9 Days Falling, Volume I k-5

by John A. Schettler

  “My pleasure, as always, Miss Fairchild. You do me great honor.”

  “Captain,” Elena smiled and nodded in MacRae’s direction, and they were seated with little more fanfare.

  “I hope you had a smooth ride over,” Elena carried the conversation forward.

  “Very pleasant,” Salase returned. “Good weather. Clear skies and open seas. Perhaps a good omen, eh? Not so good up north, but that is good weather for business.”

  Elena smiled, for Salase was conveying more with his words than it seemed. Of course there had been a round of negotiations on lower levels before this meeting was ever scheduled. Salase clearly felt matters were now favorable for a close, she thought. She certainly could use a new angle right now. Fairchild & Company had been angling for additional business in Central Asia for some time. Salase was well connected, with a good intelligence network to boot. With tensions rising virtually everywhere, her need to close a deal had taken a sudden, urgent turn.

  Rumors of a possible big haul prompted her to gather all her spare tankers here in the Med. Her intelligence was very good when it came to fingering the pulse in the pipelines, but one thing she did not know that night was going to change everything and upset her carefully hatched plans. Captain MacRae had a piece of it in his pocket in a recent SIGINT decrypt, and Salase, fat evasive Mister Salase, had the rest in the palm of his greasy, greasy hand.

  She could sense it…feel it. Something was wrong, and an inner sense of warning told her it had something to do with that damnable telephone call that had come on the top secret red phone a month ago, and changed her life forever.

  Damn you, Salase, she thought. What do you know that I don’t know? Heads are going to fry on this ship if I get another big surprise tonight…Fry in hot, hot oil.

  Chapter 11

  Yes…that damnable phone call. The red phone. The phone in the secret room hidden behind a movable bulkhead at the back of her office. It still haunted her, particularly after the remarkable return of the new Russian fleet flagship Kirov, which had recently been involved in a strange accident in the Norwegian Sea, vanishing and presumed sunk until the ship suddenly reappeared in the Pacific a month later, sailing into Vladivostok’s Golden Horn Bay.

  Elena Fairchild knew far more than she wanted to know about that ship, and its disappearance and return sent chills down her spine. She had received a phone call about it on a very special line. The nondescript red phone sat encased in a clear unbreakable Plastifibre dome on a table in her hidden inner office. A little over a month ago a signal had gone out from Royal Navy headquarters to secret outposts and at-sea locations all over the world. Argos Fire was one such location, and when Elena first felt the subtle vibration from her cell phone, reaching into a jacket pocket to see what the call was about, her heart skipped a beat. The screen was alight with two simple characters “G-1.”

  She immediately withdrew to the private office and stood there, staring at the Plastifibre dome with a mix of shock and fear in her mind. Reaching slowly, she placed her right thumb on the scanner, then keyed a code on the touchpad. The vacuum sealed chamber opened with a hiss, and the Plastifibre dome slowly slid back.

  God, she thought, let it be a test. She would thumb the receive button on the phone and it would read TEST — TEST — TEST, that was all. It had to be a test. It must be a test, for the thought that the entire world she was living in now, everything, all of it, every book, manuscript, song, poem, video…every street, town and city…every human being alive might now be different, subtly changed, was a staggering fear. And some might simply be gone, erased, and completely forgotten, as though they had never even lived. It had to be a test, but when she pressed her quivering thumb to the receive button three words lit up the screen and changed everything: Geronimo, Geronimo, Geronimo…

  With a rising surge of adrenaline she simply closed her eyes, as if afraid of what she might find different or missing when she opened them, and quietly mourned the loss of the life and world she had been living in before that moment. Her hand was shaking when she reached and pressed the second button to confirm secure reception of the message. It was the signal she had waited for, with dread and foreboding, all her life.

  It had finally happened, and the saddest thing about it was that only twelve people on the planet knew about it—the twelve senior apostles of the Watch. There were legions in the rank and file these twelve might call to the task they served, but only these twelve knew the whole and complete truth, the real meaning of the three words that had just flashed on her telescreen—and Elena Fairchild was one of them. It was many weeks of quiet inner mourning before she could look outside and accept the world as it was. And many nights she would lie awake and wonder what was missing, lost, changed.

  She consoled herself by reading Shakespeare, listening to Mozart and reveling in her art books from the great masters, all untouchable, all as they were, for nothing that happened prior to the year 1941 could be altered. “Ignorance is the curse of God,” wrote Shakespeare. “Knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.” Yet the knowledge she had now was like a bite of that apple in Eden, a forbidden fruit that only twelve men and women on earth had tasted. The world had most certainly changed, yet no one knew how. They were oblivious, accepting the world they lived in as one unalterable reality. But they were wrong.

  When Kirov was suddenly reported at sea in the Pacific a month later and apparently bound for Vladivostok, her pulse ran on again. She suddenly realized that there were more than twelve people on earth that knew the whole truth…many more, and they were on that very ship! Shakespeare whispered in her inner ear: “Hell is empty, and all devils are here.”

  Now, a little over a month later, things were all getting very strange on the geopolitical chessboard and Elena Fairchild was a bit edgy about it all. The Chinese engagement with the Japanese over the disputed Senkaku Islands had led to an alarming escalation in the Pacific. The sudden sharp conflict at sea had ended with a barrage of six ballistic missiles at Naha airfield on the Japanese island of Okinawa. Since then a grim silence had fallen over the scene, but Fairchild knew things were not so simply resolved in this volatile region. Elsewhere in the world tensions were rising to the near boiling point in many other traditional flashpoints. Her latest Intel was quite disturbing.

  Russia, now firmly in the newly formed SinoPac alliance, had maneuvered to influence oil and gas operations in Central Asia as its first priority. When the US pushed for a planned new pipeline through Azerbaijan, shipping arms to Georgia in exchange for pipeline easements, the scale of the Russian response was quite telling. Russian intelligence was still potent, and the 58th Army had been put on alert, ordered to move rapidly with elements of the 20th Guards, and 19th and 42nd Motor Rifle Divisions. These forces were joined by units of the Russian 76th and 98th Airborne Divisions and the 45th Spetsnaz, a special operations reconnaissance regiment. Some of these forces, including a full Motor Rifle Division, were poised at the northern border of Kazakhstan.

  The US had nothing in the region but a single ready brigade way off in Kuwait, and even that was merely the equipment for this brigade, and not the personnel. Now the Americans had come to regret their bumbling about in Afghanistan, a long twelve year presence that had left them with nothing but thin promises for basing rights that had evaporated three years after the last combat troops were pulled out. So when the Russians posed a real threat in the Caucasus what could the Western Alliance do?

  Damn, thought Elena, Russia was back on the high seas, and the two great powers were back to their old games again, both flexing their muscles with “planned” military exercises and a lot of threatening press on both sides. The stakes could not be higher, particularly with China and Japan at each other’s throats and a big stink in the UN now that had escalated to threats against Taiwan. In this climate, Elena Fairchild, like any good mother, wanted all her children closer to home.

  Of her five remaining tankers, one was home at Milford Haven getting ready f
or the next contracted haul. Three more were nearing Cyprus, due here tomorrow for a special mission—if all went as she hoped it would tonight. All her Persian Gulf contracts were tabled now, except the crown jewel of her fleet, the Princess Royal, her largest ship. The Ultra Large Crude Carrier was still in the Persian Gulf, laden with oil that would secure a good chunk of her financial situation for the foreseeable future.

  She was thinking about picking up something new tonight, the icing on the cake Princess Royal carried, perhaps a quick relief run to American ports if Europe had any stores of gasoline they might release. There might be oil credits bunkered in Ceyhan that would lead to conveyance contracts, and she expected this was what Salase was here to offer her. With empty tankers already at sea, she’d be three days ahead of the competition in any such venture. She could get to the oil first, and being first on the scene with ample resources, in war and in business, had some very real advantages.

  The situation in the Persian Gulf also prompted her to immediately recall her last oil tanker there, the Princess Royal was all of 400,000 tons, the weight of four Nimitz class aircraft carriers, and capable of transporting three million barrels of oil in a single haul. The ship was now outward bound to the straits of Hormuz, pregnant with crude worth nearly half a billion dollars at current market prices, which were only likely to go higher. It was a bad time for any shenanigans in the Gulf. She had bank notes due on the Argos Fire refit at the end of the month. Credit was very tight on the world market, and she knew there would be no way the Bank of London would extend. She had to come up with a cool $700 million cash for Argos Fire, and more than half of it was riding in the belly of Princess Royal. She needed that last forty percent, and tonight she would set the Argos Fire on a quest for that golden fleece—oil.

  Stupid to leave my big lady alone like that with Argos at home for replenishment, she thought to herself. Stupid not to take the Intel briefings seriously on the Gulf. Israel was again flying maneuvers over Lebanon. She wouldn’t put it past the Israelis to strike out on their own against Iran at any time now. The whole damn show over Georgia was also as much about Iran as anything else, she knew. Iran and the oil. Damn, she thought, I should have had Argos Fire down through Suez weeks ago to keep watch on Princess Royal. Very stupid move on my part.

  “So what is the situation up north, Mr. Salase?”

  “A little bad weather,” said Salase, smiling broadly, nose flaring. He was referring to the recent outbreak of violence in the North Caspian.

  “Bit of a squall?” she probed innocuously.

  “Perhaps something more.”

  Elena Fairchild, simply smiled at the ante, calling her guest at once. Salase glanced at the Captain, unaware of his status as a member of the company’s inner circle, and not knowing if he was to be privy to the information he might now disclose.

  “I assure you, we are all friends here,” she said, settling the matter. Salase smiled, nodding to the Captain, who returned a polite smile as he folded his hands, listening attentively.

  “In fact, let’s speak plainly, Mr. Salase,” said Fairchild, the light of the chase in her eyes. “What does the weather forecast have in it that I should be concerned about this evening?”

  “Opportunity, perhaps,” said Salase. “Lots of trouble in the Region. Several factions are vying for power in Kazakhstan. A bit of the blood feud between them, but all set aside when there are so many Western interests to feed on. Not to mention the fact that the Russians are sitting on the northern border like a pack of wolves.”

  “Indeed,” said Elena. “Enlighten me.”

  Salase smiled. “Contracts,” he said quietly. “Unexpected windfall in the storm, eh?”

  Fairchild leaned forward, her chin resting on her palm, elbow on the table, in contravention of all good etiquette. Business was business, and they were only just starting to receive hors d'oeuvres. The main course would come in time. Salase wanted to nibble a bit, probably to see what percentages he could ferret. She would hear him out. He lowered his voice, glancing at the departing table servant.

  “We heard something of interest,” he said, his accent heavy, yet engaging. “A lot of trouble in the region, and trouble in the Gulf as well—both Gulfs. Big storm hit Houston, big trouble brewing in the straits of Hormuz as well.”

  That last bit got the attention of both Fairchild and MacRae, though the doughty lady showed no emotion on her face. The Captain’s mind went to the decrypt in his pocket. He had not found time to inform Miss Fairchild of the potential threat in the Persian Gulf.

  “I don’t ship anything to Houston, my good man,” said Fairchild.

  “At the moment…But you do ship from the straits of Hormuz to terminals that serve the US. You have a ship there now, eh? Big ship in a bad place.”

  She smiled, waiting for him to make more of a point. Her worries over Princess Royal were in no way evident on her face.

  “Well this business up north in the Caspian now,” Salase danced off in another direction. “The hurricane has everything shut down for the Americans. Always trouble, only this year a very bad late season storm. The refineries shut down, rigs were damaged; shortages will soon follow, and prices will spike. Going to be a lot of demand for quick deliveries to offset that shortfall. Oil supplies in Europe are very weak right now.”

  “I see,” Elena was pleasantly interested, still showing no undue concern. “You’re suggesting I divert my at sea shipments to American ports?”

  “Perhaps. I can get a very good price for you—very good. You take Princess Royal home, what do you get? A hundred pounds on the barrel. The Crown is very consistent, yes? But by the time your shipment gets round the Cape of Good Hope you could get very much more in an American port. Very much.”

  “No disagreement here, aside from the fact that Fairchild serves the interests of the Crown at the moment.”

  “Ah…” Salase grinned, a little hesitation in his manner now. He reached for the glass of wine the waiter had just delivered, giving the moment a little air.

  “The Crown has many interests,” he said. “Also many servants. Much can happen in troubled times.” He ate an olive, and a bit of cheese, dabbing his thick lips with the monogrammed table linen napkin.

  “One should always remain open to the possibilities—particularly when financing is so very hard to come by. Yes?”

  That last remark had hit a nerve, MacRae knew. He was hinting at the big payment coming due on the Argos refit at Bank of London. Fairchild didn’t like people nosing into her banking arrangements, but her features were as placid as the bay at Larnaca, where the sun was setting now and casting a lovely glow on the water.

  “And what good fortune!” Salase smiled again. “You have lots of empty ships that need filling.”

  “I didn’t know you were so privy to our shipping manifests.” It was clear that he knew a lot more than he was hinting at, the berthing status of her ships could be viewed on the Internet by any inquiring soul, but she wanted to give him a gentle nudge in the ribs just the same.

  “Oh, pardon me,” he feigned an apology. “My nose is as big as my ears. I can’t help hearing things, and I’m always keen to smell out a new opportunity for profit, yes?”

  “Well it’s very clear that you smell one here.” The tone of Elena’s voice shifted a few points to starboard. She was leaning into business now, the pleasantries over. “Do go on, Mr. Salase.”

  “Well,” he said, also sounding a bit more serious now. “These tankers you have at sea…They left port three days ago, but nothing was mentioned of their destination. I couldn’t find them on any of my registry schedules for the big ports you service.”

  “Imagine that,” Elena said flatly.

  “Oh, I will imagine,” Salase came back quickly. “I’ll Imagine they might be close at hand, but when I looked for them on the flight in there was no sign. Just this beautiful vessel I am privileged to visit here now.” He waved his hand expansively. “Lots of empty tonnage out there somewhere,
” he finished. “I may have a contract for you.”

  MacRae glanced at Fairchild, and she at him, ever so briefly. Salase couldn’t see it, but it was clear to the Captain that his boss was interested.

  “Well,” Elena began, “assuming these ships were close by, and assuming they were still empty, or had any chamber room available to take on more product, then what would we be talking about?” Elena was holding her cards close to her trim, yet ample chest, but still ready to draw.

  “It’s all in the weather,” Salase beamed, then lowered his voice, eyes wandering with a casual, conspiratorial glance from the Captain to his Executive in Chief. “We picked up a communication from the American Chevron operation in the Caspian Region.” He was all business now. “They have more trouble than you’ll ever read about on the news wires. A call went out for mercenaries.”

  “My, this is getting interesting,” Elena gave him her most engaging smile, and it had just the effect she intended. The excitement in his eyes was obvious as he continued, hoping he had a good chance of closing a lucrative deal tonight.

  “More even,” he began. “We’ve received formal requests for any spare tanker capacity in the region. They want it as soon as possible. And here you have these ships close at hand. How fortunate.”

  Fairchild looked at him, her eyes bright. “Yes, how very fortunate, Mr. Salase.”

  Chapter 12

  Who knows what is good or bad, thought Elena Fairchild. Yes she was fortunate to have all this spare conveyance in a very convenient spot that night because she knew all about Chevron’s call for tanker support. It was, in part, the reason she had Princess Marie and Princess Angelina at sea, and the reason why Princess Irene was slipping through the Suez canal tomorrow night to join them, though Salase must have known at least that much. She also knew that her vessels represented 80% of any spare tanker capacity within 2000 miles at the moment. Her network had intercepted the Chevron radio phone call days ago, and it was clear that the move could net her a tidy contract here.