Chameleon by William Diehl

right down there?’
    ‘I’m not sure.’
    Lansdale was stunned by Perkins’ response. He jumped up, cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear, and grabbed clothes from the floor, chairs, wherever they had fallen a few hours before.
    ‘What d’ya mean, you’re not sure?’
    ‘We got a... uh . .. like a tremor, Chief.’
    ‘Tremor?’
    ‘Yeah. There was like... I dunno, it was like . . . the whole rig shivered...’
    ‘Shivered? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’
    Lansdale was watching the monitor as he spoke, looking at the exterior of the Thoreau, draped with ice, like some primitive ice castle. Searchlights played the seas around the rig.
    The waves were battering the legs, smashing small ice floes to bits.
    ‘I think maybe ... uh, maybe we took a hit from . .. maybe a small iceberg or something.’
    ‘“Or something” my ass. There’s no “or something” out there, for Christ’s sake. I’ll be right down.’
    He slammed down the phone, Then he picked it up and punched out the number for the radio room.
    ‘Radio room. Harrison.’
    ‘Harrison, this is Chief. Check the area for surface craft right now. Find out if we got anything in the area.’
    ‘Jesus, what’s—’
    ‘Don’t fuck around, do it! Call me back.’
    Marge turned over, eyeing him sleepily.
    ‘What is—’ she began, but he cut her off abruptly. He was across the room, pulling life jackets and thermal suits from the bottom of a closet. He tossed them to her. ‘Get this on fast and come on.’
    The phone rang again and he snatched it up.
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘Chief? It’s Harrison again.’
    ‘What’ve ya got?’
    ‘A Greek tanker, running the troughs at quarter speed.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Hell, if the weather was clear we could see it. About three miles northwest, heading toward the Strait,’
    ‘Listen to me, Harrison. Something may have bumped us. Call the tanker and tell her we may need help.’
    ‘You want me to give her a May Day?’
    ‘Just do exactly as I said, tell her we may be having trouble and we’d like a courtesy call. I’ll get back to you from Stabilizer Control.’
    He was still watching the monitor, then he felt it again, it was a tremor, like a light earthquake. Glasses jingled on the bar. Then it settled again.
    She was pulling on the thermal long johns and there was panic written in her earthy features. ‘What’s happening?’
    ‘I dunno,’ Lansdale said. ‘Maybe something hit us. I got to get down to Control. Ready?’
    He was dressed only in long johns with a life jacket over them.
    ‘Can I put some clothes on?’ she asked.
    ‘No! Let’s get going — now. Right now.’
    At 3:04:58, the thermal explosives attached to the north leg of the Thoreau had gone off on schedule. There were actually two blasts. The first was an implosion, which rent the welded joint of the steel leg and split it open. The second was more formidable. The shock wave from it rippled the water despite the raging waves. It almost finished the job, but not quite. As the terrifying power of the second explosive was released, it split the leg, the crack edging up the column, ten or twelve feet. Air bubbles poured from the wound. The air seal, meant to provide additional buoyancy, was destroyed. The sound was largely drowned out by the storm, but the explosion itself telegraphed up the leg and jarred the rig. The leg, although buffeted by the heavy seas, held valiantly at first. But the joint began to oscillate as the twenty-foot sea wrenched it back and forth. Then it separated, and another tremor riffled up to the station. Still it held, flexing before the storm, the welded seam gradually tearing around the girth of the steel shaft. Above, the wind wailed torturously at the buildings, adding extra stress to the already shattered leg. Then with the agonizing screech of metal tearing, the leg finally surrendered to the sea and separated. It seemed poised for a moment, this spidery shaft tossed by the sea, and then the