Chapter 62

On the same Tuesday, September 25th, at half-past six in the evening, the Miranda was in the northwestern part of the Gulf, out of fuel and tipping perilously as she crested one wave after another and slid into the troughs. She had been blown north of the storm, to a place where the rain had stopped. Rolly was slipping in and out of consciousness. He was strapped into his seat, being jerked around like a rider on a mechanical bull.

He didn’t know it, but the Coast Guard was covering about 500 square miles searching for him with helicopters and boats.

A violent jerk momentarily aroused him, and he looked out the windshield.

The Eiffel Tower?

He passed out.

•

The oil company employees still left on the huge deep-water drilling rig were relieved that Carlo was headed west, well to the south of them, and no threat to the US coastline. They were located 270 miles southwest of New Orleans, and during the day half of the crew had elected to leave. But now, to the west, beneath the clouds, the remaining crew could see pink and purple streaks from the setting sun, and the rain had stopped.

The environment on the 200-foot tall derrick and its platform was hazardous, the threat of an explosion ever present. It required the men’s full attention at all times. The smell of oil and grease permeated everything, and they wore earplugs to protect themselves from the deafening noise as they went about their work. Given that, it was somewhat surprising that anyone noticed the Miranda at all.

Ken Pritchard was an engineer. He’d been working his tail off all day. He had just stretched, straightened up his back and taken off his hard-hat for a minute. He twisted his neck around to relieve the ache.

“Hey! There’s a boat out there!” he yelled, signaling to the man next to him.

They began waving their arms, pointing.

“She’s going to hit the rig!”

There was absolutely nothing the men could do to stop it. The boat was too close, and the huge swells were pushing it too fast. Nothing like this had ever happened before in all Ken Pritchard’s years working for the oil company.

He braced himself, watching helplessly, wondering if the guy in the boat was dead, and wondering if they’d be next. He was thinking what every other man on the rig was thinking:

Would the collision tear the rig from the well a mile down?

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