Dark Horse Comics - The Massive: pt. 1

Uploaded by geekandsundry on Oct 10, 2012



NARRATOR 1: In January of 1995, a private coalition of
British and Norwegian businessmen hired Blackbell
PMC, a prototypical security contractor firm, to resolve a
situation involving a key drilling platform situated 50
miles off of [INAUDIBLE].

Water temperature was two degrees Celsius,
seas moderate to rough.
A gale force six warning was in effect.
Seas 9 to 13 feet, wind speed 25 knots.
The pilot reported no trouble inbound, no cause for concern.
Our mission was a go.
Security cams are tracking 28 targets.
No signs of weapons.
They have a device they're claiming is an explosive, but
we have yet to confirm.
If you want my personal assessment, I'd say we have 14
tree huggers in way over their heads.
They issued a press release, a demand.
The oil industry abandons biologically sensitive sea
life habitats, or they send this rig to the ocean floor.
$5 billion of damage and loss of profits.
-Everyone, hands up!
Get down on the floor, now!
-Israel, get top side.
Signal for the Chinook so we can get these people out of
-You got it.
-Be careful, soldier.

-Good god.
NARRATOR 1: Oil rigs are built to absorb some
pretty serious weather.
If they figure a freak wave at 70 foot or plus is even a one
in 100 years occurrence, they'll build the platforms to
withstand one of those.
Maybe withstand, because who's really testing that out?
Rogue waves, once considered the stuff of myth and legend,
introduced themselves to the scientific world on
New Year's day, 1995.
The Draupner oil platform took the hit.
Plenty of eyewitnesses and recording equipment to verify
and measure it.
This is not the Draupner platform.
-No, no, no!

NARRATOR 1: Draupner got one wave.
The definition of a rogue wave, a one-off.
A freak lineup of conditions resulting in a single
variation in the normal wave patterns happening around it.
Both rigs got slammed that day.
Draupner got off easy with just one.
I've lost track of how many we got at seven.
100-foot swells from multiple directions.
Total chaos.
Total deviation from logic and common sense.
This doesn't happen, never happens.
Mast like a mountain, moving like a 747, 100 tons of
kinetic energy per square meter, inches from my feet.
No recording equipment here, no eyewitnesses, just me, the
sole survivor of an impossibly unique, and beautiful, and
lethal demonstration of the power of the ocean.
How do you walk away from something like this, as if
someone wasn't trying to tell you something?
It took me six years to locate the activist group claiming
responsibility that day.
I found them.
After I told them my story and they didn't judge, or mock, or
dismiss, it felt like they had found me.
NARRATOR 2: There's a name these days for what we were,
artisanal fishermen.
We caught only as much as we could eat, and made sure the
stock remained healthy and viable.
Countless generations lived on this principle.
We were Sri Lankan.
I am Sri Lankan.
A troubled nation, to be sure, but we lived our
lives on this beach.
And we died here too, most frequently since the foreign
ships started coming.
The travelers on the horizon unloaded waste onto the bay.
The water burned.
The fish went toxic.
For the first time in our existence, we did not have
enough to eat.
-Mag, stay out of the water today.
NARRATOR 2: This was inconceivable.