Aye, Aye Sir, Anchors Away
Chapter 34
I was about to pull Pet’s chain, but thought better. I was going to ask her to drive me the Navy’s 5th Fleet headquarters and then remind her, as a woman, she couldn’t legally drive in Saudi Arabia. She was under much more pressure than me to solve the case and be a hero since I didn’t have a career or ego anymore. In my case, it was just a matter of some scraps thrown from Jersey Briggs’ table and nothing more. But it was no time to add to her misery with my little pimps. She deserved better from me as her partner and now friend. Regrettably, at least for me, lover wasn’t to be in the cards. It was a fact of my life I’d have to accept.
The road trip to Manama, Bahrain would take a couple of hours at most by traveling down King Faisal highway and crossing the bridge into the small island nation in the Persian Gulf. The rigmarole at the border crossing held me up for 45 minutes as my rental car was searched from bonnet to boot. Since I was about to enter a restricted U.S. naval base, I should have said from stem to stern, to stay with the nautical theme of my visit.
I had an appointment with Commander Jason Lewis who headed up operations for the fleet in the Persian Gulf, his AOR, or area of responsibility, as he called it. I thought the Foreign Service could learn some lessons about one taking responsibility from the military model. It was in short supply in the Diplomatic Corps where the finger pointing started before the bodies of slain Americans serving abroad for Uncle Sam were even cold. Such things were typically called systemic security failures by the State Department. Rarely was anyone held personally accountable for tragic things that happened or things that should have been done in the first place to protect people and things from terrorist acts.
“Huh, so it’s Ras Tanura? I always thought it would be a rich target for the bad guys,” the commander spoke as he stretched his long legs out in front of him while sitting on the sofa in his office.
“The oil complex only lies some 60 nautical miles from where we sit and someone wouldn’t be foolish or suicidal enough to attack it.”
Knowing better, I took strong exception to his statement.
“Someone might, I countered, and his name is Vladimir Booskowsky; a bent megalomaniac who directs a highly effective Al-Qaida team of Islamic zealots that want nothing more than to be martyrs for the cause of jihad. This is not the garden variety of pirates you usually deal with in this part of the world. They were responsible for the Luanda bombing and more. So they’re not a bunch of amateurs by any stretch.”
I was getting hot under the collar even though the room was well air conditioned. I simply didn’t appreciate his dismissive attitude and I told him so. In return, he said he didn’t like to be lectured to by a State Department weenie with no experience in Persian Gulf geopolitics.
Okay, tit for tat my friend. Truthfully, he didn’t say weenie, but the inference was clear. I was merely a civilian in his eyes who didn’t know jack about the situation. I didn’t bother to ask him what or whom Jack was hoping to hide my ignorance of arcane military terms or personalities.
However, it was time to reset the conversation.
“Commander, let’s start over with a clean slate. I didn’t mean to lecture you and I apologize if you took what I was saying the wrong way. That certainly wasn’t my intent.” Jeez, ever the wimpy diplomat, I thought. The wishy-washy verbiage was so ingrained I couldn’t help myself, even if I tried.
“Fair enough, maybe I didn’t give you sufficient time to make your case or enough rope to hang yourself,” he sorta joked at my expense.
I snickered to show my appreciation of his little attempt at levity at my expense. However, my snicker had nuts, just like I thought this guy was. But as an anal-retentive civilian, I continued to soldier on despite my host’s obstinacies.
I spent the next 40 minutes or so briefing the commander on the finer points of Vlad’s personality and what he was up to at Ras Tanura. While he was skeptical of what I was saying, he listened intently and made some notes. I took that as an encouraging sign that I was finally penetrating his thick skull. Comprehension was sometimes difficult for the skeptics and Luddites among us.
“That’s very interesting Mr. Avery, a little farfetched, but nonetheless interesting. I’ll pass the information up the chain of command and see who salutes,” he mentioned, reminding me of Jersey Briggs, but more obtuse: if that was possible.
“However, here’s some information you need to know in terms of how we do business here. There’s nothing classified about it, just a quick overview to show you we’re in control of these waters and that Ras Tanura is under our protection at all times.”
“I won’t discuss the overhead imagery and satellite intercepts we receive on a continuous basis here. Suffice it to say, the amount of information, the intelligence, is impressive and often actionable.”
I was getting the standard pap the Navy Public Relations Officers served up to visiting CODELS or otherwise known as congressional delegations. I also didn’t remind him that information was useless if it couldn’t be quickly analyzed and acted upon in fast breaking situations such as we were likely facing. No matter, I let him drone on. No, I didn’t ask him about drone surveillance because it probably wasn’t part of his prepared repertoire.
“We have a minimum of one P-3 Orion AWACS or Airborne Warning and Control System aircraft in the air over the gulf at any given time providing real-time surveillance; that includes Ras Tanura. Our jets can be scrambled any time in response to a threat and since the complex is so close we can be on the scene within a few minutes.”
I acknowledged that the navy’s array of technology and firepower was pretty impressive.
“What about an attack by sea?” I asked.
“We have that pretty well covered too. U.S. Coast Guard patrol boats based here regularly pass by Ras Tanura as they make their runs both north and south along the Saudi coastline.”
“So, is an underwater approach by the terrorists possible?” I asked as a follow-up question meant to torpedo his smarmy monologue. He must have majored in military science and minored in condescension at the U.S. Naval Academy.
“Sonobuoys dropped into the water are the answer, Mr. Avery. We’ve salted the waters off Ras Tanura with passive ones so as to establish a surveillance cordon around the facility at sea. The passive sonobuoys emit nothing into the water, but rather listen, waiting for sound waves such as a ship’s power plant operation, propeller or door-closings and other noises from surface craft or submarines or other acoustic signals of interest to us such as an aircraft's black box ping from its emergency transmitter. All-in-all, they’re actually very effective countermeasures.”
“So, you see we have all our bases pretty well covered.”
I wasn’t so sure and ignored the Jersey Briggs baseball allusion. I hoped someone higher up in this dunderhead’s food chain would take notice of the threat and increase the surveillance of Ras Tanura. However, my due diligence was now done. That was government-speak for covering one’s bureaucratic ass, but I wasn’t ready to kiss it goodbye just yet.