Blood Oil

by James Phelan

  “State, the VP and I have got it covered, but thanks, Peter,” Fullop said. “Like I said, we won’t be bending over for them today.”

  McCorkell noticed Jackson smile. He could sense the Veep was about to go on the attack.

  “I was thinking something more along the lines of having our Navy board every vessel to leave their ports,” the Veep said. “See how they like the logjam that would create in their oil exports.”

  Most of the table laughed with the Vice President, while Fullop look bemused.

  “Are they still denying it was a terrorist attack?”

  “For the moment, yes,” McCorkell said. “The 2004 attack at their processing facility in Abqaiq became a ‘terrorist incident’ only after Al Qaeda laid claim to it on the Net. I suspect much the same this time around.”

  “And no group has claimed this attack?”

  “Nothing yet,” McCorkell said. “So, on the one hand we have the Saudis still refusing to admit the explosion as a terrorist attack; while just a stone’s throw away, in Qatar, they’ve not only stated that their attack was the result of a terrorist cell, they’re also stating that this Saudi attack is linked.” McCorkell switched images on the screen. “This is the Knock Nevis. The world’s biggest ship, a floating oil refinery in Qatar’s Al Shaheen oil field, and it’s been a smouldering wreck all week. They got the fires under control today, and with back-up links they have managed to bring refining capacity back to near pre-explosion levels, currently losing just on four hundred thousand barrels per day. Good under the circumstances and within six days of their attack. This is fast-moving for Qatar standards.”

  “What’s the ETA on full production?” the Secretary of the Treasury asked, making notes.

  “Back up to capacity by Wednesday when two other refining ships get to port—but we’ve yet to feel the effects of their loss due to the immediate release of their reserve stocks,” McCorkell said.

  “The Qatari government has welcomed our FBI agents with open arms,” the Attorney General added. “They’re doing everything they can to make the investigation work. I’d call it two more days until our team on the ground give the oil companies the all-clear to work from the site again.”

  “Pity the Kingdom doesn’t share their spirit,” the VP said.

  “Qatar is playing nice because CENTCOM just made their JSOC forward-operating base there a permanent facility,” McCorkell said. “Qatari military got a new airport out of the deal, and two squadrons of our retired F-18s.”

  “Pity the Kingdom’s already got fourth-gen fighter jets,” Fullop said.

  “So where does this leave us on the issue of SPR draw-downs?” the Secretary of the Treasury asked. “We’ve had a halt on filling the SPR since the first of these attacks to alleviate the prices at the pump. When do we start dipping in?”

  “This puts the talk of draw-downs on the SPR and fuel rationing on the back-burner for the time being,” Fullop said. “There’s global supply out there that’s not far off coming back online, we just have to ride this out.”

  “As we touched on before, Nigeria is the linchpin here,” McCorkell added. “They’ve come back on with a million barrels this past week, still down two million from their peak capacity two months ago due to militant unrest in the delta. National political stability is an issue and we’ve got a small element of 10th Mountain heading in to ensure the interim security of our US Mission in Abuja.”

  “And their energy minister announced yesterday that they can have a new offshore rig adding a couple of million to their cap within two months,” Baker said. “That’ll be a big help all round.”

  McCorkell nodded, and checked his notes.

  “The bombing in Port Harcourt no doubt set them back,” McCorkell said. “Shell have evacuated all personnel and it doesn’t look like they’re heading back in a hurry. Several other companies are following their lead.”

  “LUKOIL is close to securing Shell’s rights to their Nigerian oil infrastructure,” Baker said. “This could well be the nail in the coffin for the Anglo-Dutch company’s presence in that part of the world.”

  “They’re freeing more of their capital to buy into Canada?” Jackson asked.

  “Yes, sir,” McCorkell said. “These latest incidents have ensured that the price of crude is well over what it needs to be to make Canada’s Athabasca Oil Sands deposit more than just a viable option. With over 1.7 trillion barrels and counting, Canada has more heavy oil reserves than the rest of the world’s conventional proven reserves combined. Lucky break for us, so we’d better cut back on the wisecracks about our neighbours.”

  The room laughed.

  “Venezuela may have a shot at that heavy-weight title,” Fullop said. “Their Orinoco Tar Sands keeps getting bigger the more they explore. They’re calling it 1.8 trillion barrels and rising.”

  “And while China’s already pouring their cash into there, it’s a drop in the ocean compared to where our northern cousins are at,” McCorkell said. “Canada’s infrastructure is decades ahead of Venezuela’s, not to mention the political volatility in and around the latter region. We’re not going to see oil companies fight over themselves to pour the tens of billions of dollars it will cost to get at and refine that nation’s heavy crude until the government is secure and their South American neighbours promise to play nice.”

  “Won’t happen in a hurry.”

  “Exactly, that’s something we’ve all learned the hard way, not only from conflicts in the Middle East, but in Nigeria as well,” McCorkell said. He made sure he had the full attention of the table. “Look, we can’t get around the fact that Nigeria is still currently our fifth-largest importer of oil and they will be for at least a decade until Canada’s output can take over. Make no mistake, we need the Nigerians to be exporting to us, and dealing with Russian oil companies will be a very different proposition.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Fullop said. “With the price of oil right now they’ll be looking to sell to whoever is willing to pay premium.”

  “Which will further inflate prices,” McCorkell said. “We need oil today, same as we did yesterday. So does China, India, Western Europe…”

  “Has anyone bothered to crunch the numbers to see if we’re higher than 1980 at our current price?”

  “Press has been doing that for days,” Fullop said. “They’ve got a shotgun-spread of data—some say it’s not even close, others say it’s gone over.”

  “But do we actually know?” Larter asked, turning to the Energy Secretary. “Where’s it at?”

  “At the pump?” she said. “It’s pretty much on a par to what it was then.”

  “That’s right,” McCorkell said. “When looked at as a proportion of spending based on comparative income, it’s still slightly cheaper as it stands now. We can thank vehicle fuel-efficiency standards and low mortgage rates for that one.”

  “And if something pushes us past where we are now?”

  “We’ve got a fair amount of known production that should come back online within the short term,” McCorkell said, checking his notes. “Overall right now, global capacity is running at around ninety-two per cent of some ninety-five million barrels per day, while our imports are down just over eight per cent—”

  McCorkell stopped himself as he noticed the Secret Service agent at the door to his left move his hand to his ear.

  The door to the Cabinet Room burst open, and an Air Force Major entered, slightly short of breath. Phones and pagers in the room started ringing and beeping.

  “Sir—we have a situation at the Louisiana Offshore Oil Port in the Gulf of Mexico.”

  “Go on.”

  “Still putting it together, but it appears a water vessel has struck the LOOP—”

  “Was it an accident?” Fullop asked.

  “We got another one,” the Secret Service agent said, listening to the radio feed into his earpiece. A member of the White House security detail was downstairs in the S
ituation Room at all times, their radio system currently playing the role of instant messenger.

  The internal phone on the wall rang, and McCorkell listened to the five-second brief from the Situation Room. His world seemed to halt for a moment as he watched the clock strike 9.17 am.

  “We’re under attack,” McCorkell said as he hung up the handset. He was back in the moment, and nodded to the Secretary of Defense. “Two separate craft hit the LOOP, damage reported as massive.”

  “The Vice President and Cabinet have to follow me to the Executive Briefing Room,” the Secret Service agent said, moving the bodies he was sworn to protect. Located under the East Wing, it was about as secure as a site could be before being locked away in the vault that was the adjacent Presidential Emergency Operations Center.

  The Secretary of Homeland Security was already conferring with his aide at one side of the room.

  McCorkell instinctively scanned the Cabinet.

  “Who’s not here?”

  “Sec Agriculture’s in California,” the Secret Service agent said, ushering bodies out of the room. “Let’s move, people, leave your things here in the room.”

  “Sec Ag is now the Designated Survivor,” McCorkell said to the agent. “And get word to the Hill.”

  “Copy that.” The agent started talking into his sleeve mike.

  In the span of ten seconds McCorkell had ensured government would survive in the advent of a terrorist attack upon the capital. The Presidential Line of Succession beyond the members of Cabinet present were now being moved to secret, secure locations until further notice.

  34

  PORT HARCOURT, NIGERIA

  Fox and Gammaldi waited on the tarmac of Port Harcourt International Airport. They sat on the hood of the Land Rover while their driver took a nap. There was hardly any outgoing commercial traffic but the place was busy with private flights evacuating oil-company executives.

  The climate was markedly different here compared to Abuja. The dry and blustery conditions farther north had been replaced by a low sun, piercing through storm clouds that rolled down across the coastal plains and out over the delta with each wet season. The waters flushed through the Niger River and flowed out into the Gulf of Guinea.

  “Here she is,” Gammaldi said, his airman’s eyes picking out the Airbus A318 Elite as it banked into a landing approach.

  The sun’s rays disappeared again, and steam started rising from the blacktop as fat, warm drops of water slowly rained down. It actually made the humidity more comfortable.

  “You missing flying?” Fox asked Gammaldi. It was a year since the former aviator had left the Australian Navy, a chosen departure, unlike Fox’s earlier exit from the service.

  “Nah—Wallace says I can have a fly any time I want,” Gammaldi replied. “He’s just bought a new helo too.”

  “I didn’t think he had enough toys,” Fox said, drinking from his bottled water.

  “You miss diving?”

  Fox thought about it as the Airbus touched down at the end of the runway. It was a shorter version of the A318 commercial airliner but with extended intercontinental range. The sun glinted off the silver writing down the white fuselage: GLOBAL SYNDICATE OF REPORTERS. Sixty million bucks worth of private aeroplane.

  “Yeah, I do actually,” Fox said, getting off the hood of the Land Rover and tossing the empty water bottle into the open back window. He slicked back his wet hair as the rain shower paused again. “I go for a swim in a pool a couple of times a week but that ain’t the same as the ocean—and no, New York harbour isn’t the kind of waterway I’d choose to swim or dive in.”

  The Airbus taxied down the runway towards them and came to a halt at the causeway. Immediately the cabin door opened and Tas Wallace emerged, followed by a slight, middle-aged man. Wallace’s six-foot bulk and thick mane of white hair were a stark contrast to the other man’s small build and thinning buzz-cut as they walked down the stair-car and across the tarmac.

  “Michael,” Fox said, shaking hands. “Thanks so much for coming here.”

  He took measure of the guy. It was just over six months since Rollins had been through the extraordinary rendition ordeal. Three months of hell. It was a testament to his family that he’d pulled through this well. Mid-forties, his well-creased face had seen its share of laughs and far too much anguish and stress. His piercing light blue eyes reminded Fox of a Siberian husky. His ancestral heritage of Wirral peninsular in north-west England was visible in his Viking features. Wallace had arranged that Rollins would receive a decent pay-out for an early retirement, although any recouping of that money would not be forthcoming from the US government. It didn’t hurt Wallace’s GSR any. Rollins, a specialist reporter in Middle East and African areas, had headed up GSR’s bureaus there for much of the nineties.

  “You hear about Louisiana?” Wallace asked.

  “No, what happened?” Fox said.

  “Terrorist attack at an offshore oil repository—a few oil crew dead, big hit to the US economy,” Rollins replied.

  “Jesus,” Gammaldi exclaimed.

  “Anyone claimed it?” Fox asked.

  “Nothing’s gone public yet,” Wallace said.

  “Linked to the Qatar attack?” Fox asked.

  “Could be, sounds like a similar MO,” Rollins said. “Qatar authorities have come out confirming that their attack was perpetrated by a sympathetic Al Qaeda group, the IMU. They’ve got some DNA evidence found at the scene to link it back to some known terrorists that the Pakistanis let loose a couple of years back.”

  “That was sharp work,” Fox said. He’d been in Nigeria for twenty-four hours and felt as though he’d been on another planet. It seemed the press here paid as much attention to the American trash media headlines as international events—he’d read what Brad and Angelina had done yesterday, but no updates on the oil crisis. And it wasn’t for a shortage of some decent newspapers in the country, nor ballsy reporters. There was a seemingly inexplicable absence of coverage on the oil attacks, both in Qatar and Saudi Arabia.

  “CNN ran it eight hours ago,” Wallace said, checking his watch and waving to the pilots in the waiting Airbus. The engines started picking up revs again.

  Fox turned his attention as another vehicle pulled into the private taxi-way. Its movement seemed to rumble the earth—this SUV was a monster, the latest model Range Rover Sport, black on black, the windows as dark as the duco. The single occupant got out, bearing a slight but compact no-nonsense pose. Ex-military, Fox thought. The doors on the Range Rover were thick—like those on the US President’s limo. This thing was armoured to the max, a tank in disguise.

  Rollins shook the guy’s hand double-handed, the school-yard style of best friends, and made the introductions.

  “Lachlan Fox, Al Gammaldi and Tas Wallace,” Rollins said. “This is Stephen Javens of the British High Commission.”

  That sealed it. The guy was MI6, probably ex-SAS. Definitely a door-kicker disguised as a paper-pusher.

  “I’ll be your tour guide,” Javens said. “Take you boys from here to the delta and on to Lagos.”

  There were nods all round, then he and Gammaldi went about moving the GSR men’s gear from the Land Rover into the new vehicle.

  “There will be a G5 waiting for you on the tarmac in Lagos in twenty-four hours,” Wallace said, already moving off towards his waiting aircraft. “I have to get back to a thing in London.”

  “See ya,” Gammaldi said.

  “You guys go get your story,” their boss called over his shoulder.

  “Will do,” Rollins said.

  Fox turned from the others and went after Wallace.

  “Tas,” he said.

  “Yeah?” Wallace turned around.

  Fox reached into his shirt pocket and passed over his camera’s memory card.

  “What’s on here?”

  “Pics I shot coming out of Abuja,” Fox said. “Some shots of the MOPOL officers execu
ting an innocent civilian.”

  Wallace took it and squeezed Fox on the shoulder, searching his eyes, a measuring look for any signs he wasn’t running at full capability.

  “You got this, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” Fox said. “Gammaldi has my back.”

  “Don’t let this place get to you,” Wallace said, fatherly advice from the older man. “If it gets too much, if it gets out of hand, don’t hesitate to bug out. You’ve had a hell of a year, I don’t want you burning out on me—or worse.”

  Fox nodded. He knew he was good to stay the course, no matter what. He knew when to keep his head down, when to run, when to shoot.

  Wallace ascended the stair-car with the agility of someone half his age, despite the rain on the metal treads, and disappeared into the Airbus cabin.

  Fox walked back to the team, to wave farewell to Simon, their Nigerian driver. He departed with a wave out the window.

  Yeah, a busy year was an understatement. He’d raked up as many frequent flyer miles as the Secretary of State. He’d been shot at more than most guys in Iraq. He’d lost more than he cared to dwell on.

  “Ready to motor?” the British agent said from behind the steering wheel, then gunned the engine, a big throaty V8 roar.

  Fox climbed in the back seat next to Gammaldi. Inside it was smaller than it seemed from the outside due to all the armour—with Fox’s six-two frame his head just passed under the ceiling. Up front, a pair of snub-nosed MP5Ks were slung in holsters on either side of the centre-console.

  Fox grinned; the adventure lay ahead. “Let’s roll!”

  35

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  “What have we got?” McCorkell asked on entering the Situation Room. It still smelled of paint from the previous month’s warp-speed refurb, after which the President, together with the Prime Minister of England, had held a ceremonial opening and briefed their commanders in Afghanistan over the new LCD video-conferencing screens. The work area of the main conference room was now twice the size of its predecessor. All the technical components were updated, new communications gear installed, more space for the specialists who worked in there and monitored global hot spots.