Houston, 2015: Miss Uncertainty

By Mike McKay

Here comes the Young's Modulus, with its buddy, the Ultimate Strength. If you load a drill pipe beyond its Ultimate Strength, sooner or later the pipe snaps and whacks you – in the head. So your bloody ‘protective’ hard-hat finds its way into your ‘protective’ steel-caps boots. You can mumble magic spells, or pray to the God of All Drill Pipes, or take a proper grip on your favorite semi-automatic. The law-respecting Wicked Flying Pipe does not care less. By law, it must whack. The Law of Physics, you know? As for my genre, it must be... Not-So-Alternative-History.

What am I about? Ah, so those Laws of Physics, damn it! The Law of Conservation of Energy, AKA The First Principle of Thermodynamics. Have you studied it at school long time ago? Forgotten? Never heard? Too bad. This very Law is playing a cruel practical joke with all the inhabitants of the planet Earth, including you, Dear Reader! A joke so practical and so cruel, the Wicked Flying Pipe from the previous paragraph looks a harmless schoolyard prank. Intrigued?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike McKay
• Release date: Jul 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311885081

Book preview

Houston, 2015

Miss Uncertainty

Mike McKay

Text copyright © Mike McKay 2014-2015

Cover illustration copyright © Mike McKay 2015

Smashwords Edition License Notes

The right of Mike McKay to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other books by Mike McKay:

Houston, 2030: The Year Zero

Houston, 2030: With Proper Legwork

Chapter 1. Alastair McBride, Principal Reservoir Engineer, Penezhskoye.

The drawn-out search for Malaysia Airlines flight MH370 will revert to an area hundreds of miles south of the previously suspected crash site following new analysis of the plane's flight path, a report said on Friday.

Investigators grappling to solve the mystery of the jet's disappearance are set to scour a zone 1,100 miles (1,800km) west of Perth – previously subject to an aerial search – when an underwater probe resumes in August, the West Australian newspaper said.

Citing unnamed US sources, the Guardian said Australia's Joint Agency Coordination Centre (JACC) would soon announce that the hunt would move 500 miles south-west from where it was previously focused.

It said the sources had revealed that survey ship Fugro Equator was already operating in this area and would soon be joined by Chinese vessel Zhu Kezhen.

A massive aerial and underwater search for MH370, which had 239 people on board when it diverted from its Kuala Lumpur to Beijing flight path on 8 March, has failed to find any sign of the plane.

Agence France-Presse website,

Friday, June 20, 2014[1]

When Lanz came to our bullpen and leaned, in his usual manner, over the cubicle wall, I understood our boss was not in good moods.

What's wrong, Calvin? I asked, lifting eyes from the blue-and-white screen of my gas properties simulator. Vic, at the opposite corner of our bullpen continued typing at his workstation, but turned his head, indicating attention.

Last night, I was introduced to our new VP. Gave him a status brief and mentioned your new reserves figures.

And so?

Not much. He nodded, thanked me for the brief, and asked to set up a meeting today, after lunch. Just a short presentation, thirty to forty minutes. His personal conference room, at the sixth floor, is already booked for us.

Do I hear ‘for us’?

He asked for Sandra and myself, but I suggested you and Vic should join.

Freaking perfect, Calvin! Vic said, turning on his office chair, Freaking, freaking perfect! As if we have nothing else to do! And the seismic attributes' maps – our new VP calculates for you, does he?

Don't get upset, Vic, Calvin raised both hands in the air, We keep it within an hour, I promise.

I smiled. The view was funny, like in some old WW2 film. Halt! Hände hoch! A bearded Russian partisan at the Eastern Front captures a tow-haired German Oberstleutnant! For the historical setting, Vic was missing a fur hat and a Schmeisser, and the zonked Oberst should hold a leather case with the German top-secret maps.

I know how we keep it within an hour! Vic moaned. With Mister Patton, was it one hour, hey? The first presentation, then the second, then the twelfth… I've lost the freaking count! Before each meeting, we changed our slides at least two times. PowerPoint is invented by the American CIA!

News to me, Calvin said. To this moment, I've believed that PowerPoint is invented by Bill Gates.

Vic has a conspiracy theory, I said, according to him, our old man Bill was a mere project manager. The CIA issued Microsoft the technical specs and paid for the PowerPoint development. To destroy the USSR!

Vic nodded. Look! While we had no PowerPoint, the USSR was alright. After the PowerPoint – all collapsed. Instead of doing something useful, everybody started talking each other through endless slides.

OK, gents, enough jokes! Calvin said, Get ready for fourteen-thirty. And, for God sake, don't edit your slides. The stuff composed for Sam Patton – is plenty. The date on the title page, that's all you need to change! I hope, Sandra enjoys the VP spotlight.

"Rejoice! Rejoice! Vic sang. Then, in his normal voice, The king is dead, long live the king! How many klicks tomorrow morning?"

Three, Calvin said.

I suggest – six, Vic said, one loop at full speed and one loop – for pleasure. How about you, Alastair?

I'd better skip it, gents. My shoulders are still sore from your yesterday's ‘for pleasure’.

Calvin is a skiing maniac: mountain skis, cross-country, snowboard, and even biathlon. Without snow, he runs on asphalt, with his inline skates and his ski poles. Vic Zorin is an equal maniac, just somewhat simpler. He claims the snowboard is the best method to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair. Thus, in the winter he does strictly cross-country, and in the summer runs on ‘rollers’ – short running skis with wheels. One not so nice day, I was stupid enough to follow my colleagues into a sports store. They selected me rollers, poles, a bicycle helmet, and all the other stuff. Now the maniacs force me to go skiing ‘for your pleasure’ and promise to get me the proper cross-country gear in the Autumn… Not a Scots' sport! I'd rather be golfing…

Precisely at half-past-two, we sat in the VP meeting room, the projector on, and the title slide at the screen: Penezhskoye Field. Natural Gas, Lease Condensate and Oil Rim Reserves in Place. June 2015.

Andrew Smiles entered from his office, and I disliked our new VP from the first glance. For your typical oilman, he was too groomed and polished, as if presently unpacked from gift wraps. Everything on Smiles was just so: his bright necktie accompanied by an expensive clip, his cuffs held with equally elegant cufflinks. It looked that his whole life he handled nothing heavier than a pencil, and even the pencils were a two-person lift. Smiles' predecessor, Sam Patton, I liked way better. Sam had paws of a real driller: thick fingers, chisel fingernails. As for the neckties, Sam used them only at the company Christmas parties – and got rid of them sometime between his mandatory speech and his second drink.

The rumors of Patton's unexpected resignation had been contradictory. Some said he left the oil industry for the inheritance in Texas and moved to the ranch to look after his father's dairy. Others suggested that after the midlife crisis, Sam became a downshifter, and did not give a damn about career.

Calvin introduced the participants. The VP's handshake also displeased me. For such, the Highlanders say: he shakes hands like spits. Even teen girls squeeze your hand tighter, and not only in Scotland. Take Vic, for instance. From the first moment we were introduced, I liked the guy, exactly because of his handshake. Back then, I even thought, it would be a great prank to dress Doctor Zorin in a kilt, take him to a party and introduce by a Clan surname. His red beard was natural. No doubt, the prank would go bust with Vic's Russian accent, but for the first five minutes, if he kept his mouth shut, the illusion would be perfect. Later, as Vic and I worked alongside, I understood my initial assessment was no mistake. In his career, Vic lifted things way heavier than a pencil: the geophone spreads and other such geophysical hardware.

Are you presenting? our new VP asked Calvin.

Lanz shook his head. Why me? I've invited the authors. Victor will brief you on the static volumes, and Alastair – on the dynamic model and the reserves' estimates.

And you, Mister Lanz, – not qualified to give the same talk?

My stomach tightened. Really! Calvin is more than qualified to speak for each one of us in the Directorate Technology!

I would prefer you hear it from the authors, Calvin replied. This business is too important to play broken telephone.

Smiles nodded. No broken phone is fine with me.

Vic stepped to the screen and started his geology talk. He called it explaining with fingers, and I always loved his style. Here he says anticline: both palms in the air, showing the fold shape. Here he says east slope: his hand reaches into the pocket, and a two-inch core plug hits the polished table. West slope, – the second core plug knocks. His talk is full of special terms, but clear, even for a non-geologist. Vic says turbidites and drops a fast inline explanation: beach sand, mixed with waves, excellent permeability! Here is Lacustrine environment, again an explanation at once: a lake or an isolated bay, calm water, fine sediments. As a university professor, he would be the students' favorite!

In short, that's all on geology, Mister Smiles. Any questions?

"What's your Alma Mater, Mister Shorin?"

Vic raised eyebrows. "It's ‘Zorin’, with ‘Zed’. The Moscow State University, why?"

One's Alma Mater is important, but what the heck does it have to do with the Penezhskoye Gas in Place?

Excuse me: Mister Zorin. I didn't catch your surname. Excellent slides, very impressive graphics. Do you have a Ph.D. in Oilfield Geology?

A Candidate. In Physics and Mathematics.

A Candidate? Not a full Ph.D. yet?

Vic smiled. In Russia, the system is different. A Candidate of Science – is like the Western Ph.D., and our Doctor of Science – is the same as Doctor, Professor in America.

The VP nodded. Got it, Mister Zorin. Thanks. Now – Mister McBride?

I finished my talk in a grave silence.

After a long pause, Smiles asked: Thus, you're telling me the Penezhskoye Ultimate Recoverable Reserves stand at eleven trillion cubic feet, is it correct?

Eleven trillion cubic feet – is the GIIP. Gas Initially In Place. The recoverable volumes are significantly less. As Doctor Zorin has explained, the east flank tectonics…

Tectonics?

Heck, I must learn not to stick slang in every phrase. "Aye! The formation has mediocre permeability, and, at the same time, is split by multiple faults. So, gas sits in rather small blocks, and the wells' drainage areas…"

Smiles raised his palm halting my puzzle-headed explanations. The URR – eleven trillion feet. Yes or no?

Not URR, Mister Smiles. GIIP! Gas Initially…

The Recoverable Volumes – eleven trillion, the VP insisted. Is this only your opinion, Mister McBride, or other experts have the same?

Th' polish'd idiot doesn't get pla'n fuck'n English, does he? Good I didn't say it aloud, as my Gran' Uncle would do with no second thought. Aye, Smiles speaks Texan, and I speak Scottish. Although, my pronunciation has been fine with everybody else.

Gas Initially In Place – is what you have underground prior to production drilling. The Ultimate Recoverable Reserves – is how much you can extract to surface in economically meaningful way. Economically meaningful! If you have unlimited money, you can extract the entire GIIP, to the last molecule of methane. Unfortunately, chasing that very last molecule may take centuries. Not surprising, the last molecule will cost you an arm and a leg! Are you ready to pay millions of dollars for just one molecule? In practice, URR is always less than GIIP, sometimes – by an order of magnitude.

Well, Mister Smiles, I clicked the presentation back to the wanted slide and tried to calm down, it would be so nice, if only I had this opinion.

And I told our new VP what Vic and I discovered back in January.

Penezhskoye was found in the late seventies, in the mighty empire called the USSR. Back then, marine seismic prospecting was a bloody expensive exercise (still not too cheap, by the way), but the empire had plenty of cash and tried the new technology. We must admit, socialism was not a bad thing. For instance, if Harold Wilson and Lord James Callaghan did not try socialist methods in the UK, we would get marine seismic vessels after the Soviets. The North Sea oil and gas would happen a quarter century later, and the Conservative Margaret Thatcher would spend her entire Parliament career at the back bench instead of fighting the coal trade unions and Argentina. At the very best, we would remember her as Thatcher, Thatcher, the Milk Snatcher. Without those iron platforms in the roaring North Sea hell, no Soviet journalist would call her the Iron Lady!

As the Diabase seismic vessel of the Far East Marine Geology shot the requested profiles, Russian geophysicists saw in the black-and-white traces two dozen enormous structures – the potential oil and gas traps. From Australia, a beaten but still workable jackup rig had been purchased, and the very first exploration well gave a steady flow of natural gas.

The exploration was slow and tedious. In the Sea of Okhotsk, the jackup drilling was possible from July to September. A week earlier – you might be hit by the killer Pacific cyclones. A week too late – and the killer pack ice would crush your rig. Three more exploration platforms joined the fleet, but one soon sunk, and another, the largest and the most advanced – was dispatched to Vietnam on permanent basis. The Socialist Republic of Vietnam was hungry for oil, and the mighty USSR helped her little barefoot stepsister.

In the beginning, each of the remaining two rigs drilled just one well per year. Gaining experience and learning from mistakes, Russian drillers found the way to do two wells per rig through the short summer. Every year, the geological maps added two, three, or even four tiny circles with horns: black fill – for oil, no fill – for gas. For oil, the celebrated geologists got the Soviet Orders. For gas – just medals. The daredevil drilling crews received money, cars, and condos.

The immense undersea structures – received personal names. As the names of far planetary systems, never reached by the sci-fi heroes of the seventies. Those mysterious Far Eastern names! Whether French, from the brave hydrographers of Captain de Laperouse, or Russian, from equally brave officers of Admiral Nevelskoy, or the primordial Asian. Arutun-Dagi. Piltun-Astokh. South Kirinskoye. Lunskoye. Odoptu. Penezhskoye. The Far Eastern oil and gas crown jewels of the mighty empire: the USSR!

Only exploratory wells were ever drilled. The Soviet Union had plenty of oil in Siberia. Plenty, with great excess! Enough for the empire, her satellites, and even – for her enemies. One pipeline poured into Europe with the black gold of Samotlor. The second pipe tirelessly pumped gas – the blue gold – of Novy Urengoy. The Far East shelf deposits were discovered, explored, and retained for the future – one day, their turn would come.

Upon the discovery, the Penezhskoye GIIP estimate was six trillion cubic feet. Russian geologists used, of course, cubic meters, but I prefer Imperial units. The delineation plan provisioned for five more wells to be drilled in four years, and the estimate had been updated: not six trillion, but nine and a half! A major deposit! Not quite a giant, as the famous Lunskoye, but still plenty.

It so happened the Soviet Union never had chance to shine in her Far East crown jewels. The empire collapsed! On the ruins, the new empire grew, short of her former satellites, desperate, but with ballistic missiles. The first Russian President, Boris Yeltsin, understood he couldn't hold Russian Far East on empty promises of butter and red caviar. The caviar – the Far East had tons, as for vodka and bread – there were permanent shortages. A brilliant idea suddenly came, what if we sell some of our oil and gas jewels to Americans? The development drilling would start, foreigners – come in, jobs – created. With the jobs, the locals would get vodka and bread! Even more important, our new good friend from that opposite side of the ocean, would move his nuclear baton: hey, China! Do you think in case of any problems only Russians whack you with the nukes? See, I'm here! In my top hat with stars and stripes! Uncle Sam protects American investments in the Russian Far East, understand? No? Ones more, letter by letter: RUSSIAN! Ah! This time, you got it right! The People's Republic of China had no questions whatsoever.

Unlike the Chinese, the American oil companies had questions. The crown jewels are so far – on the other side of the ocean! To make such a development lucrative, the Russian deposits must not be just large, but enormous. Silently, the deposits began to grow. In 1995, Penezhskoye Gas Initially In Place reached twelve trillion cubic feet. Don't you see how strange it was? Neither new well drilled, nor a single mile of new seismic profile shot, but GIIP grew!

In 1996, Marathon Oil Co, fingers crossed behind her back, rented a rusty jackup rig from nearly-bankrupt Far East Marine Geology and drilled a solo exploratory well. Suddenly: a miracle! Penezhskoye Gas in Place was not twelve, but fifteen trillion! Those stupid Russian bears didn't know how to compute reserves!

In 1997, GIIP grew even more: seventeen trillion. Marathon shot the first 3D-3C seismic survey at the Russian shelf, with GPS-guided guns and streamers. Once again, Western technology proved its superiority.

Then, Marathon sold, and we bought! Our in-house reserves calculation of 2003 stated: twenty trillion cubic feet of natural gas.

It all sounded so promising, but through the last six months we rechecked the Soviet calculations from the distant eighties. After adding all the new data, we saw, those ‘Russian bears’ were not stupid. (A real bear, as any zoologist or hunter may tell you, – is a very clever and resourceful animal). The Russian estimates were nearly right! Perhaps, on conservative side, but way more accurate than our twenty trillion plus change.

On my slide, the historical figures sat in a neat table.

Gas Initially In Place, P-50 Estimate (trillion cubic feet):

1985: 9.5

1995: 12.2

1997: 17.0

2003: 20.1

And the last line, for year 2015, – with a huge question mark.

I don't see a problem, Smiles said. The Russians estimated Penezhskoye at ten trillion. Thirty years passed, the reserves improved. Why should I believe that Russian geologist from 1985, but not the Marathon's or our own in-house projections? The 1985 Russian geologist – surely retired by now, and probably even dead.

I wanted to reply, but Calvin stopped me by rising his hand.

You forget that our company has been producing Penezhskoye gas for over five years, he said. On average, we make two-point-seven billion feet per day. As of this month, we withdrew 5572 billion cubic feet. The total production figure is accurate, give or take just four billion.

I love accurate numbers! Smiles nodded to Lanz. Thus, five trillion is out, and fifteen is still in the ground. Everybody in this room have enough till our retirements.

No way we have fifteen trillion in the ground, Mister Smiles, Vic said. You've seen our calculations! All the data prior to 2003, as well as all six years of production data from Penezhskoye-Alpha, – indicate GIIP not exceeding sixteen trillion feet. Sixteen minus five-point-five – is less than eleven!

Eleven trillion? For my retirement, it makes no difference, Mister Zorin. But if you have concerns about your pension fund – go find a couple of new deposits. You're a geophysicist, aren't you? No rush. Those new deposits, you may need them in… well, roughly in ten years, as a very minimum!

The VP smiled and even winked. A misplaced black humor, or did he give no shit about our gas reserves?

I pointed to the slide. Sixteen trillion is the maximum GIIP estimate. It means ten and a half trillion remaining is also the maximum possible.

And the minimum?

Less than four trillion. That's by the GIIP count.

What estimate should I use: four trillion or ten and a half?

You can't just have one number, sir. It's a geological uncertainty, I said.

Smiles clapped his hands – lightly, barely touching the fingertips. Got it: a geological uncertainty! Thank you, gents. Excellent report, and your slides look very professional indeed.

Excellent slides – what a freaking complement! Slides are the professionals' barf onto the managerial trousers. How Vic put it: the CIA cunning plan to break the Soviet Union, which had backfired on America. Smiles should have prized us for checking his reserves and alerting everybody what would soon happen to our LNG.

Our geology gurus are free to go, the new VP continued. Don't forget your stones, Mister Zorin. I need to discuss the outcome of your discovery with Mister Lanz and Doctor Klein. Honestly, prior to this meeting I didn't think the situation was so out of control.

Ah! Apparently, Smiles knew his business! He understood the threat, but kept a poker face. Fine with me, if he wants it for the managerial ears only – that's his right! Every boss has his or her own style, and our message has been delivered.

Well done, Mister McBride. Many thanks, Mister Zorin.

My pleasure, Mister Smiles. Vic bowed – just with his head, the back perfectly straight, exactly like our old professor in the Imperial College. Aye, imperial. All empires are the same, and Russia is still positively an empire.

By the way, Mister McBride, the VP asked, do you golf?

Sure, I said. Shame this city has no proper golf course. The local shopping mall has driving-range simulators and a mini-golf, but the latter is a joke: clowns, rotating windmills, and other such nonsense. Personally, I can't play such a golf and have to settle for the ranges.

The VP grinned. I too have no intention to play a mini-golf! Golfing with clowns is not my sport.

Chapter 2. Andrew Smiles, Vice President, Novo-Holmsk Energy Limited.

BP Statistical Review of World Energy 2014

Good morning everyone here in Moscow and everyone around the world, joining us on the webcast. Welcome to the launch of BP’s 63rd Statistical Review of World Energy. For those not counting, it goes back to 1952.

I am glad that we are able to launch this year’s review here in Moscow at the World Petroleum Congress, this great gathering of the industry.

The Statistical Review is a reference document for the global energy industry – as well as for governments and others. So it's good to be able to set out the data here as our industry gathers from around the globe.

It has been said that everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but not their own facts. And the role of the Statistical Review is to provide objective facts to inform discussion and decision-making.

I want to say thank you to all of the governments and others that have provided data for this review and helped to make it the authoritative source document that it has become.

I also want to thank the BP Economics team under Christof Ruehl who have worked tirelessly to produce the review with their customary professionalism.

[…] And also let me finally add that this will be Christof’s last Statistical Review as he is leaving us to take up a very exciting new role. We wish him all the best for the future. But for now, Christof, over to you…

Bob Dudley on behalf of British Petroleum

World Petroleum Congress, Moscow

Monday, June 16, 2014.

I discovered this during my first year in the Uni. To achieve great success in engineering, no need to work hard. No serious assignment can be completed alone, so all is performed in teams of at least five. You should select yourself capable people and watch the group dynamics. Your team must have at least one engineering geek and a minimum of two technical hands. Not too bad, if you have two geeks – interesting to watch how they quarrel. Three geeks or more is a sure call for your project to be behind schedule, the time wasted in endless discussions and egos in collision. The industrious hands are equally important, and they must be sufficiently qualified. You can't accept more than one loafer or clown – or the morale is out of the window.

By the end of my second semester, I became a renown master for drawing Gantt charts and defending calendar plans. My presentation skills had been polished since the high school – I was a perpetual prize winner in the Debate Club. By the second year, the geeks fought to death to get me into their student projects. The geeks could not stomach routine: checking on progress and kicking loafers. My bread-and-butter was making fancy viewgraphs – back then, it required way more effort than in our PowerPoint times.

To be honest, by the fourth year, I had to make overheads for the geeks. They lacked my presentation skills, but were concerned I might spoil a perfect show by not answering a basic question. However, is it so important, which cowboy fired the last shot? Somebody is better at shooting his revolver, somebody – throws the managerial dynamite sticks. Projects are like the westerns: the good guys come, locate all the ugly problems, shoot them from the hip, and gallop into a sunset. Hollywood does not count the winner's bullets.

I completed my Bachelor of Engineering, majoring in Data Systems and with an additional diploma in Business Administration. In four full years, I wrote no computer programs and had not soldered a single wire. I knew my career path. Tomorrow, the technology would move forward, a new microprocessor – jump out like a jack-in-the-box. Why bother? My talent was – to lead! I could lead teams of ten thousand capable hands. And at least three hundred geeks.

My technically-savvy classmates went from one job interview to another, honestly trying to answer the recruiters' nonsense. What attracts you in our company? Could you give an example how you handled a conflict? How do you see your career in five years? While the geeks received regrets' letters, I got a job offer from an oilfield service company. I could not care less about oil and gas, but the company prospect mentioned telemetry and data processing. The recruiter asked no technical questions. He understood next to nothing in electronics, and I wisely admitted no knowledge of geology. His questions about the conflict handling and my career aspirations in five years – went with flying colors. The position was called JFE – Junior Field Engineer and required trips to shitty oil rigs, but I had no worries. First, get your foot in the industry by the way of a large international company. Second – look for an opportunity to move up!

Two weeks upon my graduation, I found myself in Louisiana. The outfit dealt with Logging-While-Drilling technology. The trainees were supposed to visit offshore rigs and learn the basics, but the rig superintendents wanted no trainees on board. Only one place was available, and I surrendered it to the second trainee. The guy was a real oil geek, with a Masters degree, and even his thesis had been about Electric Logging. At the base, I played foosball with the lab technicians, who in turn crossed checkboxes in my orientation booklet.

After the familiarization trip, a JFE School came – three months in Dallas. I must admit, it was a little shock. No teams with geeks and hands, each engineer – must work on his own. One-third of the students could not cope with the pressure and received their pink slips. On the other hand, with a bit of stamina and two hours of reading every night, you could stay afloat. The school program had been designed for people just like me – without any special technical talents. My geek partner from the Louisiana trip seemingly knew it all – and more. While at the lectures, he yawned and played with his programmable Hewlett Packard, during the practicals – asked questions, the instructors could neither answer nor even comprehend. The other trainees hated the geek.

I completed the course in the middle of the survivors, not your brilliant success story, but not a failure. Back to the same base in Louisiana, I started rotations to the Gulf offshore platforms. The engineers' schedule was a six-by-two: four weeks on the rig, two weeks at the base, then two weeks of a field break – totally off.

The oil installations in the Gulf were alright and not at all shitty, but it soon became clear one couldn't make a career by loading radioactive sources or babysitting the corrupt telemetry data. My partner in the twelve-hour shift was a Directional Driller. Brent – our King, God, and Devil, in one barrel, the drilling crew spoke of him. He worked on the rigs for over ten years, drilling well after well, but his career progression was a joke: first, his title became Senior DD, then – General Field Engineer. In the latter position he had remained for the last six years, and was pretty happy about it.

One evening, I asked Brent what kept him on the rigs. I expected to hear, money, as his day rate had been three times of mine.

A professional interest, he replied, I see the way our industry goes. Today, we drill a forty-five degree deviation and hold an azimuth. Do you think the departure from vertical of fifteen hundred feet is the end of the story? Ten years from now, we will be drilling horizontal wells! Six thousand feet down, then twenty thousand – following the formation. What am I doing on the rigs? Imagine an artist. If he wants to sell his paintings – must screw up many canvases in learning, does he not?

Positively, Brent was a geek. A real, one hundred percent geek, despite he didn't talk special terms and looked your typical roughneck in his overlaundered coveralls. He hung his career on something that might or might not happen in ten years. Stupid! Making bets about the drilling market? Better visit a casino. The probability to win big is roughly the same, but a roulette is way more fun. Admittedly, Brent got lucky, and his predictions played well. By the turn of the century, the demand for directional wells went through the roof. Our geek became a world-class consultant in Geosteering, and probably had to hire a Bobcat bulldozer to shuffle his consultancy fees.

I could not look ten years into the future and hang my career on pure chance. A pragmatic person, I wanted tangible things. So I decided to abandon the field engineering and become a manager – at any cost. Even before sending my first job application, I was not going to stay on the rigs for too long, but now the ‘long’ became specific: twenty-six weeks. Return from the rig. Two weeks at the base, two weeks off. Then, repeat the eight-week schedule three more times, not counting the last field break. I took a permanent marker and circled my escape date on the wall calendar in our cabin. A nice red target to hit.

During my weeks at the base, I did not spend evenings in bars and with girls, but locked myself in the room of the company-provided bachelor house. My colleagues speculated what I was doing, and not all suggestions were even decent. Somebody started a rumor about a continuous masturbation. To prevent unwanted attention, I bought several books on oil geology, and never forgot to ‘forget’ this crap in the common kitchen or in front of the TV. The other bachelors soon established I was a typical geek.

Behind the locked door, I browsed adverts and sent around my CV. During my weeks off I drove from one job interview to another.

A book about reserves' estimates cost me forty-nine dollars but was worth the money. At one of the endless interviews, a definite non-manager sat next to an artificial blonde from the HR. He asked me a technical question. To be honest, in the book I did not progress beyond the introduction, such an overcomplicated nonsense was not needed for a practical man. However, it had been sufficient to mention the book and its author, so my reply was OK. The HR blonde proceeded with the standard questions: how I handled conflicts at work, and what did I see of myself in five years.

One week passed. The rig radio operator opened a mail bag and dropped the desired letter on my laps.

Forty minutes later, I was in the Radio Room, and the surprised radio man sent two faxes. The first was a signed-and-accepted job offer, and the second – a resignation from my current employer. Then, I descended into our cabin and looked at the wall calendar. Instead of the planned twenty-six weeks, I managed my transition in eighteen!

My first managerial role was a joke, as expected. However, I became a team lead, with all its perks: one geek, two