Adam Baker - Outpost

‘These doors are supposed to hold back thousand-degree heat for twelve hours straight,’ coughed Jane.

‘It’s not the door, it’s the conduits. Electrical fires behind the bulkheads.’

Black smoke seeped from a wall-vent. Ghost discharged the extinguisher into the vent. The jet of carbon dioxide roared, sputtered and died.

‘Sian? Sian, can you hear me, over? Fuck.’

They ran upstairs. Ghost took breathing apparatus from the fire locker. One air tank. One mask. They buddy-breathed, drew lungfuls of oxygen as they passed the mask back and forth.

‘How much air is in this tank?’ gasped Jane.

‘Thirty minutes, tops.’

Sian vaulted stairs to the helipad. She forgot her coat. She ran outside in her T-shirt.

Smoke wafted from the adjacent accommodation block.

‘We have a fire. A big one. C level. Are you getting this, Punch? Can you hear me?’

Sian leaned over the edge of the helipad to get a better view.

She was shivering with cold. Water gushed from beneath the burning habitation block and cascaded into the sea. A ruptured pipe.

‘Punch, I’m looking over the side. Heavy damage. We’re losing water. There are flames.’

‘…Emergency stations. Fire warning. Emergency stations. Fire warning..!’

Punch ran down the corridor to D Module. The hatch at the end of the passage had a porthole. Fire on the other side. A passageway clogged with smoke and flame.

Think like Ghost. What would he do?

Punch ran to the fire point. Breathing apparatus. He took out an oxygen cylinder and struggled to release the valve. He strapped it to his back and buckled the harness. So heavy he almost toppled backward. He tugged on the face-mask.

Rawlins drilled the crew once a month. A three-step procedure in the event of fire:

Seal the doors.

Put on a mask.

Find the nearest fire suppression wall box. Smash the glass. Pull the lever. Trigger the deluge system

Punch ran to a wall box. He smashed the glass with his elbow. He yanked the red lever to On. Nothing happened. He tried it twice more. Nothing. The lever should have released the Inergen gas system. Ceiling valves should have flooded the corridors with an inert mix of argon, nitrogen and carbon dioxide, and choked the fire. Punch ripped off his mask.

‘Sian, why the fuck haven’t the suppressors kicked in?’

Punch unravelled a fire hose. He twisted the stop-cock. The hose swelled. He trained the low-pressure stream at the blast door. Water gulped and sputtered. It splashed against the hatch and fizzled like spit on a hot plate.

‘This is fucked,’ he muttered. He threw down the hose and took out his radio. ‘I’m coming up top. There’s not much I can do down here.’

Punch joined Sian on the helipad. He threw her a coat.

‘Nothing from Ghost and Jane?’

‘Nothing,’ said Sian.

‘Ivan knows how to operate the crane. He can lower me on to the roof.’

Punch stood alone on the helipad. He pulled a silver, fire-retardant proximity suit over his survival gear. The suit was comically big. He had to roll up the sleeves.

He buckled a SCBA cylinder to his back. The sun had set. He looked up at a fabulous dusting of stars.

Worse ways to go, he thought. Die fighting. Die for your friends.

There was a heavy freight crane mounted on the deck between the accommodation blocks. Sian and Ivan could swing him from one roof to another.

He could see them in the cab. Ivan at the controls. Sian crouched beside him.

Punch waved. They swung the jib and lowered the hook. There was a cargo pallet hung from the hook, a wooden platform suspended by a chain.

Punch pulled on his face-mask. He stepped on to the platform. He gave a thumbs up. They swung him towards the burning accommodation module.

Jane and Ghost crouched in the stairwell. The air was thick with hydrogen sulphide. Ghost struggled to stay conscious. His eyelids drooped like he wanted to sleep. Jane crouched over him and pressed the mask to his face. She snatched the mask away and took a gulp of oxygen every few seconds.

The blast door raised. A slight figure in an oversized silver suit. Punch, smiling through the polycarbonate visor.

‘Let’s get out of here, shall we?’ His voice was muffled by his mask.

They hurried down the corridor. They supported Ghost between them. He started to revive.

Ivan sat in the crane cab. Sian stood at his shoulder. ‘Punch, do you copy, over? Punch?’

The wind changed. The cab was enveloped in black smoke from the burning accommodation block.

‘We must go,’ said Ivan.

‘Wait.’

‘I don’t want to get caught up here. Nine-eleven. Jump-or-burn. I don’t need it.’

‘Just wait.’

They ran past Medical.

‘Wait,’ said Jane. She ran inside. She flapped open a red body-waste bag. ‘We have to save as much as we can.’

She swept armfuls of drugs into the bag. Ghost opened a cupboard and filled a bag with dressings and hypodermics.

Punch stood by the door. The floor felt soft and sticky. He lifted his boot. The rubber sole of his shoe had begun to melt. He crouched and held his hand over the deck plate. Fierce heat. The level beneath them must be ablaze.

‘Folks, we need to leave this instant.’

‘Go,’ said Jane. ‘I’m right behind you.’

They ran for the roof. Ghost pushed Punch on to the cargo pallet.

‘You go,’ said Ghost. ‘I’m waiting for Jane.’

‘… Emergency stations. Fire warning. Emergency stations. Fire warning… ’

The crew mustered in the canteen. They kicked off their heavy boots and zipped themselves into survival suits: insulated wetsuits designed to keep a man alive if he fell into the sea and was immersed in heart-stopping cold. Each man checked his buddy’s suit seals and life jacket.

Nail zipped a deck of cards into his suit. Essential supplies. He instinctively retreated to the gym equipment in the corner of the canteen. His territory. His kingdom. He was joined by Mal, Gus and Yakov.

‘Any idea what’s going on?’

‘Keep seeing Punch run back and forth,’ said Nail. ‘Fucker won’t look me in the eye.’

He sniffed.

‘Smell that? Burning plastic. If we all sit here waiting for someone to kiss it better, we’ll choke.’

‘Can we kill that fucking announcement, at least?’ said Gus. ‘It’s driving me nuts.’

Nail ran to Rawlins’s office. Empty. He sat at the desk. He checked the screen. The adjacent habitation block flashed red. Fire alerts on every level. He switched on the PA and grabbed the mike.

‘All stations. All stations. Abandon rig. Abandon rig.’

The cargo platform swung towards the helipad. Punch touched down.

He ran down the stairwell towards the canteen. Thick smoke. Alarms and strobes.

‘…All stations. All stations. Abandon rig. Abandon rig..!’

We’re going to lose the whole fucking refinery.

What would Ghost do?

Punch stood on a chair in the canteen and clapped for attention.

‘Okay, folks. We’re out of here.’

He led the crew down the smoke-filled stairway. They coughed. Their eyes streamed. He counted them off as he pushed them into an airlock. One man down.

He found Nail lying unconscious on the stairs. He gripped Nail’s ankles and dragged him to the airlock.

They sealed themselves inside. They were choking. Three men puked.

Punch shouldered the exterior door. They whooped freezing air.

‘We need to get to the boathouse. The elevators are out of action. We’ll have to use the ladders.’ The evacuation order was relayed to the crane cab.

‘We must go,’ said Ivan.

‘What about Jane and Ghost?’ said Sian.

‘I am sorry for your friends.’