“Are you kidding me?”
“No. But I’m glad I didn’t say anything—because it seems like we’re rubbing off on each other.”
“Yeah, finally. In a good way.”
She smiled at him.
He smiled back.
She glanced away. “Okay, awkward moment. I’ll call over to the processing plant right now.”
Fisher headed over to Briggs, unable to repress his smile. “Let’s get packed.”
32
WITH Abqaiq finally ID’d as their next destination, the pilots filed for the city’s local airport, only to discover that the lone runway had been abandoned fourteen years prior and was no longer usable. The processing plant did boast an active helipad intended for medevac and visiting Saudi royal family tours. Consequently, Fisher and Briggs chartered a small, four-passenger Bell 206 JetRanger helicopter from Dubai, a trip that took approximately 2.5 hours. They set down on the northwest helipad a few minutes after sunset. Their pilot would wait for them for the return trip out, but he warned of bad weather on the way.
They were met by Prince Al Shammari, a heavyset man in his forties dressed in a brown woolen thawb flowing in deep creases to his ankles. On his head was the traditional small white cap called a taqiyah. The cap prevented his much larger scarf-like ghutra from slipping off. The long ghutra was bound by a doubled black cord fitting tightly across his forehead. When visiting an Arab country, Fisher sometimes chose to dress like the locals, but when he didn’t, conservative clothes were the order of the day. Fisher and Briggs wore simple business casual shirts and slacks—one size too large because beneath them were hidden their tac-suits.
Shammari was already waving his hands and booming a welcome from across the well-lit pad. In addition to his security duties he was the assistant interior minister of the country and had been educated in California, so his English was excellent, if not tinged by a little Los Angeles slang. Grim had warned Fisher that he was a devoted technophile, addicted to his social media outlets and smartphone, and he’d demanded that Fisher videoconference with him before they met in person.
As Fisher climbed out of the chopper, he crinkled his nose over the strong scent of crude oil. He’d heard from those who worked around such facilities that the stench eventually vanished because you became used to it, not that it ever truly went away.
Shammari was accompanied by two squads from the Special Security Force. These were highly trained and heavily armed counterterrorism troops wearing permanent scowls and desert camouflage utilities. They cross-trained with special forces from all over the world, including Navy SEALs. The entire party had arrived in four Humvees whose diesel engines chugged behind them.
Fisher lifted his voice above the chopper’s rotors as they spun down. “Prince Shammari, we appreciate you allowing us into your processing plant. We need to move as quickly as possible.”
“Relax. As I said, I’ll indulge your hunch because I want to show you how absolutely secure we are here. I don’t believe that we are suddenly going to explode this very minute. Boom!” He waved his hands in the air, then glanced back at the troops, who broke out in laughter.
Briggs gave Fisher a look, as if to say, Famous last words . . .
“You told me you were bringing weapons and equipment. We’ll need to see them now.”
Briggs and Fisher turned over their duffel bags, and the squad leaders came forward and picked through their pistols, trifocals, and pair of SIG MPX submachine guns they were toting. Briggs said the trifocals were just prototype night-vision goggles, and the troops dismissed them. They did admire the MPXs because they were shaped like miniature assault rifles with curved thirty-round magazines and were the only submachine guns in the world that allowed the operator to change barrel length, caliber, and stock configuration in the field to meet mission requirements.
“You come to shoot bears,” said the prince. “But I told you, all we have here is oil!”
“I understand. Just a precaution.”
The prince made a face, looked at the troops, who nodded okay, then he turned and waved everyone back toward the Humvees.
Shouldering their duffel bags, they followed Shammari and boarded the lead truck. They drove off toward a large tower where a ball of flame lit the night.
“Burn-off,” Shammari said, flicking a finger in that direction. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Do you have the radiation equipment we requested, along with the schedule of deliveries?”
“You can meet with our security team at the main gate. They’ll have all the information you want to see. But do trust me, I’ve looked over that schedule myself, and as I told you earlier, there’s nothing out of the ordinary for us.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Fisher.
“There are over thirty thousand employees here who’ve entrusted their lives to me and my security forces. I would never let them down.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second,” said Fisher.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because the men I’m dealing with are very determined, and I think they’re smart enough to fool us if we’re not careful. So let’s be careful—and check it out.”
“All right, then, there’s the main gate ahead. Go ahead and check it out.”
There was no mistaking the prince’s sarcasm, and Fisher guessed he might act the same way were the tables turned. The Saudis had transformed the place into a fortress, and Fourth Echelon’s presence implied that the prince’s “impenetrable” security force had been summarily scrutinized and found wanting, which in turn had bruised his ego.
The Humvee pulled to a halt even as a pair of broad, wrought-iron gates bordered by black-and-yellow stripes yawned inward. A guardhouse stood on either side of the gates, with riflemen posted at each. More bearded guards wearing traditional security uniforms came out to greet Fisher and Briggs, who were introduced to the officer in charge and taken over to a computer terminal, where the logs were stored.
Although Fisher had requested that those logs be sent electronically to the team, the prince had declined, saying they were confidential but that Fisher was welcome to take a look at them in person. Fisher began surreptitiously snapping photos of the log with his OPSAT and transmitting them back to Charlie and Grim.
“Got them, Sam,” said Charlie.
“We receive fifty, sometimes one hundred shipments per day,” said the officer in charge. “Packages and equipment of all kinds.”
Fisher squinted and scanned through the long list in 10-point type, the items identified in a mishmash of English and Arabic.
He scrolled down, tapped his finger on the screen, and moved back so that Briggs could have a look.
An invoice indicated the arrival three hours earlier of seven thousand feet of pipe and four new drill heads.
“What do you think?” asked Briggs.
“I think we should check it out.”
They returned to the Humvee, and Fisher said, “Prince Shammari, there is a delivery you received earlier that we’d like to examine.”
“You think my personnel missed something?”
“No, sir.”
“Then we can take you back to your helicopter.”
“We’d rather inspect the shipment ourselves—only because the timing is right.”
Shammari made a face and called out to the driver. The convoy moved forward, through the gates, and onto a road leading out toward four silver spheres looming in the distance.
“And can you tell the driver to get us there as fast as he can?” Fisher added.
“Of course I’ll tell him. But first, look over there.”
Shammari pointed to the lines of Al Fahd Armoured Personnel Carriers on either side of the road, some armed with .40mm cannons, others with .50-caliber machine guns mounted above their cabs. Some troops manned the fifties while others stood on lookout in the turret-top cupolas to the rear.