believe, but his soul was pure. The end goal was all that mattered.
Now that goal seemed as if it were in danger, but Cutter had no doubts. He was a fervent believer. His prayers would be answered.
After 40 minutes of waiting, the miracle arrived. The radio squawked to life.
“Flight N-348 Zulu, this is the tower. The fuel spill has been cleaned up. You are cleared for takeoff.”
“Thank you, tower. You just saved my job.”
“No problem, George. Enjoy Sydney.”
Within two minutes, the jet roared down the runway. As he watched the 737 soar over the mountains and turn westward, Cutter closed the hood and got back in the Hummer. For the first time that day, he smiled.
God was with him.
THREE
Wind whipped over the landing pad of the Scotia One oil platform, blowing the windsock steadily toward the east. Located 200 miles off the coast of Newfoundland, the Grand Banks were known for some of the world’s nastiest weather, but the 30 mile-per-hour winds and 15-foot seas hardly qualified as gale force. Just a typical day. Tyler Locke was curious to find out who was willing to brave the trip to meet with him.
He leaned against the railing, searching for the Sikorsky transport helicopter due to arrive any minute. No sign of it. Locke zipped up his bomber jacket against the cold and inhaled the smell of salt spray and crude oil that permeated the rig.
He’d had almost no downtime since he arrived on the platform six days ago, so the brief moment staring out at the vast Atlantic Ocean was a welcome rest. A few minutes were all he needed, and then he’d be recharged. He wasn’t the type who could lie in front of the TV all day watching movies. He loved immersing himself in a project, working nonstop until the problem was solved. His need to stay busy was a product of the work ethic his father had drilled into him. It was the one thing his wife, Karen, never could change about him.
He was lost in thought, the old regret rearing its ugly head, and he absently reached to fiddle with his wedding ring. Only when he felt bare skin did he glance down and remember that it was no longer there. He quickly pulled his hands apart and looked back up to see one of the landing control crewmen, a short, wiry man named Al Dietz, walking toward him. At six feet two inches tall and a solid build somewhere north of 200 pounds last time he checked, Locke towered over the diminutive rig worker.
“Afternoon, Tyler,” Dietz said over the wind. “Come to see the chopper land?”
“Hi, Al,” Locke said. “I’m expecting someone. Do you know if Dilara Kenner is aboard?”
Dietz shook his head. “Sorry. All I know is that they have five passengers today. If you want, you can go wait inside, and I’ll bring her down to you when they get here.”
“That’s okay. My last job was on a mine collapse in West Virginia. After a week of breathing coal dust, it could be forty below and I wouldn’t mind being out here. Besides, she was kind enough to make the flight to see me, so I’m returning the favor by meeting her here.”
“You should see them in a minute. You know, if she didn’t make this flight, she’s in for a delay. We’re supposed to be socked in for at least 24 hours.” Dietz waved as he left to make preparations for the landing.
Locke had heard the weather forecast, so he knew what Dietz meant. In the next hour, the wind was expected to die down and fog would roll in, making a landing impossible until it cleared. He saw the cloud formation approaching from the west, and just beneath it about five miles away, a yacht slowly motored past. White, at least 80 feet long. A beauty. Probably a Lurssen or a Westport. Why it would be in the middle of the Grand Banks, Locke couldn’t guess, but it wasn’t in any hurry.
He also had no idea why an archaeologist was so impatient to meet with him that she was willing to fly out here. She’d repeatedly called Gordian’s headquarters over the last few days, and when Locke took a break from his work on the platform, he’d returned her call. All he could get out of her was that she was a professor at UCLA, and she had to see him right away.
When he told her that he was going straight from Scotia One to a job in Norway, she’d insisted on seeing him before he left. The only way that would happen, he told her jokingly, would be if she took the two-hour flight out to the rig. To his surprise, she jumped at the chance and agreed to the trip, even willing to pay the exorbitant fee for the helicopter ride. When he asked why, all she would say over the phone was that it was a matter of life and death. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was just the kind of mysterious distraction that could spice up an otherwise routine assignment, so he finally relented and arranged for the rig’s manager to clear her for a visit.
To be sure Dilara wasn’t yanking his chain, Locke checked her credentials out on UCLA’s web site and found the picture of a beautiful ebony-haired woman in her mid-thirties. She had high cheekbones, striking brown eyes, and an easy smile. Her photo gave Locke the impression of intelligence and competence. He made the mistake of showing it to Grant Westfield, his best friend and his current project’s electrical engineering expert. Grant had immediately made some less-than-gentlemanly suggestions as to why Locke should meet with her. Locke didn’t reply, but he had to admit her looks added to the intrigue.
Dietz, who was now holding two flashlights equipped with glowing red traffic wands, moved to the edge of the landing pad near Locke. He pointed into the sky above the other side of the pad.
“There it is,” Dietz said. “Right on time.”
Against the gray backdrop of clouds, Locke saw a dot quickly growing in the distance. A moment later, he could hear the low throb of helicopter blades occasionally burst through the wind. The dot grew until it was recognizable as a 19-passenger Sikorsky, a workhorse of the Newfoundland oil fields.
He was sure Dilara Kenner was on board. She had made it clear in their phone conversation that there was no way she was missing the flight, and he believed her. Something about the certainty and toughness in her voice. She’d sounded like a woman to be reckoned with.
Less than a mile away, the helicopter was slowing to make its descent to the landing pad when a small puff of smoke billowed from the right turbine engine on the helicopter’s roof.
Locke’s jaw dropped open, and he said, “What the hell?” Then he realized with horror what was about to happen. An electric shiver shot up his spine.
“Did you see that?” Dietz said, his voice ratcheting up an octave.
Before Locke could reply, an explosion tore through the engine, causing chunks of metal to rip backward through the tail rotor.
“Holy shit!” Dietz yelled.
Locke was already in motion. “They’re going down!” he shouted. “Come on!”
He leaped onto the landing pad and dashed toward the opposite side. Dietz chased after him. Like a thunderclap after a distant lightning strike, the sound of the blast boomed seconds after the actual explosion. As he pounded across the center of the pad’s huge H, Locke watched the shocking destruction of the Sikorsky.
Two blades of the tail rotor were torn off, and the remaining blades beat themselves to death against the tail section of the helicopter. The powerful centrifugal force of the still-intact main rotor began to spin the helicopter in a tight spiral.
Locke’s brain was screaming at him to do something, but there was no way for him to help them. He skidded to a halt at the edge of the platform, where he had a full view of the chopper. Dietz stopped next to him, panting with exertion.
The Sikorsky didn’t immediately dive into the ocean. Instead, the tail swung around in a circle as the helicopter plunged downward. Only an expert pilot could control such a mortally crippled helicopter.
There was a flicker of hope. If the Sikorsky didn’t hit too hard, the passengers might have a chance of getting out alive.
“Those guys are dead,” Dietz said.
“No, they’re going to make it,” Locke said, but he sounded less convinced than he wanted to.
By the time it had dropped several hundred feet, the helicopter’s forward motion had stopped. Just before it splashed into the water, it tilted, and the main rotor blades churned the water like a egg beater until they were ripped apart. The Sikorsky came to rest on the ocean surface starboard side up.
