John Schettler - 9 Days Falling, Volume I

MacRae wanted to be careful here. The pipeline that fed the four big storage tanks at the terminal stretched all the way through Georgian territory to Baku in Azerbaijan. It could be interdicted at any of a hundred points along that line. Furthermore, Georgia was an ally of the West, though a skittish one at the moment with the Russians breathing down their neck again. There had to be political considerations here, and MacRae wanted to know more.

“Get Mack Morgan on the line,” he said to Dean, and a moment later he had his Intelligence Chief, asking him about the situation on a secure line.

“Sorry for the surprise, Captain,” said Mack. “It seems the Russians are leaning on the Georgian Government pretty hard and threatening intervention if they don’t shut down all oil terminal exports on this line.”

“This is starting to paint a pretty black picture, Mack. The BTC line is down, the Straits of Hormuz are closed, there’s trouble at Kashagan and they’ve even hit the big platforms in the Gulf of Mexico. This is the last major line open and we’re sucking on the damn thing for all its worth. The only other crude source open would be Nigeria.”

“No question about it, Gordie. The Russians have sent in border guard detachments to all the outposts on the frontier in Abkhazia. There’s activity at the military garrison in Sochi up north, and a motorized column is heading that way from Novorossiysk. We just got word that the 2nd Georgian Infantry Brigade has orders to deploy to Supsa and Poti to deter any further movement into Georgian territory, and they’re going to be in our hair soon enough.”

“Is this a private fight, or can anybody get in on it?” MacRae repeated the old Irish barroom challenge.

“We’re going to be right in the thick of things if the situation deteriorates,” said Morgan. “That infantry brigade could be sending a full battalion to secure these facilities according to one source on the ground here. We haven’t confirmed that yet, but it’s something to consider.”

“A wee bit more than the Argonauts can manage. How soon will they get here?”

“Three hours, maybe four. There’s a bridge they need to cross just a few klicks inland on the river. We still have an X-3 aboard and could get men out there if you know what I’m thinking.”

“I do indeed,” MacRae smiled.

“The river runs north of the terminal. We get that bridge and the one here over the estuary at the mouth of the river and we’ve got the place, lock, stock and oil barrel.”

“I’ve already got a full squad on the estuary bridge. I’ll take your advice, Mack, but this could get delicate. All they have to do is cut the flow on this line and they can choke off that oil any time. Then we’re limited to what we have in the tanks here.”

“Six holding tanks, 40,000 tons per tank,” said Mack. “That’s just under 300,000 barrels per tank—almost two million barrels on hand at the moment, enough to top off both our tankers here.”

“We’ve half of that aboard Princess Angelina already. I just need time to load Princess Marie, that’s all. Is there any way we can block that bridge up river without blowing the damn thing to hell?”

“Leave that to me, Gordie. I’ll handle it with the X-3.”

“Get you a case of beer for that one, Mack. Get to it.”

“Aye, sir.”

MacRae signed off and crossed his arms, grinning at the Georgian patrol craft now circling in the waters between Argos Fire and the loading operation servicing Princess Angelina. “What are they doing out there, waving at us, Mister Haley?”

“I think they’re getting a little impatient, sir.”

Dean cut in. “Look there…They’ve rotated that forward MG turret our way, sir.”

“Have they?” MacRae, reached for his field glasses, observing the patrol craft for a moment. The radio chattered again, and the heavily accented English from the patrol boat seemed more insistent. “Argos Fire, Argos Fire. Prepare to be boarded. Over.”

“Prepare to be boarded? Tell them we have no time to receive them at the moment. And make it clear, Mister Haley.”

“Aye, sir.” Haley sent a firmly worded response, but the patrol craft edged closer, and now sounded its siren, as though the sound alone would be sufficient to enforce its will in the situation. Argos Fire was a big ship, but the re-design had cleverly hidden all her potent weaponry. The Iron Duke was well away from the scene, thirty kilometers to the north with Princess Irene , so MacRae reasoned this Coast Guard unit thought they were simply dealing with a civilian vessel, and that the two twin MG mounts at their disposal were a significant enough of an advantage to intimidate the bigger ship, the only military caliber weapons in play.

“Captain of the Argos Fire,” came the radio call again. “If you do not comply with our orders at once we will be forced to take stronger measures.”

“Listen to that man, Mister Dean. He’s already forgotten my name, and his ‘instructions’ have now become orders. Very impolite, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“I think we might give him a peek at what he’s dealing with here. We wouldn’t want him to make a mistake he’ll soon come to regret. Raise the forward deck gun and show him the muzzle.”

“Aye, sir. Mister Conners, if you please.”

Connors was the Weapons Systems Operator, and he quickly complied, toggling a switch on his panel. “Forward turret active and ready, sir.”

They heard the deck panels sliding open and the hydraulics lifting the turret into view. It was a modified BAE Mark 8 naval gun in an angled stealth turret using a new barrel and breech designed for the AS-90 self-propelled gun in the British Army. Fairchild had purchased one on a special order and implemented a BAE plan to up-gun the older Mark 8 turret with this newer 155mm third generation maritime fire support system. The sleek barrel rotated smoothly to bear on the advancing patrol craft, gleaming in the rosy light of the setting sun. MacRae took hold of his radio handset and decided he would explain things.

“Georgian Coast Guard,” he began, his tone formal and firm. “I regret to inform you that we are unable to terminate loading at this time and cannot allow boarding of this ship under any circumstances. Any attempt to do so will be opposed. This is a special operation sanctioned by the British government, so I advise you to stand clear of our loading zone. I have orders to secure and protect all at-sea assets here, and I will not hesitate to do so if you interfere. And you might have a look at our forward deck if you think I’m talking through my beer foam. Over.”

MacRae was looking through his field glasses again, and saw a man in naval whites emerge from the pilot house of the patrol boat arms on his hips as he stared at the Argos Fire. He made a frustrated gesture and the siren cut off. The patrol boat slowed, still cruising about a thousand yards from the Argos , but now diverted from its threatening advance.

Soon the sound of the X-3 helo cut through the stillness of the oncoming night as the helicopter lifted from the aft deck and smartly pivoted about. Mack Morgan was aboard with five Argonauts, and MacRae smiled when he saw the helo sweep out and hover just off the bow of the Georgian patrol boat, the heavy downwash of his props flattening the water around the boat and sending up a sheet of white wet spray. MacRae was back on the radio.

“Georgian Coast Guard,” he said. “To prevent any further misunderstanding, that’s a 4000 RPM mini-gun in the nose of that chopper, and that big baby out on my forward deck is a 155mm QF naval battery. Now, my radar man here tells me you’ve got a whole lot of trouble up north in the Russian Black Sea fleet. Let’s not have a squabble among friends here. I’d much rather stand with you than against you if they come south, but I have my orders. Understood?”