Mac Cole’s steel-toed work boots clattered against the diamond-plated catwalk as he hauled his frame toward the aft bulkhead.
“Keep your head down, kid!” Mac barked over his shoulder.
“Right behind you, Mac!” Julian shouted back, his flashlight beam dancing across the wet steel ribs of the derrick frame.
“Watch that overhead cable tray,” Mac called out. “She’s hanging low from the vibration.”
“Got it,” Julian answered. “Step cleared.”
“How’s the air back there?” Mac asked, coughing as he rounded the first stanchion.
“Thick as wet wool,” Julian said. “Reeking of sulfur and burnt grease.”
“That’s high-pressure marine steam,” Mac said. “Once you smell it, you never forget it.”
