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Chapter OneTHE CABLE SLIPPED over the collar and around the icy gray neck like a giant hangman's noose. Two hooded figures labored in a pool of halogen light, long shadows performing an erratic dance as their clumsy, mitten-clad hands struggled to secure the load. Seconds later, one of them shouted something, his words quickly stolen by the howling wind. Forty feet away, obscured by blowing snow, the floorman. knelt inside the rig enclosure and began wrapping rope around the cathead. A motor groaned from up above, gears grinding. The slack, three-quarter inch catline jinked once, twice . . . Suddenly it jerked taut, the loop shrinking to grip the pipe.
A thermometer on the outer wall read 57 degrees—below zero. The simple device failed to account for the chill factor, the thirty-mile-an-hour wind driving the temperature down to minus 134.
When the pipe had been pulled from the rack, up the wooden walk, and into the enclosure, a crew member hurried to shut the door against the cruel night.
Inside the rig, the pipe continued its journey, one end tipping skyward, following the cable up the derrick. Three stories up, perched on a monkey board, a small man in coveralls and a hard hat awaited its arrival. He would "stab" the pipe, guiding it into a similar piece of casing already seated in the ground.
When the pipe reached him, he took it in two gloved hands and aimed it at the hole thirty-five feet below. He quickly lined it up and shouted, "Go!" his mind busy calculating the time it would take them to set the remaining 1300 feet of pipe. They were behind schedule, but if things went well today, they might beable to . . .
As the piped jiggled slightly and floated away from him, he noticed something.
"Hold it!"
Peering into the pipe, he swore.
"Swing it over!"
The crew did, two men pulling the pipe to one side. The man stepped across the monkey board and, reached for a sledgehammer.
Still cursing the pipe, he warned the men below, "Got mud in it! I'm gonna give it a whack. Hang on!"
The steel cylinder rang like a chime with each tap. When that had no effect, he lifted the hammer and took a bigger swing. A gong echoed through the enclosure, but the interior of the pipe was still dark.
He cursed the black hole and swung at it as if it were his enemy. Clang! Clang! Clang! Nothing. Tossing the hammer aside, he examined his watch. An expletive escaped from his lips. Another delay. And all because the jerks back at the main camp didn't have the sense to check the pipes before sending them out to the location. He considered a hot, fiery resting place for the entire bunch. They were back-in Prudhoe, residing in relative luxury, eating pastries and watching first run movies, while he was here on a blasted ice island, sleeping in a crummy prefab building across the yard from the rig.
He retrieved a flashlight from his tool kit and took another look inside the pipe.
"Dang mud," he muttered.
"Did you get it?" a voice called from bellow.
"Heck no, I didn't get it!"
"What's the holdup?" The drilling foreman was aggravated.
"Some sort of obstruction," the man shouted back. "I can't tell what it is."
"What is it?" the foreman asked.
"I said, I can't tell!"
"What?"
"Probably mud!" the man answered.
He heard someone swear. "Can you get it loose?" the foreman wanted to know.
"I'm trying!"
"Use a sledge!"
"I did!"
"Use it again!"
The man took up the hammer and beat on the pipe with renewed energy, with vengeance. It teetered and swung away from him; the man chased it, whacked it, reared back and . . . missed—a full swing of air that nearly sent him off the monkey board. Regaining his balance, he told the pipe what it could do to itself.
"Any luck?" the foreman shouted up.
"No!"
"Then let's get it out of here. Bring in another section!"
On the floor of the rig the foreman climbed into his down parka, zipped up the hood and face mask, and pulled on a pair of gauntlet mittens. He followed the pipe back outside to its resting place on the rack. Waving to a man driving a forklift, he yelled, "Clear this thing!"
The roustabout hopped out of the lift and ran toward him. "What?" Two dark, almond-shaped eyes looked out from under the fur-lined hood, past the neoprene mask and clear goggles. Even with the cold weather disguise, it was obvious that he was a Native.
"Clear this thing! It's full of mud!"
The roustabout nodded. "Want us to finish this first?" He pointed to a stack of equipment crates that had been dumped unceremoniously near the center of the yard.
The foreman glanced at the crates, then back at the pipe rack. "Yeah. I think we've got enough casing to set the hole, but make sure it's clear before morning. Okay?"
"Okay."
The foreman trotted back to the rig enclosure, hunched against the wind, ice pellets assaulting his parka. When the roustabout reached his vehicle, he used the short-wave radio to contact his partner, another Native operating a lift just twenty yards away, somewhere behind the veil of snow.
"Hey, Sam, we got a pipe here we're supposed to clear."
There was a burst of static, then, "Tonight?"
"Yeah. After we get these crates into the hanger."
Sam swore through the static. "But Jim, the next shipment's due around three."
"Maybe we can finish this load and get the pipe cleared before the truck shows up."
"Maybe." Static crackled. "I really don't want anymore overtime. I haven't slept in two days. I feel like a zombie."
"Hey, man, me too. But the way we're gettin' paid, who cares?"
They both laughed at this.
"I'll bet we can move these crates, fix the pipe, and still have time to grab some coffee before the next shipment," Jim boasted.
"How much?"
"Twenty dollars."
"You're on." Both lifts grunted to action.
Two hours later, at 2:30 A.M., it looked like Jim was going to be twenty dollars richer. Having spread the equipment around the yard and stacked it into the sheds, they parked the lifts and approached the clogged pipe.
Jim shined a light inside. "What the heck's in there?"
"Huh? What's that?" The wind and their tight hoods made conversation almost impossible.
"I said . . ." he leaned toward his partner and shouted, "What the heck's in there?!"
"Mud?" Jim shrugged. "Stand back." He picked up a ten pound hammer and swung it as if he were splitting wood with an ax. The resulting clank was muffled, lost in a powerful, arctic gust.
"Hit it again!"
He took another half dozen swings at it, the smooth surface of the pipe refusing to wrinkle or scar. Sam sent the beam back into the pipe. "Still there. We need . . . um . . . a rod."
"A what?" Jim cupped his mittens over the spots on his hood where his ears would have been.
"Something long! To poke it out with!"
