Ninety Meters Up

The inspection was supposed to be routine: two technicians, one turbine, three hours at most. By four o'clock that November afternoon, Torsten and Aurelio had checked every bolt in the nacelle of turbine 37, a steel housing the size of a bus perched ninety meters above the North Sea. The crew transfer vessel that had dropped them off was waiting below, rising and falling against the base of the tower. All that remained was the climb down.

Aurelio was packing the torque wrench into its case when he made a small, puzzled sound, put a hand to his chest, and folded quietly onto the floor. Torsten was beside him in two strides. His colleague was breathing, but only just, and his face had gone the color of wet cement. Torsten's first instinct, to shake him and shout his name, lasted barely a second before his training took over. He rolled Aurelio onto his side, keyed the radio and, in the flattest voice he could manage, asked the vessel to call for a helicopter.

The answer did nothing to steady his nerves. The nearest rescue helicopter was dealing with another emergency and could not reach them in under an hour and a half. By then the light would be gone, and the wind, according to the forecast, would be gusting well beyond what any pilot would attempt to hover in. If Aurelio was to reach a hospital tonight, he would have to leave the turbine the way the equipment did: through the hatch in the floor, and down the outside of the tower on a rope.

Every technician practices this rescue, usually on a dummy and usually on a calm day in a training hall. Torsten had done it a dozen times and had never once imagined doing it for real. He opened the hatch, and the wind howled up through it. He clipped the descent device to the anchor point above the opening, fastened Aurelio's harness to the rope, checked each connection twice, then a third time, and eased his friend over the edge. No sooner had the full weight come onto the rope than the device began to pay it out at a slow, steady speed, exactly as it was designed to.

Ninety meters is a long way to watch someone you care about turn slowly in the wind. Twice a gust swung Aurelio toward the tower, and twice Torsten, lying flat on the floor with his head through the hatch, held his breath until he swung clear again. Far below, two figures in orange were waiting on the platform at the base of the tower. When at last they had him, unclipped and on a stretcher, Torsten let the rope go slack and sat back against the wall of the nacelle. For several seconds, he found that he could not persuade his hands to let go of the edge.

He followed on the same device, and by the time he reached the deck the vessel was already turning for the shore. Aurelio was lying under a pile of blankets, an oxygen mask over his face, his eyes open. He lifted the mask an inch when Torsten knelt beside him. "Next time," he murmured, "I'll take the stairs."