The Wall Street Journal bore the Headline ‘DOOMED?’ and then went on to access the current state of affairs and asked the question “could it possibly be any worse?” Indeed it could, according to the article. Iran could follow up on their rhetoric and wipe Israel off the face of the earth. The Palestinians could invade its neighbors. Pakistan could attack India, Russia could invade its Baltic States, North Korea could invade South Korea and so forth. In view of all the things that could go wrong the present circumstance was a hiccup.
American citizens carpooled in record numbers that morning for their trek to their jobs. Mass transit systems were jammed. Motorcycles and bikes were selling as fast as they hit the sales floor. Airline companies had a rash of cancellations and the convention business took a nose dive. Hotels offered half price rooms and there were no takers.
A floor trader addressed the camera for MSNBC and humorously summed it up. “It is not a good time to open a lemonade stand.”
Chapter Nineteen
Admiral Mahdi’s patience was wearing thin.
The money was overdue.
His men were restless.
He made a phone call on a secure encrypted line.
“Robinson, I called to inquire on the progress today.” Mahdi and Robinson talked at least once a day since the crisis began.
“The president has been working everyday with world leaders and is hopeful to have funds for you soon.”
“The tab for today is eleven billion. The clock is ticking. I will not accept less.”
“I know he understands that. He is concerned that the hostages are being treated well.”
“They will be well up until the thirtieth day.”
“He will not let it go that far. Would you like to talk to him? He is with me now.”
“Put him on.”
“Landenberger here — what can I do for you Admiral Mahdi?”
“Robinson tells me ‘soon’ and I am telling you I have run out of patience. Your failure to pay has cost you well over a hundred-billion am I right?”
“Of course you are correct. Sometimes political concerns interfere with what is the sensible course of action. If it had been entirely up to me, I would have paid you the first day and had this whole thing behind us. In that your hostages come from all over the world there has been much dissension about how to deal with this.”
“I want money into my account in the next hour. I’ve been warning you about this for the last week. The clock has run out. It is time—“
“I can’t imagine that happening.”
“In one hour I will send a tanker or two to the bottom of the sea.”
“You can’t—”
“And more tomorrow.”
“One hour then — I will relay this to the others.”
“One hour — if the money is not there your oil will blacken the sea.”
“And the hostages?”
“I have not decided. I will call you in fifty-nine minutes. One hour.”
The line went dead.
Robinson said, “He has upped the ante. Why don’t we pay him? The entire world is desperate for the oil.”
“They are not desperate enough to agree to make a payment.”
“I can get this message to the world leaders for you in five minutes.”
“Go ahead and get it started. If we can get some consensus, maybe we’ll make the payment.”
Robinson made the call. In a few minutes the phone would be ringing off the hook with world leaders.
The pair answered the calls as they came in and everyone expressed alarm, however there was no real commitment that anyone wanted to make the payment. Fifty-five minutes later they decided to stop the calls and waited for the Admiral.
“I do not see a payment.”
“Please do not do this. Surely we can work something out.”
“I will call you in three days if no payment is made. We’ll talk about sending more tankers to the bottom. Hostages will not be harmed today. Next time will be different.”
“I implore you not to do this. I know you will be paid before the deadline.”
“Turn on your TV and you will see how I feel today.” The line was broken off.
Landenberger pressed the remote and flicked through the news cable channels and the main networks that were announcing that they were breaking in with a special news bulletin. They all had it. Announcers were sitting at news desks anticipating something from the Admiral.
Landenberger settled on CNN where a news reporter stood in front of a bank of screens with the tankers in view. “We have live feeds from somewhere in the Sea of Oman where the thirty-five tankers are controlled by Admiral Mahdi and his Somali Marines. Since the initial hijacking of twenty-seven tankers several ships had attempted to navigate the area and all were taken hostage and the number is now up to thirty-five. All attempts to find the whereabouts of his base have been unsuccessful. It has been rumored that the original encampment in Somalia has been abandoned sometime after the Russian peace agreement and that that they are probably now located in Oman or Yemen.”
The Admiral appeared on one of the screens.
“Here is Admiral Mahdi. Yes, this appears to be the Admiral—”
“Your countries have been slow to make a payment.” The voice was deep and resonated a bitterness — an anger that was terrifying. “In the last hour I have spoken to President Landenberger and he informed me that your leaders were not willing to make a payment today. I have been patient until now. Your world leaders were informed that no payment today would lead to what you are about to witness. If I do not receive a payment in three days I will do more of the same. No hostages will be harmed today. Next time I may not be so compassionate.”
The TI Asia and the TI Oceana supertankers filled the screen while the Cabinet members watched from the WHSR.
“God!” exclaimed Deshano. “He has chosen the two largest supertankers in the world. This is not going to be pretty.”
Both tankers exploded simultaneously in a fiery blast that sent black oily clouds into the sky. Both split in two and slowly slipped into the waters. A helicopter shot displayed the sludge working its way in all directions across the sea. Another camera, some ten miles away, showed the mushroom cloud growing like a cancer, blackening the sky.
“It is an environmental disaster that makes Valdez look like a picnic,” muttered Melissa Farnsworth.
Robinson hunted up the supertankers on his laptop. “These ships carry 550,000 tons DWT.”
“DWT — What is that?” Farnsworth and Adelberg hovered over his shoulder.
“Let’s see… it means dead weight… the amount that a tanker can hold. Let’s compare that with the Valdez. I see ten-million gallons spilled into Prince William Sound. The tanker held fifty-three million gallons…!”
“That means about one-fifth of the oil spilled into the water.” Farnsworth calculated in her head.
“There is no DWT figure jumping out at me here. All we know is it was smaller than the two they blew up. We would need a mathematician to calculate gallons and tons. I don’t know about you but tons scare me.”
“At the very least this is a hundred times bigger spill — probably a thousand.”
“The Valdez spread eleven thousand square miles of ocean and it will take thirty years, even with the clean up, to return somewhat to normal.”
“We just witnessed the largest environmental disaster in the history of the world.” Farnsworth stared at the screens and shook her head. “It will cover somewhere around one million square miles. These numbers are beyond comprehension.”
“And look at that cloud. There is going to be sludge falling from the sky for thousands of square miles.”