9 Days Falling, Volume I k-5

by John A. Schettler

  “You mean Mironovich, yes?”

  The dark haired man said nothing now, his lips tight beneath the thin moustache, eyes alight.

  “Sergei Mironovich Kostrikov?” Fedorov pressed him. “You were recently released from prison?”

  “So you know me. You have been following me all along. I thought you might be shadowing the British reporter. That would be very much like your sort. I warned him, you know. I told him a foreigner will draw nothing but unwanted attention in this country now. The Tsar’s oppression is despicable. There! I have said something—finally said something. Now you can arrest me and throw me back in prison if you wish. You were going to do that in any case.” He folded his arms again, resigned.

  Troyak was looking from one man to another, clearly confused. Fedorov seemed to know this man, at least he knew his name easily enough. But what was all this talk of the Okhrana and June of 1908?

  There came a rumbling sound again, as though from far away, just as before. They all turned to look at the still open doorway. Fedorov sat up, his energy returned, his mind finally clear again. There was a stiff urgency to his movements, particularly when they heard the sound again, saw the amber glow in the outer hall.

  “My god…” He stood up, the other men looking at him as though he had lost his mind. But Fedorov had heard more than enough. He cleared his throat, speaking firmly.

  “Listen to me, Mironov. You must go back down stairs at once! Go by the same way you came—this instant! Do not worry. I have told you we have nothing to do with the Okhrana. We are merely soldiers on the long road west. That is all.”

  He gestured to Mironov, beckoning him to come with him, and when Troyak stood up he said, “Don’t worry Sergeant, I’ll handle this.”

  “You mean I am free to go?”

  “Yes, just follow me.” Fedorov reassured him.

  Mironov looked at Troyak and Zykov, frowning, then followed Fedorov out the door. Troyak was up behind him, keeping a close eye on the young man. Fedorov was waiting on the upper landing of the back stairway.

  “This way, Mironov. Quickly!”

  There came a rumble of thunder again. Mironov was at Fedorov’s side. Looking him in the eye as though he were staring into the face of fate itself.

  “You must go by the way you came, and quickly now, while you see that light.” Fedorov gestured to the amber glow from below. “And Mironov—never come up this stairway again. Understand? Get as far away from here as you can.”

  Fedorov had an anguished look on his face, as if he had something more he needed to say, a tormented expression that held Mironov fixated for a time, their eyes and souls locked together in some bizarre twist of time and fate.

  I must not say another word, thought Fedorov. But then a thought came to him like a thunderclap! What if this was the moment—the vital single moment that could change everything? What if Orlov’s leap from that helicopter was meant for one thing only—to bring Fedorov after him, and here to this very place, face to face with this defiant young man, Sergei Mironovich Kostrikov. He reached out as Mironov turned to go down the stairs, taking hold of the man’s arm to delay him.

  Then Fedorov leaned forward, close to the young man’s ear and whispered something, his eyes vast and serious, his face like that of a man who was seeing a phantom from another world. He finished, then released Mironov’s arm.

  “Go with god,” he said quietly. “Go and live, Mironov. Live!”

  A light of uncertainty and bewilderment danced in Mironov’s eyes, then the urgency of the moment compelled him to move, and he stepped quickly down the narrow stairs.

  “Zykov!” Fedorov gestured. “Wait here. But do not go down these steps under any circumstances. Understood?” Then he was off at a run, down the hall to the main stairway and, seeing him go, Troyak followed quickly behind. They rushed down the main stairs, rounding the corner and emerging in the front reception area, lit by a single bare bulb on the ceiling above which guttered off and on. To his great relief Fedorov saw the portrait of the old man, Ilyana’s grandfather, hanging on the wall. He rushed past the desk and into the dining hall, finding the room dark and silent, the embers of the fire low on the hearth and Ilyana sitting there on a low stool, her robe pulled tight against the midnight chill. Her eyes met Fedorov’s, then drifted fearfully to the shadowed alcove that led to the back stairway. The thin high call of a train whistle sounded from the distant rail yard, stark and cold against the night.

  “Did a man just come down these stairs?” he asked in a low voice, a knowing look in his eye.

  The woman looked at the alcove leading to the back stairway, eyes wide and tinged by the last light of the embers. She slowly shook her head in the negative as Troyak came up behind him, looking at him with obvious concern on his face. Fedorov turned, his breath finally stilled.

  “Are you alright, sir?”

  “Have Zykov bring the equipment, Sergeant. But tell him to use the main stairway—not the back stairs—understood? We had better get to the rail yard or we’ll miss our train.”

  Troyak gave the order through his jacket comm-link system as they walked across the dining hall to leave. Fedorov gave one last look over his shoulder and met Ilyana’s eyes.

  He smiled.

  Part IV

  Contracts

  “Murphy’s Tenth Law: Mother Nature is a bitch.

  Murphy's Eleventh Law: It is impossible to make anything foolproof, because fools are so very ingenious.

  Murphy's Twelfth Law: Things get worse under pressure.”

  ~ Murphy’s Laws

  Chapter 10

  Ben Flack peered through the Plexiglas, and didn’t like what he was seeing. Dawn was breaking in the Caspian Region, and it was not to be a quiet day. Off in the distance, obscured by the morning haze over the water, it was clear that a whole lot of trouble was heading his way. He had been on the phone for the last hour, first with Wade Hanson of Crowley & Company, yammering that one of their three Invader class tugs, the Galveston, had been boarded while operating inshore. The other two beat a hasty retreat for the deeper waters and the open sea, narrowly evading the Kazakh militias. Thank god the American Salvor class boat got out safely after the rig was finally set and in place on the silted bottom five kilometers off the coast. But Galveston was officially his problem now, on top of fifteen other problems that would stretch from here all the way back to Bollinger Canyon in sunny California.

  The Chevron brass there did not like the news this morning either, and they let him know about it in no uncertain terms. He had been on the phone with some middle tier pencil pusher turned weather man. “The whole Gulf is shut down for Hurricane Victor, Flack,” the man had lectured him.

  “This damn thing made direct hit on Houston. All the refineries are off line, you understand? We lost Conoco Phillips, Valero, Exxon/Mobil, Deer Park, Premcor, Marathon Ashland—the works. BP lost Thunder Horse and Mad Dog is off line too. Now we’ve got to make sure production stays up out there, right? We need crude in tankers heading our way, and soon. You need to clean that mess up there and get flows back up to speed ASAP. Bunker as much oil as you can in Baku for a credit on the other end of the Supsa line, got that? We’re looking for any loose tanker traffic we can get our hands on. I expect we’ll have something for you soon—negotiating with some conveyance carriers now. You just get on top of this business and see to things. You completed that rig set last night, right? ”

  Yes he had finished the set, and yes things looked manageable, but no he didn’t think there was adequate security in the region, and yes it really did seem like this latest flare-up was going to be worse than the last, and no he didn’t know where his numbers would be just yet, but yes he’s have readings as soon as he heard from the pump stations on the coast and yes they had enough in the line to start bunkering at Baku if a carrier could be found in the Black Sea, but no he couldn’t guarantee the flow pressure just yet, and on and on it went.

  So Galveston Island got slammed. The thin bar
rier island near Houston was now under water. Ironically, he had his own little Galveston here to worry about. How was he going to get that damnable tug back? If the raiders parted that sucker out to the Chinese, the insurance tab would be charged to his operation. Was the crew safe? Real violence against Western oil men had been rare in the region but, after that ominous news feed the rebels put out the night before, all bets were off. He would no doubt have to bargain for the crew’s release, and he wasn’t sure he had much to bet in that game.

  As for local threats, all he had at the moment was the Rig Boss and his side arm. He squinted through his binoculars, not liking the sight of those damnable fast lighters the rebels had out near the coastline. Where was KAZPOL? What the fuck were they doing? Probably running all over the region trying to tamp down one little incident after another. The pink dawn was starting to silhouette some of the inshore facilities. There was an unwelcome plume of smoke riding up on the hazy morning air.

  He stared at the FAX he had received from San Ramon. They were already papering over the news with an official statement being readied for the press. “We are working with all appropriate government agencies and community leaders to try and restore peace and stability in the area and will resume normal business… etc., etc.”

  Fat chance of this getting air time in any case, not with the aftermath coverage for hurricane Victor at Houston this morning. Chevron had weathered far worse storms than this one but press had not been rosy in recent months. That was the least of his worries. What was he going to do about the Galveston, and what were those damn swift boats up to yonder?

  His mind invariably went to Timmermann and his merc detachment. Where the hell were they? He’d put in the emergency call five hours ago. Company helo has been out for hours, but no mercs. How was he supposed to fend off the locals with the Rig Boss and his sidearm? How was he supposed to find the Galveston, let alone her crew? And what was this new shit about tanker traffic being routed into the Black Sea? That place could become a lake of fire any day. Did they think he was about to start moving significant amounts of crude under these conditions? He’d need security, damn it, and lots of it. Then he’d be lucky if he had any line pressure left to even get flow started on the pipeline to Baku.

  Second quarter output for Chevron had slipped to the lowest level since 2018. Q3 was equally depressed. Flack had news for the Bollinger Boyz—it wasn’t going to get any better, and Chevron was not the only company hurting right now. It was going to get worse, and it was going to get mean, particularly if the Russians sent that Motor Rifle Division across the border up north.

  “Mudman!” Flack yelled so he would be heard over the constant music flow into his technician’s head.

  “What’s up, Flackie?”

  “That shit out east looks bad. I think we may be getting some uninvited visitors soon. Where’s the damn helo?”

  “HellifIknow,” Mudman ran the words together as he chewed on another granola bar. “Nuthin’ on radio for hours.” He was distracted by the small TV set where he was watching the local news feed out of Fort Shevchenko.

  “Well we’re missing a goddamned tug!” Flack ran a hand through his thinning hair. The sweat on his brow a fine sheen.

  Mudman looked at him, his jaw slack. He was pointing at his TV monitor, waving Flack over. “Think I found it,” he said with a solemn tone.

  Flack was at his side, his eyes rolling with disgust the instant he saw the image on the screen. It was the Galveston, surrounded by lighters full of gunmen, and her blindfolded crew all lined up on the foredeck.

  “What a load of crap,” Flack swore.

  “Shot her up pretty bad,” said Mudman. There was obvious damage to all the wind screens and siding on the tug. Someone just let loose with a Kalashnikov in the air, and the scene became a jubilant little hostage fest. “And look, isn’t that a Caverton Helo?” The Caverton Offshore Support Group had a small fleet of helos providing shore to sea lift services to any number of commercial interests in the region.

  Flack squinted at the screen. “Yeah, that’s Caverton, alright.”

  “Well, shit!” Mudman pointed at the screen. “Looks like they’ve got a full scale evacuation going on.” The scene shifted in a jerky motion. The camera man was running. There was an explosion and the Caverton helo careened onto the tarmac, its main rotor spinning wildly out of control, the craft engulfed in flame.

  “Christ almighty…” Mudman just stared. “…everything living and unliving…And every other unthinkable vice…” He repeated the threat he had made light of earlier in the rebel press release, suddenly realizing they just may mean what they said this time.

  “Gonna need Timmermann,” said Flack. “Where’s the damn mercs? Where’s KAZPOL?” He had a real case of the blues this morning, and the long day had just begun.

  ~ ~ ~

  Flack wasn’t the only man thinking about the oil in the Caspian Sea. That same day Alberto Salase spent a good long time on the phone speaking to the same “pencil pushers” at Bollinger Canyon that Flack always complained about. That evening he boarded a helicopter for a very special trip out to Larnaca Bay. Salase was a business broker out of Alexandria, with a well developed local network in the region. Now he was fortunate to be welcomed aboard the Argos Fire, the floating corporate headquarters of Fairchild & Company, for a privileged visit with a potential new client.

  And a privilege it was, thought Captain Gordon MacRae as he ushered the portly black man into the dining room. Elena Fairchild was not one to allow such a face to face meeting, at least so early into a business relationship. The normal protocols would have seen Salase jumping one middle manager after another, and then proving himself before being admitted to the inner circle of the Fairchild executive offices.

  But the rapidly evolving oil situation was shaking up all the old protocols. The rising global tensions had swept away longstanding plans by any number of major producers courting operations in Central Asia. The Russians had shown them just how easy it was to put their thumb on the jugular, cutting the pipelines they had vainly tried to build to outflank Russian soil, and Russian interests in the region. And when the oil didn’t flow, the money stopped flowing as well.

  Fairchild was a realist at heart, he knew. The company had relied on Persian Gulf contracts for the last several years, but now she wanted out. Eliminating the Suez bottleneck or a long trip around the Cape of Good Hope offered considerable savings in both operational costs and peace of mind. Now she was keen to leave the dangers of the Gulf behind make new inroads in the turbulent Central Asian superfields. The terminal Port of Ceyhan was an east port of call in well protected waters, and the transit from there to ports in Europe or the US were much more secure—until the BTC line blew up.

  A boson’s mate smartly piped the Captain’s entry to the dining hall and announced Alberto Salase as the guest of honor. Elena Fairchild was already seated at the executive table, and she rose to greet the two men as they approached, dressed smartly in a form fitting pants suit, pale grays, with a plain white blouse flaring open at the neck, accessorized by a burgundy scarf. Her dress was smart, yet more functional than anything else, the clothing loose fitting so she could breath in the humid Mediterranean climate.

  She was a middle aged woman in her late forties, though her tall, athletic figure had held on very nicely through the years, and she still had a youthful aspect, in spite of a fleck of gray that she bravely allowed in her dark hair, when most women would have rinsed it away years ago. She could have been a marathon runner if she had had a mind for the sport—certainly had the legs for it, though her pants suit gave her a prim and almost androgynous appearance. And she was not one for the ornaments of jewelry, allowing herself a pair of white pearl earrings and a silver Claddagh ring on one hand.

  The simplicity of the ring suited her well—the circular bands ending with two hands clasping a heart, and a crown above. It was not a wedding band, in the traditional sense, for she had never married, though it coul
d be used to signal a person’s romantic availability, or lack thereof, depending on which hand it was sported, and on which direction the hands and heart were faced.

  MacRae often thought the crown above that heart was a fine symbol of the loyalty she had for England. Fairchild had served British interests, making a small but vital contribution to the UK’s energy position, for over twenty years. He had signed on as Fleet Captain nine years ago, earning the trust and confidence of his CEO with diligence and due respect. The Argos Fire was a nice little reward, a ship that any other captain in the world would be proud to sail. His relationship with ‘Madame,’ as he often called her in formal situations, had been cordial, professional, and strictly business, though he had to admit a growing attraction for the woman had developed in him over the years. He admired her resolve, the constancy of her temperament, the tight control she had on her emotions in the boardroom—a woman to be reckoned with where cutting a deal required a fine edge.

  But yet there was a definitely a woman behind the corporate mask she so carefully maintained, and he had become fascinated with the quiet solitude that surrounded her, pleased that he had been drawn even closer to the inner core of company operations over the years. He had to admit that the occasion of finding himself alone with her, now a close confederate and even a confidant in many ways, had meant a lot to him. With no Mr. Fairchild he even entertained a fleeting notion that he might become involved with her one day, though he had never expressed anything of the sort, or pushed that agenda in even the subtlest of ways.

  He was about to make the introductions but, true to form, Fairchild took the matter in hand.

  “Mr. Salase, how good of you to join us,” the Fairchild smile radiated her steely beauty, her dark eyes carrying genuine warmth, but an intensity that was very penetrating. Her hand seemed smallish when engulfed in Salase’s substantial palm. She wondered how much money had greased it over the years in bribes, kickbacks and other “compensation” for his valued services as a deal broker.