Sea of Greed Read online

  • • •

  WITH THE SUBMARINE under control and the first batch of materials and a few prisoners on their way to the Dakar, Gideon contacted the captain. He received bad news.

  “French aircraft on radar, heading this way. Unsure of intentions. Our escape may prove to be more difficult than expected. We’re submerging and departing immediately. You and your men are to remain on the Minerve and sail her to Israel.”

  Gideon seemed surprised. “We’re commandeering her?”

  “I’m not going to send her to the bottom with her crew on board, nor can I put them in lifeboats or let them sail into port and tell the world about us. We must take the ship. We’ll send the sailors home once we reach Haifa.”

  “Without a wreck to find, the French will be suspicious,” Gideon insisted. “They’ll come looking that much faster.”

  “Do your best to deceive them,” the Dakar’s captain said. “Dump some oil and toss some life jackets and other materials overboard, then submerge and head south. Hopefully, they’ll think the Minerve went down.”

  “And if they do come looking?”

  “They’ll be looking for us,” the captain replied. “Either way, two boats gives us a better chance to get the materials back to Israel than one. But if at least one of us gets through, then Israel will be safer than she is today.”

  Gideon would have preferred sinking the Minerve, with or without the crew on board. He had no desire to lead the French crew at gunpoint. There were too many ways to sabotage the ship, too many things that could go wrong. Still, he did as ordered, dumping four hundred gallons of diesel oil and tossing out anything that might float and look like wreckage.

  The attempt to make the French think their submarine had gone down took only a few minutes. When it was completed, they were ready to move off.

  As the submarines turned away from each other, the Dakar signaled Good luck with a flashing light and then submerged.

  The Minerve dove less than two minutes later. Neither ship would ever surface again.

  PART TWO

  INFERNO

  3

  GULF OF MEXICO

  THE PRESENT DAY

  RICK L. COX stood in the operations room of the Alpha Star oil platform, ten stories above the water.

  Cox was a tool push, which meant he oversaw the whole drilling operation. It was a job he loved and after thirty years in the oil business he had a sixth sense about things. He didn’t need it today. One look at the panel told him a bad day was getting worse.

  The flow rates and pressure levels in the pipelines were off. And they were off in the wrong direction. Low and dropping lower, even though the Alpha Star platform and two of her sisters were pumping massive amounts of filtered water into the seabed to pressurize the oil field and force the black gold and natural gas upward.

  “This can’t be right,” Cox said to one of the crew. “How much water are we pumping?”

  “We’re maxed out on capacity,” one of the techs yelled back. “All pumps are running at full power.”

  Even so, they were registering only a weak stream of natural gas and no oil at all.

  Cox tilted the OSHA-mandated hard hat back to scratch his head and then grabbed a radio. Alpha Star was working in concert with two other platforms to save a dying offshore field. Maybe the other two rigs were holding back on him.

  “Alpha Two, pick up,” Cox said into the radio.

  “Alpha Two here,” a voice with a healthy Southern accent replied. “Reading you loud and clear.”

  “What’s your injection pressure?”

  “We’re right up against the redline.”

  Cox pressed the talk switch again. “Alpha Three, can you give us any more pressure?”

  The foreman from the third platform replied without hesitation. “We’re maxed out here as well, boss. If that oil doesn’t break loose soon, we’re gonna have to back off.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” Cox looked over the gauges once more. “Keep the pressure up. The geologists insist there’s an ocean of oil down there. If so, we’re going to force it out. I’m drilling down another hundred feet. That’ll tap it for sure.”

  As Cox finished speaking, he glanced over at Leon Nash, one of the roughnecks on his crew. “Take the bit down another hundred.”

  Nash hesitated. “The guys are a little worried, Chief. No one wants a blowout.”

  Cox brushed off the comment. “We’ve got measures in place. Just check the drill angle and punch it down another hundred feet.”

  Nash didn’t argue further. With great care he double-checked the setup and reactivated the bit. In the center of the huge oil rig, a thick pipe began to turn. Six thousand feet below, a carbide drill bit started burrowing deeper into the earth, churning through the mud, salt and layers of porous rock. Slurry came rushing up the pipe, but nothing more.

  “Fifty feet,” Nash said. “Seventy feet.”

  “Anything?”

  “No increase in flow,” Nash said.

  Cox was puzzled, they should have been well into the active oil by now. “Careful, now,” he urged. If the oil was there, it was being held under great pressure, then more pressure from the water being pumped down beneath it. Tapping it too cleanly could result in a sudden release, also known as a blowout. Like opening a soda bottle after you’ve vigorously shaken it up.

  “Thirty feet to go,” Nash said. “Twenty . . .”

  The needles on the panel flickered. The pressure in the collection grid began to rise.

  “Stop it there,” Cox said.

  “We have liquids and gas in the pipeline,” Nash said, pumping his fist. “Pressure coming up.”

  The roughnecks behind them cheered.

  Before Cox could join them, a series of indicators on his screen went from green to yellow.

  At the same instant, the radio came to life. “Pressure buildup in the collection grid,” the foreman at Alpha 2 said. “We’re getting some awfully high numbers here.”

  Cox could see that. He turned back to Nash. “Are you still drilling?”

  “Negative.”

  The radio chatter increased. Soon, Alpha 2 and Alpha 3 were talking over each other.

  “Ten thousand psi and rising.”

  “Heat buildup in the main line.”

  “Shut off the injectors,” Cox said.

  Levers were thrown from open to closed and the sound of the whining pumps in a distant part of the rig died. With no more water being pumped into the underlying rock, the pressure should have stabilized. It didn’t.

  “Twelve thousand psi,” Alpha 2 reported. “Thirteen . . .”

  Cox didn’t need the running commentary. He could see it right in front of him. The yellow indicators started blinking and then turned to angry, flashing red.

  “Shutoff valve failure,” Nash said from the other side of the room. “Pressure in the main line at fifteen thousand. Vent the pipes or the whole line is going to blow.”

  Cox had no choice. He palmed the button for the emergency pressure release and pressed it.

  Down below the rig, a network of crisscrossing pipes connected the oil platforms to one another and the collection grid. At critical points along the network, large valves opened to vent the gas pressure into the sea.

  It should have caused a massive but harmless release of bubbles as vented natural gas funneled upward, spreading and thinning while it rose to the surface. Instead, a rumbling sound traveled through the platform.

  “We got fire on the water,” Alpha 2 called.

  In the gap between the two rigs, a towering blaze erupted from the sea. It spread across the surface in a snaking motion, joining other waves of fire and soon engulfing all three platforms.

  “Seal the rig,” Cox ordered.

  Doors to all compartments were slammed shut against the sm
oke and flames, but as they buttoned up the platform, a shudder ran through it from deeper down. It shook the floor and buckled knees.

  “Pressure spike in the well,” Nash called out. “Blowout failure.”

  This was the worst news yet. It meant a surge of gas had burst past the bit and was traveling up through the hole they’d drilled.

  The pressure gauge went off the scale. The bubble of gas exploded through the blowout preventer and surged upward into the heart of the platform. It ignited the instant it hit the air, detonating in the heart of the rig like a thousand-pound bomb.

  4

  THE SAPPHIRE WATERS of the Gulf of Mexico surrounded Kurt Austin, buoying him as he kicked rhythmically. He wore a wetsuit and fins, but no diving gear, as he swam toward a submersible that bobbed on the surface a few yards away.

  A dark-haired figure sat on the nose of the small submarine. “About time you got here,” Joe Zavala said. “I was about to call Triple A.”

  Kurt reached the small craft and grabbed onto a handhold, floating beside it in warm water. “You couldn’t afford their rates.”

  Fact was, the submersible was sitting no more than a hundred yards from its mother ship, the NUMA vessel Raleigh, a two-hundred-foot ship packed with scientific instruments, operated by Kurt and Joe’s mutual employer, the National Underwater and Marine Agency.

  “What happened?” Kurt asked. “You were supposed to be on a two-hour dive. By my count, you’ve only been down thirty minutes.”

  “Hit something,” Joe said. “Or, I should say, something hit me. On the underside of the hull.”

  “Any damage?”

  “Not sure.”

  Kurt knew Joe needed to stay on the submersible to help the Raleigh hook on. “Throw me a mask,” he said. “I’ll take a look.”

  Joe pulled a diver’s mask from his kit and tossed it to Kurt. After adjusting the straps, Kurt took a deep breath and dived under the small craft. The bow of the submarine looked fine. A few feet back, he found a mark on the hull. Running his hand over it, Kurt decided it was organic. Some large fish or marine mammal had rammed the sub. It happened from time to time.

  Still holding his breath, Kurt continued aft, checking for more damage. He was just about to surface when he felt a strange sensation, like someone had thumped him in the chest. At the same moment, a pressure wave boxed his ears as it swept by.

  He surfaced, grabbed the handhold and flipped up the mask. “Did you feel that?”

  Joe was standing now, looking out toward the horizon. “No, but I saw it,” he said. “Shock wave running on the surface. Are you all right?”

  “Felt like a mule kick, but I’m fine.” Kurt pulled himself onto the submersible next to Joe. “Might have been seismic.”

  “I don’t think so,” Joe said. He pointed to the horizon. A trail of smoke was rising into the sky due east of their position.

  Sound and shock waves traveled four times faster and four times farther in water than they did in the air. Nearly a minute after Kurt had felt the pressure wave below, an echoing boom rolled over them from the distance.

  “That’s a long way off for us to hear and feel it,” Joe said.

  Kurt did some rough calculations. “Twelve miles,” he suggested, “give or take. Who’s out there?”

  “Only the oil platforms,” Joe said.

  A grim look settled on both of their faces. Joe dropped back into the submersible, sat in the command chair and powered the sub up.

  Kurt climbed up and dropped in beside him, grabbing the radio.

  “Raleigh, this is Austin,” he said. “Prepare for pickup. And contact the Coast Guard. I have a feeling our assistance is going to be needed.”

  * * *

  • • •

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Kurt and Joe stood on the bridge of the Raleigh with the ship’s microphone in Kurt’s hand. The Raleigh was already traveling at flank speed, heading in a direct line for the inferno in the distance.

  Kurt’s estimate of twelve miles had been almost dead-on. The Alpha Star oil rig was burning 11.7 miles away. Holding the microphone near his mouth, Kurt adjusted the frequency and pressed the transmit switch. “Alpha Star, this is Raleigh. We’re coming to render aid. Please advise status.”

  Kurt stood six feet tall, with a rugged build, a square jaw and a thick tangle of prematurely silver hair on his head. Tanned from days on the water and weathered from years in the elements, he looked older than his age, though he was squarely in his mid-thirties.

  He was the head of Special Projects at NUMA, a branch of the federal government known for taking action when the calls came in, especially in situations like the present one.

  He changed frequencies and sent out the same message. There was no response. “Nothing on any of the regular or emergency channels.”

  Across from him the Raleigh’s captain, Kevin Brooks, took the information stoically. “Coast Guard reports three rigs on fire,” he said. “Two of them are evacuating. But the Alpha Star is in the thick of the inferno.”

  “There has to be help on the way,” Joe suggested.

  “Plenty of it,” Brooks said. “But we’re the closest ship. That oil rig will be a melted pile of slag by the time anyone else arrives.”

  Kurt expected that to be the case. “Let’s see how bad it is.”

  Putting the microphone in its cradle, he switched on a monitor and tapped a few keys. The screen was linked to a pair of high-powered cameras at the top of the Raleigh’s antenna mast. The cameras had long-range lenses and high-powered optic sensors that allowed them to see in many wavelengths simultaneously. They could make out a license plate from a mile offshore and were stabilized on gyroscopic mounts that enabled continuous, crystal clear video, even as the ship pitched and rolled.

  As Kurt focused the cameras, the inferno came into view. The Alpha Star platform was half shrouded in dark smoke and burning everywhere they could see. Only the upper rigging remained in the clear.

  “Worse than I thought,” Brooks said. “It’s no wonder they can’t respond.”

  “There’s an odd angle to the rigging,” Joe pointed out. “The platform is listing. It has to be taking on water down below. We need to get there before that rig turns turtle on us.”

  Kurt adjusted the camera, pulling back. In the wider shot, they could see fires raging all across the sea, surrounding the Alpha Star and both of the other rigs. “We’re going to have to sail through the fire to do that,” Kurt said.

  The captain glanced at the screen. “You know they’re probably all dead.”

  “They might be,” Kurt said. “But if there are survivors, they won’t be getting out of there without our help.”

  Captain Brooks had his own crew to think about, but he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the microphone and switched the selector to the shipwide intercom. “All hands, this is the captain,” he said. “We’re taking this ship into the fire. I want it buttoned up like we’re entering a force ten typhoon. Prepare to take on casualties and render assistance.”

  Kurt nodded at the captain and took another look at the screen. The fires were immense. The smoke already two miles high and drifting toward Florida.

  “I can get you in there,” Brooks said. “But what on earth are you going to do after that?”

  “Nothing on earth,” Kurt said. “We’re men of the sea.”

  With that, he turned and left. Whatever Kurt had in mind, Captain Brooks knew better than to try to stop him. Kurt’s reputation was too well known for that. Some called him brave, others hardheaded, reckless and foolhardy, but no one doubted him. If anyone could get through that fire and pluck a few survivors from the inferno, it was Kurt Austin.

  5

  ALPHA STAR PLATFORM CONTROL ROOM

  RICK L. COX regained consciousness in stages. First he realized he was awake, then he realized he was alive, then he realized
he was in a great deal of pain.

  He lay on his side, with a tremendous amount of pressure on his body. Something was crushing him, though he couldn’t tell what it was. Looking around didn’t help, the control room was dark except for a pinprick of light coming from one of the battery-powered emergency lights on the wall.

  Finding something to push on, Cox forced himself forward, squirming out from under a pile of equipment that had fallen on him. Free of the weight, he took another look around him and tried to stand. Getting up was one thing, remaining vertical was something else. He took one step and found himself falling and grabbed the wall.

  At first, he assumed his balance was off, but once he steadied himself he realized the entire room was tilted over.

  That’s a bad list, he thought, trying to remember how far the Alpha Star could roll before capsizing.

  With a pronounced limp, he struggled forward, grabbing the emergency light and pulling it from the wall. Pointing it this way and that, he spotted several crew members. Three of the crewmen were dead. Nash was huddled with a crewman named Haney and two others who were so new to the team that Cox could not remember their names.

  Neither of the rookies looked able to walk.

  “Anyone else?” Cox asked.

  Nash shook his head.

  Cox searched desperately for a working radio. The main system was obviously out, but a handheld was found. He dialed in the emergency channel and began broadcasting.

  “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is Alpha Star Control. We’ve had a blowout. Rig is on fire. Five men trapped in the control room. Believe the rig is sinking fast. Send all possible help.”

  As Cox waited for a response, sweat poured off his face. They were standing inside an oven and the heat was rising.

  “It’s a short-range radio,” Nash said. “No one’s gonna hear it. Unless they’re within a few miles of us.”

  Cox knew that, but he had no other cards to play. He tried one more time and then grabbed onto the wall as the rig lurched to the side. The list worsened, but to Cox’s amazement the rig didn’t tip over.