The Pushover

DOUG DONNAN

Executive Editor GTNW/OMNI-GENRE+MAGAZINE!   

donnan.doug@yahoo.com

'The Pushover'                      

                                                    

by

                                             

Doug Donnan

                     

                            

 [ Oil Platform P-47 off the coast of Brazil ]

     

     “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” yelled the oil rig supervisor Aubrey Cobb as he

removed his silver safety helmet. “We had that damn ROV down deep around those main

fittings a couple of months ago. That exec-ops consultant guy told me everything was cool

and that we were good to go. We can’t shut her down now. Hell, all those drill bit bastards 

that own these super rigs out around here have emailed  me at least a dozen times in the

last couple of days. They say the big oil boys are up in arms for more barrel production.”

     “I don’t care who said what to whoever,” Ballantine barked back with an icy glare

from just beneath the brim of his bone white and crimson crossed protective steel helmet.

“And as for that deep rover submersible you’re referring to, that thing is well over twenty

years old. We’d have better performance and dependability from some damn Roomba robot

vacuum lowered down with a flashlight and one of those damn smartphones duct-taped to it!”

     “So just what in the hell do you think you’re gonna’ accomplish way out here…huh?” Cobb

challenged as he peered out into the roiling indigo sea. The demonic intensity of his onyx eyes

did not go unnoticed by the diminutive Safety Operations Specialist. 

 

     Ballantine reached out and grabbed Cobb by the shoulder. “Listen up Cobb. I’m the Chief

SOS man out here on this rig and I’ve got the final say when it comes to safety, spills and

shit. There’s a rather significant oil leak down there. Now I’m not sure just exactly where

that leak is, but I aim to find out and get it repaired to code. If it requires spending a couple

of million bucks on an updated submersible, brand new deep sea video equipment or even

ten years to fix it, well then so be it. We aren’t gonna’ have another Deepwater Horizon oil

spill fiasco out here, not on my watch…understand?”

     Cobb was somewhat taken aback by this little sermon from the puny SOS man, but not

completely surprised. He had had these sort of ‘run ins’ with other safety nerds on mega-oil platforms

in the past. However, he now had decided right then and there that he was not to be delayed or denied

anymore. He was sick and tired of these safety-reg s.o.b.'s geting in the way. He had a family to feed.

     “There’s no need to get touchy,” Cobb said with more than just a hint of disdain as he reached up

and removed Ballantine’s bony hand. “The damn wind is whippin’ up out here pretty good. Let’s climb

on up to the mess hall and grab a cup of that hot Brazilian java. It might just help us settle our petty

‘differences’ way out here at the ass end of nowhere … okay?”

     Ballantine now threw up his white smocked arms as might some giant stork or waterfowl.

“Fine, fine,” he sighed. “But I’m rock solid on this thing Cobb. You just see if I don’t—

     “Come on Ballyboy,” Cobb tried with a makeshift smile as he dipped his head down to try and

fend off the needles of ocean spindrift that attacked them at the open air metal railing. “After you,”

he swept out his hand maitre’d-like towards a long winding column of ascending, grated metal steps.

                                       *     *     *

     The relentless ocean wind seemed to intensify with each graduating step up. The twosome

proceeded slowly and carefully up and around, up and around until Ballantine stopped abruptly

and turned about; his long water soaked white smock flapping wildly, snapping in the resolute

raging wind not unlike some great ship’s canvas sails luffing in an angry tempest.

     “Jesus Christ Cobb,” he yelled down to the trailing rig supervisor. “Let’s turn back for

Christ's sake. We're never gonna’ make it up there alive!”

     Cobb pulled himself up and up along the slippery, black iron railing. He kept coming and

coming until he was toe to toe with the panicky Ballantine on the swaying wrought iron stage

step. The wind was almost howling now as Cobb cupped his hands over his mouth.

     “You’re partially right my friend,” he shouted. “You lousy buncha’ bleedin’ hearts, whistle-

blowers is all you are. There’ll never be any damn progress out here with your kind always

gettin’ in the way,” he barked out with a scowl as he leaned in dangerously close.

     “You’re mad Cobb!” Ballantine called out as he stumbled backwards a few slippery steps.

     “You had a good life amigo…adios,” Cobb yelled back as he thrust the palms of his meaty

hands into his chest. Ballantine blew out a pitiable gasp and toppled over the railing and flailed

down and down into the rumbling obsidian sea below. Cobb lingered on the stairs for a while carefully

bending over the railing and peering all around into the snapping black waves far below. It was as if

the roiling, churning maelstrom had come alive to consume Ballantine’s child-like body. The leering

Cobb then turned round and scanned up and into the monstrous matrix of wire riggings and convoluted

pipes of the massive, creaking oil platform. He spat back in defiance at the pushing wind.

     There had been no witnesses.

     He finished the treacherous trek to the top of the swaying steps and shouldered open the big gray

storm door to the dimly lit kitchenette.

                                                                      *     *     *

     He pulled down a Styrofoam cup and poured himself some of the steaming coffee. There were

two young welders sitting at a table in a tight corner. They were snickering at something on one of

their Blackberry smartphones. One of them looked up at the towering coffee blowing rig supervisor.

     “You wanna’ see a hot Brazilian bitch Chief?” he asked as he held the little black hand box up.

     “There’s a storm brewin’ outside you two,” Cobb replied. “You guys got your Mae West vests?”

     “We didn’t bring ‘em along up here sir. Didn’t figure we’d be drownin’ in our own soup,” he quipped..

“You ain't gonna’ turn us into that little mister goody-two-shoes SOS man Ballantine are ya'?”

     Cobb slowly approached their table and then reached down for the little video phone. His cold, midnight

eyes dilated as might the doll-like eyes of some prowling, ravenous shark. He studied the writhing image

on the little phone's screen with an indifferent contempt. 

     “What do I look like sonny…some kinda’ goddamn whistleblower?”

                                                   

                                                             _____ The End _____