The heavy iron turnstile screeched as Mac Cole shoved it open with his brass spanner arm.
Cold salt spray whipped through the gap in the granite abutment. The ocean floor stretched out ahead of them, black and glistening in the dead-low slack tide.
“Single file,” Julian Vance said, his voice flat and steady above the rush of escaping steam. “Keep your boots on the crown of the iron pipe. Do not touch the black tiles.”
“Clear path ahead,” Mac grunted, stepping through first. “Watch the barnacles on the pipe skin, Kid. They’ll cut your boots to ribbons if you slip.”
Julian stepped onto the curved spine of the thirty-six-inch slurry line. His rubber work soles gripped the pitted, salt-encrusted iron.
Behind them, the horizontal pipeline from Blackwater Rig Number Twelve let out a dying hiss as the last residual pressure bled off to zero. The confetti from twelve hundred shredded court-martial transcripts still swirled in the freezing downdraft, fluttering like paper snow into the black mud below.
Inside Julian’s coat pocket, the Casio register sat warm and silent against his ribs. Arthur Pendelton was resting his smoked circuits, his display dimmed to conserve power after holding the solenoid clamp.
“Lin Mei, watch your footing on the flange,” Dr. Victor Corvo called out from behind Julian. The coroner carried his medical satchel tucked high against his chest, his analog hearing aid whistling softly against the Atlantic wind.
