9 Days Falling, Volume I k-5

by John A. Schettler

  Missiles were falling at the export terminals of Ras Tanura, Ras al-Ju'aymah and the industrial city of Al Jubayl in Saudi Arabia. The American facilities in Qatar were struck that night as well, along with the ports at Abu Dhabi, and a host of other key facilities along the coast. If the Iranians could not have atomic energy, the world would not have petroleum. The equation was quite simple. And added to the catastrophe already underway in the Gulf of Mexico, it would mark the end of modern life as so many had lived it for the last hundred years.

  Assad al Arif watched amazed from his makeshift sasha, a palm frond fishing canoe bobbing at the end of its mooring rope a few miles south of the main oil storage facilities at Al Fujairah. He had been out all day, fishing as his father and grandfather before him, and now was simply tending and mending his nets in the quiet evening. Then the horizon to the north exploded in fury and red orange flame. An Iranian Shahab had struck the ENOC oil terminals there, igniting an inferno of burning oil and gas as one storage tank after another was engulfed in the holocaust of fire.

  From far more plush accommodations in the city itself, the ruler of Fujairah, His Highness Sheikh Hamad bin Mohammed Al Sharqi, and His Excellency Sheikh Hamad bin Saif Al Sharqi, his deputy, watched in horror as the oil storage bunkers burned out of control. Millions of barrels of oil would be consumed in a conflagration that sent massive clouds of broiling smoke aloft to further char the black night settling over the Straits of Hormuz.

  Two of the world’s top five oil producing regions were now awash in flood and fire, and the third, and the newest and biggest in the Caspian region was now more vital than ever. The fires of rival clan contention in Kazakhstan were burning closer and closer to the massive Kashagan superfields. And massing on the northern border, the Russian Army sat like a hungry wolf waiting to spring on its prey.

  “And so it begins,” said one Sheikh to another. The long feared “incident” in the Persian Gulf had finally ignited the well oiled kindling there, and the fires were burning.

  “No my friend,” said the able deputy to his Highness. “And so it ends…”

  Part VII

  Argonauts

  “Loud rings the travail of those hands that first created war, the scourge of all the earth. For ere they dragged unknown iron from its stony bed and provided swords, Hatred roamed feeble and unarmed, Anger was resourceless, and Revenge slow.”

  ~ Argonautica Book 5, Translated By J. H. Mozley

  Chapter 19

  The news went from bad to worse on Medusa platform that morning. Mudman had been monitoring the video and radio coverage out of Busachi where pump stations and corporate offices sat amid a field of storage tanks and piles of ling, black reserve oil pipeline.

  “Hey Flackie,” he called, pulling out his ear bud for a moment and lowering the volume. “We got us a hurricane now.”

  “What are you talking about Mudman?” Ben Flack was in no mood for more bad news. “That’s old news. I’ve had Richmond on the phone all morning yammering about shortfall in the Gulf of Mexico. They lost some real big platforms out there.”

  “No—right here,” Mudman pointed to his TV screen. “Those bastards at MECCA are calling for a major uprising. Calling it Hurricane Barbarossa or some shit. Named it after some damn Turkish Muslim Pasha. Even got old Azul Abar on board with them.” Azul Abar was a notorious militant gangster/terrorist in the Region, and head of incipient insurgent group known as the Caspian Region Volunteer Force. He began playing the news feed from his monitor: “About 0100 Hrs, today ‘Hurricane Barbarossa’ commenced with heavily armed fighters in hundreds of units filing out from different MECCA bases across the Caspian Region in solidarity to carry out destructive and deadly attacks on the oil industry in the Kazakh state.”

  Apparently the militants had made good on their claims, blowing up a big Shell pipeline and reportedly razing nearby facilities. Several Shell employees were thought to have been killed in the incident. “The foolhardy workers and soldiers who did not heed our warning perished inside the station.” The statement was being made by a MECCA colonel on the scene.

  Mudman reached for the volume, turning it up a notch so Flack could hear better. The spot continued with a countervailing government spokesman: “There is no war in the Caspian Region.” It was the Caspian information minister. “The oil war propaganda is just a gimmick by the militants to create fear in every law-abiding citizen, both local and foreign alike, and to provoke tension in the polity. We are not aware of their antics and capabilities. The joint task force in place is very capable of containing the indiscretion of the militants. So there is nothing like war. The Kazakh government has been trying a combination of dialogue, consultation, and development of the region and, after consultation, we created a dedicated ministry to address these issues.”

  “What a load,” said Mudman. “That guy must have been trained by Baghdad Bob. No war, eh? What’s all the smoke and fire for then?”

  Flack was at the Plexi screen, binoculars up and watching the menacing lighters closer to the shore. There had been bad news all morning, explosions inshore north of Busachi and south of Fort Shevchenko, pipelines destroyed, pump stations on fire, not to mention the loss of the Crowley tug Galveston and all its crew taken as hostages. He had called the local military and police to no avail, and the Merc order he had urgently placed had gone unfilled. There were just too many facilities at risk to adequately guard them all. The security forces in the region, and the fourteen hapless patrol boats of the Kazakh Navy, were already stretched thin, now locked in a death grip with MECCA rebels.

  “We’re too damn close to those bastards,” Flack murmured. “Hell, they attacked the Shell platform a while back, and that was 24 miles off shore!”

  “Where are those Mercs?” asked Mudman. “Better get a helo in here, boss.”

  The phone rang and Flack moved to his desk, irritated, his eyes still watching the coast for signs of hostile movement in his direction. He knew his time was running out. He’d be lucky if he could get a company helo now and get his people to safety.

  It was Richmond again, only this time the manager at the other end of the line promised good news. “We’ve got some help heading your way right now. Fairchild has three tankers on the way to Supsa, and we want you get anything you have into the trans Caspian pipeline to Baku.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing?” Flack bawled. “The problem is this: we’re losing pump stations on shore and the flow pressure is down—Kapish?”

  “Then rig to load your local tankers and move it that way. We need that oil bunkered in Baku ASAP.”

  Flack was shocked. “Yes, I have three or four tankers at Fort Shevchenko, but I can’t even begin to contemplate an operation like that without security. You guys must be out of your minds!”

  “Now calm down, Flack. We’ve got the security. Fairchild’s flagship is leading in tankers to Supsa.”

  “A lot of good that will do me here,” Flack protested. “Supsa is on the Black Sea coast. This is the goddamned Caspian, or have you looked at a map lately?”

  “Yes I can read a map. What I’m saying is that this Fairchild ship is a destroyer, or something like one, not one of their tankers—a ship called the Argos Fire. Rumor has it the damn thing is armed to the teeth. They have helos with the range to get out your way, and they have security personnel too.”

  The mention of helos brightened Flack’s mood considerably. He took down the call sign and frequency to contact the Fairchild group, writing quickly with a dulled pencil.

  “Now you just worry about those tankers. These helos are the new X-3 hybrids—something like an Ospry. I’ve heard they’re packing some mini guns and shit. Nobody is going to bother you, mark my words.”

  Flack hung up, his mind racing. How was he supposed to get a loading operation started in this mess? He pulled up the flow diagrams on his computer. He had three pump stations down, but there was still #17, and a good line out to the platform. Even with pressure as low as it
was, he could probably get something moving and loaded if he could keep #17 up. It was inshore in the shallows, however, a dangerous place to be.

  “Mudman!” he yelled to get his tech’s attention. “Get on the blower and call Pump 17. Tell them we need them to get ready to push crude my way. Anything they can move.”

  “What the hell we gonna do with it?”

  “Never mind, just call them and tell them what I said.”

  At that moment the sound of distant gunfire jangled his already frayed nerves. Flack ran to the Plexi screen, raising his binoculars. He saw three lighters heading directly toward his platform, bristling with brawny, dangerous looking men in camo fatigues. They were joy shooting in the air to announce their imminent arrival. He felt the cramp in his bowels tighten.

  “We’re gonna have company, Mudman. Looks like the MECCA oil war is about to get personal.”

  The shift tech was already peering at the scene with obvious anxiety. “I think you better tell the Rig Boss to put his sidearm away,” he breathed. “These guys look like hell warmed over.”

  “Ain’t gonna be no PTA meeting,” said Flack. He considered the alternatives, edging over to his desk, his eyes riveted on the advancing boats.

  But something was odd about their approach. They diverted left, circling briefly. Then Flack knew why. In the distance he heard the telltale thump, thump, thump of a helo, and turned to see two copters low on the horizon behind him.

  “KAZPOL?” Mudman was at his side as Flack peered through his binoculars.

  “Not from that direction… Can’t be Caverton either. Nothing I’ve seen round here before,” he breathed. “Maybe it’s this Fairchild Group.” In the nick of time will do, he thought.

  “Fairchild?” Mudman was in the dark. “Who’re they?”

  “Never mind who they are—you just get on the phone to #17 like I said.”

  “Right, Flackie.”

  The lighters continued to circle, like three sharks prowling around a great mechanical behemoth. Through his high powered lenses Flack had a good look at them, tough looking thugs, their faces swathed in black face masks or dark bandanas. Many wore white turban head dresses and checkered scarves. Each one sported ammunition belts draped over their shoulders, and they were heavily armed. They seemed equally perplexed by the approaching helos, some pointing at the aircraft and shouting. The shout was an order, Flack realized, when one of the men hefted a light machinegun and opened fire. The oil war, which the Caspian government denied, was now just a few hundred yards away.

  Overhead, the two Fairchild helos saw the tracer rounds streaking up, wide off the mark, but close enough to get their attention. They were flying a modified version of the revolutionary Eurocopter X-3. With two turboshaft engines powering a five-blade main rotor system and two propellers on short-span fixed wings, it was capable of over 220 knots and could range out about 900 nautical miles at lower speeds. They made a high speed run into Baku, refueled at the BP facilities there, and then raced north, flying low over the Caspian Sea to reduce their radar signature in case there were unfriendly eyes out there. They made their approach on the eastern shore, well away from Russian assets in the region. This version was specially adapted by Fairchild engineers for security purposes. The twin 30mm rocket pods were augmented by a pilot controlled mini-gun mounted in the nose of the sleek craft.

  The group leader, Lieutenant Ryan, barked an order when he saw the tracer rounds sprayed in his direction, his voice heavy with the touch of silver as he spoke, a true thoroughbred Irishman. “I suppose we’d best introduce ourselves to those gentlemen. Let them have a taste of the number one pod.” He was referring to one of the two weapons pods mounted on the stubby wings of the copter. His co-pilot and weapon’s master was only too keen to reply, thumb pressing the red fire button on his joystick a second later.

  The helo shuddered as a salvo of three mini rockets ignited from the pod and churned into the sea directly in front of the lighter that had fired, sending a wild spay of water into the air. The exploding rockets rocked the other boats with heavy swell.

  “That got their attention,” said Ryan, leaning on the stick to swing his craft off on an alternate heading. He dropped altitude and angled his rotors so they would chop more heavily at the air, creating an awful racket. Fairchild and Company was clearing its throat as its outriders arrived on the scene. “You can return those tracer rounds now. Shot across the bow will be enough, Tommy.”

  “Aye, Sir.” The nose mounted mini-gun rotated quickly to acquire the target and the sleek metal barrels growled out a sharp burst. The rounds streaked into the water, very close to the lead boat that had fired at the copters.

  Confusion reigned on the three boats as they circled the platform. Then they saw a man hefting up what appeared to be a shoulder fired weapon, which prompted Ryan to stiffen the lesson. “Better serve them another drink,” he shouted. “That’s looks like an SA-7! Get serious, Tommy!”

  “Right-O, sir!” There mini gun rotated and fired, only this time the rounds tore into the lighter and leveled it with withering fire. It was enough to convince the locals in the other two boats that they had chosen the wrong platform for their oil war today. The remaining lighters turned and beat a hasty retreat toward the shore and safety, their bravado quashed by the firepower of this unexpected new adversary.

  Back on Medusa Platform, Flack clenched his fist and beamed. “Thank God for small favors,” he said aloud. “Looks like the cavalry has arrived.”

  “Lemme see,” said Mudman, hovering at his side. Flack passed him the glass so he could have a peek at the helos. “What’s that? Looks more like an Osprey?”

  “Fairchild helos,” said Flack. “They look pretty mean, eh?”

  The X-3s had circled the rig, lingering for ten minutes until there was no further sign the militant lighters. Ryan used his long range camera optical system to keep a close eye on those boats, but he saw no further sign of any hostile action. Just in case there was another SA-7 close at hand he decided to gain some altitude, taking his helos up to 3000 meters, which was well under his service ceiling and yet beyond the range of the SA-7s. Then they swept inshore towards the coast in a roar of thumping rotors and turboprops.

  The radiophone jangled and Flack picked up the receiver, irritated. “Now what?” he nearly shouted, still distracted by the helos. The voice on the other end of the line was unfamiliar.

  “Chevron Medusa?”

  “Yeah, this is Rig Manager Flack. Who’s this?”

  “Fairchild and company. Captain Gordon MacRae speaking on board company flag Argos Fire. We’re arrived at Supsos Terminal and I took the liberty of sending in a few helos.”

  “Right,” said Flack. “Corporate boys said we should expect you. Hope you people have some mercs aboard those things. I have eighteen people here on the platform, and we’re stuck under orders to keep moving any crude in the line. We’ve a good credit bunkered at Baku, and if this situation gets tamped down out here I’m good for the rest as long as you can provide the empty ships. You got tankers?”

  “We’ll have two SuezMax ships with a million each and one smaller tanker ready to anchor for loading at Supsa and Kulevi in three hours—2,500,000 barrel carrying capacity all told.”

  “Two and a half Million?” Flack glanced at his flow charts. “Christ that will take a good long day for you to load—and that under ideal conditions. I’ve got a million and a half bunkered at Baku. But I’ll need time to move that last million barrels over the line, and I’ve barely got a pulse on the main pipeline here right now. If I lose my last pump station we won’t be able to move a thing.”

  “Where’s this pump station, Mr. Flack?”

  “Inshore, right in the middle of all the ruckus out there. I have a three man crew there and they’re sacred shitless. Any chance you people can get one of those choppers out to boost morale?”

  “We’ll do you one better, Mr. Flack. We’ve got good men on those helos we sent. In the meantime, could
we set down on your landing platform and pick up someone who can take our helo out to this pump station? And we’ll need aviation fuel if you have any.”

  “Roger that, Fairchild. I’ll have a man ready when you get here. But you better bring some muscle. I’ve been out here three years and I’ve never seen it this bad before. You’re likely to run into trouble inland too. As for the fuel, land at the air strip at Buzachi north of Fort Shevchenko. They’ve got what you need, unless the damn place has been overrun.”

  “Roger Chevron. We copy that. We’ll be armed and ready.”

  On board the bridge of the Argos Fire, MacRae scanned the coastline near the terminal, noting the pall of black smoke rising in the distance.

  “That’s an oil fire,” he said calmly to his executive officer.

  “Aye, sir, Morgan says there was another terrorist attack this morning. This time they went after an old fuel tank. Always hate to see it burning like that, but it looks worse than it is.”

  MacRae nodded. “You can slow to one third. Take our two big ladies in for loading, Mister Dean. Our youngest daughter is going up to Kulevi with the Iron Duke. We’ll watch her big sisters down here, but no anchorage for us. I want us at a minimum of 10 knots at all times, cruising off shore like a shark, if you get my meaning.”

  “Aye, sir. Let’s hope we have a quiet night.”

  “We will if the Russian don’t get too curious. I’ll be in the executive suites. Let me know the instant you see any air/sea movement in our direction. We’re only 400 kilometers southeast of Novorossiysk, and that’s too damn close for my liking.”