“Well here’s a private little nightmare,” he said quietly, with endemic British calm. He handed the message to his XO. Lt. Commander Colin Firth, who read it quietly, one raised eyebrow his only immediate reaction. Then he turned to the Captain, a look of concern on his face.
“We’ll be the only Western shipping in a sea of red in short order, sir. Care to wonder what the Russians will do when we poke our nose into the Black Sea? It’s not hot with us and them just yet, but it will likely be so very soon.”
“Quite so,” said Williams, drawing on the pipe that seemed glued to his right hand, particularly when he was on the bridge. The service frowned on the behavior, but a Captain at sea on his own ship was a bit of a demigod, and no one would presume to even take notice, let alone be bothered by Williams’ addiction to aromatic tobacco. He was a bit of a purist, and smoked only one brand, Gawith & Hoggarth Top Black Cherry, a Kendal style blend made from a 200-year old recipe dating from the days where British purity law dictated that only certain natural ingredients could be used in pipe tobacco. The crew had taken to calling the bridge “Cherry Estates,” and it was always easy to know just where the Captain was on the ship, surrounded as he was by a thin veil of sweet, aromatic smoke.
“Well, we won’t be alone, XO,” Williams put in. “That ship noted in the dispatch there will make for some interesting company.”
“Argos Fire, sir? I can’t say as I’m familiar with it.”
“You’ll think otherwise when you lay eyes on her,” Williams said with a smile. “It’s a Type 45. This Fairchild & Company bought the damn thing lock, stock and barrel some years back and ran her through BAE Systems in Portsmouth for a good overhaul.”
“HMS Dauntless, sir! I remember now. Well that will take the sting off this assignment, unless they’ve made her into a corporate yacht.”
“Oh I’ve heard a bit about this ship, Mister Firth, and it has all the bells and whistles, and good teeth as well.”
Events were now taking on a momentum of their own, and intelligence chatter began to burn up the airways. If the Americans wanted a pretext for another swipe at Iran, the attack on Princess Royal had given it to them. For years there had been talk of a planned attack to impede Iran’s nuclear ambitions, yet nothing ever materialized.
Israel’s request for a thousand more GBU-39 bunker busters had finally been approved and put on the fast track, but the Pentagon would have to move heaven and earth to get them delivered. Russia quickly countered by announcing the sale of their advanced S-300 anti-aircraft missile system, a fearsome deterrent, even for the capable air forces of Israel and the US. All along the US eastern seaboard the Navy was thrumming with activity, and this very same day the Russians decided to send the US yet another message by ordering one of their newest Borei class nuclear ballistic missile subs out for test firing in the North Atlantic. There were too many military assets, on all sides, standing on their toes and looking for a brawl. The attack on Princess Royal had set more in motion than anyone realized at the time, even the company senior executives on board the Argos Fire in the Aegean.
It was the worst possible time for military trouble, given the fragile state of affairs in the West. That same afternoon, while Princess Royal burned in the Straits of Hormuz, oil futures began to spike up in an unusual trading session that should have never been called by the Boyz on Wall Street. They were just trying to apply the most basic rule of plunder when it comes to financial dealings — cover your ass. But when bad news hit the trading pits, bad things could happen very quickly.
Chapter 17
“How could we have missed this?” said Elena Fairchild in an exasperated tone. “How?” She looked squarely at her intelligence chief, Mack Morgan, who had been called on the carpet to answer for the lapse. They were in the executive offices on the ship, and Captain MacRae stood by Morgan’s side, hat in hand, hoping to lend his mate a little moral support.
Out in the Aegean, the Fairchild flagship Argos Fire was leading her small flotilla through the long channel of the Bosporus along the planned route to the Black Sea. The frigate Iron Duke had caught up with the flotilla, and she was a welcome sight. Elena Fairchild had a little pull with the government, and she had made a few phone calls to make the arrangement earlier. The frigate now led the way, with Princess Irene next in line and then the two larger tankers followed by Argos Fire. They would enter the Black sea that night, a worrisome prospect given the rising tensions. Now, however, Elena Fairchild’s mind was beset by the news in the Persian Gulf and the fate of Princess Royal.
“Salase only told us half the truth,” said MacRae. “He floated that malarkey about a mine, but from the angle on that damage the attack was made by a missile, and it was fired from a position well behind the ship.”
“We had the report, m’lady,” said Morgan sheepishly, “but there were no details; no confirmation. His heavy dark brows were lowered with concern and just the right amount of regret played over his dark eyes. “Salase had us watching our nose with that hint about the mines, then someone gave it to us in the ass, eh?”
“What Mack says is true, m’lady,” MacRae spoke up. “I stopped by the radio room to check on black channel traffic right before the dinner. We had a message on the BTC pipeline trouble, and a nebulous warning of mines in the Persian Gulf. I had the damn message in my pocket during dinner, but never got the chance to pull you aside.”
“Salase knew more than he was delivering,” said Fairchild. “I’ll have that fat pig on a spit the next time I see him.” Elena was furious. “What do you think he really knew?”
“Hard to say,” said MacRae. “It was clear he wanted to warn us of the attack. He could have kept his mouth shut, you know.”
“I don’t think he was doing me any great favor,” said Elena. “He threw that bone on the table just to shake things up and close the deal the other night. The fat little bastard was laughing at me behind those bulging eyes of his all evening. We’ve got five dead and one missing on the Princess Royal. Damn, we’re getting very sloppy.” She was pacing nervously, agitated by the bad news and a long, sleepless night.
“Well, it could have been worse,” said MacRae. “A mine, I mean. This was a missile, and at least she was struck well above the water line. There’s no danger of her sinking, and from the looks of this video,” he gestured at the monitor on Fairchild’s desk, “only the center compartment seems to be involved.”
“God,” Elena breathed. “I can’t lose that ship. That’s twenty percent of her cargo on fire. What if the rest goes up? We’d be ruined! We won’t be able to deliver the oil to Chevron as agreed.”
“We’ve got to get Princess Royal out of the straits,” MacRae said, in a calm voice. “We can move her to Al Fujairah on the coast of the UAE. It’s one of the largest bunkerages in the world now, bigger than Singapore. And just our luck, they can handle ships in this class.”
“What about the report of engine damage?”
“Some flooding affected the engine room, but she can be towed,” the captain reassured her. “This is all theater. If they wanted to sink her they would have hit her closer to the water line, or used a mine to gut her hull below the water line. This was just a gun and run media show. The real damage is there, right on CNN. Do you have any idea what this will do to oil futures and tanker insurance rates? With everything shut down in the Gulf of Mexico, the price of crude is going to double very soon, mark my words.”
That was the first thing he had said that gave her any solace. Fairchild composed herself, her eyes tightening with sudden resolve.
“Do you think we were deliberately targeted—by our rivals, I mean?” She looked at her intelligence chief now.
Morgan ran a hand through his thick, dark hair and breathed heavily, thinking for a moment. “No,” he began. “No, I don’t think so. And I doubt Salase knew anything more than he revealed at that contract dinner, from what I’ve heard of it. Oh, he got wind of the attack, and he knew he couldn’t come to the meeting
without revealing it, but he didn’t have the details either. His network wasn’t that good.”
“Better than our information,” Elena fumed.
“We had it, just as the Captain says,” Morgan countered. “Had it in our pocket the whole time.”
“Not soon, enough,” she said quickly. “You slipped up on this one, Mack. We should have had it days before.”
“I’ll not argue that, m’lady. But now it’s done and we’ve got to consider the advantages in the situation.”
She bit her lower lip, her mind racing. “You think they can get the ship to Al Fujairah, Captain?”
“It’s just 30 miles south, the only port that could handle Princess Royal. If this is an isolated attack, as I think it is, she’ll make it with no problems. I got a hold of Volker there. They have a couple of KC-air tankers they can rig for fire-fighting. Their engineer thinks we can get retardant on the fire and contain the damage—but it’s likely we’ll lose everything in the central fuel bunker.”
“Even so, if we save the rest we still come out ahead. We’ll have 80% of our cargo, but it will be worth twice as much as we thought.” She was shaken with sudden energy, moving quickly to her desk computer to pull up her operators file. Her hands moved quickly over the keyboard, the Claddagh ring catching a gleam of light as she typed.
“Hello…” she said, noting a priority alert on the intelligence channel of her screen. With their feet to the fire over the missed threat to Princess Royal, her spooks had been very keen to make up for lost ground, and regain some face. “Well, what have we here?” She waved MacRae and Morgan over to have a look at her screen.
“Thunder Horse down?” he gave her an unknowing look.
“Radio intercept,” she said, eyes alight. “It’s a big BP platform in the Gulf of Mexico. I’d say they have some significant damage out there if a platform of that size is having trouble.” She tightened her lips, deciding something, then started typing.
“That hit CNN this morning,” said Morgan, “but I can tell you what won’t be on the news about it, and that what’s most likely in that intelligence report.”
“Trying to cover your backside, Mack?” she prodded him, still perturbed but willing to forgive. “Alright, let’s have it.”
“Word is that that damage to Thunder Horse was not all from the hurricane. The Yanks took down a Russian sub in the Gulf of Mexico just last night. Akula class attack boat. They think the damn thing put a torpedo right into the rig.”
She raised her eyebrows at that, as did MacRae. It would have been a very bold move, and a strong escalation in the rising tension between East and West.
“Yanks are mad as a hornet about this one. Someone in DC wants red blood, now, if you know what I mean m’lady.”
“I think I do, Mack. Keep an ear on it for me and let me know the moment you have anything else.”
“Of course. The question is, what will the Americans do?”
Elena looked up at MacRae, her mind working hard. “The gloves are coming off, gentlemen,” she said quietly. The Russians traded a very expensive submarine for an even more expensive oil drilling platform just now. They’re letting us know they can hit the oil, and hit it hard. You know what that might mean for our little jaunt into the Black Sea. Thank God we managed to bring in a little more help with the Iron Duke, but I’ll want the Argos Fire trimmed for action the instant we pass the Bosporus.
“She’ll be ready, m’lady.”
“We need to get hold of the Van Ommeren group now. They’re the main player for tank terminal operations in the UAE—and call Vopak too.”
“The Dutch again,” said MacRae, hand on his chin. “I think we may have a play here, Elena.”
“Mississippi Region?” she asked.
“No. First here, in the Caspian region.”
She looked up at him, nodding her head in agreement.
MacRae smiled. “Caspian bandits are shooting up Royal Dutch Shell operations in the region over here, and someone is taking pot-shots at our traffic in the Persian Gulf.”
“While BP, and god knows how many other producers, have big headaches in the Gulf of Mexico.”
“Yes. Now we’re four days at full speed from being able to do Princess Royal any good. But we could offer Royal Dutch Shell a helping hand with their Caspian Region operations. We already have the Chevron contract in hand, but I doubt they’ll be able to bunker two and a half million barrels in Baku. Perhaps Royal Dutch Shell might need a lift for some of their oil in the Supsa terminal. We can split our three tankers between Chevron and Shell. I smell another arrangement.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Elena. “Assuming Vopak and Van Ommeren can save that oil on Princess Royal and bunker it at Al Fujairah. Once Chevron takes possession they may have second thoughts about shipping it to Singapore, particularly after this news in the Gulf of Mexico.”
MacRae smiled. “We couldn’t have planned it better! But what about the Salase deal and Singapore? He’ll lose his brokerage commission.”
“Fuck Salase,” Elena put a fine point on it. “That’s what he was trying to do to me, wasn’t it?”
“He wouldn’t get to first base,” said MacRae, pleased by the warmth of her smile in return.
Morgan noticed the familiarity between them, but pretended not to. He knew that MacRae was fairly close to the CEO, and was grateful for his presence here to take a few arrows for the intelligence lapse. Fairchild was correct. He should have had it—had it all, hook, line and sinker, cut and trimmed in a pan with hot oil, salt and a patty of butter. That was the way Fairchild was accustomed to being served up her intelligence, and he made a mental note to brush up on his cooking skills. He already had men working on the situation they would most likely face in the Black Sea, and was ready with that initial report if needed.
“In fact,” Elena’s eyes leapt ahead to light on some distant thought. “We might even twist this arrangement into a nice new pretzel.”
MacRae was nodding yes.
“Salase has brokered a deal with the Americans to move oil east for the Japanese—and I was to carry it for him, all the way from the Black Sea to Singapore. But if I get my oil, whatever’s left of it on Princess Royal, and bunker it in Al Fujairah, it would be so much closer to Singapore, wouldn’t it?”
“So we make a trade?”
“Exactly—barrel for barrel, just as I suggested to Salase. It would be as if we moved the Black Sea oil round the Cape without even sailing!”
“Lovely,” said MacRae. “And when our three little ladies are all loaded up here with the oil from Chevron and Shell?”
“It becomes ours in trade, and we ship it to the states. They’ll be desperate for fresh deliveries. I can have five buyers in an hour. Oil inventories were down to a 21 day supply after Hurricane Ernesto, for God’s sake. Now this Hurricane Victor is going to shut down refineries for at least another two weeks. They’ll be spot shortages cropping up already. We’ll make a killing, and we don’t have to go to Singapore to collect. They can take my cargo on Princess Royal in trade and we’ll find someone willing to ship it to Singapore in short order. There must be three or four carriers in Al Fujairah we could subcontract.”
The Captain was suddenly relieved. “The thing now is to get Argos Fire and our three princesses out to those Black Sea terminals at all speed. From there we should be close enough to launch helos that could make it in to the Caspian, and we could even pick up a little security money from Chevron and Shell in the bargain. Remember that call for mercs? We have some fellows aboard who are fairly handy with automatic weapons.”
“My fifty Argonauts.”
“Exactly. And with four X-3 Helos to move them. With your permission, Madame, I’ll get the men ready for a mission or two.”
The Argonauts were the fifty man security contingent on board the Argos Fire, a highly trained commando that would be perfect for the job. The four X-3s were a nice trump card in a situation like this, fast, deadly, and with good range.
“That’s four hundred miles to Baku,” Morgan warned, “and another 256 up to Fort Shevchenko where this Chevron Platform is located. You’ll get there, but then what? The fuel tanks will be dry as a bone.”
“We can refuel at Baku in both directions,” said MacRae. “BP has an operations center there and I think they’d support us.”
“They will indeed,” said Fairchild. “But I want this done right. Make sure you dole out plenty of ammunition,” she quipped. After all, boys will be boys.”
He offered a winsome salute and turned for the bridge. Morgan started to follow him, but stopped short of the door when she called his name.
“Mister Morgan,” she said calmly.
“I know I dropped the ball,” he began, but she quickly waved that away.
“Forget that, Mack. But just so you know, Salase threw the damn thing on the dinner table like a cold wet mackerel. Caught me completely by surprise. Don’t let it happen again.”
Morgan nodded gravely.
“Now what am I going to be facing in the Black Sea?”
“Well to put it plainly, Madame, the Russians. The fleet there isn’t what it used to be, particularly after the partition with Ukraine. The Moskva was the flagship, but being the lead ship in its class they renamed it Slava and sent it to the Northern Fleet two years ago. They filled the void with three smaller frigates, Grigorovich, Essen and Makarov. Good missiles on all three, the P-800 Onyx/Yakhont and the P-900 Kalibr cruise missile. NATO calls it the Sizzler. After that they don’t have much else of a threat. They decommissioned the Kerch, though it’s still in mothballs at Novorossiysk. They’ve also managed to keep one old Kashin class destroyer afloat commissioned in 1969, but barely. It spends most of its time in port or dry dock. They’ll have two old Krivak class frigates, and two diesel subs. The rest are coastal corvettes, and I assume we’ll be hugging the Turkish coast so I doubt they could put in an appearance there.”
9 Days Falling, Volume I k-5 Page 17