The Quisling Legacy

Shrieking like a banshee, the gale force wind compressed the bright

orange survival suit almost flat against Doug McCann’s compact body

as he worked his way cautiously down the exposed steel ladders of the

rig. He struggled to maintain his balance as the huge vessel heaved

and rolled beneath his feet. The relentless bombardment of the ocean

waves, lashing over the hull pontoons way below him, generated massive

vibrations throughout the whole of the gigantic steel structure.

It was already mid April, but the wind blowing from the north east

was as cold and as cutting as ever, out there in the middle of the North

Sea. The icy blast seemed to threaten it could even cut through to the

very core of a man’s soul. But, it was not the weather that McCann

needed to fear. There was a far deadlier spectre awaiting him and his

crew. Swinging around the bottom of the ladder and coming perilously

close to the rail and the promise of a seventy metre straight drop to the

grey, angry sea below, McCann continued on to his destination - the

drill deck - just one more level down.

Doug McCann was a stocky, tough and confident man. Despite the

limitations of his build he was naturally required to be both tough and

confident, because he held the most senior position on the drilling rig

rarely addressed on the rig by any other title than Boss or Chief. As

familiar as even such titles might have appeared to an outsider, there

Regardless of the grim weather and numerous other pressing

matters on his mind, Doug McCann was in fact, in a very buoyant

mood. For once he would be the bearer of glad tidings, and nowadays,

any good news at all was a rare commodity on a drilling rig operating

in the North Sea, or anywhere else on the high seas of the world for

that matter. Times were desperately bad in this business.

Finally stepping safely down onto the drill deck, McCann was

greeted by a totally diff erent kind of blast. This time he was hit by

a direct and relentless explosion of sound. One even louder than the

unceasing, howling gale. It was the normal clamour of oil rig activity.

The rig doing its job.

Undaunted, Doug pulled himself erect, and looking around the

busy work area, immediately spotted his quarry standing amid the

action taking place ahead of him in the centre of the drill deck. The

unmistakeable, six foot four, muscular frame of Jack Curtis, the rig’s

brawny American, Senior Tool-pusher, stood out like a sturdy ship’s

main mast.

Jack Curtis, standing with his legs set well apart, stabilising his

broad frame against the erratic rolling of the rig, was fully occupied

in organising his six-man gang as they operated the machinery and

equipment employed in heaving up the five metre lengths of steel drill

string from the depths of the ocean. Only a few hours before, these

very same sections of pipe had finally served their working purpose,

guiding the first, newly discovered flow of crude oil up from the vast

oil field lying in the depths of the ocean far below the rig.

been contracted to do. Drill for, and find oil. Job done. As soon as the

last section of the drill pipe cleared the seabed, some 70 metres below,

would soon be towed to the site and then, with its massive steel legs

submerged and settled into place on the bottom, the task of retrieving

and processing the new oil would commence. Then the black gold, as

it once was called, in more romantic times, would be pumped on its

Jack Curtis was critically studying the scene before him. He watched

intently as each solid pipe section was hoisted up and hosed down,

spraying the drilling platform with a mixture of oil, mud and sand,

before being finally pulled away for stacking in the racks located on

the side of the deck. Ready for use on the next job. The rattle of chain

and whine of motors was deafening, but at least it was the clangour of

action - of progress - of work underway - much needed work and far

preferable to the whine of the gale howling incessantly around them.

Doug hesitated for a second as he studied, with more than a little

admiration, the big man going about his work, and waited for him to

relax for a second and take a few paces back from the job. What Doug

had to say was important but so was the lifting of the drill string. The

sooner that was accomplished the sooner they could be on their way.

Totally unaware of Doug’s presence on the drill deck, Jack Curtis

continued overseeing the operation going on in front of him, and not

without some pride, observed the strenuous efforts of his dedicated,

hard working crew. Every single man on the team, Jack knew and treated

almost like a brother. That’s the way it was in this tough business. One

looked out for the boys and more generally than not they looked out

for you. It was a work ethic that had followed him through most of his

adult life.

Studying the growing pile of steel pipes, Jack wondered when those

vital sections would be needed again. They all knew it was the end of

a contract and nobody had the slightest idea when or even if another

one was going to come along. Times were really bad. Jack was dreading

the announcement that he would soon probably have to deliver to the

guys - accompanied no doubt by their signing off documents. End of