Something was also vaguely familiar about the woman’s face. Bemused, Cochran glanced over at the CD slots of his system, wondering if he might have accidentally accessed one of his more virulent computer role-playing games. Then the woman on the screen spoke and erased that possibility.
“Good afternoon. Are you Mr. Frank Cochran, the head of systems engineering for North Star Petroleum?”
“Uh, well, yes, I am,” Cochran replied, intrigued. “And may I ask who you are?”
“My name is Amanda Garrett, Captain Amanda Garrett of the United States Navy. I’m speaking to you from the cockpit of the patrol gunboat USS Queen of the West, currently operating off the West African coast. I hope you’ll excuse this rather unconventional method of contact, Mr. Cochran, but a critical situation has developed here and we urgently require your assistance.”
This was no canned cyberadventure, much as it sounded like one. And this was no elaborate practical joke, either. He recognized that name and that face now. After the blowup in China last year, they’d both been in the newspapers and on the networks often enough.
Lord! This was just too insane!
“Uh, well, of course, Captain Garrett,” he fumbled in reply. “However I can help. But what can I do for the Navy?”
“You are a highly respected petroleum systems engineer, Mr. Cochran. Your specialty, as we understand it, is refinery and pipeline safety systems. We urgently need the answers to some questions within your field of expertise, and we need them immediately.”
Cochran nodded. “All right. What’s the problem?”
“I’m going to show a series of aerial recon images of the oil-transfer facility at Port Monrovia in the West African Union. Specifically, I’m going to show you the loading dock, the tank farm, and the pipeline linking them. We need to know if that pipleline can be cut with an explosive charge without triggering a fire or a sympathetic detonation within the tank farm. Also, where would the safest place to make such a cut be?”
Cochran frowned. “Is the line carrying a load currently?”
“Not yet.”
“Let’s see your pictures.”
As the image files transferred, Cochran split-screened his system and started calling up some of his work files. Let’s see, Shell did a lot of work down in that corner of the world. What did their standard systems package look like?
It took him roughly five minutes to reach his conclusions.
“Captain Garrett, it shouldn’t be that much of a problem. You’ve got sets of check and spill valves at both ends of that line that should catch any tube flash. I’d say you could blow a cut with a reasonable safety margin.”
“Where would the best place be to blow the line?”
“Here.” Cochran indicated a point on the screen image with his mouse. “Anywhere between the pier and this valve cluster at the center point of the pipeline. If they aren’t actively transferring fuel, they should have the manuals here closed as well. That should give you a degree of extra protection against a flash toward the tank farm.”
“Understood.” The reconnaissance photos blinked out and Amanda Garrett’s image refilled the monitor screen. “Now, a final question. How long would it take to repair a pipeline cut like that?”
“That would depend on a number of things. How big a charge was used to blow the cut. How available the repair materials are and how good the repair crew is. For our people, I’d say eight to twelve hours. For a good Third World outfit, I’d say sixteen to twenty-four.”
“All right.” The Garrett woman gave a thoughtful nod of her head, obviously moving on in her considerations. “That’s what we needed. Thank you, Mr. Cochran. You’ve been of great service to us, sir. I’m not sure what remuneration we can give you beyond a letter of commendation and my personal thanks, but I can promise you that the matter will be looked into.”
“Don’t mention it… Look, Captain… this is for real, isn’t it? I mean, this isn’t some kind of exercise or something, is it?”
She smiled back rather grimly. “It’s all too real, Mr. Cochran. We’re trying to end a war out here. God willing, you may have just helped us to do so.”
Damn, but wasn’t this going to be something to talk about over the dinner table with Amy and the kids! And then another thought occurred to him. “I suppose this is all top secret and hush hush, huh? I mean, I can’t tell anyone about this, right?”
“I don’t see why not, Mr. Cochran. By the time you could tell anyone about it, this part of the show is going to be over.”
The Ministry of Public Morale had orchestrated a greeting celebration at the oiling pier: a crowd of dignitaries and senior government staff, a local pop band to provide music, and a busload of brightly clad girl dancers from some of the city’s youth groups. An Army honor guard stood at parade rest along the pierside, flower-bearing children interspersed between each soldier.
Obe Belewa knew that the concentration of the Union’s young people at the oil pier wasn’t for the gaiety of it alone. Using his nation’s children as living shields against the U.N. put an ache and a sickness in his gut that was going to last him for a long time. Yet, as the old European saying went, “beggars can’t be choosers.”
“We’ve gotten it through,” he murmured. “That’s what matters.”
Ambassador Umamgi thought the comment addressed to him. “We have won, General.” He smiled humorlessly. “A great victory over the Western colonialists!”
As senior Algerian representative in-country and as the instigator of the plan, it was only right that he be present at the arrival as well. Yet his lurking presence grated on Belewa’s nerves even more than usual. He served as another reminder of Belewa’s own compromised ethics.
Belewa shook his head. “No, Ambassador. We haven’t won. Not yet. But at least now we can carry on the fight for a time longer.”
“Come, Obe,” Sako Atiba interjected. “Let’s at least celebrate today’s victory for today.” Standing between the soldier and the diplomat, the Chief of Staff wore a more honest grin of triumph. He had shared in this scheme of Umamgi’s, and he did not seem too unduly concerned about the loss of honor involved.
Belewa grunted an acknowledgment.
Out at the mouth of the harbor, the Bajara edged slowly in through the entry channel. The port tug carefully shepherded her on her way and the three heavy gunboats of the Monrovia squadron trailed in her wake, ready for any last-minute intervention by the UNAFIN forces.
Port Monrovia was a man-made harbor. Two huge artificial breakwaters extended a mile and a quarter out to sea, their ends converging at the entry channel to form a triangle of protected water against the African coast. Army security patrols ranged the length of both breakwaters and a Panhard armored car sat at the end of the service road that ran the length of each causeway, its 90mm cannon aimed to seaward. Additional precautionary presences.
Hopefully, Belewa thought, such precautions were unnecessary. Perhaps he had at last beaten the Leopard. If so, it was not in the way he would have preferred. If there had been any honor in this last confrontation, it belonged to her. And yet she had backed down. And this late in the game he could not refuse any victory, no matter how it was won.
But was there, in fact, a victory to celebrate yet? Narrowing his eyes against the sun, Belewa looked skyward and caught the flash of slender white wings high in the azure zenith. An American Predator spy drone, circling like a hungry eagle.
The Leopard’s gaze was still fixed upon him. What was she thinking?
Sako slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Come, General, let’s go out on the pier. You should be the first man up the gangway when the ship docks.”