A Cold-Blooded Business (6 page)

"It is a pain, Belle," Toni agreed sympathetically, "but you know Yarborough. He's got this thing about selling printed matter of any kind on his side of the Slope."

Belle pouted. Her lips were very full and very wide and very red, and the man in line sighed again. "How's a girl s'posed to make any kind of a decent livin' if the field manager keeps kickin' her outa her place of bid ness She really said it, Kate noticed, bid ness And then she smiled, and the man in line sighed a third time. "I noticed how tense he was the last time I was up? Now there's a man I could do something for, if he'd just give me the chance?" She bit her thumb reflectively, and this time a collective sigh went up from as far back as the stairwell.

"Maybe a gift subscription to Masseuset She lowered her voice and said confidentially, "Y'all tell him I said so, you hear?"

"You could do a lot for me right now," someone called from behind them, and Toni turned and gave the assembled crowd a wide, sweet smile.

"Gentlemen, Ms. Starr has closed up shop for the day. Goodbye."

"Come on, Jane?" Belle called over her shoulder. "Time to hit the trail?" She opened the door and beckoned them in.

A gentleman was just rising from the bed, buckling his jeans. "Why, Bob," Toni cooed. "I haven't seen you in ages. Where've you been keeping yourself?"

"Up yours, Hartzler," he snarled.

"Oh, goodness me, did I knock a moment too soon?" Toni wondered aloud.

Belle and Jane both giggled as he snarled again and shouldered Kate aside on his way out.

Belle, her back to them, bent over to drag a suitcase from beneath the bed, and Kate looked up at the ceiling and hoped she wasn't blushing.

Scarves were removed from over lamps, implements and ointments from the bedside table, and in a remarkably short time they were ready; almost, Kate thought, as if they were used to the drill.

"Oh, Kate can carry that other suitcase for you, Belle," she heard Toni say generously, and found herself lugging a bag weighing approximately three hundred pounds down the hall behind Toni, Belle and Jane. "How many subscriptions did you sell this time up?"

Belle pouted again. "We were going for a new record, weren't we, Jane?

Twenty thousand in two days?"

"We would have made it, too," Jane chimed in, "in another four hours."

"I'm impressed," Toni said.

So was Kate. A mathematical calculation presented itself to her fertile brain. She stopped it before it arrived at a solution. Some things it was better to not know.

The archaeologists were impressed, too, at Belle in her little cowgirl suit and Jane in her very little leopards king sheath and shark-tooth necklace. When they got to the airport, the pipe liners standing in line on their way south were equally impressed. "Praise the Lord!" one man was heard to shout, and Toni, bidding Belle and Jane a fond farewell, observed that the two might make their goal after all, and before they reached Anchorage, too. "Push Ms. magazine as hard as you can," Kate heard her tell Belle. "These yahoos could stand to have their consciousnesses raised a tad."

"I'll try, honey." They hugged, and Toni waved them out onto the tarmac and up the air stairs of the waiting jet.

Toni's official tour, arriving on a special charter, kept them kicking their heels at the airport and eventually arrived ninety minutes late.

It consisted of one United States senator from Illinois and his entourage, including various representatives of the environmental militia and the superintendent of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge.

They were all on their first orientation tour of the North Slope, in spite of the fact that the Honorable Levi Poulsboro sat on the Senate Energy Committee, and to a man they were determined not to be impressed.

Two of them, one tall and a Sierra Club commando, one short and a member of the Wilderness Society, both aggressively determined to find fault, occupied the two front seats on the bus and cross-examined Toni all the way across the field. As Kate listened, admiration for the other woman grew. The difference between a straight and a crooked hole, the flow status of the wells on H Pad, the intricacies of tertiary recovery techniques, current manpower status in the Western Operating Area, all these were grist for Toni's mill. The two men were stumped, but only temporarily. "What about slick em the tall one said. "That stuff they put in the pipeline to make the oil flow faster?" "Slickem," Toni said, her brow wrinkling, and Kate, who had by now abandoned any pretense of impartiality, feared they had her. But no.

Toni's brow cleared. "Slickem, of course. I was just reading about that in Petroleum Intelligence Weekly. It's a long-chain polymer, I believe, sort of a gooey plastic. It's injected into the pipeline at Pumps One and Four, Four being the station just this side of the Brooks Range where the oil might need a little extra oomph to get over the hump." She smiled. The two men didn't smile back. "Yes. Well.

Slickem reduces the turbulent flow of the oil in the line, and causes it to expend its energy more profitably in getting down to Valdez." She smiled again. With difficulty, Kate repressed a cheer.

The two men scowled in unison. The short one said accusingly, "Well, we heard that it greased the inside of the line and made the oil flow smoother that way."

Toni's fund of smiles was bottomless. "I don't believe that's the case, sir, but we'll be going to Pump One later this afternoon and we can check then."

A half-dozen caribou, looking moth-eaten from their long winter spent beneath the Central Power Station, climbed up on the Backbone and proceeded to cross to the other side. Kate muttered a prayer and pumped the brakes gently. The front bumper came to a stop inches from the oblivious caribou, which didn't even look around at the big bus sliding to a halt on their left, just kept on going across the road and down onto the snow- and ice-covered tundra on the other side. Kate took a surreptitious breath, her foot off the brake, and goosed the gas. The bus creaked and groaned and started forward again.

The senator spoke for the first time. "Where's the corral?"

Kate saw Toni at an unprecedented loss for an answer. "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, I assume you put the caribou away when you're done with them," the Honorable Levi Poulsboro said sternly. "Is there a corral somewhere you keep them in?"

Kate took her eyes off the road long enough to see if he was serious.

He was. She turned back and in the mirror saw the expression on one of the archaeologists' faces, Chris Heller, a thin young man with large, very expressive brown eyes, and had to look hastily away, catching her underlip between her teeth and biting hard. She heard Toni say, with no discernible trace of hysteria, "Prudhoe Bay is a wildlife habitat as well as an oil field, Senator. Some caribou drop off from the central Arctic herd during its migration every fall and winter here. They like the shelter the modules give them. They like the pads in the summertime, too. When they're on the pads, they're up off the tundra and in the wind; it keeps the mosquitoes away." "The pads," the Sierra Club commando said, "that reminds me." He waved a hand in a gesture that appeared to encompass the entire North Slope, Canadian border to Chukchi Sea. "When's the rest of this going to be graveled in?"

"The rest of what?" Toni said, puzzled.

He waved his hand again. "The field. When are you going to gravel in the rest of the field?"

This time Kate didn't dare look in the mirror, and instead concentrated fiercely on the foggy road in front of her. Toni, still with that astounding self-control, said, "Sir, the Prudhoe Bay field measures approximately twelve miles north to south, and twenty-five miles east to west. That comes to approximately three hundred square miles all told. With one mile of gravel road costing upward of a quarter of a million dollars, I don't think we can look forward to graveling in the rest of the field anytime soon."

"I see," the Honorable Levi Poulsboro said with a grave nod. "You'll probably have to wait until the price per barrel of oil goes up some more."

"Probably," Toni agreed.

Quite a bit more, Kate thought.

The tour took all afternoon, beginning with the Base Camp and including the pool and the weight room and the track ("Eleven times around makes a mile," Toni told them) and the movie theater, upholstered from floor to ceiling in red plush, and moving on to cover the entire western side of the Prudhoe Bay field in exhaustive detail. The operations module housed Production Control, where three operators sat in a darkened room surrounded by an enormous, U-shaped counter. Their faces eerily backlit by the green reflection from the computer screens, the controllers spoke in low voices over headsets and tapped out rapid commands on keyboards, looking for all the world as if they were on the bridge of a spaceship headed for lapetus, except that this computer didn't talk back.

Next door was the Communications Center and although the room was about the same size as Production Control the contrast was immediate--bright lights and constant noise and perpetual motion. This room looked like the bridge of a spaceship, too, only in this case the Enterprise, on Red Alert under Romulan attack. A bank of radios monitored traffic on three channels amid bursts of static, two switchboards rang nonstop, five telex machines cluttered out yards of yellow tape, a fax machine spewed out page after page, its twin sucking up reams going in the other direction. A tall man with disappearing red hair, bright, inquisitive blue eyes and a wickedly attractive grin rolled rapidly in a wheeled armchair from switchboard to radio to telex to fax with never a wasted move, except the occasional collision with his coworker. She was a short, pudgy woman with small, penetrating eyes that saw everything whether you wanted them to or not and a tenor squeal of a voice, the grit and gravel voice Kate had heard calling race odds over the public address system. "Meet Warren Rice and Sue Jordan, communications operators extraordinaire," Toni announced. "You can run but you can't hide from a communications operator."

The redhead caught sight of Kate and rolled his chair over to halt in front of her. Ignoring the honorable senator from the great state of Illinois waiting for adulation next to her, he said in a deep, mellow voice that made her toes curl up just a little inside her steel-toed, RPetco-issue safety boots, "You don't have to run from me, babe. I promise I don't bite." He grinned. "Hard."

Everyone has a weak spot, and Kate's was a deep, mellow male voice; fortuitously at that very moment an alarm whooped like the dive siren on a submarine, an entire wall of ominous yellow telltale lights went off like a pinball machine and Toni hustled them out the door. "False alarm," she said airily, to the deep disappointment of the two pit bulls, who would have rejoiced to see the roof blow off during their visit just to confirm all their deepest suspicions about oil production in the Alaskan Arctic. "Probably dumping Halon in some skid. Happens all the time, especially in the spring when the snow melts and gets down into the roof detectors."

In that case Kate didn't see why they couldn't go back and get to know the redhead better, but Toni had her in the bus and behind the wheel before she could muster up the presence of mind to say so.

In the field they climbed up on a rig floor and watched the roughnecks change out a bit and go back into the hole, ninety feet of drill pipe at a time. Personally Kate could have spent the rest of the day there, watching the roughnecks throw the chain and manhandle those enormous tongs, but Toni dragged them back down to ground level and over to a very dull row of metal shacks surrounding equally dull, more or less vertical arrangements of pipe and valves. "Christmas trees," Toni called them, although anything less like a Christmas tree Kate had yet to see.

These were allegedly the first point at which the oil came up out of the ground after the well was drilled.

They stopped at Production Center Three and the two pit bulls attacked Dale Triplett before they were all the way in the door. "We were wondering about this slick em stuff," the tall one said.

"Oh, sure, slick em Dale said. "It's kind of neat stuff, actually.

It's a long-chain polymer, kind of a gooey plastic. It's injected into the line at Pump One and"--she looked at Toni--"Pump Two? Anyway, it kind of gums up the oil, not much, just enough to slow the turbulent flow so it doesn't ball up inside the line, and instead uses its energy to push itself down the pipeline to Valdez. The crude is under such tremendous pressure when it enters the line that it can snarl around in there instead of getting on its way."

The tall man looked at the short one, who said accusingly, "Well, we heard it greased the inside of the line and made the oil go faster that way."

"Really?" Dale raised her eyebrows. "Well, you heard wrong."

"This way, please, gentlemen," Toni interjected smoothly, and marched them down cramped, dimly lit corridors over what felt like miles of metal grating, through what seemed like hundreds of boxy modules; from the eerie silence of Skid 4 where the oil came into the complex from the wellheads, to the deafening clamor of Skid 14 where the process of depressurization and drying out began.

Except for the fluorescent yellow signs reading

"Danger! So2O4 may be present! When alarm sounds vacate premises at once!" and the ubiquitous, bright yellow Scott Air Paks mounted every ten feet, there wasn't much to look at except pipe of every diameter going in every direction, all too often making unexpected, ninety-degree jogs to go off in others. For the first time in her life Kate had to duck to avoid banging her head, a lesson it took three painful whacks to learn.

The scream of natural gas going through those pipes at six hundred pounds per square inch made her ears ring for an hour afterward in spite of the foam earplugs Toni had handed round at the beginning of their trek.

"There are six production centers in the Prudhoe Bay field," Toni shouted. "One, Two and Three on the RPetco, or Western Operating Area side, and Four, Five and Six on the Amerex, or Eastern Operating Area side. Each one is designed to process 300,000 barrels of oil per day.