Devlin and the Deep Blue Sea. Merline Lovelace

must have made the run to AM-237 forty or fifty times in the past seven months. Every time, the sheer immensity of the ultradeepwater semisubmersible rig inspired awe. It was as big as a city block—a floating platform spiked by two giant cranes and a derrick that rose to impossible heights.

      Anchored to the ocean floor by chains and 45,000-pound anchors, the superstructure sat on massive pontoons and four corner columns. Once the platform was positioned over a drill site, the columns were flooded with seawater. This caused the pontoons to sink to a predetermined depth and lessened the platform’s surface movement, making it relatively stable.

      Relative being the key word. To a pilot aiming for the helideck that jutted out over the rig’s bow some seven stories above the water, even slight up and down movement had to be taken into consideration. The trick was to contact the helideck at its highest point and ride it down. Slamming into it on the way up stressed the landing gear and made the passengers just a tad nervous.

      Liz chose a leeward approach and put the helo into a descending spiral a quarter of a mile out. The fat orange flanges for pumping the crude into tankers stood out like beacons on the east side. She lined up on the flanges to begin her final approach.

      “AM-237, this is Aero Baja 214 on final.”

      “Roger, 214. We have you on the scope. We’re putting out the welcome mat.”

      While the rig’s two crane operators lowered the booms to clear the airspace, a support ship maneuvered into position at the pontoon closest to the helideck. The ship’s mission was to pick up survivors if the incoming aircraft hit the drink instead of the deck.

      “The LO is standing by.”

      The rig’s landing officer climbed onto the pad, clearly visible in his bright yellow vest.

      “I see him,” Liz acknowledged.

      Although this was only a secondary duty for him, she knew he’d been doing it a long time and trusted him to guide her in. Keeping one eye on his arm signals and another on the instrument panel, she put her aircraft into a hover above the deck and brought her down.

      The skids touched, lifted and settled with a small thump. While the red-vested tie-down crew ducked under the blades to anchor the helicopter to the deck, Liz powered down. Once the blades had chugged to a halt, she keyed her mike.

      “Welcome to AM-237, gentlemen.”

      Swinging a leg over the stick, she clambered into the cargo compartment.

      “Claim your gear and pass it to the deckhands,” she instructed the new arrivals. “Make sure you hang on to the lifelines when you climb out onto the pad.”

      The old-timers knew the drill, but there were questions in the eyes of a couple of obvious newcomers. Liz repeated the instructions in Spanish, then in elaborate pantomime. Looking both doubtful and nervous, the newbies poked their heads outside the hatch. Liz saw several Adam’s apples bounce and knuckles turn white as the crewmen measured the distance from the pad to the ocean below.

      “Don’t piss yourself,” the beefy Irishman advised one of the Venezuelans. “Just hang on to that strap. Out you go now, there’s a good lad.”

      Since the brawny oilman supplemented his friendly words of encouragement with a solid thump between the shoulder blades, the cargo compartment soon emptied of everyone but Liz and Devlin. Passing his gear bag to a waiting deckhand, he turned back to her.

      “How often do you make this run?”

      “Five maybe six times a month. Depends on whether they need supplies or there’s a crew rotating off.”

      “Maybe I’ll see you on your next run.”

      “Maybe.”

      He took a step toward her, his sun-streaked hair ruffled by the wind whistling through the open hatch. “Do I have your permission?”

      “My permission? For…? Oh! No, as a matter of fact, you don’t. No touching, Devlin, and definitely no kissing.”

      “Sure you won’t reconsider? It’s going to be a long twenty-eight days out here.”

      “Just grin and bear it.”

      “I’ll do my best.”

      Tipping her a two-fingered salute, he exited the aircraft and made his way to the stairs leading to the main deck.

      Liz saw to the unloading of the replenishment supplies and accepted the sealed outgoing mail pouch, but instructed the landing officer to wait before bringing up the departing crew members.

      “I need to talk to the company rep,” she informed him, holding back her wind-whipped hair with one hand. “Do you know where he is?”

      “Try the galley. Conrad is usually there this time of morning, swilling coffee and shooting off his…Er, shooting the breeze.”

      She gave the LO a wry smile. She’d dealt with AmMex Petroleum’s on-site representative before. She had no doubt she would find him pontificating to anyone unfortunate enough to be stuck in his immediate vicinity.

      She took the stairs, crossed the deck to the main superstructure and entered a world like none other. The ever-present reek of fresh paint and diesel fuel flavored the air. Machinery constantly in motion thumped out the rig’s steady heartbeat. Metal creaked as the massive platform rode the waves.

      The giant anchors and stabilizers minimized the motion until it was almost imperceptible, but Liz had to lay a palm against the bulkhead once or twice as she followed the scent of fried onions to the galley. Sure enough, the AmMex on-site rep was sprawled in a mess chair at the officers’ table, holding forth.

      Big and amiable and impervious to all attempts to shut him up, Conrad Wallace never seemed to tire of the sound of his own voice. Today’s topic appeared to be a crew Ping-Pong tournament that evidently didn’t come off to Wallace’s satisfaction. The rig’s Pakistani-born doctor sat across from him with a glazed expression on her face. When she spotted Liz, relief sprang into her eyes.

      “Hello, Elizabeth. Did you bring the waterproof cast liners I ordered?”

      “Sure did.”

      “What about the metronidazole tablets?”

      “They’re on back order, but marked priority. I’ll fly them out as soon as they arrive.”

      “Thank you. I need them. Excuse me, Conrad. I must go inventory the new supplies.”

      She hurried out, leaving Liz to help herself to the coffee before joining Wallace at the gleaming teak table reserved for the rig’s officers. The officers lived well out here on the patch, as did the hundred-plus crew members. Accommodations included hotel-class rooms, a galley that served international cuisine, a cinema showing satellite TV and movies and a gym that would get a gold stamp of approval from Arnold Schwarzenegger. Oil companies had to provide such facilities along with high-dollar salaries to induce men and women to live surrounded by miles of empty water for months at a time.

      Cradling her coffee, Liz sank into a padded captain’s chair. The company man shifted his bulk in her direction and picked up almost where he’d left off.

      “We were talking about the fluke shot that won the crew Ping-Pong tournament last night. Did anyone tell you about it?”

      “No, I just got down.”

      “It was crazy. The ball ricocheted off a steam pipe, hit the forehead of one of the watchers and slammed back on the table. No way the referee should have allowed that shot, but you know how these foreigners are. They make up their own rules as they go.”

      Liz started to remind the man the rig sat in Mexican territorial waters and he was the foreigner here but didn’t want to set him off on a new tangent. Instead, she cut straight to the point.

      “I need an advance on next month’s salary.”

      Wallace blinked at the abrupt change of topic and pursed his