9 Days Falling, Volume I

Chapter 1

Had he known what was waiting for them on the journey ahead Fedorov, might have never pushed forward his crazy idea. It was going to be risky, of course. It was going to be a long and dangerous journey, all the way from Vladivostok to the distant shores of the Caspian Sea, with each mile on the cold steel Siberian rails bringing them closer to the thunder and fire of the most savage war ever fought. There was no guarantee that he would ever get there safely; let alone the challenge of finding Orlov, and making it back home. His plan might not work at all! They might never be found by the rescue team. They might find themselves marooned in the past, even as Orlov was when he took that fateful, wild jump from the helicopter.

But they had to try.

The cold fog of Vladivostok harbor was as real as any other, he thought, and it was his only reality now. They were here. They made it through to 1942. They had delivered their letter to the storage bin at the naval supply building and the cold clink of the lock jarred him with the realization of what he had done. It was as if his old life, all of it, was locked away behind that storage bin door and forever lost to him now. The lock would not be opened again for nearly eighty long years. His grandfather had been the last man to close that bin door, perhaps just a few years ago, he thought. Now here he was, sliding that letter into the pocket of his grandfather’s coat, the ghost of a man that had not even been born yet in this year—1942. There it would sit untouched by human hands, unread by human eyes for another eight decades, or so he hoped. Yet the thought that it would be Admiral Volsky reading it one day gave him heart, and hope.

There was no time to lose now, and long dangerous miles lay ahead of them. They moved like ghosts in the mist, wasting no time getting to the rail depot where they found one last train was going to be heading north within the hour and routed all the way to Omsk. That would get them very close to their objective, in Russian terms. No place was really very close to another here, and the lonesome iron rails were often the only means of expeditious travel from one place to another. He made arrangements to get his team aboard this train immediately, and with his black Ushanka hat and NKVD badge he knew they would have no immediate trouble getting aboard. He simply told the Rail Master that he would be inspecting facilities along the entire line, and had vital papers to be delivered in Omsk. No one objected. NKVD officers are not to be trifled with, and a Colonel was a very high rank in that shadowed organization. The Rail Master gave him quick directions, and the engine number of the train. It was a freight haul, but there were two coaches attached at the back of the train just forward of the caboose.

Minutes later, they settled into the rear coach, taking the seats in one of two enclosed kupe compartments at the very back near the small rest room. The provodnits, or coach supervisor dressed in plain military garb eyed them briefly, noting Fedorov’s obvious NKVD uniform and rank, and casting a furtive glance at Troyak and Zykov. He said nothing, as if he expected they would take the compartment, and quickly withdrew to the forward coach, wanting nothing to do with these dangerous looking men.

Fedorov gave the passengers in the main coach compartment a cursory glance, but Zykov had already boldly walked the aisle, looking everyone over and making it obvious that he was a security man looking for any possible threats. There were fourteen passengers in the seats, five soldiers who gave them wary looks when they boarded, then settled back into their dozing slumber when they saw that Fedorov in his dark NKVD uniform and cap did not seem to be there in any official capacity. The others were civilians, a line crew of six rail workers in stained grey overalls, and an older couple with a small child. The little girl stared up at the imposing figure of Zykov as he passed her seat, her eyes wide until Zykov winked at her, smiling, which only sent her deeper into the folds of the babushka she was with. Satisfied the coach was secure, Zykov joined Troyak and Fedorov in the kupe, though they left the door open to be wary of anyone who might be moving in the aisle.

The fog was still heavy when the screech of rusty wheels announced their departure and the cars jolted slightly as the brakes were released. The train rolled slowly on through the pre-dawn hour, winding its way north and slightly west to the Amur River. Soon they came to Ussuriysk where the line split off in several branches. They kept to the main spur heading up to Khabarovsk on the longest rail line in the world. It would be twelve hours before they reached that place, some 450 miles to the north, and they took advantage of the dark and quiet to get some food and much needed rest.

As dawn came on what Fedorov figured to be September 23, 1942, he was awake to watch the wan light gleaming off the sallow winding course of the river. Now and again the train would stop at small villages and towns, though there would not be much more civilian traffic on this freight haul. Soon they began to bypass the smaller hamlets, stopping only on the larger settlements where the line crews would exit the coach and mill about the line briefly, checking the ten cargo carriers up to the engine, or looking over rail switch stations before re-boarding. They would ride all day to Khabarovsk, and the sun was already low in the sky by the time they reached the place. The rail workers job there was to replenish the water in the locomotive and restock at the coaling station.

Curious and needing to stretch his legs, Fedorov wandered out to watch them work under the watchful eye of Troyak, who was leaning on the train coach, chewing on something he had fished out of his pack. The rail workers were haggling over the coal with a fat, red nosed man who was holding up his hands in some frustration. Fedorov approached them to see what was going on, noting how the discussion immediately quieted down when they saw him coming.

“What is the problem here?”

“He says the coal is bad,” one man explained. “A workman left the bin doors open and it was drenched by the rain.”

“You mean to say there is no good coal in all of Khabarovsk?”

“Take all you wish,” the fat man offered, much more agreeable now that he spied the NKVD insignia on Fedorov’s cap. “But I am sorry to say it may not burn well for several days.”

Expect the unexpected, thought Fedorov. They could not afford any delay here. He looked about the marshalling yard, seeing several oil stained barrels off by a warehouse. “Are those full?”

The fat man leaned out, squinting at the barrels, nodding in the affirmative. “Yes, oil and lubricants.”

“Take one,” Fedorov said to the rail workers. “Load it at the coaling compartment and oil the coal in a bucket before you put it in the fire box. That should do.”

The workers, hesitated, thinking they might instead enjoy a long break here and mill about the town while they waited for the coal to dry. “We could wait a day, sir,” one man suggested. “It should dry out by tomorrow.”

“We will not wait a single moment!” Fedorov tried to be firm, though he did not present a very intimidating presence. Yet his uniform, insignia and the prominent decorations on his breast cast a long shadow and made him seem much more imposing than he really was. “This train has a schedule to keep,” he said again, tapping his wrist watch. “We must be in Omsk in four days—understand? Now get moving. You men, load that barrel.”

The rail crew knew an order when they heard one. They took pride in their jobs, a special class of skilled labor servicing the steel arteries of Mother Russia. The lead man started off towards the barrels, whistling and waving for two of the others to follow him. He had not expected this NKVD man would be on the train but knew he was going to have to live with him until they reached their destination. Satisfied the men were doing as he wanted, Fedorov walked back to join Troyak.

“Any trouble?” the Sergeant asked.

“The coal will need oiling due to the rain. They were going to wait a day, but we can’t spare any delay. We must get to Omsk on schedule and then we leave the main line and head south to Kazakhstan.”

Fedorov had a lot of time to think things over, wondering what would lie ahead and feeling at times that his plan was completely insane. It was going to be a long journey: two more days to Irkutsk as the line swept north around the wide bend of the Amur River which marked the border with China. They would pass through Chita and Ulan Ude before turning south towards Mongolia where the route would curve beneath the cold banks of Lake Baikal to eventually find the city of Irkutsk. From there it would be another long day to Krasnoyarsk, and then a day through Novosibirsk to Omsk.

They planned to leave the line at Omsk and take a spur heading west through Chelyabinsk to Orsk on the Kazakh border, reaching that place by the 28th. From there they would cross into Kazakhstan and take a local rail line from Aktobe to Atyrau on the north Caspian Sea. At that point Fedorov planned to avoid Astrakhan and go by sea on a trawler or fishing boat, and he had gold in his pocket to secure one if necessary, or Troyak and Zykov to secure what gold would not buy. If all went well they would be on the Caspian coast near Kizlyar by the 30th, but they had no time to loiter or waste along the route.

The coaling incident was a typical example of common delays they might experience. If too many stacked up they would be unable to find Orlov at Kizlyar and would have to look for him at Baku.

Troyak watched the men rolling the barrel on its rim this way and that as they labored to get it near the locomotive. He spat with a grin and strode over to the group of three, waving them aside. Then he stooped down on his haunches, put his brawny arms around the barrel, and lifted it without even so much as a grunt. It was only three quarters full yet must have weighed over 200 pounds. Built like a locomotive himself, Troyak carried it easily to the back of the engine followed by a gaggle of rail workers. He heaved it up on the muddy metal plated flooring of the coaling compartment, and turned, brushing off his rough hands and seeing the astonished looks on the faces of the rail crew.

“Load your coal,” he said curtly, and walked off to rejoin Fedorov. The train was rolling out of the station half an hour later.

On the morning of the 25th of September they caught sight of the crystalline waters of Lake Baikal, one of the most ancient and enduring lakes on earth, over 20 million years old. Holding almost twenty percent of all the fresh water on the planet, the lake stretched in a great cobalt crescent extending some 670 kilometers to the north. The railway had to climb steep ridges on its southern nose, switching back and forth and presenting spectacular views of the lake in all its raw, yet serene beauty. The water was so clear and clean that you could see forty meters into its pristine depths. Even when it froze to a thickness of up to ten meters in winter, the ice still had a glass-like quality of transparency.

Local lore said the Siberian shamans of old attributed special healing powers to the waters here, but Troyak found a taste of the savory ‘Omul’ fish sold by an old woman at the Mysovaya train station to be more than enough to fortify him. They found it freshly caught, and set up a makeshift brazier to grill it to a smoky delight that was much akin to salmon.

The three men were resting quietly on a bench near the watering station while the rail attendants topped off their tank when they heard the labored approach of another train coming in from the west. It was a short train with a weathered old red engine followed by three gray freight cars, a coach car, and two large boxcars painted dull green. As the train rolled to a stop they saw five armed guards jump down from the coach car in brown NKVD uniforms and carrying rifles with bayonets. Fedorov watched as one guard went to the first boxcar and raised the iron door latch while the other four slowly pulled the doors open.

They heard the sound of people moaning and groaning from the shadowy interior, and they could smell the stench of excrement, urine and dank body odor even where they sat about twenty yards away from the other train. Fedorov immediately realized that this was a group of detainees, most likely bound for one of the hundreds of labor camps haunting the forbidding reaches of Siberia in the great ‘Gulag Archipelago.’

These lost souls had probably been rounded up in a wild and unexpected moment when the soldiers would come to their homes, pounding loudly on the door with shouts of “Otkroite! Open up!” whatever grievance they had, or whether or not there was any proof of wrongdoing on the victims’ part, did not matter. It was often merely the simple fact of the neighborhood they lived in that condemned them and saw them rousted out of their homes in the night and herded aboard these obscene train cars heading east into the oblivion of Siberia. Once they had reached their destination, those that survived the oppressive journey would be interrogated by the Bluecaps, NKVD security men, and their “case” would be manufactured on the spot in that dark hour, a confession extracted, and a judgment rendered that would shadow their lives for years—or end their lives.

This group looked like they had been on the train for a good long time, haggard and disheveled, their faces gaunt and fearful under hollow eyes that seemed to stare ahead blankly, as though they were unwilling to truly see or believe what was happening to them. Fedorov looked at Troyak, shaking his head.

“Welcome to Stalin’s world,” he said quietly. “We have had an easy ride west thus far, but we forget what happened in this war, the misery we inflicted on our own people, and the terror and injustice of it all.”

Troyak nodded, eying the soldiers with unfriendly eyes. They soon realized that aside from ventilating the cramped boxcar, the guards were also looking to remove anyone who had died the previous night. Their harsh voices lashed at the people huddled in the car and Fedorov saw that they were pointing at a man who lay on the soiled hay of the boxcar floor. They wanted him shoved out, but he could hear the sound of a boy crying, women sobbing, and then he saw that a young lad was holding dearly to the old man’s hand, crying fitfully. The boy would not let go, which soon prompted one of the guards to reach in and give him a hard slap on the back of his head, and then another when this only increased his terrified weeping.

Fedorov had seen enough, standing up with an angry expression on his face. “Here we are trying to stop world war three, but we can damn well do something about this one as well.” He strode boldly towards the scene, walking briskly across the intervening rail lines with a determined gait. Troyak and Zykov were up at once, waiting to see what would happen and watching the armed soldiers closely.

“You men!” Fedorov shouted. “What are you doing?” He saw that the soldier who had struck the boy was just about to turn his bayonet on the lad and he immediately seized him by the arm and dragged him back. The guard spun around, the butt of his rifle ready to strike. Then he saw the dark Ushanka on Fedorov’s head, the shoulder straps on his jacket and insignia on his chest, and he stopped himself.

“I’m sorry, sir. I did not see you. I thought you were one of these.” He wagged his head derisively toward the open boxcar. Fedorov looked inside, horrified to see the condition of the car. People were huddled together so closely that they could barely move. The putrid smell of death rolled from the open door. He saw where they had managed to pry loose one of the floorboards in the center of the car where it now served as the solitary toilet facility. The thought that people—men, women, children, would have to squat there on the long train ride filled him with revulsion. Two or three women were sobbing quietly, and the young boy still clung woefully to the old man’s arm, wailing “dedushka, dedushka—grandfather, grandfather!”

“The man is dead,” the guard pointed. “He must be removed.”

Fedorov edged closer to the boy, seeing how the people nearest to him instinctively shirked back—from the uniform he wore, not knowing the man inside this one, but having undoubtedly met many others who wore that garb.

“Do not be afraid,” he said in a quiet voice, and he reached in and put his hand softly on the young boy’s head, as if to soothe away the sting of the guard’s blows and comfort him. A young woman brave enough to meet his eyes was watching the scene, and seeing her he gestured that she should come closer. “Help me with him, please,” he said quietly.

He told the boy not to worry, and that they were going to take his grandpa to see the doctor. Hearing his voice and seeing the expression on his face, the people seemed to perceive that he was of a different ilk, uniform aside, and two men within moved to assist. One of the women took the young boy into her arms while the men eased the old man out. The guards just stood there stupidly, thinking to see the man simply pushed from the train car onto the ground, and when Fedorov saw this he sharply ordered them to take hold of the man and carry him forward, out of the boy’s sight.

Fedorov turned to the soldier who had struck the child, his anger still very apparent. “What is your name, soldier?”

“Melinikov, sir.”

“You have a grandfather, Melinikov?”

“Sir?

“You have a grandfather, do you not? What if he was lying there on that filthy floor, eh? And what were you going to do with that bayonet, kill a child?”

“His grandfather would not be stupid enough to get himself stuffed in a rail car like that,” came a hard edged voice, and Fedorov turned to see another NKVD man had come out of the coach car and was striding to the scene. He looked to be an officer, and he did not look happy. “Who are you and what business is it of yours?”

Chapter 2

Fedorov knew from the sound of his voice that this man was the ring leader of this rail security detachment, a Lieutenant by rank, inured to the pain and suffering of others and the man truly responsible for the conditions here. He knew this train was probably one of a hundred others that had come east this month, and though it seemed a futile blow against a tide he could not possibly hope to stem, he was here in front of this train at the moment and, by God, he was going to do something about situation.

“What business is it of mine?” he said with as much of a tone of threat as he could put in his voice. He turned to face the man, allowing deliberate silence to communicate his displeasure as he looked him up and down. The officer wore black leather boots beneath flared navy blue trousers and a leather jacket with gold plated buttons. A brown shoulder strap crossed his chest to a pistol holster at his left hip. A brown leather pouch was at his other hip, attached to his belt. A young man, he nonetheless wore round wire framed spectacles and seemed to squint in spite of them, his eyes narrow with insolence. He wore a black billed, blue felt officer’s cap with a gold star centered on red hatband. His face was shrouded with a pall of cigarette smoke and he took a long draw on the butt before slowly pinching the tip to put it out, exhaling heavily.

“These are my men,” he said slowly. “This is my train, and we have a schedule to keep. Who are you?”

Fedorov ignored his challenge. “Oh, you have a schedule to keep? Is that so? Well when are you supposed to continue east, Lieutenant?” He named the man’s rank with some disdain in his voice, squaring off to him so his rank and insignia were apparent, particularly the medals on his chest: the Order of the Red Star over his right breast, correctly placed after the Order of the Patriotic War, 1st class.

“As soon as we feed these mongrels, what concern is it of yours?”

“I have just made it my concern, and now you will make it yours. The conditions on this train are despicable. I want these people taken off the cars, and you and your men will clean them, lay in fresh straw, and then you will feed these people, understood?”

“My men? Clean their filth?” The Lieutenant smirked at him. “You must be joking.”

“And you must be deaf,” Fedorov said quickly. “And possibly blind as well.” Then he did something that he had seen in a movie once, though he could not recall the picture. He had been standing, hands on his hips as he confronted the NKVD Lieutenant, and now he just extended his right hand off to one side and loudly snapped his fingers, as if summoning some vicious dog. “Sergeant Troyak!”

The heavy footfalls of the solid Siberian Gunnery Sergeant were quick and hard on the graveled rail beds as Troyak strode up to the scene. “Sir!” he said crisply, more dangerous looking than any dog Fedorov could have called to his side.

“Sergeant, the Lieutenant here must be deaf. He doesn’t seem to know an order when he hears one. What do you think of that?”

“Regrettable, sir.” Troyak fixed the Lieutenant with a hard stare.

“And the Lieutenant here must be blind as well, because he doesn’t seem to know there’s an NKVD Colonel standing in front of him.”

“Very blind, sir.” Troyak took a step forward, very deliberately.

“Indeed. Well what should we do about this, Sergeant?”

“Sir, perhaps the Lieutenant needs a new pair of spectacles.” Troyak turned, silently pulling off his leather gloves as he stared the officer down with a murderous glare. He saw the other man’s hand drift slowly towards the holster on his left hip, and spoke again, his tone so menacing and hostile that it seemed to freeze the other man’s blood. “And if the Lieutenant is stupid enough to try and draw his pistol perhaps he needs his head ripped off and shoved up his ass as well.”

Now Troyak clenched his jaw and took two small steps forward his eyes never loosening their grip on the other man, his physical mass and presence awesomely threatening. The Lieutenant instinctively took a backward step, seeming to quail before the rock-like figure before him. Few men on earth would have been able to stand their ground against the look Troyak had on his face.

Fedorov had to struggle to keep a serious expression on his own face. He repeated his order. “You and your men will hand your weapons to the Sergeant here and find shovels, Lieutenant. Then you will clean both these train cars at once. Lay in fresh straw, get these people fed, and place a barrel of fresh water with cups and a bucket in each car. And be damn quick about it! This train has a schedule to keep, if I recall what you told me just a moment ago.”

The NKVD Lieutenant was livid, but clearly intimidated, his eyes bobbing from Fedorov to Troyak and back again, his hand still on his holster buckle. He stole a glance at his men. Three were still standing by the open boxcar door, bayoneted rifles in hand, their eyes fixed on their Lieutenant as they wondered what they should do. One man was slowly leveling his rifle at Fedorov until another voice was heard. Zykov had been watching closely and keeping a particularly sharp eye on the armed soldiers. Now he was strolling quietly up to the scene, Russian Spetsnaz SMG primed and ready.

“Finally some work for my Bizon-2,” he said naming the weapon as he brandished it at the soldiers. “Nine by eighteen millimeter high impulse Makarov rounds in a helical sixty-four round magazine. Very good in a firefight, particularly at close quarters. Fully automatic at seven hundred rounds per minute when I have to clear a room out.” He stood, looking at the soldiers with a grim smile on his face.

Finally the Lieutenant spit out an order. “Put those rifles down and do as the Colonel says,” he said with obvious agitation, his face reddening with anger and humiliation. Then to Fedorov he said, “This is unheard of! The Chief of Security will want to know about this, I assure you!”

“Is that so? Where is he?” Fedorov looked around. “Is he here? Another man would make the work go faster, yes?”

The Lieutenant threw his cigarette butt to the ground and started to turn and walk away, looking back with annoyance when Troyak put his big hand on his shoulder, held him in place, and then deftly removed his pistol from the side holster. “He must be deaf, sir. He was about to walk away without giving me his weapon as ordered.”

“Regrettable,” said Fedorov.

Zykov was standing a few feet away now, trying to keep himself from laughing, but still watching the soldiers very closely. Then, at a hand gesture from Troyak, he moved quickly to collect the rifles. There were shovels at the back of the coach car and Fedorov told Troyak to supervise the work and make sure it was done correctly.

“But what about this lot?” The NKVD Lieutenant pointed at the occupants of the train.

“Don’t worry about them. I’ll keep an eye on them while you work. Now get busy, Lieutenant. I have a schedule to keep as well—three more trains to inspect today, and yours has just interrupted my meal.”

The Lieutenant and his guards emptied out the first car, and Fedorov saw to it that the soldiers helped the youngest children and infirm. He also told Zykov to get the five soldiers still riding in his own train coach and put them to work on the other car. After seeing what had just happened, and realizing they would be riding on the same train car with this unexpected NKVD Colonel, they made no protest and quickly went to work. When the bespectacled Lieutenant saw this squad he naturally assumed they were the rank and file of Fedorov’s security detachment, and he inwardly cursed his bad luck in running across this Colonel. He had not expected to find another NKVD unit here.

Fedorov watched until he was satisfied the work was being done as ordered. Then he sent the railroad workers off into the marshalling yard and told them to bring any fresh hay they could find at hand, which was often kept in yard bins for just this purpose. It took all of two hours, but when the work had finally finished Fedorov made a point of finding the Lieutenant again.

“What is your name,” he demanded.

“Lieutenant Mikael Surinov.” The man was clearly not happy, but of no mind to confront this Colonel who had come upon the scene so unexpectedly. Yet he burned with inner anger and resentment over what he had been forced to do.

“Well, Lieutenant, you are a disgrace to that uniform. Yes, our job is security here, and yes, it’s a dirty business, but not like this—not with our own people. Let the Nazis do that.”

“But these are detainees of the state!” Surinov protested.

“That may be so, but they are human beings. Who knows what they did to end up stuffed in that filthy train car? Probably nothing. They are most likely there because some ass like you simply decided they should be. Your man almost put a bayonet through a ten year old crying for his Dedushka! Now where is this train going?”

“Khabarovsk. The Camp at Verkhniy.”

“Khabarovsk? Excellent!” Fedorov smiled, with some good lozh in mind. “I just came from there to make these inspections. I’ll be heading back that way soon. See that this train is kept clean and humane for the rest of the trip east. Understand?”

He made one last inspection of the cars, still not satisfied. There were too many people crammed into too little space. So he took Surinov in tow and inspected the rest of the train. There were two coach cars, largely empty just like his own train.

“Who is riding in this coach?”

“My men, of course,” said Surinov.

“Five men in using all this space? There must be seats for thirty people here. And who is in the other coach?”

“That is my car.” Surinov raised his chin, looking at Fedorov through the bottom of his spectacles.

“Your car?” Fedorov’s disapproval was apparent.

He walked boldly up to the car and had a look inside. There were three young women there, obviously very frightened, and one had a thick lip where she had taken a blow recently. He pursed his lips, realizing what was going on here at once, and very upset.

“So you prefer the company of women, do you? Well it’s time you learned some military discipline, Lieutenant. You are an officer in the State Internal Security Division, and this train is being sent east for a purpose—it is not a brothel! You want to share your coach with women? So be it!”

He strode off and soon had his soldiers remove all the elderly women from the over cramped box cars, the old babushkas who might be the next to die on the long journey in the cold box cars. If there were married couples he let their husbands accompany them, and he soon had Troyak and Zykov supervise their placement in more comfortable seats and compartments in the two coach cars. Then he went back to the Lieutenant, removed the three young girls from his car and sent them back to the box cars, a much safer place for them now, or so he reasoned.

Lieutenant Surinov watched, a controlled rage plain to see on his face, though he could do nothing about the situation. Who was this new NKVD man? He had never seen him on the line before this, nor had he ever seen an NKVD colonel act this way.

When the resettlement was finished Fedorov went back to Surinov with one last threatening order. “I see there is no room left in your coach now. All the seats are taken, so you and your men will now ride in the engine or coal car. Understood? Don’t worry about these people, the provodnits will manage them. They are to remain here until you reach your final destination, and they are to be treated with dignity and respect!” His voice was loud now, and everyone in the two coach cars could hear what he was saying.

“Now… I will have my men return your weapons—but without the bayonets. These are people, not cattle to be poked and prodded by cold steel. Their fate in Khabarovsk is in the hands of the Camp Commandant, but their fate on this ride east is in your hands. I just counted a hundred and eighty-three souls here, and you are now responsible for their safe delivery. God help your soul should another one die before you get to Khabarovsk….And leave the young girls alone! Those are someone’s daughters, yes? What kind of man are you?”

Surinov was clearly unhappy with this but stood stolidly, his eyes narrowed, face red with outrage and humiliation. Fedorov could see that the man’s temper would not change easily, and feared that as soon as the train reached the next stop all his work here would be undone, and with considerable anger by this man. He decided he had better make his orders more pointed.

“I am not making suggestions here, Lieutenant. These are your orders now, and you had better be listening. When I return I will make inquiries about this train. I will come looking for you again, Lieutenant Mikael Surinov. I have written down your name. If I discover you have fallen back on your old ways and these people have been mistreated again, then I believe you and I will sit down with the Sergeant for a very long and uncomfortable discussion. If I hear that these orders were disobeyed…then I hope you enjoy this train ride, it will be your last, Lieutenant.”

He poked the Lieutenant firmly on the chest where he thought the man’s soul might reside if he had one, then turned and strode away, a small feeling of satisfaction growing in him as he returned to his freight train, now ready to leave the station.

As they moved west out of the yard Fedorov looked back one last time and saw the other train slowing moving east. He knew he could not right every wrong he would encounter on this journey, and that the days ahead for those poor people would still be harsh and cruel, but not on his watch, and not today. His intervention was one small drop of righteous compassion in a sea of sorrow and war, but for that day it was enough, and it was all that mattered.

He settled into the kupe compartment and the uniformed provodnits, made his coach check. The man had seen and heard the entire incident from a window in the forward coach, and when his eye met Fedorov’s there was a glint of a smile there, and a glimmer of respect where there had once been wary fear.

It will get worse, thought Fedorov. The train would slowly approach the war zone, and he expected to see much more military activity on the line, and much more human sorrow. Getting south to Kizlyar would not be easy once they left the main rail at Omsk. That is when he expected the most danger. It was not merely a question of miles now, but decades as well. To succeed he had to complete this perilous journey, find Orlov and get him safely to the Caspian coast, hoping that the rescue operation would appear to bring them all home. That failing… he could not go further into that darkness in his mind. They had to find them, Volsky’s team had to come. The world was depending on it.

Chapter 3

He woke from a troubled sleep with that same thought in mind—the world was depending on him—but the sound he heard outside made his blood run cold. He sat up in the darkness, blinking, his awareness keenly focused on the sound, like distant artillery fire, a low threatening rumble of thunder, yet impossibly far away, a strange echo of something vast and terrible—but what was it? For a brief moment he struggled to remember where he was… the long rail journey through the wilderness of Siberia…Ilanskiy… the hotel….

After they left Irkutsk they had continued northwest towards Krasnoyarsk, another long day that covered nearly 600 kilometers. Near dusk they were several hours east of the city but the train needed to make a scheduled stop at a small town called Ilanskiy. The rail line moved through some heavily wooded terrain, then bent south of a river to enter the town, where they found several other trains parked in parallel lines on the marshalling yards. Three of their cargo cars would be off-loaded here before the train would continue west through Krasnoyarsk, Novorossiysk and eventually reach Omsk.

Fedorov had learned about the hotel from the railway workers. They called it the ‘Locomativnyh’ or ‘rail workers holiday house’ established at an old inn a few blocks from the marshalling yards. It was going to be six hours before the freight operation concluded, so Fedorov determined to rest there and see if they could get some decent food and a few hours sleep before the train was scheduled to depart just after midnight.

They entered the reception area of the old hotel and Fedorov saw the portrait of an elderly man behind the front desk, with a well oiled mustache and white hair, obviously the ancestor and founder of the establishment before the revolution. He spoke briefly with the receptionist, who also doubled as the serving lady in the dining room, a young woman named Ilanya after the town itself. She wore a plain white apron and red head scarf, and seemed very intimidated when Fedorov appeared with Troyak and Zykov. Seeing the apprehension in her eyes, Fedorov engaged her in a friendly voice to ally her fears.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We have no business here. We are just traveling west, and the rail workers on our train spoke highly of your hotel. Your father?” He smiled, pointing to the portrait on the wall behind the front desk.

“My grandfather,” she said quietly. “He built the hotel here before the turn of the century, and when the Commissariat established authority in the province it was converted to a rest and boarding facility for the railroad workers. Better that than an army barracks,” she said. “I have a room with three beds on the second floor, and Uzhin is served in half an hour—good hot stew tonight, with fresh bread.”

“It sounds wonderful,” said Fedorov. They took a table in the dining hall, the aroma from the kitchen already heavy in the room and their hunger well stoked. They had been living off bread, cheese, and some dry salami Troyak found along the way, but they were soon treated to a nice thick stew with potatoes, carrots, celery, onions and even a bit of boiled beef. The gravy was particularly good and the fresh, hot tea was just what they needed.

“Another three or four hours to Krasnoyarsk,” said Fedorov. “But we’ll be there before dawn. I suggest we get some sleep before we leave at midnight.”

“A real bed sounds good,” said Troyak.

Fedorov thought for a moment. “Sergeant, what do you think our chances are?” He left that out there without much explanation, but Troyak could see that he was worried, and knew he was talking about finding Orlov.

“We’ll find him,” said Troyak matter of factly.

“I wish I could feel so assured,” said Fedorov. Russia is a big place, though at least we know where to start in this search.”

“If he’s still wearing his service jacket we can home in on his signal. I can activate the jacket if we get within a five kilometer radius of its position.”

“We can? I did not know this!” Fedorov’s mood lightened considerably.

“The same goes for you,” said Troyak. “So always keep your service jacket on. It’s our means of close communication, and we can track down Orlov from the IFF transceiver in the lining. All the Marines have this.”

“Then if the rescue team arrives they will be able to find us this way too?”

“Correct.” Troyak finished his tea, arms folded on his broad chest. “If I broadcast it extends the homing range to fifty kilometers.”

Fedorov nodded, considerably relieved. Troyak had told him something about this earlier, but with all the stress of his planning he had let it slip his mind. Suddenly their prospects seemed much brighter.

“I’ll have a look around outside,” said Zykov, “and a smoke if I can bum a cigarette off the Sergeant.”

“How come you forget to pack your own, Zykov?” Troyak forced a smile, and reached into his shirt pocket.

“All my pockets are full of ammunition, Sergeant.” Zykov patted his thick shirt pocket where Fedorov saw a clip for his pistol. Somebody has to be responsible for security, eh?”

Zykov left to make his rounds and Troyak took the main stairway up to their room while Fedorov lingered a moment at the table with his tea. When he saw the serving lady enter with an armful of firewood, he immediately got up to assist her with the burden.

“Oh, it is no problem, thank you,” said Ilyana. “Winter is coming, and we have fresh cut firewood this season. Lucky for that. Last year we had to barter for coal from the train station, but wood is so much nicer. The workers were cutting trees for railway ties, and they left us some.”

“I understand,” said Fedorov with the odd thought that he was now speaking to a dead woman, or at the very least a very old babushka if she could live to reach his day in 2021, which he doubted. “Well, Ilanya, the stew was very good, and I think a few hours sleep on a decent bed will be even better. May I take that stairway to find my room?” He gestured to a darkened, narrow stair leading up just around the corner from the hearth.

“Oh… not that one. Take the main stairs. It’s silly but they say bad things about the back stairway—old stories. My grandfather refused to ever use them, and I was never allowed to play anywhere near them as a child. So old habits die hard, I suppose. I always take the main stairs.”

“Very well, Madame, good evening.”

She gave him an odd look when he addressed her so respectfully, but the expression on her face was one of relief and pleasure. This man was clearly unlike any other NKVD officer she had ever encountered, though the two soldiers with him seemed frightening, as all men of war were in her young eyes.

Fedorov made his way out past the front desk to the main stairs and climbed the creaking wood steps to the upper floor. The long hallway was dimly lit by guttering oil lamps and he passed the drafty, dark recess of the back stairway Ilanya had talked about, unlit by any lantern. He thought it would have been much faster to go by that route, but moved on with a shrug. Two doors down he came to the main suite at the end of the long hallway, number 212. Then the hall turned at a right angle and stretched off above the dining area to another set of rooms.

Knowing Troyak as he did, he knocked, quietly whispering his name before he tried the door. He entered to find a simple room, with three beds as promised and a small writing desk and chair. There was a sink on one wall, and a window at the far end of the room overlooked a small city park with a waterless stone fountain. He looked out at the weathered branches silhouetted by a waning gibbous moon rising near full in the gray sky.

“Zykov should be back soon,” said Troyak. “He’s very thorough. He won’t be satisfied until he has peeked into every storage bin and barn within five hundred yards of this place. A good man, Zykov.”

“It’s a pity Bukin didn’t make it through,” said Fedorov. “I don’t know what went wrong, but I wanted to apologize to you, Sergeant. He was one of your men. If anything happened to him…”

“Don’t worry, sir. Bukin knew the risks involved, as we all do.”

“If it’s any consolation I’m hoping he is still safe in Vladivostok. I just don’t think the reactor there had the power to move us all, though I can’t be certain about it.”

“I understand, sir.”

Fedorov sighed. “Well then, let’s get some sleep.” He wasted no time, removing his heavy outer coat and settling on the simple bed, though he followed Troyak’s lead and left his boots on. The mattress was old and lumpy, but the blankets were clean and it was much more comfortable than their train compartment. They would just be here a few hours, but sleep was welcome and came quickly to him, and he was soon lost in the inner world of his dreams.

But this was no dream…No, not this. The sound was so riveting that he immediately sat up, eyes wide, and saw that both Troyak and Zykov were already reaching for their handguns. They had been sleeping for some time before they heard it. Now both men were looking around, even as Fedorov, trying to locate the source of the sound. Zykov went to the window, standing stiffly to one side to peer outside, but the night seemed dark and still. He leaned down and opened the window, forcing it up with a dry squeak. The sound was not coming from the park behind the hotel.

Fedorov was up and at the door, but Troyak waved him aside, tensely alert. The Sergeant took something from his side belt and held it at the door, unmoving, a kind of infrared sensor, or so Fedorov thought. Then in one swift motion Troyak opened the door. Zykov was right behind them.

“Cover the main stairs,” the Sergeant whispered to Zykov. “I’ll take the upper level. You check down stairs. Fedorov, stay here, but can you watch that stairway?” Troyak pointed to the shadowy depression that led to the back stairs.

The two men moved like silent assassins, so deft and purposeful, their weapons at the ready as they began to sweep the building’s upper floor. The first job was to rule out trouble in their immediate environs, he knew. Troyak slipped around the corner and was off down one hallway. Zykov drifted silently down the other hall toward the main stairs. Fedorov watched them go, then thought he had best draw his pistol, eying the dark back stairway with suspicion and some trepidation.

He crept slowly toward the stairs, suddenly surprised to see a strange amber glow there. It seemed to pulse and waver, like the flickering glow from a fire. Then he heard it again, that distant rumble, like bombs exploding or artillery firing, and the sound seemed to echo in the narrow confines of the hall. He started down the stair, lit now by the amber glow, his footfalls noisome on the old wood steps. It led down to the corner alcove near the hearth in the dining room. As he neared the lower level the amber light brightened to a warm ruddy glow. Could there be a fire?

A strange sensation overcame him, and he reached to brace himself near the bottom of the narrow stair. He thought he heard shouts, voices, but in a language he did not understand. “Was fur ein gerausch? Was ist passiert?”

Seconds later he reached the bottom alcove, pistol held out before him like he had seen Zykov demonstrate. He stepped off the last stair, feeling very odd, a queasy sensation that left him dizzy for a moment. There was no smoke or fire that he could see, and no heat. Yet the terrible roar was louder now, a throbbing in the air, and he heard the crying of a baby, and people yelling outside the building.

Stepping quickly from the stairwell he could to see he was back in the dining hall, but it was bathed in ruddy light from outside the building. The drab tables were now covered with white linen, and dressed out with candle fixtures and styled table settings. Several windows were shattered, leaving shards of glass scattered over the floor. He saw food on one table, a chair overturned, a glass half filled with dark tea still quivering with a strange vibration in the air, as if the meal had been suddenly abandoned. Then the full realization of what he was seeing struck him. The glow he had seen was daylight! The rich red light of sunrise was streaming through the shattered windows on the eastern wall of the building, yet it seemed too bright, too searing. They must have fallen into a deep asleep, he thought, but the implications of this soon followed—they had missed their train!

He turned, thinking to go to the front desk and meet Zykov coming down the main stairs. When he walked into the reception area he found it empty and the front door was ajar, lit by that amber glow. Something was happening—outside—he could hear frightened voices on the street, and the sound of people running. There came a deep booming sound again, and he felt the windows shake with a tremulous rattle.

Troyak reached the end of the hall, his eyes tight, jaw set. He had checked every room, but no one else was billeted here for the night. The rail workers had eaten their meal and returned to the train to help with the freight operation. He squeezed the button on his collar and spoke quietly into the hidden microphone there.

“Zykov? Troyak here. All clear on the upper level.”

Zykov’s voice spoke in a quick return in his earbud: “Main stairway and front desk clear. Checking the entrance and outside grounds now.”

Then he heard it again, the deep rumble, like distant thunder, or far off explosions, yet it was not coming from outside, but behind him, echoing down the long hallway. He turned, his attention immediately drawn to the source of the sound, and spoke into his collar microphone again. “Fedorov—are the back stairs clear?”

There was no answer.

Troyak was off at once, his arms stiffly leading his line of movement, pistol held securely in both hands. He reached the open door to their room and slipped inside. “Fedorov?”

There was no answer.

A cursory search satisfied him that the room was empty, and he holstered his pistol, snatching up his automatic SMG and flipping off the safety. Then he moved like a shadow, out the door and quickly to the back stairs. All was quiet and dark there, and he flicked a switch on his weapon to activate a search light. The narrow stairs extended down, their small wooden steps covered with dust, but he plainly saw the imprint of a man’s footsteps, heading down. Fedorov, must have gone that way, he reasoned, and he started down after him.

The Sergeant reached the bottom landing, springing quickly out of the alcove into the dining room, weapon at the ready. The room was dark and silent, the embers of the fire the only source of light beyond the pale moonlight that gleamed on the windows and cast its wan pallor over the bleak, empty tables.

He heard a door creak open, and quickly withdrew to the alcove. The young serving woman, Ilanya had emerged from her room behind the front desk. When she saw Troyak she immediately shirked, clutching a plain grey robe to her throat.

“What is wrong?” she said fearfully.

There were heavy footfalls at the front entrance and Troyak stood waiting, his finger drifting quietly to the trigger of his weapon. Then in walked Zykov, his automatic weapon in hand, and a look on his face that was all business.

“All clear outside,” he said, looking at his watch. “No sign of trouble. The station is quiet and they are still offloading freight. It is only 10:30.”

Troyak looked at the serving woman. “Have you seen our comrade colonel?”

She shook her head in the negative.

Troyak turned so the woman would not see him and reached into his service jacket, pinching off the IFF locator squeeze switch. He listened while the voice played in his earbuds, then spoke quietly in return. “Locate signal zero alpha one.”

“Searching…” Came the voice in the earbud. “Signal not found.”

“I was sleeping,” said Ilanya, “until I heard you coming down the stairs.” She eyed the dark back stairwell with obvious apprehension, remembering all the stories her parents had told her about them. The haunted back stairway—the stairs—the way she never went for any reason, where the dust lay heavy on the weathered wood and shadows lay in deep folds, shrouding the narrow way up.

Fedorov was gone.

Chapter 4

The trouble started far to the west in the Gulf of Mexico where men in hundreds of offshore oil platforms were working just a little harder after hurricane Victor rampaged through the region. Houston was still shut down, the spigots on pipelines, platforms and refineries all along the Gulf coast clamped tight. Over 80% of America’s fuel system was now off line in the wake of the storm. That was going to put a whole lot of pressure on all overseas operations to make certain new supplies of crude were well out to sea and heading for the US to relieve inevitable shortages that were already cropping up in the southeastern and southern states.

Things were also heating up in the Caspian region, and the work in the fields there had seen several interruptions in the last few weeks due to security problems—situations that always got Ben Flack’s blood boiling, because Ben was a Chevron “Company Man,” and a schedule man when it came to moving the oil from one place to another. The work of all the other men, Toolpushers, Drillers, Roughnecks, Roustabouts, Derrickhands, and Mud Engineers, all deferred to him. Flack had the final say on all operations, answerable only to the other company men at Chevron headquarters back in the states.

Chevron’s Medusa platform in the North Caspian region was on emergency watch again tonight, as local militants were threatening more attacks on rigs and pipelines to protest the ongoing incursion of corporate interests in the region. The old maxim of the oil industry was again proved brutally true: he who controls the routes of distribution will also control the producers. In Chevron’s case, its production was in a very uncomfortable place as the war drums began to sound, and the routes of distribution were all too fragile. One of the last US producers in the Caspian, it stubbornly clung to its prized Kairyan fields at the southern fringe of the super massive Kashagan Oil & Gas Field Complex, and Medusa was the crown jewel, a platform every bit as big as Thunder Horse had been in the Gulf of Mexico.

Discovered over a decade ago, Kashagan was first thought to yield 13-15 billion barrels of oil, making it second only to Ghawar in Saudi Arabia. Extensive new surveys after 2018 had now discovered the fields there to be much deeper and even more massive than previously thought. Superfield Kashagan was now the dominant player where oil was concerned, promising well upwards of 25 billion barrels of recoverable oil, and much more in reserve. While Ghawar in Saudi Arabia was aging and now needed water and gas infusion to extract its diminishing reserves, Kashagan was a new field in its adolescence, and set to transform the entire North Caspian region onto the most geopolitically strategic zone on earth. Ben Flack was sitting right in the middle of it on Medusa, aptly named, as the pipelines snaked out from the platform in all directions, feeding on the dark oil beneath the sea.

The pipelines were the arteries carrying the life blood of the developed world. They headed east to China, north to Russia, and along the Trans-Caspian Consortium route under the Caspian Sea to Baku before crossing Turkey to Ceyhan on the Eastern Med. What could not be sent by pipeline was also loaded directly onto shallow draft tankers and also moved to Baku, which had once again regained the great strategic prominence that it had in the 1940s when Hitler so coveted the oil there.

“Crap,” Flack said aloud. “Look at this goddamned wire on the Gulf situation. That’s going to make my life miserable. With Thunder Horse down, my ass is in the sling now for production. How am I supposed to move the damn oil with the locals threatening to raise hell out here?”

Here we just get our teeth into this field and the damn Chinese have to go and get a hair up their ass over these damn little islands, he thought. Sure it was for the oil survey rights, but how many barrels could there be? It would be years before they’d pump anything, but this little squabble was going to cause a headache for all the big producers too. Now every goddamned militant group from the Khazars to the PKK thinks they need to get in on the act here. Damn inconvenient to have Russian troops up north where they could swing down and cause some real mischief. If home office thinks a little shortfall of 20,000 barrels per day is a bother now, wait until the Russkies get here.

Chevron tried for a piece of the Caspian reserves in 2007, and failed much farther south. Then the company managed to sign a lucrative development contract in the thick of things up north at Kashagan in 2018. The Company’s slim profit margin was depending on the field’s production, and Ben Flack was the man in the chair when things started to heat up on the global stage. It was just his luck, and he ticked off his production numbers noting that the shortfall was becoming harder and harder to cover.

They were already 20,000 barrels off the pace because of the goddamned bunker busting, he mused. That was a term the locals used to describe their illegal sampling of oil from the ubiquitous pipelines crisscrossing the Caspian basin. Smugglers and militant groups, and even government controlled raiding parties would slip up to a line with a lighter full of empty barrels at sea or a truck with the same on land. Then they’d drill a hole and feed in some plastic tubing to milk the line. Just last week the Caspian District Police had a shootout with oil bandits, killing several militants, but that was old news in the region. As much as 10% of all the oil Chevron and other trans-nationals pulled out of the area ended up getting siphoned off by smugglers, the local mosquitoes sucking at the veins of the oil industry with their damned bunker busting.

So Ben’s numbers were off this month, and he had crews working all the rigs associated with Medusa very hard tonight, in the hopes of making up for some of the enormous losses expected in the Gulf of Mexico with this odd late season hurricane. Pumping light was just not an option for him now. He had mid-level managers on the phone from headquarters in San Ramon, the Bollinger Canyon Boys as he called them, and the pressure was ratcheting up.

With plenty of well pressure from the competition, the Bollinger boys wanted to know why the numbers were down again from the Caspian? Ben Flack hated the thought of another long conversation about the lack of security for ongoing operations, the slow response time of the Kazakh Police in the region, let alone their military.

KAZPOL, the Mobile Police that patrolled the region in shallow drafted boats, was never there when you needed them, and never really reliable when they did manage to arrive on the scene in a timely manner. It was bad for numbers, and numbers were something Ben Flack understood all too well.

He was thankful that the US viewing TV audience had such a short attention span, for it kept the real world news off the radar screen for most Americans. While they were all busy dialed in to singers and chefs and job seekers on the Voice, the Taste, the Job, and dancing with the stars or wondering how they’d fare if they were washed up on some deserted island with a chance for a big payoff if they played the game right, Ben Flack dealt with the real world, the very real and compelling problem that he stared at every night and every morning in his production tables. How to keep those numbers up, nudge them yet higher, and keep the folks all nice and warm back home this winter? That was reality as he knew it, and it made for some particularly uncomfortable nights on his rig, worrying over feeds and flows and well pressure and tanker traffic to the two big terminals on the coast—not to mention the pipelines.

Numbers were numbers, a cold hard reality that could not be remedied by going to a commercial break. He was on his own little island out here in the region, on a hulking metal platform in the middle of a shallow oil drenched sea. While the folks back home watched Survivor, he was the one with his butt in the chair so they could keep their thumbs busy on the remote. But things weren’t so good on his little island tonight. Ben’s numbers were down again, and if the situation got any worse in the next few days, with militants threatening to launch another major protest or two, he just might have to take the precaution of shutting Medusa down. That would take another 100,000 barrels off his production list for each day he was down—bad news for him, if not FOX or CNN. Bad news for the boys back in Bollinger Canyon, and bad news for the folks back home, though they would probably never hear much about it…Until their next trip to a gas station.

The worst of it all was the big shipment scheduled for this very weekend, an old rig from Baku that had been refurbished for operations. It was due to be set up tonight, and Crowley & Company, a highly specialized transport outfit, was already on the scene, moving in equipment they would need for the job. Crowley was able to get the platform all loaded on submersible barges and carefully prepared for the long tow job from Baku. Once on site, they would have no more than 48 hours to remove the sea fastenings and get the equipment shifted to the off shore shallows over the production site. Most of the work was scheduled for tomorrow night, at the dark of the moon. There was no sense inflaming the passions of the locals with a daylight move. Government officials had been paid off, a little KAZPOL security was in place, but with military units on heightened alert these last few weeks Ben was still worried.

Tempers were running at a fever pitch due to a new round of government operations in the sensitive northern border region. The Kazakh army was staging maneuvers, hoping to discourage any Russian movement south. Their 36th Air Assault Brigade had arrived from Astana to take up blocking positions on the few roads and rail lines leading into the production zone. If the Russians pulled some military muscle out of Astrakhan, Volgograd, Saratov or Samsara they might just mount a major overland offensive that could sweep down to the North Caspian and seize the whole of the super-giant Kashagan field. That was the nightmare scenario that had bedeviled Western military planners for the last decade. How in the world could they defend the place? It was more vulnerable than Saudi Arabia had been when Saddam Hussein had gobbled up Kuwait.

Flack set his lukewarm coffee down on the desk and leaned back in his swivel chair. He was squinting out the Plexi window, watching a few wildcatters making adjustments to one of the platform well feeds. The platform itself was like the head of an octopus, well named as a great Medusa where new directional drilling technology allowed umbilicals to snake off in all directions and exploit sites three to five miles away. Medusa served as a collection point and flow station, surrounded by shallow grey green waters and shoals about ten kilometers north of the company bases at Buzachi and Fort Shevchenko. It was one of ten facilities Chevron had in the region, and a good number of them were under Ben Flack’s watch tonight.

Ben was a short, burly man, with thinning grey hair offset by an equally close cropped grey beard. His forties had fattened him out a bit in the gut, but the extra weight only seemed to add more presence to his stocky frame. He removed his wire frame glasses, rubbing a sore spot on the bridge of his wide nose, and reached for a cheesecloth he kept in the desk drawer. With a careful motion, he cleaned the lenses as he craned his neck to look for Mudman.

“Hey Eddie,” he said matter of factly. “Any word from Baylor on Kalamakas?” Arkol and Kalamakas were two other Chevron platforms in the region, along with Medusa.

Ed Murdoch was making an adjustment on his flow monitors, a computer controlled system running Honeywell-PlantScape and Allen Bradley's Monitoring system on Wonderware MMI. He had come up through the ranks, working landside operations as a Mud Systems Specialist years ago. Now he was the Control Systems Engineer for Medusa, though everyone still called him “Mudman” for an easy handle.

“Not a peep,” he said.

“Well, he was supposed to call in over an hour ago.”

“Probably still sleeping,” said Mudman as he bit off the end of a granola bar and tossed the wrapping paper into his round file. The early morning light off the sea reflected through the Plexiglas storm windows and glinted on his hair gel. Eddie was the polar opposite of Ben Flack, a wiry, round shouldered man who kept his thin, dark hair slick and tight on his knobby head. Earplugs from his new Apple iPhone dangled from his lean face, and gave the impression that he was permanently plugged in to his system monitors—an engineer Goth, complete with a vampire tattoo on his exposed left shoulder

“I don’t like this,” said Flak. He was rocking in his chair now, moving his bulk this way and that, and for all the oil in the North Caspian there was just not enough to prevent an annoying squeak each time he moved, which only added to the strain in his head right now.

“You worried about the locals again, or the Russians?” Mudman still seemed more interested in his granola bar than anything bothering Flack.

“It’s that damn, Kazakh militia again,” said Flack, venting his frustration. “Didn’t they round up the ringleaders back in August when we had to shut down?”

“Yup. Asshole called for the destruction of all Western Petroleum interests, or something like that. But that’s what got the locals all shit mouthed—they picked up one of their ring leaders and accused him of treason. Then the locals go ape shit and start taking it out on the oil companies.”

“Well, why the hell do they have to pick on my platforms?” Ben complained. “I got numbers to meet, here, and we’ve got an installation this weekend. What is it this time? What’s eatin’ those lard ass locals now?”

“Who knows,” said Mudman. “Could be those damn Khazar clansmen. Could be this talk of war and all. Remember, we’re east of Suez out here, Flakie. We’re sitting right on the frontiers of the Eurasian Alliance—SinoPac.”

“Yeah, right. Look at this shit on the wire.”

Flack was holding a Reuters news feed, where a statement from the Caspian Region People's Volunteer Force, or CRPVF for short. It was looking very threatening again. He put his eyeglasses back on and read aloud.

“We will unleash upon the government and its cohorts, violence and mayhem never before reported in the history of the Kazakh state. We will kill every iota of oil operations in the Caspian Region. We will destroy anything and everything. We herein order that all staff, property and operations in the Caspian Region be totally evacuated in the next 48 hours. Shell, Chevron, Mobil, Total and others should take note. Their installations will not be spared. We will come after everything, living and not living. Failure to comply will result in death, grave sabotage and every other unthinkable vice.”

“They’re coming after everything—living or not living?” Mudman had a sarcastic grin on his face. “Failure to comply will result in every other unthinkable vice? Such eloquence. This guy sounds like he went to college!”

“Can you believe that shit?” Ben could think of a few vices he would like to revisit, but the threat implicit in this latest press release was rather pointed, and he reached for a bottle of chewable aspirin instead. “Forty-eight hours, they say, and I’ve got an installation to worry about now. Better get on the phone to Baylor,” he concluded. “I want to make sure he knows about this.”

“Think we ought to call KAZPOL first? I mean, it took them hours to get here in August.”

Flack’s anger and frustration ticked up another notch. “Christ, this is the last fucking thing I need this weekend, Mudman. I got Crowley off shore in six hours, and then we’ve got to move some heavy duty facilities inshore and get them anchored so the engineers can start setup first thing tomorrow. This is really the last fucking thing I need!”

“Right,” said Mudman, adjusting his iPhone headset. “I’ll call Baylor.” He reached for the phone, but it rang before he could lift the receiver.

“Now what?” said Flak with a frown. He had a deep misgiving that things were going to go from bad to worse, and he was right.

Chapter 5

If he thought Thunder Horse was bad, the news coming in now would make matters even worse. Mudman gave him a sheepish look, gesturing to the phone, as if afraid to touch it. Ben waved him off and picked up the receiver.

“Flack,” he said, his voice flat as though he expected bad news. He was not to be disappointed.

“Ben? We’ve got another problem,” came a voice. It was Wade Hanson, his Crowley representative supervising the big rig set operation inshore that night. Flack looked at his watch, mentally calculating where the rig should be by now, a full 24 hours after the move was started by the American Salvor and her escort of tugs.

Earlier that night, three Invader Class high-powered tugs made their way north to the field site. With engine for only a 150,000 pound pull, the Invaders were on the scene for steerage and positioning more than anything else. The real work was to be done by a much bigger vessel, an American Salvor class boat, capable of handling a 600,000 pound pull. The lighter boats would keep the cargo stabilized until it could be properly positioned at the production site. Then they would wait until the platform feet settled nicely on the silted bottom. The submersible barge would be floated out from underneath the platform, and Crowley would whisk its tugs south again, hopefully before daylight, well on their way back to Baku. The locals would awaken to see another massive, hulking metal shape deftly positioned by the tugs, another de facto occupation of turf, there to secure control of the oil and gas beneath it.

They would be another six weeks getting the platform up and running, retrofitting, repairing and positioning pipeline feeds. But, with any luck, the beachhead of this next invasion would be secured within 48 hours. That was the news the Bollinger Boys were really waiting on. The bothersome calls from middle-managers haggling with Bennie Flack over his pump numbers were only reflex. Ben knew the drill, and the drilling that went with it.

“They taking pot shots at you again?” he said to Hanson on the phone. There had been two separate incidents already, small arms fire from what looked to be a fishing trawler near the coast. Thankfully no one had been hurt, though one of the Invader class tugs would be needing a new paint job and side window pane after the operation was complete.

“Forget about that for now. Haven’t you heard yet?” The voice on the line was more urgent. “They hit the pipeline again.”

That was just what he needed now, thought Flack, another pipeline explosion, with all the bad press, not to mention the cleanup. “Another bunker bust?” he asked. The constant pipeline attacks by smugglers on the landward side near the terminals often caused minor explosions and fires along the line. They were a nuisance, like the smugglers themselves, but seldom fatal to his flow chart numbers.

“Worse than that,” said Hanson. “They hit the BTC line in Turkey. Pretty good rip, from what I hear. I just got word myself on the radio.”

That got Flack’s attention immediately. The BTC line was his main artery from Baku through Turkey to Ceyhan on the Mediterranean coast. There were supposed to be tankers waiting there in 24 hours to receive a long stream of black gold bound for US ports. If the BTC line went down, oil could not get to Ceyhan.

Hanson spelled out the details. The PKK, a Kurdish militant group that had a long history of targeting oil and gas operations to press its political agenda, had mounted a major operation at a key juncture in the long pipeline route, at Erzurum. They blew up a mile of pipeline and the oil road to Ceyhan was suddenly closed. Now the oil had only one way out if it was to ever reach a Western Alliance controlled port. It had to go all the way across Georgia to the Supsa terminal on the Black Sea Coast, and from there it would need tankers to get it down through the Bosporus and into the Aegean for ports serving either Europe or a long journey to the United States. Ben Flack was going to be a very busy man that night.

“Christ almighty,” said Flack, clearly disturbed. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, Ben. Word is that this will take down the BTC line for at least two weeks, maybe even a month.”

“A Month? It was that bad? Look, I’ve got a big shipment I have to get on the deep water and headed stateside, and soon. Now I’ll have to route the damn thing through the Black Sea out of Supsa. You know what kind of a headache that will be with all this crap on the news about Russia and China? The Black Sea is a goddamn Russian lake!”

“I hear your pain, my friend,” Hanson tried to sound sympathetic, but he had worries of his own. “Just be glad you aren’t inshore like I am with these local running around with AK-47s.”

“Well I hope to God you’re still on schedule with this rig delivery. Will we get that done tonight?”

“We’re starting our set now. Bottom looks good and we’ll be lowering the barge in a few hours. Should have that puppy floated out from under your baby by six PM. That is if we don’t get any more trouble from the militants. Anyone starts shooting at us and I’m pulling my people out. Home office got wind of that pipeline blow and gave me an earful. That’s why I thought I’d better call you first.”

“Shit,” Flack swore again. “Look, Wade, I need that rig set tonight. You hang in there, will ya? These guys get a hair up their ass for two or three days and then go home again. This business will all blow over and we’ll get things moving again on the numbers. But I need that rig set, you hear me?”

“I’ll do what I can,” said Hanson. “But you may have more on your hands here than my problems. That was a bad blow on the BTC line. If that isn’t enough, we’ve got the fucking Russians rattling swords up north on the border. This could get ugly.”

Another phone was ringing, pulling at Flack’s anxious attention. “Let me worry about the pipelines,” he said quickly. “Look, I’ll see if I can get KAZPOL out your way in case things get hot. You just set that rig, OK?”

“I’ll call you in six hours.”

“Right.” Flack reached for the other phone, relieved to still its insistent ring. It was more bad news. Hanson had been right on target. The field engineers were already setting up a new delivery option to move the oil through the Trans Caspian line to Baku, bunker it there for a credit, and then have tankers pick up crude at the other end of the line. It was a common practice. Oil was already in the system. They just had to get the right to load it on a ship and sail merrily off for the US. Bunkering a couple million barrels at Baku would give them a hefty credit, and enough to buy an equal amount elsewhere. They just needed to find the tankers to move it from that point. He called Ceyhan to see about a credit, but with the line down for a month there was no chance he’d book anything there. So his only option was Supsa on the Black Sea coast south of Poti.

Flak leaned heavily on his desk and pulled up a production chart on his monitor. Forget his 20,000 barrel shortfall now. The migraine he had been fighting off for days was ripening. He could just hear the calls that would soon be coming in from Bollinger Canyon, not to mention Merrill Lynch, Societe General, Bank of America, Credit Suisse, First Boston, Morgan Stanley, UBS, Goldman Sachs, J.P. Morgan, and God knows who else. These were the money men who had heavy investments in the North Caspian, with big plans for a new LNG facility at the important new Shevchenko Terminal just down the coast.

Mudman had been outside with binoculars scanning the coast, now he came back in, scratching his stomach and yawning away sleep. “So what’s the bad news?”

“BTC pipeline is down and out.” Flack gave him the short version.

“Christ, Supsa too?”

“No, thank God the Trans-Georgia line is still open. Maybe we can get some flow through today. If that goes we’ll have to run a Bunker deal.”

“This sounds bad, Bennie. What if we can’t get a credit? Everyone and their mother is going to want the oil that’s already at the terminals.”

“No shit! That’s why we need to pump fast.”

“Well what about that rig set?”

“It’s still on schedule. But Hanson says the trouble is spreading. Russians on the border. Kazakh militias taking pot shots at facilities. Better tell the Rig Boss to break out his sidearm.”

“Sidearm? A lot of good that will do us if the Russians want to play patty cake out this way. Where’s KAZPOL? I thought they were going to tamp this local shit down.”

“They’re good for nothing idiots,” said Flack, his frustration evident. “This crap may get out of hand this time, Mudman. We may need a little more help than KAZPOL can provide. I’m going to see about getting some Mercs out here—off the record of course. Maybe some muscle from Blackwater would even the odds for us a bit, or the Timmermann Group. You tell the Rig Boss like I said.”

“You got it.” Mudman mimicked the firing of a pistol, blew the imaginary smoke from his index finger, and slouched off to the operations deck to pass on the word.

Flack settled into his chair, staring at the sheaf of production numbers he was about to fax to the Bollinger Boys. He scratched his head with a shrug, and penciled in a notation at the top of the first page. “Data assumes no facility damage, and relies on normal field flows and access to open pipelines, or that failing to adequate tanker traffic. See news feed attached.”

The news feed was the one intangible thing in Flack’s world. He could handle everything they did at sea, and below ground where the rigs were working. It was that annoying news feed, those “events above the ground” as his colleagues called them, that always posed the real problem. His fax might buy him about twenty four hours, which was just the time he would need to get that rig set and see Crowley’s tugs safely off to Baku again. The Bollinger Boys would Google up the news on the pipeline explosion, and then wait for his next report. In the meantime, he thought, he had better get a call in to Timmermann and his merry band of mercenaries.

There was a strange feeling in the air now, an uneasy pre-dawn quiet that was about to ignite. There were pipelines all over the region, fragile collection points, flow stations, rigs and well sites. And it was all sitting on a lot of flammable oil, with bands of hit and run militants sniping, burning and making ever more threatening statements in the local news outlets.

The statements soon coalesced into an organized resistance called the “Movement for the Emancipation of Caspian Central Asia,” or MECCA. Guess who was likely to be behind a name like that? Damn Al Qaeda. The group was stiffened by a shadowy leadership structure, and their stated aim was to totally destroy Kazakhstan’s capacity to export oil. To that end they had already walked a quarter of the mile. Exports were down sharply as MECCA tactics became more sophisticated each year.

The raids were more frequent, lightning quick speed boat attacks by well armed men wearing white turbans and black scarves to mask their faces. There were thousands of men like this available in this poverty stricken region, all easy hires for a day, a week, a single operation or more extended campaign. They filtered down from the general chaos in the desolate regions of the country, where roving bands the locals called ‘Khazars’ haunted the parched landscape.

Last year, before Flack’s watch, Shell had to abandon facilities producing over 600,000 barrels per day, under relentless pressure from MECCA guerillas. When the attacks finally quieted down Shell engineers were sent in to reclaim the rigs and platforms, only to find much of the equipment was simply gone. In the area near the Karaton terminal alone, 35 miles of pipeline disappeared, disassembled by marauding gangs of dissidents, loaded onto barges, offloaded onto trucks, and then delivered to Chinese scrap metal dealers. There was always someone ready to feed on the ruin of another’s misfortune, to turn a quick profit. It was literally a corporate world of dog eating dog.

“This business will get out of hand,” Flack murmured aloud. The Saudis would never leave their rigs in a situation like this. Here he was about to hire on mercs for protection that his own company, his own damn government and all the investment companies, had failed to provide—let alone the fledgling Kazakh government. They were so busy with local factional squabbles that there was little muscle in the Kazakh Army to enforce general order in the region.

They were lucky they had at least one Air Mobile Brigade out here to give the Russians second thoughts about crossing that border up north. But he knew if the Russians came they would roll with nothing less than a full Motor Rifle Division. When will those prissy Senators and Congressmen in DC get serious about this energy situation? Well, they’ll learn where their bread is buttered in time, just like the folks back home. They’ll learn there’s only so much oil you can squeeze out of a rock, and that it cost a hell of a lot more than pumping it here. Things were tightening up in the Gulf, in the Caspian, and the Middle East had been running dry for years. That meant trouble at home would soon follow.

The next phone call confirmed Flack’s worst misgivings. News was hitting the AP wire hard that morning. Royal Dutch Shell, the region’s biggest developer, was reporting that the main pipelines serving their “Sunny Light” field were hit again, and now off line. The damage was cascading all through the region. Shell was taking over 650,000 barrels of daily production off line! All that would do is increase the pressure on him to deliver, and deliver big.

He squinted out of the foredeck pane and looked into the grey dawn. There was a char of black smoke smudged across the sky, probably the pipeline fire that the crews were trying to control. While he was out here on his rig running numbers and looking for a few men with guns to safeguard the traffic, the folks back home would be lining up at the shopping malls for the blowout pre-holiday season specials that were sucking in the last of their dollars. Americans would shop until the Chinese workers who made the goods they bought would drop.

Perhaps the old consumer society could keep from choking once again this Christmas. It would die off altogether soon enough. Maybe not this year, he thought, but they would all learn where their bread was buttered as well—and sooner than even he could imagine. The war he had heard about behind all the distraction of these local events, was indeed more serious than he realized. In due course he would be faced with his worst case scenario…The Russians.

Chapter 6

Miles to the south, in the quiet port of Larnaca, Cyprus, the pipelines of the Caspian Sea were about to become entangled with the lives of a very special person, and a very tough sea captain on a very dangerous ship. It was a circumstance that would bring the Fairchild company into the midst of the gathering storm of war, and link its fate to that of many others who were now hot in the chase to find one very important man—Gennadi Orlov.

The quiet the lights of the city were glittering like jewels on the nearby harbor at Larnaca Bay, and belied the turmoil of the world that evening. The sea was calm, the night fair on the gloaming horizon, the skies clear and cloudless in the temperate Mediterranean climate of those first days of autumn, 2021. Captain Gordon MacRae was standing on the bridge of the corporate security vessel Argos Fire that evening, ready to finish his watch and retire to dress whites for an important dinner guest arriving soon.

MacRae knew nothing of the travails of Gennadi Orlov that night, but would soon come to know more than he ever desired. Fate was reaching out her hand and dragging pieces across the chessboard of time, both future an past, and MacRae, his ship, and the company it served were soon to be embroiled in the fight for the vital center of the board. He could see a part of what was coming. Lord, the headlines had spoken enough of the trouble that would darken his seas in the days and weeks ahead. Perhaps trouble is coming to dinner tonight, he thought, then put that aside to gaze out into the harbor an take in the quiet coming of the night.

At one time the port at Larnaca might have been considered large, particularly to the Crusaders who once used it as a waypoint before landing in the Holy Land. Situated on the island of Cyprus, the harbor was a balmy tourist destination in the Eastern Med. It would seem small by modern standards, a backwater with long seaside boulevards fringed with tall palms swaying in the gentle breeze, a harbor for cruise ships and ferries, and the occasional merchant marine vessel. The two small quays on the port were enough to accommodate three or four commercial ships at one time, and Captain MacRae had radioed ahead to be certain his berthing would be available that night.

There were only two other ships in port that day, the Kristina Regina, a 4300 ton cruise ship of Finnish registry with a maximum capacity of perhaps 350 people, and the Holland Americas Line Rotterdam, a much bigger cruise ship that was slated to depart three hours before Argos made port, taking most of the tourist traffic with it. That was just the way MacRae liked his visits: quiet night berthings, on low traffic days, where the sleek military lines of his vessel would not draw much attention from either locals or tourists.

He preferred things quiet and unobtrusive because that was the way his company exec wanted them—no fuss, no bother, just a quick in and out. They would make a few deliveries to the corporate offices that had been established here some months ago, things that would be delivered verbally, so as not to leave any trail on paper, or within the digital airwaves that could be intercepted by curious ears. Security was a primary concern in the global environment today, and Fairchild & Company took it very seriously.

Fairchild was a small independent oil company owned by the doughty lady who gave it her name. Elena Fairchild was aboard tonight, riding in the flagship of her small trading fleet and ready for dinner in the executive cabin where she was going to be entertaining a very special guest. So fuss and bother were certainly not on the menu tonight, and Captain MacRae had taken precautions to be certain everything would go smoothly. He knew the captain of the Rotterdam, and had radioed ahead to be certain she would slip away from the islands by 18:00 hours.

“Giving me the bums rush, Gordon?” the voice had come back. “We’ll be underway by 17:00 hours, if I can be satisfied that I’ve all my eggs in the basket.” Rotterdam was a massive ship, nearly 60,000 tons, and with five decks of passengers to look after. “Not much action on the island tonight, however, so I don’t foresee any problems—over.”

“Well enough,” said MacRae, his in his lovely Scottish brogue sweet on the airwaves. “Then if you run her up to twenty knots for half an hour you’ll scoot merrily out to sea, well before we break your horizon—and I’ve a case of Pinot Noir for you that I’m sure will add a wee bit of sparkle to your table—over.”

“Ah, Gordie, twenty knots it is, my friend. You can drop it on the sky deck! I’ll have crew out waiting. Shall we say 21:00 hours—over?”

“We’ll be there,” said MacRae. “Over and out.” Then he turned to his Executive Officer, and inquired about the schedule that evening. “When is that helo comin’ in from Alexandria?”

“Very soon, sir. Radar has a contact inbound now, about 100 miles out.” Commander Dean was all business, a lean, young officer that MacRae had plucked from the US Coast guard after his first tour of duty. Dean had been listening to the radio call with amusement. “Shall I have a package prepared, sir?”

“Right you are, Commander,” said MacRae. “Nice and quiet, mind you. Just tell the pilot that Fairchild wants a delivery made. And tell him to be timely about it, laddie.”

“Aye, Aye, sir.”

“I’d best get down to my cabin to dress.” Captain MacRae would be meeting the inbound guest, and escorting him to the Fairchild executive dining room.

“Black mess jacket with tails?” Commander Dean inquired casually.

“Not tonight,” said MacRae. “It’ll be white with black bow tie. Fairchild still thinks it’s summer, even though it’s creeping in to autumn. Mediterranean waters have this effect on her, eh?”

“And what the lady wants…” Dean began.

MacRae’s smile was enough of an answer as he left.

“Captain off the bridge,” the boatswain called.

“Right you are,” said MacRae, returning a salute as he went.

Sometime later he had cleaned up and donned his dress whites, complete with gold braid work on the cap. He loved the uniform, the cut of the waistcoat, the crisp contrast of the badges and insignia with their solid bright colors. For formal occasions, his captain’s bars moved from their usual position on the sleeve to shoulder boards, to be just a bit less obtrusive while dining. It was a way of smoothing out the marshal tones, adding a bit of civility to the job from time to time. But no matter how he dressed, he remained a military man underneath, just as his ship remained a dangerous and highly effective fighting vessel, no matter how her lines had been smoothed in the overhaul.

He was Captain of the Argos Fire, and his charge was a fleet of seven company tankers that worked routes from the Gulf and the Turkish coast and back to their home ports at Terminal 11 in Barrow, and Milford Haven. Fairchild Enterprises did a healthy business bringing fuel to the UK, and it was getting healthier all the time. Elena Fairchild was a meticulous master, and after a company tanker had been caught in the middle of a running gunfight between Iranian swift boats and Omani coast Guard corvettes on a run into the Persian Gulf, she had decided that three million barrels of very expensive crude oil needed a little looking after.

While all her ships were double hulled MARPOL tankers, a few armor piercing rounds in the wrong place could make for some very unpleasant sailing. She wanted protection, particularly since she strained to acquire her largest tankship, the Princess Royal, with three times the capacity of any other vessel in her fleet. Things Elena Fairchild wanted, were usually delivered in short order—with gold ribbons in the bargain.

The delivery that had fulfilled this particular desire, one for safe passage on seas that were becoming ever more dangerous in a world scraping for every drop of oil it could find, had been the Argos Fire. That was not the ship’s original name, but MacRae found it fitting to the task. Argos was the Gaelic watcher, a shepherd with a hundred eyes, and this ship was his watchful fire—it summed up the role of the vessel well enough. To mix the Greeks into the mythology, he called the little band of heroes who crewed for him ‘the Argonauts.’

The trim lines of his newly fitted ship had been designed by British naval architects, with first steel cut in August of 2004. The ship launched as Dauntless, a Type 45 Air Defense Destroyer, one of the largest ever built for the Royal Navy at 8000 tons. She served well until a design flaw in her hull and keel was discovered in 2017, and she was laid up at Portsmouth. Removed from active service, the proud vessel languished while the British haggled over how to find the money to refit her. The Russians were not the only nation feeling the financial pinch. In the end, it was decided to scrap her, and scavenge the equipment for other destroyers of the same class.

After the attack on her tanker, Elena Fairchild went looking for a fighting ship to set her mind at ease. She approached the government with a proposal to purchase the ship outright for use as her floating corporate HQ and as maritime security for her growing fleet of oil tankers, and soon cut a deal. The ship was towed to BAE Systems Maritime Shipbuilders on the River Clyde, the original contractors on the Daring Class Destroyers, and Fairchild paid a handsome sum for priority berthing in a naval dry dock and a complete overhaul, much of it financed by the Bank of London. There it was converted to the sleek new vessel that MacRae captained now, and three years later it moved to anchor off company facilities at Port Erin on the Isle of Man, renamed the Argos Fire. He wondered what the price would be for the rename one day, and hoped the ship would not be asked to pay while he stood the watch.

But Argos was a ship fully capable of taking care of herself. MacRae was standing on the deck of one of the most dangerous destroyers ever to sail the high seas, and that thought always put just a bit more starch in his collar. All the old British armament that had made the ship so deadly had been removed, of course, but Fairchild Enterprises was a well diversified company. One of her subsidiary ventures was an arms manufacturing operation servicing the Royal Navy. Argos Fire was therefore fitted out with a company modified, and vastly upgraded version of the Viper air defense system, advanced Sampson radars, and two 4.5” Mark 8 guns, well disguised and fully retractable below the fore and aft deck on a clever hydraulic lift system. She even had sophisticated sonar equipment and anti torpedo defense systems and, for some serious longer range punch, Fairchild had pressed a new ship-to-ship missile prototype into sea trials on the Argos Fire shortly after her maiden voyage, the GB-7, or Gealbhan for ‘Sparrow.’ Faster than the British Sea Eagle, it was a hypersonic sea skimmer much like the deadly Russian Sunburn missile, and it put the fire into the ship’s name to be sure.

Largely gutted, with the interior completely rebuilt above the waterline, the ship now housed corporate offices at sea, and with lavishly appointed executive cabins, a full dining room, library, data center and expanded hanger space aft for four helos. To round things off, Ms. Fairchild insisted on a small company of her very own security men, all ex-military types sworn to their new posts in a secret ritual that none would ever openly discuss. This fifty man contingent of Argonauts sailed with the ship at all times, and they were outfitted with a small flotilla of fast boats for offshore and inshore service. Dressed always in commando black, the men were a formidable presence when deployed on any security mission requiring their particular talents.

As he stepped out on the aft helo deck Captain MacRae noted that he was a good match for his ship, where a liberal use of naval white now covered her newly tapered lines. The more military colors, blues, grays, hazard schemes and dazzle paint, were not to be her dress code, ever again. Argos Fire was wearing dress whites in the service of Elena Fairchild now, and she would have to mind her manners in the bargain, just like the Captain and crew. But a ship never really could change her true temperament, no matter how she was rigged. MacRae could still feel the raw strength of the metal under his feet, the surging power her new engines were capable of, and he knew, more than any other, just how indelicate his vessel could be if it ever came to a brawl on the high seas in the service of the company—the reason Argos Fire had been built in the first place.

It was a dangerous world out there, on both land and sea now that the long discussion of Hubbert’s Peak had finally resolved itself into an ever more serious decline in oil production figures. Peak oil was a reality that was now self-evident, and no amount of rock squeezing ‘fracking’ was going to change that. All the world’s major fields were in decline, Ghawar in Saudi Arabia, Burgon in Kuwait, Cantarell in Mexico, the Russian fields administered by Lukos, and forget the North Sea. Only the massive young superfield of Kashagan in the Caspian was still viable, yet that area was now a hotbed of political contention—soon to be military contention, he thought. Britain, once a net exporter of oil, was now slowly starting to feel like Japan, relying more and more on imports.

The Royal Navy ain’t what she used to be, MacRae thought. The sun had long since set on the British Empire as well—it was setting, in fact, on the American Empire at this very moment, though you couldn’t get a neocon worth his salt to admit that. This is why small producers and shippers like Fairchild were becoming more and more important in the service to the Crown. They filled and guarded the oil tankers, and brought the energy home to a still gluttonous society that was just starting to catch a glimmer of the truth about the world’s energy situation.

But for now, decked out in his dress whites, Captain Gordon MacRae had more pleasant things to consider. It was nigh on four bells, eighteen hundred hours, six PM, well into the mid-watch. The Rotterdam was long gone, its captain probably still thinking about that case of Pinot Noir. The Argos Fire had slipped into the harbor for its brief visit and the helo from Alexandria was ready to land. His guest would be waiting, the dining hall would be receiving soon, and he thought he had better get moving.

He stopped by the radio room on his way to check on local wire traffic. “Anything that might spoil my dinner on the black line?” he asked his radio man, Simms. The black line was for Intelligence feeds, connected to some very secure sources.

“No good news tonight,” said Simms. “The Chinese are up in arms and ready to set sail for Taiwan, the Russian Navy has surged in the Pacific and Norwegian Sea, there’s trouble in the Gulf of Mexico and on the BTC pipeline through Turkey.”

That got MacRae’s attention at once. “The BTC line?”

“Bunker bust, Captain, and a big one. The PKK claims responsibility, and early reports are that they blew up a mile of pipeline and shut the whole line down.”

“I see…” MacRae remembered a conversation he had with his Intelligence Master, Mack Morgan, two days ago. It seems they had picked up word that an attack was coming, but like all terrorist threats the target was difficult to nail down. Miss Fairchild won’t like that news, he thought. He knew she was here to look for a conveyance contract from Ceyhan, the terminal port on the BTC line, which stood for Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan.

“And one more message, sir,” Simms scratched his head. “Not sure what to make of it. It’s another undisclosed threat in the Persian Gulf.”

“Again?” MacRae shook his head.

“Something about the Straits of Hormuz, sir.”

“Well let me have it.” He took the decrypt, scanning it briefly and seeing a word there that gave him a chill…mines. He folded it quickly, slipping it into his pocket.

“I’ll see that her ladyship is informed,” he said quietly.

But she won’t like it, he thought as he went. She won’t like it one bit. She hustled three tankers out of bed last week and got them into the Med as though the company’s life depended on it. Some big operation is in the wind, no doubt, and she was counting on the BTC line delivering the goods. Trouble in the Gulf of Mexico, trouble on the BTC line, trouble in the Persian Gulf. Someone was making a rather obvious and deliberate effort to shut down all the vital oil and gas centers of the world. Mack Morgan had the first two on his black network days ago, but this bit here in my pocket is going to cause more than a few wrinkles in the plan. Princess Royal is in the Persian Gulf with a belly full of oil… Mines?

Trouble… He could feel it. MacRae’s Scottish nose had a sense for danger like few other men, and he knew that before the night was over Argos Fire would be sailing into very dangerous waters.

Chapter 7

“Listen, my friends,” said Mironov. “If you think you aren’t being watched, you are deluded. They watch everyone now, particularly on the trains. It’s the only way you can get from one place to another, and so the stations and coaches are crawling with Okhrana.”

The three men sat at the table, leaning heavily over their half eaten breakfast, deep in conversation. Mironov nodded gravely as he finished, dipping a piece of sourdough bread into his kasha grain porridge. “Particularly you,” he pointed a finger at the young British reporter as the third man, a tall Uzbek guide, sopped up his egg yolk with a piece of bread. “Foreigners get special attention.”

“I see,” said the reporter, a man named Thomas Byrne, speaking passable Russian, and enlisting the aid of his guide when he needed help. He looked over his shoulder, as if he might see a security agent leering at him from another table, but they were the first to arrive in the dining room that morning, a few minutes before seven, and the hotel was not heavily booked in any case. Even so, images of people he had seen on the long journey, lean faced, bearded men in black overcoats and dark Ushankas, haunted his memories.

“Ask him why the government would want to bother with the likes of me. I’m just a commoner, here to report on the Great Race for the Times of London.” Byrne decided to put his guide to work so he could focus on his porridge.

Mironov spoke again, half smiling. “A commoner, he says.” The young man smiled at him. “Where foreigners are concerned there are no commoners. Every last one is suspect. I have little doubt that you were followed every mile and step of your journey, from the moment you set foot in our country, my friend. And you must be very cautious, because they will find out what you write and report, and if they don’t like it…” He let that dangle for a moment, a grin on his face. “Well, you could end up in prison, just as I did.”

“You were imprisoned? What for?” asked the reporter, Thomas Byrne, his eyes bright with curiosity.

Mironov was a young man too, handsome, with a broad forehead, dark hair and thin moustache. He had an energy and vitality about him that was very compelling, and his eyes seemed like dark fire when he spoke.

“For saying things the government didn’t like. We were operating a small printing press—very secret of course. If that were found it would land me right back in prison again. I was only just released, you see. It was a long fourteen month sentence imposed on me for simply distributing leaflets. It is clear that I have long ago been labeled an enemy of the State, and so I have little doubt they will be looking for me again soon. I told them I was going south to Novosibirsk, and then traveled east instead to throw them off the scent. But they are everywhere. They will find out where I am again in due course.”

“Very disturbing,” said Byrne with a sigh. It seemed to him that his little adventure in Siberia was going to be dangerous after all, and he chided himself that he had ever thought otherwise. He clearly remembered that morning when he had been summoned to the publisher’s office by Mister Harmsworth himself, and handed the assignment of a lifetime.

“Now see here, Mister Byrne,” Harmsworth had said with a determined glint in his eye. “I understand that you are an enterprising man, with a good nose for a story. I also learned that you speak Russian. At least I've been told as much. Is that so?”

“Well, sir. Yes, I can manage a bit. My grandmother was Russian, and she taught me when I was very young.”

“Excellent! Then I have a job for you, my good man. If I'm to turn this mess of a newspaper around—and I will turn it round, mind you—then we'll need something gripping right out of the gate. This Great Race is going to be a big story this year, so I'm sending you,” he pointed.

Harmsworth's eyes were seeing out to some distant horizon that no other man could glimpse, much less appreciate. When he spoke he would fix a man with a steady gaze, a projection of his will and the energy of his personality, all backed by his considerable girth. His short brown hair also caught the light, slicked back and neatly parted on the right side, as was his habit. The buttons on his suit coat glittered as well, along with the silken thread in his tie and the starched white collar of his shirt. All in all, the light seemed to treat him well, surrounding him with an aura, a presence, a glow of power and privilege to which he was all too well suited. And now his glimmering regard was turned on the naive young Byrne, who swallowed heavily before he answered, his voice a mere squeak compared to the deep baritone of Harmsworth.

“Me, sir?” said Byrne. “All the way to Siberia?”

“Where else? All the American papers will be in on the start of the race in New York, and the European papers will be huddled in Paris for the finish, but we're going to be right in the thick of things—in the heat of the action as it were. Can you imagine it, Byrne? You'll be right there in the greatest wilderness on earth watching them slog their way through all that tractless wasteland. You get the picture? Man versus the elements, right? The triumph of will and man's engineering over even the most formidable obstacles. Why, this Cook fellow is headed for one pole even as we speak, while Shackleton is heading for the other! The public will love this lot, but we don't have a man on either story, and that's one reason the Times of London has nearly gone the way of garbage wrappings these days. Well, now that I have acquired the paper all that is about to change. And you, my man, are going to help me change it.” Harmsworth poked the young reporter on his shoulder.

“We're going to be right in the middle of this race to report on the story when these men are at their wits end—at the last extreme—lost in Siberia.” He ran his hand along the headline he imagined, left to right in front of his face. “It will make wonderful reading, I'm sure of it. So you are just the man to take us all there with the story. You leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? But sir…The race has only just begun. They have to cross the whole of the American continent first, and then get over the Bering Strait before they come anywhere near Siberia.”

“Which gives you ample time to get there and find the best angles on this story. Talk to the locals, drum up some excitement. You'll know what to do.”

“But what if they never even make it that far, sir? I'll go all that way for naught.”

“Oh, they’ll make it, Byrne. Mark my words. These Americans have as much pluck as they have gall. They'll get to San Francisco, and find some way to make it into Asia, I'm sure of it. And if the Americans get that far, then the others will too—particularly the Germans. It's a pity that England won't have a car in the race. I’ve half a mind to have my own shipped over to New York so I could teach them all a thing or two about drive and perseverance. But I'll be too busy here getting the Times back on its feet. So I'm sending you, Mister Byrne.” Harmsworth tapped the younger man on the shoulder yet again, his point well made.

Thomas Byrne sighed heavily, realizing he had gotten himself in it up to his britches this time—up to his hatband! When he pushed his name forward on the list for story assignments, he could never have imagined this one. Siberia? How in the world would he get there? How would he find these racing cars in all that emptiness? Wasn't there a war on? Weren't the Russian and Japanese still stewing over things in that region? Wasn't a revolution brewing in Moscow and St. Petersburg? The suddenness of the proposition took him by surprise. One minute he was thinking of a nice Earl Grey tea and cakes, and the next he got word from Old Bingsley at the Editor’s desk to get up to Harmsworth's office on the double.

“Sir…” he began tentatively, his mind still wandering over the plethora of dangerous possibilities in the journey. “I wonder if the Russian authorities would even allow—”

“You just leave that to me, Byrne. I'll arrange everything. You'll have proper papers waiting for you at the front desk tomorrow morning—passport, visa—it's all been arranged. There'll be a hundred pounds in an envelope for you, and fifty more in gold coin should the need arise. That first lot is against your normal salary, I might add, so don't get extravagant. But the coinage is yours to do with as you see fit. Think of it as a bonus for hazardous duty.” Harmsworth squinted as he looked down at Byrne's shoes. “I'd say you would do yourself well to invest in a pair of sturdy boots, my man. There's likely to be a good bit of mud over there. Miserable roads, or so I hear. Now then…You'll take a ferry to Dunkirk, of course, then go by train to St. Petersburg. Stop wherever you like along the way, but make the money last.” He held up a finger on that last point.

“From St. Petersburg you can book passage on the new Siberian Railroad. It will take you all the way out to the hinterland—Tomsk is the place. Book yourself into a decent hotel somewhere and then have a good look around. If you can get further east before the racers reach that area, then all the better. I want you out in the middle of nowhere with a keen eye and a sharp witted pen, eh? Get familiar with the place. Find a good guide or porters if you need them. And I expect to get regular reports by wire. This isn't a pleasure trip, Byrne. You are in the employ of the Times of London the whole way through. Don't forget that. I have every confidence in you.”

Byrne fiddled with his hat, a hapless and forlorn look on his face. “Thank you, sir,” he managed. What else could he say? Harmsworth was already somewhat of a legend in the publishing business, and one of the most influential men of the day.

The more Byrne thought about this sudden new assignment, the more it dawned on him that there was real opportunity here for the sake of his own fledgling career as well. He could get out of the newsroom for a change and do some real reporting. No more jostling with copy boys, though he would miss a few of those fresh young faces. No more listening to irascible old Margaret on the circulation desk reading addresses back to customers on the telly. No more questions from Aunt Agony for the reader's daily advice column. As he thought about it, it was actually beginning to feel a bit exciting! He blinked away his fears, and extended his hand to shake on the matter, accepting his assignment as he knew he would in the end. Yet instead of a handshake Harmsworth reached into his pocket and produced a thick rolled cigar, slipping it into his palm with a smile.

“Enjoy it,” he winked. “The trip and the cigar. Take good care of that. It's a real Marcella brand, the landmark of enjoyment. Get the gullyfluff out of your pockets and keep it safe. Smoke it when you first set eyes on Siberia. It'll do you some good and put a bit of the dash-fire in you.” He looked at his watch. “Well now, that will be all, Byrne. Take the rest of the day off and get yourself squared away. But be here by six sharp in the morning. We'll have a car take you to the ferry. Cable me the first Monday each week and advise on your progress. Off you go now.” He waved at the door, his attention already diverted to a sheaf of papers on his thick mahogany desk top.

“Very well, sir,” Byrne stammered. “You can rely on me, sir.” He made a slow retreat to the frosted glass door and slipped out, back in the hall before he ran his hand through his thick sandy blonde hair and straightened the fold of his brown herringbone tweed coat. Siberia! Where in the world was he going? He had a thousand things to do before the morning came. He had to settle his rent with Mrs. Jameson and see if she would be willing to hold his flat for a few months or even longer. Those extra fifty pounds in gold coinage would make for easy inducement. He was sure he had no worries there. She could see to his mail, and notify anyone who came along as to his whereabouts.

Beyond that, he had to consider the journey itself. What would he need? Harmsworth's comment about a pair of good boots made perfect sense. And he resolved to head over to Ponsy's Clothiers and footwear at once. He would need a heavier coat, his own being quite threadbare these days. Gloves, scarves, sweaters, wool trousers and socks, warm long underwear, a decent hat or two…The list ran through his mind now. And he would have to pack a respectable Dopp Kit as well: comb and brush, shaving kit, shampoo, razors, nail clippers, cologne, some Calox tooth powder, a few good bars of soap and an extra pair of specs. Should he pick up one of those nifty Clarke's Pyramid Food warmers—good for hot water, tea, warming up small tidbits of food or even use as a convenient night lamp? Perhaps an authentic Samovar in Russia would do just as well, and be much cheaper in the bargain.

He remembered an advertisement he had seen in the paper the other day—Mappins & Webb Newmarket Crocodile Suitcase fitted with every requirement for the gentlemen. It was all of forty-five pounds, however, and well beyond his means, even counting in the hundred-fifty pounds he was to receive in the morning. He would have to use his old luggage, but that decided, the excitement of this imminent voyage began to well in him.

He remembered how he had hurried down the long hallway, practically floating down the steps, his fears allayed, his heart lightened and the thirst for adventure and discovery on him. Yet as he hastened past the front desk he spied a headline that roused a faint stirring of unrest in him. “The Fatal Journey of Mylius Erichsen,” read the headline. The story was being written by another staff writer, about the Danish author and arctic explorer noted for his expeditions mapping out the coasts and fiords of Greenland—the 'Land That Is Lonelier Than Ruin.' He had been misled by an older map, became lost, and perished from lack of food before he could right the error and safely navigate his way home.

Where in the world am I going? Again the question roiled to life in his mind. Siberia? He could vanish into that wilderness and never be seen or heard from again. A staff writer would pen his thin eulogy: “The Fatal Journey of Thomas Byrne,” and that would be the end of him—the end of all his ambitions, his dreams of success as a writer, his hope for love, family, children in some warm distant future he could scarcely even imagine now.

Yes, he thought. I could be swallowed alive by the frozen taiga, or end up in the belly of a big Siberian wolf! I might flounder in a muddy bog, or be eaten alive by mosquitoes when the land thaws. I might be waylaid on the road by a band of bloody, heartless Cossacks. It was enough to rattle the nerves of even the most hardy and manly people he could imagine. Yes, all of that could happen, or worse. He could not have known what actually would happen to him, something more outlandish than he could even imagine.

But not today… Today he was sitting in a hotel dining room in a small town east of Krasnoyarsk, as far east as he could get, just as Harmsworth had urged him. He had already interviewed the leading American race team on the speedy ‘Thomas Flyer’ car. They had stolen a march on the Germans and had pushed on to Tomsk to the east two days ago. The Germans were in second place, 234 miles behind as they pulled into Ilanskiy late the previous evening, and they were all undoubtedly still sleeping in their rooms upstairs at this very moment. It was a quiet morning, the days impossibly long with the sun rising at a little past three in the morning, local time, because at the 60th parallel they were as far north as Anchorage Alaska or Scapa Flow above Scotland back home.

Then, as he leaned in to listen to this strange young Russian man who called himself Mironov, Byrne saw an impossibly bright light fill the room, instinctively raising his arm to shield his eyes.

“What in God’s name—” There came a loud roar in the distance, an awful tearing sound as if the sky itself had been ripped open and something came burning through, a wild, scintillating light in the heavens, brighter than the morning sun. They heard a tremendous explosion, and minutes later a violent wind was blowing outside, sending a hail of debris flying as the dining room windows shattered. Mironov jumped at the sound, covering his head, his face nearly in the remnant of his boiled eggs and porridge. The Uzbek guide was so startled he fell right off his chair with a hard thump on the bare wood floor. There were frightened shouts outside, and cries from the second floor of the building where the German race team must have received a shocking wake up alarm. Byrne heard footfalls on the ceiling above and the sound of men clomping down the main stairs, speaking in loud, fearful voices: “Was fur ein gerausch? Was ist passiert? What is that sound? What is happening?”

They were all up and rushing outside to join the startled townspeople near the rail yard, gaping at the sky to the northeast and shirking from a distant, deep rumble like thunderous artillery. Just a few seconds after they left, there were other footfalls on the back stairway and a man emerged, equally startled, holding a pistol out in front of him with fearful eyes. He stood there, taking in the dining room, the solitary table set for breakfast, the tea trembling in the half filled cup, the shards of broken glass…

It was Fedorov.

Chapter 8

Admiral Volsky remembered how his pulse had raced when he heard that awful sound, flat and dull, a body falling on the hard concrete floor of the Naval Logistics Building. Someone else was there! Then he heard the sound of something being moved, his eyes widening as he tried to imagine the scene. He knew immediately what was happening. It was a body being dragged! There was another rattle of metal, a crisp zipping sound and someone grunting with physical effort. Then he heard a door of a metal bin close, and the clopping footfalls receded, echoing as they faded away.

Silence…Dark, awful silence.

Volsky waited, but he knew what had happened. He strained to hear more, the phone receiver pressed tightly to his ear. The Lieutenant he had sent to open Fedorov’s storage bin knew he was waiting on the line, and when the man did not return to the phone Volsky knew the worst.

Someone else was there, he thought. Someone was waiting there! Did they know what we were doing or was this merely happenstance? No, it had to be planned. There might be a night watch at the building at that late hour, just after midnight, but he could think of no reason they would dare interfere with his Lieutenant. So it had to be someone else, but who? Who was curious about his ship and crew? He had his answer in a heartbeat, and he knew that the Inspector General and his meddlesome intelligence officer had to be behind this. Yes. That was the only scenario that made sense. It was Kapustin and his lap dog Captain Volkov. They had been rudely rebuffed in their effort to unravel the mystery of Kirov’s disappearance, and they were not happy about it. He had little doubt that they still had men watching the ship in those last hours before the fleet sailed, and they had probably shadowed Fedorov’s operation at the Primorskiy Engineering Center as well.

He slowly put the receiver back in its cradle, and reached for another phone, thumbing a secure line, his pulse quickening.

“Security,” came the voice.

“Admiral Leonid Volsky here. Please send a detachment of five Marines to my office at once.”

“Yes, sir… Is there a problem, Admiral?”

“Five Marines, please, on the double.”

“At once, sir.”

The Admiral realized that if his adversaries were willing to do what he had just heard on the phone line, then his own life could be in jeopardy. He summoned Marines that night, first for his own security, sending orders down to the staff that no one was to be admitted to the executive level of the building without his expressed approval and that anything unusual, any request for entrance by Naval Intelligence or military personnel, was to be reported to him immediately. He knew that battle lines were being drawn somewhere. Kapustin would not be able to challenge him alone. He would need the full weight of the Naval Intelligence Division and Internal Affairs to push anything. As a Fleet Admiral Volsky had tremendous power, controlling a wide range of military assets, and he intended to use them to defend himself and the mission they had planned, come what may.

When the Marines arrived he told the Sergeant in charge to assemble a twenty man detachment and secure the Naval Logistics building in Vladivostok. Guards were to be posted, particularly on the floor with Fedorov’s storage bin. No one was to be admitted… absolutely no one. A phone call would be made nightly to the Sergeant at Arms there and a man would be quietly instructed by Volsky to check bin number 317. There would be no one lurking in the shadows from that day forward, not as long as he remained in command here.

The following morning they discovered the Lieutenant he had sent to retrieve Fedorov’s message, if one was there. The man was found drugged and still groggy outside the “Kulmart” company department store a few blocks down from the old Logistics Building. He remembered nothing, and could provide no clue as to who had assailed him, how he got there, or what he was even supposed to be doing that night. A careful search of his person turned up no documents, though Volsky did not expect to find anything. It was obvious that the man had been searched before he was left there by the assailants and that anything he may have had was taken.

So if there was a note from Fedorov, thought Volsky, then they know about it. Kapustin…He must have learned much more than they believed. That man was very thorough in the discharge of his duties, but what would he make of Fedorov’s note? It would seem an insignificant bit of nonsense and be dismissed, or so the Admiral believed. The operation now underway in the Caspian was another matter. If Kapustin had men watching the Primorskiy Engineering Center, then they would have seen the device they removed from the reactor test bed facility. They would have followed the column of trucks to the airport with some curiosity and great interest. The presence of a strong security team from Kirov would have aroused more than one suspicion, not to mention the radiation safe container the trucks were carrying to the big transport plane.

Discrete inquiries would have turned up the destination—Uytash airfield at Kaspiysk on the west coast of the Caspian Sea. That would have raised more than a few eyebrows. If Naval Intelligence was involved, they would have assets in that region as well. Volsky had to assume that they would soon have men closely watching his detachment and reporting. Once Dobrynin and his Marines embarked for the offshore anchorage of the Anatoly Alexandrov they would be more secure. His adversaries would soon discover that his good friend Admiral Kamilov in command of the Caspian Flotilla was involved and they would double their watch. Wartime security measures would be a good cloak, but if Naval Intelligence got pushy they had a lot of clout. He urged Kamilov to beef up security and delay any attempt to interfere with the operation as long as possible.

“I will do whatever I can, Leonid,” said Kamilov. “But if Moscow intervenes with a direct order…”

“I understand,” said Volsky, hanging up the phone with deep misgivings. Yes, Moscow…what would they know about all of this, and when would they know it? Those questions weighed heavily on his mind now. For that matter, what did Kapustin know? The Admiral did not have long to wait. The following day he received a call from building security stating that the Inspector General was requesting permission to see him in his office. So the game was up. Volsky gave permission for Kapustin to come up to the executive level, alone, and he also made sure he had adequate security posted at every access point along the way.

A few minutes later his Chief of Staff buzzed him to say his visitor had arrived and the Admiral seated himself at his desk, a revolver in the drawer close at hand should he need one. He did not think that Kapustin would consider doing anything extreme, but given the circumstances he was taking no chances.

“Good day, Inspector,” said Volsky when the man finally entered. Kapustin nodded, with a wan smile and slowly removed his fedora. “Please be seated.” Volsky made as if everything was routine. “I assume this has something to do with your report on Kirov.”

“That would be a good guess, Admiral,” said Kapustin. He seemed tired, a bit frazzled, as though he had not had much sleep.

“May I offer you something to drink?”

“No, thank you.” Kapustin pinched the bridge of his nose, then got right to the point. “Admiral Volsky, I know you to be a very responsible officer, much admired, greatly respected.”

“You are too kind, Inspector.”

“Yes, well those pleasantries aside I thought I would deliver your mail this morning.” Kapustin reached slowly into his coat pocket, and the Admiral tensed up, his hand drifting to the edge of the drawer where his revolver was hidden. But Kapustin simply produced a plain white envelope, leaning forward and placing it on the desk. Volsky’s heart leapt as he eyed it, knowing exactly what it must be. He reached and took it up, seeing it had been opened, and noting how old and faded the seal was. He reached inside, slowly removing a small folded letter and opened it, immediately recognizing Fedorov’s handwriting.

“Admiral Volsky… If you are reading this then know that we have arrived safely at our destination, and will now proceed with our mission to rescue Orlov at Kizlyar. Should circumstances permit it, look for us along the Caspian coast on or after October 15, 1942. May God be with you all. — Captain Anton Fedorov.” Another brief notation was added at the end: “Bukin failed to arrive. We hope he is safe with you.”

Volsky smiled inwardly, elated that Fedorov had reached his destination safely. Now the only question was whether he could arrange his return. The events were mounting up in the Pacific, tension rising by the hour. The report he had received on the Tigr in the Gulf of Mexico was most disturbing, and he immediately called the commander of the Northern Fleet to see why the sub was sent there. The answer was equally disturbing, but not unexpected—Moscow had ordered it, ordered the deliberate destruction of one of the world’s largest offshore oil platforms, a facility critical to British Petroleum operations in the Gulf. And Moscow had ordered elements of the 58th Army to mobilize on the northern border of Kazakhstan as well. Moscow was holding a knife to all the vital energy centers the West depended on. He had little doubt that there would soon be an incident in the Persian Gulf as well.

Yet for the moment he had another problem, Gerasim Kapustin, Inspector General of the Russian Navy. He looked at the man, wondering how much he really knew and what he was hoping to determine with this meeting. He decided to say nothing and let the other man make the next move. Kapustin was only too happy to oblige.

“Care to explain that note?” he asked. “Care to explain what this Fedorov is doing on the Caspian coast, and how he could be seeking a man reported as killed in action during my inspection?”

Volsky fixed him with a level stare, still wondering what he might know. “I’m afraid that there are certain matters I am not at liberty to discuss, Inspector.”

“Yes, your Captain Karpov made that painfully clear the last time we spoke. Needless to say I took the liberty of discussing that note with someone who might know about this matter.”

“It was you who ordered my Lieutenant waylaid in the dark at the Naval Logistics building?” Volsky’s displeasure was obvious on his face.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Your duties aside, Inspector, that was highly inappropriate. The man was assaulted and drugged. I could have you arrested this very moment for admission of your culpability in the matter—yes, even you, Inspector General of the Russian Navy. Your mandate extends only so far, particularly now in time of imminent war. There are operations underway that you are not privy to, and you have interfered, rather violently, with a man who was operating under my direct orders.”

“That I have.” Kapustin raised his chin, ready for battle. “And I must tell you that I am here to interfere further, unless I receive a full explanation of this situation. What you say is true, Admiral. My mandate is limited, but I have friends, even as you do, and some of them are in positions of considerable power.”

“Let me repeat—” Volsky began, but Kapustin cut him off.

“Yes, Yes, you are going to pretend this is all very top secret. I was inclined to believe your Captain when he used that line before. So I took the matter to someone who is privileged to know of these secret things, and I have yet another letter for you, Admiral.” He reached into his pocket and handed Volsky another plain folded paper.

Volsky took it with some reluctance, wondering what was there. Could Kapustin have pushed this all the way to Moscow? Could he have rallied Suchkov to his side, or even the President or Prime Minister? Was he handing me orders from Moscow? He opened the paper and read the thin handwritten note silently.

“Admiral Volsky, I ask you to please enlighten Inspector General Kapustin as to the nature of your recent operations aboard the battlecruiser Kirov and the importance of the current operation now underway in the Caspian. You may find his cooperation essential.

- Pavel Kamenski, First Deputy Chairman, KGB, Ret.”

“I was to give you one thing more,” said Kapustin, producing a faded photograph and handing it to the Admiral.

Volsky took the photo, his brows raising with surprise when he saw it. It was immediately clear to him what had happened now. Kapustin kept digging and when he managed to get hold of Fedorov’s letter he decided the mystery was now beginning to touch upon dangerous information, hidden secrets, black operations, shadows he was not accustomed to lighting with the flashlight of his diligent mind and work. Volsky knew the man was close to Kamenski, and it was no surprise that he went to him with this. Apparently Kamenski knew more about Kirov that anyone realized. The Admiral stared at the photograph, breathing deeply.

“Kamenski gave you this?”

“He did.”

“And did he tell you where he found this photo?”

“Oh, I asked him, but he would not reveal those details. It was enough for him to assure me as to its authenticity, and I can tell you that was more than enough for me to grasp at that moment. I must say that I found it hard to believe, and so Kamenski advised me to have this discussion with you, before things get out of hand, as he put it, and put the matter to rest.”

“Things were already getting out of hand,” said Volsky, with just a touch of anger. “I will assume your Captain Volkov was responsible for delivering Fedorov’s note to you in the first place.” He leaned forward, leveling a finger at Kapustin. “If you think you can rely on men like that from Naval Intelligence to do your dirty work, Kapustin, I will tell you that I have men of my own to command, men of war. I will not hesitate to use the full power and authority of my position to see that my operations are not compromised in any way.”

“Admiral Volsky…” Kapustin held out a hand, placating the Admiral. “I am not here to quarrel with you, and for the methods I used to obtain that letter, I apologize to you here and now. It will not happen again. As for Captain Volkov, yes, he can be difficult to manage at times. Kamenski and I have sent him off on a wild goose chase to keep him busy. He is riding the Trans-Siberian rail line, checking every depot from here to the Caspian Sea, and will be of no further bother to you. But Admiral—that photograph—imagine my shock and surprise! I am a man accustomed to keeping my feet firmly on the ground. Numbers, reports, photographs—yes, I have piles and piles of them. But when I saw that one, my entire world turned upside down, and I must tell you that I was given the choice of either believing what my eyes were telling me or considering myself insane. Can you help me answer that question?”

“What else has Kamenski told you?”

“Wasn’t that enough? Please, Admiral—is that photo authentic, or am I a lunatic?”

Volsky thought for a good long time, watching Kapustin and wondering what else he might already know. Pavel Kamenski had been one of the most powerful operatives of the KGB in the decades leading up to the demise of the old Soviet Union. He survived the dissolution of that organization and was instrumental in seeing its services parceled off to other agencies like the Federal Protective Service, the Foreign Intelligence Service and the GRU. Volsky had long wondered what the Soviet and the Russian governments after it had learned about Kirov. After all, they had nearly eighty years to ruminate on information they may have uncovered as a result of Kirov’s astounding sorties to the 1940s.

He looked at Kapustin, considering, then nodded. “Very well, Inspector. I will tell you about this photograph, if you care to listen, and then you will be kind enough to answer a few questions for me.”

“Deal,” said Kapustin, sitting up in his chair, obviously interested.

Volsky leaned forward, placing the photograph on his desk and tapping it with his finger. “If you must know, then I will consider enlightening you, Inspector—on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I want to meet with Kamenski.”

The Inspector General smiled. “Admiral, I would be more than happy to make the introduction.”

“Very well, I hope your breakfast has settled, Inspector.” Volsky leaned back, thinking. “On the night of July 28th this summer past Kirov was on station with the attack submarine Orel north of Yan Mayen for live fire exercises…”

Chapter 9

Fedorov stood there gaping at the scene, disoriented and trying to determine what had happened. His instinct told him to get outside, for the commotion seemed to be drawing everyone out of the nearby buildings, and he could hear shouts and see people pointing at something just outside the dining hall. He holstered his pistol and ran to join them, amazed at the brightness in the sky to the northeast. When he finally got clear of the eaves overhanging the dining hall doorway he saw it, an enormous glow in the sky, as if a massive fire was burning on the distant tree-sewn taiga. The whole northeastern sky was involved and the only thing that came to mind to explain it was the awful memory of that nuclear detonation he had seen aboard Kirov in the North Atlantic, yet this was bigger, more awesome, a fiery glow on the horizon that spoke of terrible disaster.

He saw three men pointing at the sky, shaking their heads in disbelief, and went over to join them, listening to what they were saying. One man, short, stocky, with dark hair and a thin mustache was speaking to a tall, swarthy man. “What could it be?” he said. “A fire in the sky? How is it possible?”

The third man listened intently, turning his head from one to the other like a child waiting to be told something as his parents talked. Fedorov could see that he was not dressed like any of the others, and when the tall man turned to him and spoke in English, he realized he was not Russian. The man returned with passable Russian, but it was clear that he was not a native speaker.

An Englishman! What would he be doing here in the middle of the Soviet Union in 1942? Fedorov studied the man closely. He realized that Britain and Russia were supposed allies, but the man was obviously a civilian and to find him here in a distant rail yard in Siberia was very odd.

“Excuse me,” said Fedorov, “what has happened?” It was the question on everyone’s lips, and the stocky young man who had been speaking turned to him, looking at him strangely. Fedorov had taken off his heavier outer coat with his NKVD decorations while he slept. His Black Ushanka was also upstairs on the night stand by his bed, but he still wore the lighter service jacket Troyak had given him, jet black with two broad pockets over each breast. The Black Tiger patch of the Spetsnaz insignia below each shoulder on the arms seemed to draw the man’s interest, and his eye drifted to the pistol in Fedorov’s side holster.

“Military?” The young man asked, and Fedorov realized he needed to say something to preserve his cover.

“A long way from Vladivostok,” he smiled. “I’m transferring to the Caspian.”

Even as he spoke Fedorov began to wonder where Troyak and Zykov were, and why he had not seen these three men earlier when they arrived at the hotel. He reasoned that they may have come in on a train while they were sleeping. But where was the Sergeant? He found himself looking around to see if he could spot Troyak, but it only increased his confusion. Nothing looked familiar here! They had walked two blocks from the rail yard to the hotel, past a number of old weathered houses and storage buildings, but there was nothing between the hotel and the rail station now, just a vacant muddy field with tufts of grass fading away into the gravel bed of the rail yard. The train station itself seemed much too small. Ilanskiy had a marshalling yard with six lines, but now there were only two, and it was completely empty! There was no sign of his freight train, the rail workers, or anyone else. What was going on here?

“Something terrible has happened,” said the stocky young man. “But there doesn’t seem to be any immediate danger. Let’s get back inside.” He tramped off, the tall man and Englishman in his wake, both chattering about the event. Fedorov followed them.

Back in the hotel dining room he saw the men seating themselves at the table setting he noted earlier, and when the younger man saw him he beckoned him to join, gesturing to an empty chair.

“Tell me you are not a security man working for the Okhrana and I will be happy to share my breakfast table with you,” said the young man as Fedorov drew near.

Fedorov was confused, still looking around and finding the dining room strangely unfamiliar. Where was Troyak? What was happening on the taiga outside? He should be out looking for Zykov and the Sergeant. Yet there was something about this energetic young man that compelled him to linger for a moment, his confused thoughts settling like well stirred tea leaves at the bottom of his tea cup mind.

“Then again if you are Okhrana, I must tell you I have done nothing inappropriate. I was given a full release, and I mean only to travel to Irkutsk to visit friends. You need have no further worries about me.” The man looked at him, waiting. “Well? Which is it?”

The Okhrana? That was the old secret service of the Tsar before the Russian revolution! What was this man talking about? Yet it was obvious to him that the man needed some reassurance, and so Fedorov held up a hand, “have no fear,” he said. “I have no business with you. I’m just a soldier.”

“Good then,” the young man held out a hand. “Mironov.”

“Fedorov.” The two men shook hands.

“These other two are my table guests as well,” said Mironov. “This is an Englishman, here to report for his newspaper in London. A worthy occupation, journalism. I have a mind to take it up myself one day, though I do not think the Tsar’s government would appreciate much of what I would have to say.” He studied Fedorov closely after that remark, as if looking for some sign of resentment, still testing this newcomer to see if he might be a threat. Apparently he was satisfied when Fedorov just gave him a blank stare, still completely confused as to what was happening.

“And this is Boris Yevchenko, his guide. We’ll all share our breakfast!” He reached out and handed Fedorov of a piece of thick black rye.

Fedorov hesitated, still looking around for any sign of his comrades. He knew he could not sit here chatting over breakfast with these men until he re-established contact.

“I’m afraid I must first find my friends,” he said.

“Friends? Good! Bring them. We’ll all eat together.”

“You are too kind…” Fedorov nodded, excusing himself. “They must have gone out the main entrance. I’ll see if the serving girl has seen them.”

“Serving girl?” Mironov raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more as Fedorov nodded again and started for the front desk. He slipped through the arched door and saw the same counter there, only it seemed newer, in much better condition. A man came huffing in from the main entrance with three others in his wake.

“Just a moment, just a moment. With all this commotion out there a man cannot think straight!”

He was certainly correct in that, thought Fedorov, suddenly struck with a moment of recognition. He knew this man…he had seen him before. No, not in the real world, but in the painting that hung behind the front desk counter—the portrait of an elderly man—Ilyana’s grandfather! It was the same man, only this time there was no painting on the wall, and in its place was the living and breathing replica of the man he had seen in the portrait! Fedorov stared at him as though he were seeing a ghost. What was happening here?

“Könnte es ein Vulkan sein?” said one of the men by the door.

“In Sibirien? Ein Vulkan?”

“Haben Sie auf dem Auto überprüft? Wenn Protos beschädigt wurde dann könnten wir einen weiteren tag mit reparaturen zu verlieren.”

The other three men who had been following the proprietor were speaking in another language, which he now recognized as German. One wore a close fitting bonnet that covered his head and ears, leaving only his beady black eyes above a ruddy cheeked face, with long thin handlebar mustache. The other two had eye goggles strapped above the bills of woolen caps, and double breasted overcoats with brass buttons.

Fedorov knew a little German. The men had said something about a volcano and now they were talking about having to repair a car. His bewilderment redoubled, and then he looked at the wall behind the front desk counter where the portrait should have been—the portrait now huffing about behind the counter in flesh and blood, and he saw something that stunned him. The calendar there read June, 1908!

He stepped back, a startled expression on his face, and the old gray haired man behind the counter finally noticed him, giving him a strange look as though he was trying to place the man. Fedorov backed away from the scene, his mind a dizzy whirlwind of confusion. He suddenly remembered the microphone in the collar of his service jacket and, as he backed into the dining hall again by the hearth he pinched the toggle and spoke quietly, desperately.

“Troyak? Zykov? Can you read me?”

Silence.

Fedorov gave the back staircase a wide eyed look. He had been warned about those stairs by Ilyana, but now his only thought was to get back up to the second floor and into his room. He wanted to see if his hat and overcoat and equipment were still there—if his sanity could be found among those effects—and he slowly backed into the shadow of the stairwell, eyes wide with amazement. He saw the young man, Mironov, staring at him from across the room, a look of suspicion on his face now. Then there came another distant rumble of what sounded like thunder.

Fedorov turned and quickly began to climb the stairs. It was just a short flight of twelve steps, but it seemed endless, his legs leaden, and by the time he reached the last step he felt exhausted, breathing heavily with both fear and exertion. He doubled over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. At that moment he heard the clomp of hard soled boots on the wooden floor and he straightened up to see a man walking briskly down the hall with an automatic weapon.

It was Troyak.

“There you are! Where have you been, Colonel?”

Fedorov just stared at him, still disoriented, so tired, a lethargy on him that he could not explain. “I think I need to sit down…”

Troyak could see his distress and helped him down the hall and into their room. Along the way he signaled Zykov, and told the Corporal to join them in their quarters. Fedorov had some water and rested on the bed briefly, with Troyak watching him closely, a serious expression on his face.

“Are you ill, Colonel Fedorov?”

“No… No… Something happened, Troyak. I can’t explain it.”

“We searched the entire building. Where did you go?”

Fedorov blinked, trying to compose himself. “Down the back stairs. I thought I heard something—that rumbling sound—so I went down the stairs.”

Then, for the first time, Fedorov noticed it was pitch black outside. The room was lit by a single oil lamp, but otherwise all was dark.

“Downstairs? You were gone for over an hour, sir. It is getting on to midnight and the train will be leaving in half an hour.”

“The train?” Fedorov still seemed confused. What had just happened to him? Was he dreaming? Sleep walking? “I must have been dreaming,” he said slowly. “Yes…it must have been a dream.”

There were footsteps in the hall, and Troyak was up, weapon ready. They heard muffled voices. Then a man speaking in a louder voice. “I’ve done nothing. Let me go!”

Troyak opened the door and saw Zykov with one hand on the collar of a short young man and the other with a pistol to his head. The Corporal smiled. “Look what I found in the hall.”

“Let me go, I say. I have done nothing!”

Zykov pushed the young man into the room and stepped in behind him. Fedorov looked up, astounded again. It was Mironov!

“So you are with the Okhrana after all,” said Mironov sullenly as soon as he saw Fedorov there. “I knew there was something odd about you. What have I done? You have no right to detain me!”

Fedorov’s brain finally began to function again, with images of all he had seen and experienced in the last few minutes slowly connecting. The sound of the explosion, the rumble of thunder, the distant glow on the horizon—the month and year on that calendar!

“Listen to me, Mironov,” he began. “What is the date?”

“The date?”

“What is the month and year?”

Now Troyak had a bemused expression on his face, glancing at Zykov as if to communicate something unspoken to him. They were both looking at Fedorov as though he were ill. Then Mironov spoke, still somewhat indignant.

“So you mean to interrogate me, is that it?”

“No, no, please. Simply tell me the date.”

“The 30th of June. I arrived late last night. You think I’m a dim witted fool, eh? I knew you were Okhrana the moment I set eyes on you. And when you refused to sit at my table my suspicions redoubled. But you have no reason to bother me. I have done nothing! What? Do you mean to hold that innocent remark I made about journalism against me? Yes, the government may not like what I have to say—but I have said nothing, nothing at all!” His eyes were fiery as he spoke, indignant, combative.

Fedorov tried to calm himself, but his pulse quickened when he heard what Mironov said. June 30. Impossible! Yet one by one the clues piled up in his weary brain, and then came tumbling down in an avalanche of sudden realization. June 30, 1908, the sound of thunder, the fire in the sky.

“My god, my god what has happened?” he breathed. “Mironov…You came up the back stairs just now?”

“I saw you go that way, and yes, I followed you to see what I could find out about you. It seems I have learned too much, eh? But that is no reason to arrest me again. A man has the right to see to his own safety, particularly after what just happened out there.” He turned and pointed, suddenly noticing the darkness, the silence, the quiet night outside the window lit by a silvery gibbous moon. Now it was Mironov’s turn to stare dumfounded at the window.

“What’s happening here? Where’s the day gone?”

“What is your full name, Mironov, your given name?”

The young man turned back to Fedorov, folding his arms on his barrel chest, defiant. “Sergie Mironov. You know only too well who I am if you are Okhrana. What of it? What trumped up charge are you going to fabricate this time? Are you going to say you found a printing press? I had nothing to do with that, nothing whatsoever.” His indignation was apparent.

“You mean Mironovich, yes?”

The dark haired man said nothing now, his lips tight beneath the thin moustache, eyes alight.

“Sergei Mironovich Kostrikov?” Fedorov pressed him. “You were recently released from prison?”

“So you know me. You have been following me all along. I thought you might be shadowing the British reporter. That would be very much like your sort. I warned him, you know. I told him a foreigner will draw nothing but unwanted attention in this country now. The Tsar’s oppression is despicable. There! I have said something—finally said something. Now you can arrest me and throw me back in prison if you wish. You were going to do that in any case.” He folded his arms again, resigned.

Troyak was looking from one man to another, clearly confused. Fedorov seemed to know this man, at least he knew his name easily enough. But what was all this talk of the Okhrana and June of 1908?

There came a rumbling sound again, as though from far away, just as before. They all turned to look at the still open doorway. Fedorov sat up, his energy returned, his mind finally clear again. There was a stiff urgency to his movements, particularly when they heard the sound again, saw the amber glow in the outer hall.

“My god…” He stood up, the other men looking at him as though he had lost his mind. But Fedorov had heard more than enough. He cleared his throat, speaking firmly.

“Listen to me, Mironov. You must go back down stairs at once! Go by the same way you came—this instant! Do not worry. I have told you we have nothing to do with the Okhrana. We are merely soldiers on the long road west. That is all.”

He gestured to Mironov, beckoning him to come with him, and when Troyak stood up he said, “Don’t worry Sergeant, I’ll handle this.”

“You mean I am free to go?”

“Yes, just follow me.” Fedorov reassured him.

Mironov looked at Troyak and Zykov, frowning, then followed Fedorov out the door. Troyak was up behind him, keeping a close eye on the young man. Fedorov was waiting on the upper landing of the back stairway.

“This way, Mironov. Quickly!”

There came a rumble of thunder again. Mironov was at Fedorov’s side. Looking him in the eye as though he were staring into the face of fate itself.

“You must go by the way you came, and quickly now, while you see that light.” Fedorov gestured to the amber glow from below. “And Mironov—never come up this stairway again. Understand? Get as far away from here as you can.”

Fedorov had an anguished look on his face, as if he had something more he needed to say, a tormented expression that held Mironov fixated for a time, their eyes and souls locked together in some bizarre twist of time and fate.

I must not say another word, thought Fedorov. But then a thought came to him like a thunderclap! What if this was the moment—the vital single moment that could change everything? What if Orlov’s leap from that helicopter was meant for one thing only—to bring Fedorov after him, and here to this very place, face to face with this defiant young man, Sergei Mironovich Kostrikov. He reached out as Mironov turned to go down the stairs, taking hold of the man’s arm to delay him.

Then Fedorov leaned forward, close to the young man’s ear and whispered something, his eyes vast and serious, his face like that of a man who was seeing a phantom from another world. He finished, then released Mironov’s arm.

“Go with god,” he said quietly. “Go and live, Mironov. Live!”

A light of uncertainty and bewilderment danced in Mironov’s eyes, then the urgency of the moment compelled him to move, and he stepped quickly down the narrow stairs.

“Zykov!” Fedorov gestured. “Wait here. But do not go down these steps under any circumstances. Understood?” Then he was off at a run, down the hall to the main stairway and, seeing him go, Troyak followed quickly behind. They rushed down the main stairs, rounding the corner and emerging in the front reception area, lit by a single bare bulb on the ceiling above which guttered off and on. To his great relief Fedorov saw the portrait of the old man, Ilyana’s grandfather, hanging on the wall. He rushed past the desk and into the dining hall, finding the room dark and silent, the embers of the fire low on the hearth and Ilyana sitting there on a low stool, her robe pulled tight against the midnight chill. Her eyes met Fedorov’s, then drifted fearfully to the shadowed alcove that led to the back stairway. The thin high call of a train whistle sounded from the distant rail yard, stark and cold against the night.

“Did a man just come down these stairs?” he asked in a low voice, a knowing look in his eye.

The woman looked at the alcove leading to the back stairway, eyes wide and tinged by the last light of the embers. She slowly shook her head in the negative as Troyak came up behind him, looking at him with obvious concern on his face. Fedorov turned, his breath finally stilled.

“Are you alright, sir?”

“Have Zykov bring the equipment, Sergeant. But tell him to use the main stairway—not the back stairs—understood? We had better get to the rail yard or we’ll miss our train.”

Troyak gave the order through his jacket comm-link system as they walked across the dining hall to leave. Fedorov gave one last look over his shoulder and met Ilyana’s eyes.

He smiled.

Chapter 10

Ben Flack peered through the Plexiglas, and didn’t like what he was seeing. Dawn was breaking in the Caspian Region, and it was not to be a quiet day. Off in the distance, obscured by the morning haze over the water, it was clear that a whole lot of trouble was heading his way. He had been on the phone for the last hour, first with Wade Hanson of Crowley & Company, yammering that one of their three Invader class tugs, the Galveston, had been boarded while operating inshore. The other two beat a hasty retreat for the deeper waters and the open sea, narrowly evading the Kazakh militias. Thank god the American Salvor class boat got out safely after the rig was finally set and in place on the silted bottom five kilometers off the coast. But Galveston was officially his problem now, on top of fifteen other problems that would stretch from here all the way back to Bollinger Canyon in sunny California.

The Chevron brass there did not like the news this morning either, and they let him know about it in no uncertain terms. He had been on the phone with some middle tier pencil pusher turned weather man. “The whole Gulf is shut down for Hurricane Victor, Flack,” the man had lectured him.

“This damn thing made direct hit on Houston. All the refineries are off line, you understand? We lost Conoco Phillips, Valero, Exxon/Mobil, Deer Park, Premcor, Marathon Ashland—the works. BP lost Thunder Horse and Mad Dog is off line too. Now we’ve got to make sure production stays up out there, right? We need crude in tankers heading our way, and soon. You need to clean that mess up there and get flows back up to speed ASAP. Bunker as much oil as you can in Baku for a credit on the other end of the Supsa line, got that? We’re looking for any loose tanker traffic we can get our hands on. I expect we’ll have something for you soon—negotiating with some conveyance carriers now. You just get on top of this business and see to things. You completed that rig set last night, right? ”

Yes he had finished the set, and yes things looked manageable, but no he didn’t think there was adequate security in the region, and yes it really did seem like this latest flare-up was going to be worse than the last, and no he didn’t know where his numbers would be just yet, but yes he’s have readings as soon as he heard from the pump stations on the coast and yes they had enough in the line to start bunkering at Baku if a carrier could be found in the Black Sea, but no he couldn’t guarantee the flow pressure just yet, and on and on it went.

So Galveston Island got slammed. The thin barrier island near Houston was now under water. Ironically, he had his own little Galveston here to worry about. How was he going to get that damnable tug back? If the raiders parted that sucker out to the Chinese, the insurance tab would be charged to his operation. Was the crew safe? Real violence against Western oil men had been rare in the region but, after that ominous news feed the rebels put out the night before, all bets were off. He would no doubt have to bargain for the crew’s release, and he wasn’t sure he had much to bet in that game.

As for local threats, all he had at the moment was the Rig Boss and his side arm. He squinted through his binoculars, not liking the sight of those damnable fast lighters the rebels had out near the coastline. Where was KAZPOL? What the fuck were they doing? Probably running all over the region trying to tamp down one little incident after another. The pink dawn was starting to silhouette some of the inshore facilities. There was an unwelcome plume of smoke riding up on the hazy morning air.

He stared at the FAX he had received from San Ramon. They were already papering over the news with an official statement being readied for the press. “We are working with all appropriate government agencies and community leaders to try and restore peace and stability in the area and will resume normal business… etc., etc.”

Fat chance of this getting air time in any case, not with the aftermath coverage for hurricane Victor at Houston this morning. Chevron had weathered far worse storms than this one but press had not been rosy in recent months. That was the least of his worries. What was he going to do about the Galveston, and what were those damn swift boats up to yonder?

His mind invariably went to Timmermann and his merc detachment. Where the hell were they? He’d put in the emergency call five hours ago. Company helo has been out for hours, but no mercs. How was he supposed to fend off the locals with the Rig Boss and his sidearm? How was he supposed to find the Galveston, let alone her crew? And what was this new shit about tanker traffic being routed into the Black Sea? That place could become a lake of fire any day. Did they think he was about to start moving significant amounts of crude under these conditions? He’d need security, damn it, and lots of it. Then he’d be lucky if he had any line pressure left to even get flow started on the pipeline to Baku.

Second quarter output for Chevron had slipped to the lowest level since 2018. Q3 was equally depressed. Flack had news for the Bollinger Boyz—it wasn’t going to get any better, and Chevron was not the only company hurting right now. It was going to get worse, and it was going to get mean, particularly if the Russians sent that Motor Rifle Division across the border up north.

“Mudman!” Flack yelled so he would be heard over the constant music flow into his technician’s head.

“What’s up, Flackie?”

“That shit out east looks bad. I think we may be getting some uninvited visitors soon. Where’s the damn helo?”

“HellifIknow,” Mudman ran the words together as he chewed on another granola bar. “Nuthin’ on radio for hours.” He was distracted by the small TV set where he was watching the local news feed out of Fort Shevchenko.

“Well we’re missing a goddamned tug!” Flack ran a hand through his thinning hair. The sweat on his brow a fine sheen.

Mudman looked at him, his jaw slack. He was pointing at his TV monitor, waving Flack over. “Think I found it,” he said with a solemn tone.

Flack was at his side, his eyes rolling with disgust the instant he saw the image on the screen. It was the Galveston, surrounded by lighters full of gunmen, and her blindfolded crew all lined up on the foredeck.

“What a load of crap,” Flack swore.

“Shot her up pretty bad,” said Mudman. There was obvious damage to all the wind screens and siding on the tug. Someone just let loose with a Kalashnikov in the air, and the scene became a jubilant little hostage fest. “And look, isn’t that a Caverton Helo?” The Caverton Offshore Support Group had a small fleet of helos providing shore to sea lift services to any number of commercial interests in the region.

Flack squinted at the screen. “Yeah, that’s Caverton, alright.”

“Well, shit!” Mudman pointed at the screen. “Looks like they’ve got a full scale evacuation going on.” The scene shifted in a jerky motion. The camera man was running. There was an explosion and the Caverton helo careened onto the tarmac, its main rotor spinning wildly out of control, the craft engulfed in flame.

“Christ almighty…” Mudman just stared. “…everything living and unliving…And every other unthinkable vice…” He repeated the threat he had made light of earlier in the rebel press release, suddenly realizing they just may mean what they said this time.

“Gonna need Timmermann,” said Flack. “Where’s the damn mercs? Where’s KAZPOL?” He had a real case of the blues this morning, and the long day had just begun.

Flack wasn’t the only man thinking about the oil in the Caspian Sea. That same day Alberto Salase spent a good long time on the phone speaking to the same “pencil pushers” at Bollinger Canyon that Flack always complained about. That evening he boarded a helicopter for a very special trip out to Larnaca Bay. Salase was a business broker out of Alexandria, with a well developed local network in the region. Now he was fortunate to be welcomed aboard the Argos Fire, the floating corporate headquarters of Fairchild & Company, for a privileged visit with a potential new client.

And a privilege it was, thought Captain Gordon MacRae as he ushered the portly black man into the dining room. Elena Fairchild was not one to allow such a face to face meeting, at least so early into a business relationship. The normal protocols would have seen Salase jumping one middle manager after another, and then proving himself before being admitted to the inner circle of the Fairchild executive offices.

But the rapidly evolving oil situation was shaking up all the old protocols. The rising global tensions had swept away longstanding plans by any number of major producers courting operations in Central Asia. The Russians had shown them just how easy it was to put their thumb on the jugular, cutting the pipelines they had vainly tried to build to outflank Russian soil, and Russian interests in the region. And when the oil didn’t flow, the money stopped flowing as well.

Fairchild was a realist at heart, he knew. The company had relied on Persian Gulf contracts for the last several years, but now she wanted out. Eliminating the Suez bottleneck or a long trip around the Cape of Good Hope offered considerable savings in both operational costs and peace of mind. Now she was keen to leave the dangers of the Gulf behind make new inroads in the turbulent Central Asian superfields. The terminal Port of Ceyhan was an east port of call in well protected waters, and the transit from there to ports in Europe or the US were much more secure—until the BTC line blew up.

A boson’s mate smartly piped the Captain’s entry to the dining hall and announced Alberto Salase as the guest of honor. Elena Fairchild was already seated at the executive table, and she rose to greet the two men as they approached, dressed smartly in a form fitting pants suit, pale grays, with a plain white blouse flaring open at the neck, accessorized by a burgundy scarf. Her dress was smart, yet more functional than anything else, the clothing loose fitting so she could breath in the humid Mediterranean climate.

She was a middle aged woman in her late forties, though her tall, athletic figure had held on very nicely through the years, and she still had a youthful aspect, in spite of a fleck of gray that she bravely allowed in her dark hair, when most women would have rinsed it away years ago. She could have been a marathon runner if she had had a mind for the sport—certainly had the legs for it, though her pants suit gave her a prim and almost androgynous appearance. And she was not one for the ornaments of jewelry, allowing herself a pair of white pearl earrings and a silver Claddagh ring on one hand.

The simplicity of the ring suited her well—the circular bands ending with two hands clasping a heart, and a crown above. It was not a wedding band, in the traditional sense, for she had never married, though it could be used to signal a person’s romantic availability, or lack thereof, depending on which hand it was sported, and on which direction the hands and heart were faced.

MacRae often thought the crown above that heart was a fine symbol of the loyalty she had for England. Fairchild had served British interests, making a small but vital contribution to the UK’s energy position, for over twenty years. He had signed on as Fleet Captain nine years ago, earning the trust and confidence of his CEO with diligence and due respect. The Argos Fire was a nice little reward, a ship that any other captain in the world would be proud to sail. His relationship with ‘Madame,’ as he often called her in formal situations, had been cordial, professional, and strictly business, though he had to admit a growing attraction for the woman had developed in him over the years. He admired her resolve, the constancy of her temperament, the tight control she had on her emotions in the boardroom—a woman to be reckoned with where cutting a deal required a fine edge.

But yet there was a definitely a woman behind the corporate mask she so carefully maintained, and he had become fascinated with the quiet solitude that surrounded her, pleased that he had been drawn even closer to the inner core of company operations over the years. He had to admit that the occasion of finding himself alone with her, now a close confederate and even a confidant in many ways, had meant a lot to him. With no Mr. Fairchild he even entertained a fleeting notion that he might become involved with her one day, though he had never expressed anything of the sort, or pushed that agenda in even the subtlest of ways.

He was about to make the introductions but, true to form, Fairchild took the matter in hand.

“Mr. Salase, how good of you to join us,” the Fairchild smile radiated her steely beauty, her dark eyes carrying genuine warmth, but an intensity that was very penetrating. Her hand seemed smallish when engulfed in Salase’s substantial palm. She wondered how much money had greased it over the years in bribes, kickbacks and other “compensation” for his valued services as a deal broker.

“My pleasure, as always, Miss Fairchild. You do me great honor.”

“Captain,” Elena smiled and nodded in MacRae’s direction, and they were seated with little more fanfare.

“I hope you had a smooth ride over,” Elena carried the conversation forward.

“Very pleasant,” Salase returned. “Good weather. Clear skies and open seas. Perhaps a good omen, eh? Not so good up north, but that is good weather for business.”

Elena smiled, for Salase was conveying more with his words than it seemed. Of course there had been a round of negotiations on lower levels before this meeting was ever scheduled. Salase clearly felt matters were now favorable for a close, she thought. She certainly could use a new angle right now. Fairchild & Company had been angling for additional business in Central Asia for some time. Salase was well connected, with a good intelligence network to boot. With tensions rising virtually everywhere, her need to close a deal had taken a sudden, urgent turn.

Rumors of a possible big haul prompted her to gather all her spare tankers here in the Med. Her intelligence was very good when it came to fingering the pulse in the pipelines, but one thing she did not know that night was going to change everything and upset her carefully hatched plans. Captain MacRae had a piece of it in his pocket in a recent SIGINT decrypt, and Salase, fat evasive Mister Salase, had the rest in the palm of his greasy, greasy hand.

She could sense it…feel it. Something was wrong, and an inner sense of warning told her it had something to do with that damnable telephone call that had come on the top secret red phone a month ago, and changed her life forever.

Damn you, Salase, she thought. What do you know that I don’t know? Heads are going to fry on this ship if I get another big surprise tonight…Fry in hot, hot oil.

Chapter 11

Yes…that damnable phone call. The red phone. The phone in the secret room hidden behind a movable bulkhead at the back of her office. It still haunted her, particularly after the remarkable return of the new Russian fleet flagship Kirov, which had recently been involved in a strange accident in the Norwegian Sea, vanishing and presumed sunk until the ship suddenly reappeared in the Pacific a month later, sailing into Vladivostok’s Golden Horn Bay.

Elena Fairchild knew far more than she wanted to know about that ship, and its disappearance and return sent chills down her spine. She had received a phone call about it on a very special line. The nondescript red phone sat encased in a clear unbreakable Plastifibre dome on a table in her hidden inner office. A little over a month ago a signal had gone out from Royal Navy headquarters to secret outposts and at-sea locations all over the world. Argos Fire was one such location, and when Elena first felt the subtle vibration from her cell phone, reaching into a jacket pocket to see what the call was about, her heart skipped a beat. The screen was alight with two simple characters “G-1.”

She immediately withdrew to the private office and stood there, staring at the Plastifibre dome with a mix of shock and fear in her mind. Reaching slowly, she placed her right thumb on the scanner, then keyed a code on the touchpad. The vacuum sealed chamber opened with a hiss, and the Plastifibre dome slowly slid back.

God, she thought, let it be a test. She would thumb the receive button on the phone and it would read TEST — TEST — TEST, that was all. It had to be a test. It must be a test, for the thought that the entire world she was living in now, everything, all of it, every book, manuscript, song, poem, video…every street, town and city…every human being alive might now be different, subtly changed, was a staggering fear. And some might simply be gone, erased, and completely forgotten, as though they had never even lived. It had to be a test, but when she pressed her quivering thumb to the receive button three words lit up the screen and changed everything: Geronimo, Geronimo, Geronimo…

With a rising surge of adrenaline she simply closed her eyes, as if afraid of what she might find different or missing when she opened them, and quietly mourned the loss of the life and world she had been living in before that moment. Her hand was shaking when she reached and pressed the second button to confirm secure reception of the message. It was the signal she had waited for, with dread and foreboding, all her life.

It had finally happened, and the saddest thing about it was that only twelve people on the planet knew about it—the twelve senior apostles of the Watch. There were legions in the rank and file these twelve might call to the task they served, but only these twelve knew the whole and complete truth, the real meaning of the three words that had just flashed on her telescreen—and Elena Fairchild was one of them. It was many weeks of quiet inner mourning before she could look outside and accept the world as it was. And many nights she would lie awake and wonder what was missing, lost, changed.

She consoled herself by reading Shakespeare, listening to Mozart and reveling in her art books from the great masters, all untouchable, all as they were, for nothing that happened prior to the year 1941 could be altered. “Ignorance is the curse of God,” wrote Shakespeare. “Knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.” Yet the knowledge she had now was like a bite of that apple in Eden, a forbidden fruit that only twelve men and women on earth had tasted. The world had most certainly changed, yet no one knew how. They were oblivious, accepting the world they lived in as one unalterable reality. But they were wrong.

When Kirov was suddenly reported at sea in the Pacific a month later and apparently bound for Vladivostok, her pulse ran on again. She suddenly realized that there were more than twelve people on earth that knew the whole truth…many more, and they were on that very ship! Shakespeare whispered in her inner ear: “Hell is empty, and all devils are here.”

Now, a little over a month later, things were all getting very strange on the geopolitical chessboard and Elena Fairchild was a bit edgy about it all. The Chinese engagement with the Japanese over the disputed Senkaku Islands had led to an alarming escalation in the Pacific. The sudden sharp conflict at sea had ended with a barrage of six ballistic missiles at Naha airfield on the Japanese island of Okinawa. Since then a grim silence had fallen over the scene, but Fairchild knew things were not so simply resolved in this volatile region. Elsewhere in the world tensions were rising to the near boiling point in many other traditional flashpoints. Her latest Intel was quite disturbing.

Russia, now firmly in the newly formed SinoPac alliance, had maneuvered to influence oil and gas operations in Central Asia as its first priority. When the US pushed for a planned new pipeline through Azerbaijan, shipping arms to Georgia in exchange for pipeline easements, the scale of the Russian response was quite telling. Russian intelligence was still potent, and the 58th Army had been put on alert, ordered to move rapidly with elements of the 20th Guards, and 19th and 42nd Motor Rifle Divisions. These forces were joined by units of the Russian 76th and 98th Airborne Divisions and the 45th Spetsnaz, a special operations reconnaissance regiment. Some of these forces, including a full Motor Rifle Division, were poised at the northern border of Kazakhstan.

The US had nothing in the region but a single ready brigade way off in Kuwait, and even that was merely the equipment for this brigade, and not the personnel. Now the Americans had come to regret their bumbling about in Afghanistan, a long twelve year presence that had left them with nothing but thin promises for basing rights that had evaporated three years after the last combat troops were pulled out. So when the Russians posed a real threat in the Caucasus what could the Western Alliance do?

Damn, thought Elena, Russia was back on the high seas, and the two great powers were back to their old games again, both flexing their muscles with “planned” military exercises and a lot of threatening press on both sides. The stakes could not be higher, particularly with China and Japan at each other’s throats and a big stink in the UN now that had escalated to threats against Taiwan. In this climate, Elena Fairchild, like any good mother, wanted all her children closer to home.

Of her five remaining tankers, one was home at Milford Haven getting ready for the next contracted haul. Three more were nearing Cyprus, due here tomorrow for a special mission—if all went as she hoped it would tonight. All her Persian Gulf contracts were tabled now, except the crown jewel of her fleet, the Princess Royal, her largest ship. The Ultra Large Crude Carrier was still in the Persian Gulf, laden with oil that would secure a good chunk of her financial situation for the foreseeable future.

She was thinking about picking up something new tonight, the icing on the cake Princess Royal carried, perhaps a quick relief run to American ports if Europe had any stores of gasoline they might release. There might be oil credits bunkered in Ceyhan that would lead to conveyance contracts, and she expected this was what Salase was here to offer her. With empty tankers already at sea, she’d be three days ahead of the competition in any such venture. She could get to the oil first, and being first on the scene with ample resources, in war and in business, had some very real advantages.

The situation in the Persian Gulf also prompted her to immediately recall her last oil tanker there, the Princess Royal was all of 400,000 tons, the weight of four Nimitz class aircraft carriers, and capable of transporting three million barrels of oil in a single haul. The ship was now outward bound to the straits of Hormuz, pregnant with crude worth nearly half a billion dollars at current market prices, which were only likely to go higher. It was a bad time for any shenanigans in the Gulf. She had bank notes due on the Argos Fire refit at the end of the month. Credit was very tight on the world market, and she knew there would be no way the Bank of London would extend. She had to come up with a cool $700 million cash for Argos Fire, and more than half of it was riding in the belly of Princess Royal. She needed that last forty percent, and tonight she would set the Argos Fire on a quest for that golden fleece—oil.

Stupid to leave my big lady alone like that with Argos at home for replenishment, she thought to herself. Stupid not to take the Intel briefings seriously on the Gulf. Israel was again flying maneuvers over Lebanon. She wouldn’t put it past the Israelis to strike out on their own against Iran at any time now. The whole damn show over Georgia was also as much about Iran as anything else, she knew. Iran and the oil. Damn, she thought, I should have had Argos Fire down through Suez weeks ago to keep watch on Princess Royal. Very stupid move on my part.

“So what is the situation up north, Mr. Salase?”

“A little bad weather,” said Salase, smiling broadly, nose flaring. He was referring to the recent outbreak of violence in the North Caspian.

“Bit of a squall?” she probed innocuously.

“Perhaps something more.”

Elena Fairchild, simply smiled at the ante, calling her guest at once. Salase glanced at the Captain, unaware of his status as a member of the company’s inner circle, and not knowing if he was to be privy to the information he might now disclose.

“I assure you, we are all friends here,” she said, settling the matter. Salase smiled, nodding to the Captain, who returned a polite smile as he folded his hands, listening attentively.

“In fact, let’s speak plainly, Mr. Salase,” said Fairchild, the light of the chase in her eyes. “What does the weather forecast have in it that I should be concerned about this evening?”

“Opportunity, perhaps,” said Salase. “Lots of trouble in the Region. Several factions are vying for power in Kazakhstan. A bit of the blood feud between them, but all set aside when there are so many Western interests to feed on. Not to mention the fact that the Russians are sitting on the northern border like a pack of wolves.”

“Indeed,” said Elena. “Enlighten me.”

Salase smiled. “Contracts,” he said quietly. “Unexpected windfall in the storm, eh?”

Fairchild leaned forward, her chin resting on her palm, elbow on the table, in contravention of all good etiquette. Business was business, and they were only just starting to receive hors d'oeuvres. The main course would come in time. Salase wanted to nibble a bit, probably to see what percentages he could ferret. She would hear him out. He lowered his voice, glancing at the departing table servant.

“We heard something of interest,” he said, his accent heavy, yet engaging. “A lot of trouble in the region, and trouble in the Gulf as well—both Gulfs. Big storm hit Houston, big trouble brewing in the straits of Hormuz as well.”

That last bit got the attention of both Fairchild and MacRae, though the doughty lady showed no emotion on her face. The Captain’s mind went to the decrypt in his pocket. He had not found time to inform Miss Fairchild of the potential threat in the Persian Gulf.

“I don’t ship anything to Houston, my good man,” said Fairchild.

“At the moment…But you do ship from the straits of Hormuz to terminals that serve the US. You have a ship there now, eh? Big ship in a bad place.”

She smiled, waiting for him to make more of a point. Her worries over Princess Royal were in no way evident on her face.

“Well this business up north in the Caspian now,” Salase danced off in another direction. “The hurricane has everything shut down for the Americans. Always trouble, only this year a very bad late season storm. The refineries shut down, rigs were damaged; shortages will soon follow, and prices will spike. Going to be a lot of demand for quick deliveries to offset that shortfall. Oil supplies in Europe are very weak right now.”

“I see,” Elena was pleasantly interested, still showing no undue concern. “You’re suggesting I divert my at sea shipments to American ports?”

“Perhaps. I can get a very good price for you—very good. You take Princess Royal home, what do you get? A hundred pounds on the barrel. The Crown is very consistent, yes? But by the time your shipment gets round the Cape of Good Hope you could get very much more in an American port. Very much.”

“No disagreement here, aside from the fact that Fairchild serves the interests of the Crown at the moment.”

“Ah…” Salase grinned, a little hesitation in his manner now. He reached for the glass of wine the waiter had just delivered, giving the moment a little air.

“The Crown has many interests,” he said. “Also many servants. Much can happen in troubled times.” He ate an olive, and a bit of cheese, dabbing his thick lips with the monogrammed table linen napkin.

“One should always remain open to the possibilities—particularly when financing is so very hard to come by. Yes?”

That last remark had hit a nerve, MacRae knew. He was hinting at the big payment coming due on the Argos refit at Bank of London. Fairchild didn’t like people nosing into her banking arrangements, but her features were as placid as the bay at Larnaca, where the sun was setting now and casting a lovely glow on the water.

“And what good fortune!” Salase smiled again. “You have lots of empty ships that need filling.”

“I didn’t know you were so privy to our shipping manifests.” It was clear that he knew a lot more than he was hinting at, the berthing status of her ships could be viewed on the Internet by any inquiring soul, but she wanted to give him a gentle nudge in the ribs just the same.

“Oh, pardon me,” he feigned an apology. “My nose is as big as my ears. I can’t help hearing things, and I’m always keen to smell out a new opportunity for profit, yes?”

“Well it’s very clear that you smell one here.” The tone of Elena’s voice shifted a few points to starboard. She was leaning into business now, the pleasantries over. “Do go on, Mr. Salase.”

“Well,” he said, also sounding a bit more serious now. “These tankers you have at sea…They left port three days ago, but nothing was mentioned of their destination. I couldn’t find them on any of my registry schedules for the big ports you service.”

“Imagine that,” Elena said flatly.

“Oh, I will imagine,” Salase came back quickly. “I’ll Imagine they might be close at hand, but when I looked for them on the flight in there was no sign. Just this beautiful vessel I am privileged to visit here now.” He waved his hand expansively. “Lots of empty tonnage out there somewhere,” he finished. “I may have a contract for you.”

MacRae glanced at Fairchild, and she at him, ever so briefly. Salase couldn’t see it, but it was clear to the Captain that his boss was interested.

“Well,” Elena began, “assuming these ships were close by, and assuming they were still empty, or had any chamber room available to take on more product, then what would we be talking about?” Elena was holding her cards close to her trim, yet ample chest, but still ready to draw.

“It’s all in the weather,” Salase beamed, then lowered his voice, eyes wandering with a casual, conspiratorial glance from the Captain to his Executive in Chief. “We picked up a communication from the American Chevron operation in the Caspian Region.” He was all business now. “They have more trouble than you’ll ever read about on the news wires. A call went out for mercenaries.”

“My, this is getting interesting,” Elena gave him her most engaging smile, and it had just the effect she intended. The excitement in his eyes was obvious as he continued, hoping he had a good chance of closing a lucrative deal tonight.

“More even,” he began. “We’ve received formal requests for any spare tanker capacity in the region. They want it as soon as possible. And here you have these ships close at hand. How fortunate.”

Fairchild looked at him, her eyes bright. “Yes, how very fortunate, Mr. Salase.”

Chapter 12

Who knows what is good or bad, thought Elena Fairchild. Yes she was fortunate to have all this spare conveyance in a very convenient spot that night because she knew all about Chevron’s call for tanker support. It was, in part, the reason she had Princess Marie and Princess Angelina at sea, and the reason why Princess Irene was slipping through the Suez canal tomorrow night to join them, though Salase must have known at least that much. She also knew that her vessels represented 80% of any spare tanker capacity within 2000 miles at the moment. Her network had intercepted the Chevron radio phone call days ago, and it was clear that the move could net her a tidy contract here.

But the old Taoist proverb rankled at her…who knows what is good or bad? These ships represented the heart of her entire enterprise, and the oil centers of the world were getting very dangerous these days. Salase was up to something here, and so she decided to tease him a bit.

“We’re nearly twelve hundred miles from the Caspian superfields, and the last time I looked there was no direct sea route.”

“And of course you can’t accept shipments from Ceyhan at the moment after that pipeline attack at Erzurum. They just shipped off everything they had bunkered there, and now it will be some time before any more oil gets through. Most unfortunate. That limits options. The situation is very dangerous now, but may I make an informed guess that this ship is a security vessel, and that you also have a security contingent aboard? Helicopters?”

“Mr. Salase, there’s an American carrier battlegroup in the Atlantic and heading east to the Med even as we speak. Lots of helicopters, sailors, not to mention about a hundred lethal strike aircraft.”

“Ah, yes, one of their presidential ships, if I am not mistaken.” He addressed the remark to Captain MacRae, who nodded in the affirmative.

“CVN Roosevelt,” MacRae said quietly.

“Yes, yes, well I wouldn’t count on Mr. Roosevelt handling this job. As significant as the Chevron operation may be, there are, how is it said… bigger fish to fry.”

“These days fish are usually fried in oil,” Fairchild quipped, her point obvious. Then she leaned in, with even more obvious seriousness in her tone. “Alright, Mr. Salase, I have three empty tankers with two and a half million barrel capacity between them four days from any number of terminal ports in the Middle East or the Med. And I have the ship you are dining on this evening, to make sure they arrive and conduct their business without any problem from the Iranians or anyone else. And yes, I have helicopters as well. We won’t be making a purchase, you understand, just providing conveyance of the oil, and security. What’s the offer?”

“I knew you would see the opportunity inherent in the current situation,” Salase exulted. “I have a firm offer, but you need not worry about the Iranians. This is from a basket of Caspian regional operatives. All negotiations have been managed by my firm in Alexandria. We can offer you a conveyance premium of forty dollars a barrel.”

“The Caspian Consortium? That means a trip to the Black Sea, and soon, before the pipeline through Georgia gets shut down like the BTC line. I’ll want ten dollars a barrel on top of that for the risk,” she said immediately, catching him just a bit unprepared.

Salase shrugged, feigning difficulty. “That will not leave me very much on the margins.”

“Come, come now, a good middle man has any number of ways to pad his invoice. Fifty a barrel for conveyance and security premium. What’s the terminal destination?”

Salase brushed a crumb of bread from his lips, eyes wandering as he spoke. “A familiar route,” he began. “It’s why your company is just the perfect carrier—”

“Where?” She let just a little impatience enter her tone.

“The Royal Vopak’s Banyan Terminal in Singapore.” He said it quickly, taking a sip of wine and watching her over the rim of the glass as he finished. For the first time tonight, he thought, I have my hand up the prissy little lady’s skirt—if she would but wear a skirt. She walks about in trousers and thinks it fashionable. Women in business! What is the world coming to? His smile betrayed nothing of his thoughts as he set down the wine glass.

“Singapore?” She gave MacRae a quick glance. “You mean to tell me the Americans are in a tizzy with this hurricane Victor business shutting down all their refining capacity, and they want to move the oil to Singapore?”

“Strictly business,” said Salase. We arranged a buyer in Tokyo, and they’re offering a premium price. The Japanese are very cash rich these days. They can out bid virtually anyone on the Western market when they choose. And it appears this is such a time. This business with the Chinese has them justifiably worried.”

“I see…” Fairchild gave herself a moment to digest this news, a bit angry that her own people didn’t have the information, the name of the buyer, the destination port, or any of this latest twist in the offer. Here she thought she would be hauling to the Vopak terminals at Deer Park and Galena on the Texas coast. That route through the Med and across the Atlantic would be much safer.

“The almighty dollar,” she breathed, “such as it is these days. I suppose Royal Dutch Shell is in thick as thieves on this deal.” Vopak was a large independent Dutch tank terminal operator, with 78 locations in over thirty countries. They had a venerable history, dating back to 1616 when groups of weighmasters and porters began offering weighing, sorting and storage services at Dutch harbors for the cargo shipped in by the East India Trading Company. In fact, they had received and stored the very first shipment of oil to the Netherlands, in 1862, and proudly displayed a photo of the event on their web site.

“Of course,” Salase dropped any semblance of pretense now. “It has always been about dollars, or the gold that buys them.” It was time for the close. “So what would you like to do?” He waited, knowing that the person who spoke next would come out on the losing end of the deal. The English bitch would most likely have many more considerations, which he had all anticipated before he landed here tonight. There would be mileage, hazardous waters, known piracy zone surcharge, not to mention that she was obviously trying to extricate herself from many of the waterways her precious tankers would now have to travel en route to Singapore.

But Salase knew she could only make good on 60% of the big loan reimbursement Bank of London was calling in next month, and that was assuming her precious Princess Royal made it safely through the straits of Hormuz. The company badly needed the other 40% on that credit rollover, another $300 million dollars. With everything in the States shutting down for Hurricane Victor, there would be ample business there for emergency shipments. Perhaps she could get $150 a barrel for the cargo Princess Royal held and sell it to the Americans. She would still need another $250 million to cover her loans. Warships were expensive, no matter what color you painted them or how well your hid the guns and missiles.

The Atlantic would probably heat up very soon. Shipping orders were starting to come in at any of a number of big European ports. But the cargo they needed to deliver was nowhere at hand. Fairchild was well ahead of the game, with good shipping capacity four days south of a very motivated producer right now.

Fairchild needed the deal, and Salase knew she could see the obvious advantages of what he was offering her. He would work it so that she would stand to earn at least $125 million on this caper, and that would get her just a little closer to solvency when she sat down with her bankers next month, assuming she would still be able to walk after the good hard fucking he was about to give her in these negotiations. Salase had information that would soon change the math yet again. In a few days she could get $75 dollars a barrel for mere conveyance on this deal, but he would lock her in here for fifty, perhaps fifty-five all said and done. Yes, he had his hand up her skirt now, in a manner of speaking, and in a minute he would have her legs open as well.

“I’ll need another two dollars for mileage,” she began predictably, and he knew he was going to close the deal. “That’s through the Red Sea, round the Somali coast, which is a known piracy zone, and across the Indian Ocean to more of the same in the Straits of Malacca—very dangerous waters these days.”

“To be sure, but you’ll have to assume some risk in the venture. “

“For another three dollars on top of mileage,” she said flatly, folding her hands on the table.

“Lord almighty,” he breathed. “We have already discussed a ten dollar risk premium.”

“That was for the Bosporus-Black Sea leg, an imminent war zone.”

“I’m losing all my profit!” He was lying, of course, and he knew that she was well aware of that fact, but these matters had a certain choreography about them, and he was expected to make some protest at this point, which he did. “That will come out to fifty-five dollars a barrel for mere conveyance against a current barrel price of only $145,” he said, trying to sound distressed.

“Done,” said Fairchild. “Providing Captain MacRae sees no undue security risk that would preclude our operations in the waters described.” She gave him a quick look, knowing what his response would be.

“We’ll handle the situation well enough, I suppose,” he said with that lovely Scottish accent. “Unless things take a severe turn for the worse in the next week.”

“Very well,” Fairchild was ready to move on to dinner. “I suppose you brought contracts?”

“Well, this is all very sudden,” said Salase. “I was hoping for forty a barrel but—”

“Fifty-five, and if we run into any trouble, at either end or any time while we’re in transit, you pay any cost that isn’t reimbursed by the insurance carrier.”

“But—”

“And if, by any God forsaken stretch we should lose a ship on this little venture, then we collect double over insurance premiums. That’s a long term loss, and the insurance will hardly compensate me for revenue shortfall until I could replace the vessel.”

The little bitch thinks she has me by the balls, he thought, secretly amused. Now it was time for the final act. “Well…” he hesitated just long enough, appearing flustered and cleverly using his napkin to dab his brow, but he knew he had her legs open now, figuratively speaking. He had planned to give her fifty dollars a barrel, and by god that’s exactly how it played out, aside from the minor annoyance of that last five dollars for fuel and piracy premiums.

“You drive a very hard bargain,” he said. “Alright, you need fifty-five, I’ll close for that, but not a dollar more.” He extended a hand, with a sinister grin on his face. “Deal?”

“Done,” she said, shaking on it. Fairchild was disgusted by the man, presuming he could come in here and dicker with her on conveyance and security charges for an operation like this. The little surprise on the terminal destination cost her a step in the dance, but she had made a good recovery, pushing him up another five dollars a barrel, when she might have settled at fifty under normal circumstances.

“If you manage to take delivery at anything close to your float,” Salase said at last, “then you might be well on your way to paying off that credit chip coming due next month, eh? I’m sure you’ll find some way of coming up with the remaining funds you need for the Bank of London.” He smiled. “Assuming, of course, your sell what you are presently holding on Princess Royal at current market prices.”

“I beg your pardon?” Elena shifted slightly in her chair, and for a moment it seemed that Salase might indeed have a hand on her leg, though both his well padded paws were resting comfortably on the table now.

Elena composed herself, tamping down her annoyance at the man’s manner. “Yes, I’ve a three million barrels sitting on Princess Royal, dear Mr. Salase—and I own that oil. At current market price, as you so wisely note, that will fetch me a tidy sum. I’ll expect to get closer to $150 a barrel on that oil, if not more by the time I get around to delivering it. Lock-ins on price are very slippery these days, particularly in emergency situations. What with all this hurricane business at Houston, the Americans will be paying top dollar.”

“Pity they can’t get their own oil producers to stop selling to the Japanese,” said Salase, “but I suppose if things get worse in the Pacific they’ll do something about that as well. No hurricane has struck British shores of late, and the price there is a flat hundred pounds, so consider my suggestion that you sell to the Americans if the price of a barrel goes much above that, loyal servant of the Crown that you are.” His smile had a bit of a barb to it now.

“If you know so much about my financial arrangements,” said Fairchild, “then you can see I have my credit call well in sight. I’m wagering Princess Royal is carrying at least $450 million in her holds right this moment, and perhaps more. This little bit I’m picking up here for simple conveyance is just a nudge in the right direction. That would put me over $580 million, and I can take the rest out of petty cash.” She smiled sweetly. “Argos Fire is ready to lead my little fleet to the Bosporus tomorrow. We have long range helicopters, and perhaps we can provide some security for this customer, but that will come at a cost as well. Our first priority, however, will be to take on his cargo at either Kulevi oil terminal on the Black Sea coast, or at Supsa, assuming the Americans have a bunker credit there…” she waited, a question in her eyes.

“Of course, Miss Fairchild. It has all been arranged.”

“Excellent. Then might I suggest something, Mister Salase? My tanker in the Persian Gulf is much closer to Singapore, and I own that oil. Suppose I were to offer it to your Japanese buyer in fulfillment of this conveyance contract you’ve been trying to arrange.”

“How generous,” Salase beamed. He knew she would get round to this in time, and there it was, her final card on the table. Now he would play out his trump card and run the spades home.

“Then that would still leave you free to convey the Chevron oil to other destinations, perhaps the Americans, as you suggested earlier. But you will have need of great hurry. Yes, I should have known you would have this deal well thought out. You are a very formidable businesswoman, Miss Fairchild. And of course your intelligence services would have the very same information that came through our network yesterday, so I suppose you have already factored that in to your calculations.” He let that hang a moment for effect, and could almost feel her resolve falter a bit. It was the sweetest moment in any close—the moment when you reveal that one last tidbit of information your adversary had failed to consider. Yes, her legs were wide open at last, he thought. Now for the coup de gras.

“Information?” She raised her eyebrows, ever so slightly, “What exactly are you referring to. I’m afraid I have to confess the destination on this little run did come as a surprise. I underestimated the greed of the Americans—sell their own damn oil to the Japanese while Houston gets slammed by a hurricane? I can’t stack that up against my good sense for profit when I see it.”

“Of course,” said Salase, still smiling. “No, I was referring to the information on the security situation in the Persian Gulf. It seems your Princess Royal is going to hit a mine some time tomorrow. You knew this, of course. Perhaps you were even counting on it, because the price of oil is truly going to skyrocket if it happens as planned.” The certainty of his remark was a nice sharp jab, and he could almost feel the woman jump.

Captain MacRae shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his hand in his pocket fingering the latest intelligence decrypt he had picked up from the radio room—the mines! He had not found a moment to inform his CEO, and now she was adrift at sea in the negotiation and about to hit one herself.

Elena was taken aback by the statement. What was this bloated pig of a man talking about? Going to hit a mine? if it happens as planned? She could feel the heat rising on the back of her neck. Her people should have had this—a direct threat to a company ship? Good God, what was going on here? What did this man know that her Intel service could have so blatantly missed? She fought down the anger.

“Of course,” she said at last, though her face had turned a shade of pale rose. It was the first noticeable loss of control MacRae had ever seen her suffer in a public negotiation, and he knew she had been completely surprised by the information. There would be no rest on the Argos Fire tonight, he realized. Mack Morgan, the Intel Master was going to have a lot of questions to answer for not getting this sooner. Perhaps he could save Mack a finger or two if he spoke up now.

“Excuse me, m’lady, but we do have something to discuss concerning that development. Perhaps after dinner you and I can have a chat.” He was signaling her that he had information, perhaps even a plan, a high face card or two in hand, and he hoped it would be enough to help her regain her composure.”

Dinner was served, thankfully just at that moment, giving Elena Fairchild a brief cover to settle herself. But as Salase eyed the sumptuous fare, he could feel the woman’s discomfort in the silence, and she would sit there and take it as long as he desired. At least until dessert had been served. Oh there would be little run ups of conversation aimed at ferreting out the scope of the threat, a trip to the powder room so she could scream shrill orders over a radio and notify the Captain of Princess Royal. And then she would be begging the Americans in the Persian Gulf for a frigate to escort her precious little princess through the Straits, based on ‘credible information from an unnamed source,’ of course.

And when they find out the rest; when the missile fires and the oil starts burning… He smiled, pretending to enjoy his meal. Ah, he thought, it was great to be a man. Women had no place in business matters like these. He was going to enjoy this dinner. The poached salmon looked particularly tasty tonight.