Piper One

By GuyBlythman

hundreds of miles from the nearest landfall, way out in the bleak north sea, is the oilrig piper one, where crew numbers have been considerably reduced by partial automation. not everyone is happy at the changes - but would they go so far as to commit murder in order to protest? was the gruesome death of the rig's chief engineer a tragic accident, or something more? it's rising young executive caroline kent's job to find out. she discovers that something very strange is afoot at the remote installation, in a nerve-wracking adventure which leads her to question the very purpose of her role as an oil troubleshooter, as well as place her life in grave danger, as she confronts not only human enemies, but a strange alien power from the dawn of time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GuyBlythman
• Release date: Oct 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9780955730351

GuyBlythman

I was born in Hampton, Middlesex, England on 29th March 1965 and educated at Millfield School, Somerset and Southampton University. I currently live in Shepperton, Middlesex. For medical reasons I haven't been in paid employment these last few years and spend most of my time writing and doing voluntary work. My first novel, Eye of the Sun God, was published in 2010. My other interests include philosophy, theology, current affairs, classical music, local history/industrial archaeology. I have contributed to the "Doctor Who" fanzines Mandria, Time-Space Visualiser and The Doctor's Recorder. I'm a keen member of my local church and of my local writers' workshop, Walton Wordsmiths. I have at various times been a political activist, a civil servant, President of my school and college debating societies and secretary of assorted committees. I go on long country walks in order to be alone but am not averse to meeting people for a drink and a chat from time to time.

Book preview

Piper One

Hundreds of miles from the nearest landfall, way out in the bleak North Sea, is the oil rig Piper One, where crew numbers have been considerably reduced by partial automation. Not everyone is happy at the changes – but would they go so far as to commit murder in order to protest? Was the gruesome death of the rig’s chief engineer a tragic accident, or something more?

It’s rising young executive Caroline Kent’s job to find out. She discovers that something very strange is at work at the remote installation, in a nerve-wracking adventure which leads her to question the very purpose of her role as an oil troubleshooter – as well as put her life in grave danger.

Copyright 2014 Guy Blythman

Published by Guy Blythman at Smashwords

ISBN 978-0-9557303-5-1

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

About the Author

One

Jock Guthrie, thirty-nine years old and Chief Engineer on the Piper One oil rig operated by International Petroleum Limited, interrupted his routine daily check of the installation's systems to cross to the safety rail at the edge of the deck, fold his arms on top of it, gaze out over the North Sea and wonder for the hundredth time in the last few days whether his wife was having an affair.

During his last spell of leave, it had seemed to him she went through all the things they did together in a mechanical, automatic sort of way. There was a certain cheerfulness to her manner but he had the disturbing sensation it wasn't because of him. She wasn't unhappy so much as distant. That was as much of a danger sign.

Not for the first time, he considered giving up the job and going for something on the mainland. Things happened while husbands were away working on rigs. That had long been recognised, of course, as an occupational hazard; but it was always someone else it happened to, and when suddenly that was no longer the case you felt it like a kick in the teeth.

He found the less pleasant aspects of his profession, which had never bothered him before, suddenly coming to mind. Stuck out here in the middle of the cold, grey sea doing hard, monotonous, often dangerous work. Was that what he was jeopardising his marriage for?

He felt a pang of guilt at the time he was taking to think over the matter. Best to keep it out of his mind if it wasn’t to interfere with his work. He wanted out all right, but it wouldn't look good with prospective future employers if he got the sack.

He heard someone approach him and looked round. "You OK, Jock?″ a colleague asked curiously.

He attempted to sound cheerful. Aye, of course I am, he replied. He turned abruptly and walked off, leaving the man staring after him.

He'd almost reached the rig's power plant, the next stop on his rounds, when the mobile phone in the pocket of his overalls rang. Aye? he answered.

Jock? Drill room here. We're getting problems with Number Three. Looks like a bit of whiplash. A slight pause followed. Wait a moment, it's cleared. We're bringing her up to check there's no damage. Will you take a look at her?

Aye. Be with you in a minute.

He re-entered the superstructure of the rig and went down several flights of stairs to the drill room, a vast echoing chamber divided into two levels with a central well, formed by four metal columns, down which the drill descended before entering the hollow interior of one of the legs of the rig and passing down through it to the sea bed.

Previously, the drill had had to be hauled up and assembled manually, piece by piece. Now, it was a single huge mass of metal controlled more or less entirely by the computer on the upper level. There were in fact a number of drills, each of which could be moved into position immediately if another had developed a fault.

Jock arrived in the drill room to see the slender, gleaming metal tube rising up through the opening in the floor of the chamber. He waited until the head of the drill, with its huge rotating cutters like those on a tin opener, was level with the inspection gantry.

He spoke into the mobile. All right, stop her.

The drill ceased rising with a clunk. Jock scrambled up the ladder to the gantry and across to it, his booted feet ringing out on the metal platform. He scanned the drill's titanium surface carefully. One of the cutters was slightly bent. Nothing much to worry about at the moment, but it could cause problems later if not seen to. He reported it to the drill operator. Reckon we'd better use another drill, and pull this one in for repairs. OK?

OK. Thanks, Jock.

Jock moved away from the drill as it ascended into the ceiling, disappearing into the hole above his head. He went back down the ladder.

At the bottom he paused, unable to exclude his marital problems from his thoughts. For a few minutes the matter of the drill had taken his mind off them, but now his worries were coming back.

If he could decide on a course of action it would put him at ease to some extent, prevent him being too screwed up by this. He'd have it out with Jeannie the next time he came home, he decided. If she was seeing someone during the two weeks he was out here on the rig, he'd offer to give up the job and see if it made any difference. Would it, though? He feared she might have got too high on whoever it was.

He was afraid that if he pushed the matter she might decide to jump. And he didn’t want to lose her.

A letter might just precipitate her departure. He had to be there, to argue her into staying with him. But if he waited even a day or two longer, she might in the meantime make up her mind to go. And experience told him that once a woman's mind was made up, it stayed made up.

What was he going to do?

Above him, the damaged drill was travelling to one side on a conveyor and its replacement was being swung into place. He looked up and saw it emerge through the opening in the ceiling and descend towards the one in the floor. He watched it idly as it came down.

Some time later, the drill operator was making an entry in his log book detailing the problem that had come up with the drill, and the steps taken to remedy it, when the internal phone rang.

It was the power plant. Is Jock Guthrie with you? By my reckoning he should have got here a while ago. We've just rung his mobile, but he's not answering.

The drill operator frowned. That doesnae sound like Jock. Hmmm...well, he was here a few minutes ago. I asked him to give me a hand wi' the drill. Let me see if I can find him anywhere.

The drill could be left to its own devices for the time being. Briskly he descended the ladder, though it occurred to him there wasn't a great deal of point to his search; he didn't see why Guthrie would still be hanging around in the drill chamber.

But Guthrie was there. Or rather his body was, lying beside the rotating steel tube of the drill with its arms and legs sticking out at odd angles. And it was a body, because the drill had gone straight through Jock’s head, disintegrating it and splattering blood and fragments of brain, bone and flesh over an area the size of a tennis court.

Caroline Kent breezed into the Managing Director's office at International Petroleum's London headquarters and flashed him a cheery smile. Morning, Marcus! Heard you got another job for me.

You heard correctly, said Marcus Hennig. And it couldn't be more different from your last one.

The last one had been in Venezuela, on the fringes of steaming tropical jungle. Hmmm, let me guess...well, unless it's the South Pole, which it can't be because we're not allowed to drill there any more...

She glanced at the model oil rig which took pride of place on his desk. It's not one of those, is it?

Yes, m'dear. It's one of those.

Beside the model was a rolled-up sheet of laminated paper. Hennig spread it out on the desktop, and she saw it was a map. In the centre were a cluster of little black dots roughly halfway between the coast of north-east Scotland and that of Norway.

Hennig's thumb descended on a dot located some distance away from the others. That, he said, is Piper One. And some odd things have been happening there over the past few months.

Like what? asked Caroline, her interest immediately aroused, as it was by any new assignment. She took a seat, hooking one knee over the other.

Tools and personal property gone missing, vital equipment malfunctioning, accidents which have caused serious injuries. On a number of occasions oil's been leaked into the sea, which has upset the green lobby. And just a couple of days ago, the chief engineer was killed.

Oh, said Caroline. Killed? How?

He was carrying out an inspection of the drill. Ten minutes or so after he was supposed to have finished he was found beside it with his head churned to pieces. Somehow or other it'd got under the thing.

Caroline grimaced, and a queasy shudder ran through her. Ugh, she said simply.

Indeed. He wasn't a pretty sight.

Do they think it was deliberate? she asked uneasily.

In the light of everything else that's been going on, murder can't be ruled out.

Is anyone in particular under suspicion?

"It could have been one of about half-a-dozen people. More, possibly. We've spoken to the police, of course. But there's no proof of foul play as yet. Same with all the other incidents. And the suspects have always strongly denied they did it. Of course if they are guilty, they would.″

Caroline put on her thinking cap. We could just be looking at a series of unfortunate events.

I think it's a bit too much of a coincidence, don't you?

Perhaps. On the other hand, if morale among the workforce is low for some reason it could have an effect on the way people do their work; leading to mistakes of the kind you shouldn't make on an oil rig. And they're not admitting to it because, morale or no morale, they don't want to lose their jobs. They could move to another company's rig, but they won’t because we pay them such good wages.

A death is a pretty serious matter. One or two people have already made clear they don't want to work on Piper One again.

They've introduced partial automation on one of the rigs, haven't they? Was it this one?

"As a matter of fact it was. Automation can only ever be partial, of course, because you'll always need a few people on hand in case anything goes wrong. But we've been able to reduce the number of personnel from two hundred to fifty, plus a doctor and his assistant.

It's being speculated that that might have had something to do with the trouble. The smaller and more isolated a community is the greater the tensions within it. Especially if it's a predominantly male one.

Also, they may feel resentment at it, suggested Caroline. It makes them feel less important. They could be afraid that one day the machines will take over altogether and they'll be out of work. I presume that when the automation was introduced, they were asked how they felt about it, what sort of impact they thought it would have on them? It would have been good management; the sort of thing she'd have done.

I think they were a little unhappy, Hennig admitted. But they didn't have much choice. I mean, there's no sense in employing people where there's no need to. And as for the rest thinking it's made them redundant, that's bollocks. As I said, we'll always need a certain number of humans about the place.

If it's sabotage, Caroline said, that's even more serious.

Hennig nodded. Right now the police are open-minded on the subject. As to who's responsible...well, it could be a rival company, although it's probably taking things too far to suggest they'd resort to murder. They'd have to be using our own staff...

"They couldn't be using anyone else. I don't see how they could have got on board the