Dockrell’s own authorization papers to visit the Brent
field were good fakes, but he didn’t want to bring any unnecessary attention to them by applying for permission to visit many
different installations. It would be best if he could get his work done right where he was, aboard the flotel, where there
were more men and more complex arrangements than on any of the oil-producing rigs.
Hank Washington worried Dockrell. He knew that Washington, on his arrival just before Dockrell’s own, had been assigned to
Avedesian’s four-man cabin on the Hotel. It was natural that two Americans assigned to the same quarters, and with authorization
to go anywhere, should become friendly. Another way of looking at it though, was that Washington was a security man protecting
Avedesian. It was only to be expected that Avedesian should have security. Dockrell didn’t know the exact connection between
Avedesian and the other men he had killed, except that they were all oil geologists who had offended Iran in some way.
If Hank Washington was security, he was good. Dockrell would hand him that. Apart from the fact that Washington and Avedesian
happened to be away from the Hotel at much the same times, there was nothing definite to indicate that Avedesian had himself
a watchdog. Still and all, Dockrell decided to operate as if Hank Washington was a hostile agent. If he needed to whack him
out, he would.
Dockrell climbed a gangway which brought himnear the base of the crane that was unloading a supply vessel. He climbed a line of metal rungs up the side of the crane,
glancing fearlessly down at the water 150 feet below. Hanging onto a rail, he pulled a sliding door to one side and entered
the crane operator’s cabin.
The crane operator flicked his eyes from his work for a moment to see who had entered. “Hey, you, you’re not allowed up here.”
“You told me yourself that you’re the one who does the most skilled work out here. You said I can come up anytime to see a
real man at work.”
It was true. The crane operator, from Birmingham, liked to give Yanks a hard time in a joking way. He had been kidding this
mud engineer from Wyoming about which of them was the more important on an offshore rig. He had told the Yank to climb up
the crane some day if he had the nerve, not expecting him to ever do it. Now here he was.
“You need clearance to come up here,” the crane operator tried.
“I got it,” Dockrell said, knowing the man could not stop unloading the ship in order to check this out.
“All right then, don’t distract me and I’ll show you what I’m doing.”
Dockrell stood next to him in the glass-walled control cabin and watched him play with the row of short knobbed levers that
controlled the boom and hook. The supply ship looked tiny from up here. Its cabins and bridge were at one end, leaving nearly
all the deck as stacking space for freight containers. Bymeans of signals, one seaman indicated which containers were to be lifted. The crane boom swung out, rotating the whole cabin
platform with it. At a certain point the operator touched one lever and cable played out until the hook hung just above the
container. The ship was pitching from prow to stern, yawing from side to side and going up and down with the swells. While
this went on, two seamen clambered over the containers and slipped the crane hook into a steel cable sling around the container.
At a signal, the crane operator used another lever to pick the containers off the deck, spinning and swaying in the breeze.
From up this high, it looked like a children’s toy, but Dockrell knew he was watching a steel box of several tons in weight
dancing on the end of the crane string. The operator set the container down easy on the flotel platform, where crewmen freed
the hook.
Dockrell stood watching so quietly that the crane operator almost forgot he was there. Choppers came and went from the helidecks.
The control
field were good fakes, but he didn’t want to bring any unnecessary attention to them by applying for permission to visit many
different installations. It would be best if he could get his work done right where he was, aboard the flotel, where there
were more men and more complex arrangements than on any of the oil-producing rigs.
Hank Washington worried Dockrell. He knew that Washington, on his arrival just before Dockrell’s own, had been assigned to
Avedesian’s four-man cabin on the Hotel. It was natural that two Americans assigned to the same quarters, and with authorization
to go anywhere, should become friendly. Another way of looking at it though, was that Washington was a security man protecting
Avedesian. It was only to be expected that Avedesian should have security. Dockrell didn’t know the exact connection between
Avedesian and the other men he had killed, except that they were all oil geologists who had offended Iran in some way.
If Hank Washington was security, he was good. Dockrell would hand him that. Apart from the fact that Washington and Avedesian
happened to be away from the Hotel at much the same times, there was nothing definite to indicate that Avedesian had himself
a watchdog. Still and all, Dockrell decided to operate as if Hank Washington was a hostile agent. If he needed to whack him
out, he would.
Dockrell climbed a gangway which brought himnear the base of the crane that was unloading a supply vessel. He climbed a line of metal rungs up the side of the crane,
glancing fearlessly down at the water 150 feet below. Hanging onto a rail, he pulled a sliding door to one side and entered
the crane operator’s cabin.
The crane operator flicked his eyes from his work for a moment to see who had entered. “Hey, you, you’re not allowed up here.”
“You told me yourself that you’re the one who does the most skilled work out here. You said I can come up anytime to see a
real man at work.”
It was true. The crane operator, from Birmingham, liked to give Yanks a hard time in a joking way. He had been kidding this
mud engineer from Wyoming about which of them was the more important on an offshore rig. He had told the Yank to climb up
the crane some day if he had the nerve, not expecting him to ever do it. Now here he was.
“You need clearance to come up here,” the crane operator tried.
“I got it,” Dockrell said, knowing the man could not stop unloading the ship in order to check this out.
“All right then, don’t distract me and I’ll show you what I’m doing.”
Dockrell stood next to him in the glass-walled control cabin and watched him play with the row of short knobbed levers that
controlled the boom and hook. The supply ship looked tiny from up here. Its cabins and bridge were at one end, leaving nearly
all the deck as stacking space for freight containers. Bymeans of signals, one seaman indicated which containers were to be lifted. The crane boom swung out, rotating the whole cabin
platform with it. At a certain point the operator touched one lever and cable played out until the hook hung just above the
container. The ship was pitching from prow to stern, yawing from side to side and going up and down with the swells. While
this went on, two seamen clambered over the containers and slipped the crane hook into a steel cable sling around the container.
At a signal, the crane operator used another lever to pick the containers off the deck, spinning and swaying in the breeze.
From up this high, it looked like a children’s toy, but Dockrell knew he was watching a steel box of several tons in weight
dancing on the end of the crane string. The operator set the container down easy on the flotel platform, where crewmen freed
the hook.
Dockrell stood watching so quietly that the crane operator almost forgot he was there. Choppers came and went from the helidecks.
The control
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