The rig had drilled its last well. Everyone said it was over.
The morning started quiet, which made the crew suspicious. The ocean rolled under the old platform. The cranes creaked. The gulls circled. Somewhere below the deck, a pump made the kind of tired noise that told every roughneck it had opinions.
The company memo said the rig was being prepared for decommissioning. Inventory the tools. Secure the equipment. Drain the tanks. Lock the rooms. Wait for orders.
The roughnecks read the memo with the faces of men who knew that “wait for orders” usually meant “somebody in an office has made a mess and needs workers to clean it up.”
Then Solarjack walked onto the deck carrying a roll of drawings, a greasy wrench, and a grin that made the safety officer reach for his clipboard.