Blood Oil

by James Phelan

  “But you do know where I can find him?”

  The old man weighed it up. He motioned for Fox to hand the piece of paper back to him, pulled a pen from the table next to him and wrote on the note. Handed it back with a Lagos address scrawled down.

  “Thanks,” Fox said, and stood to leave. “What’s that?” he asked, a massive architectural model in the centre of the room.

  “My penance. I’m dying,” Ruma said. He looked even greyer now, if that were possible. “Cancer.”

  Fox read the title—it was a new hospital for Lagos.

  “You’re trying to buy your way into heaven?”

  “Biggest hospital in Africa,” he said. “And it has mobile hospitals—a fleet of buses fitted out to go into rural areas … And as for the afterlife, I know where I am headed, there’s nothing that can change that.”

  Fox considered it. “You could do more,” he said.

  “That will cost every cent that I am worth,” Ruma replied.

  “You could go clean,” Fox said. “Start something. For too long African leaders have protected one another. You don’t need dirt files on corrupt leaders to bring them down. On former presidents and ministers to bring them to justice. Start with the press, then go to The Hague and come clean. Make a stand. Speak out against your peers. Go out on your own terms. Start something. Break the cycle.”

  There was something, maybe a layer of honesty or truth, behind the old man’s eyes that said just maybe he would.

  Hassan Ruma checked his watch.

  “You should go now, my friend.”

  “What’s that?” Fox asked. He went and looked out the front window through the curtain. A couple of cops wearing Kevlar vests were approaching the house—this wasn’t a friendly house-call. “You call it in?”

  “I’m sorry,” Ruma said. “I thought—I don’t know who I thought you were. The grim reaper, perhaps? Now that I’m so close to making something up to my people…”

  Fox looked down the hall—the security guy was still lying there. The rear of the house was dark—the kitchen was there, a glass door led into a courtyard.

  “You got a car?”

  “Garage is out the back.”

  “Keys?”

  “Kitchen bench,” Ruma said. “I will stall them, my friend.”

  There was a heavy knock on the door then a shout, “Armed Police—open up!”

  Fox, about to leave, turned on his heel.

  “Come clean,” Fox said. “You want to do something for your people, for Africa? Come clean. It’s the greatest thing you can do.”

  The old man nodded—maybe he understood.

  Fox said before leaving: “And I’m not your friend.”

  48

  LAGOS, NIGERIA

  The Sultan’s entourage took up the front twenty seats of the Nigerian Airways McDonnell Douglas DC9. The ageing airframe’s interior had the stains and smells of cigarette smoke that continued to waft about the cabin. The passengers of Muslim faith looked on at the Sultan with reverence, feeling their flight was blessed. The Christians gave him respect, and they too felt their place was blessed by his presence. His bodyguards and staffers relaxed into their chairs for the flight home, enjoying the couple of hours’ journey ahead. There was no anxiety aboard, only hope.

  Two kilometres outside the airport, a cell phone beeped with a text message. The sender was Steve Mendes. Its message was clear, and was what he’d been waiting for all day.

  NEXT PLANE.

  Musa Onouarah put the cell phone down, got up from his armchair and switched off the small television set in front of him. He put on his hat and sunglasses, and walked to the side of the roof of his two-storey house. He cocked his head; he could hear the aircraft but not yet pick it out in the sky—there—light glinted off the silver sides of the fuselage. It headed towards him, north-by-northwest.

  There was noise coming from his backyard. He looked down there: his young son was playing with his friends. Running around with toy guns, making noises with their mouths as they fired. He smiled. His attention went back to the aircraft, still far off. He watched its slow ascent.

  By his feet was a Stinger missile launcher. He picked it up, stood back from the edge of the roof and steadied himself. He inserted the BCU into the hand-guard, heard the gasses move inside. The launcher chimed that it was activated and the missile armed. He shouldered the weapon, looked down the slender barrel through the eyepiece.

  In use since the early 1980s, the Raytheon Missile Systems FIM-92E Stinger Missile was a tried and true surface-to-air weapon. This variant was its best incarnation yet. It had seen many successful actions, first in British hands in the Falklands, then from the Mujahideen in Afghanistan, to nearly all US operations since. Once fired, the infrared homing would take the missile up to speeds of Mach 2.2. Although only 70 mm in diameter, the Stinger packed an awesome punch. All but the best pilots in agile airframes would be doomed with this hunter on their tail.

  Onouarah fired. The missile shot into the sky, so fast he had difficulty tracking it by eye. The pilot must have noticed the threat, either alerted by the initial flash of the launch or by the slender smoke trail as it streaked through the sky. The DC9 banked hard to port. The missile never lost its bead—this was fire and forget technology. This target was hardly a modern fighter jet with an A-Grade pilot in the cockpit, so there was no chance of escape. While most SAMs launched at aircraft were only successful if the pilot could not see the threat, there was little action that the DC9 pilot could do but add a second to the life of his passengers.

  The missile struck the rear tail of the aircraft in the starboard engine. The three-kilogram warhead detonated on impact in an explosion that took both engines and the entire back section of the plane with it. The aircraft, now missing its propulsion and most avionics, settled into a rapid flat spin that saw it hurtling towards the ground six thousand feet below.

  Onouarah was not a religious man. If he had been, maybe he would have said something to all the souls who had just departed the earth with a thunderclap of aircraft disintegrating against the neighbourhood it destroyed. Instead, he set down the Stinger launcher and went back to his television program.

  49

  WEST END, LONDON

  Fox was out of the back door and rolled a heavy pot plant up against it. It wasn’t much, but it would buy him maybe ten seconds.

  He raced through the courtyard to the garage—the door was locked. He smashed the glass pane with his elbow; the plate glass tore at his jacket. He reached in and unlocked the door, went in, and locked it shut behind him. That bought another second or two.

  He left the light off in the dark garage. Four shiny new cars were lined up: Land Rover Discovery, a Volvo and a couple of Jags.

  Fox pressed the unlock button. His vehicle was the far one.

  He scanned the workbench to his left, full of cleaning gear, waxes and polishes that the guy’s chauffeurs no doubt had to apply after each use of a vehicle. He took a couple of four-litre bottles of motor oil, unscrewed the lids using both hands at the same time, grabbed the handles and walked backwards to the Jag, spilling the oil over the floor as fast as it would flow.

  He dumped the empties at his car and jumped in. The Jaguar XKR’s engine started up with a roar.

  He looked about himself quickly—the garage roller door ahead was shut, there must be an opener somewhere … shit.

  He heard the rear door of the house smashing against the pot plant.

  There! He found the roller-door opener, pressed it hard. It cranked open agonisingly slowly.

  Footfalls came down the brick-lined pathway. Torch beams flashed into the garage.

  He put the car in drive, keeping the headlights off—the roller door was just clearing the windscreen. He released the handbrake—started moving forward, the bonnet was through the door …

  The garage door behind him was smashed open. “Armed Police!” He could hear the wa
rning over the engine’s throaty idle. He didn’t see them slip but knew they had by the torch beam’s erratic arcing through the dark night.

  The roller door was at about roof level when Fox gunned the accelerator, the tyres burning rubber on the smooth concrete floor before surging forward, the edge of the roller door scraping along the roof of the XKR. He heard the sunroof shatter.

  “That was close—shit!” Fox pulled the handbrake and spun the wheel to avoid a taxi that flashed by in front of him. He planted his foot and fishtailed the XKR onto Oxford Street, flicking the headlights on.

  He slowed at the intersection, turned left, and eased up to his parked hire car—they wouldn’t be looking for that, he could switch vehicles and make a getaway.

  Too late.

  A cop car turned its lights on, the sirens bursting through the air as he glanced across. A white BMW Five Series. At least a straight three-litre engine in there, likely a turbo V8. A seriously fast pursuit vehicle.

  Fox planted the accelerator and hammered through a red light. A taxi clipped his rear bumper, nudging him slightly but sending the black cab into an out-of-control spin along the wet road. He checked his rear-view mirror: the cops had navigated the intersection and were on him, gaining fast. Very fast.

  The next traffic lights were green. Fox slammed the car into second and applied the handbrake, skidding into the intersecting road, slammed onto a straight path by sliding against the length of a red double-decker bus. Sparks flew along the passenger side and the curtain airbag deployed—gone as quickly as he noticed it, the interior filled with powdery gas.

  In the rear-view mirror he saw the police BMW flash through the intersection—they didn’t make the turn. Fox took another right, slowed to fit in with the light traffic rounding Cavendish Square, went down St George and crossed over Oxford Street again, two marked cop sedans speeding straight at him.

  Fox pulled into the oncoming lane—down into second again, the supercharger screaming to redline the engine as he slammed the brakes and he saw the BMW in his peripheral vision. It had tried to T-bone him at the intersection and flashed past right in front of where he would have been. He floored the accelerator again, the car hitting eighty kilometres per hour in three seconds and the two cop sedans were now on his tail but melted back into the cars as he wove in and out of traffic. Another red light ahead—he moved into the oncoming lane again and a cop motorbike appeared straight ahead of him. It was split-second chicken time and the motorbike swerved at the last moment and flipped through the air, its rider tumbling across the road as his bike was sliding along the ground next to him in a shower of sparks.

  Fox continued to push the Jag. The BMW was back in his mirrors. They’d have God knew how many vehicles closing in now and he’d never get anywhere in this car no matter how fast he drove. He had to ditch it.

  He was hammering down Haymarket when he saw a chance ahead and powered towards Northumberland Avenue, where he was hit broadside by oncoming traffic on The Strand. A little Smart car pretty much bounced off his heavy XKR and flipped right over his car, hurtling end-over-end down the street. It went down the road like a basketball. The Jaguar XKR had a race-car low centre of gravity and stuck to the road like glue, continuing to spin in a complete three-sixty on the wet road as the tyres fought for traction. More airbags had gone off and were gone again, their limp white material filling the cockpit of the car like a bomb had gone off in there.

  A siren announced the cop’s BMW was close again. They came to a sliding halt right in front of him, and the passenger got out, drawing an automatic pistol.

  Fox selected reverse and put the accelerator to the floor, the big twenty-inch wheels smoking up as he went backwards down Northumberland Avenue, cars bumping and scraping off the boot that forged a path ahead and cleared the way.

  He was jolted forward as the BMW bumped his front—it didn’t matter now, too late. The XKR cleared Victoria Embankment, while a car flashed by and took out the front of the BMW in a split-second mess of metal. Fox’s car continued through a chain-link fence, bounced over a walkway, and soared into the air over the dark water of the Thames.

  50

  ABUJA, NIGERIAN CAPITAL

  The four CV-22B Ospreys came in hard and fast over the Abuja International Airport. Two of the tilt-rotor aircraft, those without external cargo, came in for a short landing approach.

  Nix slung his pack over his shoulder and grabbed his M4 with underslung M320 40 mm grenade launcher, then led the way out onto the tarmac. This was his first area of combat operations outside of ‘Stan and Iraq, and he went into the task with more trepidation than the previous two areas. Here, in Africa, it was more of an unknown. There was next to no intel of the current situation on the ground. Virtually no friendly voices, certainly far less US forces in the area. They’d be the biggest US Army force in country, next to the two squads of Marines that were garrisoned to protect the US Mission here in Abuja. For the next couple of days it would be him in charge of all US military operations in the area. Air strikes were en-route but were still several hours out.

  At the load-ramp of his Osprey he looked up at one of their two vehicles that, for the immediate future, formed their biggest defensive hardware. A pair of up-armoured Humvees each with turret-mounted 7.62 mm machine guns. They would either prove to be a good addition, or bullet magnets. Probably both. Either way, his soldiers wouldn’t be fighting each other to take a ride in one. All other firepower was to be what his men carried into the field, the biggest punch being provided by his 120 mm mortar team.

  He watched as Top barked orders, his men fanning out in three-man fire teams. The North East Trade Wind whipped up more sand and dust than the massive rotor wash that the two hovering Ospreys created. Like the rest of his troops, Nix had his clear Oakley face goggles down. Every thirty seconds or so he had to wipe his gloved hand over the visor to clear his view.

  The next two Ospreys hovered over the ground, each with the cargo of an up-armoured Humvee cabled ten metres underneath. Ground teams unhooked the cables and the aircraft made to land down-wind from the troops.

  The bulk of his BCT of 10th Mountain would be arriving in Djibouti about now, getting acclimatised for their next insertion, having skipped over the Atlantic with a pit-stop in Rota, Spain. They’d be in Sudan by the end of the week—and he’d likely still be here, babysitting the staff of the US Mission.

  Captain Nix noticed the V-22’s loadmaster motioning for him to plug in his helmet mic to the internal jack.

  “Captain, you got chalk five on the line,” the flight officer called. On cue, Nix’s Radio-Telephone Operator came running over, transceiver in hand.

  “Thanks, I got it covered,” Nix said. He unhooked the flight jack and took the receiver from his RTO trooper. “Chalk five, this is Nix of chalk one.”

  “Copy that, Nix, chalk five. We got some new orders coming through,” his squadron’s CO said over the radio. The Major was yelling to be heard over the sound of the C-17 engines as he rode with the Headquarters Troop. “You are to take a land route to Lagos, that is three-point-four-zero long, by six-point-four-five lat. Copy that?”

  “Copy that, chalk five. IPB on this, over?”

  “Possible HVT acquisition for UAV take-out. Operational ID True Target, copy that?”

  “Hooah, chalk five,” Nix said. Locating High Value Targets to call in for a missile-strike was likely boring work but it beat guarding an embassy. “Operation True Target, Lagos, overland route, possible High Value Target acquisition.”

  Top shook his head and pointed at a map in his hand. Nix followed his finger—they’d be driving halfway across the country. Around six hundred kilometres of open road; surface and travel speed unknown, hostility anybody’s guess. “That’s a long distance to cover, chalk five. Request the use of Osprey insertion.”

  There was a crackling of static over the line before the voice replied.

  “Negative, Captain, all aircraft needed
for possible urgent evac of Abuja Mission,” his CO said. “I understand your concerns, chalk one, but True Target comes from beyond Drum, copy that.”

  “Hooah, chalk five.”

  Top’s expression reflected what Nix felt. These orders had come from above their divisional command. That meant the Pentagon, probably the Joint Chiefs, and just as likely ordered from some suit from the CIA who had clout in the National Security Council.

  “Chalk five, what’s the Rules of Engagement on True Target?”

  “Weapons hot, proceed to area at all costs. We are en route to Abuja as we speak, details to come.”

  “Copy that,” Nix said. “Details on target’s location, chalk five?”

  Moments passed as both Nix and Top could hear their commander’s wheels turning. There was as much concern and frustration in the Major’s tone as they each shared.

  “Unknown at this stage, we’re working on it, chalk one. Inbound EP-3 and Joint STARS aircraft combined with possible intel on the ground will lead you to target, you’ll hear about all developments as I do.”

  Nix and Top were not impressed.

  “We got Close Air Support, chalk five?”

  “Negative at this time. Be advised, we are doing everything we can and the stops are out. Likely F-22 coverage for CAS, minimum six hours out.”

  Top kicked his boot against the Osprey’s load-ramp.

  “Any good news, chalk five?”

  “Unmanned Aerial Vehicle for the HVT strike is on your station in two hours, approximately three hundred clicks northwest of Abuja, will intersect and cover your approach to target area.”

  “Designation of UAV?”

  “Make it a Reaper, chalk one,” the squadron CO said. “Start rolling, Captain. Good hunting and godspeed, out.”

  “Hooah, chalk five, chalk one is moving now. Chalk one out.”

  Nix handed the handset back to his Radio Telephone Operator.