by Jack Du Brul
“Frisco? Why Frisco?”
“She didn’t say, but she made it damn clear that that’s where we’re headed.”
“How’s the crew?”
“We’re doing okay. They keep us in the main mess hall when not on duty. We’re fed only once a day and have to sleep on the floor or in chairs, but it could be a hell of a lot worse. They’ve made a few threats, and so far two are dead. One of them was Larry Walker, the helmsman who took the bullets meant for you.”
“What about the rest of the ship? I know the bridge was shot up pretty badly.”
“Yeah, it was. The radar system is a complete write-off; I’ll never be able to fix it. And the tank pressure sensors were taken out too. She wants those sensors back on-line ASAP. In fact, she’s got the ship’s electrician scavenging parts from other systems to get them running again. The helm controls still work fine, but changing engine speeds must be done manually in the engine room.”
“They don’t have throttle control, yet they leave the engine room on UMS status?” Hauser was shocked by the negligence. UMS, or Unmanned Ship, is the automatic system that controls the power plant during the engineering staff’s off-duty time. In normal conditions, a tanker is run under UMS only at night and in calm seas.
“I’m not issuing the orders. I’m just following them.”
“I wonder why tank control is so important to them. It shouldn’t be prioritized above regaining remote throttle control.” Hauser spoke almost rhetorically. Neither he nor Patroni could second-guess the motivations of the force that had taken their ship. “Do you know anything about the terrorists?”
“Only that the leader is named Wolf, and even he takes orders from JoAnn Riggs.”
“What’s your take on all of this? You’ve sailed with Riggs.”
“I don’t know, Captain. I’ve sailed with her, yes, but only twice before. I’m almost as new to this tub as you are. All I know is that she was pretty chummy with the former captain, Harris Albrecht.”
“Do you think Albrecht was involved with this?” Hauser asked, putting two and two together but still coming up with three.
“I’m sure of it.”
“Do you know what happened to him and why the ship was late getting into Valdez?”
“Albrecht confined most of the crew to their quarters while we wallowed in the Gulf of Alaska. Nobody was allowed topside except him and Riggs. And it wasn’t the first time we stopped out there, but it was the longest. I don’t know what happened to Albrecht’s arm. But I do know that they never recovered the limb, if you know what I mean.”
“What are you saying?”
Patroni looked at Hauser for a second as if he couldn’t believe that the captain didn’t catch his meaning. “Hey, this ship is big and dangerous too, but if you lost an arm, you would damn well find it real fast and hopefully have a doctor sew it back on. Captain Albrecht never got his arm back, and the medevac helicopter was here only twenty minutes after the accident. What happened to the severed limb?”
“Overboard?”
“What was he doing at the rail that could take his hand off?”
Hauser had no reply.
“I’ve been talking to the guys who’d been sailing with Riggs and Albrecht for a while. They’ve been doing this for a few months, stopping in the middle of nowhere and confining the crew belowdecks. They were paid a small bonus for the inconvenience, so no one complained.”
“Petromax never said anything about these delays?”
Patroni shook his head. “Not as far as I know.”
Hauser looked at his watch. “You’d better get going before they wonder where you are. I’m holed up in the aft life raft. I need you to pass me any information you can get.”
“Yes, sir. I want these bastards off my boat as bad as you do.”
“Listen…” Hauser hadn’t been in command long enough to know the names of his officers.
“George,” Patroni offered.
“Listen, George, it may be necessary for me to leave the ship. The emergency radio in the life raft doesn’t have much range and we have to tell the outside world what’s happened. I want you to think of a way of launching the life raft without arousing suspicion. I don’t want my escape causing problems for the crew.”
“I understand,” Patroni replied. “I can arrange a short on the master control panel that will kill the indicator lights when the raft goes up on her davits. Don’t forget, the aft boat can be self-launched, but the timing has to be perfect.”
“It won’t happen for a while,” Hauser said as he prepared to heave himself back onto the roof of the elevator. “But be prepared. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”
Once on the top of the elevator, he turned and looked back through the open hatch. “George, take care of the crew. No matter what happens, they come first.”
“I will, sir. You can count on it.” A moment later the elevator lurched upward as Patroni disengaged the manual arrest button.
Abu Dhabi City, United Arab Emirates
Khalid Al-Khuddari didn’t mean to slam the antechamber door of his office suite when he entered, but his pent-up frustration got the best of him and the nine-foot door crashed against its jamb with the concussion of a rifle shot. Siri Patal, Khuddari’s personal assistant, looked up with startled doe eyes, her fine features showing concern as Khalid stood by the door trying to calm himself.
“Sorry,” Khalid said with a guilty smile. “It’s already a rotten day and it’s not yet noon.”
Siri regarded him with barely hidden adoration. Since she’d started working for him, she thought of little else than being with him, but circumstance and tradition ensured that that would never come to pass. She was Indian, the second daughter of a successful merchant who’d moved his family to the Gulf during the boom years of the 1960s, and Khuddari was an Arab. He was a Muslim while she was Hindu. The divides were uncrossable.
She thrust her own confused emotions aside and smiled brightly. “That bad?”
“Yes, that bad.” His handsome face couldn’t hide his disappointment.
Khalid had just returned from a meeting with the Crown Prince. The meeting had originally been scheduled for the day before, but the ruler of the UAE had canceled at the last minute. Instead, they had met for a late breakfast, which in itself was not a good sign. Because the Prince was in his late seventies, most important meetings occurred in the mid-afternoon, after his postluncheon nap. The Prince’s age did not affect his ability to rule, but as the years wound onward, he was forced to make concessions to his body. Khalid had arrived dutifully at ten and reported his findings to the droopy-eyed ruler, dispassionately laying out his suspicions of Hasaan bin-Rufti. He also told the Prince about his cross-border excursion with Bigelow.
The Prince had listened quietly, his expression hidden behind a wispy gray beard that was so withered it resembled the loose feathers of an old chicken. His dark eyes, still sharp and quick, gave away nothing as Khalid spoke. It was impossible to tell if the Prince had been fascinated or bored.
When Khalid had finished with his briefing, he’d eased back against the Regency dining room chair, cocking one arm over the walnut back in a relaxed gesture that he hoped would hide his agitation. The Prince poured another cup of coffee for each of them, his hands shaking slightly as the Turkish coffee dribbled into the demitasse cups. His voice was almost as frail as the rest of his body, but age didn’t diminish the strength of his words.
“Not since Allah’s prophet Muhammad has a world leader not faced a direct confrontation of his authority. You might say it is an occupational hazard.” He spoke in a style better suited to an earlier century, proper and formal.
“Now you come to me with the love of a son in your heart and my best interests in your mind and tell me of another attempt to wrest power from me. I thank you for your dutiful application to your work, Khalid. However, you have overstepped your province. You are not a policeman. You are Petroleum Minister, in charge of the safekeeping of our g
reatest natural resource. You should not have done what you did. Overflying Ajman airspace without authorization is a very serious act. I don’t believe you realize the position I would have been in had you and your band been caught. You are as much aware as I that my authority on the Supreme Federal Council is at the weakest it’s ever been. Your incursion could have dealt me a severe blow.”
Khalid had tried to interrupt the Prince but was waved down with a sweep of the ruler’s bony hand.
“I know you felt justified. The evidence you’ve gathered against Rufti points to some sort of attempt on my life. But we can’t lower ourselves to his standard and break the sovereignty laws of our neighbors. Colonel Bigelow’s complicity in this act is something I will deal with at a later time. He is old and wise enough to know better than to follow a young man on such a quest.”
Khalid had to speak on his mentor’s behalf. “Colonel Bigelow isn’t responsible for his actions. Although I have no authority to give him a direct order, he agreed to come with me after a great deal of personal coercion.”
The Crown Prince smiled for the first time that morning. “If I know Bigelow, he volunteered as soon as he heard what you had planned, but your loyalty to him is laudable. Listen to me, Khalid. I realize that what you’ve done, you did for me. But you have to understand that there is more at stake than you realize.
“Hasaan bin-Rufti is only the latest incarnation of an old threat that goes back to the time when man first decided he needed leaders. There is always someone ready to question and to eventually try to seize what is not rightfully his. While Rufti may be more potentially dangerous given his timing, he is no more or less of a threat than I have faced before. I have known of his intentions for several months, almost a year really, ever since he went to Istanbul last winter.
“However, I cannot make a move until he does. I am bound by my office to remain on the defensive. I can’t authorize any offensive action without incurring the wrath of the other members of the Supreme Council.”
“You will do nothing?”
“If I have him arrested, the Sheik of Ajman will denounce me immediately, and I fear that he will garner the sympathy of Dubai and several other Emirates. Such a coalition would be powerful enough to oust me as head of the Council.
“We are facing a crisis right now, not only within the UAE but throughout the Gulf, and most people don’t even realize it. For fifty years we have had the power to grind the West to a halt by shutting off the flow of oil. The embargo in the 1970s was just a reminder that we here in the Gulf cannot be ignored. The President of the United States has taken away the one trump card they feared we would play again. When America stops importing oil and turns to alternative fuels, Europe and Asia won’t be far behind. And where will that leave us? We will be like saddlemakers after the invention of the automobile. Oil will be a quaint curiosity used by only a few diehards.
“The sole reason the UAE exists as a nation is our possession of one of the world’s largest oil reserves. When that no longer has meaning, when oil has been replaced, our country will crumble, as will much of the region. Do you think if Kuwait didn’t have oil, President Bush would have sent a half million men to defend her?”
Khalid was quiet as he absorbed this. He realized that despite his age, the Crown Prince could still see the world through very keen eyes. However, Khuddari was dubious of the Americans. “Do you really believe that they can live without oil?”
“I learned to never underestimate the United States. They swagger through the world like an overeager child, touching everything they come into contact with. But like a child, they possess a resolve that goes beyond reasonable understanding. They are a clever people, and if they say that they will find an alternate source of energy, you’d best believe it.”
Khalid was doubtful of the Prince’s estimation of America. Returning to the original subject, he asked, “So what do you want me to do about Rufti?”
“You are expected at the OPEC meeting in London. I want you there. You are the Petroleum Minister, not my bodyguard. You must be in England, looking after the best interests of the country, not here wet-nursing an old man.”
“But the training facility we saw?”
“There are still ten years before the Americans stop buying our oil. In that time we will face a great many challenges, but the deadline is too far off to think that Rufti is a threat quite yet. The presence of that training ground is disturbing. However, I don’t believe Rufti will make an attempt on my life in the near future. In the decade before the American moratorium, he will continue to grow fat on the profits our oil brings into his coffers, both as a citizen of the Emirates and as Ajman’s Petroleum Minister.”
“The British thought they had time when they signed a ninety-nine-year lease for Hong Kong. They have now lost the lease and you can ask anyone involved, the last ten years were the quickest,” Khalid said sharply and immediately realized that he’d overstepped his bounds. He stood quickly to cover his embarrassment. “If I am to go to the OPEC meeting, I must take your leave.”
The Crown Prince was ready to dismiss Khalid, but he stopped the younger man with a question. “Do you read much detective fiction?”
“No, sir. I rarely find time for pleasure reading.”
“Too bad,” the Prince said. “There seems to be an axiom among investigators that I always found interesting. When you don’t know someone’s motivation, look to the money.”
“I don’t understand,” Khalid replied.
“Just because I told you to forget Rufti doesn’t mean I expect that you’ll obey. When you continue your research, remember those words.” The old man’s eyes glinted with fondness as he spoke.
Now, back at his office, Khalid shed his suit coat. Though many businessmen in the Arab world wore the traditional flowing wraps of white cotton, he preferred Western-style suits. His were not the overpriced boxy Italian suits favored by the Saudis and Kuwaitis, but a conservative English cut of superior cloth. Siri came from behind her expansive desk to hang the jacket properly on an ornate stand. Khalid stalked into his office beyond the antechamber, closing the door behind him as if that simple act would shut out the problems he was facing.
Siri entered a moment later, her body moving with a rhythm all its own. Khalid paid no attention to her as she took a seat before his desk.
His office was large, much too large for his austere tastes. The walls were richly carved panels of cherry, oiled daily so that they glowed with the light beaming through the tall windows behind the neatly kept desk. The floor was also wood, most of it covered by an intricate rug of either Afghani or Uzbeki origin. There were only a few pictures on the walls, one an official reproduction portrait of the Crown Prince and the others original paintings of the native landscape, each scene seeming to capture the essence of the open desert lurking just beyond the glass and steel confines of the city.
“Has Trevor James-Price phoned yet?” Khalid asked, absently shuffling through the papers Siri had set on the blotter during his meeting with the Crown Prince.
“No, the phone’s been quiet all morning.” It was odd for his phone to be silent for five seconds let alone an entire morning. But most people probably thought he was already in London. “Are you going to the OPEC meeting?”
Khalid looked up tiredly. “I have no choice. You might as well book me on the next available flight. And keep it quiet, no official reception at the airport and no bodyguards either.”
“You could take one of the corporate jets.”
As Petroleum Minister, Khalid ranked a board seat on AD-NOC, the Abu Dhabi National Oil Company, and thus was allowed many of the perks that went with the position. Yet for some reason that Siri couldn’t figure, but which endeared him even more to her, Khalid refused many of the benefits, preferring to use commercial flights and dispensing with the usual retinue that went with his position.
Siri went back to her office to make the arrangements, leaving Khalid alone with his thoughts, which frustr
ated him to the point of distraction. Rather than deal with the summary reports Siri had left for him as preparation for the OPEC meeting, he swiveled around in his chair and looked out across the Persian Gulf. Immediately, he noticed the tanker he had seen when returning from his reconnoiter with Bigelow. The vessel was still hove to, although today he couldn’t see any movement around the behemoth. She looked like a ghost ship.
Khalid spun back to his desk, putting the ship out of his mind. He spent a few minutes working on the papers before curiosity got the best of him. Jim Gibson, a consulting petroleum geologist, occupied an office a couple of floors below his. The American had a beautiful brass telescope next to his desk that he used to ogle sunbathers at the Sheraton Hotel. Khalid grabbed the telephone and dialed the in-house number. Gibson answered on the first ring.
“Jim, Khalid Khuddari. Anything worth looking at up the beach?”
“No, last time I checked there was just a couple skinny broads and some woman who must weigh four hundred pounds, Minister.” The north Texas twang made the phone lines resonate.
Khalid laughed with the libidinous American. “In that case, can you do me a favor and tell me the name of that tanker sitting out in the bay?”
“Sure, give me a second.” Gibson set down the phone and was off the line for about a minute. “My angle is pretty poor, but it looks like Southern Arabia.”
“Thanks, Jim. I noticed her yesterday and just wondered who she was.”
“Yesterday, shit. That tub’s been here for two weeks.”
“Know anything about her?” Khalid’s interest was piqued.
“Sorry, I just find the stuff. I don’t haul it around.” Gibson was referring to crude.
“Well, thanks anyway. Let’s get together after I come back from London.”
“Surprised you’re not there now.”
“A bureaucrat’s job is never done, no matter how highly placed.” Khalid hung up before Gibson could ask any questions about Khalid’s delay at attending his first OPEC meeting as the UAE’s official representative.
