heâd throw up again. So instead he clung to anything he could find that was solid enough and inched his way to the ladder.
He clipped his safety line to a rung and had just about plucked up enough courage to climb when a delicate ungloved hand thrust a small silver hipflask into his hand. He glanced around surprised to find the cool blue eyes of Ilana Petrova, one of the Russian roughnecks. He couldnât see her straw-blond hair. Like him, she kept her hair hidden away in the warmth of her survival suit hood. They all wore them on deck. He could see her tight smile though. Her thin, pink lips. âThank you,â he said meekly. âWhat is it?â
âItâs good,â she said in her thick Muscovite accent. âRum. And eat dry bread. When you throw up again, you need something toâtoââ
âTo throw up,â Matheson smiled, embarrassed. âYeah.â Ilana nodded at the flask encouragingly. Matheson took a swig. Wiped the top and handed it back. âThanks,â he said.
She tucked the flask away, slipped a glove back on and nodded in that curious Russian way. They eyed each other, and for just a brief moment Matheson actually didnât feel quite so ill. It didnât last long.
âWhatâs the problem with the node?â he asked tentatively.
Ilana frowned. âNothing,â she said.
âNothing?â Matheson mused. He watched her walk away, her familiar wiggle on display as she negotiated the rusty metal deck plates. He watched her climb the crane, get a slap on the ass and kick the guy in the face as another wave hit the bow and crystal droplets scraped against his skin. His stomach twisted in knots again as he climbed up out of the bitter cold. Questions formed in a torrid swirl in his mind. Why werenât his seasickness pills working? What was the point of wearing a survival suit in a place where you were unlikely to survive?
And what was Bulger playing at?
Â
The control room was dark, bathed in a deep red glow. Banks of monitors blinked reams of data at hunched engineers. The room stank of cigarette smoke and every so often he could smell Bulgerâs cigar. He was lurking in here somewhere. The murmuring was active as information traded hands and the drillâs progress was tracked. He glanced at a bank of screens showing the rig outside and watched for a moment as the pipe appeared to ram up and down inside the tower like a piston, as the ship bucked on the waves. It was impressive. There had been trials up in Alaska, of course, but this was the first true exploratory oil drill in a polar region. Problem was, this was Antarctica. Where it was illegal.
But then, illegal was not an alien concept to the big oil companies. Matheson never forgot his college days when a ship by the name of the Exxon Valdez poured over ten million gallons of oil straight into the ecosystem. That may have been an accident, but Exxonâs poor attempt at wriggling out of cleaning up its own mess was not.
But there was no National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration
in Antarctica to bring Rola Corp. into line if it screwed up. The company could effectively do what it liked. Yes, a permit was required to be here, but unofficially if Red Osprey struck oil in the meantime, the company was sure it could all be worked out. That was the troubleâRola Corp. had plans on Antarctic oil, with or without Ralph Matheson. So he figured it might as well be with him and by default with somebody who would make sure the Exxon Valdez never happened out here.
Trouble was, theyâd pulled the rug out from under him. They werenât supposed to be out here for another six months. They just werenât ready.
âWhatâs going on? Bulger said something about a problem with the node.â Matheson unzipped the parka part of his suit and made a bee-line for Charlie Harper, a black systems specialist from Wisconsin. They were friends, and had worked
Jeremy Robinson, David McAfee