John Schettler - 9 Days Falling, Volume I

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.”