by Wilbur Smith
“Sounds like a good idea to me, Heck,” Stamford said. “You don’t have to tell me that wars are fought at night, and that means you have to train at night, too. I guess once your guys have learned how to get on to the ship, they’re going to have to practice fighting on it, too.”
“That’s the plan, Cy. I think it’ll be good for your crew too. The more accustomed they are to the idea of combat, the easier they’ll find it to deal with and keep calm if it ever happens for real.”
“I agree. I’ve got to inform Houston, just as a matter of protocol. But I’ll tell them what I’m telling you: this has my complete support. And I’m not the only Navy vet among the men on board. If there’s anything we can do, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thanks. If the balloon ever does go up, we’ll almost certainly be conceding numerical superiority to the bad guys, so we should definitely talk about how to make the most of you and your men. If we can find a way to include you in training that would be even better.”
“Sure, it would make a pleasant change. Life can get dull around here. I didn’t go to sea just so’s I could sit in the same place, week after week.”
“Then I’ll see what I can do to liven things up,” Cross promised him, feeling grateful to be dealing with someone who understood the realities of his world. But when he made the same request to Rod Barth, the Offshore Installation Manager, more commonly known as “OIM,” or just “boss” of the Magna Grande platform, the reception was very different.
“Listen here, Mr. Cross,” Barth said, wiping a hand across his perspiring forehead, “I’m an oilman. I’m the guy who makes sure that this baby makes money. I get the oil out of the ground and into the pipelines, 24/7, and I don’t appreciate anything that gets in the way of my oil. It’s bad enough having guys climbing aound like monkeys during the day—no need to have them doing it at night as well. And if you want them running around my rig in the dark, playing at soldiers, forget it. It’s not going to happen, not as long as I’m in charge here, and I don’t plan on going anywhere else any time soon.”
“Me neither,” said Cross, resisting the temptation to grab Barth by his fat, jowly neck, shove him up against a bulkhead and give him a short, sharp introduction to the kind of violence he could expect if a terrorist ever got on board. “My job is the same as yours: to keep the oil flowing. And nothing would stop it more effectively than a terrorist blowing this rig to pieces with you and everyone else who works on it on board.”
Barth gave a porcine snort of contempt. “Gimme a break, Cross. We both know that’s not going to happen. You tell me when a terrorist last blew up a rig? Oh, wait, you can’t, because it’s never happened.”
“No one had flown two jets into skyscrapers until 9/11, either. Listen, I have credible information, both from my own sources and the U.S. State Department, that there is a genuine risk of attack. I’m responsible for ensuring the safety of all the people and installations at this field. I’m telling you I need to be able to train my men at night and I’d appreciate your co-operation.”
“Here’s what I’ll do,” said Barth. “I’ll call Houston. I’ll ask the folks at Operations how they feel about the safety risks to our workers and to the equipment on this rig if we’ve got military exercises being conducted on it at night by a bunch of mercenary hotheads who don’t have the first clue about the dangers of offshore oil production.”
Cross took another deep breath and then, not bothering to hide the anger simmering beneath his usual steely composure said, “My men are not mercenaries. They’re highly experienced ex-servicemen, they’re trained to stay cool under pressure and they’ve spent years working around oil installations in Abu Zara.”
“Yeah, sitting in the middle of the damn desert. That’s a totally different situation to this. I reckon Houston’ll agree with me, too.”
Cross sighed. “I didn’t want to do this. I was hoping we could come to a civilized agreement. But now I’m going to pull rank. I’m a main board director of Bannock Oil and I can get straight on the line to Senator John Bigelow, the President and Chief Executive, and get his direct order in support of my plans.”
“You can call the White House, for all I care. Won’t make a bit of difference. Your boys aren’t coming on to my rig, ever, and that’s all I’ve got to say.”
Cross called Bigelow, who assured him, “Don’t worry, Heck, I get it. Of course your people have got to be able to train for every possible eventuality. I’ll sort this out right away and get back to you.”
Three hours later, Bigelow was on the line, exactly as promised. But what he had to say took Cross completely by surprise. “I’m afraid it’s a ‘no,’ Heck. Now, before you blow your top, just hear me out. What we’ve got here is a legal issue. Bannock Oil is responsible for the safety of everyone aboard the Magna Grande rig and the Bannock A production vessel, including people who work for the many sub-contractors we’ve got out there. If any of these people were to be hurt, let alone die as a result of anything that happened during one of your training exercises—which fall outside the parameters of the work and conditions they are contractually obligated to accept—then the company could be liable for millions of dollars in damages. The same applies to your people, too. If they suffer injury as a result of a workplace incident, we could be liable.”
“But they work for me. They’re employed by Cross Bow.”
“Yes, and Cross Bow has been a subsidiary of Bannock ever since your wife bought it off you, and this is a Bannock project, so again we’d potentially be liable. No hazardous activities, Hector, do you hear me? If the seas are rough, don’t go swimming in them. Nothing after dark unless there are lights everywhere and safety harnesses are worn.”
“For God’s sake, John, these men are former soldiers,” Cross protested. “They’ve gone to war. They’ve risked their lives to protect Bannock’s oilfields in the past because that’s what they’re paid to do. These are men who actually like risking their necks. Believe me, they’d much rather be training and getting some action that sitting around being swathed in cotton wool because of some suit’s pathetic obsession with safety.”
“It’s not an ‘obsession,’ it’s the opinion the legal department has given me after due consideration of the law and our potential exposure. For the record, I cannot ignore that opinion because then I’d be violating all the insurance policies we have in place to cover against possible legal action.”
Cross made one last attempt to sway him: “But, John, if the field is ever attacked, and neither my men nor your staff have had any training, we wouldn’t be talking about an injury here or there. We could be looking at large numbers of fatalities and millions of dollars’ worth of damage to your installations. Seriously, let’s get down to dollars and cents. You stand to lose far more from a terrorist assault than you ever will from a training exercise.”
“I hear you, Heck, really I do,” Bigelow said. “But the way Legal sees it, looking at our past experience and that of other oil companies, the odds of any such assault are so minimal that we can safely ignore them. But the chances of injury or even some kind of emotional trauma caused by exposure to combat training are much higher. Therefore we have to play the odds and say no to your request.”
“For God’s sake, John, this can’t be the right decision. You’re putting the whole future of Magna Grande, even of Bannock itself, in danger.”
“That’s enough, Heck!” Bigelow snapped. “I have a lot of respect for the work you’ve done for Bannock Oil, and of course I’m aware of your personal ties to the company, but when you talk of the company being in danger, why, that just sounds like scaremongering. You’re a better man than that, Heck, and a braver one, too. I’m sorry, but the decision is final. No training of any kind on the rig or the production vessel after dark, and no simulated combat situations, on either facility at any time.”
Cross slammed down the phone and sank back in his chair. They could still practice night swimming in the water around the Glenallen.
They could use the tug as a surrogate training ground. But one of the biggest potential advantages he’d been counting on against any assailant was familiarity with the battlefield, and that had just been thrown away.
Cross prayed that corporate stupidity in Houston didn’t lead to defeat in the Atlantic Ocean. He’d always had a sixth sense about what he called “the Beast.” It was an evil, malevolent creature that constantly sought ways to attack him and those he cared for. Its face changed from time to time as it found new human carriers for its violent virus, but its essential nature remained unchanging. Recently he had begun to feel the presence of the Beast again. It was close at hand, and that meant Congo had emerged from wherever he’d been skulking since his escape from Caracas. He wasn’t far away now, Cross was sure of it, and if he knew how the Bannock Oil suits were conspiring to make his life easier, he’d be laughing. But then Cross brought his mind up short. “Stop whining!” he told himself. “You’ve faced worse odds, in much less favorable situations, and you’ve beaten Johnny bloody Congo to a pulp in your time. So get a grip, do your job and make damn sure that whatever Congo or anyone else does, you still win anyway.”
The first thing Cross had to do, he realized as his temper cooled, was to eat a slice of humble pie. He gritted his teeth and called Bigelow once more: “I’m sorry if I sounded insubordinate there, sir. There’s a chain of command and I have to abide by it.”
“That’s no problem, Heck,” Bigelow replied, his voice oozing the satisfaction he felt at having his place at the top reinforced. “Hell, we all get a little heated from time to time—I know I’ve done it often enough, fighting for the issues that really matter to me. And if there’s anything I can do to help you improve security at Magna Grande, without compromising the safety of our people out there, you just let me know.”
“Thank you, John, I appreciate that,” said Cross. He’d counted on Bigelow wanting to display his magnanimity, and his power to grant gifts. “Even if we can’t train on the platform or the FPSO we really need to be familiar with their layouts. My guys can’t do anything to help if they’re blundering around like tourists without a map. If we could recce both units in detail—under the supervision of their safety officers, of course—then that would be a real benefit to my team, and to the people and property they’re supposed to be protecting.”
“That makes sense,” Bigelow agreed. “I’ll make sure we get it all set up as soon as possible.”
“And one other thing,” Cross added. “My people are stuck on a tug, 24/7. The food’s pretty basic and there’s not a lot to do, other than train and sleep, but the rig and the FPSO both have canteens, gyms, movie rooms, pool tables and God knows what else. If we could use those places that would be great for morale, and it would create familiarity between security and operations staff. Believe me, if we’re ever in any kind of hostage or combat situation, being able to recognize faces and know which side people are on could be the difference between life and death.”
“Well, we can’t deprive your people of good food and videos, now can we?” Bigelow chuckled. “Consider it done.”
“Thanks, John, I appreciate that,” said Cross. What he did not add, but still thought, was: But all the guided tours, good meals and gym workouts in the world won’t mean squat if we have to go into battle without proper training.
Fail to prepare, prepare to fail: just because that was a cliché didn’t make it any less true.
Johnny Congo had agreed the date and time of the attack with Babacar Matemba at the upcountry training base and Mateus da Cunha in Paris. Aram Bendick, meanwhile, had been establishing massive short positions in Bannock Oil stock and bought well over $2 billion worth of Bannock credit default swaps. He’d also been getting nervous. “I spent three frickin’ days talking percentages with that shyster of yours, now it’s almost a month later and I’m still standing here with my dick in the wind, waiting for something to happen. You’d better make it worth my while soon, man, ’cause I am damn sure I won’t stand here much longer.”
“Not long now, white boy,” Congo assured him. “That dick of yours’ll be nice and hard real soon, don’t you worry ’bout that.”
Now the day had come and it began with good news. “Weather report is showing a low front coming in from the west,” Chico Torres told him over breakfast on the Mother Goose. “It’s gonna get a little rough.”
“That a problem?” Congo asked, feeling nervous about the sheer scale of what he was attempting, but not wanting to seem pussy about it.
“No way, man, anything but,” Torres replied. “We’re gonna be a hundred meters beneath the waves and it’ll be smooth as silk down there. Could be an issue getting launched. But if we time it right, we’ll go in ahead of the weather, it’ll pass right over us and by the time we get to the target they’ll be rocking on the surface and we’ll still be taking it easy down below.”
Congo nodded, but then Torres added a quick postscript. “The only thing bothers me is the birds. The kind of weather we’re going to get tonight, a Marine pilot could fly right through it with his eyes shut. But any time you’re relying on local talent, you gotta wonder if they can handle it.”
“You suggesting an African can’t fly a helicopter?”
It suddenly struck Torres that he was talking to a man who’d been born in Africa. Congo: the clue’s in the name you dumb jerk, he chided himself. “No way, man, not at all. Just, it’s a specialist field, you feel me? Night-flying over water in bad weather, low visibility, high winds, all that shit.”
“They’ll manage, and you know how I know that? Because if they don’t manage they’re gonna die and ain’t no one wants to do that.”
“Then we’re good to go.”
So now they were twelve hours and twenty-four nautical miles away from H-hour and both Triton 3300/3s had been lowered into the water. Now the A-frame was hoisting up a powered submersible sled, laden with a three-ton cargo that weighed almost as much as one of the subs, then swinging it out over the water and bringing it down at a point between them. Towlines were run from the sled to the subs and made fast, with Torres standing on the hull of the sub in which he would be riding, giving instructions and ensuring that the cable which would allow him to control the sled from inside the Triton’s transparent cabin was properly connected and functional. Then final wishes of good luck were shouted down from the support ship, the hatches were closed and the two yellow submersibles sank beneath the ocean swell, towing their cargo behind them, and an instant later were completely invisible.
Congo went over the mission’s timetable in his head, just in case, even at this late stage, there was something that he’d missed: a factor that hadn’t been considered. But if there were such a thing, he couldn’t spot it. The subs would travel at three knots for eight hours before setting up their side of the deal, turning around and heading back the way they came.
The Mother Goose, meanwhile, would follow a spiral course, at first travelling away from the Magna Grande field before curving around and coming in closer. When she was nine nautical miles from the target, by which time night would have fallen, she’d cut her lights, stop for no more than ten minutes to pick up the subs at an agreed rendezvous point, then move off again, once more moving away from the field. If the weather prevented a quick retrieval, the subs’ crews would be brought abroad and the crafts themselves scuttled. By this point, the only thing anyone on any vessel or rig in the vicinity would be thinking about would be the storm and no one would give a damn about the Goose, what she was doing or where she was going.
When the subs had turned for home, Congo would call Babacar Matemba and tell him to get his birds and his men in the air. “And then,” Congo said to himself, “it’s showtime!”
Close to the equator the sun sinks so fast that you can actually watch it move across the sky as it sets. This evening the towering black thunderclouds massing to the west blocked most of its descent, right up to the final moment when it stabbed one last, dazzling beam of li
ght across the ocean, fell beneath the horizon and darkness descended. The storm, however, had yet to hit the National Air Force of Angola base where two Russian-made Mil Mi-35 “Hind” attack helicopters were preparing for take-off. All their markings had been crudely obliterated with black paint. Despite the prospect of worsening conditions, the two crews chatted animatedly as they walked toward their craft. They were happy, as well they should be—every man had been promised $10,000 in cash for a single night’s work. The base commander, who was turning a blind eye to the temporary disappearance of the only two Hinds in Angola’s helicopter fleet that were actually airworthy, was pocketing $250,000. The Minister of Defense, meanwhile, had confirmed the receipt of $5 million in his bank account in London. London is the preferred financial laundry for corrupt politicians from the developing world, thanks to a capacity for turning a blind eye to dirty money that puts the gnomes of Zurich to shame; a property market that is one of the world’s safest investments; and an obsession with the human rights of foreign criminals that is in its own perverse way profoundly immoral. No matter how appalling the accusations against a man may be, or even his proven guilt, it is virtually impossible to deport anyone who can either claim the slightest family contact with the United Kingdom or suggest that he is in fear of the doubtless well-deserved punishments that he faces back home. In the event of a coup, or—less likely—an election defeat, such considerations would be extremely important to the minister concerned.
With all the key players bought and paid for, Johnny Congo knew that he would get what he wanted. Sure enough, he soon received word that the helicopters were in the air, on a course that would take them out to sea and then northeast toward Cabinda. And he had the personal assurance of their commanding officer that the pilots he had chosen, the finest at his disposal, would be more than capable of dealing with the weather.