Car alarms went off outside. Storefront windows up and down Main Street shattered and spilled onto sidewalks. Windshields disintegrated into cubes of safety glass. The town’s one traffic light exploded in a shower of sparks.
I was afraid of this, Martha thought. We should have known better.
She cautiously uncovered her ears, which nevertheless kept on ringing. Dr. Whitaker stared speechlessly at little Clark. His glasses were askew, the lenses cracked. But the baby was smiling now, as if entertained by all the commotion.
Martha shared a look with her husband, who nodded in response. Before the doctor could collect his wits— or ask any unwanted questions—they reclaimed their son and hustled him out of the doctor’s office. Martha cringed at the mess in the waiting room, but didn’t stop to talk to the nurse or receptionist, who were busy coping with the chaotic aftermath of the event.
The Kents hurried out onto Main Street, where they found even more broken glass and other property damage.
Dear Lord, Martha thought. Did Clark do all this, just by crying?
The baby gurgled happily in her arms.
The waves were higher, the weather rougher, but the Debbie Sue hadn’t made her quota yet, so there was still work to be done. Down on the icy deck, the men were launching empty pots, baited with herring, into the sea. They leaned precariously over the rails as the freezing wind and spray pelted their faces.
Floating buoys marked the location of the pots.
“Mayday!” The radio in the wheelhouse squealed into life. “This is the Bright Aurora calling all ships in the vicinity. We’ve had an explosion and the platform is on fire. Numerous survivors are in the water!”
Captain Heraldson scowled. The Bright Aurora was an offshore oil rig only a few nautical miles away. An explosion at the massive platform was seriously bad news. He grabbed a mike and shouted to his men over the boat’s loud hailer.
“Lock it up! Just got a distress call from a rig due west of us.”
The emergency was going to cost them a day’s fishing, maybe more, but Heraldson didn’t hesitate. An oil platform like the Bright Aurora could house more than two hundred souls, all of whom might be in mortal danger. The code of the sea—and common sense— demanded that he respond to their SOS.
He hoped it wasn’t already too late.
To their credit, his crew battened down the cages and gear in record time. Heraldson opened up the throttle, pushing the Debbie Sue to her limits as the boat ploughed through the waves. Locating the burning rig wasn’t a challenge—the smoke and flames were soon visible from miles away. And it was as bad as he had feared.
The enormous drilling platform, which loomed hundreds of feet above the surging waves, was engulfed in flames. With its towering derrick and one-hundred-and-fifty-foot tall cranes, the imperiled platform resembled a large industrial factory on fire, which was essentially the case.
Terrified oil workers could be seen dashing around the rig’s various decks, fleeing the flames and explosions. Some had no choice but to leap from great heights into the frigid water, taking their chances with the sea rather than facing the blazing inferno. Lifeboats bobbed on the whitecaps, fishing survivors out of the oily waters. Gargantuan fireballs blossomed on the upper levels of the platform.
The Debbie Sue joined a flotilla of boats coming to assist in the rescue efforts. Heraldson spotted several of his competitors in the choppy waters around them. Fishing crews hurried to pluck burned and drowning roughnecks from the sea. Coast Guard rescue ’copters buzzed overhead, braving the rising smoke and flames. Turning the wheelhouse over to Byrne, the captain joined his own crew at the rail, searching the waters for more survivors.
Along with the rest of the men, the young greenhorn stared in horror at the disaster. Strong winds carried the choking odor of burning gas and oil. Heraldson covered his mouth and nose.
“Dispatcher says there’s still men trapped inside,” he informed the others. He doubted that anything could be done for those poor bastards, but maybe he and his crew could still rescue the desperate souls who had made it into the sea. He struggled to spot any survivors amidst the foaming swells. “Greenhorn, go fetch my binoculars!”
The kid failed to acknowledge the order. Heraldson turned irritably, only to discover that the youth was nowhere to be seen. A discarded orange slicker lay atop the deck.
What the devil?
CHAPTER EIGHT
The violent sea thrashed the underside of the platform. A thirty-foot wave crashed against one of the massive steel legs supporting the rig. Churning white water briefly hid the rusty metal spider deck that lay below the main complex, just above the surface, but when the wave subsided, a solitary figure was left clinging to the leg.
Clark dug his bare fingers into solid steel. Icy water streamed from his dark hair and beard. The wave had done him a favor, carrying him up out of the water and onto the platform. Despite swimming through the Arctic waters, he wasn’t even shivering. Cold didn’t bother him the way it did other people.
Neither did fire.
He took a second to get his bearings. The deck modules containing the control rooms and living quarters were still levels above him. His eyes probed the sprawling metal structures, seeing beyond the painted steel. He heard men screaming and cursing and praying. Everything smelled of gas and smoke.
There was no time to lose.
He tensed his muscles, and then hurled himself upward at the module above. He smashed through the floor of the lower deck, exploding into a smoke-filled corridor. Emergency lights flickered weakly. Blaring sirens competed with the ferocious roar of a rampaging fire. Random explosions rocked the floor. Straining girders moaned in agony. The air reeked of gasoline.
The enclosed deck was a dark, claustrophobic maze. An ordinary man might have found it impossible to navigate, but Clark ran through walls of flame without hesitation, unaffected by the scorching heat. Heavy steel bulkheads got in his way and he barreled through them as though they were made of balsa wood.
The fire was spreading rapidly, peeling the paint of the walls and blocking fire exits. Walls and doors were too hot to touch, at least for most people.
Clark wasn’t most people.
Bursting into the smoke-filled hallway, he found a handful of desperate engineers and roughnecks trying to make their way to safety. Soot blackened the men’s faces. They clutched rags to their mouths, but were coughing and choking anyway. Burns, bruises, and broken limbs slowed down some of them, so they were being helped along by their equally frightened comrades.
Clark could hear their hearts pounding in fear.
A flashlight shone in his face.
“Are there any others?” he asked.
The men were too intent on escaping to question his presence.
“Forget ’em!” a limping hardhat shouted. Guilt and anguish contorted his sooty face. “They’re dead!”
Clark listened harder. He heard what the other men couldn’t. An explosion knocked out the lights, plunging the hallway into darkness.