The Plan
The basic plan is that I am to arrive in country, use my Orbit credentials to access the eco’s oil facility, plant a few homing beacons and get the hell out. Simple.
So why homing beacons? After the third Russian-Baltic occupation ended, the Russians needed funds in a bad way and, having developed military technology for disrupting GPS signals, sold that equipment to the UN for cash in US dollars. The UN then handed if off to the Eco-trooper jerks. This system tricks GPS devices. I call it jamming but it’s not really jamming, as I’m told by Musk engineers. This Russian ground-based system spoofs multiple GPS signal sources, flooding the air with enough fake GPS coordinates to confuse any GPS based device – kinetic or otherwise. So, using GPS based weapons, which, in this day and age, is all of them, against the eco-thug facility is, at best, a crapshoot. With the pods, we only get one real shot at it, so we need to make sure they hit. Planting a radio homing signal transmitter is the best way to go. We hope.
With the beacons in place, the SOF boys will fly four shuttle-pods, crammed with 320 pounds of C-4 each, into the oil plant. Two of the pods are rigged to detonate on impact and the other two are set for delayed explosions. If things go really well, the detonations will reach any munitions they have lying around and make a bigger boom.
Now before you ask, it was my question too: won’t it be adding to the whole carbon-brick-mixing-with-chemicals problem? My briefers answered immediately with “Negative. The Eco’s moved out all bricks to the desert a long time ago. Any more questions?”
“Am I flying first class?”
Friendly Visit to the Eco-Trooper Oil Site
Flying on Tangier Airlines, at least to Mali, doesn’t offer first class or business class, just survival class. If you go, bring your own bottled water and, if you inspect the bathrooms — as I don’t recommend — retain your empty bottles because you’ll need to, ahem, refill them. Ladies, you’re on your own. I have no advice other than not go on secret sabotage missions to exotic North African countries.
From the airport, taking a taxi is not possible — they don’t exist. I could have hailed a private “car” but that was strongly discouraged by the Musk crew. In fact, because of the high kidnap rate, they liken it to suicide and considered it a betrayal to them and Paula. As advised, I boarded a “shuttle bus” pulled by two swayback horses. That took me to a big bus terminal, where I waited three hours to take a scheduled hourly “bus”, this one with a motor, to a shanty town where I got out.
I put all those vehicle types in double air quotes because they were, in-truth, only vaguely reminiscent of their original namesake. For the most part, rusted out hulks with round-y-round-things acting as wheels, maybe with rubber, maybe without. In the shuttle bus case, seating not made for mankind, nor animal kind. I won’t describe the smells, or flies, or food offered to me, until I consult with a biologist.
The bus-stop shanty town was born from the collision of cardboard, plywood, and trash during a ferocious sandstorm. It housed oil facility workers and goats. The goats are considered the upper-class residents.
From there, I joined a small parade of workers shuffling towards the oil plant. And let me be clear, these poor creatures are the sorriest bunch of urchins I have ever seen. Most are wearing a rag-uniform of some unknown rag material, and they look as if a strong wind would fly them off like a kite. I started off carrying my 40 pounds of gear, because my luggage dolly was taken by a customs inspector to be re-gifted as an anniversary present to one of his wives — how romantic. Anyway, I offered a couple of the rag-clad workers twenty bucks, American, if they carried my stuff. I think that was a year’s wages because soon the others were offering either to carry me or sell me a daughter — I couldn’t tell which — so I turned them down.
At the gate, I presented my papers and service order. Immediately, a rifle muzzle was shoved up my left nostril, and I was led into the little guard shack and told to wait. Or rather, sit.
“Sit! Sit! Sit!” And waved the rusty AK-47 at a steel stool.
I sat and “Ouch!” I jumped up. It was blistering hot.
“Sit! Sit! Sit!”. I think that’s the only word he knows. After placing a maintenance manual on the seat, I sat.
Then I waited. And waited. And waited some more. I picked up the hobby of fly swatting and got pretty good. My copy of Fly Swatters Home Journal: Big Spring Edition should be in the mail soon. Some of the credit goes to the flies: either boredom made them intentionally slow, or they were Hell-bent on suicide, because I smacked several of them 5 or 6 times. I even named them and took family photos. I also excavated half a sand dune out of each ear, then went back to my fly swatting hobby. I wonder if there’s an official fly season or do I need a big game fly license because some of these might be Boone & Crocket trophy size? That question remains unanswered because a UN eco-trooper banged the door open.
Face-to-Face With Eco-Thugs
He smelled and the uniform fit poorly, so I figured he was Belgian, not French. Jean Pierre was Luxembourgian – I’ve got to work harder on my stereotypes. He was also a pockmarked, greasy, bully who stood uncomfortably close to me. Jean, here’s a free hat tip, try a new mouthwash.
I had my papers out and ready for him, and said, “Nice shack.” He looked me hard in the eyes and snatched the papers out of my hand: an introductory letter, a service order, warranty material, Orbit product brochure; and a big smile because I’m all about customer service.
The brochures came right back at me. “Save it!”, his voice rifle-cracked through tobacco-stained teeth and I was hit with a vomit inducing wave of rancid halitosis.
I’ve now stood outside the guard shack while inside, Jean Pierre spoke mixed English and French on the radiophone, trying to sort out how to handle me. Apparently, the right hand and left hand don’t know each other.
I transitioned my fly-swatting pursuits to finger-fly-flicking. It’s a bit like playing “chicken”, the fly lands and you slowly move your flicking finger towards the fly before he bites. If he gets you first, Yaoooouch! and the fly leaves a tiny pinch of blood, and some form of deadly bacteria trending in medical journals or posters inside Africa-based US embassies. But if your finger-flick connects, man, do they go far — BZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!
Jean Pierre marched out of the shack just as ten or more armed guards surrounded me. They set down a camp table and emptied the contents of my technician suitcase on it. Various failed movie villains examined the meters, testers, monitors and electronic gadgets. A few were shoved in my face with international variations of ‘What is this!?’ or ‘What is that!?’ I explained or pantomimed their usage until the blank looks became bored blank looks.
After gathering it all up, I was escorted towards the refinery proper. The guards, not knowing squat about oil production, basic science, or hygiene, peeled off in one’s and two’s as I got into the hot bowels of the plant. Finally, just one guard remained when I reached some compressors. He must of drew the short camel’s hair. I performed the required inspection and diagnostic checks.
When the guard removed his hardhat to mop his face and head with a filthy hankie, I placed a switched-on homing transmitter, carefully disguised as one of our transducers, next to the other transducers and connected them with some wires. We went to the other side of the plant, and I performed roughly the same phony routine on some machinery that looked important, but I have no idea what it did. So, fire me. I placed another fake transducer next to an electrical box of some sort and wired them together. The guard never suspected a thing. Speaking slowly and using international finger pointing, I indicated I’d have to come back later with more parts – the servicemen’s immortal cry. He grunted and nodded. I waved my hands in French fashion, voilà, and we walked the 20 minutes or so back to the shack. When we got there, I was surrounded and arrested.
Uh-oh.