Blood Oil

by James Phelan

  “Top, get the Humvees gassed up and fully loaded,” Nix said. “Take the Grey Fox and an RTO fire team, one in each vehicle, ready to bounce in five.”

  “Sir?”

  “We’re going on safari.”

  “Who’s leading it?” Top asked.

  Nix squinted, looked around. The platoon CO, a twenty-one-year-old second lieutenant he’d gotten to know at Forward Operating Base Bernstein, south of Kirkuk, Iraq, was directing his men around through his squad sergeants. The kid’s platoon was a well-oiled unit, his troopers alert, respectful, proud to be a page in the future history of 10th Mountain Division. Nix didn’t know many soldiers outside those he served with right now who could match this kid’s skills. They rolled hard and fast, punched pound for pound well above their weight.

  “How about—”

  “We got company!” a PFC on point defence yelled over the tactical radio.

  The whole platoon of 10th Mountain stood to, ready to defend their positions and aircraft as Nigerian military vehicles approached—six open-topped Land Rovers, machine-gunners with weapons ready. Two Vickers tanks rumbled close behind, along with at least a company-sized unit of paramilitary. Nix’s men suddenly had a good hundred and fifty barrels pointed their way, insults flying in the air as neither force knew what was unfolding.

  The 10th Mountain stood with guns drawn and a shoot-out was about to go down.

  “What’s our ROE?!” was being called among the American troops.

  “Stand down!” Nix ordered. “Covert cover only!”

  From the corner of his eye he noticed his sniper team were lying on the roof of the nearest V-22. Mortar team called in that they were prepped for close-in firing, another fire team had AT4s ready to take out the tanks.

  Top was by his side, his M4 pointed down to the ground but ready for use within a second of action.

  “These guys our enemy?” the sergeant asked out the side of his mouth.

  “Not until they start shooting at us…” Nix replied.

  A Nigerian officer approached Nix. He was a full colonel, airport detachment’s CO. His side holster was empty—there was a nickel-plated pistol in his hand.

  “Who are you?” the Nigerian asked. He was shaking—this fucker was ready to snap.

  “US Army.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Nix looked at Top, then at his RTO. The two faces that looked back said What the fuck have we just landed in? Nix considered calling it in to command to see if someone had overlooked giving these guys a heads-up. That would be a serious fucking mistake on someone’s part.

  “We were expected here,” Nix said. “We are a security force to secure the US embassy.”

  “No one told me,” the Nigerian colonel replied.

  Shouting came from Nix’s left.

  “Point that fucking gun someplace else!” one of his men said to a Nigerian. Top motioned the trooper to calm down.

  “Look, we don’t want any trouble here,” Nix said. “How about I get on the radio—”

  “You must leave, now!” the Nigerian officer ordered. This was not a nice reception at all. “Leave, now!”

  Nix was thinking about a reply, things spiralling fast, when two Chevy Suburbans pulled up in a cloud of dust and sand, right in between the two forces of men. Out stepped a dozen members of the Nigerian President’s personal security regiment. All smiles, oblivious to the Mexican stand-off. It was clear these guys were expecting the Americans, they just hadn’t passed that information along.

  The base commander and his force stepped back.

  “Hello!” the new arrival said. Commanding officer of something, if all the gold and brass were anything to go by. Could be Mr T’s brother. He pumped Nix’s hand, then Top’s. “I love Americans! Uncle Sam! Denzel Washington!” He was still pumping hands with a big cheesy grin as his detachment all started snapping away with disposable cameras.

  “What’s with the cameras?” Nix asked him. Then he kind of got it. “Where’d you get the camera?”

  “Airport gift shop! You want one?”

  Nix cringed. The 10th Mountain had almost been caught in an African firefight because of a stop-off at the gift shop.

  “We love Americans!” Mr T was still beaming, posing for photos with the US force in the background, his men snapping away. “Love cheeseburgers! Guns! Paris Hilton!”

  Top stared at Nix, the sergeant’s face cocked with a look: What fuckin’ planet did we just land on?

  “Small plane,” Mr T said. “Can carry Abrams tanks? Where are your tanks?”

  “No tanks,” Top replied. “Just the Humvees.”

  “No tanks? No helicopters?”

  Top shook his head at the guy. Nix did the same.

  “Sorry, bud,” Nix said. “We’re as good as it gets today.”

  Mr T looked depressed. “No tanks…”

  51

  WATERLOO STATION, LONDON

  Fox was dripping wet as he walked along the tracks heading into Waterloo Station. There was a light London drizzle but it was the Thames that he wore on his clothes, his hair, his skin. He jumped up onto the end of a platform, to the much-startled stares of some late-evening commuters. He did his best to appear less conspicuous, if that were possible, walking slowly and milling into the main terminal building. He scanned for the least busy area, never stopping moving as he selected his course and entered a men’s room.

  In the mirror he looked like a drowned rat, much worse than he’d thought. His gaze lingered for just a few seconds and he was back in game-mode. He took his sodden passport and wallet from his pants pocket, and put them on the tiled shelf under the mirror.

  Stripped down to his underwear, he put all his clothes in a basin with the tap on full. His actions were fast, he knew time was ticking. He let the clear water from the faucet run over his clothes and the dirty water stream away down the drain-hole. He lathered up his face and hands with the liquid soap and washed himself clean. Used paper towels to dry himself off, then wrung out his T-shirt and jeans. Gave up on the drenched sports jacket.

  He was at the hand dryers now, drying out his jeans and T-shirt under two dryers at once. He checked his watch—Gammaldi would have arrived in Washington by now. The contents of the briefcase would no doubt be setting off alarm bells.

  Behind him the door to the bathroom opened. Fox instinctively tensed. He looked over his shoulder—a Regular Joe. Startled, staring. Eyes fixed on Fox, stripped down to his socks and jocks drying his clothes under the hand dryer.

  “It’s really coming down out there,” Fox said.

  The guy snapped out of it, just walked into a cubicle and locked the toilet door with a clunk.

  Fox spent another five minutes drying out his passport, wallet and cell phone as best he could, and dumped his jacket in the waste bin on the way out.

  All done, he looked in the mirror for a final moment. His hair was still damp, his clothes now looked slept-in, his boots were soaking. He knew they were wet with water but felt it could be blood. The blood of Michael Rollins. His final focused look in the mirror was not consciously at himself but it resolved something within him. He would do this, follow this path of retribution, whatever it took.

  He walked out of the bathroom and joined the throng of people moving about the station. Then he headed outside and hailed a cab to the airport. For him, life rolled on. For others, it would soon end.

  52

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  The President entered the Situation Room with Bill McCorkell at his side.

  All present stood up at the Commander-in-Chief’s arrival, the military staff snapping to attention.

  “Sit,” the President said, taking his place at the head of the table. “Don, where are we at on the home front?”

  “Sir, we have the nation as well-protected as possible,” Vanzet said. “We’ve got no-fly zones over capitals and critical infrastructure. Every guard unit has
been activated, and we’ve got the Coast Guard and Navy putting a wall of steel in every port and possible target.”

  The President nodded.

  McCorkell sat and looked across the table to Jackson and Fullop. Clearly the Chief of Staff was a little out of sorts with the premature arrival of the President.

  “Mr President,” Fullop began, “are you signed back in to office?”

  “That I am, Tom,” the President said, without looking at the man. “Where’s the attack on the LOOP left oil price rises?”

  “Jumped ten per cent a barrel,” McCorkell said. “With the loss of the LOOP we’ve lost two million barrels per day of deep-water crude delivery, and five hundred thousand barrels of refining capacity.”

  “SEC? Stock exchange and NYMEX?” the President asked his Chief of Staff.

  “They’re still—”

  “Shut them down, Tom,” the President said.

  Fullop looked from the President to the Veep. The man who was until moments ago the Acting President wasn’t about to put his neck out.

  “We thought that—”

  “Tom, when this sort of attack occurs, we suspend trading, it’s the 101 of a situation like this,” the President said. “How much of the SPR have we started drawing down?”

  McCorkell shook his head and looked to Fullop. The Chief of Staff was going red in the face as the whole room sat in silent consideration of him.

  “We haven’t released any of the SPR?” the President asked.

  “Mr President, the Acting President and I felt that the Cabinet ought to start a ration—”

  “I thought I asked you to do something just now, Tom?” the President interrupted.

  Fullop looked dumbfounded.

  The President’s bottom lip hung low. McCorkell hadn’t seen this kind of incredulous rage simmering on POTUS’s face for—well, ever.

  “Mr President,” began Fullop. “Are you sure you’re feeling—”

  “God damn it, Tommy!” the President screamed, the palm of his hand slamming the point home onto the table. “Leave the room, now.”

  “Mr Pres—”

  “Someone get him out of the room,” the President said.

  McCorkell and Vanzet shared a look—both men would have taken this politician out of the room in a heartbeat. Two Marines in dress uniform outside the door entered and stood close to Fullop.

  Fullop’s gaze shifted to Jackson. The Vice President crossed his arms, resolute with the President.

  Defeated, Fullop sucked it up and left the room.

  “Bill, what’s next?”

  “Nigeria, Mr President. Platoon of 10th Mountain is on the ground. Rest of the 1st Brigade Combat Team will be in Abuja this time tomorrow,” McCorkell said. Back to business. “The 24th MEU is steaming in from Rota, Spain, aboard the Wasp. On station in fifty-two hours.”

  “The Nigerian President, where is he?”

  “In his residence at Aso Rock, Abuja,” McCorkell said. “That’s his secure presidential compound.”

  “And how secure is that?” the President asked. “I don’t want this to be like it got in Chad, with a president hunkered down and under constant attack.”

  “It’s a fortress, Mr President, and he’s got a wall of armour and air power set up around Abuja,” Vanzet said. “The 10th Mountain force in that city is ready to secure and possibly evacuate our Embassy, and another element is racing overland in a two-vehicle convoy in what we’re calling Operation True Target.”

  “That’s to give us the option of taking down the coup leader?” the President asked.

  “Yes, sir,” McCorkell said. The information was fresh as he’d had the conversation with the President on the way from where he’d met him at the steps of Marine One on the south lawn not fifteen minutes ago. “The Army element will visually ID any target and the UAV missile strike will be ready to take immediate action. We’re still working on exact targeting info.”

  “Good,” the President said. “And these sons of bitches in the Keys and the guy found dead here in Washington—that the end of this cell or are we gonna have terrorists turning up on the White House lawn?”

  “We’ve got special ops teams in the Keys right now, Mr President,” McCorkell said. He checked a clock on the wall, the red digital numbers reminding him that the promised call from Lachlan Fox was way late. “We’ll comb the earth for remnants of this terror cell, Mr President. Rest assured, we’ve got agents and soldiers all over the world shaking down perps right now for anything that will lead to information. There won’t be any gunmen saddling up to the White House lawn on our watch.”

  53

  LAGOS, NIGERIA

  Fox walked into the Lagos Press Club, stepping from the brisk morning into the stuffy old architecture. Already the professional drinkers were hard at work. He looked among those downing their morning drinks, passed all the foreign correspondents who were still running their body-clocks on their home time zones, went beyond the local couriers and a few women and boys selling their bodies. Ceiling fans pushed around the humidity and the heat of the night, swirling cigar smoke around as well. Fox followed the haze to a smoky corner, thick, like it could have been a serious smouldering house fire. Under the shade of the rubber plant, behind the newspaper—there sat Sir Alex Simpson.

  “Ah, my young Australian friend,” Sir Alex said. His reading glasses were down low on his bulbous sherry-red nose. “What are you after this time?”

  Fox took a seat opposite, and flicked a folded note across the table.

  Sir Alex scanned it. No reaction.

  “Well?” Fox asked. “Can you get it?”

  Sir Alex stared at Fox over the top of his reading glasses, weighing him up.

  “It won’t be cheap.”

  “That’s fine,” Fox said. “I need a car too. Something fast but heavy. SUV heavy. And make it a non-loaner, it won’t come back in one piece.”

  Sir Alex took a few seconds to compute all this.

  “I can get that too.”

  “I need it all by this afternoon,” Fox said.

  Raised bushy eyebrows said that would be a bit of a stretch. A smile formed that spoke of the money he could now charge. Or it could have been the excitement of it all. Perhaps a bit of both.

  “That—”

  “Won’t be cheap, yeah, I got it,” Fox said. He looked around the smoky bar of the Press Club. No one cared in here, God only knew what other deals were going down.

  “Have the Jeep parked out the back by four,” Fox added. He stood to leave. Dropped an envelope onto the table—ten grand in US bills.

  Sir Alex looked down at the list again, then up to Fox.

  “You’re starting a war.”

  “No,” Fox said. “I’m going to end one.”

  54

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  “Thanks, Ed and Larry, I got it from here,” McCorkell said. “Al, come on through.”

  He ushered Gammaldi from the entrance hall across the Cross Hall and into the Red Room.

  “You look worse than I do,” McCorkell said. “You want a drink, something to eat?”

  “No, I’m good,” Gammaldi said. He watched the orderly leave with what could have been read as either hunger pains or near-death agony.

  “What’s up?” McCorkell asked. “And I haven’t heard from Fox for a while, he was meant to call me.”

  “Yeah, we hit some trouble in Nigeria,” Gammaldi said. He clung to a briefcase as he spoke. “We got attacked in the delta.”

  “I know that much from his last phone call from there,” McCorkell said. “What’s with the briefcase?”

  Gammaldi put it on the low table between them. There were two bullet holes through the black leather. He popped it open, revealing some blood on the files inside.

  McCorkell fingered a bullet hole. There was no mistaking what it was.

  “What happened?”

  “We got attacked in Lagos,”
Gammaldi said. “Right outside the British Deputy High Commission. Michael Rollins didn’t make it. Fox just went to London to tell his wife.”

  “Jesus,” McCorkell said, confused, as he looked at the files.

  “They’re that important,” Gammaldi said. “Worth killing for. Rollins said that the militants got the case off some private security contractors acting as couriers.”

  “Yeah, I’d heard they were communicating like that,” McCorkell said. He was silent a full two minutes while he scanned the contents. “You guys running this as a story?”

  Gammaldi shook his head.

  “Fox wanted you to have it,” he said. “Clearly, it’s from Steve Mendes. A couple of places here in the US are mentioned. Brutus Achebe is named through a lot of the papers too, the stuff in English that I could read … I don’t know, take it to the President, the UN, The Hague—wherever you need to take it. Fox would rather you took direct action than it being buried in the daily news cycle.”

  “We’ve got some DoD guys on the ground in Nigeria,” McCorkell said. “By now they’ve got the president and cabinet hunkered down in his palace to ensure the government is secure, but there’s a coup going down. Achebe and Mendes are right in the middle of it…”

  “This Steve Mendes was directly responsible for the death of Michael Rollins,” Gammaldi said.

  “I can see that,” McCorkell replied. He read through the typed note giving instructions on preparing the Port Harcourt site for the bombing. Receipts for firearms, personnel lists of his security contractors in Nigeria. “And I can see why he didn’t want this to be read by the likes of me … There’s dirt here on their president and most of the congress—election-fixing details. This is enough to support what we know—he’s pushing Achebe for power. They’ve already split the government, and they’re forming a provisional leadership majority as we speak. Only now we’re realising at what cost…”

  “Fox wanted to know if you’re going in to get Mendes?” Gammaldi waited a bit while McCorkell continued to read. “I’m heading straight back to Nigeria to meet up with him—if you have a message at all?”