9 Days Falling, Volume I k-5 Page 6
“Shit,” Flack swore again. “Look, Wade, I need that rig set tonight. You hang in there, will ya? These guys get a hair up their ass for two or three days and then go home again. This business will all blow over and we’ll get things moving again on the numbers. But I need that rig set, you hear me?”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Hanson. “But you may have more on your hands here than my problems. That was a bad blow on the BTC line. If that isn’t enough, we’ve got the fucking Russians rattling swords up north on the border. This could get ugly.”
Another phone was ringing, pulling at Flack’s anxious attention. “Let me worry about the pipelines,” he said quickly. “Look, I’ll see if I can get KAZPOL out your way in case things get hot. You just set that rig, OK?”
“I’ll call you in six hours.”
“Right.” Flack reached for the other phone, relieved to still its insistent ring. It was more bad news. Hanson had been right on target. The field engineers were already setting up a new delivery option to move the oil through the Trans Caspian line to Baku, bunker it there for a credit, and then have tankers pick up crude at the other end of the line. It was a common practice. Oil was already in the system. They just had to get the right to load it on a ship and sail merrily off for the US. Bunkering a couple million barrels at Baku would give them a hefty credit, and enough to buy an equal amount elsewhere. They just needed to find the tankers to move it from that point. He called Ceyhan to see about a credit, but with the line down for a month there was no chance he’d book anything there. So his only option was Supsa on the Black Sea coast south of Poti.
Flak leaned heavily on his desk and pulled up a production chart on his monitor. Forget his 20,000 barrel shortfall now. The migraine he had been fighting off for days was ripening. He could just hear the calls that would soon be coming in from Bollinger Canyon, not to mention Merrill Lynch, Societe General, Bank of America, Credit Suisse, First Boston, Morgan Stanley, UBS, Goldman Sachs, J.P. Morgan, and God knows who else. These were the money men who had heavy investments in the North Caspian, with big plans for a new LNG facility at the important new Shevchenko Terminal just down the coast.
Mudman had been outside with binoculars scanning the coast, now he came back in, scratching his stomach and yawning away sleep. “So what’s the bad news?”
“BTC pipeline is down and out.” Flack gave him the short version.
“Christ, Supsa too?”
“No, thank God the Trans-Georgia line is still open. Maybe we can get some flow through today. If that goes we’ll have to run a Bunker deal.”
“This sounds bad, Bennie. What if we can’t get a credit? Everyone and their mother is going to want the oil that’s already at the terminals.”
“No shit! That’s why we need to pump fast.”
“Well what about that rig set?”
“It’s still on schedule. But Hanson says the trouble is spreading. Russians on the border. Kazakh militias taking pot shots at facilities. Better tell the Rig Boss to break out his sidearm.”
“Sidearm? A lot of good that will do us if the Russians want to play patty cake out this way. Where’s KAZPOL? I thought they were going to tamp this local shit down.”
“They’re good for nothing idiots,” said Flack, his frustration evident. “This crap may get out of hand this time, Mudman. We may need a little more help than KAZPOL can provide. I’m going to see about getting some Mercs out here—off the record of course. Maybe some muscle from Blackwater would even the odds for us a bit, or the Timmermann Group. You tell the Rig Boss like I said.”
“You got it.” Mudman mimicked the firing of a pistol, blew the imaginary smoke from his index finger, and slouched off to the operations deck to pass on the word.
Flack settled into his chair, staring at the sheaf of production numbers he was about to fax to the Bollinger Boys. He scratched his head with a shrug, and penciled in a notation at the top of the first page. “Data assumes no facility damage, and relies on normal field flows and access to open pipelines, or that failing to adequate tanker traffic. See news feed attached.”
The news feed was the one intangible thing in Flack’s world. He could handle everything they did at sea, and below ground where the rigs were working. It was that annoying news feed, those “events above the ground” as his colleagues called them, that always posed the real problem. His fax might buy him about twenty four hours, which was just the time he would need to get that rig set and see Crowley’s tugs safely off to Baku again. The Bollinger Boys would Google up the news on the pipeline explosion, and then wait for his next report. In the meantime, he thought, he had better get a call in to Timmermann and his merry band of mercenaries.
There was a strange feeling in the air now, an uneasy pre-dawn quiet that was about to ignite. There were pipelines all over the region, fragile collection points, flow stations, rigs and well sites. And it was all sitting on a lot of flammable oil, with bands of hit and run militants sniping, burning and making ever more threatening statements in the local news outlets.
The statements soon coalesced into an organized resistance called the “Movement for the Emancipation of Caspian Central Asia,” or MECCA. Guess who was likely to be behind a name like that? Damn Al Qaeda. The group was stiffened by a shadowy leadership structure, and their stated aim was to totally destroy Kazakhstan’s capacity to export oil. To that end they had already walked a quarter of the mile. Exports were down sharply as MECCA tactics became more sophisticated each year.
The raids were more frequent, lightning quick speed boat attacks by well armed men wearing white turbans and black scarves to mask their faces. There were thousands of men like this available in this poverty stricken region, all easy hires for a day, a week, a single operation or more extended campaign. They filtered down from the general chaos in the desolate regions of the country, where roving bands the locals called ‘Khazars’ haunted the parched landscape.
Last year, before Flack’s watch, Shell had to abandon facilities producing over 600,000 barrels per day, under relentless pressure from MECCA guerillas. When the attacks finally quieted down Shell engineers were sent in to reclaim the rigs and platforms, only to find much of the equipment was simply gone. In the area near the Karaton terminal alone, 35 miles of pipeline disappeared, disassembled by marauding gangs of dissidents, loaded onto barges, offloaded onto trucks, and then delivered to Chinese scrap metal dealers. There was always someone ready to feed on the ruin of another’s misfortune, to turn a quick profit. It was literally a corporate world of dog eating dog.
“This business will get out of hand,” Flack murmured aloud. The Saudis would never leave their rigs in a situation like this. Here he was about to hire on mercs for protection that his own company, his own damn government and all the investment companies, had failed to provide—let alone the fledgling Kazakh government. They were so busy with local factional squabbles that there was little muscle in the Kazakh Army to enforce general order in the region.
They were lucky they had at least one Air Mobile Brigade out here to give the Russians second thoughts about crossing that border up north. But he knew if the Russians came they would roll with nothing less than a full Motor Rifle Division. When will those prissy Senators and Congressmen in DC get serious about this energy situation? Well, they’ll learn where their bread is buttered in time, just like the folks back home. They’ll learn there’s only so much oil you can squeeze out of a rock, and that it cost a hell of a lot more than pumping it here. Things were tightening up in the Gulf, in the Caspian, and the Middle East had been running dry for years. That meant trouble at home would soon follow.
The next phone call confirmed Flack’s worst misgivings. News was hitting the AP wire hard that morning. Royal Dutch Shell, the region’s biggest developer, was reporting that the main pipelines serving their “Sunny Light” field were hit again, and now off line. The damage was cascading all through the region. Shell was taking over 650,000 barrels of daily production off line
! All that would do is increase the pressure on him to deliver, and deliver big.
He squinted out of the foredeck pane and looked into the grey dawn. There was a char of black smoke smudged across the sky, probably the pipeline fire that the crews were trying to control. While he was out here on his rig running numbers and looking for a few men with guns to safeguard the traffic, the folks back home would be lining up at the shopping malls for the blowout pre-holiday season specials that were sucking in the last of their dollars. Americans would shop until the Chinese workers who made the goods they bought would drop.
Perhaps the old consumer society could keep from choking once again this Christmas. It would die off altogether soon enough. Maybe not this year, he thought, but they would all learn where their bread was buttered as well—and sooner than even he could imagine. The war he had heard about behind all the distraction of these local events, was indeed more serious than he realized. In due course he would be faced with his worst case scenario…The Russians.
Chapter 6
Miles to the south, in the quiet port of Larnaca, Cyprus, the pipelines of the Caspian Sea were about to become entangled with the lives of a very special person, and a very tough sea captain on a very dangerous ship. It was a circumstance that would bring the Fairchild company into the midst of the gathering storm of war, and link its fate to that of many others who were now hot in the chase to find one very important man—Gennadi Orlov.
The quiet the lights of the city were glittering like jewels on the nearby harbor at Larnaca Bay, and belied the turmoil of the world that evening. The sea was calm, the night fair on the gloaming horizon, the skies clear and cloudless in the temperate Mediterranean climate of those first days of autumn, 2021. Captain Gordon MacRae was standing on the bridge of the corporate security vessel Argos Fire that evening, ready to finish his watch and retire to dress whites for an important dinner guest arriving soon.
MacRae knew nothing of the travails of Gennadi Orlov that night, but would soon come to know more than he ever desired. Fate was reaching out her hand and dragging pieces across the chessboard of time, both future an past, and MacRae, his ship, and the company it served were soon to be embroiled in the fight for the vital center of the board. He could see a part of what was coming. Lord, the headlines had spoken enough of the trouble that would darken his seas in the days and weeks ahead. Perhaps trouble is coming to dinner tonight, he thought, then put that aside to gaze out into the harbor an take in the quiet coming of the night.
At one time the port at Larnaca might have been considered large, particularly to the Crusaders who once used it as a waypoint before landing in the Holy Land. Situated on the island of Cyprus, the harbor was a balmy tourist destination in the Eastern Med. It would seem small by modern standards, a backwater with long seaside boulevards fringed with tall palms swaying in the gentle breeze, a harbor for cruise ships and ferries, and the occasional merchant marine vessel. The two small quays on the port were enough to accommodate three or four commercial ships at one time, and Captain MacRae had radioed ahead to be certain his berthing would be available that night.
There were only two other ships in port that day, the Kristina Regina, a 4300 ton cruise ship of Finnish registry with a maximum capacity of perhaps 350 people, and the Holland Americas Line Rotterdam, a much bigger cruise ship that was slated to depart three hours before Argos made port, taking most of the tourist traffic with it. That was just the way MacRae liked his visits: quiet night berthings, on low traffic days, where the sleek military lines of his vessel would not draw much attention from either locals or tourists.
He preferred things quiet and unobtrusive because that was the way his company exec wanted them—no fuss, no bother, just a quick in and out. They would make a few deliveries to the corporate offices that had been established here some months ago, things that would be delivered verbally, so as not to leave any trail on paper, or within the digital airwaves that could be intercepted by curious ears. Security was a primary concern in the global environment today, and Fairchild & Company took it very seriously.
Fairchild was a small independent oil company owned by the doughty lady who gave it her name. Elena Fairchild was aboard tonight, riding in the flagship of her small trading fleet and ready for dinner in the executive cabin where she was going to be entertaining a very special guest. So fuss and bother were certainly not on the menu tonight, and Captain MacRae had taken precautions to be certain everything would go smoothly. He knew the captain of the Rotterdam, and had radioed ahead to be certain she would slip away from the islands by 18:00 hours.
“Giving me the bums rush, Gordon?” the voice had come back. “We’ll be underway by 17:00 hours, if I can be satisfied that I’ve all my eggs in the basket.” Rotterdam was a massive ship, nearly 60,000 tons, and with five decks of passengers to look after. “Not much action on the island tonight, however, so I don’t foresee any problems—over.”
“Well enough,” said MacRae, his in his lovely Scottish brogue sweet on the airwaves. “Then if you run her up to twenty knots for half an hour you’ll scoot merrily out to sea, well before we break your horizon—and I’ve a case of Pinot Noir for you that I’m sure will add a wee bit of sparkle to your table—over.”
“Ah, Gordie, twenty knots it is, my friend. You can drop it on the sky deck! I’ll have crew out waiting. Shall we say 21:00 hours—over?”
“We’ll be there,” said MacRae. “Over and out.” Then he turned to his Executive Officer, and inquired about the schedule that evening. “When is that helo comin’ in from Alexandria?”
“Very soon, sir. Radar has a contact inbound now, about 100 miles out.” Commander Dean was all business, a lean, young officer that MacRae had plucked from the US Coast guard after his first tour of duty. Dean had been listening to the radio call with amusement. “Shall I have a package prepared, sir?”
“Right you are, Commander,” said MacRae. “Nice and quiet, mind you. Just tell the pilot that Fairchild wants a delivery made. And tell him to be timely about it, laddie.”
“Aye, Aye, sir.”
“I’d best get down to my cabin to dress.” Captain MacRae would be meeting the inbound guest, and escorting him to the Fairchild executive dining room.
“Black mess jacket with tails?” Commander Dean inquired casually.
“Not tonight,” said MacRae. “It’ll be white with black bow tie. Fairchild still thinks it’s summer, even though it’s creeping in to autumn. Mediterranean waters have this effect on her, eh?”
“And what the lady wants…” Dean began.
MacRae’s smile was enough of an answer as he left.
“Captain off the bridge,” the boatswain called.
“Right you are,” said MacRae, returning a salute as he went.
Sometime later he had cleaned up and donned his dress whites, complete with gold braid work on the cap. He loved the uniform, the cut of the waistcoat, the crisp contrast of the badges and insignia with their solid bright colors. For formal occasions, his captain’s bars moved from their usual position on the sleeve to shoulder boards, to be just a bit less obtrusive while dining. It was a way of smoothing out the marshal tones, adding a bit of civility to the job from time to time. But no matter how he dressed, he remained a military man underneath, just as his ship remained a dangerous and highly effective fighting vessel, no matter how her lines had been smoothed in the overhaul.
He was Captain of the Argos Fire, and his charge was a fleet of seven company tankers that worked routes from the Gulf and the Turkish coast and back to their home ports at Terminal 11 in Barrow, and Milford Haven. Fairchild Enterprises did a healthy business bringing fuel to the UK, and it was getting healthier all the time. Elena Fairchild was a meticulous master, and after a company tanker had been caught in the middle of a running gunfight between Iranian swift boats and Omani coast Guard corvettes on a run into the Persian Gulf, she had decided that three million barrels of very expensive crude oil needed a little looking after.
The delivery that had fulfilled this particular desire, one for safe passage on seas that were becoming ever more dangerous in a world scraping for every drop of oil it could find, had been the Argos Fire. That was not the ship’s original name, but MacRae found it fitting to the task. Argos was the Gaelic watcher, a shepherd with a hundred eyes, and this ship was his watchful fire—it summed up the role of the vessel well enough. To mix the Greeks into the mythology, he called the little band of heroes who crewed for him ‘the Argonauts.’
The trim lines of his newly fitted ship had been designed by British naval architects, with first steel cut in August of 2004. The ship launched as Dauntless, a Type 45 Air Defense Destroyer, one of the largest ever built for the Royal Navy at 8000 tons. She served well until a design flaw in her hull and keel was discovered in 2017, and she was laid up at Portsmouth. Removed from active service, the proud vessel languished while the British haggled over how to find the money to refit her. The Russians were not the only nation feeling the financial pinch. In the end, it was decided to scrap her, and scavenge the equipment for other destroyers of the same class.
After the attack on her tanker, Elena Fairchild went looking for a fighting ship to set her mind at ease. She approached the government with a proposal to purchase the ship outright for use as her floating corporate HQ and as maritime security for her growing fleet of oil tankers, and soon cut a deal. The ship was towed to BAE Systems Maritime Shipbuilders on the River Clyde, the original contractors on the Daring Class Destroyers, and Fairchild paid a handsome sum for priority berthing in a naval dry dock and a complete overhaul, much of it financed by the Bank of London. There it was converted to the sleek new vessel that MacRae captained now, and three years later it moved to anchor off company facilities at Port Erin on the Isle of Man, renamed the Argos Fire. He wondered what the price would be for the rename one day, and hoped the ship would not be asked to pay while he stood the watch.