John Schettler - 9 Days Falling, Volume I

“Aye, Sir.” The nose mounted mini-gun rotated quickly to acquire the target and the sleek metal barrels growled out a sharp burst. The rounds streaked into the water, very close to the lead boat that had fired at the copters.

Confusion reigned on the three boats as they circled the platform. Then they saw a man hefting up what appeared to be a shoulder fired weapon, which prompted Ryan to stiffen the lesson. “Better serve them another drink,” he shouted. “That’s looks like an SA-7! Get serious, Tommy!”

“Right-O, sir!” There mini gun rotated and fired, only this time the rounds tore into the lighter and leveled it with withering fire. It was enough to convince the locals in the other two boats that they had chosen the wrong platform for their oil war today. The remaining lighters turned and beat a hasty retreat toward the shore and safety, their bravado quashed by the firepower of this unexpected new adversary.

Back on Medusa Platform, Flack clenched his fist and beamed. “Thank God for small favors,” he said aloud. “Looks like the cavalry has arrived.”

“Lemme see,” said Mudman, hovering at his side. Flack passed him the glass so he could have a peek at the helos. “What’s that? Looks more like an Osprey?”

“Fairchild helos,” said Flack. “They look pretty mean, eh?”

The X-3s had circled the rig, lingering for ten minutes until there was no further sign the militant lighters. Ryan used his long range camera optical system to keep a close eye on those boats, but he saw no further sign of any hostile action. Just in case there was another SA-7 close at hand he decided to gain some altitude, taking his helos up to 3000 meters, which was well under his service ceiling and yet beyond the range of the SA-7s. Then they swept inshore towards the coast in a roar of thumping rotors and turboprops.

The radiophone jangled and Flack picked up the receiver, irritated. “Now what?” he nearly shouted, still distracted by the helos. The voice on the other end of the line was unfamiliar.

“Chevron Medusa?”

“Yeah, this is Rig Manager Flack. Who’s this?”

“Fairchild and company. Captain Gordon MacRae speaking on board company flag Argos Fire. We’re arrived at Supsos Terminal and I took the liberty of sending in a few helos.”

“Right,” said Flack. “Corporate boys said we should expect you. Hope you people have some mercs aboard those things. I have eighteen people here on the platform, and we’re stuck under orders to keep moving any crude in the line. We’ve a good credit bunkered at Baku, and if this situation gets tamped down out here I’m good for the rest as long as you can provide the empty ships. You got tankers?”

“We’ll have two SuezMax ships with a million each and one smaller tanker ready to anchor for loading at Supsa and Kulevi in three hours—2,500,000 barrel carrying capacity all told.”

“Two and a half Million?” Flack glanced at his flow charts. “Christ that will take a good long day for you to load—and that under ideal conditions. I’ve got a million and a half bunkered at Baku. But I’ll need time to move that last million barrels over the line, and I’ve barely got a pulse on the main pipeline here right now. If I lose my last pump station we won’t be able to move a thing.”

“Where’s this pump station, Mr. Flack?”

“Inshore, right in the middle of all the ruckus out there. I have a three man crew there and they’re sacred shitless. Any chance you people can get one of those choppers out to boost morale?”

“We’ll do you one better, Mr. Flack. We’ve got good men on those helos we sent. In the meantime, could we set down on your landing platform and pick up someone who can take our helo out to this pump station? And we’ll need aviation fuel if you have any.”

“Roger that, Fairchild. I’ll have a man ready when you get here. But you better bring some muscle. I’ve been out here three years and I’ve never seen it this bad before. You’re likely to run into trouble inland too. As for the fuel, land at the air strip at Buzachi north of Fort Shevchenko. They’ve got what you need, unless the damn place has been overrun.”

“Roger Chevron. We copy that. We’ll be armed and ready.”

On board the bridge of the Argos Fire , MacRae scanned the coastline near the terminal, noting the pall of black smoke rising in the distance.

“That’s an oil fire,” he said calmly to his executive officer.

“Aye, sir, Morgan says there was another terrorist attack this morning. This time they went after an old fuel tank. Always hate to see it burning like that, but it looks worse than it is.”

MacRae nodded. “You can slow to one third. Take our two big ladies in for loading, Mister Dean. Our youngest daughter is going up to Kulevi with the Iron Duke. We’ll watch her big sisters down here, but no anchorage for us. I want us at a minimum of 10 knots at all times, cruising off shore like a shark, if you get my meaning.”

“Aye, sir. Let’s hope we have a quiet night.”

“We will if the Russian don’t get too curious. I’ll be in the executive suites. Let me know the instant you see any air/sea movement in our direction. We’re only 400 kilometers southeast of Novorossiysk, and that’s too damn close for my liking.”

“Didn’t have any trouble getting here, sir.”

“Getting here with three empty tankers is one thing, but now we’ve stuck our head in the bear’s mouth, eh? Getting those ships out again with their bellies full of crude is another matter. You have the bridge, Mister Dean.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Dean gave him a crisp salute as he was piped off the bridge. Five minutes later MacRae knocked softly on the door to Fairchild’s offices, the worry in his eyes too obvious to hide.

“Come.”

He let himself in, removing his hat as he entered.

“Afternoon,” he said matter of factly, crossing the plush carpeting.

“Yes,” said Fairchild, “but not a good one.” She had a harried expression, her face tired and drawn.

“Complications?”

“ Princess Royal is in trouble,” she said bluntly. “The fire is burning too hot to contain with retardant. The bulkheads forward of the damaged sector may be weakening. The tugs have arrived, but she’s still in distress and moving her under these circumstances is going to be very dicey.”

“Doesn’t sound good,” the Captain commiserated.

“It sounds absolutely frightening.” She returned. “I’ve got calls out to anyone I can find in Al Fujairah for an at-sea offloading operation, but it’s going to be very risky. If one of the other holding tanks becomes involved in this fire we may not be able to save the ship.”

“The aft compartments should be accessible,” MacRae suggested. “That’s three of the five—some 600,000 barrels. Vopak and Van Ommeren both have at sea loaders at Al Fujairah.”

“Yes, they’ll be underway in an hour, or so I’m told. But that’s a lot of crude, and we’ve lost the main pumps on Princess Royal. They’ll have to bring in new equipment.” She gave him a defeated look. “And she’s listing five degrees…”

“They’ll compensate for that. Shouldn’t be any trouble to correct that with ballast.”

“Some of the oil in the center hold has begun leaking into the ballast zone,” she said. “Damn double hulled tankers. They’re top-heavy and unstable.”

After the Exxon-Valdez incident all tankers calling on US ports had to be doubled hulled. The space between hulls was often used for fuel or ballast, with small areas for maintenance access. Fuel leakage into this area could be very hazardous. MacRae knew the danger that the fire would spread was now very real. Elena looked at him, clearly disturbed. “I think we may lose her, Gordon.”