The headless suits didn’t breathe. They sloshed.
Four pairs of orange vinyl legs swung down from the crane cab’s steel ladder, their heavy rubber boots hitting the diamond-plate deck with wet thuds. Seawater surged inside their sealed sleeves, sloshing against the rubberized fabric.
Above their zipped collars, nothing looked back. Four empty vinyl hoods bobbed lightly on columns of pressurized gas.
On the bulkhead chronometer above the crane pedestal, the red digital numbers clicked from 11:08 PM to 11:09 PM.
The fifty-eight-hertz drone from the rig’s main diesel generators shuddered through the soles of Julian Vance’s work boots. Out on the open deck, the night air tasted of sulfur, cold sea-foam, and raw exhaust.
The lead suit reached toward an exterior bulkhead rack. Its yellow canvas work gloves wrapped around a thirty-six-inch iron pipe-tong. The rusted steel jaws rattled as the empty garment dragged the heavy tool free of its brackets.
The other three suits followed in step. Four sets of heavy pipe-tongs scraped across the deck grating with a high-pitched metallic screech.
“Catwalk,” Julian said, pointing past the crane boom. “Move.”
