Trusting Viktor (A Cleo Cooper Mystery) (4 page)

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The TransWorld Exploration logo
on the helipad grew larger and larger until we hovered, buffeted in the stiff wind, right above it. I was prepared for a jolting, hot-dog landing, but our pilot settled us onto the pad like a brooding hen on a clutch of eggs. Our reception committee for the tour consisted of two men: Global’s top executive onboard, Braxton Roberts, and TransWorld’s top executive, Duncan Powell, who was also captain of the ship.

I pegged Powell to be about Bud’s age, fifty. His hawk nose, square jaw, and green eyes gave him a harsh appearance until he smiled. Then his tan face softened and he looked more approachable. Braxton Roberts, on the other hand, was elegant, even a bit haughty. Though he was gym-fit and his unkempt mop of salt-and-pepper hair gave him a boyish air, he didn’t seem to be the outdoorsy type like the captain did.

Bud and I exchanged our life vests and headsets for hard hats, shook hands, shouted greetings over the wind and the revving of the helicopter as it readied for departure, then proceeded to the head of a series of stairs. There we were greeted by a few of Global’s executives visiting from Houston—in particular, Hiram Hightower. He was the last word on every aspect of this well.

Hightower was a Texan, and he looked like my image of one. Tall and barrel-chested with a ruddy complexion, he had permanent laugh lines. His presence today was due only to the historic
nature of a wildcat well drilled in a part of the ocean heretofore
unexplored. He would not visit the ship again. Hightower ran things from a room at Global’s headquarters building in Houston called the WDEC—Well Design and Execution Center. At eight o’clock each morning, he’d meet with the well executives aboard the
Magellan
via satellite, along with a group of petroleum engineers, geologists, earth scientists, and geophysicists.

I felt a quick flash of anxiety, hearing the muffled thumping of my ride home as it left me behind. This pang was quickly replaced by awe of the vessel I was now standing on. Stretching 875 feet long and 130 feet wide, the
Magellan
was so immense that an actual tour would occupy several days. We would only get the highlights.

Every inch of deck space was crammed with machinery and supplies so that it was impossible to amble across the space as one would on a pleasure yacht.

I soon discovered that the interior of the ship was no different. After leading us through a snakelike maze of narrow corridors, Powell directed us through a door into a large room not too far from the helm station. Once we stepped through the doors, however, Braxton Roberts took over. In the parlance of those in the exploration business, he was “the company man.” As Global’s top drilling engineer aboard
Magellan
, he’d be there until the project was completed. I knew from past experience that every word he uttered would be run by Hightower, who (contrary to his typically Texan appearance) was quiet, soft-spoken, and liked to stay out of the limelight.

About a dozen men were seated around a laminated table, some Global officials and others representatives from different investment groups like Bud’s. They rose as we entered. After Roberts had introduced them, Bud and I were offered chairs at the table. On the wall facing us were three flat-screen monitors displaying various dimensional maps of the seafloor and geologic formations below us. Most of them were two dimensional, except one that represented the target area. For it, funky 3D viewing glasses were in a basket on the table.

Phil Gregson, the senior geophysicist and apparent spokesman for Global’s U.S. offshore development team, stood beside of one of the monitors that showed a basic cross section of our target area.

“Good afternoon gentlemen … and madam,” said Phil, a fortyish fair-skinned fellow with glasses, freckles, and a band of thinning red hair above his ears. “This is our target area. It lies within the buried reef structure known as the Manteo Prospect, twenty-two hundred feet of water and fourteen thousand feet of various layers of rock below us. I’m just going to go over a few quick points about it. In the interest of time, I’ll answer any questions you may have one on one later.”

His bald head shone in the florescent light as he pointed to several bright spots, or areas of high amplitude where sounds waves moved farther apart as they passed through rock layers thereby revealing the possibility of oil or natural gas. “After months of poring over our seismic surveys, our team feels the best plan of action would be to drill one exploration well at the highest point of the reef structure and penetrate the reservoir rock at about eleven thousand three hundred feet.”

He proceeded to the third monitor, where he pointed to several red dots on an aerial map of the coast of North Carolina extending out over the outer continental shelf. “Taking into account logs from exploratory wells drilled back in the mid-eighties, we believe the top
of the reservoir to be at that level and bottom out somewhere
around twelve thousand seven hundred feet. This fourteen-hundred-foot-thick reservoir—comprised of boundstones and grainstones—is estimated to be approximately thirty miles long and three to five miles wide. Porosity should be good, having been enhanced during times of subaerial weathering, when sea levels were low during the early Cretaceous. The reservoir cap was formed during the Cretaceous and Recent periods, when the reef was buried again by a thick wedge of fine-grained sediments eroded from the continent and deposited across the continental shelf.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Bud check his watch.

Phil continued: “There are several faults in the structure that could be migration pathways for hydrocarbons. Moreover, this area, the core of the reef, will have the most mature facies.”

“Facies?” Bud whispered in my ear.

“Rock type.”

“Mature?”

“Not now, Bud.” I shook my head in warning. I could explain later.

Just then a large weather-beaten man—thirtyish, with hard-worn hands the size of baseball mitts—rose from the table and introduced himself.

“I’m David Grant,” he said, “head driller for this project.” He stood in a classic at-ease stance, hands clasped behind his back. His accent was slightly British. “I work under the guidance of Mr. Powell,” he explained. “He, Mr. Hightower, and Mr. Roberts collaborated on the design of this well and it’s my job to see that it is drilled to their specifications. My drillers and I want you to know that even though this is our first experience in the mid-Atlantic region, this well was designed with every contingency in mind and all safety precautions in place.”

Grant paused to sip from a water bottle. He seemed confident and relaxed as he continued. “To add a bit of information about myself, I’ve drilled holes all over the world, starting in the North Sea and most recently in Africa and the Gulf of Mexico. We are not expecting Manteo One to present any challenges we haven’t already faced many times over in the Gulf.” He paused, seeming to invite questions, and, when there were none, continued.

“Regarding temperature and pressure at a vertical depth of thirteen thousand feet or better, the bottom hole conditions will be two hundred degrees Fahrenheit and seven thousand psi.
Magellan
is used to twenty-five thousand feet and bottom temperatures of four hundred twenty-five degrees, twelve thousand psi. So, no worries there.” He went on to explain the current conditions of the well—that it had been spudded (the well head and support casing had been placed into the seafloor), that the critical cementing process had been completed successfully, and that they were now preparing to set the blowout preventer, or BOP, in place.

I sensed Bud stifling a yawn. Hours of detailed information to bring me up to speed followed the more general presentation. Bud and the other company officials and investors slipped out, leaving me with geophysicist Phil Gregson. Just as we were finishing inspecting some of the cuttings brought up during the casing process, Powell stuck his head in the door and in a heavy Cajun accent I hadn’t noticed before said, “Would you two care to join us for lunch?”

Phil Gregson looked at his watch. “Good grief,” he said. “I didn’t realize it had gotten so late, Ms. Cooper. I hope I haven’t starved you.” I looked at my watch. Three o’clock. Time flies when you’re having fun.

“Not at all,” I said as we followed Powell. “But, tell me, how’s it going with the wellsite geologist? What do you think of him?”

“I’m glad you asked. Poor young fellow is going to need you to lean on, what with this being his first offshore rig.”

“When did he get here?”

“He was here pre-spud, to get the logging lab settled in. As to what I think of him … he’s such a nervous type, it’s hard to say. Doesn’t seem to have much confidence, which could be a problem since he’s in charge of the mudloggers. I’m afraid they’re going to take advantage of him. It’s a good thing you’ll be backing things up. We’ll go meet him right after we grab a bite.”

Still following Powell, we made our way to the end of another maze of interior hallways, each one exactly like the other, all with gleaming white walls, florescent lights, rounded brushed aluminum handrails, and spanking clean linoleum floors smelling of pine disinfectant.

As he opened a heavy sea door to a third-story catwalk, Powell said, “Weather’s kicked up a little since we started our meeting.”

Barely catching my hard hat before it lifted off my head in the stiff wind, I squinted into the stinging rain. Phil stepped out after me and we did our best to keep up with Powell, grabbing the bright yellow handrail from time to time to keep from being blasted backward. Finally we ducked down more sets of metal stairs, clanging our way to another long and narrow hallway that opened into a brightly lit galley, its aromas a mingled array of rib-sticking he-man food.

After making our choices, we joined Bud and the other men already seated. I could only pick at my chef’s salad—the only thing I could find that wasn’t fried or drowning in gravy—worried as I was about being tossed about like a leaf in the wind on our flight home.

Meanwhile Phil was entertaining the table with hair-raising tales of exploration off the coast of Africa. As I listened, a loud speaker overhead hummed, sputtered, and then requested Mr. Powell’s presence in the radio room. He slid his napkin under his plate. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, departing hurriedly.

About five minutes later, he was back at our table. “Attention, everyone,” he said, clinking his glass. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. The Sikorsky SK 76 that was scheduled to return company officials and investors to Wilmington International”—he paused and dropped his gaze to Bud and me—“and drop you two in Beaufort, has suspended operations until the wind gusts drop below thirty knots.”

There was dead silence at the table, then Phil said, “I thought a Sikorsky could fly in any weather.”

“They can and often do with no problems,” Powell replied. “We’re simply following
the TransWorld safety rules that dictate takeoffs and landings on this ship.”

“Not to worry,” said Phil, addressing me. “That’ll just give us more time with Elton, the wellsite geologist.”

“Right,” I said. “I’m ready when you are.”

“If it’s okay with you,” Powell said. “I’d like to introduce you to the chief steward first. He’ll show you and Mr. Cooper where you’ll bunk for the night.”

Bud and I exchanged glances as I blurted out, “You do have separate accommodations, don’t you?”

I dropped my trusty tote on the bottom bunk in dormitory-style crew quarters about the size of my walk-in closet. Bunks and a small bedside chest of drawers on the right, bath and two lockers on the left. No windows. “You need to imagine an invisible divider cutting the room in half, top to bottom,” I said to Bud who was sitting on the top bunk, swinging his legs, grinning like a jackass.

“Okay, I’m imagining it.”

“Your side is the top half and mine’s the bottom. Got it?”

“Got it. Might make taking a leak a little … challenging, but it could be worse. We could be sharing a suite with the egghead.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you referring to Phil? The scientist with PhDs in both geophysics
and
theoretical physics?”

“I wasn’t referring to his abundance of education. Didn’t you notice the shape of his head?”

I sighed and headed for the tiny bathroom, agog at how easy it had been to make him accept my ground rules for room sharing.

When I came out, Bud was gone. I grabbed my hard hat and went to catch up with Phil so he could introduce me to the wellsite geologist, Elton Patterson.

We met in Elton’s small office, which was located next to Braxton Roberts’s one deck above the drilling floor. It gave an unobscured view of the drilling floor below. Phil stayed only long enough to make introductions. I shook Elton’s damp, limp hand.

“Ma’am,” he said shyly, then hooked his thumbs in the back pocket of his starched khaki jumpsuit.

Closing the door, I unfolded a metal chair, sat, and said, “Tell me what you’ve done on the ship so far, Elton.”

Elton’s eyes widened behind his Coke-bottle glasses, making for a comical effect that fought with the rest of his no-nonsense appearance. His skin was dark and luminous, his black features handsome. Neat cornrows marched across his scalp to end in tight little balls at his hairline. Phil was right, he
was
a kid. He looked to be around twenty-five. He paced about the room as he gave me a quick rundown of the actions he’d taken since arriving on the
Magellan
and finished by asking, “Would you like my daily reports?”

“I would,” I said, motioning for him to sit. “But I’d also like to know if you’ve had any problems and if the mudloggers have been helpful to you.”

Elton blinked like a baby owl.

Taking another tack, I said, “Did you have any trouble installing your gas sensors down in the pit room?” A negative head shake. “What about over the shale shakers?” Another negative shake. “What about the sensors for the hook load and the kelly height?”