"Fernando! You stupid mule. Keep your eyes on that lift valve! I promised Aunt Claudia I'd bring you back in one piece. If you don't want to use that hand to 'shoot planes' again, then get your ass home and chop it off yourself!"
A "Mephisto," tattoos in the Chicano style stretching from his neck across both shoulders, hunched his shoulders and cursed at his distracted young nephew.
He rushed over and grabbed the slowly rising jack-leg lift valve from the young man. The spit flying from his mouth mixed with the spray of waves crashing against the rig, splattering the boy who still hadn't come to his senses.
The Gulf of Mexico, off the southeastern coast of the North American continent, held vast reserves of offshore oil and natural gas. Since the 1940s, the mineral energy resources buried in these waters had accounted for a significant portion of America's domestic needs.
This oil and gas field, named "Mars," had only just been scheduled to begin production that year. It was still in the stage of repeatedly adjusting the drilling point by moving the jack-up rig, the most crucial and complicated phase of developing an oil field.
"Uncle Leo... look! Look up there!"
"Fuck! I never should've brought you here. Unless the sky's raining greenbacks, even if it's the Virgin Mary—"
"Mephisto" had meant to smack his nephew on the head, but when he instinctively glanced up at the sky, his jaw dropped and he froze. His Adam's apple bobbed several times before he launched into a string of Spanish.
"—Maria, Virgen Maria, misericordia."
It was as if someone were setting off brilliant fireworks among the clouds, veiled by dark storm clouds. Blazing red, purple, blue, and even rainbow-colored lights flashed in great swaths through the clouds.
Bands of light