Shadows of Oil

Skinner settled into the plush leather seats of the limo that awaited them at the airport, the luxurious interior a stark contrast to the arid landscape outside. As a senior executive, he was accustomed to a certain level of opulence, but this was particularly impressive. Bryant, his assistant, grinned happily beside him. Opposite them sat Abdul, a small man with a neat beard and dark hair, who had introduced himself as the Sheikh’s assistant.

Skinner gazed out the window as they approached the oilfield. The gantries of the oil wells stood against the sky like skeletal giants glistening in the bright sunlight. It reminded him of home. While not all the wells were active, the sheer number suggested a very profitable venture.

“I must say, this is much more comfortable than I expected. We appreciate the Sheikh’s hospitality,” Skinner said, looking back at Abdul.

“And he appreciates your coming, Mr. Skinner.”

Skinner’s gaze returned to the window as they neared the gate. A large crowd of protesters came into view, their signs waving like flags of dissent. Chanting filled the air, an undercurrent of discontent that seemed to reverberate against the oilfield’s mechanical hum. Skinner watched as the crowd turned in their direction, and an armed guard moved some of them aside while another opened the gate. The limo rolled through without stopping.

“Looks like you have some opposition to the oilfield?” Skinner asked.

“Nothing to worry about,” Abdul replied quickly. “Merely some environmentalists with nothing better to do.”

“We deal with those sorts all the time,” Bryant chimed in happily.

The three men exited the vehicle, and the acrid smell of the oilfield filled Skinner’s nostrils. The thump and squeak of the machinery overlapped with the sounds of the protesters. The wind carried the salty tang of the sea, mingling with the heavy scent of oil.

“This way. I hope you don’t mind the smell,” Abdul said, leading them deeper into the skeletal forest of gantries.

“Not at all,” Skinner replied. “I grew up near an oilfield and have been smelling their stink my whole life.”

A tour of the oilfield followed, with Skinner and Bryant asking pertinent questions and listening to answers over the cacophony of squealing pistons, grinding gears, and thudding driveshafts. Once satisfied, Abdul escorted them to the Sheikh’s palace for a dinner in their honour. Skinner was impressed by the deference they received.

The welcoming party was as extravagant as he had come to expect. The Sheikh’s household guard marched up and down the courtyard while music played and guests mingled. Skinner was enjoying himself, intoxicated by the anticipation of the money to be made from the Sheikh’s oilfield.

As the evening had gone on, Skinner had found himself talking with a beautiful woman. She had introduced herself as Arwa. Skinner found her perfume enchanting and couldn’t have agreed faster when she suggested they take a late-night stroll together. All thoughts of his family were forgotten. As they walked together, Skinner realised she was leading him back to the oilfield.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“There is something I must show you,” Arwa replied. The smile dropped from her face. “Before it’s too late.”

“What do you mean?” Skinner asked, his tone growing serious.

“The Sheikh is not what he seems. He’s lying to you.” Skinner scoffed and turned to leave, but Arwa’s hand grabbed his arm. “Terrorists,” she said flatly. “He is selling the oil to fund terrorists.”

“I don’t believe you,” Skinner retorted, irritation edging his voice. “There’s no way they’ve started drilling without us knowing.”

“They have. I will show you proof.”

A wave of doubt washed over him, battling with the adrenaline of the deal he was about to make. Every instinct screamed at Skinner to ignore her and return to the party, but he let her lead him back toward the perimeter fence of the oilfield.

At night, the oilfield resembled a strange mechanical graveyard. Arwa led him through a gap in the fence, and Skinner cursed under his breath as his linen jacket snagged and tore slightly. The enticing scent of her perfume was replaced by the darker stench of oil. They moved quietly, despite the skeletal sounds of the derricks, with their pistons going up and down, like the marching feet of the Sheikh’s guards.

A gas jet flared ahead, making Skinner jump. “Enough of this,” he said, grabbing Arwa’s forearm. “Show me what you want to show me, or I’m leaving.”

“This way,” she replied, pulling him onto a wide lane that split the oilfield in two. A deep trench ran alongside a steel pipe that bled oil from its joints. They followed the pipe to where it rose from the ground, supported by rusted braces, and stopped above a shallow lake of drying, tacky oil.

“They have been harvesting oil,” Skinner said, looking back at Arwa. “They aren’t allowed to do that without our authorization.” Skinner didn’t want to believe it. The ramifications of this were catastrophic. But more than that. Had he really been so blind?

“Worse is where it’s going,” she replied. Skinner struggled to imagine anything worse than this.

“Where?” he asked, but before she could respond, a gunshot rang out. Arwa collapsed into the dust. Skinner turned to see a man in black approaching with a gun. He backed away, hands raised, as the assassin fired two more shots into Arwa’s lifeless body.

Skinner felt time slow as the echo of gunfire cut through the noise, a brutal reminder of the stakes. He could see Arwa’s still body, a stark contrast to the chaos enveloping him.

“What did she tell you?” the assassin yelled over the din of the derricks.

“Nothing!” Skinner yelled back, still backing away.

The assassin smiled and raised his gun. But before he could fire, Skinner tripped over the trench and fell hard. Seizing the momentary confusion, he bolted into the oilfield.

He dashed between the steel towers of the derricks, trying to escape. The flare ignited again as he dove into a narrow alley. Skinner collided with one of the guards, sending them both sprawling into the dust.

The guard lunged at him, but Skinner kicked out, catching him in the face. The guard fumbled for his sidearm, and Skinner dove at him. The gas jet flared, casting their shadows against the ground as they wrestled for control of the gun. As the two men struggled to get the upper hand the gun went off between them.

Skinner panicked and crawled away from the young guard who was clutching his stomach, the gun lying in the dust between them. The pumps continued to wheeze. Skinner watched as the guard slumped back and the life went out of his eyes.

Bile rose in his throat at the realisation of what he had done. He pitched to one side and vomited, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Skinner pulled off his ruined jacket and tossed it aside as he rose to his feet. He looked down at the man he had killed. It would be difficult to explain this away, even if he did escape the assassin. He also knew that reporting the Sheikh’s crimes would likely achieve nothing. The company had poured too much money into the deal to back away now. They would just find a way to cover it up and press on. Skinner realised that they would likely cover up his death too. Faced with two grim choices, his mind returned to Arwa’s earnest face before she was shot. Maybe there was a third option.

Skinner skulked between the derricks, straining to hear the assassin or any of the Sheikh’s guards. Fear mixed with determination as he moved toward the active area of the oilfield. If he wanted to stop the Sheikh, he had to act now. So much for that bonus, he thought to himself.

He crept toward one of the active derricks and ducked under the lowest strut. The cacophony was deafening, and he winced. Most of the workings of the derrick were housed in metal blocks that had started to rust. But amid the rusting machinery, he spotted a curved overflow pipe next to a steadily turning piston, a puddle of crude oil gathering beneath. The smell in the air reminded him of the jet that continued to flare on the other side of the oilfield.

Sweat and oil coated his body. His expensive shirt was ruined, but that made him smile. He reached into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around a grenade he had taken from the fallen guard. His third option. His only real option to stop the Sheikh. He pulled the grenade from his pocket and approached the overflow pipe. Inhaling deeply, he pulled the pin and lobbed it into the pipe. He winced, half-expecting the air to explode. It didn’t.

Panic set in as he sprinted down the aisle. Despite the slick oil and rust, he didn’t lose his footing and made it clear before the world ignited behind him.

The explosion was like nothing Skinner had ever experienced. It was a guttural, rippling sound, as if the earth itself was crying out. He felt a warm hand press against his back, pushing him forward as the air forced his eardrums inwards, sucking the breath from his throat. He staggered before being hurled into the chain-link fence, skidding to a stop.

Behind him, Skinner heard a vast roar as metal began to fall from the sky. He pulled himself up, using the links in the fence, and ran. A quick glance behind him showed the carnage he had caused. Half the derrick was missing, and what remained was glowing a dark red as the metal was heated by the flaring yellow torch that rose into the night’s sky.

Skinner stood admiring his handiwork, ignoring the blistering of his skin as a fresh explosion, with a matching tower of flame, came from the neighbouring derrick. A third followed with a deafening roar, sending debris crashing down across the oilfield. He could hear the shouts of the Sheikh’s men as they fled from the inferno.

More derricks exploded, slamming against his eardrums, and he turned away from the brilliant light to jog toward the gate. He had only taken a few steps when a bullet whizzed past his ear. He threw himself flat.

“Don’t move!” the assassin yelled over the roaring of the conflagration.

Skinner rolled onto his back, raising his blistered hands in surrender. The assassin approached, gun drawn.

“Not bad,” he said, smirking as he got closer. “I’m impressed.”

Skinner sat up and smiled. “The Sheikh will struggle to make those payments now.”

“Not my concern.”

The ground shook as another derrick exploded. Skinner looked at the gun, and then at the assassin’s eyes. It had been worth it. For once, he had done the right thing.

“Don’t keep me in suspense,” Skinner said sarcastically.

The assassin smiled down at him, lowering his gun. “The Sheikh didn’t want to pay in advance.” He turned to survey the burning oilfield. “And I think he’ll struggle to cover his bill as it is.”

“Thank you,” Skinner said, rising to his feet. But the assassin was already walking away.