Barnaby Carmichael was twelve feet tall. Well, if truth be known he was only six feet eight, but the other guys on the rig loved to rib him about his extraordinary height – oil rigs are renowned for their masculine men and on them, size truly is important. Anyone unfortunate enough to be under six feet tall is considered a midget, and being under the regulation fifteen stone can earn you the nickname 'Pipe-cleaner'. But even amongst such a solid collection of manliness, Barnaby was unique and all of the usual humorous expressions were inadequate. Whenever role call was taken, Barnaby was always clearly visible through the crowd, standing head and shoulders above his workmates.
Giant he might be, but Barnaby was a gentle giant. His thick mop of black hair ballooning out from beneath his regulation hard-hat leant him a boyish and carefree air, as did his ready smile, which was seldom far from his lips no matter what the weather threw at them and no matter what mischievous trick the rig decided to play that day. He was a hard grafter, always in the thick of it when the drill came up and it was all hands to the deck, and he was always first to pile in when it hit the fan and a colleague was in need of urgent assistance. Barnaby was well liked and well respected on Gryphon B, but he usually kept himself to himself during his down-time. The only person who could be regularly found at his side was Angus, the shift dwarf at a diminutive five feet nine.
On the rig it was never completely dark; even on the darkest moonless nights in the depths of the winter months the guttering ochre flare burning high above the deck and the myriad lights gleaming around the skeletal framework illuminated the rig like a Christmas tree. But beyond the rig was nothing – a nothing which stretched to the horizon; despite the brightness, outside the narrow ring of light might well lay the vacuous wastes of the galaxy.
As the night shift drew to a close, the day shift were gradually awaking, bright windows of light in the darkness heralding their emergence from the sleeping quarters or the mess hall. A tired but fresh contingent gradually gathered on the platform to relieve the tired and weary night crew.
Angus finished briefing his day shift counterpart and then set off to find Barnaby. He knew exactly where to find him on a calm clear morning like this. A kindred spirit, Angus was a gentle soul with a genuine love of aesthetic beauty and what better place could there be to observe the sunrise than from the narrow strip of walkway behind the mess hall on the eastern side of the rig. There were no windows on the outside of the mess and the gantry lights were far enough away that this corner was as dark and secluded as it was possible to be on the crowded platform.
'Beautiful morning for it,' Angus observed as he rounded the corner. No matter that he was a full eleven inches shorter than the giant he was never in the slightest self-conscious and he happily settled alongside Barnaby who was leaning forward against the rail staring into the night.
Barnaby smiled. 'Crystal clear and smooth as a baby's bum. Should be a good one.'
There was no need for further conversation, both were content to stand and simply soak up the moment and the salty tang of the North Sea. A pale glow on the horizon grew steadily brighter, gently easing the night from the sky. A faint glimmer of light shimmered across the ripples as the sun steadily and irrevocably ascended. Within minutes the sky was suffused with a soft red blush as the wispy cotton wool clouds absorbed the light, growing and glowing, brighter and brighter until finally a sliver of bronze broke the surface and daylight flooded across the watery wastes dwarfing the pale lamps of the rig.
Barnaby just wished that Angela could be here with him on such a wonderful morning to witness the sheer beauty of the moment, but she was at home, just a few days away from bringing his first son into the world. He was anxiously waiting for the news that he was finally a father. Would the rigs still be here when he grew up? Would his son one day stand right here, on this very spot, and witness this marvel himself? He had no idea – he could only wonder.
It was all over in less than half an hour. Barnaby and Angus abandoned their sanctuary and wandered back to their quarters. In the still morning air a thin mist was beginning to rise and, with a swiftness peculiar to the locality, the walkways were soon enveloped in a soft white shroud. Barnaby's size thirteen boots kissed the steel rungs with a surprising lightness of touch as his gloved hands pulled him ever upwards, but one careless step and a misjudged grip of the hand on the slippery rail was his undoing. His foot slid downwards and his hand spun into space. Barnaby crashed to the deck ten feet below with a sickening crunch.
Angus careered down the ladder after him screaming out for the medic, but the leg was bent at a most unusual angle and he was crying out in agony. A stretcher was brought and Barnaby was rushed to the sick bay where the diagnosis was both quick and obvious – his leg was broken, and badly at that. The medic was not going to be able to resolve this one. A helicopter was summoned.
. . .
Cliff Robertson peered anxiously ahead of him at the steadily worsening weather. When they had first been called out the sea mist had been light and patchy and the forecast had been relatively optimistic. He had made the decision that the emergency of the situation warranted an attempt at a rescue, but now he was beginning to think he might have made a bad decision. Out here the weather paid no heed to the fragility of man. The Super Puma was becoming engulfed in mist and he was continually forced to either rise above or manoeuvre around it in order to keep moving forwards, but how much longer could he do this for before he was forced back. He kept going as best he could; he desperately wanted to keep his appointment at the rig.
The crackle of the radio was answered by Doug in the navigator's seat beside him; the voice was broken, but the tone was urgent. Barnaby's condition was degenerating and it was imperative that he was removed to hospital as soon as possible. Cliff gave an anxious glance at Doug, but the seasoned co-pilot just shrugged his shoulders – it was as good an approval as he was likely to get under the circumstances.
The helicopter surged onwards until a faint glow a mile in front hung ghostlike above the haze – the flare. Cliff slowed the helicopter, dropping it gently down through the thickening mist to the insistent pounding of the wiper blades on the windscreen and the muffled roar of the rotors above their heads. Doug leant through the side door anxiously seeking the deck through the murk, directing him down. Just as he was beginning to consider aborting, the most wonderful sight opened up through the mist beneath them – an enormous letter 'H'. With a heavy thump the Super Puma touched down.
[Note: This story is continued to its conclusion in the October story 'Prediction']