The Meridian Star was an old supply vessel, rust-streaked and squat, its hull scarred by years of runs to the offshore platforms. Stone arrived at the north harbor before dawn, the sky still black, the dock lights throwing long shadows across the water. He wore work boots, a worn canvas jacket, and a cap pulled low. The duffel bag over his shoulder held the clothes of Carl Renton, a drifter looking for work.
Captain Hobbs was a thick man with a gray beard and a voice like gravel. He stood at the top of the gangway, a clipboard in one hand, a coffee cup in the other. He barely glanced at Stone's forged paperwork before jerking his head toward the deck.
"Renton. You're on the cargo crew. Don't touch anything you don't understand, and don't talk to anyone you don't know." Hobbs turned away, then added over his shoulder, "First trip to Helix-9?"
"First trip," Stone said.
"Then keep your head down. That platform eats the careless."
Stone nodded and stepped aboard. The deck was crowded with pallets of food, machinery parts, and yellow safety equipment, all strapped down under heavy netting. Four other men stood near the bow, smoking and talking in low voices. They glanced at Stone without interest, then went back to their conversation.
The engines rumbled to life as the last of the cargo was loaded. The gangway was raised, the lines cast off, and the Meridian Star pushed away from the dock into the black water of the harbor. Stone stood at the rail, watching the lights of Port Brannock recede behind him, the town shrinking to a thin line of gold on the horizon.
The sun rose over the sea, first a pale smear, then a blazing arc of light that turned the water to hammered silver. Stone stayed at the rail, saying nothing, watching the crew work. They were rough men, hardened by years on the water, their faces leathered and their hands scarred. They moved with the easy economy of men who had done this a hundred times.
One of them, a tall man with a shaved head and a tattoo of a serpent on his forearm, wandered over and leaned on the rail beside Stone.
"First time on a rig?" the man asked.
"First time on this one."
The man nodded. "I'm Greer. Been running supplies to Helix-9 for six years. It's a good rig, as rigs go. But it's had a rough stretch lately."
"What do you mean?"
Greer glanced around, then lowered his voice. "Three dead men in four years. Now a fourth. The one they found floating last week. Cole, his name was." He shook his head. "Company says it was accidents. The news says he was a drunk. But I knew Cole. He wasn't a drunk. And he wasn't careless."
Stone kept his face still. "What do you think happened?"
"I think the sea doesn't kill men who respect it." Greer looked out at the water. "And Cole respected it. More than most."
He pushed off the rail and walked away before Stone could ask more. Stone watched him go, then turned back to the sea. The rig was visible now, a dark shape on the horizon, growing slowly against the morning sky.
Helix-9 rose out of the water like a steel monster, its legs anchored in the deep, its decks stacked high above the waves. Flares burned at the top of the tower, and the air smelled of salt and diesel and something sharper, an industrial tang that caught in the back of the throat. The platform was huge, far bigger than Stone had imagined from the photographs, a city of iron and pipe and grinding machinery suspended between sea and sky.
The Meridian Star pulled alongside the lower deck, where a loading platform extended over the water. Crew members on the rig threw lines, and the supply boat was made fast. A crane lowered a cargo net, and the transfer began. Stone joined the line of men passing crates and equipment onto the platform, working in silence, his muscles warming to the labor.
A man in a yellow hard hat approached, a clipboard in his hand. He was short and stocky, with a face like a bulldog and eyes that moved too fast.
"New man?" he barked. "Name?"
"Carl Renton," Stone said.
The man consulted his clipboard. "Renton. Driller's assistant. You're assigned to the lower deck, C-section. Report to the shift supervisor, Harlan Crane. He'll get you oriented." He pointed to a metal stairwell. "Up there. Third level. Don't wander."
Stone nodded and picked up his duffel bag. The stairwell was steep and narrow, the metal steps ringing under his boots. He climbed to the third level and stepped onto a walkway that ran along the side of the main deck. The noise was constant, a low roar of engines and pumps and the endless wind.
Harlan Crane was a thin man with gray hair and deep lines around his mouth. He stood outside a small office near the crew quarters, a mug of coffee in his hand. He looked Stone over with the weary eyes of a man who had seen too many new hires come and go.
"Renton. You got experience?"
"Two years on the Brannock Shelf," Stone said. "Driller's assistant."
Crane grunted. "Then you know the drill. We work twelve-hour shifts. Safety comes first. You don't touch anything you haven't been trained on. You see something wrong, you report it. You don't report it, it's your job. Understood?"
"Understood."
Crane pointed to a door at the end of the walkway. "Bunkhouse B. Find an empty bunk. Stow your gear. Then report back to me."
Stone found the bunkhouse easily enough. It was a long narrow room with rows of bunks bolted to the walls, each with a thin mattress and a metal locker. A few men were inside, sleeping or reading or staring at their phones. Stone took an empty bunk near the back and stowed his duffel bag in the locker.
The shift was hard. Stone worked the lower deck, hauling equipment, checking gauges, following orders. The labor was brutal, the heat from the machinery relentless. By midday his shirt was soaked with sweat and his hands were raw. But he kept moving, kept watching, kept listening.
The men on the rig were a closed tribe, their conversations guarded around the new arrival. But Stone caught fragments. Whispers about the dead man. Looks toward the upper deck where the security office sat. A name spoken quietly, with fear or anger or both.
Marcus Vane.
Stone saw him once, late in the afternoon, standing on an upper walkway above the main deck. Vane was tall and broad, dressed in a dark suit despite the heat, his hair cropped short and his jaw like a cinder block. He stood still, watching the work below, his hands at his sides. A man next to him spoke, and Vane nodded without taking his eyes off the deck.
Stone kept his head down, his face hidden under the brim of his cap. He felt Vane's gaze pass over him like a searchlight, cold and impersonal, then move on.
That night, Stone lay in his bunk, staring at the ceiling. The bunkhouse was dark and quiet, the only sound the distant rumble of the rig and the breathing of sleeping men. He thought about the deck cam footage, the seven seconds of violence that had ended his brother's life. He thought about the backup server, the offline system that might hold the full recording. He needed to find it.
He waited until the room was still, then slipped out of his bunk and moved silently to the door. The walkway outside was dimly lit, the night wind cold against his skin. The rig was never quiet, but at night the noise seemed to take on a different quality, lower and more ominous, like the breathing of a sleeping beast.
Stone moved along the walkway, keeping to the shadows. He had studied the layout in the file Marrow had given him, memorizing the locations of the main structures. The server room was on the second level, near the administrative offices. If he could reach it without being seen, he might be able to access the backup system.
He reached a junction of two walkways and paused. Voices drifted from somewhere below, low and hard. Stone crouched and peered over the edge. On the lower deck, near the loading platform, two men stood in the shadows. One was Vane. The other was the man from the dock, the short stocky one with the clipboard.
"I don't like it," the stocky man was saying. "The new guy. Renton. He asks too many questions."
"He's been here one day." Vane's voice was calm, bored. "What kind of questions?"
"Wanted to know about the crew. Who worked with Cole. Where the security cameras were." The man shifted his weight. "I told you. We should have handled this differently."
"We handled it the way we were told to handle it." Vane stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Now stop worrying. If Renton is a problem, I'll deal with him. But first I need to know who sent him."
Stone felt a cold thread run down his spine. He backed away from the edge, moving slowly, carefully. Then he turned and made his way back toward the bunkhouse. The night wind followed him, cold and full of secrets.
He reached the door and slipped inside, easing the latch shut behind him. The room was as he had left it, the men still sleeping. Stone lay down on his bunk, his heart beating slow and steady, his mind racing.
They were already suspicious. One day on the rig, and the net was already tightening. He would need to move fast. Find the server. Get the footage. And get off the rig before Vane made good on his promise.
But even as he closed his eyes, Stone knew it wouldn't be that simple. The rig was a fortress, and the men who ran it were already watching. The only question was how much time he had left.
He was still awake when the first gray light of dawn crept through the small window above his bunk. The new day was beginning, and with it, a new danger. Stone sat up, laced his boots, and prepared for another shift.
Today, he would find the server room. Today, he would find the truth.
Or today, he would die trying.
No comments yet. Be the first to comment!