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  To the brokers, that signaled the end of Saudi Arabia’s ability to produce liquid petroleum gas in large quantities. And when that ten o’clock bell sounded, in the great tiered, hexagonal-shaped trading floor of the International Exchange, it simply ceased to be a trading floor. It had become a bear pit.

  People were caught in the crush to the lower levels as brokers fought and struggled to be heard—bidding, shouting, yelling: UP TWO!…UP FOUR!…UP SIX!… Dollar amounts unheard of in the sedate and mostly unexciting world of oil futures. Those “up twos” were normally just cents, usually trading in a slowish band between twenty and thirty-five dollars. Today they were not cents; they were dollars—regular greenbacks—and the yells were so loud no one heard the second opening bell, which sounded at 10:02 A.M., signaling the start of crude oil trading.

  But the brokers did not need to hear it. They knew the time, and the pandemonium doubled, with an army of men in red, yellow, blue, and green jackets surging forward, roaring out bids for Brent Crude futures.

  Exchange officials waited in vain for the chaos to die down. But it did not subside at all. It grew worse. And at 11 A.M., for the first time in the history of the Exchange, the bell sounded long and hard to signify that trading was being suspended.

  The chairman, Sir David Norris, addressed the floor, saying that he hoped everyone would agree that this uproar could not be allowed to continue. He pointed out, among other things, that it was grossly unfair to the female brokers and traders, who were less used to operating in the front row of a Rugby Union scrummage.

  Sir David, who had been a considerable rugby player himself at Cambridge University, where he also won a cricket Blue, insisted that some form of order be returned to the floor. And he requested that the biggest buyers and sellers attend a private conference in his office immediately.

  At least this gave the market time to recover its breath. But the underlying frenzy was ever present and the morning high of eighty-seven dollars never showed any sign of dropping. On London’s television news bulletins that evening, Sir David made a personal appearance to announce that the Exchange would not open on Wednesday morning. “Trading is temporarily suspended due to the situation in Saudi Arabia,” he said.

  Many people thought that the alacrity with which the New York market, NYMEX, immediately followed suit suggested that Sir David and the Prime Minister had been in direct contact with the White House in the past few hours.

  It should be made clear that the International Exchange in London is not so much bigger or more important than NYMEX in New York. Indeed it is often smaller. But the five-hour time difference meant that London opened first and set the prices. New York had to sit and watch from 5 A.M. until 10 A.M. before they joined the daily battle for America’s fuel requirements.

  And, of course, the knock-on effect from a tumultuous day’s trading, during which oil prices had tripled at source, was nothing less than shocking.

  By that Tuesday evening, in the United States, gasoline was costing $8 a gallon, instead of $2.50. In London, petrol prices at the pumps had tripled to a similar amount in pounds sterling. It was the same all over Europe, except for France, where prices went up less than one euro, and then fell back.

  Japan was in chaos. The country had no access to natural gas, and almost every household throughout the islands cooked with propane. That was LPG, the stuff still thundering out into the sea off the oil town of Ras al Ju’aymah. That was where Japan acquired a huge percentage of its daily cooking fuel.

  Restaurant prices in Japan doubled, on the basis that soon no one would be cooking anything, except over a fire. There was a stupendous run on electric cookers, which would probably turn out to be a waste of time, since Japan’s energy grid was totally reliant on oil and gas from the Middle East.

  Right now there were twenty-four Japanese tankers, between 4 and 1,000 miles from the Saudi oil ports in the Gulf. All of them were either on the verge of returning home or were trying to make the journey to other terminals, in the Black Sea or in other Gulf states. There was no oil available in the Red Sea, where the two main loading jetties were in ruins.

  Internationally, airfares doubled overnight, led by British Airways and American Airlines, which immediately canceled all cheap transatlantic flights. And no one could really blame them, since no one knew the price jet fuel would fetch on the market at the end of the week.

  The London stock market shuddered, the FTSE dropping 1,000 points in two hours. By the end of the day’s trading, the Dow Jones Industrial Average crashed 842 points, wiping billions of dollars off corporate values. Airline stocks caved in worldwide, no one much wanting shares in flying corporations that could not afford their own fuel.

  Industries all over the world that were reliant on heavy road transportation for food, agriculture, and automotives warned the public of drastic price increases unless the market stabilized. Shares in General Motors, Ford, and Chrysler crashed around 20 percent.

  The population slowly awakened to the fact that the United States still imported one gallon in five of its gasoline from Saudi Arabia. And that particular gallon was about to vanish.

  The Democratic administration had its back to the wall. And, in a special night session of Congress, Republican Senators and Representatives railed against the lunatic left-wing protection of the virgin wilds of Alaska, where oil-drilling had been so restricted by the shrill lobbies of Friends of the Earth, American Indians, Eskimos, and assorted tree-huggers.

  The dire warnings of the Republicans throughout the twenty-first century had just come true in a blazing inferno on the other side of the world. America was too reliant on Arab oil, and especially reliant on Saudi oil. A reduction of 5 percent of its daily consumption would have represented an economic crisis for Uncle Sam. Twenty percent was earth-shattering.

  On that Tuesday, at 9 P.M., the President of the United States, Paul Bedford, a right-of-center Democrat and former naval officer, broadcast to the nation direct from the White House. He assured everyone that the United States was not entirely dependent on Saudi oil, and that U.S. consumption had been falling in recent years.

  He said that in the great scheme of things, this was a mere glitch, although it most certainly highlighted the world’s vulnerability to terrorism. He said that once more the mighty economy of America had been shaken by actions on the other side of the world.

  But it was not life threatening. He appealed for calm at the pumps, restraint in driving, and sympathy for “our very great friends, the Saudi royal family.” He said he was confident that the al-Sauds would turn once more to America in the great task of rebuilding its industry, which would mean profits and jobs in the U.S.

  And he reiterated the observation of the British Prime Minister, who spoke on global television a few hours previously. “Saudi Arabia has not lost its oil,” said President Bedford. “It all remains intact beneath the desert floor. The Saudis have suffered a temporary setback in the mining and refining of that oil.

  “With our help,” he added, “That will be corrected in the very near future. I spoke to the King a half hour ago, and he had to be awake very, very early to take my call. But he was calm and measured in his assessment of the damage.

  “He does not know who could wish such harm to the peace-loving peoples of the Arabian Peninsula, and, quite frankly, neither do I. But the road back to prosperity is already being built. There will be American engineers in Riyadh with the King and his advisers before the end of this week.

  “For the moment, we have lost twenty percent of our daily requirements of gasoline. And the Energy Secretary is working on a program of allocations that will see us through the coming months. A little restraint, common sense, and consideration—that’s all we need in order to come through this.

  “Right now we are opening up new markets, finding more suppliers in South America. And I intend to speak to the Russian President in the morning with regard to special contracts in the Baku fields in Kazakhstan.

  “I
have ordered representatives of all the big oil corporations to report to Washington in the next twenty-four hours, and I intend to ensure there will be no price-gouging in this country. You may expect prices at the pumps to fall back. And in the wider picture of the economy, there will be corporate priorities, particularly for the major truck fleets and airlines.

  “My fellow Americans, it is doubtful if the Saudis will ever need to provide twenty percent of our oil, ever again. This has been a wake-up call to the U.S.A., and I intend to place before Congress an immediate bill to step up drilling in northern Alaska.

  “I have made it my personal crusade to rid this country once and for all of its dependence on Middle Eastern oil. And on that note, I wish you good night, and may God bless America.”

  Which was a pretty good speech, for a Democrat in crisis. The problem was, no one took the slightest notice.

  All through the night there were huge lines at the pumps right across the country, the oil companies were effectively charging anything they liked, and prices were spiraling upward like in some fourth-rate banana republic.

  Under a dark March sky, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rode again. As Grantland Rice once observed, “In dramatic lore, their names were Famine, Pestilence, Destruction, and Death. But these were only aliases.” In the U.S. of A, 2010, their real names were Gasoline, Diesel, Propane, and Jet Fuel.

  And despite the President’s appeal for calm, there was an even greater force preparing to fan those flames of fear all over the world. Even as the President wished everyone good night, news-rooms all over the country were preparing for a bonanza of frightening news, the priceless commodity that puts newspaper circulations up and sends television ratings sky-high.

  The papers were preparing to run thousands of extra copies, print advertising rates were about to hit an all-time high, and television advertising on the networks would instantly go to levels normally associated only with a Super Bowl Sunday or a presidential election.

  Right now, the media was in fat city. And the more scared people became as they faced a loss of mobility, the more the world’s news editors and advertising execs liked it. This was the week to justify big salaries and colossal expense accounts.

  Hang on to your hats, boys!

  U.S. ECONOMY CRIPPLED BY SAUDI OIL FIRES

  PRESIDENT POISED TO BAN PRIVATE DRIVING

  SAUDI OIL BOMBS BLAST U.S. ECONOMY

  OIL FIELDS ABLAZE; FED WARNS RAMPANT INFLATION

  RECORD GAS PRICES IN U.S. AS SAUDI OIL BURNS

  Things were calmer in Pompeii in A.D. 79.

  TUESDAY, MARCH 23, 2100

  ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE, MARYLAND

  The U.S. Marine jet bearing the considerable figure of Adm. George Morris from San Diego touched down a little heavily. It taxied to the parking area, where a helicopter awaited him, rotors spinning, in readiness for the short journey to Fort Meade.

  The Director of the National Security Agency had different priorities from both the administration and the politicians. Admiral Morris was not concerned with inflation, prices, or the economy. He wanted to know just three things: (1) who had blown up the Saudi oilfields; (2) why; and (3) might they do something else? Also he hoped to God young Ramshawe was on the case.

  The Admiral was in his office twenty-three minutes after landing at Andrews Air Force Base. And Lt. Commander Ramshawe was on his way along the corridor with a file containing a high volume of speculation but very few undisputable facts. He went over more or less the same ground he had covered with Arnold Morgan, at the end of which the Admiral had said, “Jimmy, that’s all very well observed. And I’m sure you are onto something, but I don’t know what. Because there appears to be no motive.”

  Admiral Morris sat still for a few minutes, ruminating, as he always did when a very grave problem stared him in the face. At length he said, “I do agree this was a military operation. But I can only imagine it was the Saudi military. No one else could possibly want to smash up the oil industry. To what end? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I tell you what, sir. It made sense to someone.”

  “Guess so. You had a chat with the Big Man yet?”

  “Uh-huh. Had dinner with him and Kathy last night.”

  “And what does he say?”

  “He thinks the wholesale devastation in Saudi Arabia could have been achieved only with submarines, SEALs, high explosives, and, in the end, missiles to hit the land targets.”

  “That is the only way,” said the former Commander of a U.S. Carrier Battle Group. “Unless you bombed them, which plainly no one did. And you could not pull off something like that with amateurs planting bombs in the night.”

  “Well, sir,” said Ramshawe, “since we both believe Admiral Morgan is right about ninety-eight percent of the time, maybe we should check out the submarine theory.”

  “We most certainly should,” replied Admiral Morris. “Get Admiral Dickson at the Pentagon. Send him my best and ask him to check the boards for all world submarines for the past month. And perhaps he could do it real fast. I don’t want Arnold on the line wondering if we checked before we have.”

  The Lt. Commander was glad his boss was back. He grinned and said, “Right away, sir. He’ll have SUBLANT send ’em over on the link, I expect. I’ll come along to your office soon as we get ’em.”

  It took only a half hour. The Lt. Commander downloaded the sheets right away and headed back along the corridor to the Director’s office.

  He was not required to knock. Admiral Morris, a genial, wily international operator, held no secrets from his assistant. He was on the phone when Ramshawe came in and sat down in front of the huge desk, once occupied by Admiral Morgan himself.

  “Okay, sir,” he said when George Morris had completed his conversation. “I’ll run through the no-hopers first. Ignoring the China seas, the Russians had a couple of Kilos in sea trials north of Murmansk, and a nuclear boat exiting the GIUK gap heading south down the Atlantic. That was on March second, and the satellites caught it entering the Baltic, then the Navy yards in St. Petersburg, where it still is.

  “The Brits have a Trident in the North Atlantic, south of Greenland, and two SSNs in the Barents Sea, close to the ice cap. Nothing in the Channel or to the south. The other European nations with submarines—that’s Italy, Spain, Germany, and Sweden—do not have one at sea between them. As you know, the U.S. has two L.A.-class SSNs with CVBGs in the Gulf, the northern Arabian Sea and south of Diego Garcia.

  “The French have a Triomphant-class SSBN out of Brest, the Vigilant, in the Atlantic, north of the Azores, but here’s the key information: this month they sent two Rubis Améthyste–class SSNs through the Med to Port Said, and on through Suez into the Red Sea.”

  “Same day, Jimmy?”

  “Nossir. The Perle went through Port Said just before midday on March fourth, and the Améthyste went through last Thursday afternoon, around fourteen hundred hours.”

  “Did they come back…into the Med, I mean?”

  “Nossir. In fact no one’s seen them since.”

  “You mean they went deep in the Red Sea?”

  “Apparently so, sir. We have a satellite pass over the canal and the Gulf of Suez at around nineteen hundred, and by then they’d gone, both ships, on March fourth and eighteenth.”

  “How about the southern end, through the Strait, into the Gulf of Aden…what’s it called?…the Bab el Mandeb, right?”

  “Yessir. And that’s a spot we watch very carefully. Every ship entering and exiting the Red Sea is monitored by us, using satellites, surface ships, and shore radar. Neither the Perle nor the Améthyste has left the Red Sea.”

  “At least not on the surface?”

  “Correct, sir. And neither of them has gone back through the canal to Port Said.”

  “They could, however, have made the transit dived.”

  “You sure about that, sir?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am. There’s a wide seaway out of the Red Sea, and it’s m
ostly two or three hundred feet deep. I think most submarine COs do come to the surface. There are a few islands down there, and you need to be careful to stay in the defined north–south lanes, and it can be quite busy. It’s easier to make the transit on the surface; the water’s usually pretty flat.

  “But I know U.S. commanders who have made that transit dived, and they’ve done it more than once. The entrance to the Gulf of Aden is an interesting crossroad. Once you’re through, and sub-surface, no one knows where the hell you’re going—north, south or east. It’s a great spot to get lost in.”

  “Well, the Perle and the Améthyste are certainly lost, sir. There’s no sight or sound of either of ’em. And there are no other submarines in all the world anywhere near the Red Sea or the Gulf in the past month. Unless a couple of U.S. Commanders went berserk and decided to slam the towelheads with a few cruise missiles.”

  “Unlikely, Jimmy, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Impossible, sir. If the oil stuff was hit by sub-surface missiles, they came from either the Perle or the Améthyste, on the basis that there were no other submarines for thousands of miles.”

  “The snag of course, Jim, is we don’t know where either the Perle or the Améthyste is, within thousands of miles.”

  “Five gets you twenty if one of ’em’s not still in the Gulf of Iran,” said Ramshawe. “And five gets you fifty if the other one’s not still in the Red Sea.”

  “No, thanks,” said the Admiral.

  “What now?” said his assistant.

  “Ask Admiral Dickson if SUBLANT can find out whether any French submarine in the past five years has apparently exited the Red Sea underwater.”

  “Right away, sir. That’d be interesting.”

  “Not proof, of course. But a little food for thought, eh?”

  Lt. Commander Ramshawe headed back to his staggeringly untidy office and put in a call to the Pentagon, to Admiral Dickson, Chief of Naval Operations.

  “I can’t promise absolute one hundred percent accuracy on that one, Lt. Commander,” said the CNO. “We watch that area carefully and we watch all submarines in and out of the Red Sea. We’ll have computerized records of all French SSNs and any Triomphant-Class. I’ll have SUBLANT give you a pretty good picture of French practices going into the Gulf of Aden.”