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James McNeil inhales, letting cigarette smoke fill his mouth and lungs. It's a welcome relief from the smell of fresh paint.
He's standing on the deck of the Silver Pit, a fishing vessel that's been converted into a rescue ship. It's stationed near the Piper Alpha offshore oil rig in Scotland's North Sea. The Silver Pit got a new paint job recently, white and red, and the odor is overwhelming.
It's 10 p.m. on July 6th, 1988, McNeil's first day on the job. He's the coxswain of a small rescue craft known as a Z-boat. If it's deployed from the silver pit in an emergency, he'll be in charge of the boat and its three-man crew.
McNeil arrived on the Silver Pit six hours ago, then settled into his quarters and ate dinner with his new crew. Afterward, they all played cards. McNeil lost, on purpose, to get in the crew's good graces. His men seem like a decent group, even if they are untested in a real emergency. Much like himself, honestly.
Overall, he thinks he'll like it here on this ship. He just hopes the job isn't as deadly boring as he's heard. He suspects they'll be playing a lot of card games. As he smokes, he studies the Piper Alpha rig 400 yards away. It's framed by the gold and red glow of the sunset, which happens late this time of year on the North Sea.
As lights come on across the rig, he can see the drill tower and other structures bathed in their soft beams. Suddenly, a flash of white fills his eyes. Piper Alpha disappears momentarily behind a burst of light. The flash seemed to emerge from roughly halfway up the rig, around the C-module, where they process natural gas. Then, there's a low bang, like a small explosion. Then, quiet.
McNeil stands there, his cigarette stuck to his lips, staring at the silhouette of the rig. Did he just imagine that? Seconds later, he sees a flicker of orange light. This time the source is easier to pinpoint. It's the B module, where natural gas is separated from crude oil. The orange quickly grows more intense, and pretty soon, he can see flames. Black smoke climbs from the fire into the red and gold sky.
McNeil's throat clenches. He flicks his cigarette into the ocean, then turns to run below decks. He's only six hours into his new job, but already it's time to put his young crew to the test.
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From Wondery, I'm Mike Corey, and this is Against the Odds. At 10pm on July 6th, 1988, a fire erupted on Piper Alpha, the world's largest oil platform, located in the North Sea, 110 miles off the coast of Scotland. The fire began when workers tried to start a pump with a poorly secured valve cover that should have remained offline.
When the pump started, gas leaked out and filled a cavernous room on the rig. Then, a spark ignited the gas, causing an explosion and leading to an oil fire. No one knows where the spark came from, but many speculate it was from static electricity. Evacuation measures started immediately, but at first, the 226 men on board didn't realize just how much danger they were actually in.
This is Episode 2, Inferno. Diver Gareth Perry-Davies drops his sandblasting gun into the dark, murky water and swims over to a diving bell dangling 20 yards away. He's just seen a bright white flash above, and his supervisor, John Barr, told him to ditch his tools and hurry to the surface. Evidently, there's been an explosion on the rig.
The large yellow diving bell protects divers as they return to the surface. He climbs in and latches the door shut. Nothing happens for a long moment. Then, with a jerk, the bell starts its slow climb to the surface. Perry Davies keeps talking to Barr through his headset. Do we know where the explosion was? How bad was it? We don't know. We don't know anything. Do I need to decompress?
Anyone who stays deep underwater for too long is in danger of suffering the bends upon reaching the surface. Nitrogen gas, normally dissolved in the blood, turns to bubbles that can damage the body's tissues. It is a painful condition and sometimes deadly. To avoid the bends, rigged divers usually enter a decompression chamber soon after they return to the surface. A few seconds later, Barr responds. No, I don't think you were down long enough. You'll be fine without decompression.
Perry Davies heaves a sigh of relief. If the rig is on fire, being confined to a decompression chamber is the last place he wants to be.
A few minutes later, the diving cage breaches the surface. It now has to ascend another 40 feet to reach the dive platform. Above him, Perry Davies can see two other divers winching up the bell by hand. The rig's main power must be out, which would explain why his sandblasting gun died as well.
Perry Davies can already see a haze of smoke. When he steps out of the bell and onto the rubber mats of the diving platform, he calls out to the other divers. "Hey, why aren't the emergency sprinklers on?" But as soon as he asks the question, he realizes the answer. It's because the automatic intake pipes for the sprinklers were shut off at his request, so he didn't risk getting sucked inside. He cringes and feels a pang of guilt.
Will someone get injured because of him? He just hopes that someone can switch them on manually and soon, so they can get this fire under control. Production operator Jeff Bolins moans as he rises from the floor of the Piper Alpha control room. Some sort of blast threw him from his chair a few seconds ago. His head banged into a wall panel, and now he feels woozy. The backup power must have kicked in because the emergency lights are on.
Even in the dim light, he can see the damage. His computer monitor is cracked. Lamps are knocked over and phones are hanging off their hooks, cords twisted. A haze of acrid smoke fills the room. Is this related to the troubles in C-Module? Then he sees the blood on his arm. There's a deep gash on his left palm. Bolins still isn't sure what's happening, but if there's been some sort of explosion, he needs to shut down the rig.
He crawls over to the control panel and slams the emergency shutdown button with his good hand. But nothing happens. He grabs one of the phones to call his boss, Bob Vernon, but there's no dial tone.
He staggers to his feet and steps into the hallway, lit only by evil yellow emergency lights. There's a pungent odor of burning plastic. He finds a glass panel with a fire alarm behind it. He pulls the sleeve of his blood-stained shirt over his fist and smashes the glass. But when he pulls the alarm, nothing happens. It's dead.
A moment later, he hears footsteps coming from down the hallway. It's Bob Vernon and mechanic Erlen Greeth. As bad as Bolin's feels, they look even worse. Their clothing is singed and their hair is burnt. Vernon's out of breath. There's been an explosion downstairs.
Bolin's nods. I felt it. It threw me out of my chair. I thought you'd be dead. We were on the far side of the room and partly shielded, or else we would be. Have you called over to switch on the sprinklers? I can't.
The phones are dead. Vernon scowls, then volunteers to switch them on himself. He brushes past Bolins to grab a mask and oxygen tank from the control room. Grieve turns to Bolins. What should I do? Grab a mask and tank for yourself too, then head to your rendezvous point for evacuation. Do you remember how to get there? Grieve nods, then tucks into the control room. Bolins...
Bolins follows him in, intent on another task. The phones are out, but the radios have battery power and should still work. He's going to radio over to the support ships nearby because, if things are as serious as he fears, they're going to need help. A lot of it, very quickly.
Diver Gareth Perry Davies yanks his flippers off, and the two divers who winched him up disconnect his helmet. He immediately smells smoke, and not the comforting smoke of a campfire, but the tarry smell of burning oil. When he's free from his gear, Perry Davies turns to the divers, hoping to get him out of the way.
Okay, great. Let's head to the rendezvous point. Each group of workers on the rig has their own pre-designated station to await evacuation during an emergency. Most of these stations are near lifeboats, but lifeboats are a last resort. That's because they can be unsafe.
They're hard to deploy from high up in the rig, and they can drift away in the strong North Sea currents. Instead, workers are trained to wait at the lifeboat stations until their group is called to the helicopter pad atop the barracks.
But before Perry Davies takes two steps in the direction of his team's rendezvous point, one of the other divers grabs his arm. Wait, you have to decompress first. No, no, don't worry. Bar said it was fine. I don't need to. Protocol says you have to decompress. Besides, you don't want to risk getting the bends while we're trying to evacuate, do you? You won't be able to move.
Perry Davies protests, but the other diver won't budge. Even in emergencies, there's a chain of command, and because the other diver is senior to him, Perry Davies grudgingly agrees. They sprint up a set of metal stairs two at a time. Along the way, Perry Davies glances to his left and sees fire already licking the outside of the Tartan riser, a thick 18-inch pipe carrying compressed natural gas from another rig several miles away.
He tries to ignore the sight. At the top of the stairs, they arrive at 68 level, which sits 68 feet above the ocean surface.
There they cross a metal walkway to the two decompression chambers. Each one is a thick cylinder lying on its side, 15 feet long and 5 feet tall. The condition of them startles Perry Davies. The metal door on one of them has been blown clear off its hinges. He always thought the chambers were indestructible, like bomb shelters. Well, apparently not.
The other chamber is intact, or at least it looks that way. Perry Davies wants to inspect it before entering, but the other diver is already hustling him in. Unfortunately, with the main power out, it's pitch dark inside. It's also so cramped that he can't stand upright. He sits down on the metal bench. The other diver slams the hatch shut and cranks open the valves outside to let in pressurized air.
Through the window, he gives Perry Davies the universal diving sign for A-OK, a circle with his thumb and forefinger. Perry Davies flashes the OK sign back, but in truth, he's not feeling OK at all. He fears that letting himself be locked inside a metal tube on a burning oil rig is a gigantic mistake.
Coxon James McNeil pranks the winch as fast as he can, until he hears his rescue Z-boat splash down into the water next to the silver pit. Then he unknots the bowline tethering the boat to the ship and yanks it toward a nearby ladder leading over the side. Everyone on! Let's go! One by one, his three crew members scramble down the ladder to the Z-boat. All of them are wearing emergency suits, fluorescent orange rubber coveralls that are waterproof and insulated against heat.
McNeil checks his watch. 10:03 p.m. Just three minutes since the explosion. But in rescue situations, every second is precious.
The main evacuation method for the men on Piper Alpha will be by helicopter, but there's always a chance that some of the men will be trapped by the fire and unable to reach the helicopter landing pad on the very top of the rig. That's where McNeil's crew comes in. They're on site to save anyone trapped near the bottom of the rig, as well as anyone unlucky enough to end up in the sea.
With his crew settled in the Z-boat, McNeil hurries down the ladder himself. One crew member is removing white helmets from a storage bin on board. They each put one on, pulling the straps tight around their chins. The Z-boat is 24 feet long with a sharp V-shaped prow.
It's semi-inflatable and therefore very lightweight, so it can skip across the ocean surface at high speeds. McNeil assumes his position of command in the center, behind the steering wheel. He starts the engine and checks in with the crew. All right, we ready? All three men give a thumbs up.
McNeil starts to pull away from the silver pit. As he does so, he looks up at Piper Alpha and is startled to see that the fire has grown significantly bigger already. It's also noticeably smokier. There's now a black funnel pouring upward into the twilight.
His Z-boat can cover the 400 yards to the rig in less than a minute. But given the fire's size and all of the smoke, it's not clear how close he can get yet. Still, he'll need to find a way. Because if anyone from the rig does wind up in the frigid waters of the North Sea, they could drown or freeze to death in a matter of minutes.
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Electrician Bob Ballantine strides down the barracks hallway, a bag of clean clothes slung over his shoulder. He's heading back to his quarters, where he hopes one of his roommates can tell him what's going on. It's a few minutes past 10 p.m., and Ballantine had just finished a load of laundry when he felt a rumbling noise, almost like a ship knocked into Piper Alpha.
Then, the power cut out, and the emergency lights flipped on. But Ballantine isn't worried. He's been through supposed emergencies before, and even a few evacuations. This one can't be that bad. The alarms aren't even ringing. He enters the room he shares with two other men, his best friends on the rig. But he's surprised to find one roommate, Ian Galanders, standing there naked.
The skinny 50-year-old pipe fitter is just outside their little bathroom, holding something in his hand. It looks like a ceiling panel from their shower. Ian, what's that you got there? And why are you naked? I was showering. It fell on my head. Galanders looks dazed, but Ballantine can't help laughing. He drops the laundry bag and roots around inside for a towel, which he tosses to Galanders. Here, and put some clothes on.
Ballantine's other roommate now arrives, the jolly, bare-legged Charlie McLaughlin, a huge Scotsman with curly hair. He pats his belly and grins. "Oh, boys, we might get a free holiday. An evacuation means we'll be drinking in a pub in Aberdeen in two hours. Bob, can I borrow a fiver?" Ballantine smiles. "You still owe me five from last week. But listen, neither of you knows what happened?
They chat for a moment, then Valentin excuses himself. He's heading up to the galley on the top floor of the barracks to see what's going on.
Captain Alistair Letty stares through the window on the bridge of the Theros support ship, eyeing the fire that's just sprung up on Piper Alpha. His massive ship is inching slowly towards Piper Alpha to assist, but they're still about 600 yards away. He turns and punches the button of the radio console behind him. "Seaton, are you there? It's Captain Letty on Theros. Over. Seaton, are you there?"
He's trying to reach Colin Seaton, the Englishman who's effectively the captain of Piper Alpha, the man in charge. But Letty is not having any luck getting a hold of him. He's about to try again when the radio crackles on another channel. Mayday, this is Piper Alpha. Explosion on board. Rig abandoning. We're abandoning.
It's a young man's voice he doesn't recognize, sounding panicked. Letty looks back at the rig and is startled to see how much the fire has grown in the few seconds his back was turned. It must be three stories tall now. He tries to reassure the man who radioed. This is Theros. We'll be there soon. Do you copy? Do you copy? But the young man never answers.
It's 10:08 PM. Letty has captained Theros for several years, a fact he's proud of. When Theros launched in 1980, Prince Philip, Queen Elizabeth's husband, attended the ceremony. Theros is the most advanced firefighting and rescue ship on Earth. It cost Piper Alpha's owner, Occidental Petroleum, an incredible 100 million US dollars to build.
It's more of a platform than a conventional ship, equipped with a helideck, 300-ton crane, 16 water cannons, and a full, modern hospital. During past emergencies on Piper Alpha, Theros has performed brilliantly, and Letty has no doubt she'll do so again. But he has to admit, this is looking more serious than those other fires. He expects there will be injuries.
He summons over his second in command, Anthony Ashby. Get the onboard hospital ready. Beds, oxygen tanks, IVs, everything. Aye, aye, sir. How quickly can we deploy the gangway?
The gangway is a long, extendable metal bridge that can stretch several hundred feet, perfect for reaching anyone trapped on the rig who can't get to the helipad. Usually, the gangway is kept partially extended at all times to be prepared for emergencies, but Ashby frowns. Sir, remember we had to retract it completely to make room for the construction of the risers yesterday. It'll take at least an hour to extend it fully.
Letty curses at the news. His ship's primary role is as a rescue vessel, but Tharos also helps out with the other tasks as needed. Yesterday, it assisted in the construction of one of the new risers that will bring natural gas over to Piper Alpha from another rig. Unfortunately, that required Tharos to retract the gangway completely. Re-extending it will be slow. It's bad news.
But Tharos also has water cannons, 16 incredibly powerful hydro guns to snuff the flames. Right. Start extending the gangway now so it's in position when we get close enough. Then I want you to personally oversee the water cannons. Keep me updated. Okay? Aye, aye.
As Ashby is exiting the bridge, Letty sees another person enter. The exact person he's hoping to see. It's his helicopter pilot, Ivor Griffith, already wearing his black flight suit. He approaches, and Letty briefs him on the little he knows. We've had limited contact with the rig, so all we know is there's been an explosion and fire. Presumably, people are following evacuation procedures, and will be gathering in the barracks near the helipad.
Griffith nods, then turns to leave. Letty already feels better watching him go. He's a heck of a pilot. The water cannons and gangway will certainly help during the crisis. And the Coast Guard will be sending more helicopters from the mainland, 110 miles away. But until they arrive, it'll be up to Griffith to get as many men off the rig as possible before the fire gets worse.
Diver Gareth Perry-Davies closes his eyes inside the decompression chamber and whispers another prayer to keep calm. It doesn't help much. He's stuck inside a giant metal tube with a burning fire outside. Through the chamber's window, he can see the orange glow getting brighter. As a safety measure, the chamber can't be unlocked while it's full of pressurized air, or it could blow the door off.
Why again did he let himself get talked into this? Perry Davies hears pounding. He glances toward the window from his bench and sees the jowly face of Stan McCloud, the dive crew's chief. He points at Perry Davies, holds up an A-OK sign, and raises his eyebrows in question. The chamber is so thick that the outside sounds are muffled. Perry Davies gives him a half-hearted A-OK in response.
As a leader, McCloud often uses humor to diffuse tension, but he isn't smiling now as his face withdraws from the glass. Perry Davies stands up from his bench and walks stoop-shouldered to the window. When he peers out, he's stunned to see what the problem is.
Outside, there are several pressurized oxygen diving tanks sitting right next to the decompression unit. And oil, oil that's on fire, is now dripping onto the tanks from above. A cold sweat breaks out all over Perry Davies' body. If those tanks explode, he's a dead man.
He sees McCloud and Supervisor John Barr pointing at a pipe that runs along the floor into the decompression chamber. McCloud mimes swinging at it as if he's holding a bat.
Perry Davies guesses what they're thinking. They're going to bash the chamber's oxygen pipe to release the pressurized air inside. That should equalize the pressure and open the door's lock. But it seems risky. Oxygen from the broken pipe could just as easily ignite and cause an explosion.
Still, they don't have a choice. Through the thick glass, Perry Davies watches as McCloud raises his boot heel. He brings it down with a clang on the oxygen pipe. He stomps it once, twice, three times, landing several hard blows. At last, Perry Davies hears a long hiss.
And the locking mechanism on the door clicks open. He grabs the handle and leaps outside. Without a word, McLeod turns and starts running toward their rendezvous point, with Barr and Perry Davies a step behind.
Electrician Bob Ballantine jogs down a windowless hallway in the barracks, hurrying back toward his room. There's a faint haze of smoke in the corridor now. He's no longer looking forward to a fun night out in Aberdeen. He's worried about getting off the rig in one piece.
He was just upstairs in the galley where everyone eats their meals and offers the best views of the rest of Piper Alpha. And when he gazed through the windows there, he saw something horrific. A massive oil fire erupting from B module along with a tornado of black smoke.
He'd immediately turn and race back downstairs. Now, outside his room, he flings the door open. Guys, quick, grab your things. We gotta go. But his bunkmates are far from ready. Big Charlie McLaughlin is sitting on his bed, leafing through a magazine. Skinny Ian Galanders is still naked and looks dazed. For some reason, he's sitting on the floor, sorting Ballantine's laundry into piles.
Ian! Ian! Get dressed, man! There's a huge fire! What?
From the wardrobe, Ballantine pulls out Galander's survival suit, an orange neoprene coverall that's waterproof and insulated.
After they help Galanders, Ballantine and McLaughlin pull on their own suits. Ballantine doesn't bother with all the zippers. He can do those up later. He wants to get moving.
As a final precaution, Valentin grabs three towels from his laundry pile and wets them in the sink. He hands one to each of his roommates. Here, take one. If we run into any smoke, breathe through these. In the hallway, Valentin sees more smoke now. He turns to McLaughlin and lowers his voice. Let's stick together and keep an eye on Ian. Agreed?
No splitting up. And let's knock on each door along the way to make sure everyone's awake. The Golovkin nods, then takes one side of the hallway. Valentin, the other. They pound their fists hard on each door they pass. A few sleepy men pop their heads out to complain. Valentin cuts them off and tells them, if they value their lives, they need to get moving. It's time to evacuate Piper Alpha.
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Mechanic Erlen Grieve closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing slowly and deeply. He's wearing a mask and an oxygen tank, but other men around him are all coughing in the thick smoke on Piper Alpha's 84 level. There are 20 men here, waiting at their evacuation rendezvous point, but there's no sign of rescue, and Grieve is getting more nervous by the minute.
It's just been 10 minutes since Greve and lead production operator Bob Vernon tried to restart Pump A, inadvertently triggering an explosion. Now it seems like half the rig is on fire.
Grieve walks to the metal railing at the edge of the platform and nervously considers the long drop to the sea. On any other day, Grieve would be able to see several other platforms above and below him spread out at various heights, with staircases connecting all of them. It looks like a 3D game of chutes and ladders, but with all the smoke, Grieve can barely see more than a dozen feet in front of him.
But then, Grieve's heart leaps to see someone familiar emerge from the smoke. It's his friend, Roy Carey, who he last saw at the Caddyshack screening. Carey has also found a mask in tanks somewhere. Carey sees Grieve and walks up to him. This fire is doing me a favor. At least I don't have to sit through that movie again. Grieve chuckles and throws an arm around him.
A moment later, another familiar face, also masked, emerges from the smoke. Bob Vernon.
The last time Grieve saw him, Vernon was running off to D-Module to manually activate the fire suppression sprinklers. Grieve waves him over. Hey, did you get the sprinklers turned on? But Vernon shakes his head no. There was too much smoke and fire. I couldn't get near the switches. Vernon then takes charge. He counts the men and announces that they need to get lower. Someone asks why, given that the helicopter evacuation pad is above them.
Vernon nods. Unfortunately, the nearest flight of stairs down is absolutely shrouded in smoke. They have no idea what dangers might be down there. So he asks for volunteers.
"Listen up! I need two men to scout the path down to see whether it's passable." Another man with a mask raises his hand, a bald fellow that Grieve vaguely recognizes. Grieve volunteers as well. They approach the staircase. It feels like going down into a scary black cellar as a child, except there's also potentially a fire down there. After two steps, Grieve can barely see anything at all.
To keep his balance, he grips the metal railing and is surprised to feel how warm it is. As he descends further, he can also feel heat rising through his boot soles. The staircase changes direction twice on the way down, but the smoke is getting no better. Grieve is starting to think that this is a fool's errand.
But suddenly near the bottom, as if someone flipped a switch, the smoke recedes. They stroll out onto the 68 level. It's certainly not clear here, but it's far better than above. Grieve lowers his mask and consults with the other man. I think people without masks can make it down here if they take one deep breath and hurry, yeah? The bald man agrees. They readjust their masks and hurry back to the staircase, plunging back up into the foul smoke.
Diver Gareth Perry-Davies walks gingerly up a staircase, feeling the dense metal grates beneath his soft dive boots. The other workers ahead and behind him on the steps are all wearing steel-toed boots, but Perry-Davies has to go slower. The thick smoke isn't helping. Every few steps, he coughs so violently he has to stop.
According to their evacuation plan, Perry Davies' dive team was supposed to climb up several flights of stairs to the 107 level and wait there for an announcement telling them to come to the helipad. But the top of the next staircase is blanketed in smoke and impassable. Dive chief Stan McLeod then turns to everyone. Change of plan. We're heading downstairs to 68 level and we're going to deploy the lifeboat there. Is he serious? No, not that he's serious.
There's a murmur at this announcement. Everyone there has had it drilled into them that helicopters are far safer for evacuations. Lifeboats can drift out to sea or debris can fall down on them. They're a last resort, but they seem to have no other choice. After a minute, they reach the lifeboat deck on the 68 level. Several other rig workers have joined the divers, which presents a problem.
There's a cabinet near the lifeboat containing 30 orange life jackets, but there are 40 people total. When Stan McCloud asks, several men admit they can't swim. Perry Davies raises his hand. I can go without. Several other divers say the same. One of the men, who can't swim, catches Perry Davies' eye and nods gratefully.
Perry Davies then helps another diver deploy the lifeboat. It's hanging off the side of the rig inside a protective plastic shell. Perry Davies pulls a steel pin and the bottom of the shell opens. This releases a compact, uninflated rubber capsule inside. The capsule is tethered to the rig and it drops down and splashes into the water 68 feet below. So far, so good.
The other diver yanks on the tether. This should trigger the automatic inflation device on the lifeboat, filling it up with air. After that, they'll climb down a rope ladder to get inside. But when the diver yanks the tether, nothing happens. He yanks again, harder. Still nothing. Perry Davies hears Stan McCloud yell at him. "What's the matter? Inflate it!" "I can't! It's not working!" The diver tries several more times, all in vain.
Then the wind on the North Sea kicks up a huge gust. Perry Davies is leaning over the railing looking down. He watches in despair as the lifeboat capsule gets pushed far beneath the rig and entangled in some metal girders. No matter how hard the other diver pulls, he can't free it. The lifeboat is now completely useless. No, no, no, no, no.
Perry Davies hears a fearful murmur ripple through the crowd behind him, a fear that's echoed in his own heart. Their only hope of escape now is a helicopter evacuation. But how on earth will they get through all that smoke between them and the helideck? Pilot Ivor Griffith fires up the rotors of his Sikorsky helicopter, then turns to his co-pilot. He punches a button to speak into his headset. We ready? Let's do it.
It's 10:11 PM. Griffith flashes a thumbs up to the landing pad crew as they step back, then radios the control tower of Theros. We are good for takeoff. We should have our first evacuees back in 20 minutes. Griffith pulls the yoke back and the helicopter floats up off the deck. No matter how many times he does this, it still feels like a magic trick. But his thoughts turn sober at the sight of Theros below.
It is a massive ship, weighing almost as much as the Piper Alpha rig. And given that heft, it's agonizingly slow. Its top speed at this depth is just above two knots, slower than walking. They have powerful water cannons on board, but it's going to take at least 20 minutes to inch within range of the rig.
Also, the Gangway Bridge is starting to extend, but it's going even slower than Theros is. Griffith doubts he will be much help, which means it's all the more important that his helicopter does its job.
Once he's high enough, Griffith banks left and starts zipping toward Piper Alpha. On the flight, he studies the black smoke rising from the rig. It looks like a volcano erupted. The sky behind it is a purple bruise, flecked with orange and gold.
Halfway there, Griffith hears the voice of Theros' captain Alistair Letty in his headset. "Griffith, do you copy? Keep me updated." "Roger that, sir." As he draws within a hundred yards of the rig, Griffith's hands grow tense on the yoke. Not only is there a huge amount of smoke, he can see that the wind is pushing it right across the landing pad. As he draws to within 50 yards, he realizes that the pad isn't even visible.
He pushes the button for his headset radio. "Captain, I can't get a visual on the helipad." "Swing around and try from a different direction." Griffith banks around the rig, but if anything, the approach from the other side looks even worse. Whole sections of the platform are engulfed in flames. He finally gets on the radio again. "Sorry, sir. I'm just not seeing any way to approach." "Unacceptable. There has to be a way. Where exactly is the fire?"
This gets Griffith's hackles up. Does Letty not understand how bad things really are? Captain, A module is on fire. B module is on fire. The whole goddamn thing is on fire. I'm seeing fire from water level to the helideck. I repeat, there is nowhere for me to land. From the corner of his eye, Griffith sees his co-pilot staring at him, wide-eyed. Rescue pilots are drilled to keep cool at all times. You certainly don't swear over the radio, especially not at a captain.
Griffith recognizes he has to be professional. He takes a deep breath and gets back on the radio. Sir, if the smoke clears, we'll go in. But in the meantime, every available Z-boat needs to be deployed immediately. Then he turns to his co-pilot and speaks on the internal communication line. Grab the onboard camera. What? Why? Start snapping pictures. There's going to be a big government investigation into this.
The co-pilot reaches for the camera as Griffith maneuvers around to get the best angles for the photos. It is grim work because he knows that if the helicopter can't land down there, then a hell of a lot of men are probably going to die.
This is the second episode of our four-part series, Piper Alpha Oil Rig Disaster.
A quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't exactly know what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this event, we recommend the books Fire in the Night by Stephen McGinty and Death and Oil by Brad Mattson.
I'm your host, Mike Corey. Sam Keen wrote this episode. Our editor is Steve Fennessy. Sound design by Rob Schieliga. Audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Fact-checking by Sheila Patterson. Coordinating producer is Desi Blaylock. Produced by Emily Frost.
Managing Producer is Matt Gant. Senior Managing Producer is Ryan Lohr. Senior Producer is Andy Herman. Executive Producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman, Stephanie Jens, Marshall Louis, and Erin O'Flaherty. For Wondery.
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