The Laptev Virus

“Your problem, Max, is that you take too many chances,” said Brian.

Max grunted and turned his lips down in a scowl.

“Betting a week’s wages when you only had a straight,” said Ted, chuckling. “Max, Max, we gotta teach you to hold back, think a bit, not just go for it with no fear!”

Max gave Ted a dirty look and set his jaw in grim determination, as if their little game was a serious affair, one that his companions could never understand. “No guts, no glory,” he said.

“Well now, how about another round?” asked Brian, his tone conciliatory and light.

Brian and Max were bunk mates. This was the first time that either of them had lived in the Arctic. Where Max was large, broad of shoulder and belly, Brian was short, slight of build and he always wore a cap, even indoors. Over the weeks the two men had developed a friendship as Brian enjoyed listening to Max’s hunting stories and was good at explaining things about their work in a way that Max could easily understand.

Just then Evan walked in and everyone’s demeanor changed. “We need to get going,” he announced.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, do you think the weather will hold?” said Ted. Max didn’t like Ted at all as he thought that he was too full of himself, always bragging about all his experience. Asking this kind of question was just another way of showing off.

“I do,” said Evan, looking at his watch. “I think we’ve got a good four hours. Let’s suit up and get in the bird. I want to take off in the next fifteen minutes if possible.”

Max was already in his boots and warm jumpsuit, though he was wearing only a thermal shirt underneath. He reached for his thick pullover sweater, and then donned his heavy overcoat. It was bright red and had several thick bands of light-reflective material sewn into it. He didn’t zip it up yet—there would be time to do that while they were in the air. As Brian and Ted re-appeared, also suited up, Max grabbed his shotgun and the case of tranquilizer darts.

Soon all four were airborne, headed for the site where they would be taking yet another ice core sample. “There’s a storm on the way, but I’m confident we’ve got a few hours,” Evan repeated to the crew in a loud voice, speaking over the sound of the helicopter blades chopping through the frigid air. He was both the pilot and the team leader. “Riesig-Alaska identified another part of Laptev Bay, near the shore, and they want a few samples from the permafrost before they decide if they will want to poke any further holes.”

Before he got this job, Max had no idea how complicated oil exploration was. He had grown up in Texas, but somehow he had never thought much about what went on before gasoline magically showed up at the local gas station, all ready to be pumped into his big black pick-up truck. After being hired by Riesigoil, however, he had undergone some training and was learning a lot from the geoscientists with whom he lived for weeks at a time in a barracks up in the Arctic. They used sound wave equipment to explore the layers under the ground, took samples, and sent all of the information to the larger base in Alaska.

Riesigoil geologists then employed 3D visualization techniques to identify areas that might harbor oil and natural gas underneath. Once potentially promising areas were identified, exploratory wells were dug, and later, if all went well, they would dig a bigger well. But even then, Max’s colleagues had explained, even after all the testing and modeling, the chances of hitting a good source of oil were still only about 1 in 5. It was a long, expensive pursuit, and one that took years before any profits could be made.

Max learned these things more out of idle curiosity than anything else. Unlike most of the people in his barracks, Max had not been recruited because of his years of schooling and experience, but rather because of his hunting skills. Growing up on a ranch in the Texas hill country, Max had gone hunting from the time he was quite young, maybe six or seven years old, and it was what he loved to do most in the world. His father had also been a big hunter, as had his uncle, and he had fond memories of the long road trips they would take down to South Texas, whenever they could snag a week or two of vacation, to hunt for turkeys, feral hogs (his uncle’s favorite) and deer.

On the night stand by his bunk Max kept a small framed photograph that his father had taken of him with his boot propped on the hind quarters of the first buck he had ever shot, its full crown almost larger than he was. The rush of adrenaline he had felt when he first spotted the buck in his binoculars had made his hands tremble. On previous occasions, trembling hands had led to missed shots and his quarry, thus alerted, had fled. But this time he had managed to calm himself down, and his shot had been true. After that, there had been no stopping him.