Antony Bradbury

THE PERFECT HEIST.

Subtitle: Liquid Gold

A Novella By ANTONY E BRADBURY (18K words)

©2013-17

Prologue

I'm sat in a small diner in down-town Conway, Arkansas, opposite Wall Greens, wondering how my team managed to achieve so much. My small crew of hand picked men, roustabouts, sparks, mudders, loggers and company men are the perfect bunch of sons of bitches you ever wanted to meet. To a man they would loan you their credit card if you were in need; yes sir, we were that close.

I popped another cold tomato dipped French fry into my waiting mouth and thought on. Well, rather than sit wondering what I was going to say to the girl about my cold fries, I might as well relate my story to the world. Oh, I'm safe, we all are. No one in Uncle Sam's office is going to look, nor, even if they did would they come to admit they had been robbed of every ounce of gold in the repository. As far as the US Government is concerned the gold is still safe and sound, locked away, along with the gold reserves held under protection for other countries. I guess that you must be thinking: Yeah, yeah, another story teller looking for a free beer in some smokey out-of-the-way backwoods red-neck bar. If only it were that way.

Oh, I'm sorry. I've not introduced myself. I'm Randy. My last name is of no consequence, so for now Randy will suffice. I am, or was, a Company Man for a drilling company based in Texas. In case you don't know, the title is given to the most experienced man on the gas or oil drilling site. He's in charge of every detail of the drilling process. The Company Man (CM) is God. Well, at least on site. He reports back to the owners on a daily basis, sometimes hourly. When a million dollars a day (cheap rate) is spent drilling, the owners want a return on their investment. This means the CM will need to spend the owners money for them, an open credit card account, if you like. He organises the repairs and are carried out mostly off site via suitable contractors. The CM will purchase goods and services and then account for them to the owners later, especially if a dry hole is the result.

The CM is always in and out of the dog house, in more ways than one, I can tell you. Oh, for those of you who don't know, the Dog House is a little cabin perched at the base of the drilling derrick, just a few feet from the Kelly, it's where the drilling control log is kept, where the men have a coffee and pee out the hole in the back door. The Kelly is a plate that holds tight the drilling pipe, spins the pipe around and allows the pipe to slide down the hole during drilling operations. For now this is all you need to know, suffice to note that my story requires some understanding of a few system names.

Drilling has a few secrets and mysteries, not least the owners never give away any information to a competitor, not even how many toilet rolls are in stock. I'm paid very well for my trouble but I could always fill a few holes with a few more dollars. The kids need their college fees paying, and I would guess that, after a house and vehicle purchase, school fees are a parents greatest expense. Back to my story...

Chapter One

Friday afternoon is always hectic; it's when the men want to have a cook-out while the required weekly safety checks are carried out, and I get really busy sending updated reports to the owners re: the mud-logger's check-logs. The mud-logger is one of the most important men on site. Chips, as he sometimes known, looks at the rock chippings sent up from the drill bit, many thousands of feet below, under his microscope. When the expected hydrocarbons are detected in the formation, the gas in the mud is detected automatically sounds an alarm. All drilling stops, the pipes are tripped out and the owners smile.

I would guess this is one of those text-book jobs. Everything went as expected. Chip's report is, as always, spot on. Our Chips is christened Frank, but had almost forgotten his given name, and was these last thirty years, known to all and addressed as Chips. The company has a habit of paying sub-contractors by check. All those men on site, except for the red-necks and roustabout were sub-contractors, so the ordinary men were paid directly into their accounts. By this method, I knew the correct names of all those hired to work on the site. I'm the only man on the job known by his proper name, Randy, though a British contractor once informed me that randy, in England, means a some sort of pervert, someone who just can't leave 'it' alone.

When I recall nick-names, please understand these are just that, not a means of hiding the identification of those involved in this story. But I digress...

When off duty, I'm allowed the odd beer. However, the telephone could ring at any time, day or night, then I'd be expected to be alert, so two beers, a satellite fed TV ball game and a curry sent in is my lot for my working day or night. I settled down to read a book, 'Tales of Red Adair'. Two chapters in and about to reach for a coffee, when the telephone made its dulcet tones known. Bummer! Thought I. I bet it's my wife wanting to know why the roofing contractors haven't arrived. In the earpiece I heard the unmistakable voice of Terry Broadstroker, the CEO of our company, someone who is unusually verbose.

"Read your report and decided you're in for a handsome bonus, Randy."

"Why, thank you Mr Broadstroker. We do our best, you know that."

"I've a seismic report here that backs up a satellite data stream suggesting we might have a new gas field in Kentucky. I've emailed you the coordinates and the report. Can your second finish off your work while you take your survey team along and organise the ground?"

"I guess so. What about permits and such? You know what some counties are like. You need a permit for this, that and the other. It's a pain in the rear end for me to sort out. I can't guarantee a time frame for your physical site report until good road routes, water feeds and the local sheriff and his deputies have been sweetened."

"This is why I've called personally. We will be dealing with all that from this end. This is a sensitive area we're dealing with."

"Sensitive? You mean seismically?"

"Worse, we will be working under a US Fort. To be precise, Fort Knox. Well, not quite, but the hole needs to be drilled two thousand feet from the bullion depository. As it were; right outside their front door. The military ain't keen, but the State Department says they don't see any problem."

"They don't?"

"No. As long as the site is made to look real clean, grassed over and the Christmas tree made to look unobtrusive, with young trees planted around the site after we leave and gone into production. The below ground distribution pipelines are being set in as we speak. I know that you're due for a break, but if this goes well, you'll get five million dollars and two times your vacation allowance. Are you happy with that?" Five million dollars? He'd obviously, made an error, but more on this later.

"You know the fracking engineers won't be welcome. Especially as the first sign of a tremor will spark a shit load of trouble."

"There's nothing for miles around except a small village, and in any case, they're expecting a little seismic activity. As a sweetener for the villagers we're opening a gas station giving free gas for the locals for five years. They'll be issued with a special card. All they'll have to pay is the ten cents on the dollar fuel tax."

"Free gas and oil for the military too?"

"Very nearly, my dear, Randy. We all have to have our cut. In any event, it keeps us in the correct aspect with the government, while our competitors are chasing their tails. Place a few shekels here and a greased palm there. We have as many senators and congressman to keep us in work for a century. You want to retire early, a rich man, Randy?"

"Then I should get my butt up to the fried chicken state, pronto. I get the picture."

"Read your email," replied Terry, tersely. Then came a 'click', then there is silence.

The click of disconnection is never something I could get used to. I like to say goodbye, but click? I turned to my laptop and found the company in-box. There are maps of the location right down, as is usual, to the foot. 37.892911N 85.974711W and X marks the spot. The access roadways are being already constructed and a derrick is on its way. The pre-hole conductor and surface casing is already in place. Normal job, until I took a look at the geology. I'm wondering about the pay depth when the phone again rang.

"Randy?" The voice is familiar, but I needed confirmation.

"Razabang Hoskins? Is that you?"

"Sure is," he replied, then I heard the slurp and thrupp of chewing tobacco leave his lips and hit his spittoon.

"Have you studied the geo-map yet? Sure is a shit, ain't it?" Then another 'ting' from the spittoon rang out.

"Well, I've taken a cursory glance, and doing so when you called."

"Y'all gonna have ta look closer. Them there formations ain't no ordinary rocks. I'm telling you, this hole is going to collapse down on us.. It'll end in tears if some other team gets to be playing with it." The formation is limestone, above and below a thousand foot salt dome, and really hard granite above. It didn't look good, not good, not good at all. There's gas, oil and three thousand feet of gas bearing shale running west, and the company wanted the lot; well as much as they could get.

"That's why you're assigned to my team?"

"Looks that way, old buddy. I only just had the call from Terry Broadstroker himself. He told me none of the others will touch it, that me and you is the only ones capable of getting this done. Do you want take the job on?" Another slurp, another Thrupp, and yet another Ting, then silence.

"You're in if I am?"

"Dang, Randy, are you dumb? Of course I'm in. I'm retiring in five and he offers me five millions dollars and all. This is my rainy day nest-egg."

Razer is the best geologist in the south of the Mason Dixon Line, and without his expertise I'm not confident to work this hole with any other engineer. I dug holes and he told me how where and when to dig. He is the best, the very best. I'm not hesitant to say yes, but I needed a few days with my family. I didn't want to fly from Houston to Kentucky. The mountains over Bankhead National Forest in Tennessee made turbulence a nasty experience and I hated it. I would drive the nine hundred and forty miles and suffer the fifteen hour trip, sore butt or not. At least I would have my own transport. The company vehicles were nice, but there's nothing quite like your own car, music and the feeling of familiarity; even though you are a long way off and miss the kids, Sheila's cooking and her hugs, it's a tiny little bit of home. I refocused on Raza, wanting to know when he'd arrive on site.

"Where are you?" I asked, hoping to have a couple of private days while he drove to site.

"Looking at you. I was just a passing when I got the call." The horn bellowed. I gazed through the window. Outside, parked in the mudder's yard is a black 1947 Dodge pick-up, like it came out the factory this morning. The phone went dead. I opened the door to see a tall, gangly six foot Alabama man striding toward me.

"Have you got the coffee going?" Not so much as a "Hiya, Randy, how you doin.

"Sure,"

I started a fresh pot peculating and sat myself down on the smaller of the cabin's three sofas. This is my personal abode, a cabin provided by the company that would be delivered to wherever site I'm working, all within twenty four hours. The cabin would be electrified, watered, with a sewage system up and running. The cabin is bare, but comfortable enough, so I had my trinkets placed here-and-there and a lick of paint to brighten things up a notch; a home from home.

Raza exchanges a hug, sat himself down, removed his boots and lifted his tired legs high onto the arms of the sofa.

I'm curious to know how he came to be here, and, just at this moment too. My puzzlement is soon satisfied. He told me he had been on the Sweet Love oil field north east of Tulsa, when, as expected, the job finished ahead of time, he took his bonus and headed home. He's just 75 miles from my site when Terry called him. It occurred to me that Terry timed this meeting to the minute, and that we're both being set up by our Machiavellian CEO to serve his greedy need for another wheelbarrow load of cash to deposit into his bank; whereupon, its rumoured, a set amount is then moved into a Swiss Bank. Whatever the motivations or reasons, Raza is here, chewing his tobacco and spitting into his battery operated mobile spittoon, that, upon receiving a liquid message sounded an old fashioned TING! through a hidden speaker in the base. This never got old with him.

"This looks to be a messy job, Raza, " I said, passing him a coffee.

"Yeah," he replied, as he took another 'dip' of tobacco. "there's fault zones throughout the whole field, but I figured there's nothing we can't get to grips with," he said, pointing to a place on the geological lithography map that showed Devonian granite, then gas-bearing sand and limestones above, and below a salt dome, a most unusual situation, but not unknown.

"The initial data," he continued, "suggests mainly ostracodes and conodonts fossils. You know, this is going to be and acid job, don't you? Chips Madder is going to hate us. Oh, yeah, we got to call Chips Frank, from now on, he's insisted."

"Well, if that's what Chips wants, then that's what Frank gets to be called," I smiled.

I knew that when acid is used to deplete gas bearing strata, nothing but sand would come to the surface, making the mud-logger's job that much harder. The mud-logger used the fossils to tell the driller when to stop drilling, to case and plug the well. It's his reports the company man relies upon to support his actions down the hole. If I messed up, I have only the excuse of working from received data. As the company-man, I'm the under-God, reporting to Zeus back in Texas. Everyone knew the cost of a dry hole. Everyone knew too what could happen when acid is used to etch out the formation. The hole could collapse, a situation that would be very expensive to the company and my looking for another job with not the brightest resume to hand. I turned to look Raza in the eye.

"I need to change my list of names. I need men who have done this acid work in the past many times. On a job like this experience in everything." I moved to my desk and jotted down my list for Raza to read. Passing the list to him, I noticed, as he read, his eyebrows dancing. I then noticed he seemed shocked that three of the five listed are company-men who are all on other sites. Like me, he knew they weren't going to be enticed away from their respective companies on the pretext of playing second fiddle to me without a darn good reason.

"You've got to be taking the piss? Come-on, you're now getting a grip, eh?" Raza sported a serious look upon his rugged face, a scowl even. I said nothing, contemplating my next move, when I noticed his expression change to one of total comprehension. He nodded, took a step toward me then grinned.

"You're poaching the best there is. I just figured out why. You're figuring to eventually have them under your leadership, an you're going get a job on the board. You're a sly bastard, Randy. You'll have the whole field, safe as niggers is black. Well, well." He sat down, spat out another brown mass of liquid tobacco and smiled. "Am I right in figuring I get ta come as second fiddle cm too?"

"Well, if this nut comes cracked as I hope, then, I guess, you'll get the next boss job."

"Then you'll have to get working on getting these boys over here sharpish, I mean quick."

"I'm all over it, like white on rice." I replied, smiling. I picked up the phone and spent the next hour dialling numbers. I then had the task of persuading the best company-men from rival firms to defect; my task is begun, and I ended each call with: 'Raza's here and he's in'.

Looking At The Site

Chapter Two

Three days had passed when, after some cleaning of clothes and personal equipment, I noticed two pickup trucks had entered the site. The brothers, Bill and Ben Travers, hugely popular company-men in their own right, known for being fair, honest and looking after their crews. They'd to dodge the trucks leaving the site for their new destinations under the edict of a young company-man on his first job. My cabin would go with me to the new Kentucky site and would be the last to be hauled away, so I'm more than relaxed, and I have plenty of room for my guests. Bill and Ben were not Texans, but 'Sooners' from Oklahoma, well versed in bad formation drilling and proud of their achievements. Bill had finished working in the Sweet Smell field, just south of Tulsa, while Ben had just finished a third gas well, on the Glory Be, an oil field a little west of Bill's site.

The brothers seemed to enjoy working bad ground, as we called tough formation working. I stood at the cabin door and called out the usual greeting of "What bitch let you two renegades loose here?"

"Got to have been the same friend to that bitch that tossed you into this dung heap!" replied Ben, the thin, blond, sinuous six-foot seven inch giant with a characteristic grin, and Bill is his double, something that unless you knew which one, due to an accident on his first day working on a rig, had an ear missing, hidden under their long, unkempt hair, one would be at a loss to know who is who. I knew, for Bill had to move his head a little to listen.

"Sure does look kind of as ugly looking as he was last time we set our eyes on him, Ben. Sure he does, doesn't he?"

Both men held out a hand, and, as is protocol, I took the hand of eldest by three minutes, Ben. I shook his hand, pulled him close and hugged him. The same procedure went for Bill, and as they stepped inside they were tossed a can of cold beer from the direction of Raza, who hugged the brothers while spitting into an empty beer ca

Bill and Ben were a double act of the worst kind, twins by birth and by nature, always looking out for each other's backs, and I loved them to bits. The only problem I ever encountered from them is their propensity to tell the most darned awful jokes that had me cringe with embarrassment.

Bill, Raza, Ben and myself would alternate our crews in four six hour shifts. The owner agreed to pay the crews as if they were working a twelve hour stint, so as to keep up the enthusiasm for the arduous task ahead. This is not unusual, especially when this pay-dirt is expected to return more than a handsome profit, more than twice the return for the work put in, and the product is expected, eventually, to be almost three times that of any American field, but, as with all oil and gas companies this is top secret information. Not even the man who mixed the drilling mud is allowed to tell anyone what he is using down the hole and this is to be no exception.

We all sat down to a few cold beers and to let off steam, tell a few yarns and fill each-other in on the events since we last laid eyes on one another, when, BOOM! From the window came an orange flash, an ear-splitting hiss, with men shouting and screaming to get the hell out of there. We all ran to the door and made our way outside. The noise subside to the sound of a 100 ton mobile crane's engine. The driver turned off the engine to a quiet of birdsong. I gazed over to the well-head and noticed all is fine. I had at first imagined the Christmas tree had sheered of and mud escaping under enormous pressure; it wasn't, and my racing heart beat started to calm down. The crane's driver sheepishly strolled over to the group of four company men who stood staring at him.

"I'd like to think there is a good explanation for this, Harry. What the hell happened?" I asked looking about and seeing nothing obvious to the naked eye. Harry is here to pull the young Billy Anders from the mud pit. Billy is just thirty two years of age, when he had suffered a heart attack and died, while driving a fifty ton bulldozer. The whole lot is well and truly stuck, and only the big crane is strong enough to accomplish this lift.

"Well, as far as I can gather, that there acetylene bottle there yonder toppled. Top must have just sheered oft. And yumptididdley, did I near shit my pants? I guess I must ave just clipped her, boss."

We all strolled around to the other side of the crane, but there is nothing much to see, apart from a headless gas bottle and a burning wooden pallet.

"You nearly gave us all the gibbers, Harry. Looking around, I doubt you'd have seen that bottle from your cab." I climbed up into the driver's seat, and, sure enough, there is a blind spot. I climbed down from the cab and put an arm round Harry's shoulder. "It's my fault, Harry. I should have given you a spotter, or, as most of the men have left the site, I should have spotted for you myself."

"That's mighty fine of you, boss. You're a good man, but I guess I should have asked for some eyes."

Harry gazed at his feet, looking sheepish. I understood that from time-to-time these things happen. We all have to vigilant, but we're all human, sometimes preoccupied or too focused on one task to notice ubiquitous bits kit lying about. In any case, the gas bottle is left behind a stacked pile of pallets, hidden from view; it's no real fault of Harry's. I'm the boss on site, and the other company men knew they should not say a word. It's not their job to interfere and make comment in any way; none of them should and none did so, and I appreciated their silence. I patted Harry on the shoulder and and told him to carry on. Just then, the ambulance crew arrived, in no rush. The doctor had said Billy is dead, and no amount of speeding sirens is going wake him. In any case, until the dozer is out of the mud, Billy's body could not have been easily extracted. Harry, revived, returned to get on with his job, while the ambulance men waited their turn to carry out their not so pleasant professional duty.

We four company men entered the cabin, shut the door and took in another beer. For over a minute there is complete silence, when Raza stood up, strolled to the window and gazed out.

"I told you you handled Billy's accident very well. I guess too. I'm impressed how you sorted out young Harry."

"I'll says you did, Randy, you were impressive." Ben's approval is appreciated, as is the nod from Bill. Relaxed, I pulled out the posted geological report and the other drilling details required to sink the hole and began to formulate my speech to my fellow company-men as to what's required with this well. We sat around a table where the site map is spread and discussed the points of access and water feeds. It's up to the company-man to organise everything. That's why we get paid so handsomely. However, sometimes the shit hits the fan, then there can be hell to pay. The buck always stopped at my office. But I digress. I wanted viewpoints and got them.

"I'm to be company-man on my shift and for the job as a whole, but it's agreed by head office that the other three were solely responsible and accountable for their shift. There were to be eight holes drilled vertically, then sloping and fanning out to a horizontal axis in the deep pay-dirt formation.

There's nothing unusual about this work, just the formation itself; but I've previously told you about this. The drilling logistics are going to be complicated, not least the secrecy surrounding the operation, for the hole is to be twenty thousand feet, a huge field of gas and oil that had lain wholly undetected, despite modern geological advances. It all came about when a young man had missed or dismissed the data and filed it away in the Kentucky geological archives; until, that is, someone in our company happened across the file and noticed something odd. Realising it's importance, he'd slipped the file under his shirt and walked out of the depository.

Raza is mulling over the field when he spotted something and spoke up loudly.

"Once you get the top oil and gas out, the big shale gas field below ain't going be too easy for those men in the army base above."

"Army base?" I asked, looking over the topical map that's now spread on top of the field.

"Yeah, and it goes right under the gold bullion depository at Fort Knox. If them there fracking boys do their job too good, them men are going have some real trembling going on, I can tell you; well, for a while, until it all settles down. You see here," he pointed to a fault line. "it's a slipper, and a nasty one too. If you release the pressure, then you're going to shove one mighty hard down and the other up, about ten feet, I'd say. Those above ain't gonna be too happy." The ting of ejected tobacco chewing juice hitting the spittoon. reverberated around my cabin.

Bill and Ben looked on nodding, when Bill said something out of character.

"Did you ever git the feeling we've been set up?" He pointed to the edge of the field, where there is another fault. "These are going slip too, an it going cut off thoes field of theirs working up that road a apiece. We ain't gonna be too popular around these parts, especially when they find out it's us that's doing them out of a job, you know?"

"An what if we don't hit this pay-dirt? This could be a wildcat, remember?" replied Ben, anxiously. "Do you think we should tell the company it's all off?"

I'm anxious for input and ready to pull out of this job entirely and take our normal three months rest period. However, I listened on.

"Hell no! I've not come all this way not to play with that string and get nothing. I'll go until we've run out of string. Heck, we're being paid real good, whether we get black gold or dirt. Screw the army. It Might give them something ta think about. That's what say, um?" Bill is about to take off again, when Ben stepped in to confirm his brother's viewpoint is that of his own. I gazed over to Raza, wondering what is going through his mind.

"You're the ivy college boy, Randy. You've got the speaking voice we ain't got; real nice like. But you're one of us, muddied, the best there is. I guess I'll go along with the boys here, an they'll go along with you." All eyes were on me, waiting for my ultimate decision. The company tells me where and how they want the hole drilled, how many string pipes to use and depth and direction. Sure, this is likely to be a wild cat, an exploratory well, and, if it paid off, we get five million bucks apiece, retiring money. But what of the other companies crews? Would they do the same? This would keep Uncle Sam very happy for fifty years or more, saving all the other oil fields for the future of our nation. If confirmed, the deposit is bigger than Saudi Arabian oil and gas fields. The company and the government knew it only too well.

I put out my hands, grasped and shook each man's hands in turn.

"We're go on that 1201 alarm, Eagle." My smile is broad and the men were ecstatic.

"About time for another beer," I snorted, trying to emulate a real southern boy, but I'm no mimic. Despite my mid Atlantic accent, I'm, as it's pointed out, one of them; their boss for the duration only yet equal in every respect. Yeah, respect. I had the utmost respect for these men and their abilities, few had any weaknesses to speak of, and of those known to me, were superficial, no more or less than my own inadequacies. Yes indeed, we were Equal.

"Do I need to describe the dawn? Well, I guess so, for the rain came down like the oceans had evacuated the sea shore. A howling wind drove the rain horizontal to the point where trees were being uprooted. The cabin shook, and the shelve holding our files collapsed. My head hurt, and though I can hold my own, this is a close call with death via alcohol poisoning. I felt a hand upon my shoulder. It is Ben, grinning like a mule who'd at last had gotten the carrot.

"Coffee?"

"Please," I replied with a half smile.

"Dang, Randy! We hit that one last night, sure as apples on a tree we did, phew!"

Ben spoke perfect English, his twang had disappeared, and I wondered what is going on with him.

"Run that by me again, would you?" I guess I'm still half asleep, for he stepped right back into his Sooner drawl. Empty beer cans lay everywhere and I thought, ah, normality. The coffee is really good, the best I'd tasted for a long time. I thanked the giant for his gift of a good brew, then put my feet up for half an hour before taking turns to shower and shave. Meanwhile, my Latino lady, Maria, entered the cabin to half naked men; she ignored us and started to prepare eggs, bacon, tomatoes, toast and mushrooms. The smell of good cooking is divine, then, after a pseudo prayer, said to satisfy Maria, we all tucked in and sated our ravenous appetites. I turned to gaze out of the window and noticed the rain had stopped. The storm had given way to a hot August sun that turned the pools into steam that rose as a haze, fog-like, blanking the trees beyond from my view.

Ben turned on the television to the news channel. The Islamic forces were working their way steadily into southern Russia and east into China, where bitter, had-to-hand fighting saw hundreds of thousands dead, and over a million wounded. The British had made a first strike with a large thermonuclear weapon, obliterating the holy site of Mecca, killing over two million people in the process. The Indians withstood a nuclear strike from Pakistan, so India retaliated with five air detonated atomic bombs, that totally annihilated the populations of Pakistan. The Muslims, it's reported, were not going to enter India.

The President of the United States went on the air to explain that America would remain, unless attacked, neutral. Nonetheless, we were mobilising our strategic forces, and oil and gas would play their part. I supposed too, that's partly to add to my decision not to pull out of this messy job. Two days later, we all moved out to our new Kentucky location.

************

We four stood on the site where, in a couple of hours, the derrick and doghouse would be sited. The casing hole is finished and ready. The morning sun is very warm, but not too warm but humid. The birds were taking every little opportunity to swoop and swallow what insects there were; little knowing the noise of drilling machinery would soon ruin their lust for nourishment. I noticed a buzzard swoop down upon some carrion or other, shooing away some small carnivores to get at his stolen meal. The thought of this tranquil site being raped by steel, noise and pits being dug into the ground began to nudge my temperament, in as much as I wondered about the past damage I had inflicted upon the environment. Then I'm shaken out of my reverie by the site of half a dozen men walking behind a trenching machine feeding into the trench a copper cable used to locate the plastic gas pipe, while behind that a bulldozer could be seen laying thirty-two inch ABS gas distribution pipe that had been heat welded by the Latino pipe jointer crew, none of whom could speak more than a few words of English. The pipe trench is headed for the gas pumping station about a quarter mile from the well-head, while the smaller feeder lines from the well-head to the pumping station would be laid and set in place at the Christmas tree at a later date. It seemed everything is normal. The pad is clean, the aggregate level. There is room for all the crew cabins, their equipment, the mudding machinery, generators and twenty clean water tanks big as a shipping container and the mercaptan tank, that's the stuff used to make natural gas smell, is in place. I'm happy with how things were now progressing and knew that if all went to plan, we would be drilling in four days.

Bill pointed to the various over the road trucks delivering the crew cabins in escorted convey. I must admit, the office girls knew how to organise things. Obtaining operating permits and heavy truck permits is always a nightmare, but the girls knew just how to fill in the forms and how to sweet talk the local sheriffs, who don't like heavy semi-water trucks ripping up his roads. Sometimes a few bucks passed from one hand to another. Sheriffs and their deputies are just as bent as the rest of us, especially when money gets a mention and is in their palm. These guys do a great job and don't get too well paid for their trouble, so now and then a perk sweetens the way.

"Raza?" I asked, " Where are you going to set down your cabin?" My question is more to do with wind than anything else. The prevailing wind is from the west and could be either fiercely hot or just the opposite; we could either freeze or boil. The noise of the air conditioning is always a distraction and the heating system even worse, so we would like to be end on, that is, east to west. I looked out out for my site man, and as I did so, Raza gazed over my shoulder.

"Put them in a line just by them the trees. You'll get some peace and quite from the generators," said he, once more spitting his tobacco juice leeward. And, so it's done. The plumber fed the water and the sparks ran the cables from the generators to our cabins. We all made ourselves comfortable and settled down to watch the telephone engineers fit our lines to the cabins. We all used our mobile phones but the raw drilling data is fed live down the telephone cables, and from the company man's telephone exchange specific lines normally coupled to the drilling company head-quarters via a satellite dish set on the roof. It's all very high tech, I can tell you.

The derrick and doghouse arrived right on time and the crews set to to erect and couple the steelwork together over the hole that had the blow-out-preventer fitted by the previous crew. The next morning the pipe string arrived in a series of convoys, then the derrick loaded with the strings ready for drilling the next morning, after all the safety checks had been carried out. This is a job that went flawlessly, indeed, that's a very rare event on any site.

Bill and Ben settled themselves down to sleep though the day, having volunteered to start the night shift, Ben from 9pm until 3am and Bill from 3am until 9am. I would then do my shift until 3pm, when Raza would do the final shift. This is unusual, as most shifts were twelve a hour turn around. This job needed fresh men all set to go. A tired crew is a dangerous crew and we needed to be on the ball at all times on this particular job. Half the crew were rushing about while the other half either slept or rested. I walked around the site with the safety officer who went from site to site and would not allow drilling to commence until every detail is corrected and made, well, shall I say, safe.

We got the green light to begin drilling and trip pipe first thing in the morning at 9am. Meanwhile, I took a look at the drill bits, starting with a 12.5 inch drill bit.

The first week went well, very well, reaching 6,000 feet, a record, even for us, but none of the wells were paying out. My phone rang and my boss is on the line, screaming and bawling about us not reaching hole bottom depth. If we did not reach 17,000 feet by tomorrow, we will all be fired. The line went dead. I'm furious and strode over to wake Ben, Bill and Raza.

"You know what that bastard said!?" I laid out our company's thoughts about us being the slowest, laziest sons of bitches.

At that moment, five trucks carrying hydrochloric acid turned into the site. I gazed out of the window, fuming more than the acid, wondering what the hell they were playing at back in Texas.

"Sons of...."

"Been here before, Randy, d'you recall back in 75, when the bitches shit on us? I seem to remember promising that if ever they did shit on all again, we'd get our own back."

"I sure do, Raza. You too were there, Ben. We were veritable green horns, and they find us six months wages for an error that had nothing to do with us, when that well blew off. Bastards!"

"I got myself an idea. You see them acid trucks. I'm gonna make me a few calls. It's about time we git our own back on them sons of bitches" Raza pulled out his mobile phone, and, using his authorisation, ordered ten tankers of nitric acid and seven more tankers of hydrochloric acid. "When we took the bitches to court," he continued, "those government agencies went with the company." Once more the spittoon chimed the bell of tobacco spittle. "Two times they worked us over, and they're not getting away with it again."

"Fuck ass! Hell as no! They ain't," remarked Ben, whose retort is followed by a facial contortion a monkey would have been proud of. "What are you fixing to do about your idea, Raz?"

"Well, I got to thinking about that acid out there. I'm watching a TV documentary the day bout salvaging gold from rocks and from computer chips. They told you all bout it, what they used and all. Quick as a flash I sprung myself an idea. We're going to rob that there Fort Knox of their gold bullion." I spun round, flabbergasted, yet curious as to what Raza had in mind. "You're all going listen up, or are you going sneak off?"

We all gathered around the table, as Raza spread out his geological and topical map, then we took a look at his computer and his 3D map. He pointed here and there, made some more calculations about pipe-strings, angles, subs and lots more. Opening his laptop computer, he set in his calculations and, finally, the answer lay before us. Ben perused the data, ushered me closer, made a couple of notes on a pad, then turned to Raza.

"We're going to heist the gold from Fort Knox?! Dang, Raz! This could work too. Well, I'll be darned if we couldn't pull it off too. Phewewee. I'm in. Are you Bill?" Bill nodded his approval, then gazed out of the window toward the acid trucks. "We got to be quick mixing those acids, because it off real quick you know," he said, spinning back to face me, his face sporting a stern expression, and, from Raza, he's sporting a facial articulation I'd never seen before too.

I'm not so sure. I'm thinking of getting caught and spending the rest of my life behind bars, and I wasn't thinking of the kind that served alcohol. I stepped forward, took another look at the data and smiled. It's perfect, as long as afterwards the cement is plugging the hole we would have won a great victory over the government and the company, who we could buy out, control and run the firm as it should be, and that is as a legitimate business.

"I'm in!" My reply to their gazing is a great relief. I guessed that if I'd said no, we'd all have been fired and, off home we would all have gone with our tails between our legs; failures to the spitefulness of our betters. We had only hours with which to plan how we would organise our actions, but first, we must doctor the live computer data.

The Plan

Chapter Three

The roughnecks and roustabouts were told to trip out the string and reload with new pipe, fit certain slugs and drills, then trip back in down hole and start drilling. Of course, all this took time, and, secrecy is paramount. The crews did as they were required, and it all seemed to them to be business as normal. Only the CMs' knew what, where, when and why. All is normal, ship-shape and Bristol fashion, as my British friends and English wife would often point out when things were going as planned. However, the plan is not yet complete. Raza had drilled similar holes before, and as luck had it, he kept all that raw data on data sticks, including video, in case anything untoward happened. Raza loaded all this data onto his spare laptop computer. He changed a few parameters and started to send the data down the phone lines to headquarters. The rock formation data is changed to that of this well and strata, just the depth would need to be adjusted to conform; this our erstwhile genius did with ease. Our betters would be none the wiser.

The mudder and mud-logger were brought in to chat with me. All their logging is to be as normal, but to expect unusual formation changes. This is normal procedure, especially when such wildcat holes were being drilled. As luck is with us, neither had seen the geological plan, but again, this is to be a secret, and again, as with some sites secrecy is paramount within the company; the men knew this well enough. Alas, as well I knew, you cannot keep a secret from the mudder and mud-logger. I called them back and asked them to join me in a drink. Bill, Ben, Raza and I had hurriedly discussed the matter, and, as we had known and worked with these two reprobates for nearly thirty years, it would be unfair to have them miss out on our stupid, but grand finale.

"Frank and Mudder, we have something to tell you," I said, with a slight sigh. I told them how the company had planed to set us all up, how we had been duped, promised wads of cash, when in reality, all the money is going to a select few, and once the job is ready for production, we were all to be fired, thrown to the wolves. "The plan stops or carries on from here. If you both bow out, we'll understand. None of us wants to spend the rest of our lives behind bars. However, we know you well enough not to run to the FBI, but to retire sick, seriously ill, and we'll look after you, don't worry about that. Any-ways, you need to discus it amongst yourselves, so go get yourselves a beer." Frank gazed across at Mudder, who, in turn, returned his gaze.

"Even split?" asked Mudder. We all nodded our agreement.

"You can't drill without us, or your not going drill anything." Both beamed the broadest smiles I'd seen since UT beat the shits out of those northern Yankees college boys football.

"Well?" said Raza, spreading the information across the long table. We are supposed to get down to 5181 metres or seventeen thousand feet in old money, and our goal is just ten thousand feet 3048 metres. Be my calculations, if you can get the dirt we need supposing what that formation should be looking like stored and sent to company office, then those down in Texas are not going be any the wiser until, eventually, we call those holes dry." Another tobacco juice rocket flew in the spittoon's direction. Ting!

"Is?" says Frank, "Can we do that without arousing suspicions?"

"Sure can Frank. Anyway, I knows a beautiful mature lady in the acid company, and she'll doctor some paper work for a nice few truck loads of acids you need. Jeeeze can she kiss."

I had the feeling all is going to work out well. I had no niggles and confidence in my co-management team is at an all time high. It felt like a schoolboy prank.

Bill is the director, that is, he would keep the drill on course, and, with pin-point accuracy, guide the drill to within ten millimetre of our goal. I would order the slugs needed to weight the cutter to the precise angles to bring us gently horizontal, then, at the right moment, bias the cutter up to eventually become vertical and into the target. We were safe as houses, but I'm still unsure of how we could reconstitute the gold from the acid.

"How's that going to happen, Ben?" I asked with considerable curiosity. Ben had a twinkle in his eye.

"Sure. With your wedding ring and some industrial batteries you're going order for us."

"You mean by electrolysis? Ah! Then we need, in the meantime, to start a small plating company to cover our butts." I'm getting the picture. I guess we might even get orders, too, especially as we need to look and be legitimate. My solid gold Rolls-Royce would never be scratched, especially as it is going overseas to Saudi, and a few would go to Australia, too.

"Your is always has to be smarter than the shit you're working with, Randy. Gees I's been getting started ordering plastic and glass tubs and looking fer some premises for us soon to be retired entrepreneurs, eh?"

I'm confident, but still seething at my finding out about what the company had in mind; not least that I suspected some politicians were well bribed to get the company the contract to go deeper and get the reserves that other companies never suspected could be at those depths. The two faults had taken long ago the pay-dirt formation far below, and the seas, sediments, and, eventually, forestation lay down the upper layers of gas and oil under a deep salt dome, covered by a limestone cap that we could drill or acid etch through very easily.

I took a call from a company executive, the chairman, named Semurcatees Whitonriceman, a billionaire of German extraction, whose family moved to the US before WW-II. I listened intently to what he had to say about secrecy, and that I could purchase whatever I need to complete the job. He told me I could take my time drilling. I though this is odd, because drilling is an extremely expensive business and companies don't like to spend too much on a wildcat holes. To my mind, his is the proof of the company being deceitful. I had an open cheque, sorry readers in the US, I meant check to spend whatever I like, on what I liked. As my diary will later show, so much is not right within the political regime.

It seemed to me the FBI were ignorant of the moves that seemed to be going on within the political fringes of government. The conservative party is going to see the eventual demise of the liberals and the rise of the one party state on the lines of the emerging Chinese system. Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey. It's an extremely dangerous political game that would take many years to achieve, but the sons and daughters of the executives would benefit. The legacy their fathers would leave them would be one of a Roman style elite, with the rest of the population virtual slaves. Only the gun holding population could prevent this, but with a war constantly being waged here and there, the ammunition companies could not supply the demand for bullets for the private owners of arms, and though said we can bear arms, it said nothing about the unaffordable price of ammunition. Any American uprising would be short lived. Now I understood why these wars were being fought, with war supplies to both sides being a constant income for our masters.

I shook myself out of my reverie to speak with my comrades and plan our course of initial action. The crews were drilling through the toughest formations ever encountered and were only at two thousand, three hundred and twenty two feet to go. I ordered a selection of diamond bits to be brought to both the Kellies and we would trip out the pipe string, cement the hole and use the new, wider, and very expensive plastic lined outer casing. I called the company to inform them we were going to use acid in the final stage of the formation to dissolve the limestone to initially release the gas, plug the hole in stages and drill further down to tap the oil reserves, when we go to depth. I told then that both derricks Thad developed a bend due to old age and required two replacements to be brought on site the next day. That is very satisfactory, and expense is to be no object, I was told. Great! I thought, then we can have another crew drill the normal fan outs while we drill for gold. I thought we could damage the two derrick when we're finished to make things look kosher.

Now is the time to start to use the slugs, the short weighted pipe attached to the drill string after the drill bit. We were going to slowly turn the whole horizontal, a degree at a time. The roughnecks and roustabouts were very used to borehole changes. They didn't understand why we, as company-men, did what we did. It's white-man's magic, as far as they're concerned. They were concerned more about doing a good job, with no stops or breakdowns, so they were always gentle with the equipment. They looked after the machinery, as though the machines were their own children. Brake downs cost loss of earnings and a loss of their bonus. Not least is safety so very paramount on the Kelly. I never had a man hurt more than a crushed finger on any site I drilled, and on this hole, this is to be no exception.

The tripping back in, then out again with the new diamond bits, casing, cementing went on apace. We had been drilling this hard granite rock formation for two days, and we were, at last, near horizontal. There's some hard days drilling ahead to get the new slugs fitted with the down-hole test signalling equipment fitted, tripping the pipe string back down the hole and carefully watch as the string finally started to rise from four thousand feet to three, to two and, finally to one thousand feet. Now we had to trip out and redo the whole acid proof casing and cementing thing again. The new diamond bit is fitted and the next and final diamond bit readied for use. Bill had two maps drawn of the drilling, the first is what is supposed to be happening down hole, drill position, that sort of thing, and the second map of where the drill string really is. Frank and Mudder were doing a fine job, one mixing the mud how its needed down the hole and Frank, the mud logger keeping two lithology books on the rocks he is seeing, and what he is supposed to be seeing if we were down the holes as the company thought. Frank made his samples taken from other Kentucky sites sent to the company, along with the pseudo rock samples by daily courier pick-up. We needed another drilling derrick brought in to drill the other seven holes that were to fan out when we eventually drilled the real boreholes. The new derrick is a repaired spare from the company yard, used in cases when the ground is particularity troublesome and we had to break into and plug a nasty hole that might leak gas unexpectedly. We had it all planed. This is our excuse for the new derrick to be on site, and, two days later, the new derrick arrived on the pad.

The plan is that the seven boreholes were to be drilled by the crew on the existing derrick, and that because of a an alleged problem down whole, the company-men, that is, Ben, Raza and myself would take over the final stages of our plan on the existing hole. Bill would take charge off the new derrick and work it 24 hours, with Frank taking charge on a 12 hour basis with Bill on the other derrick. Frank is a retired company-man, who, when he retired at aged fifty, started his own mud-logging business and still well able to do the job, and it's why we hired him. Mudder is a different kettle of fish, more suited to doing his job well, the best there is, but knew nothing of drilling, other than what happens to the drill down the hole and how his drilling mud lubricated the bit and drew to the surface the cuttings for Frank to sample. Mudder is the best there is, and, if I is not sure about the down hole conditions, Mudder is the man to consult.

The crews moved over to the new rigs, and drilling began in earnest. Meanwhile, Ben, Raza and I would work as the roustabouts and roughnecks, something we'd not done for over forty years. We took some odd stares from the crews, but Bill told them this hole had wondered off course, and then new data transmitter confirmed the old transmitter is faulty, and only the experts could regain control of the string. That story is good enough for these men, so they carried on without any form of curiosity whatsoever. They were a great crew, but not a company-man in the making amongst them, which, in this occasion is no bad thing.

I took a call from a driver that the acid tankers were on their way to the pad area and would be there within the hour. Raza rushed off to make sure the markings on the trucks said hydrochloric and not hydrofluoric acid. The trucks were the sort that they had hazmat numbers, and, as luck is on our side, when they arrived on site they had the correct numbers on them, well, at least, the numbers 'we' wanted them to have. Raza checked the contents of the three thousand gallon containers, and they were as we requested. Mudder's nice young lady is true to her word and is paid handsomely for her efforts. She even found us some glass and plastic tanks for the new building that Ben had managed to acquire for us in Lawton, Oklahoma, along side a lake with what looked like an drilling derrick next to it, but its an abandoned wind driven water mill next to a newly renovated grain silo, modified to look like one of those prison patrol towers. It is quite pretty, especially as we'd managed to rent the place as a home base for us newly set up businessmen to be. Ben's eldest boy had found the place and it's ideally situated a mile from to the free-way and with a food store and gas station close by. Norman is forty miles north-east, down the road, and good fishing is to be had twenty miles to the south-west on lake Lawtonka, under Mount Scott. He said his son had told him the police were easily bribed, and would, for a price, look after our new building for us. Nick, Ben's boy, had dropped into J & C Gallery and bought all the furniture we'd need, including beds etc.

I'm hoping we could walk before we could run, and we are not getting a little ahead of ourselves. Nevertheless, all is progressing smoothly, too much so, that I began to worry if it would end in tears, but I said nothing. I spun round to see the trucks arrive. Ben stopped the drilling, stepped off the Kelly and approached one of the trucks. A beautiful, buxom brunette of about fifty years jumped down from the drivers seat and gave Ben a deep, longing kiss. All the drivers were women, and this woman is Ben's wife, the girl who he said is a great kisser! I knew she had her own business somewhere but thought it might have been a florist shop or something. The other female drivers were her sisters. My mouth could have dropped to the floor. Dang! What a family to have married into.

As the crew's wolf whistles subsided, Ben called Raza and myself over to meet the ladies, all of whom were widowed or divorced, single in fact.

The Pretence

Chapter Four

The sun beat down its hottest rays I could ever recall feeling. The dust filled every orifice so that a mask had to be worn just to breath in clean air which got wet after a short while due your breath. Lizards ran about as if searching for every drop of water but there's little to be had, except for that used by Mudder and his mud mixing crew. The searing heat is more than most men could bare, but our roustabouts paid no attention to such trivial matters as heat. They left moaning to such as fags and office boys to cry to their mothers over. If ever men earned their bonus, it is these men. I ordered three ice-cold cans of beer to be passed around each man every hour, on the hour. In heat like this the crews wouldn't get drunk, yet too much water could kill a man. Few knew about this hazard, that beer is much safer then any amount of dihydrogen monoxide any day. That's why men drink beer, not because they like it, shoot me if I'm wrong, but I'll tell you, that to show them Gatorade, they'll call you a girl; these guys are real men. However, I digress, so back to the story.

Meanwhile, the ladies entered my cabin, each dressed in tight cut-down J.C. Penney denims, tight cleavage filled T-shirts and cowboy boots. Phew! Even the AC couldn't cope with this sight and shut down. We have our own AC service team on site, good electricians, or sparks, as we call them, with every conceivable spare part known to man. The call for a spark went out, and within half a second three electricians were in the cabin, eyeing up the ladies. Pity for the night-shift spark, fast asleep in his bunk; but he is married, so it didn't matter that he couldn't observe this wonderful sight.

"Er, boys," said I, motioning toward the none functioning the AC machine, then before moving off, the muttering of 'thank you ma'am' as the men tipped their hard-hats to the females, they left the cabin to start working on the guts of the AC machine, outside echoed about, as did the giggling inside. My noticing the batting of eyelids said something for one of the handsome sparks. It's time for the girls to take, each in turn, a shower and freshen up. I sat down to write an email report to my superiors that all work had ceased while repairs were being made to both the water pumps, as one had failed, the other having taken the load for both of them failed too, whereupon welding and bearing seals needed to be replaced, so all work had to cease until said repairs were finished. That's my excuse to give the crews time off to shower and get ready for a Bar-B-Q, and, perhaps, some dancing with the girls. Yup,we are going to party.

I know what a hang over is, but not one like this. Phew! This is the mother of them all, I can tell you. Not that I'm much or a drinker, more that we all enjoyed the evening that turned into a night of drunken wild dancing and singing. I'd guess we might've made more noise than the rigs in full swing, on their own. I woke up in my comfortable swinging office chair. My head is laid upon the desk, my hand still gripped a long emptied whisky tumbler that fell to the floor and loudly rattled like a burst of machine-gun fire in my head. Bodies lay strewn everywhere, with two ladies missing, presumably they might have been entertaining or being entertained elsewhere. There were snores and groans, yet my olfactory system detected the aroma of coffee freshly percolating, slurping and hissing away. Then I sensed the audible sizzle of sausage and bacon being cooked, then voices, not male; men only cook when absolutely necessary otherwise it's pizza and beer.

"I noticed you stirring, sweet-love," said Sheila, my wife. What is she doing here? I wondered. "I drove up here when I got the call from Mary, Ben's wife, to meet her here. "I'm so glad you're behaving yourself. The temptation must have been very great," said my British born wife. "I arrived at 2:am, and the party is still swinging. You were out of it, so I enjoyed line dancing with everyone. Had a couple of hours sleep, showered, then Mary and I started coffee and such. Could you manage a full English breakfast?" I nodded, then took myself off the the lavatory to do my thing and to freshen up. Perhaps I'm slow, but upon my return, the men and the ladies – minus two, were sat around the now extended table, filling their faces.

"Don't suppose....?"

"No worries, honey. Yours is coming up," replied, Sheila, stopping me in mid sentence while ushering me to a place at the table, as though I'm an infant in need of coaching.

"How do you know Mary?" My question, I thought, very relevant, is an enigma to me.

"We met quite by accident, at WalMart, or was it Walgreens? It's a few years ago. We were buying girl's things. We were in the line and got to chatting. Both our men were on the rigs, so we had something in common. We had a coffee, exchanged email addresses and phone numbers, you know, chatted about girl's things and our men. I had no idea you boys knew each other; there are so many of you, and you can't be expected to know everyone. I found out just two days ago. Mary told me she is delivering a very special load to this site, and that you were here, and why don't I drive up, so I did." She kissed my forehead, then laid a knife, fork and spoon, British style, in front of me, then returned to the kitchen to get my breakfast, and upon her return, Mary followed Sheila out of the kitchen, carrying the coffee-pot, chatting away like birds in a tree.

"You must think me a bad host, Mary, hosting a party the way I did."

"No," she replied, smiling, "You men need time out now and then. I've heard good reports of you from my Ben. By all accounts, you have a decent man, Sheila," she said, looking across at my better half, placing the coffee pot on the table, then Mary returned to the kitchen to bring back toast...

The door opened, and there stood Bill and Ben, and, a second or two later, Raza entered, looking as though he'd dressed for a wedding. The roustabouts, left the table, leaving room for Raza, Bill and Ben, who then took their seats, each pouring coffee.

"You look dressed to go to a wedding. Where are you off to?" I asked Raza.

"I'm taking Jane to town to get her a nice hat."

"Oh, okay." I began to eat, when the TV news is turned up, and everyone turned their head to look and listen. Wales had invaded Russia! It's the country's first act of aggression since she became a separate country from the UK a year previously. It transpires the argument is about Russians buying up holiday homes in Wales, and the Welsh got a bit pissed about it and started burning the homes down. The Russians got uppity about it, so the Welsh invaded Russia, nuked the bastard sons a bitches and took control of Moscow and the Kremlin. I guess size really doesn't matter at all. Germany has become a 'Gay State' and France has been annexed by the Isle-of-Man, with the Toure-de-France now to become motorised, with bicycles only used as backup, in case of breakdown. Um? I mused. Europeans, what a strange lot they are.

To keep the pretence of normality, the crews were given the day off, but were told to report to site as normal tomorrow. Alice opened the door and strolled in, looking as though she'd had a rollicking good night with someone, and though looking tired, she'd a smile upon her face that said it all. Apart from Janie, who's now on the road with Raza, all the girls were together drinking coffee and planning a ride into town in a beat-up silver Ford Windstar the company kept on site for emergency evacuation. Sheila is to stay behind to jump my bones, she'd informed me. I guess a feet-up day is going to be out of the question. But hey, a roll in the hay with Sheila is not to be sniffed at, I can tell you.

"Randy. You'd better come look at this." Sheila stood looking out of the window. I rose from my chair to take a look. The sky to the south-west is blackened, with an ominous looking weather front rolling in toward us. This is tornado season, so I rushed over to turn the TV to the local weather station to keep an eye on what might be happening nearby. That's when I saw and then heard the simultaneous crash of lightening and thunder. Derrick number two had been hit. At times like this it's always best to stay indoors. All cabins were steel mesh covered and grounded, a veritable Faraday cage, so we knew we were safe from lightening. If we were struck, the energy would travel harmlessly to earth, though we might emerge from our experience a might deaf. One string had melted to a smouldering mass mass next to the Kelly, but other than that, all's well. We just needed to keep an eye out for twisters that might be headed our way. As luck favours the bold, nothing, other than a heavy welcoming downpour, came our way, and the storm passed over without further incident.

Three hours later, I woke in the arms of my beloved wife, our afternoon of passion fully sated. A short kip for us both is most refreshing, but then I felt a hand upon my chest, and the sweet breath of Sheila's lip upon my cheek.

"A bird told me were were going to be rich people soon. It's okay. Mary knows I would never give away a secret. In any case, as a retired chemistry teacher, I know what these acids would be used for. This site is not the clean room of a Silicon Valley integrated circuit producing factory now, is it, um? It doesn't take an Einstein to figure that an aqua-regia and the closeness of Fort Knox put together can only produce one formula."

"You know, don't you?"

"I figured it out in a millisecond."

"You disapprove?" I asked, feeling sheepish and a little afraid of what her answer might be.

"Now, did I say I disapproved of the thought of my husband being a rich criminal, um?"

"No. However, I am not yet a rich criminal. Though if this company don't change their mind about how they conduct business with our government and plan to stop using our tax dollars to up their personal billions within the next twenty four hours, then yes, your man will become the criminal mastermind of the century, and no-one will ever know who, how, when and why."

We showered, dressed, then took a walk through the woods, avoiding the tick-laden long grass. Here I knew it's safe to tell Sheila what's going on with the company; of their Machiavellian plan to betray their promise to pay us the five million dollars each, and of the corruption within the Congress, and the Robin Hood senators who were lining their pockets, though unlike Robin of Loxley, they were not giving to the poor. I laid out our plan in detail. Her mouth fell open, as if it were to hit the ground.

"But, my sweet love, the whole economy might collapse,"

"No, it already has. I did some research, and I have to tell you that none of the gold in the bullion depository belongs to the US. That gold was sold off many years ago to pay for the Vietnam war and the race to the moon. Most of what lies within those walls belongs to China and the Middle East. Without that gold, none of those countries can wage war with anyone. A couple of years from now, the gold will be moved to a safer place, where in the event of an impending conflict, the American government cannot confiscate the gold. The situation in China and the Middle east means that storing their own gold in their own countries is too dangerous, so where better to store your bullion in a place more stable than in the US?"

"But you will, surely, destabilise the world's economy, my dear."

"No. Only if one country has a or nearly has monopoly of all the gold will the world become destabilised. If there's no gold, there can't be a monopoly, so everyone starts from scratch, on, as you British like to say, on a level playing field."

The Hole

Chapter Five

After our trek, we put our feet up until about 10:30pm ,when the girls fell, literally, through the door, carrying bag-loads of Victoria's Secret and other stuff. Sheila rushed over to see if her order had been fulfilled, rummaging through the meleé to see what the other girls had bought too; the giggling is any man's nightmare. The general feeling amongst the men was to leave the females to their hyper activity, and we decide to play cards in Raza's cabin. I decide to tag along. I'm not ashamed to tell you that I'm a darned good poker player, so my presence is not overly welcome, for that very reason. At 2am, and, after losing my shirt, in a more or less deliberate fashion, we all returned to our respective beds.

The morning is drilling time for both fresh crews, while the women set out to once more revive the American economy by spending as many green bills as they could shake a credit card at.

Oddly, this morning is cooler than it had been for months, yet August is always the hottest month of the year, so the day was a welcome break for the tanned roustabouts who can now work harder, not having to fight against the oven temperatures of the last few days. The number one crew worked vigorously, and were soon down to fifteen thousand feet, before the second crew took over and are into good lithology. With just two thousand feet to go, the crews started their horizontal drive before reaching the hoped for pay-dirt depth, at least that's what the company thinks, via Raza's second laptop

Meanwhile, my own crew of Ben, Raza were well on our upward trek to begin entering the bullion depository of Fort Knox. We had twenty feet to go, when, collectively, we decide to trip out the pipe string, case and concrete, just in case there might be a leak of acid. We had to do things just right. However, I pointed out that things should change slightly. I made the decision to go the last twenty feet, then to just drill two feet into the bullion concrete. My reasoning being, that we could not be sure if the original builder had made a reasonable job with the foundation, thus there would be big trouble if they'd made a slap-dash job of things. We could lose all the acid for not being diligent enough. It's thus agreed we should go in, then finish off with a brand new diamond bit drill that would make mince-meat of any re-bar we knew we were going to encounter, but gently does it..

Tripping out pipe can be a laborious job but necessary, even with normal holes, but this casing had to be very well concreted or it could collapse and we need the bore plastic lined. The acid has a finite life, so we have to time this procedure down to the last minute. We'd but one chance at this. Bill had had the acid pumps well serviced with all new parts, and he'd made a great job of it, as the pumps sounded like they just come from the factory, sewing machine like. We'd planned to drill two holes: the first to pump the freshly mixed acid in to the bullion depository rooms, and the second hole to pump concrete into the rooms and force the dissolved gold out. The concrete would fill the bullion rooms leaving the inside of the depository a solid mass of concrete, with the gold bearing acid being pumped into our waiting plastic lined tankers: so far, so good. .We'd be capping and plugging the holes as we withdrew the string. The plan, is to go back to normality, drill the required number of holes to the prescribed depths as the company required of us and the data would then be transferred, real time, to the company. Meanwhile, the tankers would have been filled and readied for the journey to Oklahoma and our new premises. There's nothing like a plan, I mused. So, dear reader, you now know what has to be accomplished.

The second of our holes is being drilled by Bill's crew from his kelly, and this is all but a few feet from its goal. Again, when the concrete is injected, the amount is roughly equal to what would have gone down the correct hole, so no-one would be any the wiser. Once again this hole would then be plugged, bypassed, then carried on down to depth. The roustabouts drilled, but know very little about what goes on down holes they drilled. They men do as they are told and leave the technical details to their educated betters. I mean no disrespect by this comment to any of my fellow crewmen, more that company-man and his team are specially trained in the dark arts of what happens beneath our feet; it's a science all its own.

**********

The next morning is crunch time. The weather is perfect and the wind a cool light breeze. The crews were given time off to run into town and enjoy a rare day three days off with pay. Ben and his brother had sorted the data streams into pre-recorded packets, so that the thieves back at Texas would be delighted their corrupt, felonious plans were coming, hopefully, to fruition. Their palms would be sore from the rubbing, and dollar signs would, like slot-machines, replace their eyeballs. Mudder nervously approached me. He looked about, cautiously, but when he saw my grin, his nervous stance turned to a booming grin. He knew me well enough to know when all is well and when I'm uncertain of an outcome. Frank strolled across to join us, placed his hand upon his hips and gazed at me, eyeball-to-eyeball.

"Are you ready for that gold Rolls Royce Randy?"

The last time I'd seen a grin upon Randy's face quite like that was the day during college when he'd lost his virginity. I turned to look over my shoulder. I noticed Raza, Bill and Ben shuffling slowly toward me. This group of unlikely reprobates stood in a circle chatting as though this is an ordinary day, when Mudder spoke up.

"Your going to just stand around? I've work to do, an you'd all better be ready for when I start the pumps, because this is horrid stuff. You also had better be wearing your rubber suits and stuff. Should take no more than half and hour. The acid has got to stand for at least three hours before it's ready to push back out, you all hear me?"

"You do what you got to do, Muds, cause for the next few hours you'll be giving the orders until it's my turn," said Raza, patting his newly esteemed boss on the shoulder. He checked a freshly charged walkie-talkie, passed it across to Mudder with a fresh set of plug in ear phones, then we watched as Mudder strolled off toward the acid pumps. We all went to ready ourselves with the rubber suites, gloves, boots, goggles, respirators and helmets that would protect us from the very nasty substance about to course through the plastic pipes. A radio check is the last and final test, before I sent a 'go' to Mudder to open the valves and send the acid pumps roaring into life.

No matter what you, think of us gas and oil drillers, the use of acids of various kinds and other exotic materials is not in the least bit uncommon, with that very nasty stuff: Hydrochloric being the favoured weapon. We use it, or rather the fracking boys do. It goes like this... After the natural gas well hole is bored, we will pump thousands of gallons of water mixed with acid and sad down into the well hole. The point is, we, the drillers, that is, have normally, departed by this stage. The Fracking company clear out cement debris left over from the drilling stage then open up the underground shale fractures with the acid and sand. It's not normally our job, but on this field, orders is orders.

After the acid stage is complete, the fracking company use explosives to fracture the rock, then they inject, under high pressure, about 9,000 psi; a slickening fluid, along with sand into the well, in order to hold open the rock to allow and help flush the natural gas out. The acid, when dissolving the limestone is naturally neutralised, so no harm is done to the lithography, just that the place left by the departed gas is replaced by sand and helps more gas escape. I've never had a problem with using hydrochloric acid. The press, in their lust to get a good jaw dropping story, give our industry shit, playing on the ignorance of the poorly educated American public. Hey, what do I know? I just happen to work in the drilling industry, I know my chemistry and I'm well educated. If I became aware it's dangerous, I would not be in this business, and that's the truth of it, so enough said about that.

The pumps began their raucous whine; the valves opened, the hoses went taut and the hole started to fill with the mixture of hydrochloric and nitric acid; the aqua-regia; the gold dissolving fluid. An hour later the whole three hundred thousand gallons had passed though the lines, down the well and into the Fort Knox gold depository, where it started immediately to consume the yellow liquid. I placed a number of plastic plugs, known as plastic "pigs "into the borehole and, using concrete under high pressure, pushed the plastic pigs and the remaining fluid into the above ground cavity. The concrete would take six hours to cure and harden, leaving us more than enough time to push fresh concrete down the hole to finish the job we started.

Mudder strolled over to the Kelly and sat himself down inside the doghouse. We removed our rubber helmets, then grinned at one another.

"Well," said he, "We're half way there." He place his hands upon his knees and gazed up at me.

"I've never done that job on me own, and sure as hell needed some help. These boys sure as hell earns their bread, I can tells you" he said, sporting a wide grin. Just at that moment there came from the drive way entrance a loud hollowing, sounding of horns and a frightening hullabaloo.

"What the..!?" I pun about. The site is filling with protesters, wielding banners of protest about the use of acid fracking. Still suited up, I ran down to the crowd, halting their progress. I'm frightened shitless, I can tell you; not least I felt stupid showing myself dressed like I'd been handling nuclear waste. No. this isn't a good time. I imagined my starting fifty years in jail, when at once a young bearded, long haired self appointed leader raised his hands to the crowd and drew them to silence. He turned about and stared at me.

"We want you to stop fracking. We want you off and gone from here!"

"NO MORE ACID! NO MORE ACID!" The human sheep carried on the cry until the site might have shook with the fury of dissenting voices. I returned to my cabin to gather a megaphone. A couple of minutes must have passed before I cold calm the crowd down.

"It's too late! The acid is in the well!" My mind raced, wondering what next to say to this verbose and menacing throng. I then felt a hand upon my shoulder. It's Raza. Phew! What a relief. Raza took the megaphone from me and began to speak.

"People of this community," he said with near perfect English, then he slipped back to Raza speak. "I'm one of you. Yep, I ain't lying to you. I've been feeling bad about this acid business for a long time. And now I know I ain't on my own, I can tell you I can suck it all out that hole and get it off the site. How does that suite you?"

I felt totally gob-smacked. How, what, when? The hairy young man stepped forward. He gazed at Raza almost eyeball to eyeball, sporting an astonished disbelief. He turned back to face the crowd of banner wavers, then the muttering and mumbling ceased.

"Did you all hear that? The boss man said he can suck all the acid out the ground. And he can take it away, too." The crowd triumphantly roared their approval, banners waived, and hoots came apace at their victory. Raza passed me the megaphone. I held up my arms, to quieten the crowd.

"Listen up! Before we can suck out the acid, we have to finish repairing the acid pump. Yes, it's failed. However, our engineer says it will be fixed in three hours. When all she acid has been sucked out, we've to seal the well hole with concrete to make sure its safe, so that no water can become contaminated. You are all welcome to stay and oversee the process. This is to show you all good faith. There will, of course, be no-one on the Kelly. This acid is dangerous stuff. It is the reason we suite up. No one is to be harmed, okay? Moreover, this man, who appears to be your leader is welcome to suite up and join me on the Kelly. He can be witness that we are faithful to our word." I gazed at the young man, and could see that he's fine with the situation. The crowd were ecstatic, and began singing of 'We have surely overcome' rang out amongst the assembled picketers.

Raza stepped forward and stood beside me. I felt a slight, but perceptible tap to my boot from his. Retaking from me the megaphone again, Raza held up his arms to once more quieten the crowd.

"Good folks of these parts. I've a couple of spare suites. That means that you can pick from amongst yourselves another good soul to see and witness the acid going to the trucks. We're are not going to trick you." From the crowd there is a general muttering. Then, from amongst the crowd a figure pushed herself through to the front and stepped forward. There stood a tall, middle aged woman. It's Sheila, my beloved wife.

"I shall be a witness to this deed, Mister. If' you don't mind a meek and mild woman, that is, looking over you?"

Well, I thought. What a golden opportunity this is. A huge 'Hurrah' rang out, and clapping, too, as Sheila stepped forward, then is escorted by Raza to my cabin to be given a head's-up.

I heard a singing from the rear of the throng. Our ladies were back, and had, obviously, been witness to the event. They sang 'We love and trust y'all good, fine, Christian men.' I thought: 'You can't write this stuff': it's surreal. There were no pressmen, no police and a compliant gathering. What more could you want? It's wonderful. I think I might feed them.

Moving Out

Chapter Six

I sent for caterers to come in to feed the multitude, and, within an hour, the food van is on site. Catering folk often fed the fracker crews, as they were normally on site for just two, sometimes three days, so this is not a problem, and the bill is sent to the company. This is the norm for the company-man. Now and again protesters would arrive on site, you'd pacify them with food and good will then they would go, so it's no big deal. The police just made things worse and drilling would stop. The company would prefer to have me do the decent thing and keep the protesters sweet. This though is my first protest experience, so I played it by ear, and took Raza's healthy advice.

The testing of the efficacy of the acid took just over four hours, an hour longer than promised, but the spectators were happy to oblige to wait. In any case a free meal, soda drinks and a picnic day out on a staggeringly wondrous drilling rig is darned novel to them. I strolled around the site, chatting to the people explaining what is to happen when we started to concrete the well; that the acid would be forced out into the hoses and back into the tankers, the well would then be sealed for good. Though I did explain that I did needed to drill more bore holes, though without acid this time; we had to show the State of Kentucky the lithography of the area. Everyone seemed happy about that, so a good compromise, I thought.

Mudder approached to inform me that all is well and we could start mixing the concrete. I gathered everyone round me and explained that hey must leave the site, as this is quite a dangerous procedure. They could watch from the woods across from the derrick, that's a few feet higher and would give a good view of the proceedings.

The populous seemed quite happy to comply, and off they all trotted, with the bearded young man following me to get suited up for the event. The bearded man is told to watch from the safety of the doghouse, and, should an incident occur, to get down the steep staircase and to run to the woods. I winked, and he's happy to oblige. I've got to say the relief is a great adrenalin rush to the system, and I began to wonder how Mark Twain would have written this of incident.

The radio sprang into life, with the call Mudder is ready to start. Frank helped Mudder with the cement trucks that needed to be emptied, and, with my thanks to the gods, that the concrete mixer tucks turned up when they were asked. There were just over sixty mixers ordered, and they parked in line, ready to move as the call is given for the next in line to come forward. The drivers knew the drill; they had done this hundreds of times. Thus the concrete enters into the compressor to be forced down the borehole, at nine thousand pounds per square inch, pushing the previous concrete and the plastic pig along with it.

In moments, the the acid hoses became taut, and Mary's tankers began to fill with the gold laden aqua-regia. In just over an hour the job is completed. I noticed the cement dribble up through the second well bore, drilled by Ben, then we ceased operations. That's it, the feat is accomplished.

I waved for the people in the woods that it's okay to come down to the pad. Everything is now secure and safe. The trickle of people, about one hundred and fifty, took longer than I had hoped, but the party went on for a couple of hours longer, with bellies being refilled, the caterer making a living and the people were happy. I gathered them around me, thanked them for coming and that never again would this site have acid used for production of gas or oil. En-block, they trotted off singing and dancing, leaving me and my fellow company-men, not forgetting the ladies, in peace.

"It's a fine run thing, Raza. I thought the game is up when that lot arrived, I can tell you."

"Been there, done that. It's no big deal, Randy. You have just got to be nice and cool with them, that's all." I smile, then noticed an unsuited Sheila strolling toward me. She's cool, brave too; all considered.

"That, Randy Rasputin", (yes, that's my real name), "is so very exciting. All those people. I just couldn't resist coming forward. Though I'm a little concerned about the acid, in-case it spilled. I'm wearing my new panti hose, and didn't want them to tear." I smiled. Women, I thought. Don't you just love em?

Everything is secure, the hole, the rigs as a unit; not an acid spill in site. I'm so pleased.

Back in my cabin, we all sat around my desk, with the girls seated on the eating table, looking beautiful. It's time to sum up, to take stock; it's decision time. After all, we had just robbed Ford Knox, filled the whole bullion repository building with concrete and no one is any the wiser.

"We got to move them trucks out to Oklahoma, Randy," said Mary. "We've got another job in three days, so we need to empty the tankers into your new vats in Lawton city. We've got to be acting normal like. Can't be arousing suspicious like; especially around these parts."

"Yuptididdly, Randy," replied Raza, grinning, "We got to be storing forty trillion dollars of gold and start setting up our gold plating business."

"Hold on there, Raza. Ain't we gonna need another permit ta move the trucks again?"

Ben is sure we needed permits, but Mary quipped in, reassuringly.

"We got them, but we had two trucks more than we're permitted, so we got to leave two trucks behind, just in case we get stopped by smokey. You don't want to have them think we're criminals, now, do you?" Mary smiled. "The last two tankers are just within permitted weight, so can go on their own, but not with the convoy."

"Oh, okay," replied Randy, "that settles it. The last two tankers stay here one or two days, while two of the girls come back for them at some later date. It just remains to decide when we are going to move." I looked about the cabin, when Mary again spoke up.

"It's got to be today, because the permits up at midnight and we got Women's Equality Day, August 26. Everything will be closed, including the permit office. Then, of course, it's the weekend, dagnabbit."

"How long will it take you to get to Lawton from here, if you leave now, Mary?" I asked.

"We should get there about nine or ten O'clock, depending, because we've got to have half hour stops, by law, and we have to have our log times that match with the tachograph, in case we git stopped by the highway patrol man and he's wanting to see our log books, our tits and our legs; them fully like that are those patrol men, who can't keep their sausages to themselves It's why we drive en convoys."

"That's understood, Mary. Okay, then we'll all go. We'll stop for a break half way to keep your girls hours right, then push on to see what our new business premises are like." I looked at my watch. Time is moving along, so I decided Raza and I would take a list to the local Hardee's burger emporium. Meanwhile the girls would set off the moment we got back with the grub.

"Right, you all have got ten seconds fill out your food order prescription. Girls, get your trucks ready to roll. Meanwhile, could you, Sheila, fill as many coffee flask as needed while the ladies ready their vehicles. Oh, and make sure your mobile phones are to hand. Give all your numbers to Sheila." I'm handed the food list, then, with a wave and kiss from Sheila, Raza and I made a move toward the door.

We made the run into town without mishap, and found ourselves the only customers at Hardee's Burgers. A sweet young girl took our order. She looked quite surprised at the amount of orders they would have to make up. Each order had a name with the side orders in each bag and a name to be written on each bag. We didn't want any cat fights. I laughed at my musings. Raza is curious as to my humour, so I told him, and the fact that two trillionaires were waiting in a burger bar, and he too laughed. I brought a couple of Mountain Dews for Sheila and I, as she's travelling with me. It's her favourite soda drink, mine too, as it happens, and is the reason we met, but that's another story.

Raza and I made our way back to the site, with the food the girls need to keep their blood sugar high and their sense alert.

"Here you go, girls. Here's all the sustenance a lady needs to keep herself going. Be alert, America needs lerts." Raza fell about laughing, as did Bill and Ben, but all I received from the ladies were blank looks. Oh well. I mused that if there is a God, he was taking a dump when women were invented. You'd have thought the old fellow could multi-task, being God and all. Not a bit of it, it would seem. I wondered if God is married, and if his wife is always on at him during his creative moments, such as inventing humans, aardvarks or camels. I guess he didn't do women any favours either, that's for sure. You'd have thought he could at least have given them a decent sense of humour, you know, as compensation for the pain of childbirth, as he did with us men for having to put up with females.

Meanwhile, our journey began by following the trucks at a steady 45 mph. This is second gear for me, and my vehicle drinks gasoline like it's free. I waited until we got onto the parkway then hit I-69 toward Memphis, but with that horrid kick that takes you down HY45 W at union city to get onto HY51 is an over-the-road drivers nightmare. We hit I51, and were soon tanking down to the outskirts Memphis, looking for I-40, through Little Rock, Conway, then headed west all the way to Oklahoma City, then due south toward Lawton city, the pits of the planet. As luck would have its way, our destination is just a little south in Comanche county, but I get ahead of myself. We skirted around Oklahoma city, and were about to head south down I-44, when my phone rang. Sheila is driving, and had taken over the reigns at Fayetteville, Arkansas, I was so tired. It's Mary. She's pulling over with the other ladies to take their rest. We are about a quarter mile ahead, so I looked for a truck rest-place. I came across a nice place not too far from were a truck is set with its nose in the air; honest, true as I breath.

We all pulled over, got out and decide also to get a bit to eat in the truck stop, a short walk down the road apiece as there would be no room for us with so many trucks taking up most of the available spaces. The heavens opened up, but we decided that we would not die for the want of a few drops of di-hydrogen monoxide on our heads. We piled in to the café and stood about chatting, drinking coffee, using the bathroom, that sort of thing. In the corner of the room were some youths, aged about sixteen-seventeen, being a little rowdy, wolf whistling at the ladies, the usual stuff boys do.

The light began fading, but the girls were needing to get their official and lawful rest period in, so we just hung out grateful to have the chance to stretch our feet. One of the youths strode past Lillian, Mary's youngest sister, and he put his hand on one of her admittedly huge breasts has he walked by. She slapped him across the face, he hitting the floor with a crash, pulling a table over with him as he fell.

"Bitch!" he yelled, grimacing.

At that point the female manager insisted they all leave her premises.

"I'll get you, you bitch! Women truckers can't drive for shit!" Out the door they went, into the darkening wet night. Then the heavens really opened, lightning struck and the thunder rang all around us like it's searching for us. Then as quick as it came, the lightning stopped, but the rain persisted. Half an hour later it's time to go back to the trucks.

A filthy Night

Chapter Seven

A kindly pickup truck driver offered to drive us to our vehicles. It's not too far, but far enough to catch our death of cold. We climbed aboard the back of driver's truck and off we sped, thankful of the ride. A minute later we thanked the driver, profusely, slipped him twenty bucks for his trouble, then off he and we drove into the night.

The long drive down the flat I44 was boring as hell, then we hit HW36B for half a mile, than hung left onto South Est Blvd, then, thankfully, two minutes later, my satnav had us turn right into a long driveway. As we approached the premises, the outside lights automatically turned on silvering the long rippling lake beside the building; we'd arrived. That's a God-send, I can tell you. The relief is, well, you know what I mean. Sheila grabbed my hand and walked me round the lake, kissed me under the full moon, then made me promise to give her another child the moment we were alone, then I noticed something hit the water creating a shiver across the moon's reflection

"What the heck was that? It's not a water moccasin?"

"It's my box of pills, silly."

******

Inside, Raza stood waiting with Ben, who'd driven on ahead as couple of minutes before us, and whom happened have had the keys off Mary. We ran to the house from the rain. Inside, the premises were spacious, clean and bright. I would've liked to have taken a peep at the workshops, but Sheila took my arm, then lead me to one of the rooms in which we would all bunk down in for the night. Furniture is okay, but not quite to my liking, but you can't have everything in life. Fifteen beds from J C Gallery in Lawton, were set against the walls, with extra sheets and duvets. Okay, so it isn't quite like home, but it would do, and in any event, I'd slept in some really bad, flea ridden holes in my youth, mostly barns, when harvesting crops for pocket money and saving for college books. Ten minutes later I'm asleep.

I woke to a kiss on my forehead, the God given aroma of coffee and bacon sizzling on the stove, along with eggs, beans, biscuits, pancakes and maple syrup.

"It's a wonderfully crisp morning, honey." I said, smiling at my beautiful wife.

"You're not going to jump my bones then?" she asked, wanting a roll in the sack. "I married you, Randy Rasputin, you're my man, my property and I love you. However, if I say you'll jump my bones, then you'll jolly well jump my bones. In any case, did you want me to?

"Hell no! You're too much for any man."

I smiled, then noticed her faked frown. I needed to shower, shave, then change into clean clothes, but there were none. I'd forgotten to sort that out. When a plethora of fresh attire is thrown my upon my chest.

"There. At least someone knows how to look after her man, even if he can't do so himself. I got your things ready while you men were fretting. Don't worry, the girls and I sorted the other boys out too."

Sheila smiled, then allowed me to quickly shower. The other fellows had been up for ages and looked as fresh as daises. As usual, I'm last to eat.

"Damn! We forgot the rubber...

"Raza put them in his truck. Look. I know you're keen to look around. You men can get that out of your system, then you're going to take a walk with 'me', around the lake, got that?" I nodded my compliance.

"Got him well trained, Sheila," said Mary.

"The men are our lions, and we women are the lion tamers."

The room's in uproar, but the laughter is just a little too much for me and I felt I needed to get away from the women.

I nodded at Ben and the boys to follow me outside so that we could inspect the works, but I needn't have been concerned everything we needed is there, ready. We strolled about inspecting what we had that was going to make us rich, and I wondered if it were better to export the acid to Switzerland and reconstitute the gold there. It was all really a bit of an anticlimax. I gave a shrug, then realised we should unload the acid, then the girls could leave to get to their next assignment. Mary had said she would drive back with Ben and Alice to bring down the last two trucks. I gazed about the workshops and smiled. I had to agree, the women really could organise a piss-up in a brewery; they'd done a great job. The workshops were perfect. Everything needed to electrically reform the gold from the acid is laid on, including the neutralising agent. We turned our gaze to the trucks, when Ben noticed something odd.

"You'd all better come and look at this!"

Ben's face is looking drawn. He pointed to the scrawl on the side of one of the tankers. On one side is painted with tar from the girls grease pots. 'BITCH'. The words were a foot tall and well spaced. Raza gazed down, then took a closer look. He pointed to the stop valves. while scratching the back of his head.

"That's not the end of it. Them young layabouts have gone loosed out all the gold out onto the road!"

"It's not that bad, Raza. We still have two tankers full of gold. You're now only a measly billionaire instead of a multi-trillionaire." We returned to the house to inform the girls what we'd found.

"You mean, there's only a couple billion dollars each to shop at Victoria's Secret? Bummer!

THE END