Luis looked nervous. It was his first offshore rotation. He stared out the window at the distant flare stacks burning against the orange sky, the constant gas fire that never went out.
The first hour was silent. Workers napped, their heads lolling against the headrests. Don Javier kept his eyes on the road. He knew every pothole. He knew where the previous year’s floods had eaten away the shoulder. He knew that a sleepy driver here meant a bus full of broken bones or worse.
Don Javier killed the engine. He pulled out his logbook and wrote: 06:47. Arrived. All personnel accounted for. transporte de personal pemex
Don Javier caught the boy’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Oyé, Luis,” he said without turning around. “My job is to get you there. Doesn’t matter if it’s a storm or a narcobloqueo up ahead. I will get you there. You just focus on learning the valves. I focus on the road.”
He glanced at Marta. She nodded. He glanced at Chuy. The pipefitter cracked his knuckles. “We’re with you, viejo.” Luis looked nervous
The old brecha . Don Javier’s jaw tightened. That road was barely wide enough for the bus. One wrong move and they’d tip into an irrigation ditch. But turning back meant the crew missing the morning safety briefing, which meant the offshore platform losing four hours of production.
Halfway to the terminal, the radio squawked. “Javi, Base. Reports of a disabled tanker truck at the El Golpe junction. Traffic stopped. You’ll have to take the old brecha around the palm plantation.” The first hour was silent
The bus groaned as he swung the wheel hard left. Branches scraped the paint of La Dama de Acero . Workers held their breath. The wheels spun for a terrifying second in the soft mud before finding traction. For twenty minutes, they bounced and swayed. Luis turned pale. Marta held his arm.
