Steel Storage: Volume I of the Golden Lane Trilogy

By Linton Morrell

In this, Volume I of The Golden Lane Trilogy, we begin the career of Clive Colin O'Reith, International Oil man. He is haunted by a dream that recurs. This is the dream: In the night, O'Reith dreamed again that Holly No.1 burned out of control. The billowing flames, roiling and angry, drove the doomed derrick man ever higher into the skeletal structure of the steel derrick. Like a man mesmerized, rigid and unable to move, he watched the frantic silhouette stiffen and quiver.

For a moment the smoking man flailed helplessly in the incandescent air. Then he pitched forward like an awkward diver, cart wheeling into first one, then another, of the glowing gifts. Finally he plummeted, head first, into the inferno.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 29, 2004
• ISBN: 9780595782918

Linton Morrell

After Army Air Corps service, Linton Morrell became a petroleum engineer. He drilled and put on production oil and gas wells in the USA, Venezuela, Africa and the Middle East. This is his fourth historical novel. Today he and his wife climb in the Pyrenees with the Club Age d?Or of Biarritz.

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All Rights Reserved © 1999, 2004 by Michael E. Lynch

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc.

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www.iuniverse.com

First Published 1999 by MINERVA PRESS

ISBN: 0-595-33494-6

ISBN: 978-0-5957-8291-8 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

CHAPTER XXXVI

CHAPTER XXXVII

CHAPTER XXXVIII

CHAPTER XXXIX

CHAPTER XL

CHAPTER XLI

CHAPTER XLII

CHAPTER XLIII

CHAPTER XLIV

CHAPTER X LV

CHAPTER X LVI

CHAPTER XLVII

CHAPTER XLVIII

CHAPTER XLIX

CHAPTER L

CHAPTER LI

CHAPTER LII

CHAPTER LIII

CHAPTER LIV

CHAPTER LV

CHAPTER LVI

APPENDICES

EXPLANATION OF JOKES IN THE TEXT

BIBLIOGRAPHY

To Maria

Although some characters and events in this story are real, the plot is fictional, and any resemblance to actual circumstances is purely coincidental. The language used in this novel reflects popular usage during 1941—1951.

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

The original manuscript for STEEL STORAGE was written in American English. Minerva Press converted it into English English. For this edition, I have returned to the original. Several typographical errors in the first edition have been corrected. Access to additional information about World War II since 1999 resulted in minor corrections. I have added the bibliography which was inadvertently omitted in the first edition. As a final point, I have abridged the text by about 4%.

My life, except for military service, has been in the large oil fields of the world. I have worked in the places cited in this novel. Much of it was written in oil field camps, airplanes (including the Concorde) and hotel rooms. My first notes were made while I was in the Army Air Corps. In Venezuela, in 1956 I began a novel entitled Ines. That work evolved into STEEL STORAGE.

Now, in the winter of my life, my days are chiaroscuro, sometimes glad, sometimes sad. As I walk the Cote de Basque each morning, savoring the surf and the ocean breezes, my thoughts return to the days of my youth. My feet feel the vibration of the derrick floor. My eyes sting from the Sirocco winds of the Sahara. My lips are salty from the Persian Gulf spray. I hear the roar of the engines; the throb of the mud hogs; the whirr of the table; the rattle of the chain and the clang of steel on steel. Through the V-door, past the catwalk, I see the long shadow of the derrick at eventide, the blowing sands of West Texas, the bleak, white dust of the San Joaquin, the vast, somber nothingness of the Rub al Khali and the desolate, Mars-like vista of South Persia.

I close my eyes and dream of the bright lights of Maracaibo. It is the witching hour. A gibbous moon rises out of the Lagunillas flats. The waters of the lake lap the platform legs. The young, narrow-eyed, bewhiskered, morning tour driller gazes intently at the weight indicator. The brake squeals. We have a drilling break! Presently my nose leads me to the shale shakers. Yes, I can smell natural gasoline

rising from the hot mud. We’ve been running high and she’s looking good. We may make a well in the C-zone.

Linton Morrell Biarritz

12 September 2004

PROLOGUE

FROM THE WALL STREET JOURNAL (West Coast Edition)

Los Angeles, May 6 (AP). The executives of Calitroleum Oil Corporation turned out en bloc yesterday for the funeral of Harvey Holmes Halliday, coming from around the world. The flamboyant chairman of the board died of a coronary occlusion in his Long Beach penthouse during the night on Tuesday. His shrewd but unpredictable maneuvers propelled the once tiny southern California producer into the ranks of the giant international oil companies.

His untimely death at age seventy marred the company’s celebration of a prolific oil strike in North Africa. Just last month Mr Vincent Barkett Blake, president of the company, had announced that a discovery in the Department of the Sahara in Algeria was confirmed on all four sides by long step-outs. He indicated that there was more good news in the offing. The Tidikelt Field is the bonanza of 1951 and will likely prove to be one of the gigantic oil fields in the world.

In view of political disturbances in Persia which could shut off oil flow there, according to Mr Lawrence Teague, a company refining executive, Tidikelt is an insurance policy of grand dimension.

There is considerable speculation as to how Mr Halliday’s death will affect the management of the company. In emergency session last Thursday, those directors who were in town, authorized Mr Blake to act as chief executive and it is thought that he will be named as Mr Halliday’s permanent successor. Last evening, the directors were still in executive meetings and an announcement is expected momentarily. The most significant new appointment will be the incoming president, to take Mr Blake’s place. It is believed that he will be chosen from the ranks of the Crude Oil Committee, governing body of the corporation. Mr Teague, responsible for refining, marketing and transportation, is considered to be the leading candidate. Other contenders are Mr Roland Gresham, Treasurer, and Mr George P. McDonough who carries no portfolio but is an important personality in foreign operations. He was recently Vice President of Intelligence for Omnium Oil Producer Ltd. of London. Colonel Hunter H. Holland, Vice President of Production and Miss Carolyn Cook, Vice President of Exploration are deemed unlikely choices because of their youthfulness and relative inexperience. It is believed possible that Mr Carleton Caleb Calloway could return from retirement on an interim basis. He is the former General Counsel of the company and was a close associate of Mr Halliday for many years.

General Clive Colin O’Reith, a former United States Army Air Corps officer, who is presently the Executive Vice President with responsibility for exploration and production, is rated a dark horse. He is only 45, has the reputation of a bon vivant and is married to Helen O’Reith, famous motion picture actress who recently won an academy award for her sympathetic portrayal of ‘Estelle’ in the crime movie, Neon Lights. The O’Reiths received unfavorable publicity in 1948 as a result of congressional investigation of the film industry. This background is held as seriously weakening his position and reliable sources within the company say he may very well resign to pursue other interests.

CHAPTER I

When Clive Colin O’Reith took the last report of the afternoon, hung up the telephone, and tossed his yellow Mikado No.2 pencil on top of his legal pad, his angular face was aglow. His rigs were running okay for a change. No fires. No blowouts. No crown accidents. They were plugging two dry holes, one near Santa Fe Springs, wet in the Stevens and the other, half way across the country in Texas, bone dry in the Woodbine. Both wildcats had been running low for days so this was not unexpected. That was the bad news. The good news was that his favorite drilling foreman, Hunter Hawke Holland, reported a show in the Oceanic Sand in the Tejon Ranch wildcat in the lower San Joaquin. Holland was predicting it would ‘make a pretty fair little well’. All the other rigs were routinely cutting ditch, setting pipe or performing normal operations in the drilling of the company’s oil and gas wells.

O’Reith was the drilling superintendent for the ten company-owned rigs in southern California and the San Joaquin Valley plus another ten contract rigs working in Texas, Oklahoma and Louisiana. A slender man of six feet who resembled Adolphe Menjou, he was a shrewd observer of the way the world worked and he was well aware that, internationally, things were running ‘kind of rough’ to use a common oilfield idiom. In Europe the Wehrmacht was knocking the Russians around all the way from Leningrad to Stalingrad. In North Africa they were giving the British hell. And across the Pacific, in mainland Asia, the Japanese were kicking up their heels right smartly to the dismay of many a Chinaman.

But none of this disturbed him. The weekend loomed. He was not in any of those terrible places. He was in Los Angeles. And he would soon drive home in a brand-new, black Cadillac V-12 sedan, a Christmas present for his wife. He smiled in anticipation of trying the remarkable new automatic transmission called Hydromatic. If it performed as advertised, with no gears to shift, it would greatly simplify driving in city traffic and take the effort out of mountain driving. He was sure she would be glad to get it a few days early so she could drive it to San Francisco to see her family before the holiday rush.

In the pocket of his white, silk shirt was a wire from the War Department advising him of promotion to the grade of major with date of rank 5 Dec 1941. He was in the Air Corps reserve and now would no longer be a mere throttle-jockey. He’d fly as element leader at least, maybe even squadron commander. So the notification made his day. He was sure that war was coming. When FDR slapped an oil embargo on the Japanese, the die was pretty well cast. Plenty of crude oil in Sumatra. The Japs knew that. Even his ten-year-old son could figure out what was coming next. But when?

O’Reith rose from his desk, handed the legal pad to Sally Bierce and told her goodnight. She was a bouncy blonde with a pug nose, a rubber face and a perky ponytail who was the secretary he shared with the drilling manager, Vincent Blake. She had aspirations to stardom and took acting lessons in night school. He donned his homburg, slipped into his charcoal-black jacket and walked to the elevator landing, pulling his satin bow tie loose as he entered the cage. On the way down from the tenth floor, he yawned and stretched. In the garage, he started the engine of the new car, listened with approval to the murmur of the motor and glanced at his Rolex Oyster. The cocktail hour was nigh. He tooled the elegant sedan out on to Sepulveda Boulevard, reflecting that Calitroleum really was not a bad place to work. The pay was good. For him, life was luxurious and the climate of the Los Angeles basin was great. At his level in the company, he had a free hand in the management of the rigs. Blake had hand-picked him for the job, and now that he was in it, left him alone. In fact they were close friends and had few secrets between them. They often lunched together, a three martini affair with much rattling of ice cubes at which they would gossip about their contemporaries, speculate about possible promotion and laugh about the most recent peccadillo of Harvey Holmes Halliday, founder and highly visible chief executive officer of the company whom they referred to as ‘El Caudillo’. They would also roundly curse some of Halliday’s inept cronies who, having helped make him what he was today, were now out to pasture in the Drilling Department, where they loafed, committed idle mischief, neglected their duties and, in general, complicated their lives. One of them was a drilling foreman named Floyd Molloy that O’Reith did not trust at all.

He was getting close to the bungalow in Beverly Hills that his mother, the late Rae Regan, gave him when he married Helen Huntington Simpson and he began going over in his mind the order in which he would present her with the several bits of news. He decided to begin by telling her that they had a table at Lucey’s. She’d ask why and he’d suggest she take a look in the driveway. Then, over drinks, he’d tell her about the Tejon Ranch well and maybe, over dessert, about his Air Corps promotion. He still had more thinking to do on that. Good news for him might not be for her. She was always upset when he went away for his annual training as a B-17 pilot, an airplane thought to be indestructible, and worried constantly until his return. So any mention of the army could ruin her evening. Perhaps he should keep that to himself for now. What he did want to do and this would not upset her, was enlarge on the perils of remaining for the long term at Calitroleum. He was thinking about going to some other company. Maybe the Standard Oil or Superior or General Crude. Not that he had any immediate plans. He’d been back in Los Angeles now since 1939 and he felt ready for a greater challenge. What he really wanted to do was return to Venezuela. He liked the tropics. Orange mangos. Red papayas. Pampero Rum. A gibbous moon rippling long, silver beams across Lake Maracaibo. Soft evening breezes wafting the faint odor of sweet crude oil. The pulse of South American music. The Limbo. The Tango. The swirl of silken skirts and the clack of castanets.

But this subject was almost as sensitive as military duty. Helen knew all about oil field camps in the jungle and her memories were equivocal, to put it mildly. Yellow fever. Typhoid. Big, black mosquitoes with needle-like stingers. Snakes of many colors and varying degrees of lethality including the dreaded fer-de-lance. Too many inconveniences and too many neighbors not of her ilk. To say nothing of night after lonely night when O’Reith was running a string of pipe or bringing in a well and she would stiffen in her bed, terrified at each sparrow-sized bug that hurled itself against her screened window.

He steered the big car between the dozen stately palm trees that lined their graveled driveway pondering and leaving unresolved what he would and what he would not tell his beautiful, blonde wife on this celebratory occasion. He parked, walked past her dull red Buick roadster in the garage and entered their den where she awaited him.

Helen O’Reith, thirty, a Pisces who resembled Joan Bennett, wore a basic black, woolen dress trimmed in rhinestones at the hem just above her knees and around the bustline. Her black suede pumps were similarly adorned and she had on black net hose with dark seams that ran from her ankles to an undetectable garter belt. In her ears were seed pearls set in wide, silver rims. Her lips were moist and freshly red and she smelled of Chanel No.5. She came quickly into his arms, kissed and embraced him and said urgently, Hello, Ace.

He, as usual, became excited to erection and for one brief moment, thought of taking her straight to the bedroom. He was often impulsive in this regard. But this time he exercised self-control since it would retard the plans for the evening. And after all, there would be time enough for frolic when they got back. They could fool around until dawn’s early light.

Drink, Ace? she asked playfully. A little gin for those rats gnawing away in the woodwork?

O’Reith smiled, thrust her out to arms length and gazed fondly into her pale blue eyes. He said musically, Actually not too bad of a day, baby, but my throat is pretty dry. Been on the phone a lot. So I’m ready to dip the bill. We can drink to dinner at Lucey’s and dancing at the Palomar Ballroom unless you want to drive down to Balboa Beach and jump to Stan Kenton’s cacophony.

What’s the grand occasion? Helen rejoined, suspiciously.

Take a look at the new chariot in the driveway.

She peeked through the curtains, squealed when she saw the shiny V-12 sedan and said, I’ll mix the martinis while you change.

He winked at her, kissed her again, fondled her bottom and retired to their bedroom. Twenty minutes later he rejoined her at the chrome and glass cocktail table. He was newly shaven, jet black hair freshly combed and he was wearing a white dinner jacket, black trousers, black patent leather shoes and a white satin bow tie. What do you think of the new man? he asked her, beaming.

You look like a million dollars. But then you always do. Even in oil-spattered khakis.

She poured a double martini for him in an oversized conical glass and added a twist of lemon. She tonged a large, crystalline ice cube from the silver-lined oaken bucket and held it over his glass.

Lower it gently, baby, he admonished.

When the ice cube was floating to his satisfaction, he gently clinked it against the glass while Helen poured her own drink and sat beside him on the white leather divan facing the cocktail table.

O’Reith sipped his martini, nodded his appreciation as to its quality, and asked, Mail interesting?

Indeed, Helen replied with a raised eyebrow. Dinner invitation for Sunday night a week, she began, passing him an envelope with an engraved note. Dr and Mrs J.M. Benson. What do you make of that?

Dockie Jimmy? he asked, nonplussed.

Himself, no less, Helen replied, eyes twinkling.

Hmmm, O’Reith pondered. How did we get on his list?

They both began laughing until they were hysterical and Helen’s tears streaked her mascara. Doctor Benson was one of the few Hollywood physicians who specialized in venereal diseases of the rich and famous, mostly motion picture personalities. Everyone believed, rightly or wrongly, that his social affairs, of which there were many, duly reported in the Hollywood Reporter, were attended exclusively by his patients, perhaps in compensation for his astronomic fees. O’Reith doubted this but since it didn’t concern him one way or the other, at least until now, he never gave much thought to it. When the hysteria came to an end, he sat up straight in his chair and said to Helen, Regrets suit you? Or are you curious?

I’m curious but not that curious, she replied sighing. Regrets it is.

She put that one aside and took up the next one, removing its contents and handing it to her husband. He saw a religious tract with a picture of a white-haired Jesus in sable robe and crown of silvered thorns. The countenance beneath the halo was stern—and familiar. Under the image were the words, ‘Repent Sinner’. O’Reith glanced at it, looked up at his wife with an expression of affable non-comprehension and asked pointedly, What the hell is this?

Deadpan, Helen announced, It’s a message from the president of Calitroleum Oil Corporation. Surely you recognize Jesus H. Christ Halliday.

O’Reith studied the vengeful, staring face more carefully, noting the enormous dark eyes in such contrast to the pink skin and white hair. He began to smile, flashed Helen a wink and began to read the inside. Halfway into it, he laid it on the glass tabletop and shrugged. Baby, that’s pure old bible-bangery straight from the plains of Kansas. You suppose Halliday did that? Or is it a hoax? Like the invite from the clap doctor.

It has all the earmarks of the McCoy, Helen responded. It’s in an official Calitroleum envelope and besides, Virginia Blake got one too. How much do you know about Halliday?

Not a hell of a lot, O’Reith began. I met him in his office when I went to work for the company—with three other fellows. And I rode down the elevator once with him. Vince and I were going to lunch.

What do you think of the tract?

We can get into that over the appetizer, O’Reith growled, looking at his Audemars Piguet bracelet watch with rubies marking the hours. That’s one of the reasons I’m thinking of a change of scenery. Would you like to drive the new Caddy?

Is the Pope a Catholic? Helen asked gaily. Give me the keys. You going to ride in the front with me or in the back pretending you’ve got a lady chauffeur?

He swatted her playfully across the bottom as she wriggled off to the bathroom to fix her smeared mascara.

Lucey’s was a restaurant favored by the Hollywood crowd and one always stood a chance of spotting a celebrity. The O’Reiths however, dined early and this greatly diminished their opportunity to see anyone notable. By eight o’clock, they had finished their shrimp cocktails and were waiting for the New York strip steaks.

O’Reith sipped his Mondavi Pinot Noir (1937) and said to Helen, I’ve heard many stories about Halliday over the years. From field hands, some of them with him from the beginning, and Vince talks about him too, usually when he’s well into his second martini. From all this, I get the picture that Halliday has deep unfulfilled religious yearnings and perhaps a twinge of occasional guilt. As if he had once done somebody wrong. But he has political inclinations as well as a deep sense of loyalty to his employees, particularly those who helped him ab ovo. And there are rumors of a nut streak in his family. Vince told me that he has a sister in an institution back in Kansas. And he’s been a widower for decades. Some tragedy connected to the death of his wife, Marilyn. Then there’s Harvey Junior. You’ve seen him often enough in the society pages. He likes to run and play with starlets. Not excited about the prospect of someday running the company. Vince said that Halliday is disappointed with him.

O’Reith paused as the waiter brought their steaks, still sizzling. He refilled their wine glasses and departed. O’Reith fell to and ate rapidly until he was finished. Helen consumed her meal more slowly, cutting her steak into tiny cubes with methodical precision.

Washing down his last bite with the delicious red wine, O’Reith continued, Helen, I’m beginning to feel like I’m getting close to the end of the trail at Calitroleum. Not so much because Halliday is a bit odd. Just everything in general. I was lucky that Vince was able to boost me from toolpusher to drilling superintendent. But I think that is the end of the line. The executive suite is reserved for Halliday’s cronies. While they wait, some of them work for me and to put it simply, I don’t have much confidence in them. I worry that one of them will screw up and it will rub off on me.

Like the Molloy? Helen asked, finished with her steak. She’d heard her husband fulminate about him often enough at the bridge table with the Blakes. She glanced quickly at the antique Hamilton pendant watch given her by her mother when she was a girl.

O’Reith nodded. Odds are it will be the Molloy. Dessert, baby?

Let’s just have coffee. The Palomar is packed by nine o’clock and the way you weave around, we need lots of room.

Madam O’Reith! he objected in mock indignity. That was unnecessary. Some of my dancing companions think that I’m a pretty high stepper.

Like who? Helen asked, realizing immediately she’d trapped herself.

Like Vera-Ellen for one. Mimi Martell for another.

Helen decided not to press that one. O’Reith was a pretty good city-boy dancer in spite of a game leg. More than once he had danced with Vera-Ellen at the Limejuicer Club. Then, still in her teens, she was a Radio City Music Hall Rockette, widely recognized by the nightclub crowd as talented but far from the stardom she would later attain. Mimi Martell was a canary of an altogether different category. One of the sultriest singers on the Coast, Helen’s age, often cited by the Hollywood Reporter as a calculating husband-grabber, Helen considered her something of a threat as she never did Vera-Ellen who, in her own words, was just a child. She touched his knee and whispered, Order the coffee, Ace.

Just as they were finishing and O’Reith was settling the bill, the waiter came running with a telephone. He placed the instrument on their table and plugged it into the wall jack with considerable flair. For you, Mr O’Reith, he said briskly. An emergency.

O’Reith lifted the receiver and said, Hello.

It was Sally Bierce and her voice trembled. Mr O’Reith, Chuck Crawford just called from Long Beach. City Lease Well 27-4. It’s blowing out. He wants you to telephone him at a Superior Oil Company location. It’s an Oceanside exchange and the number is 7-3765.

I’ll call him right away, Sally, O’Reith said. Then I’ll be going to the office. Can you stand by in case I need you?

Yes sir, I’ll be right here by the phone.

O’Reith dialed the Superior Oil number and asked for Crawford. When his familiar drawl came on the line, he asked, Chuck, what the hell is going on?

Mr O’Reith! Christ, but I’m glad to hear your voice. We’ve got one blowing wild.

On fire?

Not yet sir but it don’t look good at all. She’s spewing oil with a lot of gas in it. Going over the crown. And there’s so much sand coming out with it that it cut the drilling line. Blocks piled up on the floor.

Where the hell is Molloy? O’Reith asked, an edge to his voice.

I don’t know, sir, Crawford answered. That evening tour driller, old Johnny Jernigan called me because he knew I was the relief pusher this week. Said she’d kicked while they were making a connection. Soon as I got here I saw it was too dangerous to stay on the location. I cleared the crew and blocked off the road and shut down the light plant. I’m about a half mile upwind from her now.

Jernigan say what happened to Molloy? O’Reith probed. He’d have to call Blake and that would come up immediately.

Him and Mr Schaeffer went off for a quick snort around seven o’clock, Crawford related. They never made it back.

Okay Chuck, O’Reith concluded. I’ll call Myron Kinley from the office. Ring the night dispatcher in La Habra and order out two light plants, a pair of high-pressure mud hogs and enough line pipe to lay water lines into the location. And tell that night foreman in the La Habra pipe yard to line up three or four extra gin poles. Myron will, no doubt, want something else.

As he hung up the telephone, turning to his wife, he continued, Friday night in the oil fields, baby. Drop me off at the tower and I’ll call Kinley and pick up my company car.

He quickly departed the restaurant, Helen walking fast to keep up with him. She drove and when they pulled into the parking garage of the Calitroleum Tower, he got out and came around to her side of the car and kissed her long and lovingly.

I guess I don’t mind your dancing with Vera-Ellen as much as I worry about you going out to that well. Be careful, Ace.

Always, baby and drive home with caution. Lots of drunks on the roads tonight. I’ll call you when I get things organized.

Stay far enough away that you don’t get any oil on that tuxedo, she said sharply.

He kissed her again, briskly entered the tower and the open elevator cage. Even as he got out on the tenth floor, the telephone was ringing. He rushed to his desk and jerked the receiver off the hook. Hello, he said anxiously.

It was Crawford. Mr O’Reith, we lost her. Just after we spoke, something blew up through the derrick. Tooth off a rock bit more than likely. Hit a girt and sparked her off. Derrick down in five minutes. If you’ll look out your window, you’ll see her. Hell, they can see her in San Diego.

Well, that’s too bad, Chuck, O’Reith replied. Let me call Kinley. I’ll line things up.

He hung up, found the legendary firefighter’s number in his card box and immediately phoned him. When he was on the line, he said, Myron, Clive O’Reith. We let one get away from us at Long Beach. Think you can give us a hand?

Sure thing, Clive. Is it on fire?

Yeah. Main pay zone. Blowing out of the drill pipe. City Lease well. You’ll be able to see it long before you get there. I’ve got gin poles standing by in our La Habra yard.

Okay Clive, we’ll need water. Say 5,000 barrels. And a road maintainer. I assume you’ve got water lines and lights already lined up.

Yeah, I do, Myron. I’ll call the yard about the other needs and meet you on the location in an hour or so. And thanks.

You bet, Clive. See you in a bit.

O’Reith dialed Blake’s house and got no answer so he called Sally Bierce back. Where’s the chief, Sally? he asked.

They went to San Berdoo, Mr O’Reith. They’re spending the weekend with her folks. Do you have that number?

Yes, I do. I’ll be here at the office for another ten minutes and then I’m headed for the lease.

Be careful, Mr O’Reith, Sally admonished. I don’t want you to come in on Monday with singed eyebrows.

O’Reith laughed and hung up. He telephoned Blake and told him of the fire and then he called Helen. Well, I’m on my way, baby. Everything is lined up and now it’s just a question of putting the goddamned thing out. I’ll call you in the morning and let you know how we’re doing.

Ace, watch your step, Helen said slowly and with deep feeling. No heroics.

O’Reith laughed. Sally told me a few moments ago not to get my eyebrows singed. Don’t worry. An oil well fire is just my cup of tea. Get a good night of sleep.

He hung up, arose, turned out the lights and took the elevator to the garage. He was on his way to Long Beach.

He arrived to a scene of feverish activity. Both light plants had arrived and garish beams of lurid yellow illuminated the location. The high-pitched whine of the diesel-drive generators intensified the deafening roar of the fire. The flames towered into the night sky above the collapsed derrick. Glowing steel girts fallen to the rig floor encircled the box end of the tool joint from which oil, gas and sand jetted steadily upward. Maybe not as bad as the Holly No.l, he muttered, but bad enough. However, the fire burned straight up. They could come to grips with it. The falling derrick had not bent the tool joint suspended in slips in the kelly bushing. It could be dynamited.

As he appraised the blazing well, Myron Kinley, a heavyset, florid man in his forties, joined him. They shook hands and Kinley announced, Clive, I’ll shoot her out once we’ve cooled all that scrap iron down below the flash point. Can you set me up with 5,000 barrels of water in reserve?

Tanks are on the way, Myron, O’Reith replied.

We’ll want a steady water flow once we go in there and start working on her. Sure as hell don’t want her to flash while we’re on the floor.

I’m already under orders from two females not to get smoked up, O’Reith said, grinning.

Kinley slapped him on the back and both of them laughed. Presently they were joined by Toolpusher Crawford, a tall, thin man with dark hair from Overton, Texas who spoke with a drawl.

Mr O’Reith, he began, them mud hogs’ll be here in five minutes. They put ‘em on a lowboy and lined up a police escort. I’m thinking of setting them on the road back about a half-mile from the blaze. That sound okay to you?

O’Reith looked at Kinley who nodded his agreement. Mr O’Reith, Crawford continued, Shorty Hayes called a while ago from Santa Fe Springs. All he’s doing is rigging down off that duster. He wanted to know if he could help out here. I told him that I thought that would be all right with you and I asked him to bring the evening tour crew with him. I expect they’ll be here pretty shortly and I was going to put them out helping that roustabout gang build that water tank. That suit you?

O’Reith nodded and followed Myron Kinley to the road maintainer where Crawford’s evening tour crew was rigging a ninety foot dynamite boom out of three inch tubing. Just then he heard a loud hiss and turned to see a plume of white steam floating up from the burning well. They had completed laying the water lines and were beginning the spray that would eventually cool the red-hot steel down to the point where it would not reignite after they dynamited the flames out. Kinley said in O’Reith’s ear, That’s about all we can do until we get the water tank built. I think I’ll stretch out and nap for a bit.

O’Reith agreed. It would take three hours to build the tank and several more to fill it. And once they got started, they would work nonstop until they had the well completely under control. He got in his car and drove to the Superior Oil Company location and telephoned Blake collect in San Bernardino. Wake you up, Vince? O’Reith asked when he heard his friend’s voice.

No. I was waiting up for you. What does it look like?

Main pay zone, gassy but burning straight up. Lots of red-hot scrap iron on the floor. We just started cooling her down. It’ll take all night. Myron’s here and wants a full tank of water before starting.

What time will you be shooting?

Just a guess, but I’d say it will be early morning if everything runs smooth.

Any newspaper reporters there yet?

No, not so far.

Clive, I’ll have to call Ted Schaeffer and put him in the picture.

You may not be able to find him, O’Reith advised, his voice becoming musical. He came by the location earlier and picked up Molloy. They drove off to dip the bill at the Barracuda Club. They never came back. That’s when we got into trouble. Well kicked and old driller Jernigan called in for help. Chuck Crawford came out to replace the Molloy.

The Barracuda Club, Blake sputtered. Jesus H. Christ! That’s the shits! I’ll have to call Harvey. Christ but I hate to have to do that. He’ll castrate me!

Vince, did you see that goofy flyer he put in the mail? The one with him wearing a halo?

Blake snorted. I saw it, he snapped. Are you wearing a tuxedo?

As a matter of fact, I am. Helen and I were just getting ready to go to the Palomar Ballroom. Why?

Get out of the goddamn thing before the reporters get there. Slip on a pair of Myron’s coveralls or something. And, Clive?

Yeah.

Don’t get your eyebrows singed when you close with it.

O’Reith laughed and hung up. Returning to the roadblock about a mile from the location, he borrowed a pair of denim coveralls and changed out of his tuxedo, now gritty and flecked with oil and soot. He stowed it in the trunk. Then both car doors open, he stretched out under the steering wheel and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the roar of the fire in his ears. He thought that this could easily be his swan song. The Holly No 1 had put the mark of Cain on him. Now another one. Probably unsurvivable. He thought how nice it would be if Halliday were to suddenly appear and tap his shoulder and say, O’Reith, you’re a fired son of a bitch. Get the hell off this location. He’d hitchhike home and take a shower and make love to Helen and dream about going back to Venezuela.

He forced himself to concentrate on the present emergency; what he would do after Kinley dynamited the blaze. Grappling with that twisted steel, getting through it to drop a shut-off valve would be a test of character. He’d have to be as a fakir walking on hot coals. One tiny spark, and all of them would go up in smoke.

Suddenly, probing truck headlights and the low growl of diesel engines announced the arrival of heavily laden tractor-trailers. Behind them, two oil field tandems appeared, gin poles up. Crawford was signaling to the driver of the lead truck, its lowboy carrying the two enormous mud pumps. He switched off his headlights and they loomed in silhouette against the dawn sky. Shorty Hayes, in a blue, woolen Botany 500 suit and black alligator boots came into the glare of the spotlights. Good morning, Mr O’Reith, the toolpusher shouted. O’Reith waved his greetings, noted the man’s string tie and oval brass buckle studded with diamonds. All we were doing over near Santa Fe Springs was moving pig iron. I figured you could use an extra hand or two. Just line me out and I’ll get after it.

O’Reith got out of his car, shook hands with Hayes and said, Shorty, I’m glad to see you. You can set those hogs up and tie ‘em back into the water mains. I’ll move my car down the road a piece to give you room to work.

He got back in his car, started the motor, put it in reverse and expertly maneuvered it along the rutted road until he was a quarter of a mile away. As he walked back, the gin poles were removing the high-pressure pumps from the lowboy. Rejoining Crawford and Hayes, several rig hands called out, Hello, Mr O’Reith or good morning, sir. Hayes, grinning, held out a pair of heavy-duty work boots. He said, Mr O’Reith, I’ll swap you these here hobnails for them fancy-dancers you got on. Supported by the two toolpushers, O’Reith put on the boots and gave his shoes to Crawford for safekeeping.

Crawford asked, Mr O’Reith, after Myron shoots that baby out, who’s going to piss-ant that shut-off valve up on the floor?

I am, O’Reith said sharply. And I need a driller and a derrickman from each of your crews. Single men if you’ve got ‘em.

Hayes replied, How about two broke-down old pushers and a pair of A-num-ber one drillers, all married?

Mr O’Reith, Crawford added. You don’t have no business in there, what with that game leg you got that time you had to jump. You could get in there among them hot girts and get twisted up…

O’Reith stopped him with an icy glare. If you two fellows want to go in there with me, there’s nobody I’d rather have. But you’ve got families. This is work for single men. You know the risk. One spark.

Crawford’s voice was a low growl. Mr O’Reith, we’re going in there with you and that’s all there is to that. We’ll put that valve in the way she belongs and shut this little banshee in.

O’Reith nodded, felt a lump in his throat and tears welling in his eyes. To Hayes, he said, Shorty, line up a crew of welders to come in behind just as soon as we’ve shut her in. They’ll have to cut that junk up and clear the floor. To Crawford, he added, Chuck, we’ll need a crew of roustabouts to follow the welders, to rig a mud line to the shut-off valve. No telling what kind of shape those preventers are in. The heat may have damaged the rubber pack-offs. If they fail, she could come in around the drill pipe and we’d be worse off than we are now.

The two toolpushers nodded their understanding and returned to their chores. It was then that O’Reith noticed that several carloads of newspapermen and photographers had arrived. The sun was rising over the San Bernardino hills. In his rough coveralls and muddy hob-nailed boots, he was ready to be interview by the press. As he approached them, he muttered, Vince, you’ll be proud of me.

The water tanks were full. Everyone was ready. Kinley maneuvered the dynamite-tipped boom into place adjacent to the blowing oil, below the flames. As the tip disappeared into the flow, he detonated it. A huge plume of black smoke floated off toward Nevada. The roar of the flames became the hiss of high-pressure, rushing liquid. Wisps of steam still rose from the collapsed rig. O’Reith and his crew looked at one another and then at Kinley, who beckoned them to follow. They fell in behind him as he began walking to the ladder that led up to the derrick floor. The two drillers came last, struggling with the heavy, shut-off valve. The roustabout gang pusher directed the flow of water onto the parade of men, Kinley, O’Reith, the two toolpushers and bringing up the rear, the laden drillers. Kinley found an opening in the tangle of girts, eased his way through, and held out his hand to O’Reith. The drillers passed the valve to the two toolpushers who worked it through the tangle and into the waiting hands of Kinley and O’Reith. Just as the two toolpushers were getting through the girts, a fuse blew. The water pumps fell silent. Now the firefighters were in deadly danger as the oil and gas swirled around them. Natural gasoline vapors filled their nostrils. Their skin began to itch from the crude oil, hot and gritty with sand. The deadly fumes took their breath.

As the electrician worked feverishly to replace the fuse, O’Reith and Kinley, in agony, heaved the open valve over the gushing fluid, into the tool joint. Now the oil, gas, water and sand gushed up through the open valve, high into the early morning air. The two toolpushers threw a chain-tong around the valve and quickly snubbed it tight. Myron Kinley grabbed the handle and with a whip-like motion, flipped it shut. The well was capped. The silence was overwhelming. The pumps were running again and the wonderfully cool water was falling on the men sitting on the floor by the rotary table. Kinley smiled broadly at the others.

A cheer rose from the ranks of the spectators; roughnecks, roustabouts, truck drivers, swampers, newspapermen and photographers. They all knew what this game was about and that the margin for error was thin indeed.

Helping one another, O’Reith and his men came down the steel ladder, much more slowly than they had gone up. When they were all on the ground, the welders, dragging their cutting torches behind, began scaling the rig to clear the floor of debris.

Standing near the derrick sub-structure, O’Reith turned to his crew and said, Fellows, that was a nice bit of work. I’m going to leave the rest to you. I’ll call Sally. She’ll let your wives know that you’re all okay. You need anything more from me?

Crawford said, Go ahead home, Mr O’Reith. Me and Shorty’ll take care of her. Once she’s cleaned up, we’ll put a crew in the cellar and check those preventers. What do you want us to do when we’ve tied into that shut-off valve? Cement her up?

If the preventers are okay, maybe we can save her. For now, pump the drill pipe full of mud. Then, bring Shorty’s rig in here. Latch onto the drill pipe and see if it’ll pull loose. Circulate her until she’s dead. Let me know how it goes. I’ll be at home for the weekend except Sunday morning I’m going to play golf. Chuck, call me after you’ve looked her over.

The two toolpushers nodded. O’Reith turned to Kinley. Myron thanks for the help. Send me the bill.

The two men shook hands. O’Reith retrieved his shoes from Crawford, walked down the lease road to his car, removed the coveralls and the hobnailed boots and put his oil-stained tuxedo back on. His feet in his patent leather shoes again, he got behind the wheel and drove to the Superior Oil Company location and called Helen. Then he started for home. He wished he could remember where he left his hat. Maybe it was in the office. He was rumdum from lack of sleep and turned on the Motorola radio to keep him awake. Tuning it to station KHJ, he immediately heard the smooth voice of Al Jarvis introducing a new Jimmy Dorsey record called ‘Tangerine’. It was a transcription of his evening program called Make Believe Ballroom and moments later he recognized the mocking voice of Helen O’Connell as she began singing: There’s a legend in Rio about a girl who’s quite a dream. The radio kept him awake until he turned into the driveway of his bungalow in Summit Drive. Helen heard the crunch of gravel and was in his arms even before he was completely out of the car.

Oh Ace! she exclaimed. How glad I am to have you back in my arms! I stayed awake all night listening to KFWB expecting to hear some news. That guy talked about what a grand fire was burning but nothing about what was going on. Then when the telephone rang, I was so nervous that I didn’t know if I could answer it. I was afraid that it would be Sally or Vince and I would just faint.

Such wonderful hyperbole, baby, he purred into her ear. He continued to hold her close, stroking her blonde curls. Pretty much a routine operation. Lots of good help. Chuck Crawford was there and Shorty Hayes and of Course, Myron. I missed a night of sleep and messed up my tuxedo. Beyond that, nothing notable. I’m going to shave and soak under a hot shower.

How about breakfast? she asked as they went inside.

Great idea, he answered. Maybe some bacon and scrambled eggs. Toast and marmalade and a big glass of ice-cold milk. How much of a problem would that be?

Waiting for you after you shower.

He ate in his dressing gown while Helen drank coffee. Finishing, he yawned and said, Baby, I’m going to turn in. Get some beauty rest. I’m about out of gas.

Have you enough left to put out one more fire, Ace? she asked, her voice low and urgent. She was wearing a canary yellow blouse and light blue slacks. O’Reith looked her over carefully, a wide smile forming on his tired face. He reflected that he’d missed out the night before and was standing a piece short.

How long will it take you strip? he asked.

About as long as it takes a starlet to hustle a big time director, she replied, beginning to undress. They both laughed and retired to the bedroom, Helen shedding bits of clothing as they went. They made love the way she liked it, with him on top and his arms around her while her legs grasped the small of his back. When he was inside her, he lay very still, kissing and caressing her until she was unable to endure the lack of motion. When she was ready, he increased the tempo, slowly and steadily bringing her closer and closer to a cascade of orgasms that left her moaning. When it was over he continued caressing her until, at last, he felt himself falling asleep and he rolled off to one side.

The telephone awakened him. It was Blake. Clive, I cut the weekend short. We drove back this morning and I’m in the office. Nice job you did putting her out with no complications. Did you talk to those reporters?

O’Reith yawned and looked at the bedside clock. It was four in the afternoon. He’d had a good nap. Yeah Vince, he replied. They began showing up on the location around daylight. Some of ‘em looked pretty rough. Like they’d been boozing around and some hard-boiled editor made them cover this story. I gave them all the same line. Didn’t slant it. Left Molloy out of it.

Good, Blake replied, satisfaction in his voice. How about Myron? He tell ‘em anything?

No. He’s an old pro. He understands the dangers of the press, O’Reith replied in his musical tenor. He made himself scarce when the reporters arrived. Most of them wouldn’t recognize him anyhow.

You in bed?

How’d you guess?

You sound like I woke you up.

You did.

Helen be pissed off if you came down here for an hour? Editor of the Times is a friend of mine and he’s usually pretty decent about these things. I invited him to hear the inside poop. To put things in their best light. It will lend authenticity to the story if you are here. You know, hearing it straight from the horse’s mouth.

Helen is happy with me just right now, O’Reith said cheerfully. I can be there in 45 minutes or so.

Drive carefully, Blake chuckled.

When O’Reith entered Blake’s office, Blake said, Clive, like for you to meet Harry Davis.

Davis was a thin, wiry, balding man of fifty or so with a smirk on his skeptical-looking face. He resembled the popular character actor, James Gleason. O’Reith smiled and shook his hand. Before he could take a chair, Davis wisecracked, How many rigs you got left, pal?

Instead of sitting, O’Reith spun around and walked toward the editor who, stepping back knocked his Bakelite framed glasses off. As he stooped to pick them up, O’Reith, eyes narrowed to slits, said in a cold, menacing voice, I didn’t understand the question.

Blake, sensing disaster, jumped up, came around from behind his desk and put himself between the two men, now glaring at each other. Fellows, he began in a placating voice. Let’s start all over.

O’Reith cooled off quickly and soon the editor had what he wanted. After a round of parting handshakes and expressions of no hard feelings, Harry Davis left the two oilmen in Blake’s office. When he was safely in the elevator, Blake looked at O’Reith and with a sigh said, Clive, you can be exasperating at times.

O’Reith ignored Blake’s remark. He asked in a more or less neutral voice, Vince, what did you tell Ted?

Couldn’t find the SOB, Blake said gloomily. I had to call Harvey. Woke him up. Hell to pay. He was plenty torqued up. When he calmed down I put it to him realistically.

Realistically? O’Reith echoed. You told him Molloy and Schaeffer were hanging one on at the Barracuda Club?

Blake returned to his desk and sat down heavily. No, I didn’t tell him that. He slowly drummed the top of his desk with the fingers of his right hand.

In your realistic presentation you somehow omitted the little detail of dereliction of duty on the part of one Floyd Aloysius Molloy, O’Reith continued, sarcastically.

Blake broke into a broad grin and then laughed. He got up and came around to stand close to his friend. He said, Clive, realism means keeping our jobs. Don’t be so cynical. What would have been the point of my telling Harvey that his nitwit toolpusher had gone off on another toot with Ted and, as a result, we had a blowout and fire? Where would we be now?

O’Reith smiled and found himself in agreement. He knew what a hot potato that was. He looked at his watch. I’ve used up all my time. I promised Helen to help her cook tonight. What do you say we call it a day?

Blake nodded agreement, slapped O’Reith on the back, glad to see that everything was okay between them. O’Reith, he thought to himself was strictly a today and a tomorrow guy. Yesterdays were goners.

CHAPTER II

Knowing that Blake required a written report on the City Lease blowout, fire and extinction to present to the Crude Oil Committee on Monday morning, in his own office, O’Reith scribbled it out on a dozen pages of legal paper. He kept it technical, leaving out personalities until the last paragraph of the last page. Halliday would read it carefully and he didn’t want any second-guessing or backfires. Only at the end did he credit Kinley, Crawford, Hayes and the drillers. Finished, he gave it a quick read-through, stapled the pages together, put a red PDQ buck slip on it and tossed it atop Sally’s desk so she would type it as soon as she came in on Monday. Then he called Helen. The cocktail hour loomed and he suggested barbecued steaks over charcoal in the patio, a quiet evening at home.

In his early days with Calitroleum, O’Reith had been labeled a lightweight. His contemporaries deemed him a dandy, a man with a definite tendency toward frivolity. His expensive clothing, cut to movie star standards, linked him to the theater and indeed, he often attended motion pictures, especially when the film featured Clark Gable, Robert Taylor, Robert Montgomery, or leading men of their type. In the office with Blake, he came on chin up as if he were on the set, camera left. He usually spoke while standing, when he talked at all, and framed his ideas with his hands, as if he were sculpting them in soft clay.

Active, he played tennis, golf and polo, often danced until the wee hours and if apprehensive about the progress of a dangerous well, thought nothing of appearing on the location wearing a tuxedo in the predawn hours. He had his fingernails manicured regularly, shaved twice a day and had the barber in his office once a week. He favored black slip-on shoes, wore an aviator’s silk scarf in winter and rarely appeared out-of-doors without a black homburg hat.

His capacity for gin seemed limitless, yet never caused him embarrassment. But he didn’t smoke, mainly because he didn’t like to carry cigarettes and the paraphernalia associated with them. It was common knowledge among the other toolpushers that he was an Air Corps reserve officer, and in those days, aviators in the oil fields, even in southern California, were thought to be pretty flaky characters.

But Blake soon observed that his debonair manner concealed a steel trap mind. O’Reith was quick on his feet, responded to emergency like a bolt of lightning, and his operations ticked like a clock. Further, he had the vision to penetrate the murkiest puzzle and the will to prevail in difficult situations. Blake also saw in him something that he didn’t know if he liked or not. It was his cutting edge. He enjoyed bringing matters to a head, sometimes prematurely, especially if it was a bad scene. Blake suspected these traits were harbingers of a blossoming ruthlessness. O’Reith could run a dandy firing squad. Overriding this, if indeed it were a latent defect, was his ability to work men. He was tireless under duress and his courage above and beyond the call of duty during the Holly No.1 emergency had come even to the attention of Halliday. Thus, over the years, Blake had devoted a great deal of time to toning O’Reith down. In this endeavor he had been reasonably successful and now, O’Reith, not so effervescent, dressed more conservatively and he had eliminated from his speech some of the more glaring Briticisms acquired from his late father, the ‘brigadier’. Having ‘Americanized’ him, Blake had promoted him to drilling superintendent. He never regretted it. O’Reith was as good as any he had seen. In time, he would be able to manage the department. He probably would do pretty well at it right now. Meanwhile, Blake could rest easy in the knowledge that things were under control as much as possible in the dangerous world of oil well drilling.

O’Reith, of course, never thought of himself as being anything special. He was just trying to enjoy life and live up to the reputation that Helen was trying to

establish for him as the last of the good time Charlies.

* * *

While O’Reith was driving home from the Calitroleum Tower, one of his tool-pushers was about to get ‘cross-threaded’, as they say, with a Production Department foreman. Hunter Holland, twenty-five years old, lanky, with straw-colored hair and angular John Wayne-like features was completing the Tejon Ranch Lease 46G-1 well in the lowermost part of the San Joaquin Valley. Holland was an A-one toolpusher and like O’Reith, a reserve Air Corps officer. That bond transcended the commonality of their employment. O’Reith was fond of him and occasionally invited him to Los Angeles for lunch where they talked about the job, airplanes and frequently, some starlet or other who had taken Holland’s fancy. But O’Reith always held it down to one martini with him and never discussed company politics or personalities as he did with Blake.

Their friendly relationship was soon to be tested. Holland was in flagrant violation of Rule No.10 in the Calitroleum Roustabout Manual and would shortly be indicted for it. He was smoking ‘in or within one hundred feet of a drilling works’. Standing on the cellar rim with smoke curling up from a Lucky Strike, he was making sure the roughnecks were hammering the wellhead bolts tight. A leak was among the more dangerous situations that could develop during the completion and Holland checked all connections from the well to the separator, the stock tank and the flare line with a highly critical eye. As the roughnecks hammered up the last bolt, the driller, in the cellar with his men, looked up at Holland and asked, Tight enough, Slim?

Holland nodded. Yeah George. Open her up to the burning pit and we’ll check her for water one more time.

The driller, water dripping from his blue jeans, climbed out of the cellar up to the casing head flange and opened the Christmas Tree master valve, complaining, For Christ’s sake, Slim, this here well is dry as a goddamn dog bone. Let’s turn her over to the Production Department and cut a trail over to that next location.

Now, now, George, Holland chided him patiently. Easy does it. Won’t hurt to check her again. You know how touchy those production hands are. Better to give them a good, clean well the first time around. I’d hate to move back in here and work this baby over.

Yeah. Me too. I guess you’re right, the driller admitted. Ole Dogface Dunlavy won’t be here for a half hour anyhow. That guy is mole slow. Never make it in the Drilling Department.

He slowly and carefully turned the steel wheel that opened the master-valve, permitting oil to flow up the tubing. The needle on the pressure gauge atop the tree swung around to 1,700 psi and held steady.

Let her sit a minute, Holland ordered. I want to check that seal-ring myself. He sat on the cellar rim and lowered himself into the knee-deep muddy water and put his ear to the steel flange. I don’t hear a damn thing. I don’t see any bubbles. He climbed out of the cellar, muddy water dripping from his khaki pants legs. Open the wing-valve. Flow her to the pit. Tell that derrickman to get a good sample. After you run the shake out, I want to see it myself.

The driller cautiously cracked the wing-valve and as the crude began flowing, he opened it all the way. When Holland saw the live, green oil spurting from the flare line, he torched it off with a shot from a Very pistol he had borrowed from Uncle Sam. The gassy crude ignited with a resounding whoosh and began burning with roils of black smoke curling into the red and