The Ghost Pattern

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Chief Ramsay paced the room impatiently, muttering curses under his breath and looking out the same window every two seconds, although the view stayed eerily the same. A cold and foggy Aberdeen morning, engulfed in fog so thick it condensed water droplets on everything it touched, including his office window.

He picked up the radio and tried again.

“Nancy Belle, Nancy Belle, this is Shore Base, come in, over?”

He released the radio button, listening intently and hearing nothing. “C’mon, c’mon, where the hell are you?” he whispered impatiently.

His typical mornings were a lot different from that particular one. He’d come in the office a few minutes before 8:00AM, shaking off the humid chills brought by the thick Aberdeen fog, and heading straight for the coffee machine. He’d brew a fresh cup, then enjoy it while making his morning rounds. That was a figure of speech, of course. He rarely left the shore base. Once a rig was in production, barring some unforeseen event, the head of shore base operations had no reason to visit in person. His morning rounds consisted of radio calls with each of the drilling platforms under his purview, making sure everything was running well. He’d check the status of operations for each rig, and receive reports for everything from staff health to outstanding work orders for parts and repairs.

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