Dick Couch - Out of the Ashes

Saudi Arabia had long been the kingpin in the oil world, but that was changing. The United States had helped rebuild Iraq, and that nation was now a major oil producer, as were Iran, Kuwait, and Russia. Saudi Arabia was no longer the big kid on the block, just one of many. Even the United States, thanks to shale oil gas, was predicted to be a net oil exporter as early as 2020.

Saudi Arabia had a unique disadvantage in that all of her oil went to ports on either the Red Sea or the Arabian Gulf. Intermittent violence over the years, and especially the uncertainties the popular uprisings of 2011 unleashed, had made it too risky to depend solely on getting her oil through the narrow choke points of the Strait of Hormuz, the southern terminus of the Red Sea, or the Suez Canal. Additionally, the Saudis recognized if Iran ever followed through on its frequent threats to mine the Strait of Hormuz, Saudi Arabia’s economy would be crippled.

So the Saudis had made a decision to construct a multibillion dollar pipeline through Jordan and Syria to get their oil to the Mediterranean to meet the energy demands of Europe, especially the now-recovering economies of Eastern Europe. Saudi Arabia had paid Jordan and Syria a fortune up front to allow construction of a pipeline and passage of oil.

Now, in one of the biggest energy construction projects ever, the Saudis were building a massive pipeline from their richest fields in the eastern part of their country across their nation, through Jordan and Syria, and to the Mediterranean. Saudi prince Ali al-Wandi, the nation’s deputy oil minister, was personally supervising all aspects of the pipeline’s construction. His executive helicopter was a frequent sight along the pipeline route and he made it well known to the managers, foremen, and workers he was the one who approved performance bonuses.

“As soon as we finish this section, we’ll set the pipe on the foundations we’ve already put in place up that berm,” the foreman said to his Filipino crew chief.

As the foreman spoke, an eighteen-wheeler with oversized tires drove up the berm with its burden of large-diameter pipes strapped one on top of the other. The driver downshifted as he neared the top of the berm, but as he did he turned the wheel ever so slightly to the left. The wheels of the big rig started to lose purchase, then spin. Two hundred yards away, on the rocky desert floor below, the foreman saw it first and shouted into his hand-held radio.

“Turn right; turn right, you’re in danger of tipping over!”

In the cab of his truck, the panicked driver tried to comply. He jerked the wheel to the right and downshifted again, but the wheels just spun more rapidly, gravity took over, and the overloaded truck reached the tipping point.

“Get out of the way, get out of the way now!” the foreman shouted at the workers setting the pipe on its mountings below where the truck was now tipping over.

Slowly, then more rapidly, like a mortally wounded ship slipping beneath the waves, the truck crashed over on its left side. As it did, the straps holding the pipes on its back gave way and the pipes started tumbling down the hill.

Below, the dozens of men in the panicked work crew began to run. It was no use. The massive pipes crushed man after man as they cascaded down the hill and across the flat desert floor.

When all motion had finally stopped, a half dozen workers lay dead and many more were crying out in agony. Throughout the work camp alarms went off and others rushed to help the wounded.

The foreman, who had taken shelter behind a small dune and was unharmed, reached into his pocket and pulled out his Thuraya XT-Dual Satellite Phone and called Prince Ali al-Wandi.

Paul Hood sat on his back porch looking out onto Weems Creek, wearing a North Face fleece vest to ward off the November chill. He considered his upcoming meeting with the president. He knew he couldn’t lead the new Op-Center and he also knew Mike Rodgers’s complex business connections meant he couldn’t lead it, either.

Hood was enough of a patriot that he knew he needed to do more than just validate what Trevor Harward had hinted at, that the president thought he needed to reconstitute Op-Center. He knew he needed to come up with a leader to recommend to the president. As he searched his mental Rolodex one name rose to the top.

Five days later, on Monday morning, the NFL commissioner assembled his core staff in his expansive office at the NFL headquarters on Park Avenue in New York. They had braced for the impact of canceling all NFL games the day before. The commissioner anticipated an angry backlash from disappointed fans. However, as his staff briefed him, he was surprised to learn that far from a backlash, fans were e-mailing and tweeting the NFL, thanking the league for canceling Sunday’s games. Nevertheless, what his director of operations was about to tell him would shock him even more.

“Morning, Commissioner.”

“What ya got, Ops?”

“This started last Monday, but has accelerated over the past week. Our owners are reporting their season ticket holders are dumping their tickets on sites like eBay and StubHub as fast as they can. Not only that, but they’re offering them at a discount, often a deep discount.”

“And are people buying them?” he asked.

“No, not really. Legal has more.”

“Judge?” he said, turning to his senior in-house lawyer.

“Not sure how to tell you this, but we’ve sniffed out at least two, and maybe three, class-action suits that are signing up people as fast as they can. They plan to sue us for failing to provide adequate security at our stadiums.”

“You’re shitting me!”

“Wish I was.”

His number two, the deputy commissioner, chimed in. “Look, all this got worse last Wednesday night, right after the president addressed the nation in prime time. Everyone was frightened before that, but after his address the entire country is waiting for the other shoe to drop and the next attack to happen. We need to talk about canceling the rest of the season.”

“I know, I know … but not yet. Yeah, I’ll say he bumbled questions. What the hell was he thinking telling the nation not only that we weren’t sure who was behind these attacks, but we also didn’t have a clue about where they came from? One of our interns could have handled that better!”

“We all know that, Commissioner, but what do we do now?”

Paul Hood stepped out of the presidential limousine that had brought him from his home in Annapolis. It had been years since he had walked on the White House grounds, and a sea of memories washed over him. The national security advisor’s assistant had cleared Hood, as well as another visitor, onto the White House compound. That visitor was now waiting in a small office in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building.

He was as prepared for this meeting as he possibly could be. At the last minute, he had learned the national security advisor would sit in on their meeting.

“Paul, thank you for coming,” Wyatt Midkiff said as the president’s secretary ushered Hood into the Oval Office.

“Mr. President, thank you for asking me to come in.”

“I’m eager for this meeting, Paul. I believe you know my national security advisor, Trevor Harward.”

“Yes, it’s been years, but nice to see you again.”

The pleasantries over, the three men sat down in the Oval Office’s conversational area. The president spoke first.

“Paul, we all know why we’re here. We’ve had a terrible national tragedy. Trevor’s staff has given me a thick file on Op-Center, but I have to tell you, I haven’t yet decided what to do. I wanted to hear your thoughts and then perhaps the three of us could consider how we might move forward.” The president paused, searching for just the right words.