Ocean. Really bad luck. Storm.
Vendell Polk tried not to vomit. It was his first run, but three days out from Narvik and the clouds had rolled in, slate grey and malevolent, darkening until Vendell could no longer tell where sea met sky at the horizon. Then the wind whipped up and the rain started, dousing the parts of the rig the roiling ocean couldn't quite reach. Everything was soaked, and Vendell found it rare he got into his bunk dry. Those first few days had been trying at best, but as the rig drew closer to the drill site, things only worsened.
What had been a light storm slowly turned into a proper hurricane. Captain Arman wasn't concerned. The rig, a metallic slab of a monster named Siren of Sikovanch, had handled worse before and come out unscathed. Foreman Harsk seemed to agree, the old man wrinkling his flat nose at the sky as thunder peeled and rain soaked through his coveralls. It was like he was daring the sea to reach out and snatch him from the Siren's deck, something it had yet to manage in over twenty years of drilling.
Vendell admired the man. He was rough around the edges, but he did his best to care for the crew and if you paid attention to his barking close enough you could pick out the bits of wisdom between curses. That being said, Vendell had a week of sea time, and much of it was spent confined to his bunk or puking his guts out over the stern rail. 'Chumming' some of the older hands called it. There were jokes at his expense, of course. There always were. But some of them weren't so unaware of themselves to not remember their own time spent doing the same. Jokes came with sympathetic looks and pats on the back and assurances that it was better to have it up and out than keep it in.
Vendell wasn't sure if that was true or not, but he found his stomach was never in the mood to debate it.
Two weeks from Narvik, and the Siren of Sikovanch finally reached the drill sight. The storm still raged, spiteful that it had not yet been able to claim the rig for its own. The ocean churned, slapping waves the size of cargo-8s against the hull. The Siren bobbed with them, unhindered.
Lightning flashed across the sky as Vendell scampered across the rain-slick deck to execute Foreman Harsk's latest round of barked orders. Six massive sea anchors needed to be extended over the Siren's sides and released into the sea. Each anchor would sink to the ocean floor, burrowing into it to keep the drill rig above its designated drill zone. One by one, each anchor came free and fell into the sea with a splash. But as Vendell yanked on the hydraulic release for his designated anchor, nothing happened.
Panic gripped him for a moment, before his training came to him and he remembered the manual release installed at the base of the anchor davit. It took him a minute to get his fingers into the gap between panels and pry the plate open. He could hear Harsk shouting at him over the noise of the storm. Inside, Vendell found the release lever and pulled it. It resisted at first, but after a moment relented with a heavy thud.
Overhead, the anchor's release clamp opened, freeing the massive weight just as Siren of Sikovanch rolled away. The new angle caused the falling anchor to slam into the side of the drill rig instead of falling free into the ocean. It smashed the deck, flattening the guard rail along the edge of the deck and sending sparks flying from a ruined generator box. Frantic cries filled the air and Harsk ordered someone to find the fuse box connected to the generator and shut it down. Vendell watched in muted horror as the anchor teetered on the edge of the rig, not ready to commit itself to the deep. The chain connecting it to the Siren continued to unspool, gathering on the deck and looping about the anchor itself. As the Siren rolled forward again, the anchor finally dropped.
As it rolled off the side of the rig, the chain, bound in knots, snared it and swung it underneath the Siren and into the underside of her hull. The whole rig shook violently. A moment later, the flood alarm started sounding. It's plaintiff wail struggled to be heard above the roaring wind, but the warning lights flashing beneath each speaker could not be muffled.
"All hands, damage control stations!" Captain Arman bellowed.
Vendell sprinted for his assigned station, three decks down at one of the bilge pump stations. In the event of a flooding emergency, the Siren of Sikovanch was equipped with a number of bilge pumps to move water from her flooded holds overboard again. The redundant buoyancy the rig possessed would ensure she did not submit to the sea before her crew could fight back.
But that was under ideal conditions, and a raging storm was far from ideal. As Vendell made it down the third ladderway, he could feel the rig starting to list heavily to starboard. That wasn't a good sign. Still, no orders had been given to countermand those established, so Vendell took his place at his assigned station and began pumping.
Two hours passed, each minute trickling by like a century. Vendell did his best to focus on his task, but every shift in the lay of the Siren caused his mind to whirl. When she listed harder to starboard, Vendell began imagining all the places he could get trapped and drown if the rig went under before he could make topside and escape. Just as his mind reached the worst possible scenario, the rig would roll the other way as Captain Arman shifted the rig's ballast system in an attempt to correct. Then the process would repeat itself, the Siren slowly listing to starboard again before Arman corrected.
Vendell knew there were only so many times Arman could correct using the ballast system before the tanks would be full and unable to compensate further.
As if on cue, Arman's voice came over the speaker system.
"Abandon ship, abandon ship. All hands to the life boats. This is not a drill."
"Come on, lad, don't dally."
Foreman Harsk waved at Vendell from the hatchway long enough to prompt the boy from his position. Then Harsk was gone, sprinting topside to safety with the rest of the crew. Vendell followed, ducking through the hatchway and reaching for the ladder topside. Just three decks separated him from safety and a watery grave.
He reached the second deck when the Siren tilted hard. He heard water gurgling beneath him, flowing from the overwhelmed pump rooms and filling the cargo spaces. Overhead, a door swung shut. It clanged with such force to jar Vendell's teeth. The pain in his jaw was nothing compared to the horror that welled within his chest, however.
"Hey!" he shouted. Wet hands reached for the door handle and he pushed, but the thick metal frame was too heavy. He could not budge it on his own. "Hey! I'm still down here! Let me out!"
Ice filled Vendell's veins. He looked down and could see the water now, slowly creeping towards him. One by one, the ladder rungs disappeared beneath its turbulent surface. The Siren groaned, and Vendell heard something pop sharply. Then he was plunged into blackness as the rig lost power.
Vendell screamed. He was no longer trying to keep himself composed, no longer feared losing face in front of the older hands and being mocked for it. He feared something else now, something far greater and more permanent than a poor reputation.
By the time the water reached Vendell's boots he was hoarse. His shoulders ached and his fists were bloody from beating on the door. He sobbed, realization settling in that no one would be coming for him. Vendell Polk, two weeks out of Narvik on his first run, would die dragged to the bottom by a drill rig he had only just learned to call home, a drill rig that would now serve forever as his grave.
