Archive of Our Own

The usual disclaimers about ownership of characters. This fiction in no way reflects on the lives of the actors who portrayed the characters.

This appeared first in My Mongoose Ezine. Thanks to Elaine for the beta.

The Drilling Rig

Part One: Situation Set-up

Blair Sandburg smiled brightly at the man sitting across the desk from him, and lied through his teeth. "Yes sir, I've had experience. I worked the kitchens at Rainier several semesters on a work/study program. Last year I pretty much ran them while the manager was on vacation."

It wasn't entirely a lie. He had worked in the cafeteria--as a bus boy. \\But this is justifiable. I gotta get a good paying job. I can't scratch up the cash I'll need flipping burgers or punching a cash register, and construction just about killed me last year. Cook on an oil drilling platform ought to be right up my alley. I mean, I can cook. I'll just have to cook for more at one time, right?\\

Blair Sandburg was a very logical young man (despite what struck some people as a rather fey personality), and could rationalize almost anything if it would help him get back into college to finish his Master's. There'd been a lot of financial set backs since he'd graduated with his first degree, and the next academic step seemed to be getting farther out of reach all the time. He felt like he had to get back into the academic swim soon, or lose his edge.

He'd been something of a wunderkind, starting college when he was fifteen, and advancing quickly. Well, he was twenty-one now, had been out of school for two years, and was unable to find any sort of job related to his field of expertise. He knew that the academic world had, by this time, relegated him to the Twilight Zone of 'Oh, yes, he used to be so promising. Whatever happened to him?'.

Carl Broderick, in charge of overseas personnel for the oil platforms in the Sunnline Drilling Corporation, tapped his pencil thoughtfully on his desk, staring at the curly headed young man sitting opposite him. That expression was so open, honest, and sincere that it had to be a put on. Still, the kid had passed the drug test, which was better than most of the applicants so far. And, though he was on the smallish side, he looked sturdy. An offshore rig was no place for the fragile, even if they were in one of the less physically strenuous positions.

Finally he dropped the pencil, bridged his hands together, and rested his chin on them. "Sandburg, if I were to call Rainier, and ask after you, would they know who I was talking about?"

Again the forthright stare. "Yes, sir."

"Mhm. Would they know you as a cook, though?"

Blair winced, and said reluctantly, "No. I guess not. But I did work in the kitchen."

Carl nodded. Fair enough. No experience, but he was honest enough to admit the truth, even when it might cost him the position. The last relief he'd hired for one of their rigs had experience, and had robbed them blind and had tried to extort extra cash from the crew by threatening them with lousy food. He'd ended up pitched headfirst into the North Sea. Oh, they'd hauled him out in time: he'd only lost a couple of toes to the hypothermia.

Finally Carl said, "I'm going to be straight with you, Sandburg. I'm in a fix, here, damn near desperate. The company plane is leaving tomorrow for Scotland with replacement crewmen for one of our rigs in the Northern Sea. The supply boat leaves for the platform the day after, early, and I still need a cook. There isn't anyone else even remotely acceptable so far. There'll be a senior cook, plus a baker and a couple of helpers. The rig operates 24/7, so the kitchen does, too. But if you get the job, all you'll have to do is spell the head cook: twelve hours on, twelve hours off. It won't all be on your shoulders. Can you actually boil water?"

Blair nodded vigorously. "And work a can opener, and a microwave, and a food processor, and a blender. I have friends who are on macrobiotic, or vegan diets, so I can take care of those with no problem, if any of the crew need it."

Carl barked with laughter. "Kid, our guys think that the four major food groups are salt, sugar, grease, and caffeine. Load them with those, and you'll keep them happy."

Blair nodded again, so energetically that his auburn curls bounced. "I can do that."

Broderick sighed. "Okay. If no one else shows up by five p.m., you're it. Be ready to show up at the airport by five am." He scribbled an address on a scrap of paper. "Here's the berth at the dock in Scotland. Bring everything you'll need for at least a two week stay. The deal with us is two weeks on, one week off, and we contract you for a year and a half."

Blair blinked. That was a little more commitment than he had been looking for. "That's... um... kinda longer than I was interested in."

"If you can't sign on for at least that long, we aren't interested. It costs us a lot to ship you out there, feed and house you, and ship you around for your time off. It's a big investment. On the plus side for you, since you'll be non-resident during this earning period, Uncle Sam won't tax any of your wages."

"No shit?" Blair was both delighted and astonished.

Broderick smiled slightly. "No shit."

"Damn, Naomi will //love// that. Screwing the government out of what they shouldn't be helping themselves to in the first place." //I might as well, to make her happy. After all, I didn't apply for grants or loans because //she's// so distrustful of the government.//

Broderick was continuing. "Company supplies linens and laundry supplies, basic bath soap and shampoo. Any other toiletries, you have to bring with you: razors, deodorant, toothpaste, mouthwash, etcetera."

"What type of shampoo?" Blair was absently fingering a long, curly strand of auburn hair."

"Lord, son, I don't know. I think they buy it by the five gallon jug."

"Pass."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me. I'd advise you to stock up on... um, reading material, too. There's always a lot floating around the rig, left there by previous crew members, but there's no telling if they have the same taste in stroke books that you do."

Blair blushed as he took the paper with the dock number on it. He probably would bring some erotica along. Heck, he was a healthy young man, after all. He had a better than average libido, not that it had been getting much of a workout lately. The thing was, how discrete would he have to be? Would he get tossed off the rig into the waves if it was found that his stroke material featured hard bodied guys instead of voluptuous women?

Blair waited anxiously by the phone in the lobby of the rat trap he was currently calling home. Every time one of the hookers or drug dealers got on it, he fidgeted. They all ignored him. The working girls and the players had all learned that the cute young guy with the long hair wasn't interested in buying anything, probably couldn't afford to if he was. Some of the girls contemplated offering him a freebie. They had privately conferred and declared him a pint sized sexy teddy bear. But common sense and watchful pimps quashed those ideas.

Five o'clock came and went, and Blair didn't know whether to be relieved, or even more anxious. At five-thirty the phone finally jangled, and he snatched up the receiver. "Yeah?"

"This Blair Sandburg?"

"Yes, sir."

"Broderick here. You got the job, kid. Be at the airport around five or a quarter after. The plane will be at gate nine. If you're late, they'll leave your butt, and you'll never get another job with a crew boat or platform, understand? Same goes for meeting the boat in Scotland. You'll be on your own from landing to launching, they won't nursemaid you."

"I understand. You won't be sorry."

"I hope not. And I just hope you aren't sorry. I'm not sure you know what you're getting yourself into, but I ain't your daddy. Good luck. Oh, and be sure to bring a pair of steel toed boots with you. Gotta have 'em for insurance purposes."

Blair hung up and did a little dance in front of the phone, pumping his fist in the air. //"YESYESYESYESYES!"//

He stopped abruptly. "Steel toed boots?*" For insurance? Damn, what was he getting himself into? After a moment he shrugged. "Oh well."

End The Drilling Rig by Scribe: [email protected]

Author and story notes above.

Disclaimer: The Sentinel is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount.