  “We’re ready for it,” Darren said. “I already scheduled a meeting for you and Kate to go over the particulars later this afternoon.”

  “Good.”

  Darren swiped the tablet and brought up a document. “I’ve also made sure we have food coming for dinner, sandwiches for snacking, and a catered breakfast.”

  “So what exactly is my job?”

  “Your job,” Darren said, “is to keep us all employed.”

  Mike laughed. “Y’all do that yourselves. Hardly need help from me for that.”

  Darren waved a hand. “Now, what else do I need to know? What are you worried about?”

  Mike shrugged. “Simpson just called me.”

  Darren groaned. “You know, you should never have given that man a direct number.”

  “True,” Mike laughed. “But he is a friend.”

  “And a pain in the ass.”

  “And a pain in the ass,” Mike echoed. “But Mr. PITA is offering HAL some extra money if we get this done by Sunday.”

  Darren raised an eyebrow and then laid the tablet on his lap. “That sounds interesting. Did he say the amount?”

  “No. Thought it might be impolite to ask.”

  “Of course.”

  “But, knowing Simpson,” Mike said, “it will be substantial. Would be nice to put a little extra in the Christmas bonus pool.”

  Darren smiled. “I’m sure the scientists would enjoy that.”

  “And Chuckles’ team. That man has been working nonstop for weeks now on the new NOC. He says it could even be ready tomorrow.”