Blood Oil

by James Phelan

  The chairs around the boardroom table were vacant, all personnel were either working the phones or punching away at computer screens along the walls. Organised chaos among the security staff.

  “Two small civilian watercraft struck the LOOP,” Admiral Donald Vanzet, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, said. “ID as yet unknown—”

  “Make them to be thirty-foot speed-craft, sir,” the Air Force watch commander said. “Screen two shows still images received from the CCTV cameras at the site before they went offline. Each craft is piloted by a single occupant, assumed KIA on impact.”

  “Piloted,” McCorkell said. “So these were definitely suicide attacks?”

  No one in the room was game to call it yet.

  “You got a usable image to ID these guys?” McCorkell asked, moving closer to a massive LCD screen recessed into the west wall.

  “Partial facial shot from high alt, running double-time through DHS facial recognition.” The shot was indistinct on the screen and would need serious re-tooling to get something usable.

  “Get the Europeans on it too. The Brits, Interpol,” McCorkell said as he moved back to Vanzet. The presence of the Navy veteran was, as usual, a welcome cool-head under fire.

  “And the Israelis,” Vanzet added, picking up where McCorkell left off.

  “Aye, sir,” the Navy intel officer said.

  Vanzet continued his brief to McCorkell: “The LOOP—”

  “I’ve got real-time imaging from a Coast Guard helo,” the Air Force officer cut in, uploading the feed to the main screen at the end of the room. This thing was the size of most living-room walls and could be configured to be viewable as thirty-two separate split-screens. “Main screen top right.”

  “Jesus…” McCorkell said. The structure of the LOOP, a mass of steel structures linked by walkways and piping, was almost non-existent—a smouldering wreck of twisted steel at the waterline. “What would it take to do that kind of damage to the LOOP structure?”

  “She’s designed to withstand a ten-knot bump from a super-tanker,” Vanzet said. “You’re looking at the results of high-explosive hits, damn big payload too.”

  McCorkell’s mind was racing. Two speedboats had hit the target, both deliberate hits. Waterborne suicide bombers. As much as they’d tried to take the fight to the terrorists at the front line in the Middle East, they’d just shown how devastating the enemy could be for the first time since 9/11. The US had been schooled in what it meant to have your home turf turned into a war zone. A painful lesson in asymmetric warfare.

  “Don, Qatar?” McCorkell asked.

  “FBI are getting all their evidence sent through to us asap,” Vanzet said. “There were images captured of the attack in Qatar, but their Navy reported civilian-type speedboats breaching the security perimeter and striking the Knock Nevis. Fibreglass recovered confirms this, and the explosive residue was ammonium nitrate and nitromethane, at least five hundred kilos’ worth, with a Tovex explosive for detonation. They even got some more recoverable DNA from the scene, at least three known terrorists involved in that op.”

  McCorkell scanned the screens before him.

  “We got overhead imagery to replay?” he asked. “War-fighter, Landsat, Keyhole—anything with eyes?”

  “Working through the grid with NRO, they’re almost on hand,” a Homeland Security agent said, ear glued to a phone to his department’s command centre at the Nebraska Avenue Complex. “Two minutes out, sir.”

  “I’ve got a possible hit from a DEA Predator,” the Air Force watch commander said, bringing up a replay of the UAV’s fly-over.

  McCorkell scrutinised the images. The two fast-moving civilian craft were the type favoured by drug-runners skimming the waves—those things were really moving it until they were gone, out of shot. The screen shot zoomed out, the ocean now a massive expanse with two dots leaving tracer-like wakes behind them akin to an aircraft’s slipstream.

  “What are those boats—are they custom-made? Get an ID on make, track it,” McCorkell said to the DHS agent before turning back to Air Force. “Major, where and when was this feed?”

  “Ten-hut!” the Marine in dress uniform at the door called, interrupting, as the Acting President entered with Fullop in tow. They joined McCorkell and Vanzet in viewing the big-screen footage.

  “Gulf of Mex, two hundred nautical miles south-east of LOOP,” the Air Force Major said, reading from the operator’s log on his computer screen. “This DEA image is four hours old, targets flagged as ‘contacts of interest’ and Coast Guard advised to pick up the chase … However, the local assets were too far out of the zone, responding to distress calls.”

  “These two craft could have originated from the Keys?” McCorkell asked, checking their positioning on a map of the area.

  “On it,” Vanzet said, moving over to get orders off to the Pentagon. Every pair of eyes the military and intelligence community had over the region would be back-played over the past twenty-four hours to track the movement of these two boats.

  “If we can track to a point of origin…” McCorkell said, a million-mile stare at the smaller LCD screens that lined the south wall. CNN and Fox News were starting their broadcasts from the bombing scene. McCorkell watched the muted faces of the TV anchors intercutting with news helicopter feed. Behind his eyes the wheels began to turn …

  “Okay, let’s consider the timing of this attack,” McCorkell said to the room.

  Jackson, Fullop and Vanzet were all ears.

  “So soon after Qatar and the Kingdom?” Vanzet said. “Part of the same group or copycats? Either way, targeting our economy where it hurts.”

  “Worse than that, Don,” McCorkell said. “Who knew the President was going under today?”

  Fullop’s expression read that he’d just been sucker-punched, and McCorkell turned to Seamus O’Keeffe, the Secret Service SAC, who’d been talking on the phone to his White House command centre the entire time.

  “We’ve got the list at sixty-three,” O’Keeffe said. “Informed of the POTUS surgery schedule five days ago.”

  “Break it down,” McCorkell said.

  “The list is being faxed here—”

  “We’ve got secondary explosions!” Vanzet interjected.

  McCorkell turned to the big screen at the end of the room. A real-time image of the Louisiana coast showed a massive flaring plume that kept rolling up in scale.

  “Lost one of two shore-based pumping stations at Fourchon,” the DHS agent said. “Shut off on the other is in place, as is the feed into the Clovelly Dome Storage Terminal … EMT and fire crews already on the scene at Fourchon—responding now.”

  “Was that another strike? What was that?” McCorkell asked. Despite himself he felt a sweat break out under the back of his collar.

  “Negative, sir, secondary explosions from the LOOP’s damage,” the DHS agent said. “Fire crews and paramedics calling in medevac now … We’ve got four—make that five—oil company fatalities, two litter-urgent med lifts…” The military term for the most serious of wounded for medevac hung in the air.

  McCorkell looked to Vanzet and the Admiral conferred with the Air Force officer and received a nod and a look saying, It’s done.

  “Across the nation I’ve got fighter squadrons chewin’ up the tarmac,” Vanzet said. “We’ll have two hundred fixed-wings over all major cities within ten minutes and I’ve got all US homeland bases operating under DEFCON Three.”

  “DHS?” McCorkell asked.

  “Homeland Security Advisory Level is at Red across all ports, airports and mass transit systems,” the Homeland Security agent said, one ear glued to a telephone handset. “Coast Guard are waking up their rotation crews and calling up all personnel on leave.”

  McCorkell nodded as he took in the information, the wheels moving faster now. O’Keeffe was in his face, the faxed sheet thrust into his hand.

  “The list of people who knew POTUS would not be at the helm
this morning,” O’Keeffe said.

  McCorkell scanned the print-out. The Cabinet numbered fifteen … another seven cabinet-rank members such as himself, the Veep, the Chief of Staff … and another three in senior executive staff. Then there was the First Lady …

  “Where are FLOTUS and the First family—where are they?” McCorkell asked O’Keeffe. “Tell me you have them.”

  “We have FLOTUS at the Washington Hospital Center,” O’Keeffe said, conferring over his radio with the SAC of the Presidential Protective Detail. He paused, held up his hand …

  “And you’ve got the kids?” McCorkell asked.

  The Secret Service agent waited for the confirmation over his mike. Those within earshot were silent. McCorkell’s heart skipped a beat—he’d never noticed how loud the air-conditioning system was down here.

  “We have them secure. The kids are on the move. We have them, they’re secure,” O’Keeffe said. The room breathed again.

  The last names on the list in McCorkell’s hand were the President’s Secret Service detail, the twenty-one-member White House Medical Unit, and two surgeons and an anaesthetist at Washington Hospital Center.

  “Where are you at with this list?” McCorkell asked O’Keeffe.

  “We’ve got agents on it. Pulling in all the medicos, shaking trees and checking under rugs,” O’Keeffe said.

  “NSA pulling in anything?” McCorkell asked a spectacled guy in civilian clothing.

  “We have over three thousand Echelon hits on LOOP in the past month alone,” the National Security Agency agent announced to McCorkell, his phone headset glued on, his fingers a blur over the keys on his laptop. “Over four hundred have mixed flags to the Knock Nevis, those are being followed up on—change that, that figure is now down to eighty-six, mostly via foreign ISPs and cell networks. We should have the numbers down again on those within the hour, transcripts of all communications and user data.”

  “Work it. Take it back farther, too, six- and twelve-month blocks,” McCorkell said, pointing at the still image of the two boats on the open water. “This attack was a long time in the planning.”

  McCorkell was fully present, up to speed and taking in information like a sponge. A dozen military and intel aides worked computers and phones, getting every security apparatus in the nation ready to bring the noise if need be. Leave was being cancelled, National Guard Units were standing to, and every intel back-channel was being worked for information. In every theatre of operations around the globe, more than seven hundred US military bases were gearing up ready to roll out the thunder.

  “The NSC is ten minutes out from being in the room,” Fullop said. “I’ll be over with the Cabinet and get the ball rolling on domestic actions.”

  “The Sec Tres has to suspend trading,” McCorkell called after him.

  “On it,” Fullop replied, before disappearing.

  McCorkell looked to Vanzet. The shorn head of the Navy Admiral was a calming presence in any storm, and in all the years McCorkell had spent in executive office he’d never seen him lose his cool, no matter how shocking the crisis.

  “Don, what’s your feel on this?” McCorkell asked him.

  “With the DNA on the Qatar bombers being from known terrorists, then I’d say this is more of the same,” Vanzet said. “In a way the good news would be that this was the work of Al Qaeda. The scary version: we got ourselves another capable, organised, well-coordinated terrorist outfit with intercontinental reach.”

  “So much for our work in ‘Stan,” McCorkell said. He turned around to face O’Keeffe. Talked close to the Secret Service agent, who still held the faxed list in his fist.

  “Have every person of interest on this list brought to the House,” McCorkell said. “One of them has a big mouth, and I wanna be there to hear it.”

  36

  PORT HARCOURT, NIGERIA

  Fox watched the bustle of Port Harcourt flash by the window at warp speed. Javens was hammering the Range Rover, weaving the roads at one-sixty, one-eighty kilometres per hour. It seemed supersonic compared to the lumbering hulks they were speeding past.

  “We’re gonna take off at this rate,” Gammaldi jibed.

  “We’ll know if we’re being followed,” Javens said by way of explanation.

  Fox gave Gammaldi a half-smile and turned back to look out of his window. He was amazed how few cars there were on the street, and those mainly belonged to Westerners being chauffeured about, or the people that provided the goods and services they required. Petrol tankers were everywhere.

  “A lot of these tankers are carrying pirated oil to be sold on the black market,” Javens explained. “For a country so rich in the highest quality crude, petrol at the pump here is relatively expensive. With little other way to make a living, locals skim oil from the delta where pipes spill, while the more entrepreneurial tap into the pipes and siphon off tanker-loads.”

  “That’s how the militants raise money to buy arms?” Fox asked.

  “The main way, although they have some money coming through grass-roots fund-raising,” Javens said. “Amazing how those with nothing to give still manage to give so much.”

  “They’re desperate for change in this country, and through their desperation violence is seen as a viable way ahead,” Rollins added, turning around in the passenger seat to face Fox. “There’s money in this city, massive oil money. But the poverty divide is no better than anywhere else in Nigeria. If anything, here it’s more apparent.”

  “Do the oil workers live in secure compounds?” Fox asked.

  “Yes, for the most part,” Rollins replied. “Port Harcourt is kidnap central. The Westerners have their own secure suburbs, with malls, cinemas, cafes. The local oil workers have their cheaper versions. There’s a big working class that scratch a living off the back of the oil industry, and then there are a million or so that are living out of what you’d consider brick and corrugated tin sheds. For them, they eek out a living any way they can.”

  “How about the CBD?” Fox asked, the Range Rover taking a turn off the expressway and hammering down the off-ramp. This guy should drive NASCAR.

  “We’re entering it now,” Javens said, giving a few toots of the horn to clear a way through afternoon crowds heading home. “Oil companies are mostly headquartered along a single road, with a permanent MOPOL police cordon and a visible military presence.”

  “The MOPOL are the federal police force,” Rollins clarified. “Paramilitary outfit, responsible for the security for the oil companies. Kill civilians with impunity.”

  “Black shirts, khaki pants,” Fox said. “We ran into some coming out of Abuja.”

  “Don’t let yourself get too bogged down with the smaller-scale stuff,” Rollins said to Fox. The reporter spoke with the experience built up from having seen more than his fair share of conflicts. “It gets lost in the daily news cycle, I’ve filed it and seen it happen too many times. It didn’t take me too long to figure out I was after the bigger fish, the wider story.”

  The Range Rover slowed and entered through the Jersey barriers that cordoned off the oil companies’ street. It was set up so that the concrete dividers made incoming vehicles do two slow turns to traverse through. Beyond that were two ageing Vickers Main Battle Tanks that had seen better days. The turret machine-gunners covered their entry, the 12.7 mm belt-fed cannons leaving little doubt this was an area where not many outsiders were welcomed. A platoon of soldiers milled about holding their rifles a little too relaxed, a little too high. Poorly trained, Fox noted.

  Inside the security cordon, one side was lined with office buildings, a mix of sixties concrete structures and modern glass high-rises to twenty storeys. The other side was a green park, a few office workers enjoying a dry break in the weather.

  “The oil building that was hit last week is just … here,” Javens said, pulling the Range Rover up against the curb and shutting off the engine. They piled out, Gammaldi taking his pocket-sized digital c
amera. Debris blocked most of the road ahead, a nearby bulldozer having forged a single lane through the rubble with little heed for preserving a crime scene.

  Fox looked up at the wreckage. It looked like a building as designed by Jackson Pollock. The entire facade was reduced to a pile of glass, concrete and twisted steel. Office furnishings and bits of paper and plastic were showered across the street and the park over the road.

  “Reminds me of the images of Oklahoma City,” Gammaldi said, taking a couple of pictures.

  “Similar construction to the Murrah Building,” Fox said. Broken concrete slab floors were exposed to the street, bent rods of steel reinforcement twisted at all angles. Scanning around he saw that not only had the dozer driven a traffic lane through the debris, but the area had been cleaned up too. He walked to the park and felt around in the wet grass—nothing but the finest debris remained.

  “What is it?” Rollins asked as he joined him.

  “Place has been cleaned up already,” Fox said. “Where are the investigators?”

  “This is Nigeria,” Javens said. “They named the culprits minutes after the attack. Sent helicopter gunships into the delta to strike at militant targets.”

  “Government did some token looking around but they don’t see it as their problem,” Rollins added. “Which has its pros and cons. They do a shit job—as you can see, they’ve got little idea in the way of investigative procedure. They’ve got nothing in the league of what the FBI or Scotland Yard has in the way of crime scene investigators. Their guys are beyond not being in the same ballpark, they’re not even playing the same game.”

  “Looks like I have my work cut out,” Fox said absently while he dusted his hands off on his pants. He scanned the area around them—something else wasn’t right. “If this was a car bomb then the crater would be under that rubble. And any evidence—explosive residue, detonator fragments…”