John Schettler - 9 Days Falling, Volume I

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.