Читать книгу The Dryline - Jack Grubbs - Страница 11

Three

Monday Evening,
December 28

Broken Wing Ranch

After dinner, Tom put a college basketball game on television and took two beers from the refrigerator. The men used the time between the commentary and the slam dunks for Don to describe the extraction system to Tom. Tom’s more than three decades as an on-the-board mechanical engineer for NASA’s Johnson Space Center rendered him quite capable of handling a little design improvement problem for his brother.

“OK, Don. I get the narrative. Let’s see your oil doodad on paper.”

“It’s our Jet Extraction Technology System. We call it JETS.”

Don unrolled a rough drawing onto the coffee table, holding the top down with his beer and the bottom with a ceramic coaster. The drawing depicted a neat, not-to-scale outline of a long, slender device, inside which two pipes were placed extending the entire length of the drawing. At the bottom was a sketch of the critical oil-gathering section. The section consisted of a cylindrical portion with perforations and a bottom chamber with some sort of ball valve attached to it. Tom immediately understood the basics of how the system was to work, but he wanted to hear the specifics from his brother.

“Here’s what we’re working with.” Don pointed to the top of the paper. “We’ve got an upper system and a lower system. We use the existing well casing and place two smaller steel tubes down the well.” He then pointed to the bottom of the page. “At the bottom we have the chamber area, which connects to both pipes. Actually, the tubes are attached to the chamber before we put it down the hole. I’ll explain the specifics in a minute. We’re using J55 steel pipe for the tubing.”

Tom already knew the specifics.

Don took his beer, holding the edge of paper with his left hand. He took a healthy swallow and replaced the can before continuing. “The two pipes—one’s the gas line where we send compressed air down, and the other’s the product line that handles slugs of oil that are captured. They get pushed out of the top of the well.” He gazed up at his brother. “You with me so far?”

“So far.”

“I thought so.” With growing enthusiasm and a need for approval, Don continued. “Now for the down-hole chamber.”

Susie sat down in a plush leather chair. She took the remote and switched away from the basketball game.

“Each tube is attached to the chamber. Once it’s in place, oil seeps through the perforations at the bottom of the JETS and into the pump chamber through the hole with the ball valve.” Don grinned and asked, “Still with me?”

“Still with you.”

“OK. What happens next is that we have a sensor that can tell when the chamber is full. At that point the compressor is turned on, and air pressure forces the oil back out of the bottom of the chamber. But, under pressure, the ball valve seats into the opening. The oil can’t escape, and since the pressure continues to build from the air compressor, it has no place to go but up the product line and out the top of the well to a holding tank.” Don, similar to the immortal Charlie Chan, solved another mystery.

Don grabbed his beer again, this time allowing the moisture on the paper to keep it attached to the table, and sat back. He swallowed and asked, “Is this sweet or what?”

Tom sat back as well. Resting against the couch cushions, he rolled his head toward Don. “It’s sweet. Real sweet.”

Don knew Tom too well. Tom had seen some things.

“OK, what’s wrong with it?”

Tom smiled and finished off his beer. “No, really, I think it’s solid in concept. I do have some questions.” He pointed to a specific portion of the drawing and asked, “What do you do for structural integrity of the two lines, the metal tubes?”

Don smiled again, but it was more a smile of guilt than of victory. “You got me on that one. Our biggest problem has been lowering both of the steel tubes down with the chamber without them getting all wrapped around each other. We get caught trying to push a rope. It’s a bitch.”

“No problem. I’ve got some ideas.” Tom stretched his legs out on the afghan rug. “Now let’s talk about the sensor.”

The phone rang. Susie got up and walked to the kitchen. The men continued talking.

“It seems to me that if you’re trying to keep the number of complex parts to a minimum, we ought to be looking at the sensor as well.” Tom was very impressed that the only major moving part within the chamber portion of the JETS was the simple ball valve used to close off oil from escaping out of the bottom. But to Tom’s way of thinking, a sensor inside the system was not good. “Let me come up with—”

Susie called to the men. “Don, it’s Elam.”

Susie gave the phone to Don and walked to the kitchen island.

“Hey, Elam,” Don said. “How’s it going?” A short wait. “Sorry, I flew into Houston and went fishing. The fish hate cell phones so I turned it off.” Another short wait. A grimace on Don’s face followed a period of silence. Don stood up, his face looking down at the stone slab floor. He leaned against the back of the couch for balance. “Damn. How’d it happen?”

Tom looked up from the couch and Susie leaned against the granite countertop, both aware that a serious conversation was in progress. Don looked at Tom and Susie, and then pointed his thumb toward the floor.

“Yeah, I’ll be there by noon. Let’s meet at City Market for lunch so we can talk. We ought to go out to the site before seeing the police. Yeah, I agree. OK. See you tomorrow.” Don hit the end button on the phone, stared at it for a moment, then looked back and forth at his hosts. He shook his head and answered their unspoken questions. “One of our workers was killed Saturday night. A great kid. I need to get back to Luling in the morning.”