Beast

By Mark Carver and Michael Anatra

Man up.

MFEC-19, "The Beast," towers over the offshore oil fields in the Pacific Northwest, and Kyle Hamilton, an experienced derrickhand who has survived a brush with death, is thrilled and terrified to be a part of the team that keeps the monster in check.

But the Beast bows to no man.

One slip, one mistake, and all hell breaks loose above the storm-swept waters. The Beast thrashes itself apart, unleashing an industrial cataclysm unlike anything the world has ever seen. Using his quick wits, hoping for good luck, and praying for a miracle, Kyle fights to save his crew and himself, but the will to survive comes with heavy costs.

And the Beast will show no mercy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Crossover Alliance
• Release date: Feb 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9781945712302

Mark Carver

Mark Carver writes dark, edgy books that tackle tough spiritual issues. He is currently working on his seventh novel. Besides writing, he is passionate about art, tattoos, heavy metal, and medieval architecture.After living in China for more than eight years, he now lives in Atlanta, GA with his wife and two children.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

April 12th

Aboard Stonewall 22, aka Ring Rock

The Gulf of Mexico

THE DRILLER POKED HIS HEAD out of the cabin door. Hey Kyle, get your skinny butt over here. I need you to give me a hand.

Kyle Hamilton looked over his broad shoulder and put down the hammer he had been using to tighten the cement line hammer unions.

What do you need, drill?

A fly landed on the driller’s leathery cheek and he swatted it with a curse. If you’re done with those lines, run down to the engine room and give Dale a hand. He’s running valves on the main genset. I need you to get knowed up on them engines, boy.

I’ll head that way in a sec, Kyle replied. Give me a mi­nute to tie back these chick sans.

The driller nodded and pulled his head back into the cabin like a turtle retreating into its shell.

When Kyle was finished with the chick sans, he walked down the long corridor to the engine room. This part of the rig was usually buzzing with noise, but, at that moment, it was quiet, almost peaceful.

As Kyle entered the engine room, he cocked his head and listened. Someone was playing music at a low volume. He couldn’t make out the melody, but he thought it sounded like Hank Williams.

Hey Kyle, you lost?

Kyle looked up and watched Dale, the mechanic, unfold himself from the top of the engine. Nope, he answered. Drill told me to come down here and give you a hand on this engine. What’s going on? Why is it so quiet?

The mechanic wiped his brow, leaving a black smudge across his shiny forehead. Well, it’s due for its two-thousand-hour valve service, so I need to run through and check the valve lash. I’ll show you how to do it. If you wouldn’t mind, while you’re doing this side, I need to change a couple injectors on the other side.

No problem.

Even though his face looked serious and thoughtful, Kyle’s stomach was clenched as tight as a fist. He was a der­rickhand, so he was used to spending his time perched high above the platform in the derrick tower, running pipe from up there on the monkey board. Back on shore, he certainly knew his way around a car engine, but drilling engines were a whole different story. At the same time, he was glad the driller had asked him to come down here since it meant his superiors trusted him with more responsibilities.

More responsibilities led to promotions.

He glanced at the engines—giant yellow hunks of steel, each internal piece capable of humming along at over 1,800 RPM with the precision of a Swiss watch. Despite their size and throbbing power, any minor hiccup could cause the 1,100-horsepower behemoths to falter and break.

Okay, here’s what you’re going to do, Dale said as he pointed with his screwdriver. Place this jig here on this boss and tighten this bolt. Don’t get all cock-strong on it. Just snug it up. Once you have it snug, wiggle the rocker arm assembly while zeroing out the dial indicator. When you have it zeroed, go ahead and wiggle it again. The dial indicator should read ‘.030.’ If it’s a little tight, loosen the adjuster here on the rock­er arm. If it’s too loose, give it a quarter turn or so. Got it?

Kyle nodded, hoping his confidence would kick in soon.

Good. Dale gave him a slap on the back. I’ll be on the other side, jackassing with the injectors. I’ve got four that are giving me fits and need to be swapped out.

He turned away to start his work. Kyle replayed the man’s instructions a couple of times, then he stepped over to one of engines to work on the jig. After tightening and adjusting it a few times, he heard the mechanic swearing loudly.

Hey Dale, he called out, is that injector giving you a hard time?

The mechanic grunted. Yeah. Everything is packed so tight in this here cylinder head. He blew out a frustrated breath. I sure miss the older six-and-a-quarter bore engines.

After several more minutes of grunts and curses, he climbed back down and stood next to the engine. The two men stared at the massive machine for a few moments. It real­ly was a work of art and it wasn't even fired up yet. It was clenched tight, like a powerful coil waiting to be unleashed.

Dale snorted and spit through the grated floor. Go ahead and remove the lockout tag and let’s get this thing cranking. We need to make sure everything is copacetic before we sign off on the work order.

All right. Kyle pulled the lock off the air valve and looked back at Dale. I just cracked the air line. Ready when you are.

Not so fast, Dale said, looking down at his clipboard. First I need to program the injector trim files into the ECM, and then we can wake up the monster.

Kyle scratched his chin. Program injector trim files?

Yeah, these fancy electronic engines each have injectors programmed to the ECM. They tell the engine what’s where and when to fire. It’s all techno-babble if you ask me but it’s the world we live in—better technology, fewer emissions, save the Earth, yadda yadda yadda.

Kyle smirked and stepped to the side to let Dale do his work. The twangy sound of the Hank Williams song, or someone else who sounded just like him, filtered through the pipes and panels, and for a moment, Kyle felt like he was back in his granddaddy's garage, watching him work on his favorite 1940s hot rod while music played on the radio.

Dale's voice blew his reverie away like a strong breeze. Here we go! Fire in the hole!

Kyle grabbed the air valve and twisted the switch on the control panel.

The air starter screamed and the engine turned over with a ground-shaking whoosh! It rumbled angrily, like a bear being awakened from its slumber. The sheer power of the recipro­cating mass caused the steel plate beneath the two men to vi­brate and shake as the engine slowly climbed to its idle rate at 1200 RPM.

A smile spread across Kyle's face.

A work of art.

His smile vanished. Hey Dale, can you hear that?

The mechanic made no reply, leaning forward and staring keenly at the engine. Kyle watched a shadow darken Dale's eyes and his bushy eyebrows knit together.

It wasn't just Kyle's imagination. The mechanic heard it too.

What is that ticking noise? Kyle shouted over the escalating noise.

Dale turned and looked at him, opening his mouth to say something.

A deep orange glow lit up the cylinder bank behind him. Kyle reacted before he knew what was happening. He charged forward like a linebacker, aiming for Dale’s midsection.

Flames blossomed behind the mechanic like a monstrous flower from hell. Dale turned around. His eyes grew wide and the blood vanished from his face.

Kyle unleashed a primal scream as he launched himself in­to the air, arms outstretched to grab Dale and pull him out of danger.

The engine exploded.

A wall of fire engulfed Dale completely as compressed air slammed into Kyle like a tidal wave, sending him flying across the room. He crashed against a heavy panel and sank to the floor. Pain blazed through his ribs like lightning, traveling up his spine and erupting on the side of his head. He raised a trembling hand to his ear and felt only a tangled mass of bloody hair.

Alarms screamed as he pushed himself to his feet. Smoke filled the room and his lungs burned from the toxic diesel fumes. His head felt like it was stuck inside a jet engine as he stumbled forward, searching for the emergency shutdown switch.

He saw it mounted on a support beam. With a desperate lunge, he reached out and slapped the large red button, falling to the ground and rolling over on his back. The smoke and flames swirled together as the roar of the engines faded away, replaced by the tinny sounds of voices and stomping boots. He felt like he was being lifted off the ground, but he couldn’t be sure if the sensation wasn’t just his nausea making the room move.

A bright ray of light stabbed his eyes and he closed them tight. The last thing he remembered was wishing his wife and baby daughter were there with him so they could all sink into the darkness together.

***

Nine Months Later

Newport, Oregon

Kyle stretched his fingers against the cold as he looked at the wind-rusted door in front of him. The riveted nameplate seemed even more weathered than the door itself.

Darren Wilman, Logistics/Personnel Coordinator.

Kyle took a deep breath, shaking his head as if to clear away the cobwebs from a long sleep. This wasn’t his first ro­deo. He wasn’t the gangly roustabout he had been the first time he’d stood in front of a door like this, fresh out of college with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove.

But he really didn’t want to be back here again.

The butterflies in his stomach just wouldn’t quit, though he had learned long ago that if you couldn’t conquer your fear, you just had to ignore it. After taking another deep breath, he smoothed a wrinkle in his lucky flannel shirt and raised his fist to knock on the door.

Come in! a burly voice called out from inside.

Kyle's eyebrows rose. He grasped the lumpy bronze han­dle and pushed the door open. It creaked loudly on hinges that had spent years being exposed to salty sea air, and creaked again as Kyle stepped inside and closed it behind him.

The office looked like it was about the size of a shipping container, packed wall-to-wall with cabinets, shelves, and fold­ing chairs piled high with papers. Kyle peeked around a stack of manila folders that looked like they were going to tip over at any moment. Mr. Wilman? he called out.

Yeah, came the answer from somewhere deep in the clutter. Kyle waited for more words but only heard the sounds of paper being shuffled.

Mr. Wilman, I’m Kyle Hamilton.

I know, the disembodied voice replied. Come on back.

Kyle held his breath as he threaded his way through the maze. His grandmother had been a certified hoarder and he had dreaded visiting her house when he was a child. He half-expected to see a rat dart out from between the paper stacks.

He spotted the corner of a desk and smelled the delicious aroma of expertly prepared coffee. After stepping gingerly around a precarious tower of papers, he turned to his left and saw the largest man he had ever seen in his life. It took all of his self-control to keep his jaw from dropping to the floor.

How did he make it through all this…? Mr. Wilman, he said a third time, stepping forward and extending his hand.

The large man reached over his laptop computer and shook it once without standing up. Mr. Hamilton.

Kyle, sir.

Darren. Excuse the mess. Even with everything being computerized, I’m still up to my ears in paperwork.

Kyle looked around as if he had just noticed the clutter. I can see that.

He really wanted to get back outside.

Darren shifted in his chair, which practically shrieked un­der his weight. He slapped his computer shut and reached across his desk to grab a folder from a pile. Kyle Hamilton, Kyle Hamilton…let’s see what we have here. His massive eyebrows quivered as he scanned the contents of the file. Then his eyes went wide and the folder fell to the desk. "That was you at Ring Rock?"

Kyle nervously scratched the stubble on his chin. Um, yeah. Wish it wasn’t, but it was.

Darren’s watermelon-sized head bobbed up and down on his neck. Respect, he said as he rose to his feet. I can’t be­lieve you made it out in one piece.

Not all in one piece, Kyle answered. He turned his head and pulled back the dirty blonde hair sprouting from under his ten-year-old Florida Gators cap. The top of his ear was missing.

Darren whistled. Looks like Mike Tyson paid you a visit.

Guess it does. Got a few hefty gashes across my back too, but I hope you don’t mind if I don’t show you.

I’ll take your word for it, Darren said with a smile. Just glad you’re still with us. Darren’s eyes narrowed, becoming paper-thin slits in the fatty folds of his broad face. If you don’t mind my asking, why are you still with us?

Kyle shrugged. I guess the Good Lord thought I—

No, I mean why are you coming back? Most guys I know that have been through situations like yours don’t come back unless they’re dead broke or crazy. Or both.

The air in the office felt like soup. Kyle licked his lips. I…I have something going on at home and...

Darren nodded again. No need to explain. We all have our crosses to bear. Grab a chair and let’s get these papers signed.

Kyle looked around. Every chair was already in use.

Darren noticed his hesitation and chuckled. Never mind. This won’t take but a minute. You took care of most of every­thing up at Portland. Just need your scribble in a few places and we’re all set.

He spun a bundle of papers toward Kyle and handed him a pen. Kyle noted the pen's weight and chrome polish. Proba­bly cost more than the computer. He had heard many rumors about Mankel Felthrop Energy Corporation and they were all about the mountains of money piled high in island bank vaults.

A bead of sweat trickled down the side of Kyle's face. He exhaled slowly and began signing on the dotted lines. Darren was right. Most of the important documents had already been taken care of at corporate. This was the paperwork that had been activated upon his arrival at Newport, the staging port for personnel and logistics to ManFEC's brand new fleet of platforms scattered across the Pacific Northwest.

One of them was designated MFEC-19, his home away from home.

He handed the pen back to Darren and took a step back. When do we head out?

Tomorrow morning, 0600. Your room’s over at the Mo­tel 6. About twelve of you will be staying there. We’ll send the shuttle around in the morning to pick you up and take you to the helipad. Flight takes about forty-five minutes.

He handed Kyle a manila envelope. Itinerary, room card, obligatory safety brochures, blah blah blah. And the number for a very reputable escort service near the motel.

Kyle took the envelope. I’m married.

So am I, Darren said with a wink.

He extended his hand. Kyle looked at it for a moment, then clasped it firmly.

Darren’s eyes flashed and a smile stretched his fleshy cheeks. Welcome to the Beast.

***

The motel room was sparse but comfortable, and that was all Kyle needed. That, along with a cola, a sub sandwich, a warm shower, and an NFL playoff game on TV to drown out the grunts and thumping coming from the room above.

After placing his steel-toed boots next to the nightstand, he hoisted himself onto the bed. It was a curious habit he’d picked up during his first hitch. He’d found himself waking up hours before his shift in a panic because he couldn’t find his shoes, even though they would be tucked safely away in his locker. Knowing they were by his bedside helped him sleep better.

Not that it would help tonight. He smothered a groan as he looked up at the ceiling. At least the guy upstairs was get­ting his money’s worth.

He thought of Jackie. It felt kind of dirty thinking about his wife while two strangers were howling at the moon on the next floor, but he couldn't help it. He missed her. There was nothing in the world like the softness of her skin, the taste of her lips, especially after returning home from a two-week hitch.

The first night home during days off was often quite dif­ferent from the last night. The first night was raw, animal lust—pent-up passion begging for release, the relief of being in each other’s arms again. The night before going back out on the job was tinted with a softer hue, a twinge of sadness and reluctance.

Lurking beneath the whispered words and soft caresses was the knowledge that there was a chance he might never come back.

Kyle folded his hands across his chest and laid his head on the pillow. Memories of his last night at home in Arkansas flashed across his mind, his last night with Jackie.

That moment seemed so far away now. Kyle glanced at his reflection in the motel room’s night-darkened window. The bed he was in suddenly seemed very big. And empty. He’d have given a week’s salary to have her in bed with him now, warm and longing for his touch.

Another memory flickered in his mind. It was from the morning after that final night of farewell lovemaking. He’d just woken up and noticed that Jackie’s side of the bed was empty. He had glanced up and saw her standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror.

Throwing the comforter aside, he’d gotten out of bed and walked up behind her. His hands slid across her stomach and she seemed to melt into his embrace.

You okay, babe?

She nodded, keeping her eyes fixed on her reflection. Kyle knew where she was looking.

Would you still love me like this if I…if I didn’t…if I wasn’t complete? Her voice quivered and she shut her eyes.

Kyle held her tight. You are complete as long as you’re with me, he said quietly. Nothing will ever change that. And you're not going to lose any body parts.

He turned her around and stared into her shimmering eyes. You can’t think like that, babe. They caught it early, and we’re going to lick this. The doctors have done the math. Three months of treatment should be all it takes.

She forced a weak smile and laid her head on his shoulder. I’m twenty-nine years old, she groaned. Why me?

Kyle exhaled through his nose as he stroked her hair. I wish I knew, babe. But that doesn’t matter. I’ll get us the money, and you have to stay positive. For yourself, for me, and for Kayla.

Jackie sniffled loudly and looked up at him. I love you.

Kyle wiped away a tear on her cheek and leaned down to kiss her. He felt the delicious warmth surge through him once more and they might have found themselves repeating the previous night’s fireworks if Kayla hadn’t woken up again. Jackie reluctantly broke away from him, smiled gratefully, and left to feed the baby.

The man staring back at him in the mirror wore a strange expression that he’d never seen before. His eyes migrated down to the black and gray Japanese dragon tattoo that coiled around his shoulder and upper arm.

His father’s words echoed in his mind. No one said life would be easy. Man up and get the job done.

Kyle could still hear that echo as he looked up at the motel room's speckled ceiling, which had thankfully gone quiet. He grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. The game was a blowout anyway.

As he reached over to switch off the light, he paused for a moment to look at his boots on the floor.

Welcome to the Beast.

CHAPTER TWO

NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES he flew over it, Kyle was always struck by how big the ocean was. A pure, uninterrupted expanse of blue life, stretching as far as he could see. No matter how many rigs were built or how many ships sailed across it, the ocean would never belong to man. It was unconquerable.

The Bell 430 helicopter with twin Rolls Royce engines caught a gust of wind and dropped a few feet. After making dozens of flights like this, Kyle could somehow anticipate an aircraft’s movements. He tightened his stomach a fraction of a second before the drop. He glanced at the other guys on the chopper. They seemed about as excited as cats in the rain. Some looked like they had woken up fifteen minutes ago.

A few of them glanced his way, but no one held his gaze for more than a second. Kyle sensed their cold indifference, and he knew the reason. He wasn’t expecting a warm welcome anyway.

The guys on an oil rig naturally become a very tight crew, since their lives are in one another’s hands. An outsider com­ing