Baku, the capital city of Azerbaijan.
THE GOOD-BYES WERE CORDIAL, BUT NO MORE. THE six-man negotiating team from Russia had been noncommittal throughout. The Chinese were polite but remote. And the Iranians wore the complacent smiles of those who hold all the aces and three of the kings. Four visiting Arabian sheikhs, an Al-Sabah from Kuwait, a Salman from Saudi Arabia, Hamdan Al-Maktoum from Dubai, and a representative of the emir of Bahrain, had been, like the others, essentially disinterested in the outcome of the meeting.
Bob Trueman, the six-foot-five-inch Texan leader of the United States delegation, had rarely attempted such an uphill struggle. At 384 pounds, with a tendency to sweat like a wild boar, he gravitated toward flat, even ground, both physically and mentally. Mountainous roads, without his Lincoln Continental, were not his thing. He even made his home in the great flatlands of the eastern shore of Maryland, where once he took his wife Anne for a walk, along the sprawling goose-hunting marshes. “’Bout thirty years ago, I think…before the boys were born anyway. Probably the last real exercise I ever took.”
And Baku, this strange half-Muslim city that sits on the south shore of the great beak-shaped Apsheron Peninsula on the Caspian Sea, had proved to be a pinnacle too far for the mighty Bob Trueman. In his opinion there was no way the United States was going to win the mounting global struggle for the vast oil reserves surrounding the region.
It was all too damned late. That was the trouble. The goddamned White House and Congress had fiddled while Central Asia had, in a sense, burned; right in front of their eyes. And, in Bob Trueman’s opinion, That damned President with the loose zipper ought never to have been elected…just sat there…that sonofabitch…attending to his personal problems while the rest of the industrialized Western world edged closer to the brink…and now look what’s happened.
In Bob’s view, the entire idea of this three-day conference had been nothing less than a Sino-Iranian strategy to humiliate the U.S. The Russians, the Chinese, and the Iranians, thrown together now, as never before in the entire history of Asia and the Middle East, formed a lethal oil cartel that had effectively shut the West out of the second largest reserves on earth.
“All we need now is for the Iranians to have another shot at blockading the Gulf with their fucking Russian mines, and there could just as easily be a war,” he muttered. “A real shooting war. Because if we cannot tap into the Caspian reserves, and the Gulf gets closed, even for a month, the whole fucking place is going to grind to a halt…Japan…Europe…and the U.S.”
But these were personal fears. And Bob’s mission in Baku was public. This huge, bearlike, but deceptively cunning American, smiled and shook the hand of his Russian host. And he wished a warm farewell to his old trusted friend Sheikh Hamdan, and to young Mohammed Al-Sabah. To the Iranians he was courteous, wishing profoundly that there was some way, somehow, that the U.S. could participate in the marketing of the Caspian oil. But as he knew only too well, the pipeline across Iran would be financed essentially by China. The only other pipeline was going to China. In brief, the Iranians had gone for the shutout, and they’d made it.
The problem was, how to get back in. And now Bob Trueman faced the smiling head of the Iranian delegation, and the two men shook hands. They both knew there was a price the U.S. might have to pay, and they both knew it would be way too high—like finance a whole pipeline, in return for access to 20 percent of the crude oil. Only Bob Trueman knew that Congress might just have to bite the bullet on that one and pay up. The balance of oil supplies these days was just too delicately poised.
He told the Iranian that he had greatly enjoyed his visit to the old Persian city of Baku, and that the mild winter climate had been more than agreeable. He thanked him for the tour of the historic Muslim part of the city, which dates back to the ninth century. And he remarked how impressed he had been at the smooth working of this, the largest cargo port on the Caspian Sea. “Just wish you guys could find a way for us to help out somehow,” he said.
“Mr. Trueman, as you well know, in the years between 1996 and the new millennium we would have welcomed your help. But your administration chose not even to speak to us. I am sure you, of all people, must understand we had to turn elsewhere….”
“I do understand…and I am sorry that old enmities should have lasted so long…I guess we just had a President who thought he was still trying to get the hostages free in Tehran, eighteen years later.”
“We thought it showed a lack of foresight, Mr. Trueman. There were so many people in my country who wanted a partnership with the West…so many who wanted to join in the prosperity of the West. But you would never listen to the voices of reason that have always existed here in Persia. We’re not all Muslim Fundamentalists, you know.”
“I do know that…and I just wish things could be different…but…well…you hold the aces. The best way out to market for that oil is straight across Iran to a Gulf port…and we coulda built that pipeline quicker and better than anyone.”
“If, Mr. Trueman, you had condescended to speak to us.” The Iranian smiled. “By the way, when do you leave? I have much enjoyed talking with you.”
“We got a U.S. Air Force plane taking us to London in two hours. Then we’re flying the Concorde home tomorrow morning…new service, nonstop London–New York, then on down to Washington. Probably takes that sucker about sixteen minutes to get there.”
“It’s a beautiful aircraft, Mr. Trueman. I have always wished to fly on it one day myself.”
“Mr. Montazeri, if you can come up with a way to bring my country into the marketing of the Caspian oil, I will have my government hire one of those babies, just for you, and fly you from Tehran to Washington to celebrate.”
“I will continue to think about it,” replied the Iranian, laughing. “But the Chinese are very well entrenched now. As we both know, they invested billions and billions of dollars in acquiring the oil, helping us finance the pipeline….”
“Guess so. And, of course, they need so much oil. What’s that statistic again? By the year 2012 they will require 97 percent of all the oil in the Gulf?”
“So the economists say, Mr. Trueman. And since Beijing cannot have all of that, I suppose they will have to purchase it from somewhere else.”
“I’m a little afraid they’ve already done that,” replied the American. “So far as I can see, the entire production of Kazakhstan is on its way to the east. And there’s not a thing we can do about it…thanks to the shrewd and farsighted way our last President helped to make them the second richest country in the world.”
“No, Mr. Trueman. I do not believe there is.”
Everyone was standing, making their farewells in the tall, ornate government conference room, and Bob Trueman’s men were beginning to move toward the massive bulk of their leader. His assistant, Steve Dimauro, the physical opposite of his boss, was whipcord slim, a former All-Star college baseball shortstop out of Vidalia, Georgia. Made it to the Yankees AAA in a big hurry, but lacked the patience, and maybe the size, for the final journey to the Bronx. Steve, with his degree in economics, quit in his third year as a pro and joined the oil giant ARCO, where Bob Trueman was already a towering hero, having masterminded the huge strike in the desert of southern Dubai back in 1980.
Now, seven years later, the thirty-year-old Dimauro was one of ARCO’s young tigers, and his association with the formidable ex-VP Trueman, leader of all current Presidential missions to the Middle East, was powering him ever onward and upward in the corporate structure. ARCO was more than happy to lease him out for a year to gain priceless knowledge of the Russo-Sino-Iranian cartel, which today had so much influence in the running of the industrial world. When Steve returned he would do so as a vice president.
Bob and Steve were accompanied by four United States Republican congressmen, Jim Adison (California), Edmund Walter (New Hampshire), Mark Bachus (Delaware) and Dan Baylor (Texas). En route to the airport they traveled in two separate limousines, one for the two ARCO men and the former o
il professional Dan Baylor. The other for the other three congressmen.
There was no particular hurry, but the driver was surprised at Bob Trueman’s instruction for a first stop at the new McDonald’s that had opened in downtown Baku. “Just wanna pop right in there for a coupla of Big Macs,” he said. “I often do that in the midafternoon, kinda stabilizes my weight, keeps it right where it is. At my age you don’t wanna start losing, suddenly. That ain’t real good for you.”
“You mean between lunch and dinner?” inquired Congressman Baylor.
“Right. You see I’m a guy with a big bulk,” said Bob seriously, but unnecessarily. “And given the pressure of my work, that bulk is under attack from my own body. That means in about eight hours I could be undergoing some weight loss. Now that wouldn’t affect a little guy like yourself,” he added, staring at the beefy six-foot Texan’s 225-pound frame. “But a big man’s gotta do what a big man’s gotta do. And right now, that’s weight maintenance. McDonald’s, driver.”
Bob Trueman was still munching cheerfully as they arrived at the airport and boarded the Air Force jet for the six-hour flight to London that would get them in at 1900 local, in ample time for dinner, overnight at the Connaught Hotel, and breakfast with four American oil execs based in London. And on out to Heathrow for the 1100 departure of Concorde. By the time they boarded he was not only still chewing, but was also still grumbling about the shocking lack of foresight the West had demonstrated with regard to the Caspian oil.
“Even back in 1997,” he was saying, “it was known that the Caspian reserves in Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, and Turkmenistan added up to a vast field second only in capacity to the big one in Saudi Arabia. With the Chinese desperate to plug in to it, what does the West do? It does four things.
“One, our President decides to do everything he possibly can to make the Chinese even richer…most favored nation, export anything they want to the U.S. Hand over key aeronautical technology to them, in return for our being allowed to export to them. Whatever makes them happy.
“Two, he decides not to speak to the Iranians, thus denying us a partnership in the best oil route out of the Caspian area.
“Three, the Americans decide to expand NATO east, but not to allow Russia in, thus driving China’s traditional enemy straight back into her arms, now as a friend and vital trading partner. Not to mention the head honcho in the Caspian oil. China’s new best friend is the precise spot we don’t want her.
“Four, the Europeans, with a blinding flash of brilliance, decide to refuse membership in the European Community to the Turks, who, because of the Bosporus, own the only other way out for oil tankers from the Caspian.”
He stared at his five-man audience. “Is there anyone here who can enlighten me as to where precisely we get these fuck-ups who are supposed to be looking after the interests of the West. Anyone? Please…?”
There were just five grim smiles on that aircraft, as the bludgeoning words of the massive Texan struck home. The lethargic behavior of the Western powers had been close to blind neglect, as China, in partnership with Iran, and the Russian oil corporations, had placed a stranglehold on the Caspian oil. It was not as if there had been any secrets.
There had been a huge public announcement when Iran had bought a 10 percent share, back in 1996. In 1997 there was another press announcement that China had wrapped up a deal with Kazakhstan for future exploration of the apparently endless oil fields in the western part of the country.
The Chinese National Petroleum Company (CNPC), under this agreement immediately invested more than $4 billion in the “exploitation” of the Aktyubinsk field—principally for the construction of a pipeline to ship oil from western Kazakhstan to Turkmenistan, and potentially, farther on to Iran.”
Earlier that same week China had signed another four-billion-dollar deal for the exploitation of the nearby Ozen field. “This arrangement,” Beijing suggested, “may even conclude with a new pipeline direct to China, because of our determination to find secure oil supplies to meet soaring domestic demand.”
“Right there a three-year-old panda could’ve worked out what was happening,” grunted Bob Trueman. “And right in the middle of it we have an ever-aggressive Iran, not just threatening but actually telling everyone they plan to blockade the Gulf with mines, because the seaway belongs to them. So there we have it. The Gulf might close altogether, at least until we and the Western Allies can blow the bastard open again…and now we’re locked out of the other big world oil supply. Everyone in the industry could see it coming. And what did we do? Nothing. A great big zero. And now this. Fuck me.”
The interesting part of this discussion was not that Bob Trueman had shed the light of a prophet upon the subject. Bob was not renowned as a major intellect, even in the higher reaches of the ARCO boardroom. He was just a professional oil man, with a voracious appetite for knowledge. His staff referred to him as the Bear, his office was referred to as the Cave. He carried three briefcases usually, and read, according to Steve Dimauro, “about 3,000 magazines a day.”
He was a likable character who tended to drive his colleagues crazy because he believed there was no group of people on his staff who could provide him with as much information as he needed. His intake of both knowledge and calories, on any given day, approached the high frontiers of supply-side economics.
Above all, however, he was quick to recognize a fool. And he definitely recognized one in a position of power. Bob Trueman had been voluble in his condemnation of the White House in the dying years of the twentieth century. And he worked for America’s current Republican President with all the energy of a true zealot. The cool rejection of his proposals in Baku, by the new men in charge of world oil—or at least a significant piece of it—had frustrated him almost beyond tolerance.
“And it was all so goddamned simple,” he growled. “All we had to do was cozy up to Iran, mend a few bridges, offer them some assistance. Then finance a U.S.-Iranian pipeline with a big fat ARCO refinery, right at the end, bang on the Gulf. That way everyone gets rich, the world keeps turning, and Iran loses its fanatical desires to close it all down. Goddammit.”
The final word was the key to his abilities. Bob did not come up with solutions. He was not a creative thinker. He was an oil-industry computer with a giant database of knowledge, honed after a lifetime in the world’s oil fields. He was a man who ought to be listened to, but, for two reasons, he was never going to be president of ARCO; one, because he might not find the decisiveness to move forward in a crisis. Two, because he did not look like a natural candidate for long life.
0950. January 17, 2006.
Bob Trueman and his colleagues were ensconced happily in the big Concorde lounge in Heathrow’s Terminal Four. All six men were sipping coffee, and the team leader had helped himself to a couple of Danish pastries. Steve had made an unusual request, that they would like lunch two hours into the three-hour flight. However, shortly after takeoff he asked if the chief U.S. oil negotiator might have a couple of cheeseburgers. Steve thought he might have to delve into the mysteries of his boss’s weight-maintenance program, but Julie, the Concorde flight attendant had smiled sweetly, and replied, “Of course, sir, I am quite certain we can manage that.”
Meanwhile, Captain Brian Lambert, in company with his Senior Flight Engineer Henry Pryor, and First Officer Joe Brody, was already in the cockpit, running through the long prestart checklist that accompanies the still-superb achievement of flying a 200-foot-long delta-winged aircraft at a speed of MACH-2, twice the speed of sound, right out on the edge of space, with 100 people on board being variously served filet mignon, roast grouse, or salmon.
Henry had already walked around the aircraft for almost an hour, making his standard visual external check. And now he sat in his seat in the cockpit, running through all the preflight tests and checks, in strict accordance with the minutely ordered written procedures. No details were skimped. No detail was so small it could be ignored. Before takeoff, Henry operated by t
he well-tried book.
The two pilots had studied the flight plan and the en-route chart, and, with fifty minutes to go, the flight engineer handed over his documents to the captain, who signed the log and formally accepted control of the aircraft. Now both pilots had a copy of the flight log clipped to the front of their boards. They were concerned at this moment with way points, altitudes, and radio frequencies.
Flying the Concorde is like flying no other aircraft. Everyone is always busy, such is the terrific speed and height. The supersonic empress of the North Atlantic is a demanding mistress, and the degree of care needed to bring her safely home requires the leading edge of crew diligence and perception. Her altitude is governed by barometric pressure, rather than actual feet above the ocean, and as she burns fuel at a terrific rate, becoming lighter in weight, she rises and then corrects, maybe through 500 feet over a couple of minutes.
Right now Captain Lambert was feeding the way points into the computerized inertial navigation system. These were the milestones they would call out to air traffic control all the way over the Atlantic, every 10 degrees of longitude, a distance of 450 miles. They would check in with Shannon/Prestwick (SHANWICK) oceanic control about 30 minutes after takeoff, then make another call at 4 degrees west, at the acceleration point above the Bristol Channel. That would confirm Concorde’s route, which is not the same as the other big commercial jets heading west across the Atlantic.
H.M.S. Unseen (1999) Page 15