Paul had learned some of this from Red Cloud as the Blacksand boss had chewed them out in Dead Horse.
“He used to be in the Marines,” Murphy had said, using his thumb to point at Paul. Murphy’s voice had sounded funny because of the broken nose and the heavy bandages swathing it.
Red Cloud had nodded in a way that told Paul the Indian had already known that. The Algonquian warrior had gone on to inform them that a fine was coming out of their paychecks. Each of them would work at the rig long enough to pay for their plane tickets and the fine Red Cloud was adding for breach of contract.
“Why not just send us home, Chief?” Murphy had asked.
Those black eyes had locked onto Murphy, and slowly, Red Cloud had shaken his head. There was a hidden deadliness to the Algonquian. Paul could easily imagine Red Cloud torturing a bound man. The Indian wasn’t someone Paul would want to get angry, and yet he had already managed to do so.
The plane ride to Platform P-53 had proven uneventful, if long. Outside the plane had been ice—polar ice—thousands of bleak miles of it in grim darkness and in all directions. The sun wouldn’t shine in this part of the world for months.
From a distance, their destination had looked like Santa Claus’s kingdom. There had been lights, towers and ice. They’d landed on an ice runway and ridden a tracked snowcat to the sheds surrounding the rig. That was Platform P-53: sheds, three working derricks, gravel, huge storage tanks…and ice floating on the Arctic Ocean. The closest place of interest was the North Pole, while Siberia and Greenland were almost as near as Alaska and Canada.
If what Paul had done hadn’t already been enough, in the last few days, he had inadvertently broken three rules. He’d phoned his ex-wife in order to talk with Mikey. That had broken two rules at once. In the States, he’d signed a contract that said he’d leave all communication devices behind. By actually using the cell phone to speak with non oil-company entities, he’d broken the second rule. The third infraction had been a second fight with Murphy. Two days ago, the ex-Army Ranger had ambushed him in the rec room. Murphy had clipped the back of the head with a cue stick and almost finished the fight by ramming the end into his back. Instead, it had ended with Paul using the cue stick. He’d ripped it out of Murphy’s grasp and cracked him on the side of the head, causing the attacker to thump onto the rec room’s carpet. Since then, Paul had been quarantined in the room, while Murphy recovered in the infirmary.
“Last chance, Kavanagh,” the master sergeant in the rec room said.
If you lose this job now, you’re probably finished for good, Paul told himself. At least you have to try. With a sigh, he shoved himself to his feet. “Yeah, I’m coming. Let’s go talk with Red Cloud.”
Soon, the two guards and Paul crunched across the snow, a light layer of it over the ice. It didn’t snow here much. In fact, many parts of the Arctic received less precipitation than a hot desert.
The derricks pumped oil, the giant pistons moving up and down. There was a gas flame burning at the top of a pole, getting rid of excess waste fumes.
Paul shivered. The wind was cold against his face. He’d heard incredibly that there were colder places in Siberia, as the saltwater here helped keep the temperature higher than otherwise.
A different shed loomed near. There were twelve of varying sizes. The idea that terrorists could get up here to hurt the oil rig seemed more than ludicrous. Still, it was work, and work brought money, and that money Paul needed now more than ever.
“Go on,” said the master sergeant. “And make sure you stamp your feet on the mat. Red Cloud doesn’t like snow on his rug.”
“Take your boots off inside,” the other guard said.
“If he doesn’t know that,” the master sergeant said, “he’s an idiot.”
“We already know he’s an idiot,” the second guard said. “So what’s your point?”
Paul glanced angrily at the second guard.
“What did I tell you?” the second guard told the first. “This guy can’t hold his temper for nothing. Go on inside, loser. And good riddance to you, I say.”
Paul thought about that as he opened the door. Hot air blasted against his face, and it felt good. He shut the door behind him, stamped his feet on the mat and took off his boots. The carpeted area had couches, recliners and several paintings on the wall, store-bought pieces of woodlands. There was also a large-screen TV. Various doors led to different rooms. They were all closed. One door was open, and Paul spied a desk.
“In here, Marine.”
Paul recognized the odd accent. It wasn’t French-Canadian, but had a hint of it. It must be an Algonquian accent. Taking a deep breath, Paul headed for the open door, still not used to walking around in his stocking feet.
The small Algonquian sat behind a modest desk. Red Cloud had a computer screen and several wooden figurines: an elk, a grizzly and a wolverine. On the walls were more woodland paintings. A Remington shotgun stood in a corner, while an old Uzi machine gun hung on a wall. Red Cloud wore lumberjack-style clothes and a strange buckskin pendant on his throat. He studied Paul with those dark eyes of his before finally indicating that he sit down.
There were two chairs, both wooden. Paul sat in the nearest, leaning back so the dowels creaked.
“I’ve been reading your war record,” Red Cloud said, pointing at the computer screen. “You made several deep penetration raids.”
“There wasn’t much of a front in the woods of Quebec,” Paul said. “Everything was a deep raid, but you know that.”
Red Cloud nodded. “During the war, I killed five Marines, two with my bare hands. I caught them in their sleeping bags.”
Paul had told himself to remain calm and cool while in here, but he felt his face flush with heat. “Is that right? Well I found more of you snow-fleas sitting on the crapper than you could—” Paul snapped his mouth shut, struggling to remain quiet.
“You are a troubled man.”
Paul shrugged.
“Troubled men are a liability in a land like this.”
“Yeah?” Paul asked. “I could live off the land better than anyone here, including you, Cochise.”
“Boasts do not impress me.”
“I ain’t boasting,” Paul said, trying to control his slipping temper. “I’m stating a fact.”
Red Cloud touched the pedant on his throat. “You are a warrior. You are a man who likes to fight.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that I didn’t start the fight in the bar?”
“I’ve read your record. You had several citations for courage and three chances for a Bronze Star. Yet you never received a medal. Why was that?”
“I’m not good at sucking up,” Paul muttered. “Cheri could tell you that.”
“Warriors are good in a war, but they are trouble during peace. If I were going to raid Greenland, I would choose you. But if we’re to keep men confined in close quarters here, you would be my second-to-last choice.”