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Day IV
“A heavy thunder broke the deep sleep in my head, so that I started up like a person who by force is wakened. And
risen erect, I moved my rested eye round about, and looked fixedly to distinguish the place where I was. True it is, that I found myself on the verge of the valley of the woeful abyss that gathers in thunder of
infinite wailings. Dark, profound it was, and cloudy, so that though I fixed my sight on the bottom I did not discern anything there.
“Now we descend down here into the blind world,” began the
Poet all deadly pale, “I will be first, and thou shalt be second.”
And I, who had observed his color, said, “How shall I come, if thou fearest, who art wont to be a comfort to my
doubting?” And he to me, “The anguish of the folk who are down here depicts upon my face that pity which thou takest for fear. Let us go on, for the long way urges us.”
Dante Alighieri, The
Inferno – Canto IV
16
Thunder Horse Down
The helo swooped low
over the site, the pilot aghast at what he was seeing. It was a British Petroleum ride, out from Port Fourchon in the Mississippi Delta on an emergency rig tour after Hurricane Florence cut a swath through the production zone at sea. Thus far 15 platforms had sustained damage that would be at least a week in repair, perhaps longer. This was the last planned stop for the day, to the crown jewel in the joint BP-Exxon operation in the region. They were going out to Thunder Horse,
the world’s largest semi-submersible oil platform, so big you could put three football fields up on the topside area. It was fully submersible now.
“Look at that!” the pilot pointed at the badly listing platform. Thunder Horse was keeling over on her massive industrial orange flotation columns, and apparently still taking on water. Constructed in Korea and delivered to Corpus Christi, Texas in 2004, the rig had problems from the very first. Some grease monkey had set in a bad six-inch pipe, and water was misrouted between ballast tanks causing a major list in 2005. The big platform almost tipped completely over during that incident, and it took a week to pump out the water and get the ballast tanks balanced again. It was also discovered that her subsea tail was suffering from ‘hydrogen embrittlement’ and large segments of the equipment had to be replaced. Six weeks later it took, and weathered, a blow from Hurricane Katrina, and the last few brushes from the big storms never seemed to bother the immense platform—until now.
“What could have caused this?” The engineer aboard knew they had not suffered a direct hit from Florence this time. Yet the damage was plain to see. “Can you get a bit lower, I want to check the other side.” The platform had finally sorted out its teething troubles and was brought on-line in June of 2008. She was expected to deliver all of a billion barrels of oil over her 25 year industrial life span, but this was a problem that could cause a drastic setback in that schedule. The 250,000 barrels she might have contributed to that total today were obviously not going to be delivered, let alone the daily expected quota of 200 million cubic feet of gas. She was obviously floundering, and in very deep water, sitting right astride block 778/822 in the Mississippi Canyon, the bottom over a mile away, some 6300 feet below. One of her massive cranes was already completely underwater.
“Damn, with Mad Dog damaged we can’t lose Thunder Horse,”
said the engineer.
Mad Dog was dubbed one of the 50 projects to change the world by Goldman Sachs, sporting the world’s largest single piece truss spar, one of the biggest lifts ever set in the Gulf of Mexico, about 190 miles south of New Orleans in the Green Canyon plot. The big dog was permanently moored to the seabed, with a capacity to produce up to 100,000 barrels of oil and 60 million cubic feet of natural gas per day, much smaller than Thunder Horse,
but significant. She was damaged, but still intact.
“Shall I spread the word?” The pilot gave the engineer a sheepish look.
“Better tell the techs on Mad Dog to get over here first,” said the engineer. Crews were already working to restore the 24-inch lateral connecting Mad Dog to the Caesar oil pipeline. Her Natural gas was transported via a 16-inch lateral connected to the Cleopatra gas pipeline, both part of BPs Mardi Gras Transportation System in the Gulf.
“Lord,” the engineer was scratching his head, eyes wide as he surveyed the floundering platform below them now. “With Caesar and Cleopatra off line, and big rigs like this in the water, we’re buggered for weeks, mate. Better blow the horn. This baby needs help fast.”
“Right-o,” said the pilot, flipping his headset on to begin transmitting. “Mad Dog, Mad Dog, this is BP Survey, Over. “
A scratch voice answered in a few seconds. “Go ahead Survey.”
“Thunder
Horse down, mates. Repeat. Thunder Horse down. Survey engineer says we’ll need all your people out this way on the double, with anything you can float, over.”
Someone swore on the other end of the
transmission, Then the voice came back, “Roger that, Survey. Thunder Horse down.”
* * *
On the other side
of the African continent, the Fairchild flagship Argos had accelerated to near top speed. She was sailing south, along the planned route to the Niger Delta, though the mind of Elena Fairchild was beset by the news in the Persian Gulf.
“How could we have missed this?” she said in an exasperated tone. “How?”
“Salase only told us half the truth,” Said Iverson. He was in the executive offices on the ship, in emergency conference with the CEO. “He floated that bullshit 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.”
“Had us watching our nose and then gave it to us in the ass, eh? I’ll have that fat pig on a spit the next time I see him.” Elena was furious. “What about this business of the welded maintenance panel? Sounds like we had a rat aboard ship. Do you think Salase knew?”
“Hard to say,” said Iverson. “It was clear he wanted to warn us of the attack. He could have kept his mouth shut, you know.”
“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 last 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. I’m willing to wager that missing man was a saboteur. 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 Iverson. “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’ve got to get Princess Royal out of the straits,” Iverson 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 engine damage?”
“She can be towed,” the captain reassured her. “This is all theater, Elena.” He was one of the few people aboard privileged to address her by her first name. “If they wanted to sink her they would have hit her closer to 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; 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?”
Iverson thought for a moment. “No,” he began. “No, I don’t think so. And I doubt Salase knew anything more than he revealed last evening at dinner. 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. His network wasn’t that good.”
“Better than our information,” Elena fumed.
“But now it’s done, Elena, 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?”
“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. He thinks we can get retardant on the fire and contain the damage—but its 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 intel 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 Iverson in 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 pursed her lips, deciding something, then spoke quickly as she started typing.
“We need to get hold of the Van Ommeren group. They’re the main
player for tank terminal operations in the UAE—and Vopak.”
“The Dutch again,” said Iverson, hand on his chin. “I think we may have a play here,
Elena.”
“Mississippi Delta?” she asked.
“No. First here, in the Niger Delta.”
She looked up at him, nodding her head in agreement.
Iverson smiled.
“Nigerian bandits are shooting up Royal Dutch Shell operations in the Delta 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 ten days at full speed from being able to do Princess Royal any good. But we’re just hours away from
being able to offer Royal Dutch Shell a helping hand with their Niger Delta operations. We already have the Chevon contract in hand. Why not call Milford Haven and get the other two tankers out to sea as well? We
can split the first two tankers, already at sea, between Chevron and Shell. The remaining two can pick up whatever’s left. I smell another arrangement.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said
Elena. I called Milford Haven last night, partly out of greed in the event I could extend this deal a little further. With the threat to Princess Royal in mind I figured we could use all the backup we could get just
now. The ships are already underway. “
“Right you are,” said Iverson. “Two little girls for Chevron, and two more for Royal Dutch Shell in the Delta.”
“We save their
oil for them here,” Elena summed it up. “And they get Vopak and Van Ommeren to save my oil for me in Al Fujairah.”
Iverson smiled. “We couldn’t have planned it better! But what
about the Salase deal and Singapore?”
“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 Iverson, pleased by the warmth of her smile in return.
“In fact,” her eyes leapt ahead to light on some distant thought. “We might even twist this arrangement
into a nice new pretzel.”
Iverson was nodding yes.
“Salase has brokered a deal with the Americans to move oil east for the Chinese—and I was to carry it for him, all the way from
Nigeria 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. It would be as if we moved the oil round the Cape without even sailing!”
“Lovely,” said Iverson. “And when our four 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 Florence 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 south to the Niger
Delta at all speed. Tomorrow we should be close enough to launch helos. With your permission, Madame, I’ll get the boys ready for the Delta.”
The “Boys” were the 120 man security
contingent on board the Argos, a highly trained commando that would be perfect for the job.
“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.
17
Barbarossa
The news went from bad to worse
on Robertkiri platform that morning. Mudman had been monitoring the video and radio coverage out of Lagos.
“Hey Flackie,” he called, pulling out his ear bud for a moment and lowering the volume on his iPod. “We got us a hurricane now.”
“What are you talking about Mudman?” Ben Flack was in no mood for more bad news. “I know about the god dammed hurricane. 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 MEND are calling for a major uprising. Calling it Hurricane Barbarossa or some shit. Even got old Ateke Tom on board with them.” Ateke Tom was a notorious militant gangster in the Delta, and head of another insurgent group, the Niger Delta 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 war boats filing out from different MEND bases across the Niger Delta in solidarity to carry out destructive
and deadly attacks on the oil industry in Rivers state.”
Apparently the militants had made good on their claims, blowing up a big Shell pipeline in Bakana Front, 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 MEND 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 Niger Delta.” It was John Odley, the Nigerian 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 Nigerian 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. “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 Delta shore.
There had been bad news all morning, explosions up river, 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, already stretched thin, were now locked in a death grip with MEND rebels.
The information put out by corporate the public relations machine was laughable. “As
a result of on-going pipeline repair work, the Robertkiri facility had been shut-in prior to the incident. The shooting incident has not had any additional impact on current levels of production,” company spokesman Scott Walker said in an email. Another load of bullshit, thought Flack. The man should apply for a job at the Nigerian Information Ministry. Production was flat out dead!
“We’re too damn close to those bastards,” Flack murmured. “Hell, they attacked the Shell facility at Bonga a while back, and that was 74 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 two tankers on the way, and we want you to rig for loading with anything you can move.”
“What?” Flack was shocked. “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 heading your way right now.”
“Well
I’m gonna need more than a goddamned tanker crew to handle this,” Flack protested.
“You’ve got it. This is a cruiser, or something like one, not one of their tankers. Ship called
the Argos. Rumor has it the damn thing is armed to the teeth. So you just hold tight. They have helos 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. This cruiser is gonna look like a big sleek cruise ship when it shows
up, but don’t let that fool you. 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 in the mangrove country, 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 MEND 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.
“MOPOL?” 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. 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
approaching aircraft and shouting. The shout was an order, Flack realized, when one of the men hefted a light machinegun and opened fire on the approaching aircraft. The oil war, which the Nigerian 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. The group leader, Lieutenant
Ryan, barked an order in return, 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 wing man 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 mini rockets ignited from the pod. They were flying a modified Eurocopter EC-155, 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. Capable of over 140 knots, the helo had a range of about 500 nautical miles, and she
was now about a hundred miles out in front of the Argos, sent out to reconnoiter the scene.
The salvo of three rockets churned into the sea directly in front of the lighter that had fired, sending a wild spay
of water into the air. The explosions 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. It was enough to convince the locals that they had chosen the wrong platform for their oil war today.
The lighters turned and beat a hasty retreat toward the shore and safety of the thick mangrove swamp, their bravado quashed by the firepower of this unexpected new adversary.
Back on Robertkiri Platform,
Flack clenched his fist and beamed. “Thank God for small favors,” he said aloud.
18
Stand Ready
The commander of Iran’s aerial defense, Brigadier General Ahmed Mighani was not happy. He had been reading all
morning, digesting news feeds and official government statements on the ever boiling kettle of the Gulf. The latest was the typical fare, half taunting and half bravado, with a swipe at Israel in the mix:
“The Zionist regime lacks the diplomatic, economic and social capability to launch a wide-scale war,” General Yahya Rahim Safavi said in response to threats by Israel to attack Iran's nuclear
facilities. “Iran's armed forces, including the Revolutionary Guards, and 11 million members of the Basiji, the Guards voluntary force, “are fully prepared to deal with any attack.”
Yes,
he thought. So prepared that I can barely fly half the planes we have in inventory, and have to scavenge equipment that should have been retired and sold for scrap metal over twenty years ago. This was followed by a
story claiming the US planned to use Georgian military facilities as a beachhead to strike Iran. And at this very moment the Pathfinder, an oceanographic survey ship owned by the US Military Sealift Command, was
making its second visit to Sevastopol in the Crimea in the last ten days. The official purpose of the visit was to conduct an underwater survey of the harbor to ostensibly look for the wreckage of the Armenia, a
WWII era Soviet hospital ship sunk by the Germans.
The curiosity of the Americans knows no bounds, he thought, fully aware that this ship could also monitor Russian submarine activity in the Black Sea at a
range out to 60 miles. He continued reading: “With regard to the United States, Safavi said its 200,000-strong contingent in the region was deployed in such a way that it actually posed a serious danger to the
U.S. itself.”
General Mighani wondered what that was supposed to mean, concluding that all the American troops would, of course, make wonderful targets for Iran’s Shahab IIIs, the medium range
ballistic missiles that were the backbone of the country’s real deterrent against any possible attack. The government release continued it’s confident line: “There is no doubt that the Americans,
who are stuck in Afghanistan, Iraq and also Georgia, will not open a fourth front,” he said, referring to a possible attack on Iran.”
No doubt, no doubt. That was why the nation was busy this
morning conducting an emergency preparedness drill over the next three days. No doubt…
But the cable that had darkened his mood had come suddenly, interrupting his review of the National Air Defense
drill. The news about the attack on a British flagged tanker was cause for both elation and regret. It was a dangerous situation that could easily cause him great grief. The British tanker was struck amidships as
she entered the Straits of Hormuz. The attack delivered a sharp rebuke to those who have plundered the region for decades, he thought. It also made the obvious point that the oil the West so desperately needed could
be choked off at a moment’s notice. But the danger that this attack would be blamed on Iran was very real.
At the moment he had no hard information as to who the perpetrators might be, and did not know
the incident had been carefully planned. Special Operations had not bothered to consult with the Air Force for security purposes. He was only told to conduct these silly exercises, but with live ammo load
outs.
There was other news as well. An attack on the US embassy in Yemen, beginning with a suicide bomb and followed up by an attempt to storm the embassy in San’ai, had also just crossed the wires. The
attacked failed. Good coffee in San’ai, he thought, but bad politics. Could this be part of a new wave of jihadi attacks? It was clear that the Americans would look first to Iran for any potential involvement.
He knew the incident would offer them just the pretext they needed to make good their longstanding threats. Already the American light carrier Iwo Jima had put to sea from its berthing at Jebel Ali, and there were
alarming signs of increased US naval activity building in the gulf.
In an official statement to the Iranian press, for general release, he made it clear that Iran would be ready, sounding just like all the
other official statements he had been reading that morning. “If Iran is attacked, it will deliver a crushing blow to the enemy…we will surprise the enemy and make them regret their actions.” And
now he was sorting through his surprises, realizing that, when it came to fixed wing aircraft in defense of the homeland, he had very little in inventory.
The aging Iranian air force was still holding on to
retired legacy system inherited from the days of the Shah. He had all of 65 F-4 Phantom fighters, and some 60 F-5E Tigers, though he knew the air force would be lucky to get even half of these in the air and keep
them there for longer than a few days. Of the 25 old F-14 Tomcats, perhaps 6 were mission capable. Officially he also had 25 more advanced Russian Mig-29s in inventory, but he knew many of these were mere trainers.
The one plane he had any faith in, perhaps good for one desperate strike at a given target, would be his strike group of a dozen Sukhoi-25s and the 30 Sukhoi-24s behind them. Half of these had been a surprise gift
from Saddam, fleeing to Iran during the first Gulf War. He knew his planes were no match for the superior American made inventories that they would have to face, but some would reach their targets. The rest of
his air force was comprised of a few old Chinese J-7 fighters and a couple dozen French made Mirage F-1s, both planes dating to the old cold war era of the mid 1970s.
The only thing he could do with such a force was simply throw it into the wind and hope for the best. The American F-16 and
F-15 fighters would destroy the bulk of his force in a matter of hours, not to mention the lethal F-22 Raptors, a new stealth fighter that could not even be seen on the old radars his planes mounted. His only hope
was that some of his planes would pose a distraction, while perhaps a few others would manage to unleash a few missiles. Yes, it was in his missile inventories that all hope resided now. He had enough to unleash a
storm on the Gulf, and make life there very miserable for a few weeks, perhaps a month at most. The air force would simply buy him a few precious hours time so his liquid and solid fueled missiles could be staged
and targeted on key installations in the region that the Americans depended on for their life blood of oil.
The strategy, of course, was not to concentrate his force on American military assets. Oh, he would
use the new Russian missiles to threaten the American carriers, but otherwise engaging the U.S, military was fruitless. No, instead he would fling his arsenal of Shehabs at the major oil terminals on the oil rich
states to the south. He would strike at America by cutting off the flow of her precious oil business. There was no other way. But how long would it be before the American planes swept his meager air force aside and
pounded his missile sites to dust?
Saddam had played cat and mouse with his mobile missile systems in the desert for many weeks, but the American planes and missiles were much better now. And even though Iran
had been making efforts at strengthening its air defense systems in recent years, taking delivery of more advanced Russian made Tor-M1 and S-300 systems, they were too few and too widely dispersed to provide a
credible defense. The system had weak low altitude radar coverage, no overlapping radar network, shaky command and control systems, and inadequate electronic counter-countermeasures. So the so called
‘exercises,’ and all his bravado today before the press, was more talk than anything he could put to action. The surprises, he knew, would not come from his fixed wing aircraft, or from his ability to
fend off a determined enemy air attack, but from the considerable missile forces Iran had been building over the last decade. The best defense, he knew, was a good offense. Iran could make any attack against its
homeland a painful option for the aggressors.
The long war with Iraq had also proved the folly of trying to wage war with conventional ground forces, particularly against American equipped enemies. Millions
of young Iranian men had died, some in suicidal WWI style human wave assaults against the prepared Iraqi defenses. Even the inferior Russian built T-55 and T-72 tanks Saddam had in inventory were enough to repulse
such attacks, particularly when backed up by chemical weapons, napalm, artillery fire, wire, mines and a host of other defenses. God rot the soul of Saddam, he thought. His son, a young Revolutionary Guardsman, had
died in such a battle. The General passed several moments, imagining the last moments for Saddam. He would have liked to have been there, watching him hang.
Yes, the lesson of that long war was evident. The one
weapon that seemed to in any way surprise the enemy was the short range ballistic missile. Capable of delivering large warheads over great distances, with reasonable accuracy, the missiles put the enemy urban
centers into the war theatre and acted as a supreme weapon of terror. The famous ‘scud wars’ in the Gulf were a perfect example. They were far more effective than believed, and very few SCUDs had been
successfully intercepted—not even by the new American Patriot system.
So when he watched his old fighter planes perform their low level fly-bys, he knew that there would be little he could really do to
defend against a determined American or Israeli air campaign against his nation. But we can hit back, he mused. Not long, but long enough. The single missile in the belly of a British tanker this morning put a fine
point to it. Only a very few of his planes or missiles would have to reach their targets to have a dramatic and devastating effect—a very few. And there were some weapons he held close to his chest, the real
surprises should the Americans ever be so bold as to strike mother Iran. He would get a chance to play his hand sooner than he hoped.
The phone rang. And adjutant handed him a new telex. The first page was
obvious, though insulting. The Americans were over-flying Iranian soil with their damnable drones! It was time stamped thirty minutes ago. Three had made close approaches to Abu Musa in the Gulf, where a small
outlying airfield was maintained with a few maritime patrol boats. He could smell the lies they would soon be vomiting in the UN. Then he read the second page, time stamped ten minutes later. It was signed by
Iranian Defense Minister Mostafa Mohammad Najjar and marked with the highest level of urgency:
AMERICAN MARINES HAVE LANDED ON ABU MUSA
STAND READY
19
Hurricane Goldman
Hurricane Goldman
struck the financial system again at a most inopportune moment. The long investment history of the company was wiped out, technically speaking, when huge counterparties to extensively leveraged derivatives contracts decided they would simply not pay. The relic of American International Group was again teetering on the edge of collapse as investors shunned the stock as well. The Fed injected another $70 billion cash into the system in an effort to calm the markets, but the DOW plummeted 504 points that Monday, the worst decline since the crash of September 2008 when Lehman Brother fell. The following Wednesday it dropped another 450 points, losing 10% of its value in two trading sessions as nervous investors shunned stocks of every stripe and fled to gold and treasury certificates.
With news like this burning up the wires, the MEND offensive dubbed ‘Hurricane Barbarossa’ found only a few pixels on the net. All across the world, central banks opened the pipelines in a desperate effort to move the frozen sludge of the shadow economy along. Goldman’s sudden and “unexpected” collapse made old scandals like Bear Stearns, Lehman Brothers and Bernie Madoff’s shenanigans pale by comparison. The government “acquisition” of an 80% equity position in AIG was an even more massive socialization of the losses being sustained by greedy, incompetent, and corrupt corporations. The list of bailouts had grown larger that anyone could have believed, large banks and thrifts like WaMu, Wachovia, Morgan Stanley, CitiGroup, Fannie and Freddie, not to mention the auto and airline industries, both in line holding begging cups at Uncle Sam’s door.
Analyst Nouriel Roubini described a slow motion run on the banks taking place, as frightened people slowly began to withdraw savings from overextended 401Ks and other accounts. In fact, the run on the Fed was far more serious, for the money being pledged to backstop Wall Street’s tottering institutions did not really exist. It had to be created by the Fed by exercising its unique power to simply print dollars by the billions and ‘inject’ them into the system.
It was a bit like the effort the Saudis were making to try and keep the world’s largest oil fields pumping—injecting seawater into the wells to keep the pressure up. What they got back, of course, was a sludge of seawater and diluted crude that was becoming harder and harder to find in quantity, and growing ever more sour. The same thing was dooming the Fed’s efforts to shore up the financial levies and repressurize the credit flows.
As Robert awoke that morning, safely cocooned in his Quantum Sleeper, he noted that his wife was already up, her side of the chamber empty now, the top cover quietly closed again to leave Robert the last few minutes in peaceful bliss. But the news was already filtering through the stereo speakers, interlaced with the constant flow of advertising that never seemed to stop, no matter what the crisis was. But his thoughts were far from the advantage of that 1.9% APR on a Dorado Duster, or the $2000 factory cash back after signing. With his credit rating he couldn’t sign for a library card now. Not after Hurricane Goldman had swept through his world and leveled the sandbar of easy credit he had been living on the last few years.
His pit trader friend never called him back. Jimmy let him down. The news that Goldman had failed spread like a toxin, and fund after fund had taken staggering losses, some losing 90% of their nominal value in just one day. The near thousand point drop in the markets that followed further decimated Robert’s meager stock positions. As the radio announcer yammered on about one special offer or another, he found himself simply losing himself in the media stream, the commercials washing over his weary mind one after another…
Still
ahead! The biggest little sale of the year… Final clearance! No payments and interest until February. Free delivery, usually in 4 hours or less! Don’t wait call now! And now this…Aqua Fresh
whitening power is even better! Use every day for whitening teeth…And remember, you are not fully clean unless you are Zestfully clean… Then...Tonight--A distillation of the very best, the weirdest, the
wildest on channel Two…Warning…Do NOT try this at home...Plan the perfect weekend and choose from 50 unforgettable getaways, starting as low as Ten-Ninety-Nine…and all backed by our exclusive price
protection guarantee…Two thumbs up from Sickle and E-Bert! Together there is nothing they can’t do -- except trust each other! …Something important happened today that will effect YOU. Find out
what—Information you need from people you know… But first—It’s as comfortable and quiet as you want it to be, the true definition of luxury…Discover the all new mid-sized sedan that
these stars just can’t forget…Tired of those dull T-shirts and soiled jeans? Could use a bigger washer and dryer? Now you can save $120 on a pair….Litter box odors are the worst, but we have the
world’s best odor eaters! …So Hurry…sale ends Saturday…And now, your favorite HOT POCKETS! Dinner with a crispy crust, topped off with the most tempting dessert you’ve ever
had--Hereshy’s’ classic caramel, so thick and creamy you’ll wonder if you ever tasted anything better...
What happened to the simple, direct interrogation of the dairy industry
commercial, he thought. Got Milk? A quiet tone interrupted the commercial stream, and the volume lowered 30%. The digital messaging system in the Quantum Sleeper had a message for him. “Good morning,” the voice intoned in the smooth, soft tones of a fresh young co-ed, and quietly announced that there was a fault reading on the central AC unit in the basement. “A quick service call should take care of it today!” the voice concluded. The Sleeper was hard wired to a device that checked on all his major appliances, letting him know when anything needed attention.
“What would you like to do?” The girl asked with sweet exuberance. “Press
one to initiate a service call… Press zero to cancel.”
Robert didn’t want to think about it. He just wanted to roll over, pull the covers tight around his head, and forget the AC unit,
the advertising, and the fact that he was now basically bankrupt, with every nickel of his retirement flushed down the toilet of Wall Street.
“What would you like to do?” The girl persisted in the same voice. “Press
one to initiate a service call… Press zero to cancel.”
Harried and angry, he reached up to press the zero button on the overhead input panel.
“Thank you,” said the girl. “I’ll
be sure to remind you about this situation tomorrow. Until then, have a wonderful day!”
Up yours, thought Robert, though that was a real push-pull for him. The girl’s voice was so
sweetly compelling that if he had rolled over to find her next to him in the Sleeper he would have taken out his frustration by other means. But she was only a digital recording, one he had chosen from a panel of
six different voice options, all for just $4.95 extra on his Sleeper monthly service package.
The radio came back up to volume, and the inevitably conservative slant on the show featured a commentator selling
the new government bailout of AIG as good for business. “These assets will recover in time,” he pronounced. “The government may even stand to make money on this deal. Let me be clear—this
time AIG will not be obligated to Goldman Sachs for any and all insurance swaps written to protect the derivatives the Chinese and others have repudiated. We should be turning the corner on this situation now, and
things will be improving soon.”
Robert couldn’t agree. The crisis might be over for AIG, defaulting on its swap obligation just as the Chinese had defaulted on the trash Goldman sold them, he
thought, but it’s not over for the rest of us, by any measure you could find. Foreclosures were increasing exponentially each month, now up to 1000 per day in California alone! Home values continued to
decline—because a home was only worth what a buyer would offer to pay you for it, a buyer who could borrow that money from a bank in good standing. That model was seriously skewed now. Banks weren’t
lending as before, so buyers were thinning out, realizing that to buy a home now meant acquiring an asset that would immediately depreciate. How’s that for discouraging someone to part with their life savings
to make a down payment, he thought?
The lack of offers and the huge glut of unsold homes put more and more downward pressure on prices. The home value declined until the property was “underwater,”
where the so called “owner” now owed more on the loan than he could ever hope to receive in an offer from a buyer—at least in the near run. In the most overheated markets like Southern California
where Robert lived, prices and home values eroded by a staggering 30% in the first quarter of this year. The bottom was still nowhere in sight.
He shuddered to think that total mortgage debt now exceeded home
equity, for the first time since 1945. People were going to see virtually every last nickel of “equity” evaporate from their home, phantom wealth that was used as collateral for home consumer loans to
buy new appliances, granite counter tops, plasma TVs, cars, vacations, Quantum Sleepers—now nothing more than a massive debt liability. So much for the dream and the false perception of benefit from home
ownership, he thought. He suddenly realized that he never really owned anything but the debt! The bank owned their home from the day he and his wife moved in, and then passed on the lien to some investor in Asia.
Robert bought a place to live, and a massive debt. They could have rented a similar place to live at half the rate of home ownership, avoiding property taxes, maintenance, and all that interest!
What was
happening to the world he had taken for granted for so very long? He knew there were millions of people like him waking up to the same bad news, the same despair, as the realization that all they had now was a
paycheck if they were lucky enough to still be employed, a meager checking balance, and a little open space on a few credit cards finally sunk in. Their home was just a big liability now, and many were simply
walking away, mailing the keys back to the bank and moving on.
Many banks were now also realizing the bottom line in the game they rigged—that they were now the proud owners of all these depreciating
assets, and that debt was back on their books, hidden away in trick accounting reports—another way they deluded themselves about their own solvency. One thing was certain, however. There was no longer anyone
out there paying on that loan when the account went into foreclosure. That was reality, compounded millions of times across the nation as the foreclosure tally continued to rise. He did not see any way he could
avoid losing the house now, but grimly contemplated trying to hang on as long as he could before he and the wife joined the millions of other walking zombies who had abandoned their credit based paradise in
suburbia.
In the meantime, the Treasury and Fed continued their efforts to bail out the big financial institutions that had created and profited immensely from the housing boom. As investors pulled nearly $90
billion from money market funds that weekend, the entire system was becoming a giant sink hole. New legislation was being proposed for an emergency shutdown of the system, forbidding any further withdrawals. The Fed
countered by announcing new measures: Short sales of nearly 800 stocks were again banned, including the big financial firms that had made billions using the trading tactic, and ruined numerous companies in the
process. In addition, another $50 billion dollar fund was set up to provide a government guarantee for money market accounts for up to one year. The money, of course, was pledged by the Treasury, the US
Taxpayer.
Then the Fed announced it would continue to buy up all the toxic mortgage backed ‘assets’ destroying bank balance sheets and dump them in a new financial landfill, something akin to the
old Resolution Trust Corporation that cleaned up after the last big crisis involving S&Ls in the 1980s. It was another $1.2 Trillion dollar bailout for the banks, at US taxpayer expense, but Robert knew that no
one was going to call him any time soon offering to salvage his shattered budget, save his home, or help pay off his credit card debt.
The markets rebounded on the news, for the day of reckoning had again
been postponed by the ongoing socialization of losses sustained by the banks. Corporate America could not be allowed to die the agonized death it so roundly deserved. The ‘free market,’ would be
sacrificed in its stead.
20
Acquisitions
He was standing by the tapestry,
admiring the loom and color of the piece, and the exquisite artistry of the crest woven above his house coat of arms. Sir Roger Ames, Duke of Ellington, was also listening carefully to the account of his acquisitions agent, just back from Bladon where he had been working the operation under St Martin’s church. The Duke was assuring himself that the matter he had commissioned was completed to his satisfaction.
“And sir,” the agent continued, “I can report that the operation was a complete success. The sample has been recovered, and with more than sufficient quantity, and the access has been resealed to a depth of six feet.”
“Not the whole of it?” the Duke questioned.
“Six feet has proven to be more than enough in prior circumstances, sir.”
“Yes, well that might do on foreign soil, Mr. Thomas, good for the tunnel work in Egypt I suppose, but this is the homeland we’re speaking of. Can you assure me this won’t make news one unfortunate morning with something on the order of a sink hole?”
“Oh, most assuredly not, sir. All the reinforced wood work remains in place. There should be no trouble of the sort. In fact, I would venture to say the ground is stronger now than before.”
“Won’t it erode?”
“In time, sir, but the cavity is likely to simply fill up with rain water, which will give the whole scene the appearance of a natural aquifer if ever uncovered.”
The Duke gave him a dubious glance, indicating that he simply didn’t buy that argument, but the man didn’t seem prepared to quibble the point further.
“Sufficient quantity, you say?”
“Seven pounds, sir—that’s two pounds beyond the normal delivery specification. Quite adequate.”
“Quite,” said the Duke. “And certification?”
“Everything is in order, sir. DNA testing has come back double plus to the good. I have the lab reports right here with me as part of the delivery.”
“Very well,” said the Duke, turning now to regard the man he had been speaking to. Ames was a tall man, straight back, impeccable deportment, a thin wisp of mustachio beneath a well used face, yet the lines there had given him a stately expression, haughty yet deepened with hint of hidden wisdom, the eyes dark and yet soft in their regard. He was a man who had seen enough of the world to know the difference between good times and bad. And times were good on the Ellington Estate just now. Very good.
“You may make your delivery then, Mr. Thomas. Leave the report on my desk. The secretary will issue a sight draft for the agreed commission—all this subject to verification by the auditors, of course.”
“Certainly, sir. And thank you, sir.” Ian Thomas made a polite head bow, bending slightly, recognizing he had been dismissed without so many words. One had to have a keen ear for intonation when speaking to this sort, and Thomas had done business with some of the wealthiest men in Europe.
He turned and walked back down the long carpeted hall, bowing slightly again as he backed out the door and pulled it gently closed. Only then did he allow himself the broad smile that finally stretched his wide features into a Cheshire Cat grin. He stood to pocket a million pounds sterling on this job, and the image of the sight draft he was about to collect was already running through his imagination. Not bad for three months work, he thought.
In his offices the Duke ambled casually over to his desk, hand’s clasped behind his back , eyes searching out the file the man had left him. He sat down in his comfortable leather chair, and opened the file, his lips taut as he read, with the occasional scratch of his chin.
“Ah, Winston,” he said aloud. “You were a man for your times, were you not? To think that you’ll soon be gleaming on a pendant.”
He thought on that…who to gift with this little treasure? It would buy the affections of the Lady Pomroy, yes? But he would have to show it round the group for a while, and soak up a bit of the envy the finished stone was likely to induce. Old Maitland will have a fit when I trot this one out, what? Thought he was firmly planted on the high ground with the Marlboro stone. We’ll see what he has to say about old Winston.
The Duke was a member of a very select club, one of many such gatherings in a wealthy man’s social circles. For years now they had been amusing themselves by seeking out the remains of famous people the world over, all long since dead and safe in the arms of history. Yet new technologies could take a sufficient quantity of their ashes and create something extraordinary, something rare and beautiful, something utterly unique--and such things had a way of being particularly desirable in the circles he frequented. In this case his agent had just certified delivery on the remains of one Sir Winston Churchill, fresh from his cemetery repose at Bladon in Oxfordshire. The material, still laden with carbon, would be soon be subjected to the immense pressures and temperatures required to create a certified diamond, and Sir Winston would become the latest glittering acquisition in the Duke’s collection. A company called “LifeGem” had been creating diamonds this way for years, mostly run of the mill ring stones made from the remains of passed “loved ones.” But the Duke, and a select group of like minded men and women of means, had grander tastes.
He thought, for a moment. This man Thomas was good, very good indeed. He may just use the man again, should competition get any stiffer. Rumors had been floating about for some time that Maitland was up to no good again. It was said he had an exceptional find to present at the next meeting. We shall see, he thought. Perhaps I just might steal a bit of Maitland’s thunder, yes?
Always thinking ahead, he wondered what he might put this man Thomas on to next? Being fond of themes, perhaps a nice stone
created from the remains of another famous duke might compliment this one--say, the Duke of Wellington? For that matter, his nemesis Napoleon Bonaparte might be a worthy compliment. Yes, those two stones side
by side would make an awesome display, would they not?
He seemed pleased with that thought, and opened a drawer, slipping the file inside and pushing it closed again until the security latch clicked
tight. Now onto more pressing matters. This business in the news this morning, British flagged tanker struck amidships by a missile in the Straits of Hormuz. What was this about now? He tapped his desk,
thinking on the matter.
Fairchild & Company, he thought. A small outfit that had been making runs out of the Gulf into Milford Haven. He had the file open now, reviewing the company profile…Assets
of a reported seventeen billion, most of that in fleet tonnage and estates in Aberdeen. What was this note due now at months end? Bank of London, $200 million in US denominated dollars. How gauche. He preferred his
accounting in British pounds, particularly for any company serving the interests of the Crown. But as this was primarily an oil company, and oil was exclusively traded in dollars, or had been until very
recently, he excused the transgression.
He flipped the page, glancing at the company’s last reported balance sheet, with a particular interest in cash flows. He noted that there had been four entries
over the last month, each one attributed to deliveries received at Milford Haven, where the company berthed its fleet tankers. The revenues had been diverted out to cover the last three months operating expenses,
licensing, insurance, payrolls, and then there was this last entry labeled ‘Special Projects,’ that aroused some interest.
It was a $200 million credit line Bank of London was calling in at
month’s end. What with the chaos on the markets of late, Barklays sniffing up the skirts of Goldman before it collapsed, Halifax, a big British housing lender damn near buggered, Northern Rock gone,
Bradford & Bingly nationalized, he could see why. Credit was tighter than ever throughout the world. But this was a rather extravagant expense to slip in under an opaque heading like ‘Special
Projects.’
He flipped the page, noting the biography of one Elena Fairchild, the company owner and CEO. Well named, he thought, struck by the mature beauty of the woman. Decent pedigree, he thought,
with ancestors fighting in the Crusades. Family tree connected to the Landkey Fairchilds of North Devon…Coal and iron merchants owning a fleet of small vessels which plied to Wales and Sussex. My, how the
acorn never seems to fall far from the tree, he mused. A bit of spark in the blood line. They rigged out several of their ships to fight with Drake and against the Spanish Armada. Decent of them,
what?
Well, Miss Fairchild, he noted she remained unwed with some interest, I see your cash flow is running a bit thin. Seems to me you’ve got most of your quarterly profit burning in the Straits of
Hormuz. Yes…Princess Royal’s your largest tanker, and you were probably counting on her to make good with the Bank of London. Pity.
He thought on this large sum columned off to ‘Special
Projects,’ his curiosity getting the better of him. He’d have a word with Jameson over that the Bank and see what they knew about it. Under the circumstances, and given the rather thin reserves this lady
seems to have in hand at the moment, the company is looking just a tad vulnerable now, isn’t it? He had given some considerable thought about moving money into the energy business. The next twenty years
are going to be quite interesting. Acquisitions…Yes, that’s the ticket. This Fairchild & Company looked like easy pickings.
Suppose I make sure Bank of London stands firm on this credit call,
just to tighten the lady’s britches a bit, yes? He reached for his intercom, buzzing the secretary.
“Yes sir?”
“Calendar clear?” he asked.
“Nothing the
remainder of the afternoon, sir.”
“Good. Ring Acquisitions, will you. Tell them I’ll be sending down a file and I want a line of interest laid out for discussion—shall we say
48hours?”
“Very Good, sir.”
That should be sufficient, he thought. A line of interest would lay out all possible means of bringing pressure on the company, financial, political, or
otherwise. It was the otherwise that he found most interesting. Very interesting indeed.
Day V begins soon!
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