John Schettler - 9 Days Falling, Volume I

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.

If hethought 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.