Free Assignment Black Gold by Edward S. Aarons Page A

go,” he said. “It’s getting light.”
    She still hesitated. “Still, I wish Brady was more like you.
I’m taking a knife.”
    “All right." He watched her choose a long,
wicked-looking blade with steel about ten inches long and a blackened wooden
handle. She had a leather sheath for it that clipped onto the wide studded belt
of her denims. Then she touched her hair in an utterly feminine gesture and
smiled, and the smile made her look defenseless, somewhat frightened, like a
small girl.
    The boat was moored opposite the oil docks and the switching
yard where the explosions had occurred earlier. It was a thirty-two-foot wooden
craft of the Boston whaler type, with a wide beam and a diesel engine and an
extra fuel tank. There was a small canopy over a comfortable cockpit. It was
tied to the concrete pier under a dim light from a nearby security lamp. The
name on the stern was Kitty. The girl moved lightly, familiar with boats from
her childhood days at Gloucester. She checked the lines and the fuel, nodded
when Durell asked if there was enough for a round trip to the rig, and balanced
herself easily against the slight push of the tide coming into the estuary. Off
to the east the sky began to pale with the new dawn. Westward, over the African
coastal waters of the Atlantic, the ocean was still utterly dark except for a
few navigation lights winking against the blackness.
    Durell heard the footsteps running from the oil company’s
rail yard as he was about to go down the rickety wooden ladder to the whaler.
He paused. touched the gun in his belt. The smell of smoke still hovered in the
air from the earlier explosions.
    “Cajun!”
    It was Matt Forchette. His chunky figure appeared in
the nearby pool of light. He wore boots and a checked cotton shirt and he held
a Colt’s .45 in his hand. His square face was turgid with anger.
    “What in hell are you doing?”
    “Going for a boat ride, Matty,” Din-ell spoke calmly.
    “Why the gun?”
    “Why not? You know what‘s happening around here.”
    “But we’re not on company property.”
    Matty did not lower the big automatic. He looked down at
Kitty Cotton and said, “Hi, sweetheart. I thought this feller was in jail.”
    “Where did you hear that?” Durell asked.
    “You told me yourself that Colonel Lepaka wanted to see you.
I just figured—” The stocky man looked confused for a moment. He started to
lower his gun, then brought it up again. “Listen, Sam, I know you—you’ve got to
be up to something. Just where are you going? To the rig?”
    “Yes. Looking for Brady Cotton,” Durell said.
    “You think he’s out on the Lady?”
    “He might be. He seems to be nowhere else.”
    Matt made a snorting sound. “The chopper went out there two
hours ago. Haven’t heard a word since. No radio contact at all. The supply
tender needs repairs, since the explosions, so that’s no good either. I’m goin’
with you.”
    Durell looked at Kitty, who nodded. “What do you mean, you
haven’t heard anything from the Lady?”
    “Contact went out before the chopper got there. Sure, we’re
supposed to have radio telecommunications on twenty-four-hour service.
Normally, the platform takes a crew of fifty-four men, but Hobe pulled
most of them off
    when he decided we were goin’ into a dry hole—which I think
is a lot of crap—and he left only six men for maintenance. Tommy Crandon, Joe Ball,
Eddie Grogan—I got the list back in the office."
    “You think something has happened out there?”
    “I damn well mean to find out.”
    Durell said, “You don’t need that gun to convince me. Get
aboard.”
    Kitty handled the wheel. She stood with her legs braced against
the rolling swell of the estuary and the incoming tide. Matty the Fork settled
down on the stern near the inboard engine hatch and glumly put away his gun. In
la moment, the dark shore receded, its empty storage tanks along the dock a
mute testimony to unfulfilled hopes. A few lights twinkled in the