Читать книгу The Dryline - Jack Grubbs - Страница 27

Sixteen

Saturday, January 30

Broken Wing Ranch

Ensconced in front of his computer, Tom finished the JETS redesign just before his self-imposed deadline of eleven o’clock on the third night. He summed up his evening fairly accurately—Not the way to spend a Saturday night. Redesigning the wellhead section had been easy; the down-hole well chamber had not. He placed the AutoCAD drawings of his work on the large drafting table and studied his work. To save some time, Tom would pass the AutoCAD drawings on to Paige and she would run an analysis of the strength of Tom’s system.

The different mechanical parts of the system were detailed in sharp lines of differing colors. Top, side, and offset views would be complicated to the average person. To a machinist the drawings would be a simple recipe. Satisfied, Tom reasoned that his modifications would result in a system that was robust, able to get knocked around in the hole, and capable of moving oil at a rate up to thirty barrels an hour. Realistically, a thirty-barrel-per-hour stripper well would be nearly impossible to find. He played around with some figures. The new system would most likely operate much more than eight hours a day, and the price of oil would never be at forty dollars a barrel again. Finally deciding upon a minimal amount of three barrels an hour for at least sixteen hours a day at a conservative price of eighty dollars a barrel, Tom multiplied the numbers on a pad of paper. They totaled $3840 a day. Deep in the recesses of his mind, the global effect of the JETS became real. He inhaled and blew out a huge breath.

The phone rang. Great timing.

“Tom Seiler.”

Don said, “Hey, compadre. I’m just checking out how you’re doing. How’re you doing?”

Doodling circles on the paper, Tom replied, “Good time to call. I’ve got a question.”

“Fire away.”

“Assuming that my changes in your design leave us with a robust system, would a production run last sixteen hours a day?” Tom changed his doodle circles to horizontal lines beneath his mathematical calculations.

Don sensed Tom was looking at the payoff to a solid system. “At a minimum.”

Tom concluded the questioning. “How about an average of three barrels an hour and eighty dollars a barrel as the price?”

“You’re probably low on all estimates. I predict the ‘up’ time, the product flow, and the cost will be more once we get the final system in operation.” Don gave a thumbs-up to Cindy then asked Tom, “Can you FedEx the plans to me? I’d like to see them and then send them to Permian Machining in Odessa.”

“I’ll fax the small drawings right away and send the large ones tomorrow. I’ll also attach them to an e-mail. If they look good to you, I’ll send final hard copies to you and Permian. If there are any problems we can solve it by tomorrow with little time lost. Paige will have run an analysis of its strength by then.” Tom added, “I’m also sending you a marketing drawing for Joe Blow. I won’t send that to Permian.”

Don, pleased with the progress, replied, “OK, sounds good. Gene Starrett at Permian gave me an estimate of a little more than two weeks to complete the prototype. We should have something by mid-February. I’ll come back to Texas for a couple of days so we can oversee what’s going on. Send it tonight and I’ll get back to you tonight.”

Tom added, “With two hours’ difference in time, I’m not going to answer any more phone calls. After I fax and e-mail you, I’m going to bed.”

“Right. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”

They hung up. Tom took fifteen minutes to package the drawings and send out his e-mail message. He attached the drawing files to his e-mail message and inserted actual drawings into the holding rack on his fax machine. The first drawing in the buffer was the conceptual design for marketing purposes; the others had all the technical details. Tom sent everything to Don.

The next morning Tom checked his e-mail before heading into Houston. The subject heading for the third message in the queue read:

Don’t open this e-mail—plans are perfect—send them out