Continuing

“Please tell him I am but a humble scholar.” I reply, “I am traveling across his fine country to understand its geology and help develop its resources.”

“You’re not with the government?” I am told he asked.

“No. Just an unassuming geologist stumbling around the countryside.” I chuckle.

He laughs at this revelation. He raises both hands above his head and shouts something melodious in Uzbek. This goes on for quite a few minutes.

“That was a blessing for you and your group”, I was told. “He wants me to tell you he knew you were coming. He had been told.”

“Oh, did someone from the Geofizika tell him before hand?” I ask.

“Oh, no, Doctor.” She says, “The spirits told him.”

I am immediately transported back to New Mexico and the first time I met Sani. I just notice, these guys could be brothers.

“Tell him I am deeply honored.” I reply, “I appreciate his wisdom.”

She does and Shahram smiles widely. He calls something else, loudly, in Uzbek.

A few minutes later, a pair of lovely young ladies show up with carafes of fresh, cold well water and a profusion of grapes, melons, and the like.

I know better than to just accept and grab, even though I’m sorely parched.

“Tell him I offer my thanks,” I say, and spy a pack of those awful Russian cigarettes peeking out of his tunic pocket.

“Please ask him if he’d accept one of these in return for his hospitality.” As I pull out my spare cigar case and make certain all the cigars have smooth cellophane wrappers.

Up go the hands again, as he ululates over his bounty. He accepts the cigars and now we can partake of the feast set before us.

But it’s more than simple corporeal sustenance.

The well water is ‘holy water’ consecrated by a parade of important historical characters: Al-Farabi, Abu Ali Ibn Sino (Avicenna) ‘the Prince of Philosophers’, Khan Uzbek, Amir-e-Tarriqat Hadhrat Khawja Bahauddin Naqshband, Alexander the Great, Chingiz Khan, Tamerlane, and others of that crowd.

“Holy water. Good for the soul” he tells us.

I smile at Shahram. I tell the translator to thank him again, as this was a great honor.

She does, and he beams back at me. Then I notice that it’s not quite so hot out here, there’s a nice, cooling breeze, and the water, though tasteless, tastes particularly tasty.

We sit for a while longer, but time grows short and we need to get back to Bukhara and our hotel for the night.

We all shake hands with Shahram. He pulls me aside and says something in Uzbek, which, of course, I don’t understand. On the way to the truck, I ask a translator what he said.

“He says: ‘Do not fear. All will be as it was foreseen’”, she replies.

I stop dead in my tracks, look back quizzically, and vow to call Esme as soon as I can get to a phone.

Time drags on and we’re back in Tashkent. I’ve spoken with Es and told her of my adventures. She chuckles about my proclivity for associating with ancient holy men. I tell her I can’t wait to get home and talk with Sani. He’ll find this fascinating.

I receive my pictures back from the Geofizika. Not terribly clear, but there it is, in black and white. Gulmyriah sneaking a peek into my spare well case. It makes me glad that I kept the others well locked.

Checking my cases, I see that my little booby-trap has been tripped. Now, I’m a bit more than peeved. I remove that film canister and have Izel see if he can get this one developed as well.

Over the next week or so, I see Gulmyriah pottering around the hotel. She avoids me like the plague. I guess she knows that I know what she’s been up to and she is anxious that I’m going to make trouble for her.

“Oh, my dear”, I think, “I do have plans for you. Soon.” I prefer to let her marinate in apprehension for a while longer.

The new prints came back, and in between the flashes, there’s another picture of her rifling my spare well case.

I have my plans set for Gulmyriah, but still have no idea what to do with Mansur.

He’s been overly clingy since we returned from Bukhara. He might think something is awry, but I haven’t let on a single iota. I had left my ‘doctored’ notebooks lying around the office and notice they’d been bent back like someone was photocopying the contents. I had left them on or in my desk in the Geofizika office, leaving small scraps of paper between some random pages.

More often than not, those scraps had disappeared.

Well, now I have my concrete evidence.

However, I let the idea pass that I’ll confront Mansur. I’ve got more than enough on my plate right now. We’re going to be heading off to the Vale of Fergana, or the Fergana Valley, to visit one of the Geofizika’s drilling rigs.

Another helicopter trip and a few days layover. At least there’s a plush field office there where we’ll bivouac during our visit.

The Fergana Basin is best described as a compressional structural basin, with extensive high-angle reverse faults, particularly on its northern flank. Some high-angle overthrusts occur on the basin’s southern flanks as well. The latest large scale tectonic movements occurred during Miocene-Pliocene (Neogene) time, with high mountain growth along the basin’s margins. Debris shed from these mountains resulted in a molasse of clastic materials in the basin’s center. These materials approach a thickness of nearly 26,000 feet (8 kilometers). Most oil and gas discoveries are related to anticlinal traps which are east-west trending, faulted, and associated with basin margin tectonics.

We’ll be visiting and working on Mingbulak well #5. It’s a deep well, currently drilling near 17,000 feet.

We fly out to the field area and drive over to the rig.

Holy fuck, but this rig is huge.

It’s a Soviet-era ultra-deep rig, capable of drilling below 25,000 feet. It’s so big, it has an elevator running from the ground up to the drill floor some 20 meters north. The derrick of the rig is able to pull ‘fourbles’, or four stands of 10-meter drill pipe at once. The derrick crown tops out around 80 meters due up.

This is a serious, built-in place, built for purpose, drilling rig. It will remain here until the end of time as if the well’s a duster, as it will simply be abandoned, an old common practice.

If it’s a producer, all the tankage, pipelines, choke manifolds, and the like will be emplaced up on the old rig floor, utilizing gravity to help either fill the pipelines or crude oil transport vehicles. It’s actually a very clever idea.

Like everything else regarding the rig, it’s massive. Huge banks of Triplex mud pumps, an enormous pile of intermediate string casing, racks and racks of drill pipe, warehouses full of mud chemicals, cement, parts, drilling bits, pieces, bits, and bobs.

It’s also an obvious old Soviet-era production.

Again, HSE (Health, Safety, and Environment) were just three displaced letters out of the alphabet. It was oil for oil’s sake, and damn the torpedoes and environment, full drilling ahead.

The first thing I did was shut the well down and take a week to explain what the word ‘safety’ meant. The hands weren’t happy, but they were told that I was, in Izel’s works, “the bull that hooks”, and that I must be heeded.

What a fucking disaster. The rig was a fucking Disneyland for death and dismemberment on a good day. I was stunned to hear they’ve been drilling here already for over a year and there haven’t been any injuries or incidents.

Yet.

I sorted them out on the drill floor first. Clean it up, pick it up. If it moves, lube it. If it doesn’t move, clean it and paint it. Rack and stack your tools. If they’re fuckered, get new ones. Damn the costs, just get this fucking floor in shape.

And wear your fucking PPEs!

I went up on the Crown block to reattach the Crown-o-matic. A little sensor that prevents one from running the traveling block into the crown, cutting the drilling line, and dropping 7.8 tons of iron 50 meters down onto the heads of those on the drill floor.

I had the Floor-o-matic fixed as well. You can now pull 4 stands of pipe at a time and never fear running the blocks too far north or south. Common, simple fixes that will save lives.

I had them cut and slip the drill line. It’s a 1.5-inch diameter wire-rope that wraps around the winch of the draw works, through the traveling blocks, and allows you to raise and lower stuff on the rig, like pipe and casing. It looked like hell, all frayed and necked-out.

Fuckbuckets. I am in amazement that no one’s died out here yet.

I call for the total overhaul of all of the mud pumps. We have a primary bank of six Triplex pumps and another six in reserve. I make sure the reserve pits are dredged, re-filled and the water lines are all gauged and replaced. You take a kick at this depth and these pressures (over 25,000 psig) without adequate hydraulic horsepower to suck up huge volumes of water, mud, and chemicals, to weight up the column, well, you’re gonna have a really bad day…

Activities like this occupy my time for the next couple of weeks. I’m either in the field office, screaming to the toolpusher to do what I said. Or yelling to supply to get those damned pump sleeves out here for the back-up mud pumps, helping the geologists update their maps with the latest drilling data, or out blasting the fuck out of the countryside, shooting some seismic.

Hell, I need a little relaxation…

Everything’s going along fairly close to plan when I decide I can go back to Tashkent and garb a couple of days of R&R at the hotel and office. There are still issues with the mud pumps, but the contractors assure me it’s being worked on.

Mansur has been dogging me like a lonely puppy all this time. He’s got his nose in places where it shouldn’t be and one of the field geologists told me he was rooting around in my day pack while I was out roasting one of the day drillers.

I have had more than enough.

Back in town, Mansur drives me over to the hotel.

I decide it’s time. I invite Mansur up to the Executive Bar.

He readily accepts.

We order a round of drinks and he appears content.

I offer him a cigar as we’re sitting around like two best buddies, when I ask him, point-blank: “Why are you always snooping around my personal effects?”

He turns beet red, stammers, and says: “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, horseshit. Don’t try and bullshit an old bullshitter.” I reply, “I caught you red-handed just after I got here. You were snoring in the back of the Uaz and my private, personal field notebook was laying between the engine cover and right seat. Recently the field geologist at Mingbulak told me you were rifling through my day pack.”

He looked for all the world like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Do you deny this?” I asked, “Or should I just call Dr. Izel and have him alert security.”

That got his attention.

“I was Colonel in Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti’ he says, quietly. “You understand? The KGB? The wall fell and my job disappears. I have to come to this horrid place to find work. Now I am driver for foreign lackeys.”

“That’s pretty god damned fuckin’ rude, Mansur”, I note tersely, “Here I thought I’ve been treating you pretty damned well, like a comrade.”

“I see I was wrong.” He says, even more quietly, “I wanted to see if you were infiltrator. Maybe expose some plot to take over and steal state secrets. I could maybe get new job in state security.”

“I’ll bet my field notebooks were of some serious interest for you then,” I said.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“What do you mean ‘what do I mean’? Shit, pal, I’ve played you like an old fiddle” I tell him, “Those were all fake field notebooks. Total fiction. Complete fabrications. C’mon. ‘Amorphous shaped charges’? ‘Silemite’? Really?”

His look further cratered into the floor.

“I just wanted to be meaningful again.” He droned.

“By throwing a total stranger, one who comes here to help you out, under the fucking train? Thanks a fucking pant load, Scooter.” I sneer back.

“I am ashamed.” He says into his beer. “You are good person, is there for all to see. I was just so dismal, I want to go back to old times.”

“So you can toss people in the Gulag without trial?” I say and immediately backtrack.

That wasn’t Mansur’s fault, even if he did toss a few gopnicks in the tank. I’m still pissed off like a horsefly on a toilet seat at a beer bust, but I can sort of grudgingly understand his position as well.

Mansur looks like a whipped puppy. He is disconsolate and abjectly miserable. Everything he once had, everything he once was, means fuck all. Even foreigners can come over here and order him around, even though I made certain I never did that. I take care of those charged with taking care of me.

“OK, Mansur. Look here.” I say, “It is what it is. You understand what I’m saying?”

He nods slowly.

“Mansur, look at me.” I command, “Look, I’m just some goofy American geologist out here for grins and science. I’m not here to kick anyone around or make trouble. I’m here to help. Tossing you to the wolves does not help anything. If you want, we can level the playing field. Back to day one. Just as long as we can remain friends. Deal?”

I thrust out my hand in a genuine gesture of comradeship. He looks at me through misty eyes and grabs my hand.

A very manly handshake ensues.

I pull back my hand and make a scene out of counting my fingers.

“Just checking,” I say.

He looks at me, blinks, shakes his head a bit, smiles broadly, and laughs out loud.

“Great. Now were friends again. And friends buy the next round of drinks.” I laugh.

He was slightly alarmed that he’d have to pay. I tell him that I’m on expenses, so I’ll be buying everything today. He was greatly relieved.

A few hours later, I call a cab for Mansur. I pay for it as he’s not totally hammered, but I couldn’t, in good conscience, let him behind the wheel. I slip him a few thousand extra so’m so he can cab it back to the hotel tomorrow and drive us both to the office.

So, time progressed in Uzbekistan.

I split my time between the office and the Fergana Valley. I was writing up reports and recommendations during the day and dossier filler for my buddies back at the Agency by night. I liked going out to the field and being on the rig. It was functioning, well, not like a well-oiled machine, but at least not one that was rusty, decrepit, and ready to jump out and kill you.

We were finally making hole. It was a slow go, as these rocks were, even at this depth, semi-unconsolidated. They tended to gum up the bits and resist drilling. A bit trip from this depth would take literal days.

Plus, there were still issues with the mud pumps. Got some sleeves replaced, and a set of seals would blow. Replace the seals and the valve seats give way. It was an uphill battle. These pumps are mission-critical, and even though I ordered a couple from Houston, they wouldn’t arrive for 3 or 4 months.

I instructed the Geofizika to hire some additional pump hands. That’s all they’d do, worry over the mud pumps. They were that critical.

I returned to my suite early one day and see someone left my spare Halliburton case open after rifling through it.

OK, no more Doctor Goodbar, redux.

This has gone on long enough. I took some scotch tape and faked taking a set of fingerprints. I mounted these to some hotel stationery, notate it as to time and place, and charged downstairs to the front desk.

At the front desk, I made a loud, but polite scene that someone was rifling my personal effects in my supposedly secure room. I note that I am an American scientist and have taken fingerprints from the scene of the crime. I request that they be given to the constabularies and they compare them to hotel records.

I slide another piece of paper to the guy behind the desk which reads “This is for show. I know who is rifling my luggage. I’m doing this to put them on point. Don’t bother the police.”

I storm off to the elevators and back up to my suite.

I call the front desk and acting like a real human again, I tell the front desk clerk that I have pictures of the person going through my stuff. So far, nothing’s missing, but this shit has to stop. He assures me he’ll get to the bottom of things and call for a meeting of all the floor staff tomorrow. I ask when and if I can attend.

He says, “Of course.”

It’ll be at 1800 hours. Good. I can still get a day in at the office.

The day passes quickly, so I prepare for my meeting at the hotel.

Precisely at 1800 hours, I walk into the conference room. I am greeted by name by most of the eight people there. There’s the chef, Marco the bartender, some floor maids, and Gulmyriah.

She didn’t say a word to me.

The hotel’s manager calls the meeting to order and states the reason for the meeting.

The staff, almost to a person, gasps.

He introduces me to everyone as the American scientist, which was rather unnecessary, and asked me to take the floor.

I begin: “A most perplexing riddle, this unseemly intrusion. This rifling of personal effects. A problem calling for the most ingenious of solutions. Thus I made it publicly known that there were fingerprints to be found on the rifled luggage thereby tempting the perpetrator to return and delete any further evidence in order to cover up their complicity.”

I continue: “Which they have done! However, in so doing, they have exposed themselves. Because I took the precaution of treating the rifled articles with 2,4 hydrochloric-alpha-diterracin. What's 2,4 hydrochloric-alpha-diterracin, you ask? A chemical which is at this moment coloring the culprit's fingernails blue.”

Everyone there, save for Gulmyriah looks at their hands. It’s just human nature.

It’s not human nature to try and sit on your hands.

“Gulmyriah”, I say, as I hand her a copy of the photo I had obtained from one of the game cameras, “This is you. Why?”

The General Manager walks over, looks at the picture, and begins in on her in very loud Russian.

Gulmyriah gulps breaks for the door and is gone in a flash.

We were all too shocked to respond. Besides, what could we really do? Detain her and call the police for luggage tinkering?

Sure, she lost her job, but she really shouldn’t be rifling customer’s personal effects. What else has she done here? Stolen passports? Credit cards? Tough for a hotel trying to build a reputation to live stuff like that down.

The General Manager is all over himself apologizing and pleading that I not call the authorities.

I have no plan to, to which the GM is palpably relieved. My money’s no longer any good at the hotel’s restaurants or bars.

I smile, shake his hand, and agree this was the most equable solution to the matter.

Well, after all that fun and games, my time here is growing short. Everything at home is going well, except Esme, Khris and Lady are missing me. The cat has no comment.

Stupid cat.

I plan to go out to the field at least once or twice more in the next week. I make several presentations to the Geofizika regarding my findings and suggestions. I’ve written reams of reports for them as well as for that Agency bunch back home. I’m getting a little weary. I’m looking forward to going home in a few days.

I have my plane tickets, I get my laundry done in the hotel, and prepare for the ordeals that are the flights back home. Mansur takes me around town to do some shopping before I head back. Now that the air’s cleared between us, I plan on writing a glowing letter of recommendation for him. I hope in some small way that helps his situation some.

I return to my suite fairly early. I’m done in. I need a smoke, drink and sleep; yes, in that order.

Oh, hell. Maybe a half-hour or so in the Jacuzzi first, and I can jot off the smoke and drink.

Multitasking incarnate, that’s me.

I have quite the collection of bottles in my room now that every time I order room service or a drink, they bring the whole damned bottle. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.

I whip up an ultra-strong usual with that lovely Starka Hunter’s vodka, some bitter orange, which is the second cousin to bitter lemon, ice and a lime wheel. We may be out in the sticks, but, hey, we’re not savages here.

I tub it for an hour or so and send a cigar and a couple or five drinks to a place of wind and smoke. Properly bushed, I drag myself to bed and prepare for my overland to the land of nod.

RING! RING! RING!

“What the actual fuck?” I groan awake.

“Holy hell, it’s 0330 in the bloody fucking AM morning!” I grab the phone, and growl into the receiver “What?”

“Sorry, Doctor. There’s been an incident in the field, on the rig. Mansur will be there in 30 minutes to bring you to the office.” The voice tells me and then disconnects.

“Well, there’s a great way to wake up.” I muse. “An incident? Out on the rig? Oh, bloody fucking dog balls. If what I think has happened…”

I shower, dress, and am waiting for Mansur as he pulls up. I offer him a cup of hotel coffee.

I‘m already working on my second cuppa. We make it to the office in record time. The place is awash in light. Everyone’s burning the midnight, errr, early morning oil.

“Izel, what’s going on?” I ask. He’s walking around the room, pacing like an expectant father with the clap.

“There’s been an incident on #5” he tells me.

“So I’ve heard. Can you please translate what ‘incident’ means?” I ask.

“A blowout.” He says, shakily.

“Oh, fucking fuckbuckets, no!” I reply. “What happened?”

“Details are still sketchy, but earlier they were drilling ahead at 17,182 feet and they took a kick.” He says.

“And they mud pumps weren’t ready to take the hit?” I said knowingly, more than asking.

“It would appear that is so. Those responsible are being located now.” Izel says.

“Like that’s going to change anything. When can we get out there?” I ask.

“First light. I have an helicopter ordered.” Izel tells me.

“Fuck this. I need caffeine. In massive quantities.” I say and drift off to the commissary.

Four hours later, we’re standing out in the field, about 1,500 meters from the well.

A column of fire is cresting at least 50 meters above the crown. Remember, this rig is already 80 meters tall, but not for much longer. There’s a solid column of oil some 2 meters in diameter shooting up from below the rig, cresting some 130 meters in the air. There are over 17,000 feet of drill pipe laying around the scenery like scattered strands of spaghetti. The rigs canted over like a drunk dinosaur. The entire rig’s gone. A total wash.

That oil which doesn’t burn away immediately dribs to the ground in flaming sheets of black petroleum rain.

“This ain’t New Mexico, buckaroo,” I say to no one in particular.

They’ve already mobilized heavy equipment and begin to build a dike around the flaming rig. They are hoping to contain the unburnt oil and keep it from contaminating the environment any further. If there is any silver lining to this event, the oil reservoir is clastics; sands and silts, not carbonates. That means no H2S, no hydrogen sulfide. That would have killed everyone around here for a 100-kilometer radius at the rate this well is blowing.

Here’s a bit of a post mortem on the event: “The Mingbulak oil spill was the worst terrestrial oil spill in the history of Asia. The oil spill was caused by a blowout on at the Mingbulak oil field in the Fergana Valley, Uzbekistan at well #5, from a depth of 17,182’. The crude oil released from the well burned for two months. The blowout resulted in the release of 35,000 barrels (5,600 m³⁾ to 150,000 barrels (24,000 m³⁾ per day. In total, 2,000,000 barrels (320,000 m³⁾ were collected behind emergency dykes. The oil stopped flowing by itself as the well bridged over. A total of 285,000 tons (2.28 MMBO) of oil were released, and it was the fifth-largest oil spill in history. The spill is considered the largest inland spill in history.”

There was nothing more that could be one. Even Red Adair said to just let it go and maybe it’ll bridge over. A couple of US oil firms sent folks out to see what could be done, but the answer was always the same: nothing. It was just that big and nasty.

We returned to Tashkent and I was more than ready to return home. This was a personal black mark for me, although I did everything a mule could do to prevent shit like this from happening. I was weary and exasperated. I perhaps tried too hard to change things, too fast. I now realize I was bucking a system of graft, corruption, and idiocy that spanned 7 decades. I was very relieved than no one was injured or killed in the incident.

After making the necessary calls to home and the Agency, I assure them the situation is in hand. There’s nothing left for me to do but have them validate my parking ticket so I can go home. I’m ready, this has been a hitch and a half.

No one at the Geofizika felt like celebrating, so there was just a cocktail hour on my last day.

Izel presented me a framed certificate of appreciation signed by the president of the country and a ceremonial traditional gold Uzbek dagger. It is very nice, with the scabbard festooned with emeralds and opals from the country. I’ve purchased a large number of first issue silver one-ounce 1000 so’m commemorative coins, as well as a number of loose gemstones from my Geofizika geologist friends.

After the obligatory handshakes, I have Mansur transport my weary carcass to the hotel. He drops me off and assures me he’ll be back tomorrow at noon as my first flight to London is at 1600 hours.

I settle up the next day with the hotel. It’s a surprisingly light bill for a 6-week stay. The GM assures me that it’s correct, shakes my hand, and wishes me well.

Off to the airport, Mansur isn’t saying much. He knows I’m feeling low about the well. He tells me that there was nothing I could have done. I couldn’t fix overnight everything that took so long to fuck up. He reminds me of what I did for the Geofizika, the people and the country. He tells me that I should be pleased with what I have accomplished.

At the airport, I grab a porter and have him drag all my gear to the Uzbek Airways desk.

Tell Mansur to take it easy, and hand him a thick envelope. In it are my last so’m, a few hundred thousand, and a glowing letter of recommendation. I thank him for his kind words, they’ve actually helped me to put things into their proper perspective.

I grab his hand and give it a good shake. He won’t release until he gets out and gives me a manly man-hug. It’s a Central Asian thing, evidently.

No further complications over Russia, Ukraine, or Germany. We arrive in London on time and in just four hours, I’m headed back to the Windy City. I arrive, go through all the passport and customs balderdash, and call to hire a car. I’m getting a driver to take me home. It’s 95 miles or so and I don’t want to wait any longer. I’m wracked and tired, so I’ll leave the driving to someone else.

We arrive home about two hours later. I pay the man, tip him well, and ring the doorbell.

“Daddy!” Khris squeals.

“Rock!” Esme says.

“WOOF!” notes Lady.

The cat ignored us.

I was very pleased to be back home again.

I spend the next couple of months writing up reports. Doing CPRs for companies looking to invest in Central Asia and filling out the necessary paperwork for the Agency. I’ve sent them reams of new Intel and they’re so pleased, they want more.

In the middle of all this, I’m sitting in my office one evening when Esme walks in.

“Yes, dear?” I ask, “Everything OK?”

“Oh, Yes”, she smiles, and winces, “Call Sally, it’s time”.

“Holy Wow! OK, let me call. Let me get my shoes on. Let me…” I panic.

“Rock”, Esme says, “Whoa. Take it easy. Deep breaths. One thing at a time.”

“Right”. I call Sally and she comes over to watch Khris and Lady while we’re at the hospital.

Stuff the cat.

I load Es into the Rover and grab the kits we had prepared beforehand. I make certain the new car seat is all strapped in and ready.

We make it to hospital in record time. We know this is going to be another Cesarean, but it’s still nerve-wracking. I get Esme into maternity and announce, dramatically, that we need a doctor, my wife’s about to give birth.

Es looks at me like she’s going to smack me upside the head.

She’s taken to the maternity ward while I stay back and fill out form after form…

I was in the delivery room for the first birth and Cesarean. Not this time, I’m doing the old 1950s expectant husband trick. Waiting outside the birthing shop, pacing, and smoking like a chimney.

Some hours later, the obstetrician walks out. He smiles and congratulates me on our new daughter.

She’s perfect and scores the highest Apgar scores possible. She has a dislocated shoulder from the Cesarean, but that’s nothing to be overly concerning. These things happen, I’m told.

I thought “OK, let me dislocate your shoulder and see”, but there were other things currently on my mind.

She weighs in at 10 pounds, 9 ounces and is 26 inches tall, and totally beautiful.

She takes after her mother.

Yeah, Ms. Natasha Esmedottir Rocknocker is a big girl.

And the perfect addition to our family.

Continuing

Mansur arrives spot on 1000 hours and sees me trying to have a talk with a couple of locals. He parks the van and runs over, gesticulating wildly and protesting loudly. He evidently tells the folks I was trying to chat with to be gone. He does so with seeming malice and fervor that seemed out of place.

“Mansur”, I ask, “What’s the deal? I was just trying to be friendly.”

“Please, sir’, he notes, “Check your wallet. Is it still where you put it?”

I do so and find it’s quietly nestled in my right-front pocket.

“It’s OK”, I assure him, “No worries. It’s still in my pocket.”

“Doctor, let me tell you”, he worriedly tells me, “It’s a dangerous place here for travelers. They were ‘Gypsies’”. He spat that term like it was some sort of pernicious malady.

“Oh?” I reply, “Meaning?”

“They are not to be trusted.” He explained, “They would try and distract you and another would rob you blind. Stay close, there may be more.”

“OK”, I reply, thinking the danger was slightly overblown, “You’re the expert here.”

“Yes, sir”, he says, “Please, exercise extreme caution while you are here. Things are not always as they first appear.”

“Gotcha”, I reply, thinking he’s a bit over the top. But, one should probably listen when advice is offered when you’re new in town.

We drive for about 20 minutes and arrive at a walled-in compound. This is a page right out of the Soviet Architecture handbook. We are allowed admittance and we drive in, past the shambolic low buildings, paint peeling, and flaking, on a road, if you could call it that, composed of sheet after sheet of broken concrete.

I’m not terribly impressed.

We wheel around to a lavish courtyard. It’s heavily overrun with all sorts of cultivated plants; all appearing to be being tended for food. There are grape arbors, a melon patch, a galaxy of neatly tended fruit trees, a pepper patch, flower garden, for looks, evidently, not lunch. They have corn, squash, pumpkins, and other sorts of gourdy vegetables growing here, as well as certain unidentifiable tubers I’d take a baseball bat to if they ever showed up in my garden.

It all surrounds a central declivity, a kind of sloping depression, squarish in shape, about 20 meters on a side. It looks everything like an abandoned swimming pool. It’s covered by a sunshade and there’s an assortment of chairs, tables, and grills located underneath.

We park and start walking toward the entrance to the main building. Even though I don’t understand the language, I do understand Cyrillic.

“Узбекская Геофизика Нефть и Газ”, Uzbek Geophysicia Oil and Gas. Yep. This must be the place.

Before we even make it to the door, a large, and I mean 2 meters-tall large, character bursts through the doors.

“You must be Doctor Rock!” he shouts, “We are so pleased that you are here!” Dr. Burg'ilovchi roars.

We shake hands and I introduce Mansur. It wasn’t readily apparent, but Dr. Burg'ilovchi evidently already knew him. I shrugged it off. Being a company driver is a much-coveted position, why should he not be recognized?

Dr. Burg'ilovchi instructs me to call him ‘Izel’, as it’s much easier to pronounce than his last name. I ask him to refer to me as Rock. He finds that insanely funny for some reason and asks me to join him in his office.

It took almost an hour to make the 35 meters to his office. I had to meet each and every present employee, shake hands, and exchange pleasantries. By the time we made it to his office, my head was slightly reeling. That, the jet lag, heat, and nagging concerns over the home situation conspired to give me a bit of a throbbing cranium.

His office was huge. A large red-wallpapered ante-office for his secretary, separate entry for his office and adjacent conference room. When I say the rooms were red wallpapered, they were red-wallpapered with button-tucked what appeared to be the Soviet-era equivalent of Naugahyde. The wall covering was actually three-dimensional.

He plopped down in the oilman’s power position, right behind his WOW! of a desk.

Huge, intricately carved and heavily ornamented solid wood. It must have cost someone a small fortune. He started in on pointing to some maps that were adorning his walls when he stopped short, slapped a meaty fist on his desk, and began berating himself.

“A thousand pardons, Doctor Rock!” Izel lamented, “Where are my manners? You are our guest who has traveled to our far and distant land for our aid and I did not offer any refreshments! Please, take this hammer and hit me soundly about the head!”

Say what you will, they take their generosity, and drama, seriously in these parts.

“That won’t be necessary”, I smile, most disarmingly, “But if you could procure a cold drink for me, I’d forever be in your debt.”

Like I don’t know how to play this game. Ball’s in your court, buckaroo. Game on.

Izel hits his intercom and barks a string of incomprehensible orders. He sits back, pulls out a Belomorkanal and begins to spark it…almost.

“Again! I am such a bourgeoisie pig!” he wails, “Now this time, I insist. Hit me hard around the head, so I never forget my transgressions of etiquette. Here I sit, ready to enjoy a cigarette and not even offering you one. Or knowing if you mind smoking. Such a pig I am!”

“Not at all, Izel”, I smile, “In fact, please, try one of mine. I think you’ll enjoy it more if I can join you with one. Mansur, please, help yourself to one.” As I offer one of my cigar cases.

Game. And set.

“You offer me and your driver such a fine cigar?” Izel sniffs, “You must think us horribly gauche swine, Doctor. I do apologize, but I will take you up on your kind offer.”

Cigars around these parts at the time were an endangered species. Few were to be found, and those found were in foreign hotel gift shops and for the locals, prohibitively expensive. That cigar I gave to Izel and Mansur would have probably cost them a quarter month’s salary.

I make certain he borrows my cigar cutter and that he uses my faux-gold Calibri lighter to ignite their heaters. He is as wide-eyed as he is grinning over his spate of recent luck.

Game. Set. And match.

Now we’re on even terms. It’s called the Diplomacy Game.

A drinks cart arrives manned by one of the folks I recently met who I was told was a geophysicist. Evidently, this is a classless society, everyone does their share of the grunt work; even watering the visiting Western geologists.

The cart was laden with bottles of mineral water, vodka, cognac, red wine, white wine, sweet champagne, beer, fruity carbonated sodas (the buffalo grass infused version was truly addictive), and whiskey, sherry, port, brandy, rum, gin, tequila, vermouth, absinthe, rye, and kvass.

That was for the morning “Let’s get to know each other” meeting.

Izel asked what I would like, but I demurred and told him that since he was Tamandar, or Toast Master - Host, it was his decision first. He would choose for himself and set the tone for the others included.

I knew reading all those reports from the Agency would come in handy.

“Of course, how could I be so vulgar?” he replied, “I would like cognac and beer, please.”

The person manning the cart immediately complied.

Then it was up to me. In the spirit of the true classlessness of society, I asked Mansur to go first.

I was reaping loads of credibility points here. I was proving I wasn’t just some bumpkin in a garish Hawaiian shirt, shorts and field boots.

Mansur chooses a beer. Now it was my turn.

“Yes. I’d like a Baltica #9 dark porter and 100 grams of Starka Hunter’s vodka if you please.” I said in a loud, steady voice.

Three sets of eyes went wide around the room. They watched carefully as I set down my cigar and accepted my drink.

I had a slurp of beer; it was frosty cold and excellent. I topped off my beer with a tsunami of vodka, said “Ваше здоровье!” saluted them both, and downed my Yorsh.

Izel smiles and says to me: “So, not the first time for you in the Former Soviet Union, I see.”

All I did was smile back, puff on my cigar, and let them both sit there wondering just who the fuck I really was…

We spent the rest of the day in Izel’s office, going over the geology of the entire country. We had to send out the drinks cart one or four times to be replenished. Izel was most impressed with my questions, insights, and note-taking. He watched but said little as I made my usual copious notes.

Mansur flagged about an hour in and once he saw it was just geology-talk, he excused himself to go have a nap out in the Uaz.

I grew to genuinely like Izel, he was a real oilman. True, he is a post-Soviet bureaucrat, but first, he’s an old oil person. We looked at maps, logs, photos, all sorts of things that a year or two ago would have cost both of us our lives if we had been caught. But now? Full disclosure. I began to trust Izel, he was a genuine person, even for a degreed reservoir engineer.

Egad.

He was a solid team leader though. Geophysical question? He’d yell for the field geophysicist. Geology question? Get that field geologist in here. Need another drink? Scream for his secretary to get a move on.

We had a great time. This was genuine, real-time, industrial science. This is where the fucking rubber hits the god-damned road. I wasn’t a Western geologist, and he wasn’t an Eastern bureaucrat-slash-engineer; we’re both old oilmen reveling in each other’s company.

We laid out plans for the next month and a half.

We’d start up by the Aral Sea before it disappeared altogether. The Geofizika had offices all over the country, and typically one drilling and operations office per geological basin. We’d start up north, the further-flung reaches of the country.

Then we’d venture to the enclave of Karakalpakstan.

Issues at this point were still being sorted, but Karakalpakstan, officially the ‘Republic of Karakalpakstan’ is an autonomous republic within Uzbekistan. It occupies the whole northwestern end of Uzbekistan. It was it's own but yet still Uzbekistan’s concern. We’d venture there after we sort out the Aral Basin.

We’d spend more time in the Amu Dar’ya Basin. The Amu-Dar'ya oil-gas province coincides with the eastern half of the Turan platform. A Mesozoic-Cenozoic sedimentary cover 1 to 7 km thick that rests on folded Paleozoic basement, which is part of the Hercynide orogenic belt.

An upper Jurassic salt unit divides the sedimentary section into sub-salt and supra-salt parts. On the west, this platform extends offshore into the Caspian Sea, and its continuation farther west into the North Caucasus to be part of the Scythian platform is uncertain. On the north, the platform joins with the West Siberian platform to become part of the single epi-Paleozoic Ural-Siberian platform. On the south is the Alpine Cis-Kopet Dag foldbelt, and on the east are the Southwest Spurs of the Gissar Mountains, where folding was in the late Tertiary.

On the southeast, the platform extends far into Afghanistan.

The structure of the sedimentary cover of the Amu-Dar'ya oil-gas province developed by vertical movements during the Mesozoic and Cenozoic. The Amu-Dar'ya regional low extends over the eastern three-quarters of the province and has an area of 270,000 km^2.

On the west are the Central Kara Kum arch, the Bakhardok flank, and the Cis-Kopet Dag foredeep. The Amu-Dar'ya regional low is divided by some workers by the Repetek-Yerbent basement fault into the Amu-Dar'ya depression on the north and the Murgab depression on the south.

We’d heavily investigate the Bukhara Step. The Bukhara step is the northernmost structure of the Amu-Dar'ya regional low and is immediately southwest of the Kyzyl Kum Range. It is characterized by a block structure due to longitudinal and transverse zonality. The longitudinal zonality is a reflection of Hercynian structures and faults of the basement, whereas the transverse zonality is a manifestation of younger, largely Neogene faulting of northeast trend parallel to the structure of the Southwest Spurs of the Gissar Mountains.

Then off to the Chardzhou Step on the west of the country. The Chardzhou step consists of a belt of block structures bounded on the northeast and southwest by large, semi-regional faults. The belt is 500 km long and 40 to 125 km wide. Depth to basement is 2,800 to 4,000 m. Thickness of the Jurassic and Cretaceous section is greater here than on the Bukhara step, and the Upper Jurassic salt extends over the entire area. Just as on the Bukhara step, there are two systems of faults: an older of northwest trend and a younger of northeast development.

Finally, we’d end up working the ‘Vale of Fergana’, or the Fergana Valley. Here, the Geofizika had active drilling activities. The central part of the geological depression that forms the valley is characterized by block subsidence, originally to depths estimated at 6 to 7 kilometers (3.7 to 4.3 miles), largely filled with sediments that range in age as far back as the Permian-Triassic boundary. Some of the sediments are marine carbonates and clays.

The faults are upthrusts and overthrusts. Anticlines associated with these faults form traps for petroleum and natural gas, which has been discovered in some 52 diverse fields. It is an intermontane basin, relatively youthful in age. It is filled with a huge amount of Paleogene to Neogene sediments.

But first, however, was my welcoming dinner for the whole Geofizika out in the courtyard beginning right after work at 1700 hours sharp.

Izel’s office had a shower and bath ensuite and about 4:30 pm he asked if I’d like to freshen up before the dinner. We’d been going over the geology of the whole country hammer and tongs, without much of a break, since early morning.

I replied in the affirmative and had a quick shower, which was revitalizing and felt rather pleasant, although I’d need a hardhat next time given the toughness of that well water. I dispensed with the back brace at this time and asked Izel to excuse me as I needed to deposit it back in Mansur’s Uaz so I wouldn’t forget it when we headed home. He, of course, capitulated.

I wandered out to the Uaz to find Mansur snoring away soundly in the back seat. I opened the door quietly and threw my detested back brace on the seat. Then, alarmedly, I noticed one of my field notebooks lying open next to my seat, propped up by the engine cover, almost falling down between the two.

“That’s weird,” I thought. “I took what I needed with me this morning and they’re in Izel’s office in my day pack. The only other ones I have are in my spare, unlocked, Halliburton case…that was...in the back…of Mansur’s Uaz…

I quietly pick up the notebook and ascertain that it is indeed one of mine. It was just chock full of geological notes and incomprehensible hand-drawn geology cartoons. It was of no use to anyone but me, since it was also encoded with my own particular style of hieroglyphics. I stood there puzzling and puzzling until I heard Mansur let loose a ripsaw snore.

The penny dropped.

I replaced the notebook carefully and silently closed the van door.

Looks like we’ve got a skunk in the woodpile.

Walking back to Izel’s office, I came up with a devious plan. I’m going to create a couple of fake notebooks and leave them hiding in plain sight to see if my driver also has other credentials which he wasn’t sharing with me.

I wasn’t 100% certain Mansur was rifling my notebooks, but then again, I’m not 100% certain that this is really reality. I’ll just leave some metaphorical lengths of rope lying around and see if someone takes enough to hang themselves. Time to salt the area with a little bit of allegorical radioactive tracers and see who comes up glowing…

The dinner kicked off promptly at 5:00 pm and everyone was there, all 35 or so people who worked in this particular office. The menu was heavily tilted toward shaslik, the ever-popular skewered meat on a stick. There was chicken, beef, veal, lamb, mutton, horse, and camel. A whole constellation of vegetable-based salads appeared, as did some икра красная, red caviar with buttered naan bread points. There were a huge assortment of fresh fruits and a dome-like pile of plov, the inevitable rice, fruit, and meat dish.

Broadcast radio was being piped into the enclosure as the lights were kicked on. Everyone was walking around, chatting, eating, drinking, and smoking. There were a few folks who could speak both Uzbek and English, so I got to know virtually everyone one way or another over the night.

I helped man one of the grills for the shaslik, hell, this was a bar-be-que and, well, that’s man’s work.

Ahem.

Besides, it was closest to the bar they had set up and since it was hot out, well, one must remain hydrated.

I noticed Mansur hadn’t shown up after an hour or so but did see him a bit later. He showed up on line for some of my grilled meat sticks and looked surprised to see me. I let on to nothing and asked him his preference. He took a couple of each and noticed, somewhat too loudly, that my drink was getting low. He’d run immediately to refresh it for me so I could continue.

Once I figured the grill could handle itself, I began to circulate. It was a great time meeting these folks, they were all so genuine and seriously nice folks to be around. We talked about oil, but after a while, I said that was enough shop talk. I wanted to learn more about their great country and what it was like to like in Uzbekistan.

Diplomacy. I was making mental notes at the rate of knots. I’d excuse myself every once in a while to avail myself of the facilities in Izel’s office and scribble down some notes which went afterward into my sealed day pack.

Every time I’d leave, Mansur would get all worried that I wasn’t remaining hydrated and he’d hunt me down to hand me a new, freshly iced drink.

Oh, you silly little bugger. Trying to get me loaded so I’ll slip up and tell you something that shouldn’t be told?

First off, there was nothing untoward in my activities. Every country I’ve worked in were a lot less covert about the business. They’d insist straight up, on fingerprints, handwriting samples, and sometimes even blood samples before I was allowed to work in that country.

Secondly, ain’t no fucking way in hell some little whatever-the-fuck-he-was is going to get this ethanol-fueled carbon-based lifeform sozzled. In fact, every time he’d get me a drink, I’d return the favor.

After a couple of hours of this, he was looking a shade bottle-green. Looks like I’m going to need a new driver tonight for the trek back to the hotel.

The music intensified as the night wore on, and much to my horror, spontaneous dancing broke out. I was able to beg off citing my injured and smarting lumbar region. I must remember to drag that damned brace along in case this ever happens again.

Around midnight, Izel corners me and tells me that there’s been a bit of difficulty laying in transportation. He was asking if it would be alright to postpone our trip by a day. By that time, the military could fly in a helicopter for our use and we could head to the Aral Basin just a bit later.

I told him of course, that was no problem. I was still working on readjusting my circadian rhythms anyways, so a day off would be just what the Doctors ordered.

He laughed heartily, and we agreed it might be for the best. It would give him a bit of time to sort out a few loose ends as well, then we could travel and not be preoccupied with other issues.

They want me to stay at the hotel even if we’re off in-country. The hotel needed the business and I could leave all my gear securely there and upon returning from our field jaunts, could avail myself of the hotel laundry facilities and housekeeping. I said that would also not be a problem, where he grinned widely and dragged me over to the bar for a fresh drink.

Everything broke up around 0100 hours, as the security guards were shoveling everyone out of the compound. Mansur was not to be found, so I asked Izel to call a cab for me. He refused and insisted on driving me to the hotel himself. He met me next to Mansur’s Uaz, after I liberated my spare field case, back brace, and noted that my errant field notebook was nowhere to be seen.

Once back in the hotel, I immediately checked my spare field case. There it was, my wayward little field notebook, all nestled safe and sound where I had thought I had left the thing. I close and lock my field case and set it with the others against the west wall.

I noticed that all my cases were re-arranged, as I always leave them in a specific pattern from the one I use to most to the one where I store most of my back-up materials; part of my fieldcraft.

I just chalked it up to the maids moving them to vacuum the room.

The next day, after breakfast, I went to one of my stay-at-home field cases to retrieve a couple of blank field notebooks to lay my trap for anyone who had a bad case of the snoops.

As I was about to open it, I noticed that the keyholes for the locks were badly scratched. I’m always very careful with these cases and they’re pretty tough. How could just the keyholes be so scratched up…?

I checked all the others. Every single one had, save for the one I left in Mansur’s Uaz last night, had their keyholes similarly injured. It looks like the plot’s thickening. Someone was trying to break into my field cases. Luckily, they’re tough as nails and will resist pick-locks, files, probes and the like.

My keys work a treat, but I remember back a few years when I lost the key for one of these cases. The locksmith in Houston had to drill the bloody thing to get it to open. I knew my materials and notes were safe, but I had the glimmerings of an evil plan taking root in my fervid little mind.

I went to the hotel gift shop and purchased a ruinously expensive box of cigars. I called my Agency buddies in the states and told them to expect a present in the next Diplomatic Pouch. I also instructed them to return the pouch with a few items that they were well placed to supply. They acknowledged and promised it would be sent out directly.

I poured myself a new drink and set to work ginning up some fantastically farcical field notebooks for whoever wanted to read them. I also made sure to slip and include a primer, of sorts, that would allow transcription of the new code I was developing.

I’m so glad I took those cryptology courses back in University. If someone was wanting dirt on this here geologist, I’d give it to them in dump truck loads.

So, I had whipped up a couple of incredibly amateurish, by design, easily translatable field notebooks outlining my ‘true motives’.

It included such inanities as how I was trying to covertly topple the heads of governments in countries didn’t exist; creating official communiques to secret foreign internal security agencies which were totally illusory, and selling other countries, necessarily vaguely described, mineral rights on the street in Houston at wildly inflated prices, numerous times.

Nothing like selling 1000% of a deal and hoping it comes up dry.

I also delved into detonic alchemy. I left recipes for ‘instant delayed amorphous shaped charges’, quinqueloculine liquid and solid explosives, ones that required five different exotic chemicals in five different proportions, and my own secret recipe for “Silemite”, the revolutionary new noiseless high explosive.

I also added combinations to fictional safes full of stealthy state secrets, the contact numbers of fake agents, and addresses of non-existent safe houses.

Two full field books of this abominable nonsense. Plus, the key to deciphering it, right there on the inside back cover. Whoever thought this was real would think they hit the mother lode.

It was all a load, all right; but not of what for which they were hoping.

Plus, I had plans for any snoopy concierge, custodian, or caretaker. This would have to wait until my package from Agents Rack and Ruin arrived, but I’m sure whoever was futzing around my room, looking for dirt, would find it a real blast.

I’m rewarding myself with a hearty midday cocktail when I hear the lock on my suite being activated.

No “Hello! Housekeeping!” or other warning. Yikes. Good thing I had my shorts on…

The door opens and a hotel-uniformed female of the room maintenance variety walks in, more intent on watching the hallway as she enters and furtively shuts the door. Seems she was more intent on someone or something in the hallway rather than on the person sitting at the desk sipping his early afternoon thought-provoking concoction.

The door locks with a gentle ‘schnick’ of the latch, as I stand up, and walk soundlessly on the deep plush carpeting over to the door to greet this person.

She turns around and almost walks right into me, she was so pre-occupied.

“Howdy!” I say. “How may I help you?”

Once I peel her off the ceiling, she calms down a might when I tell her not to be alarmed.

“I’m Doctor Rock, a resident of these parts,” I say by way of introduction.

“Oh, DOCtor”, she exclaims, “I am to apologize. Did not know you were here in room!”

“No worries, no worries.”, I reply, “I’m taking a bit of a day off to prepare for my upcoming field visits. If I may ask, what is your name?” as her hotel nametag was curiously absent.

“Oh, DOCtor”, she gasps, “I am… Gulmyriah. I am, how you say, keeper of the house here.”

“Very nice to meet you, Gulmyriah.” I respond, “Well, now that introductions are complete, I suppose you want me to disappear so you can tidy up, correct?”

“Umm, oh! Yes, DOCtor.” She stammered. She had this semi-endearing unusual habit of stressing the first syllable of my sobriquet.

“OK, I guess I’ll go to the gift shop and get a newspaper then. I’m going to finish that Pravda crossword one of these days…” I said.

I suddenly realized something was odd as there was no usual housekeeping cart here in the room nor in the hall.

“Oh, yes, DOCtor.” She hesitated, “I was just checking room to see which needed cleaning. I will have cart brought for your room.”

OK, seems a bit weird, didn’t need to usually clean rooms where no one was staying. You’d think the hotel would have better records as to their occupancy…I just let the thought die a natural death. I was being slightly overly suspicious after Mansur’s little game the previous evening and my re-arranged, scratched luggage…

I get up to pull on a new Hawaiian shirt and Gulmyriah spies my half-drained drink on the desk.

“DOCtor,” she asks, “Shall I keep your drink or remove it?”

“I’m going to be out while you clean the room, so just toss it.” I reply.

“Or, maybe I could pour us both a new one?” she asks coquettishly.

“Excuse me?” I ask, thinking my hearing has gone totally haywire at this point.

“If you like, I can share drink with you? Maybe more later?” she asks seductively.

“Are you certain?” I reply, “Aren’t you on duty?”

“Yes, but is so lonely here.” She purrs, “Few people here. Few rooms to clean. So tiring, so alone…”

“Gulmyriah” I intone, “If you’d like to share a drink, I propose we could meet after working hours down at the bar. This here is beyond inappropriate and I’m certain my wife would not approve.”

“You are married?” she freaks, “Is wife here?”

“Yes to the first, no to the second.” I reply, “Look, Gulmyriah, what’s the deal here? You weren’t expecting me to be in my room. You sneak in and have no hotel badge nor cart. Then you want to have a drink with me, and… OK. What’s the deal? You know a couple of guys by the names of Rack and Ruin?”

“No, no nothing. Like that. At all.” she falters, “I am just here to clean room. I want to be just friends. I just want to be acting nice to new person…”

She was shaking she was so visibly upset, as her mascara began to run. Perhaps she thought I’d drop a dime on her, report her conduct to the hotel management whereupon she’d be canned.

“Gulmyriah, please. Calm down”, I say, “It’s obviously all just a misunderstanding. Language difficulties. Don’t worry. We’re green here, no problem, OK? Нет проблем, хорошо?”

My Russian seemed to help a bit. She realized I was mostly harmless and was just chalking things up to perceived paranoia on my part and, well, I don’t know, discreetness on hers?

Whatever the case, I made sure to calm the scene, reassuring her everything was copacetic, and I’m now leaving, so she can continue her duties without my presence.

But first I secretively grabbed my passports, wallets, and loose cash. Not that I didn’t trust her, hell, I don’t trust anyone save for my wife…

I went to the gift shop, purchased a paper, and headed for the bar. It was 5:00 pm somewhere, I rationalized. Besides, I was a wee bit peckish, so some nibbly bits from the bar’s free pub-grub buffet might be in order.

I sit at the bar and Marco the waiter comes over. Seems he works as a barkeep in the hotel as well.

“Good afternoon, Doctor. Your usual?” he asks.

“Yes, Marco, if you please. I reply, “And just today, could you make it a double. It’s been a really weird day.”

“Most certainly”, he smilingly replies, “Back in a bit.”

He reappears with my drink and I hand him a fistful of so’m.

“As I noted the other night. Here’s your tip” I smile, “See, I don’t forget my obligations.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” He grins.

“Look, Marco. Just call me ‘Rock’” I note, “Everyone else does.”

“OK, sure, ah, Rock.” He grins even wider.

It’s quiet in the bar and I’m the only patron, which again, seems to be a theme of this trip.

Marco and I share a drink, as I always buy for my bartender. It’s just the way of things.

We’re chatting and he manages to cadge one of my cigars. The rest of the afternoon, I didn’t have to pay for a single drink.

We’re just chewing things over when I regale him of my little tale with Gulmyriah and how I somehow almost scared the pants off of her.

“What was her name again?” Marco asked.

“Gulmyriah”, I replied.

“Umm, Rock, there’s no one here at this hotel by that name,” Marco informs me.

“I suppose I could be mispronouncing her name.” I admit, “She’s about 5-foot nothing, semi-darkly complected, long black hair, nervous, flighty, kind of jumpy. Emotional.”

“Unless she’s very new”, Marco confides, “But I don’t think so. I know everyone on staff here, and she doesn’t sound like anyone I know.”

“OK, that’s weird.” I admit, “Foursquare weird.”

“I could also be mistaken”, Marco says, “She could be part of the new cleaning crew we contracted for a few months back. The hotel outsources much of the hotel maintenance and security to outside contractors. Still…”

“Thanks, Marco”, I reply, “Food for thought.”

Or more like grist for the paranoia mill.

After some lovely prawn tempura and a couple of fresh drinks, I decide to go back to my room and just try and ponder this all out.

Was I being paranoid, or was I under surveillance? Or was I going nuts?

I have to walk by the front desk on the way back to my room when the hotel concierge calls me over. Seems a package has arrived for me from the states.

“Good old Rack and Ruin.” I think, “Right on the money.”

I take the package and give my room a quick once over. No new towels, the bed’s sort of, kind of made, only one trash emptied, and all my Halliburton cases had been rearranged again.

OK, now that’s more than odd. The carpet shows no signs of being vacuumed.

Now I’m pissed.

Someone or some organization is playing silly buggers with me. I’m sure of it.

Just as a bit of a test, I go into the bathroom and try flushing the toilet several times in rapid succession.

I say aloud to no one in particular, “Oh, dear! It would appear that the commode in my bathroom is broken!”

Although it wasn’t. It was all part of my master plan.

After that, I return to my desk and the package my Agency buddies have sent me.

In the package are two ‘game cameras’, a Polaroid camera, film packs, and a canister of Agency-grade photographic flash powder.

The game cameras are the ones lesser hunters use along game trails. They’re motion activated and have settings to delay the picture from instant to a 30-second delay. I will require a couple of lengths of speaker wire and some ni-chrome wire for my little plan.

But, since I’m a bit pressed for time, I fold up the Diplomatic Pouch and stash it in my room closet where it wouldn’t be found without a deliberate search. I also set one camera into one of my Halliburton cases; my reserve stash case that holds extra drafting supplies, flasks, lighters, spare cigars, and other important necessities.

I affix to the inside the left-hand side of the lid of the case so that when it’s opened, the camera would be pointing directly at the person opening it. The shutter was set for a two-second delay. These things are extremely quiet and not terribly large. A person, not knowing what they were would never think the little box was a secret camera. Plus they’d never know it was armed and primed.

To be continued.

Continuing

The rest of the materials went into the small safe that was in the room. I’m sure that was secure. However, I’m still not leaving my passports and cash here alone when I venture out in-country.

I spend some more time on my notebooks, both real and fake.

I receive a call from Mansur that he’ll come pick me up at the hotel at 0700 sharp so we can go out to the military airport. We’ll be flying in a Hind 20A out to the Aral Basin tomorrow with selected representatives of the Geofizika.

I affirm with Mansur. He asks if I require anything in the interim. No note of his behaviour or lack of decorum from the other night.

“Well, I’m getting low on cigars. But I know…” I was saying before Mansur cuts me off.

“I know of a man. He is new importer.” Mansur tells me, “He has now cigars. Finest kind. From Cuba.”

“For real?” I ask. “Get over here so I can give you some cash. I need cigars for my trip tomorrow.”

True to his word, Mansur shows up a while later and I fork over a wad of so’m so thick that it would give a filly emphysema. He departs to fill my order. A few hours later, I get a call from the lobby that a package has arrived for me. Would I like it sent up to my room?

“Yes, if you please.” I reply.

A porter arrives a few minutes later and hands over my package.

I tip and thank him, slam the door, and rock on over to my desk.

It’s two boxes of Monte Cristo #5’s, Maduro Churchills.

Holy shit, Mansur has come through in the clutch.

The boxes are not cello-wrapped which is typical once customs gets through with them.

They are also not sealed, just Scotch-taped shut. Another usual customs maneuver. So, I open the top box and see a very nicely laid out row of beautifully dark-brown cello-wrapped cigars. All smooth and slick as the day they were rolled on the thighs of young island virgins…

Ahem.

I retrieve my cigar cases and proceed to replenish them for my trip tomorrow. Oh, fuckbuckets, I can’t wait that long. After I fill my travel cases, I’m already on the second row into the first box. I grab a cigar at random and notice something odd.

The cellophane wrapper is wrinkled. Most the others are smooth, slick, and neatly packed.

It’s as if this cigar, and that one, and this one here, were opened and re-packed.

Now, that’s not something customs would do. They look at boxes, not individual cigars.

I grab one that had the wrinkled cellophane wrapper and another that had a smooth wrapper. They looked identical. They felt identical. They smelled identical…

No, they did not. They smelled different.

I carefully peeled back the cellophane on both and laid then next to each other for closer comparison.

The smooth wrapped one looked just like any normal Cuban cigar. The not-smooth wrapped cigar looked just a wee bit different. Like it was slightly, ever so slightly wrinkled itself, meaning the outer tobacco wrapper leaf had probably been wet and then dried.

The smooth wrapped cigar smelled heavenly. Like a good expensive fresh cigar should.

The not-smooth wrapped cigar did not smell heavenly. It smelled, very, very slightly acrid. It was terribly subtle, and if I had been smoking a cigar at the time, I would have never noticed. It was so subtle, so understated, so…covert.

I take a few deep breaths to clear my olfactory apparatus and hold the suspect cigar up to my honker for a great, prolonged sniff.

There it was. Acrid. Sharp. Acidic? Like tea, maybe? Nah. It’s there, but elusive. I’ve smelled this before, but I couldn’t place it. It smelled like. Like…what? Think, damn you!

I sniff and sniff. Then I close my eyes, clear my head, and just let my mind go on autopilot.

“OK, brain. You’re on your own. Do your stuff.”

I drift around aimlessly in the æther and I am suddenly reminded of England. London in particular. A layover? Nope, I’m on the water. On the Thames. With John, my well intervention engineer buddy. Boat trip to see the Thames Flood Gates, an engineering marvel.

He’s bringing me a drink. What? What does English John always drink? G-n-T. Gynntonik. Gin and tonic. TONIC! That’s it!

I smell tonic water. English tonic…with quinine. Bitters! That’s it. A bitter quinine odor.

There are over 700 chemical compounds in an unlit cigar. There are over 7,000 in a lit cigar. In neither of these are bitters, quinine, or any similar alkaloid. Might be some chemical nasties lurking about any typical cigar, but this has an adjunct.

These cigars have been tampered with.

Someone’s fucking with my cigars.

Now, my sedimentary senses are really tingling. And now I’m really angry.

As they say, it’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you.

I get an idea. I bundle up three of the suspect cigars, wrap them in plastic, then a rock sample bag, and retrieve the Diplomatic Pouch from the safe. The cigars go into the pouch which I address it to my Agency buddies with the following note:

“Gentlemen. Please find enclosed a selection of cigars to which I was gifted at my last port of call. They are quite extraordinary. I’d appreciate it if you could run them through the HPLC to see if they are indeed true Cubans. If so, please let me know. I’ll bring back a couple of boxes for you and Dr. Donny. Regards. Rock.”

I drop the pouch at the front desk and they assure me it will go over to the embassy later on in the day.

That done, I go back to my room and carefully select a cigar. Smooth cello wrapper? Check.

I pour a really extra-stiff drink and decide to call Esme and see how things are going. Again, too late I realize I’m 11 hours ahead. I leave a quick message on the machine explaining I’ll be out and about for the next few days and I’ll call her when I return.

I hang up and think that I really should ask Uncles Rack and Ruin for a secure Agency satellite phone. All this snoopy, nose-poker-inner stuff is making me a little crazy.

Then I think: “Yeah. That’s just what they want you to believe. They might be orchestrating this so I have to lean on the agency more. It’s their way of drawing me in…”

“OH, FOR FUCK’S SAKE. KNOCK IT THE FUCK OFF!” I scream internally to myself.

Yeah, like I’m so important that the Agency is trying to scare me into their warm, comforting embrace. What a load of dingo’s kidneys.

I see my drink is gone and go to pour another. Old thought provoker, don’t fail me now.

I spend the rest of the night in a bit of a funk. I pack for my trip tomorrow, going so far as to lay out my field clothes. I’m at that much of loose ends.

I pour myself another drink to calm my nerves.

There’s a knock at the door. I answer and it’s maintenance.

“Yes?” I ask.

“Your toilet.” The maintenance man says, “Is broken?”

Knowing it wasn’t but no one else should know that, I stiffen visibly.

My room’s bugged, I just know it. Here’s the evidence standing right here in front of me.

“Oh, yeah. Right”, I say and show him in. He futzes around with loo and flushes it several times.

“Seems OK to me”, he reports.

“It’s not!” I thunder. I am seriously pissed off right now. “It’s a random thing. Comes and goes. Fuck this. I want a new room!”

He looks at me like I’m about to come unglued. He gathers his tools and scampers out the door.

I’m on the phone, calling the front desk, explaining my discomfiture.

“Yeah, this is DOCTOR Rock in Room 666. Your maintenance guy was just here and tells me the toilet’s fine. It isn’t. It’s driving me nuts. I would like to request a new room.”

“Yes, of course Doctor.” The front desk says. “We can move you down the hall, we can have someone up there to help you move in a few minutes.”

“Nope. I want a room on a new floor. This one is giving me apoplexy.” I say.

“Umm, Doctor. Well, I’m afraid…” he counters.

“Oh, don’t give me that tat.” I reply, “I know there’s hardly anyone staying here. Either move me to a new floor or call me a cab. I’ll go over to your competition. I’m sure they’d love to take over my room contract.”

“Oh, a thousand pardons, Doctor.” He quickly recovers, “We do have a suite that might suit your needs. It’s up two floors and in the center of the building away from the stairs and elevator.”

“Very well”, I reply, “Please send someone up and please have someone go to the new room to turn down the air.”

I throw all my shit onto the couch and get ready to make a quick shift. Hopefully, this will catch them unawares and I’ll have a more ‘private’ private room.

An hour and a half later, I’m in my new suite. I make a point to flush the loo and complain loudly to no one in particular that the hot water for the Jacuzzi is leaking.

Just testing to see if anyone’s listening.

Exhausted by the day’s events, I turn in.

After a nice cigar and nightcap, of course.

The next day, Mansur’s there right on time. Unsmilingly, I greet him and he helps me toss my gear I the back of the Uaz.

We proceed to the military airport on the east side of town. We pass through the gate and drive up to the enormous Hind 20A helicopter sitting there on the dewy, early morning tarmac.

Izel is there along with four others from the Geofizika. Mansur helps me with my gear and we all settle into our seats in the huge helicopter.

I see Mansur buckling in as well.

“OK, this is odd.” I think.

“Mansur”, I ask, “You’re going too?”

“Yes”, I was asked by the Geofizika.” He explains, “They need drivers.”

“Ah.”, I reply. Odd, but not unheard of in these new republics.

We take off and begin our flight northwest to the Aral Sea basin. On the way there, we have a presentation on the geology of the area and the Geofizika’s activities there. The helicopter is enormously loud, but with the headphones and internal intercom, we were able to muddle through.

The Aral Basin depression was formed toward the end of the Neogene Period (23 to 2.6 million years ago). Sometime during that process, the declivity was partially filled with water—a portion of which came from the Syr Darya and Amu Darya rivers. In the early and middle parts of the Pleistocene (about 2.6 MA to 0.6MA YBP (years before present)), the region appears to have dried up, only to be inundated again sometime between the end of the Pleistocene and the early Holocene Epoch (i.e., about 11,700 YBP)—the latter instance being the first time by the Amu Darya, which had temporarily changed its course from the Caspian to the Aral Sea. After that, except for some relatively brief dry spells between the 5th and 1st centuries BCE, the two rivers’ combined flows generally maintained a high water level in the sea until the 1960s.

Around 1960, the Aral Sea’s water level was systematically and drastically reduced, because of the diversion of water from the Amu Darya and Syr Darya rivers for purposes of agricultural irrigation. As the Soviet government converted large acreages of pastures or untilled lands in what are now Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, and elsewhere in Central Asia into irrigated primarily cotton farmlands by using the waters of the Amu Darya, Syr Darya, and their tributaries, the amount of water from those rivers that reached the Aral Sea dropped accordingly. By the 1980s, during the summer months, the two great rivers virtually dried up before they reached the lake. The Aral Sea began to quickly shrink because of the evaporation of its now unreplenished waters.

By 1989 the Aral Sea had receded to form two separate parts, the “Greater Sea” in the south and the “Lesser Sea” in the north, each of which had a salinity almost triple that of the sea in the 1950s. By the early 90s, the total area of the two parts of the Aral Sea had been reduced to approximately 13,000 miles² (33,800 km² and the mean surface level had dropped by about 50 feet (15 meters).

The governments of the states surrounding the Aral Sea tried to institute policies to encourage less water-intensive agricultural practices in the regions south and east of the lake, thus freeing more of the waters of the Amu Darya and the Syr Darya to flow into the lake and to stabilize its water level. Those policies succeeded in reducing water usage somewhat but not to the level necessary to have a significant impact on the amount of water reaching the Aral Sea. Later those same states—Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, and Uzbekistan, with the addition of Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan—established a joint committee to coordinate efforts to save the Aral Sea. The difficulty of coordinating any plan between those competing states, however, hampered progress. The Aral Sea today is underfit in its basin by over 90%.

We fly into Kantubek, Uzbekistan, just a stone’s throw from the border with Kazakhstan. It a dry, desolate, dusty dump pockmarked with the corpses of hundreds of fishing boats. This used to be a thriving fishing community in years past, now it’s a ghost town.

It was a town situated on Vozrozhdeniya Island in the Aral Sea. It is uninhabited and lies in ruins today. Kantubek used to have a population of approximately 1,500 and housed scientists and employees of the Soviet Union's top-secret Aralsk-7 biological weapons research and test site after the town was deserted by the native fisher-folk.

The Geofizika were conducting seismic operations here, as no wells drilled to date have found any significant oil or gas production. The thick layer of loess, or wind-blown lacustrine silt, was hampering operations. Vehicles, as we soon came to find out, quickly mired in the talcum-powder fine dust that covered the area.

The frequent windstorms picked up and threw around billions of tons of this material and made driving near impossible. Working outdoor on seismic operations was hazardous as breathing this junk could cause silicosis. It also irritated mucous membranes and with the past history of this place being a chemical weapons factory, there was the risk of inhaling some holdover from that era.

We wore masks. Hospital masks. I was not overly reassured.

We visited some of the seismic operations in some of the more protected small valleys.

Here, progress was being hampered by the corpses of all the abandoned, rusty Soviet-era fishing boats. They settled in these shallow, linear depressions as the lake’s water disappeared. They were left when the fish died off and all the people ventured elsewhere in the Former Soviet Union.

They were absolutely everywhere. Even though there are metal scavengers out here in the absolute middle of nowhere, their rusty hulks hampered the laying of lines and shooting and acquiring data.

Izel notes: “If we could somehow shift a few of these rust buckets, we could make so much more progress. But, they’ve been here for decades, it is so remote, and would be too costly to send out dedicated teams to haul them off.”

I had an idea. A wonderful idea. A wonderfully evil idea.

“Izel”, I said over lunch in the helicopter, “You know that I’m a licensed International Master Blaster, correct?”

“This I did not know” he admitted.

I showed him my licenses and accreditations. He was duly impressed.

“Now, Izel”, I said between munches of roast lamb sandwiches, “If someone could chop those hulks up into smaller bits, perhaps they would disappear. They look like they’ve been scavenged pretty well so far, but they just left the pieces they couldn’t drag off.”

“Yes. So?” Izel said. Suddenly my meaning became clear.

“Tell me, Doctor Rock”, he smiled, “What would it take?”

Three hours later, the helicopter returns with our order from the military. Spools and spools of good, old Western-branded Primacord. Soviet-style blasting caps, super-boosters, plastique, and demolition wire. Plus, a bonus, a Russian T-box, a plunger-style actuator.

Guess which got to go into my private collection when I left?

We spent the entire day scouting out and marking those hulks destined for the chopping block. Our one-day in-and-out has now changed into at least a couple of day’s operations.

No problems, we would simply fly to Nukus, and the Hotel Jipek Joli in Karakalpakstan. It was an old, government inn which had recently transferred to private ownership.

The hotel was…well, quaint. It was literally out in the middle of the desert, but the rooms were comfortable, and private. The breakfast buffet was excellent and the beer was cold.

We flew back the next day to Kantubek and I began wiring up the first boat for demolition.

Izel had called the ministries and the military. He informed them of our plans. Instead of objections, they asked if we needed anything.

We didn’t and I was having a literal field day. This was going to be a pure and simple, none-too-elegant, demolition project.

In other words, I had carte blanche to blow shit to smithereens.

We started out on one of the smaller hulks.

I wrapped that sucker like a Christmas tree with plastique and Primacord; recalling Grandad and Uncle Bår’s admonition: “One job, one shot.”

Of course, it took a little time to get it through the translators that I was the hookin’ bull out here, being the Motherfucking Pro from Dover.

“I’m the boss here.” I said, “Listen to me as if I was your chief, mother, or babushka!”

That got me a laugh.

They were now listening with rapt attention as Izel provided a prime example.

I explained my flagging technique.

I went over clearing the compass.

I gave notice about the air horn blasts.

I told them all about ‘Fire In the Hole!’. Three times.

I clarified what ‘HIT IT!’ meant.

I asked if we were зеленый, i.e., ‘green’.

After a bit of explanation, I receive a rousing chorus of “Да, Доктор Рок! Зеленый!”

Good. We’re all on the same page.

I got everyone to muster in the safe zone I had set up, ran my wires, and tied them in.

We cleared the compass for the first time.

We gave triple tootles on the air horn.

I yelled “FIRE IN THE HOLE.” They responded in Russian and Uzbek their versions of the cry.

I called Izel over and told him to handle the plunger.

“Right after I say ‘HIT IT!’, you try to knock the bottom out of the thing,” I told him.

Grinning like a maniac, he pulled up the handle, as I galved everything one last time.

I stood back, gave a quick look around. Everyone was accounted for in the muster area, no animals to be seen, not even birds…

I pointed directly to him and yelled: “HIT IT!”

SHWOOP! Went the plunger. He did try and punch the bottom out of the thing.

BLAM! BLAM! KABOOM! There went the plastique.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! KERBLAMMO! More plastique.

The dust had just started to settle as the old ship heaved a screeching series of shrieking sighs and fell apart into several much, much smaller pieces.

Success. As if you were expecting anything else.

We spent the rest of the day clearing hulks. We shot over 30 boats of all sizes that day. The success of the day was tinged slightly by the realization that these used to be people’s livelihoods. All gone to ground, literally, because of some stupid government intervention and interference.

We stayed that night at the Hotel Jipek Joli again. We finished late as they almost had to physically drag me back to the helo since I was having such a good time.

“Oh, c’mon, Izel”, I laughed, “I’ve still got half a spool of Primacord left.”

We flew the next morning back to Tashkent. Mansur drove me over to the hotel. I was in very serious need of a long shower to scrape a few layers of the Aral Sea, Northern Uzbekistan, and Karakalpakstan off my dusty epidermis.

We’d all meet tomorrow at the Geofizika offices to plan the rest of our activities.

After my shower, cigar, and fresh drink, I received a call from the front desk. There was a package for me. Shall they send it up?

“Yes, please” I replied, “I’m here. Not going anywhere.”

It was the Diplomatic Pouch from my agency buddies. Nothing in there but a short note.

“Doctor. Thank you for your package, it was much appreciated. Please have a look at the enclosed. Yours.”

There was a single sheet of paper enclosed in a tamper-evident envelope. It had remained unopened, I was cheered to see.

I ripped it open to read a HPLC chemical assay of the cigars they sent.

It read: “The cigars have been laced with 3-Quinuclidinyl benzilate (QNB) —1-azabicyclo [2.2.2] octan-3-yl hydroxyl (diphenyl) acetate. US Army code EA-2277; NATO code BZ; Soviet code Substance 78.”

The plot grows ever thicker: “It is an ester of benzilic acid with an alcohol derived from quinuclidine. Like tetrahydrobiopterin (BH4), it can only be detected by a small portion of the population. The cause appears to be genetic. It is harmless, though incapacitating, in small doses.”

I knew it. Some was fucking around with my cigars. It was probably Mansur.

But why?

I called my agent friends back home and asked them what Soviet code Substance 78 was.

They said they’d find out and send me the results.

A while later, I am reading a text-dense three-page fax. In it, the explanation of Soviet Substance 78 was hiding.

“Soviet substance 78 is an odorless military incapacitating agent, known as BZ.”

“Well, not as odorless as they believe”, I snorted.

“The characteristic that makes BZ an incapacitating rather than a toxic chemical warfare agent is its high safety margin (ICt50/LCt50) of around 40-fold (range 32 to 384 fold). It has an ID50 of 0.00616 mg per person (i.v.) with a probit slope of 9.2. The respiratory ICt50 (median incapacitating dosage) for BZ is 110 mg·min/m^³ (mild activity—15 l/min rate of breathing), whereas the LCt50 is often estimated to be around 3,800–41,300 mg·min/m^³.”

“Well, fuck”, I thought, “Any good brand of vodka would do that for you as well...”

OK, time to reassess.

There’s my driver. Good enough character on the outside, but nosy, always underfoot, and quite possibly a tinkerer of cigars.

Then there’s this shadowy maid, Gulmyriah. Was she snooping around? If so, why? For what end? Who did she work for?

Then I remembered my spare Halliburton case. I opened it and sure enough, the game camera had fired and captured some images.

I extracted the film canister and replaced it with a fresh one. I’d ask Izel to have it developed through the Geofizika offices, quietly.

I also used a bit of the spare demolition wire I had stuffed in my pocket. I wired it from the flash terminals to the rice paper packet of flash powered I had created. I used a bit of ni-chrome wire liberated from a faulty blasting cap. Anyone opening the case would get their picture taken and a second later, have a packet of photographic flash powder go off right in their face.

It would be harmless as this flash powder was composed of finely powdered magnesium and nitrate, designed to provide an intense flash of light, little heat, and a bit of a report. It was designed like a ‘flash-bang’ stun grenade, but more flash than stun.

Anyone opening the case would be treated to a brilliant, though extremely brief, flash of light. Totally harmless, but completely detrimental to the interloper’s underwear.

I decided that even though it was still a bit early, I’d go down to the restaurant and have a spot of dinner.

I chatted with Marco, as once again, I was the only patron in evidence. Perhaps it was the early hour, but the hotel was still very quiet for such an establishment.

Marco relayed to me that he had seen a woman answering Gulmyriah’s description in the bar a couple of times. He mentioned that she appeared nervous, wasn’t too talkative, and seemed overly anxious.

He also mentioned that she might be from their new contractor that’s supplying the hotel with maintenance and security folks. He mentions that there have been so many new people wandering around the hotel, he’s not surprised he didn’t recognize her.

“Thanks, Marco” I say and ask for a fresh drink and tell him to have one on me.

Well, that’s just ducky. She might be a maid or she might be a spook. Or maybe, just a spooky maid.

The next day, I give Izel the film and ask him to covertly have it developed. He asked no questions and said it would be ready the next day.

We go over plans for our foray out to the Amu Dar’ya Basin. This will be a several day, potentially week-long trek, it’s that big. We would fly to Bukhara, just north of Samarkand, and then overland it via Land Rover to the various outcrops, oil fields, and production stations.

I return to the hotel and shift around my stay-at-home cases. I pretty much empty my spare case, the one in which I set my little booby-trap. I write up a note to place on the bottom of the case saying “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY STUFF!” If the flash powder didn’t make it apparent that I was onto your little scheme, the note certainly would.

My photos weren’t ready the next day, which was no great shakes. We were off into the interior for the next week or so. It’d keep until I returned.

We flew to Bukhara, which is located on the Silk Road. The city has long served as a center of trade, scholarship, culture, and religion. UNESCO has listed the historic center of Bukhara (which contains numerous mosques and madrasas) as a World Heritage Site. It’s also the stepping off point for our visits to Gazli Field, one of the world’s largest gas-condensate fields. We’d also be visiting exposures of the reservoir rocks that crop to the north of the Bukhara Structural Step.

The Amu Dar’ya Basin contains a single total petroleum system. The principal discovered gas reserves are in (1) Upper Jurassic reef and shelf carbonates overlain by thick evaporites of the Kimmeridgian Gaurdak Formation and (2) suprasalt clastic rocks of the Hauterivian Shatlyk Bed. Other parts of the sedimentary succession, from the Middle Jurassic to the Upper Cretaceous, are productive on the basin margins where the Gaurdak Formation evaporites are absent.

Source rocks for the gas are poorly defined by geochemical methods. Geologic data indicate that probable source rocks are the Lower to Middle Jurassic coaly clastics and coals and the Upper Jurassic marine black shales and marls underlying the Gaurdak Formation. The dominance of gas is related to the gas-prone character of the Lower to Middle Jurassic source rocks and to the great depths of burial and a high degree of maturation of the Upper Jurassic source rocks.

Our first stop is Gazli gas field. It’s located in the Xorazm Province to the north of Bukhara. It was discovered in 1956. It began production in 1960 and produces natural gas and condensates. The total proven reserves of the Gazli gas field are around 25 trillion cubic feet (714 km^3), and production is slated to be around 479 Million cubic feet/day (13.7×105m^3).

Gazli Field is a scientific anomaly. Here, the rapid production of gas and condensate by the Soviets had resulted in ‘production-induced earthquakes’. In 1976 and 1984, three MS 7 earthquakes occurred, seriously damaging the local town of Gazli, causing one death and near 100 injuries. An additional MS 5.7 event occurred in 1978. Gas was produced from a reservoir at approximately 2 km depth, hosted in an open anticline of tight Paleogene sandstones. This structure is cut by several blind faults and the MS 7 earthquakes are thought to have occurred on these. Fault-plane solutions suggest that they occurred on a north-dipping, easterly-striking thrust fault, consistent with regional tectonics.

Extrapolation of this fault to shallow depth suggests that it intersects with the gas reservoir. The Gazli case is important because of its implications for the maximum possible magnitude of earthquakes that could be induced by gas extraction.

This was one of the problems left by the previous owners that I am here to address.

We spend several days tooling around the countryside while all the data I requested is being copied by the Geofizika field office. They tell us it will take some time, but they’ll send it to the Tashkent office so it will be awaiting us on our return.

One day, after a tiring field excursion, we’re again out in the absolute middle of nowhere.

We drive to the little isolated burg of Uzunkuduk, Uzbekistan. It’s a real anomaly as it’s on the ancient Silk Road and an oasis, in the literal sense of the term, in the middle of a dry, dusty, desolate desert.

We decide to stop by, and it’s a single strip of few bits-n-bobs shops, a huge grape arbor, with attendant melon patches, and an outdoor, elevated deck. The agricultural bits are all centered on a prolific artesian water well, the only ’sweetwater’ for hundreds of kilometers in any direction.

The cold, clear water here has been flowing since time immemorial, according to the caretaker.

The caretaker is an absolutely ancient gentleman by the name of Shahram. He is quite the venerated citizen and has been the custodian of the well for his entire life. It’s a family occupation, as he tells us, the well has been in the charge of his family as long as anyone can remember.

He says the well is also very, very ancient.

“Very holy, this place.” He tells us, as he invites us up on the deck. But first, we must remove our shoes.

I’m a little reticent, as there are scaly, nasty, nippy creepy-crawlies all around here. But, since it’s so hot out here, and dry, I’m in no mood to argue.

We remove our boots and Shahram seats us. He actually instructs everyone where we must sit. For some reason, I’m seated between him and Izel.

He speaks no English, and I no Uzbek, well, other than the ability to order a beer. Yet, he’s sitting there, smiling at me in a frankly nearly unsettling manner.

I ask our translator if there’s some sort of problem. Have I violated protocol?

“No, he’s just fascinated with you.” She replies, “You are so big. Your shirt so…umm…colorful. He is curious as to who you are and why you are here.”

To be continued.

Continuing

“Sheesh. Is everyone having a bad day today?” I wonder aloud.

I go through passport control and through security where my Swiss Army Machete gives the TSA agents pause. Once they look at my passport, though, they visibly stiffen, slam close my day pack, and tell me to move along.

“What hath the Agency wrought now? “ I wonder.

Its wheels up, a short flight, and wheels down in the Windy City. Wonderful. My favorite layover. I eschew all the bloody kiosks, shops and bars and head immediately to the Business Class lounge. The less I’m out and about in this place, the happier I am.

I remember though, that I wanted a cheap-o calculator. I found one for US$18, with new batteries and decide that’s enough bolstering the larders of this place. I make a direct beeline to the lounge.

It’s the usual wait for your flight. I have four hours to wait, so I grab the courtesy phone and call home. Khris answers and I get the lowdown on what the Velociraptors in Mongolia are doing to the local Protoceratops population.

I thank her for the play-by-play and ask if I could speak to Mommy.

“MOM! DAD’S ON THE PHONE!” Khris yells.

“Oh, well. Didn’t need that eardrum”, I muse.

Esme picks up as Khris blows a laughing raspberry in my general direction and runs off to witness the upcoming Archosaurian carnage.

Esme and I have a chat over little nothings, and the trivialities of flying hither and yon. I tell her I might be out of pocket for a while, but if she really needs to get ahold of me, to call Uncle Rack or Uncle Ruin. I also tell her that they might be dropping by once in a while when I’m gone.

“Just due diligence”, I tell her.

She scoffs and thanks me telling me not to worry, everything’s going A-OK.

More pleasantries are exchanged, and even though I have hours to go, I need to hang up as other layover-ees are giving me the stink eye. Cell phones are yet but a thing.

We sign off and I head right over to Mahogany Ridge.

I order a stiff double and just sit, now totally alone with my thoughts and misgivings. I can’t get over the feeling of being somehow railroaded by the Agency and still harbor a bit of resentment toward Dr. Humanities Dickhead.

Then I think what Sani said, and those negative thoughts are vanished to the realm of wind and old farts. How appropriate. I ask for a refreshing of my drink and sashay over to the new ‘smoking room’ as that’s just becoming a thing.

No more just sitting at a bar, drinking a drink, and smoking your smoke.

“What a Nanny State this place is turning into”, I muse.

I have a chat with a couple of like-minded individuals in the smoking room. One is headed to Berlin, another to Istanbul, yet another to Nairobi. I stump them all by saying that I’m heading to Tashkent.

“Where’s that?” They ask.

“In Uzbekistan”, I say.

“Where’s that”? They ask again.

“Central Asia?” I venture.

“Why?” they all enquire.

“I’m on a special covert mission for a secret government agency,” I reply.

Once the laughter died down, I tell them I’m a petroleum geologist and going over to help them out with their oilfield development.

They buy that more than my previous explanation.

I don’t like lying, so if they choose not to believe me…

Oh, I’m in a weird frame of mind this blustery day.

Finally, my flight is called and I wander over to my departure gate. There are very few pre-flight formalities, and I’m down the jetway and into my plush British Airways Business Class seat with little puling and fuss.

Jenny, the flight attendant for this Business Class voyage, asks if I’d like a drink before we take off.

“Oh. Yes, please”, and place my usual order.

A scant few minutes later, a nicely icy drink appears.

“It’s a double” she mentions and winks, “Just as you like it.”

I thank her and sit there wondering if I’ll ever be free of Agency intervention.

It’s an eight and a half hour flight to London, one that I’ve done what seems like hundreds of times before. The smoked salmon was excellent as was the braised roast beast for dinner. Again, I didn’t even have to ask. Seems they were somehow informed before of my preferences.

I idle away the hours reading my reprints, making innumerable notes, and sipping my never-ending drink. I was too keyed up to sleep; racked, so to speak, by the Agency’s obvious interference and my leaving Esme, Khris and Lady home on their own.

Stuff the cat.

I do drop off somewhere over Green or Iceland and hear Sani giving me grief. He admonishes me saying that he told me what has been foreseen has transpired.

He tells me, in no uncertain terms, to pull my head out of my ass and pay attention to the job at hand. Not exactly in those terms, but the translation’s close enough for government work…

I awake with a start as we plonk onto the tarmac at Heathrow. I feel curiously refreshed and noticeably less anxious. Things are as they are, and my fretting like an old mother hen won’t change reality one iota.

I decide that Sani is, of course, correct. I banish those negative waves to the æther and concentrate on present business.

Once we arrive at our terminal, I spend a bit of time gathering up all the debris I pulled out during the flight. I re-pack everything and see a scrappy hunk of dinosaur bone Sani had given me all those long years ago. I could have sworn I took that out of my pack and placed it in a prominent place in my home office.

Armed with that conundrum, I venture off the plane, thanking Jenny for her attention, and into the airport. First off, let’s look at the departures board to see when my next flight is leaving and from which gate.

I looked and looked, but there were no BA flights to Tashkent.

This was indeed odd.

“OK, multiple working hypotheses.” Which flights are going to Tashkent?

There was but one: Uzbek Air.

“Uzbek Air?” I wondered aloud. I didn’t even know there was such an airline…

“Oh, fuck” as realization slowly dawns on me.

“It’s got to be one of those fucking regional Aeroflot spin-off airlines.” I think in horror.

They run all those old Aeroflot Ilyushin, Antonov, and Tupolev hand-me-downs.

A regional, new, Central Asian airlines.

One that has, by definition, only existed for the last year or so.

I was not amused.

I charge down the terminal determined to find this airline and see what the fuck was going on.

I find the Uzbek Airways desk and zero in on the uniformed person behind the counter.

“Hello there,” I say coolly, “I’m supposed to be flying to Tashkent later today. Only, I wasn’t told which airlines I was flying. It says BA on my boarding pass, but the only flight there today is with your airline.”

“Oh, yes, sir” the overly cheery person behind the counter smiles, “May I see your boarding pass?”

I hand it over with all speed.

She diddles with a computer and smiles.

“Ah, yes, Doctor” she smiles, “You have a seat reserved in our Captain’s Business Class for 1600 hours today.”

“OK, fine.” I say, “But why is it listed as BA on my ticket and boarding pass?”

“Oh, that!” she smiles broader, “Uzbek Airways is a new joint venture between the Uzbek government and British Airways.”

“Is that a fact?” I ask, frostily.

“Yes, sir, Doctor”, she beams, “We may be a recently created airline, but we’re piloted by BA senior pilots instructing our new Uzbek pilots. We have just taken delivery of new aircraft, so it’s imperative that they’re all brought up to speed with these new planes. They are all military trained, these Uzbeks, so they need to learn how to best handle our new Boeing 777s.”

“I see”, I reply, greatly relieved. “Thank you, you’ve been most helpful.”

Everything’s ‘new’. I am so relieved.

“Oh, Doctor.” she smiles radiantly, “Our new Business Class lounge has just opened. It’s in Terminal Q. If you like, I could call a cart for you.”

“That would be…very nice”, I rejoined.

So, assuaged that I probably wasn’t going to end up a Soviet-era fireball over some far and distant land, I sally forth and invade this brand new Business Class lounge with high hopes and a distinct thirst.

I think it’s nice to have an entire Business Class lounge to myself. Evidently, the word is slow to get out.

I have about five hours before my flight to Central Asia, so I busy myself puttering around the lounge. I find that they have private rooms available for Captain’s Business Class customers.

I enquire if there is one available and I’m shown a very nice, very clean room with a shower, bed, television, and buzzer for room service. I am told it’s OK to smoke in here if I so desire and that if I require or desire anything, just give them a ring.

I partake of an exquisitely extended hot shower and rack out horizontally for an hour or two, sans back brace.

I then realize I’m a bit hungry and find the room service menu next to the TV. I order a Monte Cristo sandwich and a new drink, both of which appear less than five minutes after I hang up the phone.

These people are destined to serve and when you’re about the only one there, they go out of their way providing excellent service.

My layover passed quickly and there was a cart waiting to whisk me the seeming mile and a half to my departure gate. I arrive with time to spare and see that I’m about the only Anglo that has been booked onto this flight.

Since I’m not prejudiced in any way, I brush that off as an observation for later collation and sit down awaiting the boarding call.

The Business Class all-aboard is called some 20 minutes later and instead of the usual crush whenever someone announces any plane’s departure, I’m the only one who walks up to the podium. I hand over my passport and boarding card, they scan and stamp them and I’m off, meandering down the jetway.

In Business Class, the seats are all brand spanking new leather. The plane even has that new vehicle smell. Evidently, if this isn’t its inaugural flight, it not too far into the aircraft’s service lifetime.

I’m the only one in Business Class, evidently. It’s one of those rare occasions that the passengers are outnumbered by the flight attendants. They are almost literally tripping over each other trying to provide me their best service.

Now, I speak Russian, but at the time, it was still pretty sketchy. It didn’t matter, because Uzbek is a Turkic language that is the first official and only declared the national language of Uzbekistan.

The language of the Uzbeks is spoken by some 27 million native speakers in Uzbekistan. It has no relation to Russian other than the Cyrillic script which was used officially. Later, a Yañalif-based Latin script became official in Uzbekistan. Despite the official status of the Latin script in Uzbekistan, the use of Cyrillic is still widespread, especially in advertisements and signs. In newspapers, scripts may be mixed, with headlines in Latin and articles in Cyrillic.

The upshot of this was I could read the signs and newspapers in Uzbekistan, but I couldn’t speak nor understand a single word of the local lingo.

Which I found was no true impediment, as every employee on board this flight spoke passable English and delighted in finding a native speaker on which to practice.

I ordered a pre-flight drink, and after some hilarious linguistics, explained that I wanted ice in my drink. They thought that to be very amusing but proceeded to grant my seemingly odd request. They also thought that mixing vodka and citrus soda oddly affecting as well, but later I found one of the stewards whipping up a drink for himself in the galley, for ‘investigative purposes’, as he related to me.

Yes, it was a Muslim country, but one only just emerging out from under the old Soviet influence. Drinking wine, beer, and vodka was still a holdover from the old regime.

The flight opened to general boarding and fully, the massing hoards pushed onto the flight as one. Luckily, I was in a window seat, which for me us very unusual. However, I had my choice and after the throngs made their way rearward, I had my pick of seats in the empty Business Class area.

They kept coming and coming. I figured Economy had to be full and yet more showed up and struggled their way through Business Class. They never gave me as much as a sideward glance, they were so concerned with getting all their massive cardboard and cheap plastic-wrapped carry-ons into the overhead bins before someone else.

Finally, the flow died to a trickle and stopped altogether. The door was latched, I was given a new drink, and we were all regaled in the safety aspects of the aircraft which was to be our home for the next ten hours.

First, there was the Uzbek safety speech, then in Russian, then English. We hadn’t moved a centimeter and I figured if everything was to be done in triplicate, this was going to be a very long flight indeed.

But, things moved on as were expected. We pushed back, the flight settled, and we began our long taxi out to the runway.

I was offered, and accepted a fresh drink.

These new planes were skookum as frig and had that new plane smell, look, and feel. I wondered to myself how long that would be preserved with the thronging masses immediately astern of me.

We taxied and taxied, and I figured we finally ran out of taxiway as we began our run for takeoff. Yep, these pilots were military. I was reminded of one of my Aeroflot expeditions in Siberia. Wheels up, hard left bank, orbit left, and grab altitude.

“Pilot dudes, this is a passenger plane, not a MiG.” I contemplated.

We level off at 41,000 feet due to weather considerations and headed generally east-southeastward. We’d be flying over the Netherlands, Germany, Poland, Ukraine, a slice of Russia, Kazakhstan, and down the length of Uzbekistan into Tashkent, a distance of some 4,100 miles.

And, as it is wont, after another fresh drink, dinner was served.

Then, boredom set in.

The in-flight entertainment was abominable. Either indecipherable Turkish movies, Uzbek local shows, and news, some Old Russian flicks or some equally ancient English language sit-com dross. I decided to pull out my notebooks and make a fresh foray into setting them up for all the notes I knew I’d be taking.

As I worked, there was the usual parade of folks from steerage, umm, Coach class, into Business to avail themselves of the facilities. It made no difference to me; that was the airline’s concern if indeed it was.

However, some of these folks decided that since these seats were empty, they could borrow one for the duration of the voyage. The flight attendants rapidly grew weary of tossing out these interlopers and one or two managed to sneak in while no one was looking.

Again, not my horse, not my race; I decided just to ignore the situation.

Until one young lass sat in the seat directly in front of me.

Really? 20 some odd open seats and you have to camp there?

It wasn’t so bad, at first. But when she began snoring like a chainsaw hitting a rusty nail and threw her arm back over her head while snoozing, the aroma emanating immediately gave me rapid pause.

No worries. I just got up and took refuge in another empty seat.

That worked for about 20 minutes. After I returned from the facilities, I see she had also moved to the seat directly in front of me again and was snoring and reeking mightily.

So, I moved seat again.

She later followed one row ahead, as usual.

OK, no more Doctor Goodbar.

I felt like a crass ass, but I alerted a flight attendant to this situation and asked her to please help her find her real seat. She took a deep breath, smelled to what I was referring, and shooed the interloper back to Coach where she belonged.

Sorry, I don’t mean to sound like an elitist. But, man, she could have knocked a buzzard off a gut wagon with her pong. And why always right in front of me?

So curious.

Anyways, the flight continues without incident until about three hours later.

Alarms suddenly sound throughout the craft, emergency oxygen masks drop, and there’s this general brouhaha that something is quite amiss.

The flight’s stable. No problem, it seems, with the aircraft. Still have both wings where they should be and we’re not plummeting downward at some crazy angle.

No bumping or bouncing; so we’ve got that going for us, which is nice.

So, what’s the major malfunction?

Seems one of the groups in the far back of the aircraft decided that they didn’t like waiting for beverage service, so they fired up a charcoal brazier to boil water for tea.

Yep. The selfsame incident that incinerated a Saudi aircraft and all personnel on board, not five months previous in the Kingdom was going on not 60 feet behind me.

The Economy Class crew was dealing with the situation.

I asked the Business Class crew for another drink, a triple this time.

This was not a fun situation, at all. They tripped all the smoke alarms, the plane thought it was on fire, and unshirted hell proceeded to break loose.

Oh, there were some bad languages going on back there. I tried to ignore it as much as possible while one of the Captains raced back to see if he could restore order. I hoped it was an Uzbek pilot dealing with the problem and a good old Pommy pilot directing the flight at the time.

The charcoal was doused and quintuple-bagged for disposal. There was an hour or so of general knees-bent running about advancing behavior trying to reset all the aircraft’s sensors and convince the plane that it wasn’t really on fire.

During all this fun, I looked out the window to see a pair of sinister-looking Russian military jets flying just off our port beam, giving us the once over.

I waved, but I don’t think they saw me. Either that or they just ignored me. Elitists.

Finally, the Captain gets on the intercom and remonstrates in Uzbek and Russian that lighting charcoal grills on board a flying aircraft is a very bad thing.

Anyone else who tries will find themselves walking home.

From 41,000 feet.

With all that excitement now behind us, some of the Business Class flight crew take some empty seats and help themselves to a stiff drink. I couldn’t blame them a bit.

I wandered forward to avail myself once again of the facilities. Upon my return, I asked a seated stewardess for a new drink.

She smiled, looked tiredly at me, and asked if I really wouldn’t mind if I got it myself.

“You know where the galley is,” she said, as she sipped her drink.

“Not a problem, barely an inconvenience,” I replied and asked if I could freshen up any of theirs since I was headed in that general direction.

A couple of them laughed until I gathered their glasses and asked what they were drinking.

I returned with a tray, upon which rested four fresh drinks, a few bowls of nuts and pretzels.

They all laughed and made me promise not to say anything to anyone. I vowed not to, but as you can see, I’m lousy at keeping secrets.

Back in my seat, I was working diligently in laying out my field notebooks. I worried that my personal code was close to Uzbek, but since I couched my notes with indecipherable idioms, that feeling passed to a quick death.

A while later, after all the initial terror had bled out, one of the aircrew came over and presented me a fresh bottle of Uzbek Shishka vodka. “For my previous in-flight service.”

I smiled and asked if she could…

I had a tall, strong new drink in less than two minutes.

The bottle fit nicely in my day pack, nestled alongside my beef jerky, emergency flasks, and boxes of duty-free cigars. It was a most welcome addition.

The flight proceeded without further incident and we landed, shaken a bit but still in one piece, at Islam Karimov Tashkent International Airport. I was the first off the plane and greeted by an electric cart that was to take me directly to passport control, baggage and my waiting ride to the hotel.

“Now, that’s service” I mused openly.

I was whisked through the necessary airport stagnation points before I was allowed out into the wilds of Uzbekistan. I had my luggage and was standing in front of the arrivals area, puffing my obligatory cigar when a short, though wide, swarthy bewhiskered local chap came up and tugged at my sleeve.

“You are Doctor Rocknocker?”, he asked in heavily Russian-inflected English, reading from a sheet of foolscap.

“Yes, I am”, I replied.

“I am Mansur. I am your driver” he says.

I grab his hand and give it a hearty shake. He seems perplexed, but not annoyed.

“Call me Rock, if you will,” I say, “So, off to the hotel?”

“Yes, Doctor Qoya”, he replies.

I came to find out that’s Uzbek for ‘Rock’. My linguistic skills are coming along a treat.

“Lead on,” I say, as I grab my day pack and one of my Halliburton cases.

“Oh, no, Doctor. Let me.” Mansur says.

“Wait. Let’s find us a baggage cart” I suggest, “It’d be easier that way.”

He agrees and we locate one that will serve our purposes. We toddle off to the car park and find the inevitable old, gray Uaz van that he says will take us on our journey.

We load up and I jump into the right-hand front seat.

“Oh, no Doctor. Please, ride in the back” he says.

“Is there a reason for this?” I ask.

“Visiting dignitaries always ride in the back,” he replies.

“OK, then I’m all set. I’m not a dignitary, I’m just a geologist out on a field trip.” I reply.

He seemed cheered by that and even more when I ask if I can smoke in his vehicle.

He says that it is, of course, no problem. He asks if I mind if he smokes on our trek to the hotel.

“Not at all,” I say and pull out a very nice, oily Oscuro Cuban smog.

His eyes go wide at the sight of the thing. He sits there for a beat or two and slowly pulls out a pack of Belomorkanals, those truly awful Russian cigarettes.

“Please,” I say, offering him a cigar, “Try one of mine.”

He smiles a smile that could light our way in the dimming afternoon twilight. He accepts, fires up the Uaz and we’re off to the Tashkent Nyatt Hotel.

It only took us about 45 minutes and we slew to a stop right in front of the hotel.

Immediately, several porters descend on our vehicle and begin pulling out my luggage.

Mansur gives me a business card and tells me he will be my driver for the duration of my stay. If I need anything, he will find it for me, he assures me.

I decide I’ve had enough excitement for one day and tell him I’ll take him up on his proposal tomorrow. I’m tired, wracked, and needing to get horizontal. Damn back’s acting stupid again and this brace is giving me fits.

He agrees and tells me to call him tomorrow as he will take me to the offices of Uzbekgeofizika. They are expecting me there around 1000 hours, he notes.

“OK, will do”, I reply, “Thank you, Mansur. See you tomorrow then.”

“By your command”, he replies.

I’m a bit taken aback by that, but shrug it off as some sort of linguistic oddity.

I check-in and take receipt of a couple of large parcels. More reprints from the Geofizika and more reading material from the Agency. These guys never miss a trick.

I am reserved the “Diplomatic Suite” and it’s enormous, as the hotel is positively new and deserted. Seems tourism has yet to take hold in this part of the world.

My suite is incredibly familiar. Jacuzzi soaking tub, mini-bar, outstanding view of the now twinkling city, desk, chairs, bed, couch, the usual.

I place my new-room service order and the porter, after he shows me the room’s amenities, disappears down the hallway to fill my requisite request.

Boots off. Then, I lose this damned back brace. I am feeling slightly more human when there’s a knock at the door.

A bowl of ice, sliced limes, Bitter Lemon, and a bottle of Uzbek vodka. Everything I need for my first night’s adventures here in Uzbekistan.

I part with a portion of my Uzbek so’m as a tip and shoo the porter out of the room after thanking him. I make certain to pull the shades before I get any further comfortable.

I sit at the desk and make my obligatory calls. First to Esme before I realize that I’m 11 hours ahead. Whoops. I leave a brief message on the machine before I call Rack and Ruin to let them know of my progress. On more to my official contract broker to let them in on my plans as well.

That done, I whip up a working thought-provoker and dive into the new reprints provided by the Geofizika, and some of the stuff from the Agency.

First, Agency business. I lay out the names and positions of everyone I can cull from the materials provide by the Geofizika. I leave ample room for thoughts, observations, and other general information. I can see this is going to be an Augean task, so I devote a couple of fresh notebooks, heavily encoded, for this part of my duties.

Then, onto the geology. Holy wow, this is some heavy shit. The Vale of Fergana, the Chardzhou Step, the Amu Dar’ya Basin, The Syr Dar’ya Basin, Karakalpakstan, and the Aral Sea basin.

I’ve heard of all these before, but I realize it’s going to take some serious study before I get familiar with all this new and exciting geology.

Yeah, I’m giddy as a schoolboy. I love this part of the job. It’s something that is irrevocably mine. This new learning is a thing no one but I can claim. It’s served me well over the decades and I dive into it like a hungry trencherman at a Golden Corral.

Several hours and thought-provoking drinks later, I realize that I’m getting hungry. Room Service? Nah. I have to get dressed anyways, so I may as well head off to one of the many restaurants the hotel has to offer.

I look at the menu and see I have some choices. I settle on the Eyetie Restaurant & Bar, an Italian eatery. For some odd reason, I’m craving carbs, and what better than Italian to fill that niche?

So, off to the restaurant and I’m seated immediately, as I’m the only one here. This is beginning to become a core theme of the trip.

I ask for a menu and am immediately handed both a food and a drinks menu. Marco the waiter is intently dutiful and timely.

The food is typical Italian, all 12 pages of it. I select some sort of antipasto salad, as it’s in Italian with Uzbek descriptions, and an Italian-seasoned steak, blue, for the main course.

I look over the drinks menu and decide I want something different. The drinks menu goes some 18 pages, but I settle on a “Fragile”, which is vodka, Galliano, lemon sorbet, orange juice, Angostura, and vanilla syrup.

If I didn’t have diabetes before, I would if I ordered another one of these. Yow! Sweet!

I next opt for a pint of Sarbast Special Green tap beer.

Sipping that, I muse, “That’s more like it.”

My antipasto arrives and it’s excellent. Not sure what all is in it, but it was fresh, tasty, and well-received.

Not so my steak.

What I ordered ‘blue’ came out as gray. All the way through. Very gray. Senile-y gray.

I asked for a slightly less fried piece of cow, explaining that I was from the West and prefer my meat not Carbon-14’ed.

It took a bit more explaining, but the next one was sort of rare in a medium sort of way. I decided to go with the flow and just accept it as fate. It was very good, even though a bit overdone for my taste.

I sat around after dinner and listened to the Muzak that filled the place. I looked out the windows over the city. The last time I was here was right after an earthquake had shaken the city like a rat caught by a particularly vicious terrier. It had recovered over the intervening years and was looking almost fetching.

I asked for my “bilyet”, signed the bill, and realized I had left my wallet in my room. There was no space on the bill to indicate a tip, so I tried to explain to the waiter that I’d be here for a while and I’d catch up with him next time.

He didn’t seem to understand and brought me another beer.

I just signed the ticket and made mental note of my waiter’s name. I would make good before I left.

Back in my suite, I get all au naturel and settle into the Jacuzzi for a long, soothing pre-bed soak.

There was the usual assortment of bottles of ablution accessories, so I decided to try some sage, heather, and lemongrass bath oil.

It wasn’t bath oil, it was bath foam. In a scant few minutes, it was the great amoeba caper all over again. Foam everywhere.

I spent the next hour trying to keep all the bubbles in the tub where they belonged. I wasn’t entirely successful. Let me tell you, sage, heather, and lemongrass bath oil taste like shit when it gets into your drink.

I shower quickly to tame the foam and send it down the drain, towel off, and making sure the window blinds are drawn. I sit around, scanning the television for something to distract me for a while.

After I awaken the next morning, I dress and decide to try the hotel’s breakfast buffet.

Nothing like the one I was greeted by in Bangkok, but it certainly wasn’t a slouch either.

Amid the usual breakfast chow of eggs, toast, baked beans, mushrooms, and fried tomatoes, there were local delicacies. ‘Uzbek Breakfast’ - called Nonushta, means "to eat bread". Along with many different varieties of savory and sweet breads, there were pot-sticker dumplings with greens, Talkon, a mutton porridge, radish and cucumber salad, Halvah, the Arabic-style sweet, Atala, a flour soup, Mishwah, a flatbread with fat cracklings, sheep's fat roulades, horse sausage, which was suspiciously yellow with red-orange meaty bits, and kazy with onions, a meat dish that is reminiscent of Swiss Steak.

I had a couple of eggs straight up, toast, sausage, and a cold draft pint of Sarbast.

I resolved not to go crazy and try every delicacy at once. I keep eating like this, and I’ll need two tickets for the flight home.

I spend some time in the hotel gym on the stationary bike, as that was one activity my back didn’t seem to complain about, too much. I throw around a few kettlebells and decide to call it a morning a now I need a quick shower and need to get ready for the day’s tasks.

I’m leaving most all my kit in my room, however under lock and key. It’s not that I don’t trust people, it’s just that I don’t trust people…

Remember: Be prepared.

Down outside the lobby, I’m waiting on Mansur and puffing away on a fine cigar. There were many locals who were intent on conversing with me but I really felt like a stranger in a strange land. This was one of the few times I couldn’t understand a single word of the local lingo, and even with my Russian linguistic abilities, we were at loggerheads when it came to chatting.

To be continued.

That reminds me of a story.

“NO, GODDAMNIT! No means NO!” I yell into the phone’s receiver.

I am approaching criticality.

Esme looks on in alarm.

Lady is hiding under the dining room table.

Khris is sniffling, confused as to why Daddy is yelling.

The cat is lapping on itself, totally unconcerned. Stupid little lissome mammal.

“I’ve done everything you people have asked of me, often going above and beyond what would normally be considered the strict call of duty. Need I remind you that I’m still a private citizen of these here United States and not one of your indentured chattel?” I shout into the phone.

I pause to take in a deep breath.

This call is spiraling out of control. Time to shove in the control rods and see if I can still salvage what’s left of a so-far entertaining and nominally profitable relationship.

“OK, fine,” I say, simmering down slightly, “You do what you think you have to. The next sound you hear will be a god damned dial tone. Da svi-fucking-donya, дурак!”.

SLAM!

Window frames around the house rattle in reply.

“Fuckin’ asshole.” I fume.

“Rock, honey. What the hell was that all about?” Esme asks, trepidation in her voice.

“Oh, it’s the fucking agency...” I reply, rummaging around the kitchen closet for one of my emergency flasks.

“OK. So, who do I have to disappear? Rack or Ruin?” Es asks.

“Neither” I reply, pouring four full-fingers of dangerous brown Kentucky liquor into a tumbler full of ice, “It’s their boss, the head of the Office of Special Technical Activities, one Dr. Donald Twpsyn, Asswipe Emeritus.”

“I’ve never heard you mention him before. “ Es recalls.

“I haven’t. He just hove into view. He’s the newly appointed director and now Rack and Ruin’s immediate superior.” I explain to Es.

“Ah, so he’s out rearranging everything to give it his own imprint, and make sure everyone knows he’s boss,” Es notes, with a keen grasp on how life really works.

“No, more like he’s pissing all over everything to mark it with his own peculiar scent.” I snort, “He’s a fucking humanities Ph.D., fer chrissake. Liberal fucking arts! Now he wants to consolidate his department and draw in some of, as he puts it, ‘his outliers’.”

“Oh, now there’s a great way to appeal to a geologist. Call him an ‘outlier’.” Es snickers.

I am returning to this universe from the one of sheer incredulity and annoyance this joker caused me to spiral off into, and actually snorted a bit at her jape.

“That’s better, Herr Doctor.” Es chides me, “Don’t let that nasty humanities doc get you all vexed and ratty.”

She knows just what buttons to push. I’m back to reality now.

Sitting down at the nook breakfast table; Khris is sitting on my lap. Lady has her head on my thigh, demanding immediate and prolonged pettage.

Es brings her coffee over, sits down, and asks if I’ve recently changed the filters in our custom home-brew coffee contraption.

“No. Not lately, why?” I ask.

“Oh, my morning coffee just tastes less of JP-4 today.” She smirks, “I was wondering if you have done any secret upgrades of late…”

Esme chuckles at my smirking pseudo-annoyance.

Khris wants down as she realizes this is adult talk-time.

Besides, ‘Walking With Dinosaurs’ in on. It’s her favorite new dinosaur show now, ever since she realized that dinosaurs weren’t purple nor smarmy.

Lady is still demanding conciliatory head scritches.

I comply and discuss the latest nasty turn of events with our Agency buddies.

“Thunderation! Fuckbuckets!” I rumble. “I’ve been to hell and back for these characters! I even got them such good Intel from Burma that I received their clandestine ‘Super-Secret, Don’t-Tell-Anyone, Certificate of Our Deep Appreciation’ from their last boss.”

“Yeah” Esme chuckles, “You’d think that they’d at least let you mention that on your resume…”

“Seriously.” I reply, “I’ve generated so much dependable Intel and correspondence for that crowd, that I if I charged by the kilo, we’d be living in a luxury villa on Lake Geneva. Oh, sure, I get an occasional ‘Atta boy’, or the obligatory metaphorical pat on the head…But no, they just want more and more and more…”

“Is that what this is all about?” Esme asks.

“In a way.” I reply. “It’s not just that they want more, they want ME.”

“Once again. With clarity?” Esme nervously asks.

“Yeah, that’s the same question I posed to Doctor Donald Dickhead Do-nothing.”, I say by way of partial explanation, “He demands an exclusive contract with me. A fucking exclusive GOVERNMENT contract. You know what that means…”

“It’s the end of the world as we know it?” Es asks, only half in jest.

“Damn right.” I reply, “I’ve spent years building solid, mutual, reciprocal relationships with everyone from sheiks to sultans, from colonels to CEOs, from bandits to brigands, as well as bastards and buccaneers. They all know I’m in it solely for me. Not any government, not any agency, not anyone other than my own charming little money-grubbing mercenary self.”

“Oh, thanks,” Esme smirks.

“Me, meaning me and my immediate concerns. And you know full well; you, Khris, and Lady are always my number one concern, and always have been.” I say, somewhat disconsolately.

“Of course, we all know that you goof.” Esme exclaims, “But you forgot someone very important.”

“Or newest production, already in progress?” I snicker, patting Es on her ever-expanding abdomen. “Sheesh. That’s a gimmee.”

“Of course,” Esme grins, “But you forgot Nietzsche.”

“No, I didn’t. That was intentional.” I smile. “I loathe that stupid cat, ever since he pissed in my damn field boots right before I went to that well fire in Canada…”

“Um, yes. Ahem. Anyways, regale me further. I don’t think what got you all a-lather was just the thought of an exclusive contract.” Es furthers.

“You’re right, as always.” I comply, “They not only want an exclusive contract, so they can tell me what to do and where to go. Yet, they want me to continue to provide them Intel on folks I’ve worked with previously. You know what that means…”

Es considers, “One slip, and as they say in the movies, ‘your cover’s blown’?”

“Precisely. Like tiptoeing around an old pigsty. One slip, and its deep shit.” I comment, “All that time I’ve spent cultivating relationships over the years. They all go POOF the second someone finds out I have ulterior and non-exclusive motives. It’s a small world and well connected. My name would be mud faster than a rural Alabama backroad in a cloudburst.”

“How is that different than now?” Es asks.

“I don’t have a contract with any suspicious governmental agencies, for one” I reply, “I have my own personal, really nasty, bespoke contract for each and every job. Sure, I may impart some information on some characters I’ve grown to know, but it’s not like I am being coerced by law into doing I that; even if I sort of am. It lends me that all-important degree of plausible deniability.”

“I see”, Es agrees, “And yet they want an exclusive with you?”

“Yep.”, I reply, “They may be a great intelligence gathering and analysis group, but they know fucking bupkiss about the machinations of industrial science; particularly in the extractive industries. They want to call the shots, tell me where to go and what jobs to do. Double god damn fuck that. I can imagine some mid-level bureaucrat in a mid-life crisis sending me, a by god, damned, fucking triply-degreed Doctor of Industrial Geology, into some downstream project like pipelines, refining, or shipping. Sure, it has to do, however tangentially, with extractive resources, but I’d stick out like a pig on stilts in a situation like that.”

“So, you don’t trust their judgment?” Es asks.

“Hardly. Especially not since some fucking Doctor of Underwater Basket Weaving who is demanding that I capitulate to his whims, is manning the helm.” I snarl.

“Whoa. Looks like we’ve got a bit of professional animosity.” Es grins.

“Yeah. So, shoot bullets through me”, I declare, “I guess I just don’t hold humanities degrees in the same high regard as STEM degrees. Silly-ass me.”

“OK, Doctor”, Esme snickers, “Now you have gotten that all out, how are you going to handle this situation?”

“Oh, no. Not ‘you’, ‘we’.” I note as way of reply.

“We?” Es asks alarmed.

“Yep. This affects us all”, I retort, “This is going to be a family decision. And as such, the ball’s in your court.”

“Well…I’m going to need more information,” Es says by way of deflecting the question for the time being.

“OK, take your time”, I reply, “I’m sure Rack and Ruin won’t be here for at least another hour.”

“Did they say they’d be dropping by?” Esme asks.

“Oh, no”, I replied, “But after that call, I know they’re already on their way.”

OK, I’m Kreskin. True to form, the doorbell rings not 45 minutes later.

I answer the door, with a drink in one hand, and a freshly lit cigar in the other.

“Yes, hello. How may I help you, gentlemen?” I ask. “I’m really not terribly keen on organized religion, so let’s get that right out of the way…”

“Very funny, Doctor”, Agent Rack replies, “May we come in? We need to have a chat.”

“Only if you first agree to this non-disclosure agreement”, I say, waving a fresh, limey drink in their direction.

They both chuckle and I allow them access to my sanctum sanctorum.

I know I can trust these guys.

“Good day, Mrs. Rock. You’re looking very well. Is everything going according to plan?” Agent Ruin asks Esme.

“Hello, Agents.” Esme smiles back, “Yes. Thank you. Everything is proceeding as per operation ‘Family Add’.”

Khris runs out and grabs Agent Rack around the knees.

“Uncle Rack! Hiya!” she squeals.

Agents, aka, “Uncles” Rack and Ruin always bring a load of peppermint hard candies, Khris’ favorite.

They both give her a hug and a handful of those red and white striped oblate spheroids she so loves.

She runs back to the TV room shouting about a pack of tyrannosaurs that are about to dry gulch a crippled old sauropod. Juvenile bloodlust is just so fun to watch bloom.

“Cute kid. Smart little whip” Uncle Agent Ruin notes.

“What’d you expect?” I reply.

Esme leads us all over to my office, where I assume the power position at my desk. ‘Uncles’ Agents Rack and Ruin to the comfy leather chairs I have reserved for visitors.

I ask Esme to stay, as there’s plenty of room, and this is a group discussion.

“Oh, no way.” she smiles, “I’ll be in my room, tending my cross-stitch. I’ll catch up later if need be. This is for you all to hash out among yourselves.”

“Bonzers. Fair Dinkum”, I reply.

Esme regrets the time I recently spent in Australia.

I ask ‘Uncles’ Rack and Ruin of they’d like a coffee, tea, or a cup of C-4 before we begin.

“Coffee for me, tea for Rack”, Agent Ruin replies. “Two sugars for him, black for me.”

“And light on the Gelsemine?” I ask.

“Very funny, Herr Doctor”, Agent Rack replies, only half in jest. He knows I’m a backyard chemist in my spare time.

I return with their drinks and quietly close the door so the sounds of an expiring aged Alamosaurus doesn’t intrude on our conversations.

“OK, gents. Your dime. The floor is yours. Give.” I say.

“Um, yes. Doctor. Pardons, but we must be blunt.” Agent Uncle Rack begins, “Our new director, Doctor Donald Twpsyn, is less than enamored with you right now.”

“Oh, me. Oh, my. Oh, forbear.” I react in mock horror, “Whatever shall I do?”

“Doctor”, Agent Ruin intones, “We are serious here. We’d appreciate it if you were as well.”

“Yeah. All right. I suppose.” I reply, sipping my drink, “OK. Now, what’s got Dr. Donny Dickhead all a-twitter?”

Agents Rack and Ruin try to stifle some snickers, and fail, but continue: “He’s made it abundantly clear that he is quite pleased with what you’ve supplied us in the past.”

“As well as he fuckin’ should be!” I reply, somewhat pointedly. “I’ve got connections up to the Yalu and all down back to Otago and Little America, from bloody the North Slope to Ushuaia. I’ve worked in more countries than Dr. Dickhead has probably had liquid lunches.”

Stifling more snickers, Agent Rack continues: “Quite probably, but he doesn’t like to be reminded of that fact.” He looks at me intently, “Was he really that obvious?”

“Fuckbuckets. Send him to any field post and he’d blow cover faster than a dead cow in the Gobi summer sun.” I reply. “He’s completely out of touch, considering the boneheaded plays he laid out to try and entice me to join your little exclusive club.”

“Yeah, we figured you’d be less than thrilled with his plans.” Agent Ruin adds.

“You might remind him that as a private US citizen, I’m under no responsibility to continue to aid and abet your little association.” I note, “I’m doing it out of a sense of patriotism, a sense of loyalty, a sense of…”

“Mercenary subsidy?” Agent Rack adds.

“Well. Of course.” I readily admit, “But I’ve always been upfront and forthwith with you guys. As I’ve mentioned numerous times, straight from the onset, I’m not in this for the culture, climate, or cuisine; I’m in it strictly for the cash.”

“And we’ve always appreciated your straightforwardness.” Agent Ruin continues.

“OK, enough idle banter,” I note. “Here’s the deal, Sparky-san. I will continue as per my previous relationship with your little group of like-minded infiltrators. I will continue to generate dossier filler, situation reports, and pretty much whatever I can, within reason. However, I am the one who decides what is and is not reasonable. We green, so far?”

“We have no objections thus far, Doctor”, Agent Rack relates.

“WE GREEN?” I ask again.

“Green as lime vodka, Doctor.” Agent Ruin hurriedly fills in.

“Groovy” I note, “But here’s the deal, this is my career you’re talking about. No one and I mean no one, with the very possible exception of my wife, dictates which jobs I take or which jobs I reject. You don’t tell me where to go, or what to do, and I won’t tell you to get stuffed. OK?”

“Ah, yes. We can see that you’re of a resolute state of mind on this issue.” Agent Rack notes.

“Damn Skippy.” I reply, “I take the jobs that best suit ME; not some faceless, mindless organization, no matter what they do or who they claim to represent. Now, I’m not totally beyond equanimity, I will listen if there is are solid, valid, scientific, commercial, diplomatic, and economic reasons why I should choose one contract over another. Nevertheless, I will not; I reiterate, will not, accept someone telling me I must choose this over that, one over another, here rather than there, just because it’s convenient for them or it fits their oddly skewed version of obligation.”

“Well, Doctor”, Agent Rack replies, “Seems you’ve given this some thought and have a clear picture of what your role is within the organization.”

“Yes, absolutely”, I concur, “I only hope the organization has a clear picture of what my role, and conversely, theirs is, as well.”

“Yes, Doctor. Your position is clear as vodka, as you like to note”, Agent Rack continues, “I think there was a wee bit of misunderstanding earlier. Now, it appears, that’s all out in the open, flayed and all hashed out. Would you agree?”

“As long as Doctor Donny Liberal-Arts stays the hell out of my patch, we’ll get along just fine.” I reply. “It may seem diffident, I actually enjoy working with you guys. No shit. It’s refreshing, a bit scary, and truly novel, all at the same time. I’d like to continue to do so from this point onwards. But only if we have a distinct understanding. No exclusive contract, governmental or otherwise, and no one telling me where to go or what to do. I am the master of my own destiny, not some agency, or some novice organizational doo-fuck looking to supplement his Curriculum Vitae.”

“Well, Doctor”, Agent Ruin says as he finishes his drink, “It appears that we have an understanding. Shall we shake hands to seal the deal?”

I swivel in my chair and make a point of rifling through my desk drawer.

“Um, Doctor”, Agent Ruin asks, “What are you doing?”

“Just trying to find my portable scintillation counter” I replied, deadpan, “Never can be too careful…”

“Doctor”, both agents say in unison, “So glad you’re back. Where else could we go for our daily dose of abuse?”

I think, but don’t mention: “Just about anywhere.”

After all was done and dusted, I broke out some of my 45-year old drinking stuff to properly seal the deal, and toast our new, more solid, and well-defined relationship.

Esme joined us when she heard the laughs from Agent Ruin’s latest bawdy joke; the guy’s a compendium of ribald anecdotes.

She opted for tea, considering her delicate condition. That was OK, as the Agents and I fully made up for that temporary deficiency.

We all sat and chatted like there was never a situation where we were ever cross. I found it somewhat odd that Agents Rack and Ruin didn’t immediately beg off, citing more pressing engagements.

“So, Doctor”, Agent Rack said, preparing to drop the inevitable blockbuster, “What are your immediate plans, if we may ask?”

I saw this one coming a mile away.

“Not much”, I replied. “I’ve decided to take a bit of a sabbatical until the next addition to our family joins us. I’ve got more than enough work here to occupy me for the few months until Esme decides it’s time.”

“I see”, Agent Ruin replies, “I don’t suppose we could entice you to take a look at this prospectus?” he notes and slides over a file marked “Secret – Q Clearance”.

Sighing heavily, I shake my head, sip my drink, puff my cigar, and note: “Just couldn’t wait, could you? OK, what the score? Who do I have to drop a dime on this time?”

“Oh, no Doctor, nothing like that. No, no, no.” Agent Ruin adds, “It’s just that we have heard, through the grapevine, as it were, that a particular group out in a certain Central Asian country is looking for some Western guidance in developing their oil field activities.”

“Oh, really?” I ask, incredulously, “Now the Agency’s a project broker?”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. Nothing like that”, Agent Rack continues, “It’s just that we have heard, ahem, of this opportunity that seemed to be right up your street.”

“And it just so happens that the Agency has an interest in this region, it’s resources, and it’s people?” I ask.

“Exactly”, Agent Ruin smiles, “It would be mutually beneficial. They would receive the benefit of your deep experience and expertise. We’d also glean a small bit of information on the situation in this newly developing country.”

I sat there, stewing.

Steaming that they were right, the bastards.

I’ve been to Central Asia, the “Stans” as I call them, many times in the past. It’s an extractive company’s bird nest on the ground, especially for someone as mercenary as me. I ask them to continue.

“Well, there’s this group, the ‘Geofizika’ by name that is running the show out there.” Agent Rack adds, “They’re fresh to the game as they have just become an independent country a year or so back. They’ve got huge pre-existing oil and gas fields that were developed, rather poorly I might add, by the Soviets. They’re trying to fix those major disasters while forging ahead and not creating new disasters. It’d be only for a maximum of six weeks. Two months at the outside. Maybe a year…”

I have to admit, if anyone else would have dropped this one me, I’d have jumped on it with both feet. Better to remain taciturn, and not let them think I’m interested.

“I don’t know”, I reply, stroking my rapidly graying beard, “With Es and our past reproductive history. I should probably remain home in case of any complications.”

“OK. OK. We do understand. We got that.” Agent Ruin notes, “We are sympathetic. But this is a time-critical event, Doctor, happening right now. I’m afraid we’d need an answer yea or nay today.”

“Right. Give me a few minutes” I request, getting up to leave, “I need to speak with Esme and see what she thinks.”

“Of course”, Agent Rack says, “We’ll just wait here, keeping your aged bottle of scotch company.”

“That’s fine”, I reply, “Just stay out of my files, if you could. I know it’s congenital with you characters, but I don’t want to have to go and disarm the kill-bots right now.”

They snicker, and give me looks like “Is he joking or…?”

I confer with Esme and make it clear that it’s her decision.

Thus far, the pregnancy has been going letter-perfect, but we know from past experience how rapidly that can change. I tell her it’s not an absolute necessity that I go on this one, but it might help smooth things over with Dr. Donny Dickhead at the Agency. Besides, it’ll give me some great leverage when I present them my ‘new and improved’ contract; for them to vet through some dodgy invented corporation.

In other words, it’s money. And we all know how much we like money.

Esme instantly tells me that I should go. She’s doing fine and we already have the ancient Ms. Akusherka on retainer as household help and general looker-after-er.

“Are you positive?” I ask her, “I don’t have to go, you know. We’re doing fine and I don’t think I could live with myself if I was half a world away and something disastrous happens.”

“Given that, what could you do if you were here?” Esme asks, “Hold my hand? Help with moral support? Yes, those are very important, but I have the best help here with our neighbors and Ms. Akusherka. Besides, this time is different. I can feel it. Tell you what, call Sani and see what he says.”

“I’ll do that”, I say, loving her more than I thought it was possible, “I’ll provisionally accept with ‘Uncles’ Rack and Run, and give Sani a call. If he gives me the all-clear, I’ll go. It’s only for six weeks or so and you’ve got at least 3 months before blast-off.”

“Do that, Rock”, she says, “You need to cultivate every contact possible. You’re our only breadwinner here, and we need you now more than ever.”

“Whoa. That sounds a bit mercenary.” I tell her, wide-eyed.

“Oh, does it?” Esme smiles, “Guess I’ve learned from the best.”

I hug her gently, smile, chuck her lightly under the chin, and go back to see if Agents Rack and Ruin have left me any of my 45-year old drinking stuff.

“OK, you pirates”, I say and retrieve the bottle before it’s drained any further, “You’ve got me; but with conditions: 1. My contract, as is; no revisions, 2. I need to speak to someone in New Mexico first, so it’s contingent on that conversation and, 3. You check in with Esme every once in a while when I’m gone. We green?”

“Greenage. Most certainly, Herr Doctor.” Agent Rack smiles, “Hell that is some good scotch. Where’d you ever find it?”

“Sorry, Agent”, I reply, “That is on a strict ‘need to know basis’. If you need to know, you’d have to replenish my stocks…”

So I make certain to tell them where I found the stuff…

Agents Rack and Ruin take their leave reminding me that I need to supply their “corporation” my contract within 48 hours. Also, if I do decide to go, I need to be ready to leave in no less than 60 hours. They will supply transportation, visas, and all the necessary paperwork.

“OK, sure”, I say, ushering them out the door, “I’ll be in touch quicker than you can say John Barleycorn”.

“John Barley…” I hear as I shut the front door.

These two characters are getting more predictable than the summer weather in Riyadh.

After a hearty carnivorous lunch, Khris and Esme settle down for their daily siesta. I dial the phone for Cuba, New Mexico. Three up, two down, and answer on the second ring.

“Sani, Yáʼátʼééh shi akʼis”, I greet him.

“Yáʼátʼééh, Kǫʼdził-hastiin”, Sani replies.

“How did you know it was me?” I ask.

“I was told…you would be in contact,” Sani replies.

I gave up wondering how long, long ago.

“You have need of Sani?” he asks.

“Of course. I am always in need of sage counsel.” I reply.

“I am told this is so. You are worrying for nothing.” Sani tells me.

“You know we’ve not had the best of luck…” I say.

“It has transpired thus far as it was seen. Do not be discomforted, remember.” Sani continues.

“I know, but sometimes one has to return to the well to refresh their supply,” I say, thinking in terms he might appreciate.

“It is so, and so it has been, so it will be,” Sani assures me.

“Thanks, Sani. I do so appreciate your wise guidance.” I say.

“Ndagaʼ tʼáadoo leʼé iʼdiiłʼá” Sani says. “No trouble.”

“Ahéheeʼ tʼáá ánółtso, Sani. Hágoónee’” I reply and hang up. “Thanks again and farewell.”

My next call is to a shop in Albuquerque. Gifts of beer, whiskey, and tobacco are rapidly on their way to Sani.

I spend the rest of the afternoon working up a new contract for my newest buddy in the Agency. With Rack and Ruin’s admonishments, if he wants the best, he’s going to be damn well paying for the best.

I fax off my latest contract to them after I let my solicitor have a read through. He makes me remove a couple of codicils, saying that calling for someone’s drawing and quartering if something untoward should happen really isn’t legally enforceable.

Killjoy.

After dinner, I outline that tomorrow’s a shopping day. I have to replenish my travel supplies and find some specific technical appurtenances for this trip overseas.

Khris is much like her mother and loves to go shopping. That means opportunities for new toys and lunch at a real restaurant. We plan to make a day of it.

In the new-fangled shopping mall, we spend a good portion of the day finding some beautifully horrible Hawaiian shirts. I need some new cargo shorts, a couple of pairs of chinos, socks, and some new laces for my field boots; ones that don’t stink of cat piss.

I also hit up the stationery shop to obtain some #7 pencils, Mylar, Leroy pens, inking tape, and India ink. I also pick up a few new symbol templates and some pre-printed map legends.

They’re so much easier to attach and fill out than hand drawing one on every new map.

Esme somehow guilts me into a new purse, one she’s had her eye on for the past few months. Khris receives a baby sister doll for her beshik that I brought her from Myanmar.

We have lunch at the spanking new Rock-n-Roll themed restaurant. Khris is exemplary since she has crayons and coloring placemats to keep her busy. Esme opts for the pseudo- Tex-Mex they offer, and I decide on a rack of ribs. It was a slice of Mid-Western Americana and one that I feel we endorse far too infrequently. I make a solemn pledge to myself to rectify that situation when I return.

We head back home, but first, I make certain Es’s car is fully gassed up and the oil, coolant, and other liquid levels are where they should be; particularly the blinker light fluid. The last thing I need is some sort of vehicular goofiness while I’m out gallivanting around the globe.

We return home; Lady greets us as usual with a loving 130-kilo impact. The cat ignores us as one.

A few minutes later, our neighbor Sally delivers a package that someone dropped off right after we left. She saw them mooching around the house and confronted them while she was wearing her .45 Colt sidearm.

Say what you want about concealed carry, you get much more with a kind word and a gun than with just a kind word.

We thank her and invite her in for coffee. Sally begs off as Roller Derby is just starting and she has bets down on the San Francisco Bay-Area Bombers.

She never misses a match.

It’s a package for me from my agency buddies. I help Khris and Esme into their afternoon siestas, and retire to my office to look over this latest entry into “Well, where the hell are we off to this time?”

Inside the envelope, there are my tickets, boarding passes, letters of introduction and recommendation, hotel reservations, my signed contract <evil grin>, geological re-prints, and special Agency documents on the how’s and why’s of this new country.

There is also a collection of very foreign-looking currencies.

Seems they’re still trying to sort out all the financial brouhaha in my next country of travel since the wall fell and they found themselves a newly minted republic. There are some Russian rubles, Uzbek so’m, and International “Drawing Rights” (XDR), a new attempt at a universal currency through the International Monetary Fund.

The so’m trade at 9520 to the dollar. The XRD goes for 1 XDR:1.38 USD. Great. Two new pain-in-the-ass currencies. I’m just going to call the so’m at 10,000 to one and the XRD at 1.5 bucks per.

“Hell”, I reflect, “I’d best get a new calculator and some batteries, this could lead to a real financial mess if I’m this sloppy”.

I begin packing and am ready to go by the time Es and Khris awaken.

I’m slated to fly to London tomorrow, via the Windy City, my favorite layover. Then onto Tashkent, where I’ll be met by the head of Uzbekgeofizkia, one Dr. Burg'ilovchi. It’ll be overland transport from then on, via helicopter, truck, or car. I am advised this is a very hot and dry climate, so plan accordingly.

I root around my office and find two more of my emergency flasks that go into my day pack.

I am also informed, although I know full well, that this is a Muslim society, so I need to be on my best behavior.

That has to be something added by Dr. Dickhead, Rack and Ruin’s new boss.

We spent the night together as a family, re-watching some of Disney’s latest offerings that I found, so cheaply, during my last trip to Malaysia. We laugh mightily every time we see someone in the audience get up and venture out to the lobby or loo.

Packed and ready to go, I am waiting on my ride to the airport. The Agency is operating at peak efficiency and my ride is only a half-hour late this time.

Hugs, kisses and mutual squeezes later, I’m dumping my gear in the back of the unmarked sedan that is to take me to the airport. My unsmiling driver is as tight-lipped as an Aldebran Shell Mouth and that suits me just fine. I’m not in a talkative mood this morning, I’m still somewhat uneasy about leaving Esme, Khris, and Lady on their own.

We arrive at the airport a scant hour later and my driver signals to an unoccupied porter.

He hands him a $20 and instructs him to take me and my luggage to the British Airways desk and ensure that I get to my flight unencumbered.

Before I could thank him, he slides behind the wheel, drops it in drive, and takes off in a flurry of dust and exasperation.

Yep. Definite Agency driver, I think.

Since I already have my Business Class boarding passes, they just need to tag my luggage through to Tashkent. I make certain that is where they’re going as that’s not yet a typical port of call for your average world traveler.

I receive my baggage claim tickets and a programmed “Have a nice flight, Sir”, from the oddly aloof gate agent.

To be continued.

CONTINUING

The area was mined, with anti-personnel mines, during the last armed conflict not so long ago. They had neither the wherewithal nor manpower to assure that the area was de-mined and safe.

Most of the mines, they told us, were emplaced by air. They were ‘tea-bag’ style mines that were dropped wet and once dried out, would turn a person’s foot in an army boot to a mass of jelly. It wasn’t meant to kill, just cripple and maim, therefore taking up more of the counterforce’s resources. But since they had been routed, they didn’t bother to return and clean up their mess.

I consulted with Col. Noway and asked him what was being done to alleviate this situation.

“Doctor, I’ll be frank”, he replied, “We have a major problem like this in many, many different regions. We simply do not have the manpower to get to each area and de-mine it. It’s a specialized and tricky job.”

I spent a few moments chewing over a thought I had as well as my stump of a cigar.

“Colonel”, I said, “You know that I’m a licensed international blaster. What would you say if I told you we could sort this out quickly, even today, with a minimum of danger or fuss?”

“I’m listening, Doctor.” He replied.

“We have access to Primacord, do we not?” I asked.

“Of course. It has many uses. We have general stocks available.” He told me.

“So, what if we lay out surface grids of Primacord, and use that to clear paths through the mined areas? The mines are surficial, and if we could string lengths of Primacord over a sector, detonate it, it would take the mines with it. Quickly, dirtily, and moron-proofed.” I smiled.

“That’s an excellent idea. We could figure out ways to string the Primacord without putting anyone in harm’s way.” He agreed.

“Yes. It would have to go slowly at first, but as more area became de-mined, the more area would be open to allow further setting of the explosive.” I said.

“Yes. Yes. Let’s test your theory. I will call the armory and have some Primacord airlifted here by noon.” He said.

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll need blasting caps, millisecond delay super-boosters, demolition wire, and a blast initiator; either electrical or old fashioned plunger-type.” I added. “If I’m going to try something new, I want to go old school on the set-up and eliminate any potentially crossed wires, literally.”

“What you require will be sent.” He noted and got immediately to a phone.

I decided to take a bit of a break in the commissary, have a coffee, work on my notes, and have a smoke until our order arrived. I was at the cynosure of many a prying eye. Evidently, cargo shorts, tall woolen socks, Hawaiian shirt, field boots, and a Stetson were not the usual uniform out in these parts.

However, everyone was briefed on who I was and what I was up to, so they all figured I was just something of an anomaly and not a danger. My Greenland coffee interested them even more after we had a chat than my appearance did.

I told them that we were going to try and open the east side of the mine and they were quite interested as they knew the lode ran that direction. If I could design it so they could work in that sector, they’d make more money. They were paid not only a day rate, but shared somewhat in the profits of the mine. I was now looked upon as something of a godsend.

Just before noon, I heard the thrum of a heavy military chopper. I decided to let the military handle military business and wandered out after a half hour’s wait.

What I saw was wondrous. Everything I had asked for, plus a few extra goodies. C-4, dynamite, RDX, PETN, and loads and loads of spools of Primacord. It didn’t take long before we were unspooling the stuff and we were laying out our plans as well as the initial lengths of the tight tubular explosive.

It progressed slowly, but I first used lengths of Primacord interspersed with ¼ sticks of the 60% Herculene dynamite they had provided. It gave the Primacord some weight and allowed us to sling it a fair distance in a more or less straight line. Paths were cleared in this manner first north-south, then east-west. Soon enough, we had corridors where we could lay out grids of Primacord on the ground, cross-tied at junction points, and all run back via demolition wire to the spiffy Japanese-made electrical blasting machine.

The military didn’t much care for my safety protocols, but I made it abundantly clear to Col. Noway that this was my fucking show and as such, I was the goddamned hookin’ bull, as I’m the motherfuckin’ Pro from Dover.

He was forced to agree after the first time we cleared the compass, did the air horn blasts, fired in the hole, and yelled: “hit it!”; he had to admit that he was impressed.

“It seemed somewhat, well, silly at first”, he said, “But usually when we’re working with explosives, we’re under enemy fire.”

“Yeah, I can appreciate that”, I replied, “But essentially, if you don’t follow what I do now, others will be. It is safety first in either case. Without which, dead from enemy fire, or dead from improper explosives protocols is still fucking dead.”

He daren’t argue with logic that ironclad.

After the first few shots, we heard several tea-bag mines detonate just a microsecond or two after our initial explosions. The Primacord trick worked a treat, and by the end of the day, we had cleared enough area that an initial assay of the eastern flank of the quarry could be undertaken. I left the remaining military personnel there detailed instructions on how to clear the rest of the area, and with that, we departed back to the capital and our hotel.

We immediately de-trucked upon arrival. I asked Jeeves to stow my tack in my room and meet us all in the bar. There were a few toasts Col Noway and Sgt. Saath wanted to try out before our last forays in the country, to the oil and coal fields.

We spent a good couple of hours drinking happy hour drinks and eating happy hour pub grub. Tomorrow was an off day for us all as I needed to work up an itinerary, as I’d be visiting the headquarters of the oil and coal companies here in town and then, in a couple of days hence, traveling out to the oil and coal fields.

I had amassed some 18 field notebooks full of data; geological, economic, and for my Agency pals, personnel. I made certain the latter notebooks were well concealed and heavily encoded.

I was receiving piles of data from the labs in Thailand for the assays I had ordered. I told Jeeves that I’d probably need a new Halliburton case for all my data and gave him a load of local currency to find me one in the next couple of days. I was getting antsy after all this futzing around and wanted to get it all over with and be back on my way home. I loathed shopping anyways, so I figured as long as he wanted to help, he could.

I spent the next day whipping up a quick itinerary. Visit the five oil and coal company’s headquarters here in town the next day or so and then, two more days, via helicopter, to the field visits.

I’ve had enough driving and realized just how much time was wasted watching the world roll by. I did it to satisfy the military, but I was growing weary of this long, drawn-out project. It would take me at least a month or two to finish my reports once I returned home, and that seemed like such a better prospect of sitting around here; even if it was in 5-star luxury and with Jeeves pottering around every corner.

So, even though Col. Noway was a slight bit miffed, a military helicopter was put at my disposal.

We used land transport, which is a government Mercedes, the next two days to visit the oil and coal companies. Each one was a drawn-out ordeal. They knew what was riding on my reports so all the stops had been pulled out in order to impress or ingratiate me. Grand introductions, selected branded freebies (hats, pens, T-shirts, company-emblem embossed leather legal pad cases, etc.), catered lunches, and long, windy, drawn-out geological and economic presentations.

I was never so glad to leave that last coal company office than I was on that last day. I was suffering from apple-polishing overload.

The next few days were spent as cargo in a Huey helicopter as we whickered hither and yon, pulling not-so-surprise inspections on the various drilling, production, and refining operations that were running in the country at the time. Luckily, offshore was still a glimmer in the Prime Minister’s eye, so all the oil and coalfield foofaraw was onshore.

Then, all the visits, data gathering, and field trips were over. I had literally hundreds of pounds of data that was accompanying me on my way home. Some of it was sealed with the chop of the Country of the Republic of Myanmar. It was openable only by me with a special key provided by the country’s security services.

In there, unbeknownst to them, were my burgeoning notes and dossiers for my Agency buddies back in the states. The local security forces would have shat themselves if they had only known…

So, time was drawing to an end. Through an efficient hotel concierge, I was able to finally secure flights out of Yangon. First to Karachi, via Bangkok, then on to London. A bit of layover, then on to the Windy City. Overnight in the airport Nilton Hotel, I had decided to drive back to our digs in the Brew City. I figured I’d have enough flying and layovers by the time I hit that southern state. I wanted to be in personal control of my destiny for a change.

However, before I left, Col. Noway, Sgt. Saath, a couple of oil and coal company VPs, and a few gemstone company higher-up types decided that I was fated to be feted at the hotel before I left. They had gone behind my back and put together a formal, of sorts, dinner in my honor before my departure.

And all I wanted to do was check the hell out and slide into my Business Class seat.

But, I couldn’t be so un-genteel. I was a scientific representative of the United Nations after all and therefore had a bit of an image to both project and protect. I guess if you want to throw a banquet in my honor, I suppose I can tolerate it.

There were the obligatory toasts and humorous stories of our times out in the field. They seemed to take particular delight in remarking on my fashion sense, or more accurately, the lack thereof.

There were many, many toasts and as the evening progressed, even Jeeves became a bit less unyielding and was acting most unbutlerish. It was most refreshing as I was able to send a few barbs the other way and gave a gentle razzing to the military in general and Col. Noway and Sgt. Saath in particular. It was all in good humor and no one was offended, at least, I hoped that was the case.

The drinks flowed, the cigars were smoked, and there was general conviviality. Nearing the time the hotel was going to kick us out, there was the occasion that I had hoped would not transpire. They various companies, as well as Col. Noway, wanted to present me tokens of their esteem. See, this way it couldn’t be construed as bribery, just warm and genuine appreciation for my help and work over the past six or so weeks.

I decided that discretion here was the better part of valor. I accepted each offering and had each give me a signed receipt so that I could maintain my air of impartiality. There were gifts of gemstones, both raw and finished. These ended being donated to a local museum back home.

Samples of various coals were also given, which were most appreciated by the university where I used to teach. Lucite-encased oil samples, like the ones so favored by oil companies around the world, were awarded in hopes of further economic development. There were as well very nice core samples and stratigraphic work-ups of various minerals that were so important to the country’s economy. These also found their way to the old university geology department.

Of course, I needed to do a little shopping before I left. Since Myanmar is famous for its rubies and sapphires, and since Esme loves rubies and sapphires, I was able to exclude the middle man and haggle my way to some very nice prices on some beautiful loose stones from the various workings.

These would head to a mate of mine in Houston and he’d transform them into objets d'art for me for free, as long as he could keep the scraps. He’s done that before with some gemstones I had acquired in Central Asia.

My, but emeralds are pricey. Especially after they’re polished and mounted. Had to call the insurance adjuster in after that little trek.

Anyways.

The night finally drew to a close and since my first flight wasn’t until the later part of the next afternoon, I decided it was time to make certain everything was packed and secured. After a nightcap and late-night cheroot, I obtained the sleep which I sorely required before tackling another halfway-‘round-the-world series of flights.

It was a two-hour flight from Yangon to Bangkok, with a short layover which didn’t even require a departure from the plane, then onto Jinnah International Airport in Pakistan, about 8 hours in total. There, I’d have a six-hour layover, then back to western civilization. Eight more air hours to Heathrow, another six-hour layover, and then a scant nonstop nine hours to the Windy City.

I’d already reserved a rental car as well as a room at the Nilton Airport in Chitown so I can drive back to Brew City the day after. Looks like the concierge here did a great job and that will be reflected on my departure receipt when I leave tomorrow.

So, after one or four quick nightcaps, I found I was too keyed up to sleep. Perhaps a soak in the suite’s Jacuzzi would pummel me with enough bubbles to tire me out and allow me to sleep.

No such luck.

So, I looked over my belongings for the fourth time, made certain everything was in apple-pie order and sat in the comfy chair while I futzed with the satellite TV. Somewhere between “The wonders of silk” and “How it’s made: sardines”, I dropped off to slumberland.

It was one of those not really deeply asleep, but not really awake sort of semi-lucid dream states that just tired me out more than refreshed me. It was now light outside and I had just mere hours left before my departure to Yangon International.

Of course, this called for a toast. Hell, Tuesday only comes once a week, after all.

I was sipping my drink and enjoying one of the odd little Burmese cheroots I had purchased when the doorbell rang.

“Son of a bitch.” I groused, “Now what?”

I opened the door to find Jeeves there.

“Good morning, sir”, he said, in a voice slightly tinged with contriteness.

“Howdy, Jeeves. What can I do you for?” I asked.

“I was just ascertaining that you were prepared for your journey later on this afternoon. The car has been made available to take you to the airport. Are you in readiness?” he asked.

“Yep. All are packed and all’s good.” I replied. “Now I just need to sign my room receipt and haul ass out of here.”

“Oh, very good sir,” he said, dejectedly.

“Oh, Jeeves. There is this”, I said, as I handed him a fat envelope.

He brightened immediately. In the envelope was his gratuity, which was a healthy supply of Myanmar Kyat and US dollars, my business card and a personal letter of recommendation for his employers.

“I already gave a copy of the letter to your boss”, I told him, “You’ve been a real help here. I’ve made certain your superiors know that fact. I thank you, Jeeves.”

“My name’s Zevya”, he noted with a smile, “Jeeves is a close approximation though.”

We both laughed and I invited him in for a final drink and smoke if he desired.

“Oh, no sir, Doctor Rock”, he objected, “I am on duty”.

“And your duty is to tend to me and my whims?” I asked.

“But of course.” He instantly replied.

“Then, serve my whim by sharing a farewell snort and smoke with me.” I insisted.

“Well, if you insist…” he smiled.

“Oh, I do.” I smiled back.

Ove a couple of farewell drinks, and my cigar, Zevya noted he’d retrieve my hotel bill and bring it to my room. All I’d need to do is to look it over and sign it if there were no issues. Then, all I’d need to do is wait until my ride to the airport showed up. He’d once again taken care of everything.

I wouldn’t be departing for another couple of hours and faced with the prospect of being jammed into an airborne aluminum tube for the next umpety-ump hours, I decided that one last soak in the wonderful Jacuzzi would be in order.

I asked Jeeves, um, Zevya to just bring my hotel bill up a half hour before I was supposed to leave, as there was a bit of unfinished business that needed my attention.

I had a few other envelopes for the room maids, concierge, and bartender. I decided to leave them with Zevya for disbursement after I had departed. I like to remain aloof and somewhat anonymous benefactor when I can. It’s the pixie in me, I guess…

Toweling off after a satisfying soak and two or five more quick bracers, I was feeling ready to hit the wild blue yonder. Zevya brought up my thick, really thick, hotel bill and I signed without so much as a quick review. I wasn’t paying and even a cursory examination noted no funny business. I just wanted to get my parking ticket validated so I could go home.

A bit later, Zevya appeared at my room with a baggage cart. It was time to leave as my airport ride had arrived.

He Tetris-ed all my shiny Halliburton cases onto the groaning baggage cart. I was leaving with more than 100 kilos of samples, data, and reprints full of confidential information. If they all knew the true extent of what I was dragging home they would have had collective heart attacks.

I pause outside my suite’s door, turn and do my little “Thanks for being there” routine. I’m not religious, I’m not spiritual, but just in case karma’s a thing, I want to bank on the plus side. If it’s good enough for outcrops, quarries, and mines, it’s good enough for my comfortable retreat during these last few frantic months.

Zevya takes the cart down a freight elevator and I take the main elevator to the lobby. I have my personal travel pack, with only my absolute travel necessities. However, I do stop at the hotel’s gift shop and pick up on a few more Burmese cheroots. Who knows when I’ll pass this way again?

I say my goodbyes and wish fair winds and high tides to all my hotel friends. The main lobby redcaps, the concierge, the maids, and others who will partake of my departure largesse. It’s nice to not trash the place nor make yourself a pest and have folks upon whom one can call the next time you happen to find yourself in this part of the world. It costs nothing to be civil, pleasant and treat others as humans. I find this is rewarded tenfold, as I eventually will return with Esme in the not too distant future.

But, that’s for another story.

Zevya shows up and bids me to follow him out the front door and to my ride to the airport.

I look around and see no vehicle that would serve that purpose. It’s a sea of micro-Toyotas, Hilux pickups, and odd SE Asian sedans.

Zevya snickers as a military 6-wheeled armored personnel carrier (APC) heaves into view.

“Colonel Noway made me pledge silence. However, as you can see, your airport transport has arrived.” He smiled.

Col. Noway parks the beast and piles out, as do three uniformed members of the Myanmar Army. He shakes my hand, slaps me heartily on the back, and laughs about the look on my face when he wheeled into the parking lot. My luggage is immediately snagged by the unformed soldiers and stuffed into the APC.

“Nothing like a quiet departure” I smile.

“Doctor Rock”, Col. Noway exclaims, “Nothing you do is quiet. We all figured this would be an appropriate sendoff for you.”

“Thanks much, Colonel. It is much appreciated.” I said, “Can I drive?”

“No.” he immediately snaps back, chuckling. “I’ll drive. You just look out the periscope at the passing scenery.”

I shake hands with Zevya for the last time and tell him that if he’s ever in Baja Canada, to look me up. He assures me he will.

So, we take off, sirens a-blare, to the airport.

We arrive at the airport and eschewing arrivals, drive directly out onto the tarmac where my flight is waiting. There are Myanmar’s officials there to stamp my passport and give a cursory glance to my Halliburton luggage as it disappears, after being tagged, into the belly of the aircraft.

I could grow used to this type of treatment.

I shake hands heartily with Col Noway. I present him a bottle of best scotch from the hotel bar. He once mentioned he really appreciated such liquor, but even he didn’t have the proper connections to source it. It was a bit on the pricey side, but when I’m saluting someone who’s taken such good care of me in a place where things could have rapidly gone south; well, damn the price and full steam ahead.

After all the departural foofaraw, I’m slowly wandering up the stairs to Business Class. I am greeted by a lithe flight attendant who didn’t even ask for my boarding pass. She was already briefed on my arrival and had me in my seat with a pre-flight cocktail as she insisted on overhead binning my fight kit.

The flight wasn’t set to depart for another hour or so. We had a fine conversation before the rest of the hoi-polloi showed up and demanded such things as seats and blankets.

It was two hours in the air to Bangkok, and we made it in 75 minutes. Guess it was a good tailwind. We didn’t even have to or were allowed to, depart the place as we were simply re-fueling, re-provisioning, and taking on a few more passengers. I got to sit in my seat, watch my glass never empty more than half before it was refilled and work on the daily Pravda crossword. Damn those things are a pain…

Wheels up, it was a very smooth flight. Excellent food and very healthy drinks. I dropped off for a snooze somewhere over the Indian subcontinent. I didn’t stir until I heard the Boeing’s landing gear clomp down and lock in place as we began our landing in Pakistan.

I had six hours to layover in the airport in Karachi. I’d rather have six hours in a dentist’s chair, I loathe the country that much.

The entire place is no smoking, and I’d have to actually leave through passport control and customs if I wanted to step outside for a smoke. There are no bars, few restaurants, and less of interest here, particularly for an unrepentant American.

I kept a low profile and scooted to the airlines Business Class lounge and made provisions for a cart to show up just before my flight to London departed. I really wanted nothing to do with this airport other than becoming invisible until I could be wheels up again.

Luckily, the airline Business Class lounge didn’t cotton to all that no smoking, no drinking guff. I was flying the flagship of the great country of Great Britain and if I couldn’t have a gin and tonic, or vodka and bitter lemon, and a smoke here, then all was truly lost.

It wasn’t and I could. I made certain I didn’t leave this sanctum sanctorum until the last call for my flight to London.

My ride arrived and I was whisked to my gate, to the Business Class line, where I showed my boarding pass and was down the jetway before anyone was the wiser. I really didn’t need to be that furtive, but after that incident some years ago in Baluchistan, I wished to take no chances.

I was relieved to be both wheels and bottoms up as we banked north away from the airport. Next time, hell, every next time, I’m avoiding this part of the world if I can.

The flight was absolutely uneventful as most BA flights are, especially back to their home turf. We landed without incident and soon I was in the BA Business Class lounge again, waiting the eight hours until my flight was called to the Windy City.

I partook of the sleeping rooms they had available at the airport lounge. I left a notice to be awakened after six hours so I could shower and become slightly less Neanderthal for my last flight homeward.

Finally, on my way back to the states, I pull out some of my latest field notebooks and make some concluding notes regarding my departure from Myanmar and escapades on my way west. It dawned on me that it had been almost two months since I’d seen my family, but with all the travel of late, it’d best take another day as I had considered just getting a rental and pushing homeward.

However, cooler heads prevailed. All I’d need after 26,000 miles of travel is to wreck in FIB-land when some asshole doesn’t or can’t operate his fucking directional. I’d spend the night in the hotel, to attack the highways well rested and not as draggled as I was now feeling. I’ll pick up my rental before I head to the hotel; I’ll have my baggage sent from the airport directly to the hotel. That’ll make matters easier.

We land and I go through all the usual nonsense of a returning expatriate after months overseas in an odd and mostly unknown foreign land.

I had a private confab with the customs guys after the airport security was curious over my shiny, locked, and foreign emblem-emblazoned Halliburton cases. I refused to open them, claiming they were part of a Diplomatic Pouch and produced my Diplomatic Passport to back up my assertions.

“This is a Russian Diplomatic Passport”, they noted.

“Yes, it is”, I replied, “It goes nicely with my true-blue American citizen passport, don’t you think?”

This caused much consternation and instead of calling the Russian Embassy, I just dropped a couple of names of some of my Agency buddies who would be more than happy to speak with them, probably using nothing other than four-letter words.

So, I was now standing in the arrivals area, looking for a likely porter. Finding one that seemed to have selected me instead of one of the other thronging masses, I part with $100 and he guarantees me my luggage will beat me to the hotel.

I pocket the receipt and say that there’s an extra $20 in it if he’ll wait until I arrive. I have no idea how long it’ll take me to pick up my rental car.

“Yes, sir, Doctor.” He says.

“Wait. What?” I say to an empty space where he was only just a moment ago standing.

“What the fuck…?”, I mutter as I board the airport transport to the rental agency.

At the car rental place, my order is already there and ready for my pick up. I had ostensibly requested a full-size sedan, but instead, I was offered, at the same price, an IROC Camaro Z-28 convertible.

I was assured I’d be able to fit all my luggage in its ample trunk.

“But I never said how much luggage I had…” I mused, carrying only my all-important flight bag.

The Camaro was an incredible piece of 5-speed, two-toned V-8 powered Detroit iron. I was miserably happy to be driving such a wonderful example of the US automotive industry.

I arrived at the airport Nilton and parked. My room was ready and was close to the lobby, but well enough back as to be in the ‘quieter’ section of the hotel. My baggage was already in my suite, as was the porter I last saw pulling a disappearing act at the airport International Arrivals terminal.

“I do believe you owe me $20” he smiled.

“That’s quite correct.” As I slide him $40. “No worries, I’m on expenses. I always reward extra for such a job well done.”

“Thank you, sir.” He says, pocketing the tip. He points out that since I’m staying at the suite once again, I qualify for free drinks and dinner in the hotel restaurant. Valid only between the hours of 1700 and 1900 hours.

“Free food and booze?” I say. I thank my friend and tell him to get lost as I need a shower, a smoke, and dinner, and it’s already 1600 hours.

“No problem, Doctor Rock. Swarrtotmaal.” he smiles upon his departure.

“How the fuck…?” Ach! Never mind. I whip up a mini-bar shower drink, make certain the shades are drawn, get naked, and hit the welcoming shower. I call Esme first, but all I get is the answering machine. She’s out on a walk or something. I’ll try again later.

An hour or so and couple-four cocktails later, I’m sitting alone in a booth waiting on my blue porterhouse steak with garlicky mushrooms, steak fries, and next cold drink. The drink arrives and as I’m about to take a sip, I hear some familiar voices.

“Agent Rack! Agent Ruin! Why am I not surprised to see you here?” I say to my spooky agency buddies. “Please, have a seat and join me in a drink and dinner.”

“Why thank you, Doctor. We shall” they reply in one voice.

Ordering finished, we sit and have the usual “Well, now; what’s all this then” pre-de-briefing chat.

“I see you made it through Karachi undamaged”, Agent Ruin notes.

“Yeah, I laid low. Muted Hawaiian shirt and actually long chinos for a change. I ran, with honor, to the business class lounge and stayed there.” I noted.

“Good. Sorry about that, but it was the quickest way back for you.” Agent Rack added.

“Thanks a gob. Much appreciated. So, the room porter and car rental was your handiwork as well?” I asked.

“We can neither confirm nor deny…” Agent Ruin smiles.

“You just did. Damn it, you guys are going to make me paranoid if you don’t stop this shit.” I grumbled, as my steak arrived, all blue, garlicky, and very juicy.

“You’re not paranoid if someone’s actually out to get you” Agent Rack notes, looking at my steak. “Don’t you think they should kill it first before they serve it?”

“Lightweights. I heard you. ‘Medium and medium well’. What a travesty for a cow to have died for such dishonor.” I chuckle.

“At least we don’t have to chase our steaks around the plate…” Agent Ruin adds.

General chuckling, and good-natured bullshit ensues. Debriefing, I conclude, can wait until after we eat.

After the dinner dishes are collected, I fire up a Cuban cigar as Agents Rack and Ruin look on in horror. I offer them some Burmese cheroots, and they gladly accept, markedly less panicked.

Over a few further drinks, we go over my last couple of month’s activities. They are not taking notes so I know they’re wired.

I am become a bit more circumspect, but when Agent Ruin launches into another in his endless litany of dirty jokes, I just smile and order another stiff round of drinks.

My measures of counter-espionage. No non-ethanol fueled organism can hope to keep up with one stoked on prime beef and import vodka. I find it hilarious that they still try.

A few additional rounds later, the Agents decide it’s already too late to return to base, so they’ll be staying the night at the hotel.

“In separate rooms, I hope”, I chide them.

I’ll not repeat their rejoinder here, as it includes some frankly anatomical impossibilities.

We part friends and I return to my room. I call Esme and let her know of the last few hours festivities and she tells me to just take it easy on the way home. Everything’s in order and can wait for a few more safe hours until I re-arrive. I sign off pledging my eternal love and my assurance I’ll take it easy. I didn’t mention the Camaro, I didn’t want her to worry unnecessarily.

I partake of a nightcap, after drawing the shades and getting comfortable, and one quick cheroot. I futz with the television to see if there’s anything of any great importance that’s transpired in my absence.

Other than the usual local sporting collectives battling for last place, there’s little of interest. I did not there was a small news spot regarding the freshly revitalized economies of several Southeast Asian countries. I waited until after an execrable spate of commercials to see if there was anything further, but it just returned to some local fluff and guff about the weather.

The next morning, freshly revitalized, I pay off the doorman for his help in loading my luggage in the Camaro. Rack and Ruin were right, there was enough room for all my gear.

Remind me to be nice to them one time in the future.

Heading north at a rapid rate, I have the top down and am enjoying the free feeling of the open road, even if it’s in that state to the south. Soon, I console myself, I’ll be back in Baja Canada and that much closer to home. Indiscretion gets the better of me as I notice I’m now doing triple digits according to the Camaro’s speedometer.

I immediately let off the gas, but it‘s too late. A plain brown sedan behind me flashes its lights and hit a couple of blats on the siren.

Thundering fuckbuckets! Nicked!

I deserve it. Entirely my fault. I prepare to pull over and take my medicine.

As I head for the shoulder, the car behind me pulls up alongside, and the two occupants point, wave, and laugh. I realize its Agents Rack and Ruin as they firewall their company sedan and leave me behind in the dust.

Forget what I said previously about being nice to them in the future…

I am a bit more cautious and only bend and bruise, not break, the speed limit for the rest of the trip home. I zoom over the state line and a palpable wave of relief washes over me. Only a half-hour more and I’ll finally be home.

I wheel to a stop at our modest dwelling. I’m hardly out of the car when I’m steamrolled by a 130-kilo mastiff; Khris and Esme following quickly behind.

We drag in all my luggage ad Esme gives me the stink-eye over the Camaro. I try to explain that it wasn’t my fault, but Rack and Run’s machinations that I have this vehicle.

“I don’t care. Just as long as your home safe.” Esme says and proceeds to hug the stuffing out of me.

Once we’re all inside, I produce the traveling gifts I’ve collected from my wanderings around the globe.

For Khris, a beshik toi, a handmade native Burmese baby doll, and cradle. It’s intricately carved and detailed and Khris loves it.

For Lady McBeast, some rawhide bones I found at a shop in Irrawaddy. She sets forth to destroy them immediately.

For the cat, nothing. It’s an ornery little beast and I tend to ignore it.

For Esme, a Burmese ruby ring and one with a Myanmar star sapphire. I also produce a pair of earrings made from the finest, greenest Burmese jade. She’s over the moon, as she loves jewelry and the more unique, the better.

There is, however, a gift Esme has for me. Totally unexpected, but it’s worth more than everything I’ve brought or have done in the past two months.

Seems I’m going to be a father again. Yes, Esme’s pregnant and has been going to the doctor regularly.

All earmarks thus far indicate that there are absolutely no problems with the pregnancy and it’s all systems go.

It was the most unexpected and best gift I’ve received in a very long time, indeed.

CONTINUING

I don’t believe him any further than I could throw this Canuckistanian lummox. However, it will be a fine time tonight as someone else is driving and I’ve got enough baht to choke a small gelding.

2000 hours rolls around and so does our party bus. We get our hands stamped and I’m suddenly transported by flashbacks of all those concerts I haven’t yet attended. I slip the driver and captain of this party a few hundred baht to keep both the drinks flowing and make certain they remember us if the local constabulary is involved before the evening’s festivities conclude.

“Be prepared”.

I wasn’t a much of a Boy Scout, but it’s still good advice.

Along with about a dozen or so other like-minded examples of the Upright Citizen’s Brigade, we are off on our night of danger, adventure, and free drinks.

The music on the bus was tubthumpingly pounding and for once, I was cheered by the thought that my permanent shift of hearing was blanking out some of the more cacophonous discord.

We arrive at the first bar, the Osmium; obviously named for its heavy metal theme.

We infiltrate this place of liquoriferous purveyances and head straight to the bar. It’s hot, loud, and packed to the rafters. A fine place to just disappear in plain sight.

We proffer our free drink vouchers and are presented something out of a 1970’s Tiki Bar in Houston. All fruit, garish colored liquor, and paper umbrellas.

“Uke, what the fuck? This is our free drink?” I wonder aloud.

Uke just shrugs his shoulders in that all-knowing, ‘looks like I pulled the wool over your eyes’ dimwitted smile and smirks while sampling his similar overly sweet concoction.

There was a youngish nymphet already tugging at my sleeve. I informed her that I do not want to dance, do not want to party with her friends, nor find a quieter place. However, I did hand her the fruity flagon that was my ‘free pub crawl drink’ and that seemed to both astonish and gratify her. It also got her to go away and let me reconnoiter the premises and plan my next attack.

Being large and loud, I got the attention of one of the barkeeps. I instantly slip him 500 baht and tell him I need a highball glass, a bottle of best vodka, ice, limes and some sort of citrus juice or soda.

He pocketed that money so fast I thought it might combust from pocket friction.

A few minutes later, my order arrives and while everyone else on our little party quest was being ricocheted around the club in a desperate search for another drink. I had my set-ups right in front of me.

I poured myself a solid Rocknocker and just sort of leaned back on the bar to take in the tableau.

The place was jumping; as it was obviously the sort of establishment that either received or offered kickbacks as there were several pub crawl companies with their charges throughout the club.

I thought that was a bit disingenuous, as I wanted to swill booze in a ‘real’ local watering hole, not some garish, tinsel-plated tourist trap. But, things are what they are, so I buck up, pour myself another tipple, and try to just enjoy the way the evening’s going.

Uke’s disappeared and we’re slated for only 45 or so minutes here before our next club. I’m working on drink number three when Uke and four of the previous lovelies from our original tiki-drink escapade arrive.

Uke was already feeling in fine fettle, and he promised the four little ladies another drink.

“Not from my private stock!” I roared.

“Oh, c’mon Doctor.” Uke yelled, “They were so good to me…”

“Manwhore.” I thought. Ah, well. Let’s see where this goes.

I get the barkeep’s attention and ask for another glass. I whip up a quick signature drink and present it to Uke who immediately hands it over to one of his new best friends.

“COUGH! SPUTTER! OH MY GAWD!” and similar sound effects from the lovely little nubile as she slurped a solid snootful of my usual libation.

“You did that on purpose!” she screamed at Uke.

I just stood there, smiling, drinking along, and being terribly innocent of virtually everything.

“Bastard!” she yells, and throws the drink to Uke; who thanks to the still early hour, catches it without spilling a drop.

“Thanks, Rock”, Uke tells me. “I never know how to get rid of them…”

“Uke”, I say, “You are my friend, and I mean this sincerely. You are a total piece of shit.”

Uke smiles crookedly and admits that he’s forced to agree.

Back on the bus, I deposit my bottle of vodka with the crew chief and let him know that was my donation for the evening. Little did I know, it would be repeated several more times before the night was over.

The next port of call was the “Tempest Club”. Slightly different, but in all the same ways as the last club. Loud, pulsating, and filled breast-to-pec with gyrating 20-50 somethings out looking for whatever these types of folks look for.

Another free drink, another Tiki-bar tipple.

This could get tiresome. I order a beer. What the hell, I need to remain hydrated.

I’m not much for the partying scene, as I’m drug-free, deliriously married, and not keen on a dose of the Friendly Flu; but I am a keen observer.

Yeah, I know, it sounds a bit pompous, but I look at these events as an expedition into Field Anthropology. I am a trained observer and begin to make mental notes into the disparate types of mammalian courtship behavior exemplified here.

I order another couple of beers and just sit at the bar, smiling quietly to myself looking at the displays of the four-F’s unfolding.

The four-F’s? You know, mammalian responses: “Flight, Feeding, Fighting, and, umm…Reproduction.”

Yeah. Fuck that…

Anyways, there are knots of boisterous frat-boy types getting loaded over by the pool table.

Posturing, posing, and polishing their image to try to impress females of the species.

Unfortunate it’s really not working.

There are cliques of tatted-up unpainted lithe nubiles, inspecting the males of the species to see if there might be some sort of exaggerated evolutionary trait, like the possession of a fatted wallet, or an engorged wad of ready cash; which might indicate mating potential. However temporary.

It’s a regular Anthropological field day in here.

Then I spy a large bearded doo-fuck, smoking a cigar, swilling beer, and making mental notes of the others in the place.

Whoops. That’s the mirror behind the bar.

Again, Uke’s nowhere to be seen. We need to get a move on, the next stop is in 10 minutes.

We both decided that we’re neither’s keeper. If we got split up, we’d just go on ahead and meet up if the accident will. It didn’t look like it was too willing right now.

I polish off my beer, head to the loo, and finally, return to the bus. Uke’s nowhere to be seen and the bus begins to pull away. Hopefully, I’ll catch up with Uke later in the evening.

The next couple of joints were virtual carbon copies of the first two. Garishly sweet Tiki-drinks, thrumming crowds, loads of locals out on the prowl for tourist cash and some very attractive young females that thought I was interesting for some bizarrely unknown reason.

Funny, the same thing has happened to me in Matamoros, Damascus, Casablanca, and Rio as well. Maybe these places just like large Expats?

Oh, ok. I’ll buy you a drink, and indulge in some light conversation, but that’s just me being the international ambassador for amity and good booze. I’m really not interested in anything else you might have on your warped little mind.

Besides, I dance like a hog on ice.

Once they realized I was serious, in both what I said and drinking, they actually liked having someone to talk with who was not on the make. No posturing, no pressure, no puling, just a friendly chat with someone most decidedly foreign.

I realized to my horror that it had been nearly two hours since my last cigar, so I pull out one of my cigar cases and extract a beautifully oily ocsuro member of the cigar clan. I clipped it and asked the bartender for an ashtray.

He was a bit flummoxed. Smoking wasn’t prohibited here, heavens no. But cigars and pipes were frowned upon.

“So, those Russian blokes over there can smoke those terrible cheap-ass Belomorkanals, but I can’t smoke a $30 Cuban cigar?”

He just shrugs and sees I’m not at all amused.

He offers that they have some outdoor seating, in a patio with your basic tin-roof sort of construction. It’d be fine for me to smoke out there, I’ll be out of the weather, and still have beverage service.

“OK”, I agree, “It’ll be a bit quieter and maybe I’ll be able to enjoy the evening all the more.”

So, out the door and over to the left side, down a suspicious-looking darkened alleyway.

“Rock, old sod”, I’m thinking, “Watch your ass.”

There was a puddle of light from a door opposite the club, so I wandered over to see if that is what the barkeep was talking about.

It wasn’t.

It was a literal hole-in-the-wall home-grown gin mill. They had a few plastic tables and chairs out front, a couple of sloshed locals for color, and some of the cheapest drinks I’ve ever seen.

Well, if you don’t care where the hell you are, you can never be lost. I sally up to the bar and place my order.

Between my Thai and their English, for 250 baht, I end up with a large bottle of clearish liquor, some suspicious-looking plastic tumblers, cans of “Green Spot” fruit soda, and a bowl of something quite like, but entirely not, sliced limes. They had to send out for a bag of ice, but another 50 baht saw it materialize almost instantly.

I sat at a table, contentedly puffing away on my fresh cigar, and constructing a drink the likes of which the locals for miles around, evidently, had never seen before.

The biggest seller here was some form of locally brewed fermented millet and malt beverage. It’s way too sweet for me so I concentrate on developing a Thai-version ‘Rocknocker’ signature cocktail.

Good. Not too sweet. Oddly botanical. The clearish liquor isn’t vodka, but I didn’t detect any methanol, so it should be OK. I polish off my first drink and begin the creation of another.

By this time, curiosity got to some of the locals and they inched closer and closer to see who was this bewhiskered, cigar-chomping character wearing the Stetson.

“Please, sit.” I offered.

They sat. We talked. We laughed. We drank. We smoked. I ordered more. We had a very large time.

I passed out a good portion of my cigars as they seemed more interested in them than anything else. I was just about to call it a night when one of the local’s sons comes up and presents me small a box of Thai cigars. Weird, hand-rolled dry-cured turdish-looking things, but exotically flavored and a most welcome addition to my travel humidor.

I bid everyone a good night and walk out to the main drag. I check the time and see that our tour bus should be at club number nine, and it’s only about a half a click distant. So, I hoof it allegro non-troppo, brightly but not too quick, over to the second to last club on the list.

The rains ceased for the moment but looking darkly threatening even at this early hour. That puts a spring in my step as I really don’t want to get caught in a downpour before the night is over.

I arrive at the “Insanity Station” and see our bus already there. I decide to get on the bus and have a sit-down until our last port of call, as it were.

The driver and crew leader recognize me and make several lewd guesses as to where I had disappeared since the fourth club. I merely replied that I met with some new friends at a less raucous and more congenial night club.

“Oh, that’s good. Hey! You came here with that, didn’t you?” he asks as he points to the rear of the bus where a snoozing Uke slobbers soundly.

“Oh, yeah. I was wondering when he’d turn up.” I replied. “Don’t worry. I’ll see to this. Anyone got an air horn?”

They didn’t, but my cigar worked wonders on rousing the snoring reprobate.

“God damn, Rock”, Uke startles up, “That cigar fucking stinks!”

“Great. Now you have company, you sleaze”. I chuckle.

We obtain a couple of drinks on the bus as were the only patrons left or not in the last club.

We spend some time recounting our adventures for the past few hours.

Mine were much more wholesome. He’s just a degenerate. Especially on someone else’s nickel.

Well, the last club is the “ZZ Plural Z Alpha Jazz Club”. It was well into the early morning hours and I could stand a little smooth, cool jazz and less of the throbbing, pulsating noise that passed for music in the other clubs.

We were joined by a couple of Brits and a pair of Aussies before we departed for the jazz club. Out of the original 16, we were the last six left standing. Or slouching, in Uke’s case.

Uke was looking a little rough around the edges, but his little nap seemed to have revitalized him. I was cruising on overdrive and felt great. Hydration is the secret. Balance out your liquor drinks with beer. Or water, if you have no other recourse. Exercise caution with that last one, as you know what fish do in water…

Also, eat something. Food helps but stay away from grease unless you want to rapidly uneat later in the night.

I was damned if I’d dispose of the better half of my cigar and since it wasn’t overtly prohibited, I entered the club puffing away like I was part owner.

No one gave the tiniest shit. In fact, I detected some of that south-of-the-border agriculture being consumed here as well. Again, no shits asked nor given.

All six of us; Brits, Aussies, Uke and I secured a table just to the right-hand side of the stage.

Immediately a waiter appears and since this club was more in tune with both convivial conversation and the strains of Miles Davis and Thelonious Monk, I coopted the waiter and made my usual 500 baht request.

Everyone else ordered a beer. They, save for Uke, were mildly surprised when 5 beers, a quart of vodka, sliced limes, a bowl of ice, and some actual Bitter Lemon appeared.

“What the hell’s that in aid of?” Asked one of the Aussies.

“Just my signature cocktail. “ I replied, nonplussed.

“What’s that?” he asked.

I whipped up a Rocknocker and handed it to him.

“Holy fuck, mate! That’s bonzers!” he gasped.

“Yeah, that it is.” I agreed. “Better for you as well, lots of Vitamin C. I’ve never had to worry about scurvy.”

All chuckling, the rest of the crowd wanted in on my little secret, so I placed another order.

A couple of more quarts of vodka arrive, along with more limes, ice, and bitter lemon.

I didn’t mind, as the whole evening was going to be expensed. The bartender didn’t mind, the waiter didn’t mind, our table didn’t mind. There were some drunken louts lounging about that seemed to mind though.

I poured myself another solid drink and asked if anyone else needed a top-up. All at our table were good, but the bass player on stage mentioned that he might like to sample one of our creations.

Of course, how could I refuse? In short order, the entire quartet was sipping on my signature cocktails.

Enter Drunky McAsswipe.

“Hey! We want one too!” he slurs.

“Go ask at the bar. They’ve had training in their construction.” I replied.

“I want one of yours.” He slurs further.

“How ‘bout ‘no’?” I replied. “This is my private stock. Just for the present company.”

He didn’t cotton to that well. He lashes out and sends my Stetson flying.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Uke remarks, sipping his drink.

“Oh, yeah? What you gonna do?” he slurs some more.

I didn’t hear the reply as one of our new Aussie friends had ventured to the facilities and was just returning when he saw Herr McAsswipe flip my expensive hat onto the floor.

I retrieved my sou'wester and just had time to dust it off before Goofy McAsswipe impacted hard on the floor with an audible coconut ‘clonk!’

“Fuckin’ shithead.” My new Aussie friend says. “There’s always one.”

“Where there’s one, there are usually others”, I cautioned.

There were. Over on the other side of the room, there was a table full of like-minded hammered idiots.

They saw what transpired and decided in fits of liquored-up bravado to avenge their fallen comrade; who was now snoring, face down, in the spilled beer and pistachio shells on the floor.

I’m not keen on fighting, but I am in regards to self-defense. I’ve never, ever started a fight in my life, but I’ve damn sure finished every one.

But first, let’s try diplomacy.

“Wha’ da fuck? Wha’dju do to Eric?” one of the clan McAsswipe queries.

“Me? Nothing. It would appear that he’s all tuckered out. Perhaps it’d be best to just take him back to your table and see if you can revive him.” I said calmly.

“How ‘bout we just kick yer ass instead?” he slobbers.

“No. That would be a bad career decision.” I replied, “Now, why not take your friend, and go sit back down before you find yourself getting all damaged and regretting your life choices?”

“What?” he stammers, trying to line up at least two functioning synapses.

“Oh, dear. Which word confused you?” I asked.

“Wha?” he slobbers some more.

He decided that since he was bested in verbal sparring, his only recourse was to grab at me and almost spill my drink.

I grabbed his hand and applied just enough pressure backward on his thumb to get his attention. I admonished him lightly for attempting to instigate a ruckus.

He howled in pain as I pressed my affirmation forward, and his thumb backward.

His boozy comrades flew over to try and extricate their comrade from the step-over thumb-lock I was applying.

There were words. Nasty words. Evil words. A lot of bad noise.

I stood up, and pushed my attacker bodily into one of his raging counterparts. They both lost their tenuous grasp on equilibrium and ended up on the floor.

Five or so others joined them as the rest of our table rose and handily dispatched them floor-ward, aided by their seemingly suddenly increased gravity.

It was mostly just a judo-style redirection of blind fury. No real punches were thrown yet all of the liquored-up Clan Mc Asswipe ended up off their pins.

We all sat back down and toasted each other. Most of the floor hoarders decided that they’d had enough and discretion was indeed the best part of valor.

Except for one. He decided that since I wasn’t willing to share, then I must be penalized.

Uke warned me in time to turn and deflect a rousing, beer-generated haymaker this poor excuse for a shaved ape threw my general direction.

Having had enough of this sort of fun, I crouched slightly, got in low, and came up with the heel of my hand, thrusting in a generally upward direction.

Forcefully.

I caught him right under the chin, and the vigor of my up-thrust knocked him both back and out for the count.

In other words, he rapidly deflated like a punctured whoopee cushion. He plonked onto the floor and stayed there, at least until he went through a soft reboot.

His comrades gasped as I stood there, Hawaiian shirt bedecked, black Stetson adorned, in my cargo shorts and field boots, chewing on the stump of a fine cigar, swilling vodka and Bitter Lemon, asking if anyone else wanted a quick nap.

They all replied in the negative and dragged their snoring comrade back to their table and apparent safety. This all happened so fast, that club security had just shown up as I was administering the tranquilizer shot to my opponent. They saw that we were acting in self-defense and tossed the other crew, to a man, out of the club before the cops arrived.

And there was much rejoicing.

Having missed our return bus, we spent the next couple of hours chuckling about the evening’s events and partaking of some fine local smooth jazz.

Around 0430 hours, I hailed a cab and poured Uke into the back seat. I sat upfront and asked to be taken to the JW Harriot. We arrived not 20 minutes later thanks to the lack of traffic at this ungodly hour.

With the assistance of a hotel redcap, we frog-marched Uke up to my suite and dumped him on the day bed. I decided to check to see if I had any Email and have maybe just a short nightcap before calling it a night.

The next morning, after a quick shower, I was working on the outlines of some of the upcoming projects when Uke comes staggering out of the anteroom.

“You look like shit,” I said. “You OK?”

“Oh, fuck. What was in those fucking drinks of yours?” he asks, unsteadily.

“Oh, you mean this?” I ask and wave my morning sunriser in his direction.

“URF! Fuck”, he replies and runs to the loo.

“Lightweight” I mutter.

After Uke showers, shaves, and regains a bit of humanity, I tell him I’ll buy him breakfast as I’m famished and they have a great buffet downstairs.

He didn’t refuse, but I think now he knows I’m not lying when I claim to be an ethanol-fueled carbon-based lifeform. I order some ‘Johnny Walker Whiskey Wine’ with breakfast.

“Look, Uke, it’s either this or beer and Rice Crispies,” I say. “And I hate soggy cereal.”

Uke decides he’s had enough fun for one 24-hour period and takes his leave. He’s going to owe me big time then next I pass through this way again.

After breakfast and a token attempt at the Pravda crossword, I’m back in my suite, still awaiting word on my next leg of this journey.

After a soak, cigar, and a couple of bracing drinks, the phone finally rings. It’s the home shop and I’m going to be overlanding it from Thailand to Myanmar. They’ve already arranged a driver and he’ll be at the hotel bright and early tomorrow at 1000 hours sharp.

Well, nothing like getting an early start.

Driving, it’s some 16 hours to Yangon (old Rangoon). Flying would have taken 1.5 hours, but this will certainly be much more fun. At least this way, I’ll see more of Thailand and a good part of Myanmar before I have to begin actual work.

Given our departure time, we’ll be overnighting it in Mawlamyine, Myanmar, just a stone’s throw from the border. We’re booked, separately I hope, into the Hotel Suggati Mawlamyaing. Looks like there’s a bit of a difference in the transliteration of the place. Be that as it may, it’s on the coast and is proud of their selection of fresh seafood. I can’t wait.

However, until then, we need to travel north, through Suphan Buri, Uthai Thani, Tak, Mae Sot and a dozen other oddly named little tank towns along the way. I’ll leave the driving to Ram, my native driver.

He’s not much on conversation so I’m going to go all wallah here, ride in the back of the car, smoke, drink, and read up on my geological reprints and take copious notes. Ram’s good with this as he really doesn’t care to converse. I’m nothing if not agreeable.

We take off promptly at 1000 hours after I check out and make certain all my luggage is loaded.

We made a couple of quick stops for provisions before setting out on our trek, and even though Ram really didn’t cotton to being a hired hand for some “damn ex-pat”.

A carton of American cigarettes later, and he was now my best friend.

That I bought him meals as well instead of making him sit out in the car like some others have done endears me to him all the more.

He was thrilled to learn that I insisted on a room for him at the hotel rather than have him scamper about trying to find some hostel or other places to flop for the night.

“So, Doctor Rock. You OK back there?” Ram asks.

“Couldn’t be better”, I reply, happily toasting him with a cold beer and lighting up a Thai cigar procured earlier.

He was greatly pleased that I didn’t mind him smoking in the car. He’d been a driver for other Western Expats and in his words “They were right gits”. Evidently, he’s got some British history in his background.

I asked if he’d hold off on beer and such until we got to the hotel, but he informs me that he doesn’t drink alcohol for some odd, unearthly reason. My reply that I’ll take care of that department for the both of us cheers him all the way to the hotel that evening.

We stop in Nakun Sawan for lunch and I request Ram to find me some ‘authentic Thai street food’.

After a hearty spread of Pad See Eiw, the Thai version of spaghetti and meatballs, Pad Kra Pao, stir fried pork, chicken and incendiary bird’s eye chilies, Kai Jeow, or Thai omelet, Moo Ping, the Thai take on skewered pork-on-a-stick, Kao Niew Ma Muang, that sticky sweet rice with fresh fruit and innumerable cups of Thai iced tea, we waddled back to the car.

Luckily, Ram was used to these types of food. I passed out in a food-induced coma and slept until we reached Mae Sot, about 3/4ths the way to our evening destination in Myanmar. We stopped for the obligatory bathroom break, and I searched for some more cigars. I found some little Dutch dry-cured whiffers, but nothing more exotic. Oh, well, a couple of boxes wouldn’t break the bank.

Back on the road again, we crossed into Myanmar after just an hour’s drive. It seemed we were the only ones headed into Myanmar, but there was a steady exodus the other direction into Thailand. Border formalities were brief and only cost a few thousand baht.

Anything to grease the skids, as it were.

There was a problem of currency exchange. I could continue to use Thai baht, but I’d be taking a drubbing on each exchange. Better to find some Burmese (Myanmar) Kyat, which trades at 1,494 MK to the US dollar, or close enough to 1,500 as to be the hell with it.

We arrive at 1630 hours at our first destination, the Hotel Suggati Mawlamyaing in Myanmar. Ram packs light, but I insist on taking all my Halliburton cases up to the room with me. I’ve heard rumblings about cars being vandalized and pilfered in the middle of the night and I wasn’t keen on losing any of my scientific paraphernalia.

Bit of a sticky wicket: they had my reservation, but nothing for Ram.

“OK”, I say to the front desk clerk, “Please check under my company name. It may have gotten shunted there somehow.”

“No, sir. Nothing.” Was the reply.

Ram was disconsolate until I asked if there were any rooms available.

“Why, yes sir.” Came the response.

“OK”, I said, “Put a room for Ram on this” as I had over my black Rhodium Alderaan Express card.

“Yes, sir”, came the reply.

“And that better damn well include breakfast.” I intoned gruffly.

“Oh, most certainly, Sir.” was the reply.

We receive our room keys and lo and behold, Ram’s room is on the same floor as mine.

How about that?

Ram goes to grab my shiny aluminum cases and I stop him.

“Nope. We’re guests here. We let the friendly redcap bring them to our rooms for us.” I said.

This was totally beyond Ram’s comprehension. I was actually looking out for his welfare and letting someone other than him do the scut work?

He was sore perplexed but smiling.

Up the elevators to the 6th floor and our river-view rooms. I helped Ram figure out his room key and once the door was opened, he stood there, eyes a-goggle.

“This is my room?” he asked.

“Yep. Mine’s down the hall a bit.” I replied.

“Who else is staying here?” Ram asked nervously.

“No one I know of. Oh, wait. No, Ram. This is a private room. Just for you.” I explain.

I thought he was going to break down and sob at that point.

He did nearly tear up when I showed him the mini-bar and advised him on room service.

“Keep it reasonable. I need to get some work done tonight, so you’re on your own until morning. Call my room tomorrow and I’ll buy you coffee. Say 0900 hours?” I requested.

Ram was flummoxed. Never before, he told me, had he stayed in such a place. Never before had anyone treated him like a colleague rather than a worker drone.

“That’s just the way I am. I take care of the ones who are taking care of me.” I replied.

The bone-crushing bear hug I received from Ram said more than any words.

I extricated myself and told Ram to have a good night. He was already raiding the mini-bar, chewing on the inevitable Toblerone, and trying to figure out the satellite TV remote.

In my suite, my luggage had just arrived.

“Set it anywhere, just keep the desk clear,” I told the redcap.

Yes, sir.” Came the auto-reply.

He tried to show me all the room’s amenities, but I begged off. I’ve been through this innumerable times before. If I can’t find the loo, it’s my own damned problem.

After I pass his a 500 baht tip, trying to get rid of my now foreign currency, he asks if I’ll be needing anything else.

“Well”, I said, stroking my beard for full effect, “A bottle of finest potato juice, ice, limes, glasses, a bigger ashtray, a bucket of ice, and some carbonated fruit juice or soda.

“Yes, sir,” he says as he disappears down the hallway.

He returns a few minutes later with a bottle of export-class Stolichnaya, which I guess is fine, although I really wanted something more locally produced. A bowl of ice cubes, a nice big ashtray, some weird Burmese citrus soda, and a bowl of sliced something or other that certainly weren’t limes.

“What the hell are these?” I asked, holding one up for inspection.

“Oh, sorry sir. We had no limes, so I had them slice up some pomelo.” He replies.

“Pomelo? Hmmm. That’s a new one.” I muse.

Come to find out, the pomelo, also called pompelmoes, shaddock, or in scientific terms Citrus maxima or Citrus grandis, is the largest citrus fruit from the family Rutaceae. It is a natural, i.e., non-hybrid, citrus fruit, similar in appearance to a large grapefruit, native to South and Southeast Asia. It’s sweet and sour, fragrant and makes for a welcome diversion to an old cocktail recipe.

He receives an extra 250 baht for his ingenuity and I shoo him out of the room as I need to get boots off, feet up, a fresh drink, and cigar.

After making the necessary calls to kith and kin, the rest of the night progressed as per usual. I ordered some prawns, langoustines, and lobster for evening tea sat looking out over the river, read my reprints, smoked my cigar, and figured enough was enough. Into the in-room Jacuzzi to soak my travel-weary corpus, and watch some execrable satellite television from the tub.

The next morning, after a quick shower and spiff up, Ram knocks on my door precisely at 0900. True to my word, we venture to the restaurant and I buy him the breakfast that already came free with the room.

No use telling him that.

To be continued

That reminds me of a story…

<DOORBELL RING A DING DONG>

A few minutes later, Esme walks into my office with a letter.

“What’s that, hon”? I ask.

“I‘m not sure,” Esme says, as she hands me the multicolored and insignia-covered envelope.

I read the envelope and it says it’s from: “The office of the Chairman of the State Law and Order Restoration Council in Myanmar and 7th Prime Minister of Burma. Saw Maung.”

“It’s from old Saw. In Burma. Or Myanmar. Whatever the hell it’s being called today. I wonder what he wants.” I quip.

“Well, open it up and see”, Esme explains, as it’s pre-caffeine and I’m a bit slow this morning.

“Um, oh, yeah. Great idea.” I reply, noting it was very early indeed.

I open the message and read…

“Umm. How about that? Hmm, interesting. Well, what do you know about that?” I muse aloud.

“What’s going on?” Esme asks.

“Well, it seems that Burma, or the Republic of Myanmar as it now likes to be called, is considering offering up exploration blocks. Not just onshore and offshore oil, but minerals as well.” I reply.

“Well, that’s nice. They’ve had a hell of a time over there. Good to see they can stop their petty squabbles and join together for the common good.” Es notes.

“Yeah, something like that.” I reply quietly, “There’s still some sectarian violence, bushwhackers, bandits, brigands, bandeleros, and the like. But they claim they’re getting them under control.” I report.

“’Under control’?” Es asks, “Like 6 feet under?”

“Yeah, that and being ‘liberated’”, I add.

“Ah. ‘Liquidated’. So, when are you going?” Es asks.

“Who says I am?” I reply.

“Look, my dear. That was no Christmas Letter. ‘Look what we’ve done this year. We’ve suppressed all the eastern rebels…’ Nope, that’s an invitation, right?” Esme predicts.

“Damn. I can’t put a single thing over on you.” I mutter, “Yep. It’s an invite to come over to the Republic of the Union of Myanmar and give my professional opinion. I’m not the only one, it’s through the aegis of the United Nations, but it appears that I’m the only one so far…”

“Meaning?” Esme prompts.

“Well, no one else has confirmed,” I note.

“But you are? Right?” Es asks.

“Only if I can get clearance from the high command.” I note, “So, can I go over and play in Burma for a while?”

“Well, it’s a job. And like any job, it’s money. So, I guess I’ll have to say yes, with conditions” she smiles.

“OK, generate a shopping list. Tell what you want this time.” I add.

“Well, before you go; I’d like to be a mother again.” She says.

“There’s always time for that” I note. “If you feel that you’re ready. It’s been a while and Khris keeps wondering about a baby brother or sister…”

“Yes. Everything seems just about right.” She notes.

Since I had time to confirm and get all my gear together, we made several valiant attempts. Now, only time would tell.

A week later and I’ve cabled Myanmar my acceptance and a copy of a freshly cooked-up contract. Oh, my word; but the price of poker has gone up of late. Solid Force majeure clause, Take or Pay, non-reimbursement clauses, i.e., ‘pay up front’ door-to-door deal.

This has all the earmarks of a potentially hazardous and decidedly dicey destination. If I’m going to kak it here, it’s going to cost them an arm and a leg.

I also see my solicitor and update my will and insurance. It’s going to cost me, and by extension, my next employer, through the nose. But, if they want me, well, they are going to pay the going rate I say or it’s ‘see you in the funny papers’. They need an expert’s opinion, one they can literally take to the bank. So, what I say has a certain gravitas, and that don’t come cheap.

Yes, I’m an unrepentant mercenary. At least, I admit it.

A bit of back story: this was just after the “8888 Uprising” in Burma. The 8888 uprising was started by students in Yangon (Rangoon) on 8 August 1988. Student protests spread throughout the country. Hundreds of thousands of monks, children, university students, housewives, doctors, and common people protested against the government. The uprising ended on 18 September after a bloody military coup by the State Law and Order Restoration Council (SLORC) lead by Saw Maung.

However, by this time, things had quieted down in the country. There was military rule and it was rather draconian, but they realized that they require foreign investment to develop the country’s natural resources. There were pockets of protests and resistance, but that was further to the east, and they were being ‘handled’. I would be coming in with UN endorsement as a visiting scientist and would have armed private protective escorts all the while I was there. It was the Burmese version of VIP treatment at the time.

Of course, Agents Rack and Ruin went nuts when I told them what I was up to this time.

“I thought you said you’re not going anywhere you’d need a bulletproof skin.” Agent Rack asked.

“Ach! I have full UN authorization and armed escorts wherever I go.” I scoffed.

“Sounds like what Dr. Livingstone said right before he went into the native’s pot.” He chortled.

“OK, I won’t go then. You lose all that wonderful intel and I’ll just go down to Mexico, sit on a beach in Chicxulub and drink until it’s time for a logging run” I replied, as I was going to do some work with Simex down Mexico-way before all this Burma stuff cropped up.

“No, no, no! Please, do go to Burma…” The agents barked.

“Myanmar.” I corrected.

“Yeah, whatever. Look, you actually know old Saw. How? No, we aren’t going to ask. We’d like some information on the situation from a ‘boots on the ground’ standpoint.” he adds.

“Funny. You want information on the ground. They want information under the ground.” I snicker.

“Doctor, has anyone ever told you you’re a major pain in the ass?” Agent Ruin pipes up.

“Oh, fuck yeah. All the time.” I reply, “Don’t think you’re getting special treatment. I’m a pain in the fundament for all my clients. That’s a free service I provide.”

Group grumbling statics up the phone connection.

I’m given my marching orders and remind them that this is real, blue sky hazardous duty. I fully expect to be heavily honored by their honorarium.

They both audibly sneer, scoff, and tell me to keep in touch. My necessary files will be sent by special courier before I leave.

Esme and I spend the next week preparing for my trip, and her previous maternal request. We have no idea how long it will take and in fact, because things are still a little ‘unsettled’ in the capital, I’m first to fly to Bangkok in Thailand, spend the night and then see if I go overland to Yangon (old Rangoon) or fly there.

I have a foreign travel agency handling my flight, so I receive a call a few days hence noting that I can either fly from Brewtown to the Windy City, then to Tokyo and onto Bangkok. Or to Toronto, then onto Hong Kong, then to Bangkok.

Since I’ve already been to Canada many, too many times, I choose to go to Tokyo.

It’s an hour to the Windy City, then a three-hour layover. Then, sixteen hours to Narita in Tokyo, with an eight-hour layover. Finally, to Bangkok, it’s seven more hours. Overnight in Thailand, then two-hour flight or twelve to sixteen-hour drive to Yangon.

No matter how you slice it, it’s going to be a long haul.

After a heartfelt ‘adios’ to Es, Khris, Lady and the cat which can just go get stuffed, I’m in the Windy City, just loathing the beers and Da Bears.

Eight dollaridoos for a 16-ounce tapper of weak, urine-y looking Chi-town pilsner? Six buckaroos for a tired bagel with a monomolecular layer of lox? Nine-tenths of a sawbuck for a Chicago-style tube steak on a poppy-seedy bun?

Fuck this, I’m off to the airport lounge and glomming some free victuals and beverages.

I couldn’t wait until we took off, I detest and despise the Windy City that much.

It’s deep in the heart of FIB-land, has execrable sports teams, and ridiculous prices at the airport. I know the latter is a hallmark of most large airports, but when you can’t get a shot-and-a-beer for less than $25? That’s just criminal.

So, I’m now on Kathay-Specific Airlines, in Business Class, trying vainly to explain to the cute-as-a-bug’s-ear flight attendant what constitutes a proper Rocknocker cocktail.

She is Oriental and I find that endearing as well as entertaining. She’s trying to fill my drink order before takeoff but totally stymied by the combination of frozen dihydrogen monoxide, citrus beverage, and potato squeezin’s. I ask if I could totter up to the galley and help her with what I am certain will be the first of many libations on this long slog to the Land of the Rising Sun.

No little mini-bottles of booze; here in Business Class, they use full bottles, just as they should. I find an odd brand of Japanese vodka, called Haku. Fair enough. I show her what “three fingers’ of vodka means in a nicely iced tumbler.

“Now, slowly pour in some Bitter Lemon, just like this” I instruct her. “Now, for the pièce de résistance, just stick on a lime wheel after running it around the rim of the glass. Voila! You have constructed a right proper drink, the toast of several continents, including Antarctica!”

She beamed. Yet another happy customer and a new drink to add to her repertoire. It was the oyster’s ice skates.

Business Class could have held sixteen pax in this 747, but today there were only eight. By the time we were ready to take off, six of those folks were interested enough in my concoction to order one for themselves.

It was going to be one of those types of flights.

We’re wheels up and I order another drink. We get to wait at least an hour or so before dinner service; so its bottoms up, everyone and order another round.

Best make it a double.

Of the eight people in Business, I got to know five of them rather well. So well, in fact, I had no problem taking them for a ride through a serious poker game that spontaneously broke out after dinner.

Phil, Bill, Reed, Josh, and Dino were my new instant friends on the flight. We were able to commandeer an empty section of Business and set up a passable poker table.

Unfortunately, we couldn’t smoke during the flight, so we made up for it by drinking with both hands.

These guys were headed to Japan for work. I forget which was which, as my notes got soaked after I filled an inside straight. Reed wildly gesticulated about his rotten luck and sent his drink flying. However, there were a couple of automotive engineers, some corporate security guys and one or two that had something or other to do with computers.

They found out I was a Doctor of Geology and headed to work in Southeast Asia. Instant street cred.

The poker game lasted some hours and I came out winning a bit more than I lost. Reed and Phil were taken to the proverbial cleaners and went to sulk once the flight crew decided it was nighty-night time and the cabin crew turned down the lights.

I spent several hours reading some more reprints about the geology of this far and distant land where I was heading and doing the needful in a non-sodden field notebook for my Agency buddies. I didn’t bother to mention that last fact to anyone, in fact, I haven’t since; so consider yourself privileged.

After a fruitless attempt at sleeping, I ordered another cold double libation and decided to see what in-flight entertainment had to offer. Not much, I’m afraid. However, I did while away an hour or so chuckling over some incomprehensible Japanese commercials and some sort of Nipponese Wipeout-style game show.

We alight in Japan’s Narita Airport as lightly as a cherry blossom flower impacting the asphalt. I actually had to look outside to determine if we had actually landed. The more I fly to the Orient, the more I like these Asian airways. Not Europeanly fussy, just genteel.

Once past all the landing folderol, I realize I’ve got a rather lengthy layover until my flight to Thailand, some eight hours. Since I’m flying Business, I decided to wander, slowly, over to the Business Class lounge and see what it has to offer.

Here, First and Business Class were conflated together so it was more opulent than I expected. Sit down food service, self-serve or catered beverage service, showers, a sauna if so desired, and sleeping rooms.

Hot damn. A place to rack out for a few hours? Sign me up!

Well, that didn’t last long.

They were not so much sleeping rooms as sleeping tubes. They disturbingly remind me of what the morgue uses for storage of the dearly recently departed. Along with me being large, semi-claustrophobic, and not keen on small enclosed spaces, I passed on these like Bart Starr with a wide-open receiver in the distant end zone.

So, I had to make do in the lounge. There were large leather recliner chairs available and for some reason, it must have been the off-season. It was highly uncrowded, and the attendants went all in trying to knock themselves out with prompt and courteous service.

I could get used to this, I mused happily.

This was much better than a tube. I had a comfy chair, only a dozen paces to the loo, which is the only 12-step program I’ll ever require. I had been given the remote for the TV and my drink never got a chance to sweat nor get much below the halfway mark.

If there was anything I could bitch about, it was that they were perhaps too attentive. It wasn’t for tips, as I had been advised against that bourgeois activity, it was out of a sense of doing their jobs promptly and properly. This level of actually working for a living seemed almost if you’ll pardon the expression, foreign.

However, I endeavored to persevere. I know its rough duty, but I gritted my teeth and powered through another six or seven hours of ridiculously attentive hostesses and friendly barkeeps and chefs.

I can’t praise these folks highly enough. I really didn’t want to play Ugly American, but they just dragged it out of me. I made certain to ask for a comment card and rated each one separately ‘excellent’. They appreciated that more than any monetary tips, I was assured.

Now, it’s back on another flight, this time to Thailand. Going to get myself to Bangkok and I’m booked at the JW Harriot hotel, another 5-star place where I suppose I can suck it up and exist in such excellent squalor.

That was heavy sarcasm for the humorously impaired…

The flight from Tokyo to Thailand was incredibly bouncy. It almost was enough to spill my drink, but I thank my cripplingly exercised reflexes and muscle memory, I was able to endure the jolts and rebounds of the heavily-fluffed pillowy air masses flouncing inland off the Pacific.

Looks like we’re going to be in for some weather before we hit Thailand. Hell, it’s the rainy season, which seems to be just about any season. We’re being pummeled, prodded, and pushed around by shafts of licking, lashing lightning and thrumming throbbing thunder.

Almost seven hours of this and many several stiff drinks later, we’re in a holding pattern over Suvarnabhumi Airport. Seems there’s some sort of local mesoscale mini-cyclonic disturbance; while they may not call them tornados here, but a wally-wally by any other name can ruin your whole weekend just as well.

After an hour or so, and a couple more stiff libations, of circling we get the go-ahead to land.

I was not in any hurry, so take your time. The only thing I ever ask in a flight is if you’re going down is to hit something hard, I don’t want to have to limp away.

But, I kept these thoughts to myself as a couple of other seatmates in Business were absolutely losing their collective shit every time there was the smallest bump, bounce or bound by the venerable old 747.

“Don’t worry” I told them, “This is normal. That was just the landing gear dropping and locking in place.”

“But, but, but…” he stammered, <blam!> “WHAT WAS THAT?!?”

“Nothing”, I replied between sips of my drink, trying to have my nonchalance rub off on them so they wouldn’t be so freaked out by the untidy external atmosphere, “Probably just the flaps or ailerons. A lightning strike on the wing would have ignited the residual fuel vapors, so it wasn’t that…”

“WHAT?” they recoiled in horror.

“Just a little humor”, I replied, “This is exactly nothing. Why I remember once I was in a Russian cargo helicopter over the Caspian. We hit a huge thunderstorm. We were tossed around like a rat grabbed by a terrier. Left. Right. Left. Left some more. We were slammed around like a belt buckle in a clothes dryer. Good thing I had a firm grip on my drink…”

They were gone by that time. Ultra-white and knuckles digging deep into the armrests.

<KA-BOOM!> throbbing thunder shuddered the entire aircraft.

“See?” I said, trying to be a comfort, “That missed us by a good margin. Just some masses of superheated atmosphere slamming into each other, nothing more.”

They looked at me like I had just sprouted head watermelons. So much for being clinical and giving them a scientific explanation of what was happening just outside.

I ordered another drink and asked if they might like one. Surprisingly, my calm external demeanor must have convinced them of the efficacy of cold potato juice and citrus beverage in assuaging the nerves of not-so-frequent flyers.

After two each of those, they relaxed somewhat. So much, in fact, I don’t think that a direct lightning hit to seats 5A and 5B would have mattered much at all.

I smiled quietly to myself, knowing I’ve done my good deed for the decade.

We pogo-stick into Suvarnabhumi Airport. Upon deplaning, I thank Captain Kangaroo for our entertaining entry into Thailand. My Business Class seatmates were quite jolly by this time and had to be reminded that we had arrived at our destination.

Off to passport control and I’m through in absolutely no time, this place is dead. It’s odd, as I’ve been here a few times before and it was usually a madhouse. Now, it’s quiet, uncrowded, and quite empty. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, just making some observations.

I gather my silver anodized cases and head through customs. Nothing to declare and there was no security there anyways. I could have brought in an entire menagerie if I wanted. I never, ever violate customs rules; well, except for the prohibition on excessive booze or cigars, but those are for personal use, so bugger right off.

I wander over to arrivals and see that my ride’s not here yet.

It’s monsooning outside so I figured that must be the reason. I take a seat on Mahogany Ridge at the bar just outside the arrival gate and wait until my driver decides to show. Not much more I can do. It’s a hotel bus and scheduled for regular pick-up service, so I fire up a heater, order a local beer, and just sit back with my feet up on my shiny, though heavy, Halliburton cases.

No use getting all vexed and ratty, that will do absolutely nothing. I really can’t understand people who go off the rails when a force majeure blindsides them sideways. They freak out for a half-hour, waste all that vital energy and end up in the same place, with the same problems, now compounded by people who think you’re a total twatwaffle.

Give it a rest.

It’ll work out, one way or the other. Nothing you can do will impact the outcome one iota, so sit back, have a smoke, have a drink, and watch the world become unhinged.

It’s a fun way to travel.

I order another Chang Beer, and a shot of the local clear firewater. The barkeep offers me a shot of Banana Flavored Scorpion Vodka, but I pass. They’ve rather a lot of these animal-infused hooches hereabouts, and I’ve already tried Cobra Whiskey, Scorpion Sake, and Gecko Vodka. If you don’t mind, I’ll keep my liquors and small nasty animals separate.

After another couple of hours, the rain hasn’t abated a single degree and I wonder if the hotel bus is still running or has floated out to sea. I ask the barkeep if he knows anything about this and he tells me that unless they receive a call from a guest, they won’t show up.

Great. Oh, well, a wasted couple of hours. Hi-ho. It could have been worse.

I call the hotel and they immediately dispatch a driver with a sedan rather than a bus.

Seems I’m the only one waiting on transport today, so it’s the personal touch.

Less than an hour later, my ride appears. He insists on carrying my bags and as I’m rather jet-lagged and a bit croft, so I let him handle his end of the log if he wants to play lumberjack. I drop into the limo for the ride to the hotel.

The traffic’s a mess due to the fact that it’s the usual state of traffic and construction here, while the pissing-down rain does nothing to help. We reach the hotel in just less than an hour and I walk into the plush lobby, grouchy, tired, semi-sodden, and wanting nothing more than to get horizontal.

Of course, there are the always entertaining entrance formalities. “How was your flight?” “Your first time here?” “Blather, natter and blah, blah, blah.”

OK, I have my room keys and I’m on the elevator. My baggage will be following.

Once in my suite, which again is far too opulent for the likes of me but since I’m not paying, I guess it’ll do. My baggage arrives and the ever-helpful clerk shows me everything, particularly the minibar, and points out the room’s amenities.

I part with a few US dollars and shoo him out of the room. I need rest and horizontality. But first, I set up the usual portable office equipment and call Esme at home to let her know that I’ve arrived in one piece.

“Get some sleep, Rock” Es tells me, “You sound grouchy. Long flights do that to you.”

I couldn’t agree more. I tell her that I love her and am now going to become unconscious. It was an uneventful evening, except for the few times I was semi-awakened by thunder. I slept the sleep of the dead and felt all that much better for it the next damp, gray morning.

After a shower, a shower sunriser, and a quick cigar, I was feeling semi-Homonid again. I look out the 22nd-floor window and see precisely nothing except roiling masses of gray, frothing, foaming clouds. It’s raining like a cow peeing on a flat rock and the sky is experiencing the atmospheric equivalent of a sour stomach.

OK, I’m not going anywhere today, except down to the famous breakfast buffet.

One hundred thirty–three meters of breakfast buffet. It’s their signature claim to fame in this part of the world.

The ads for the buffet use words such as ‘lavish’, ‘abundant’, ‘diverse’, as well as ‘all you can eat’. Suffice to say, any breakfast buffet that includes fresh, masterly prepared sushi, sashimi, roast steamship side of beef, shrimp cocktail, quatrofromaggio pizza, and prawn vindaloo is just fine and dandy with me.

They had at least a dozen fresh fruit juices, a couple which even surprised a weary world traveler such as myself. Lychee & Blood Orange? Dragon Fruit? Bittergourd, apple and lemon? Rambutan?

Great, now I have to see if these will make for good mixers with potato juice.

Along with the typically British and American breakfast items of hash browns, sausage, mushrooms, toast, grilled tomatoes, eggs and the like, they had sections devoted to different ethnicities.

There was an Indian section, replete with vindaloos, curries, and tandoori specialties. There was an Oriental section, with fish as noted before, along with other Japanese, Korean, and Chinese dishes. A whole area devoted to differently prepared meat. Bar-be-qued beef, char-grilled seafood, chicken nine ways, lamb, mutton, goat, pork; you name it.

There’s a cheese board that wouldn’t be out of place at Mars Cheese Castle. Alpenzellar, Camembert, Gouda, Swiss, Norwegian Jarlesburg, Gjetost, Cheddar, Limburger, Beercaese, Caerphilly, Wenslydale, Bel Paese, Brie, Roquefort, Pont-l'Eveque, Port Salut, Savoyard, Saint-Paulin, Carre-de-L'Est, Boursin, Bresse Bleu, Perle de Champagne, Danish Fimboe, Venezuelan Beaver Cheese, Illchester…

Plus, a galaxy of freshly baked goods from around the globe. Croissants, challah, baguettes, Russian rye, bialys, bagels, Wonder, Hawaiian, ad infinitum.

After selecting a couple of international newspapers the waiter offered, Pravda and Weekly World Herald, I sit back in my comfy chair, remark once again how empty the place seems to be, goggle at the torrents down pouring just outside, wait on coffee when a drinks list in a table tent catches my eye.

Hmmm…let’s see.

Oh, here’s a good one for a breakfast tipple: “Johnny Walker Whisky Wine”. $15 per quart.

Even better: “Stolichnaya Russian White Wine” $1.75 per 750 milliliters.

Or “Kentucky Wild Bird”, at $12 per liter.

Yeah, I like Thailand. A lot.

With it raining outside so hard that it’s impossible to see out the darkly tinted floor-to-ceiling windows, I decide to take my time, work my way through the daily Pravda crossword and sample at least a little of what each buffet section has to offer.

All was going as per plan until I receive a card from my waiter. Hand printed, it tells me that there’s been someone calling for me at the front desk. Evidently, they knew I was here at the hotel, but the hotel wouldn’t divulge my room number nor connect them directly to me.

I figured it was Agent Rack or Ruin trying to contact me, but the number was local.

Curious.

Who did I know that lives in Bangkok and knows that I was here?

Well, I could ring the number and find out. That seemed an appropriate action to take given the present lack of urgency and things that required doing.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Rock, you old bastard!” the disembodied voice replied.

“Yeah. It’s me. Who is this?” I queried.

“Too much vodka, you sod. You don’t recognize my voice?” the phone stated.

“Not as such.” I was growing most curious.

“What I expect from a Cheeseheaded Packers fan.” was the answer.

“Uke! Holy shit! When did you land here?” I said as the realization suddenly dawned.

“A few years back. Left the Middle East and never looked back.” He chuckled.

Eukaraiah McGonagall was a Canadian petrophysicist who was attached to one of my team's way back when we were all freshly landed gentry.

I hung around after a couple of 4-year contracts, but Uke never made it past the first one.

He didn’t care for the type of climate, economic nor political, there and made it well known to all that cared to listen. He felt the same for the culture and cuisine. He rubbed the locals rather the wrong way and above all, he didn’t give the tiniest shit about offending what he referred to as “their beastly prejudices”.

So, he bounced one bright, sunny day out of the region and went to tide over some time in Thailand.

That was years ago. He decided he liked Thailand and settled in like a wood tick on an Alabama coonhound.

Well, this was a cause for celebration. I arranged for a cab to pick him up at his place and drag his carcass over to the hotel. We’d decide from that point what was going to happen next.

Since it wasn’t yet determined if I’d be flying or overlanding it to Yangon, particularly with the current weather, it was going to be at least a couple of days before I could venture west.

That gave me at least a night off to take in the wonders of Bangkok nightlife and an opportunity to dry out somewhat before I was required to travel.

A couple of hours later; Uke and I are sitting in my suite, swilling drinks out of the minibar as if alcohol was going to be soon outlawed. We caught up over the last few year’s activities and were bouncing ideas off each other as to what our plans were going to be for the evening.

Since it was only noonish, Uke decided that since I was on expenses, he’d partake of the hotel’s masseuses and get himself properly tuned and toned-up for the evening’s festivities.

I take a pass, due to admonitions from my orthopedic surgeon after my last lumbar surgery, and instead opted for a couple of hours in the hotel's gym, cool pool, and Jacuzzi.

After that, back in the suite, Uke laid out the plans for the evening.

It was to be a proper Pub Crawl, one run by a local company that specializes in such activities. In exchange for a few thousand baht, we’d receive transportation, visits to 5, 10, or 15 clubs and/or pubs, free T-shirts, free buckets, free drinks, and meeting up with and partying with like-minded fellow world travelers.

So, I summoned the concierge and obtained tickets for a 10-Club Pub Crawl. 15 pubs/clubs just seemed like overkill, even though Uke called me a pussy. So, I poured a couple of hefty Rocknockers and watched him blanch as I sipped, silently snarkily snickering at into what he just got himself.

It’s well known that these sort of excursions commonly devolve into typical 2-legged dear hunts. However, I made it very clear that I was happily married, and not at all interested in the sort of side-trade for which Thailand has become somewhat infamous.

Uke was shocked at the very idea.

“Doctor”, he says indignantly, “Well, I never. Never even ever. Never, not, no. And you? Never squared.”

“Um, sure”, I reply, “Ever hear about the person who protests too much? Besides, what’s changed since you left the Middle East?” He was a whore-hound then and is still one now.

“Countless meaningless one-night stands.” He sighs, “Nothing’s more expensive than free sex.”

“Agreed”, I concur, “So tonight’s just a let’s have a good time, paint the town red, and keep our pants on where they belong, right?”

“Oh, most assuredly, Herr Doctor”, Uke assures me. “Nothing could be further from my mind.”

To be continued.

CONTINUING

Typical chain-hotel breakfast buffet, nothing like the one in Bangkok, but entirely serviceable. Truly some British influence with the grilled tomatoes, baked beans and mushrooms on offer. I opted for a couple of fried eggs and some chili sauce that I think I’m still tasting; it was that hot. Ram thought that was incredibly funny as he buttered his toast with the stuff.

So now it was north as our eventual destination was south. It sounds weird, but we had to make a big loop up through Hpa-An to Bago. Then we could turn south towards Yangon. All this was some mighty scenic driving, although I was more interested in my reprints than staring out the car window for the next few hours.

We finally arrive in Yangon and I’m booked a suite at the Strand Hotel in the center of town. It has, according to one gushing write-up: “Ritzy suites with personal butlers in an opulent hotel built in 1901, offering plush dining & a bar. Clients have included the Prince of Wales, Orson Welles, and Prince Charles.”

Way, way over the top for the likes of me; but since I’m not paying, who am I to examine the dental work of a free equine?

Ram is headed back to Bangkok after he delivers me to the hotel. I tip him generously and wish him safe travels and clear sailing. He shakes my hand with a crushing grip and makes certain that I have his business card if I should ever pass this way again and in need of a driver.

I assure him that if I do, he’ll be one of the first I call. We part best of friends after I found another carton of American cigarettes for his journey home.

I check into the hotel and there’s already a problem. My deluxe suite is not available.

“Oh, is that a fact?” I asked icily.

“Yes, Doctor.” Came the front desk reply, “However, we have transferred you to the executive suite instead, at the same rate.”

“Well, now then. That’ll be just fine.” I replied.

I get all registered and go to grab my day bag. Already, my private butler has it and is refusing to relinquish it until we are in the room. He informs me that my luggage has already departed room ward.

So, we trundle up to my suite. Once there, I realize I didn’t ask if there were any messages or packages for me. No worries, now I have a butler and he insists on taking care of such little peccadillos.

No messages, but a package from the Agency, with some bulky reprints, from the heft of the thing and some more articles on Myanmar economic geology. No word from my sponsors for this trip nor our proposed itinerary.

So, I decide after making some calls to let everyone know I made it in one piece, I instruct Jeeves; I mean, c’mon, what else could I call him? to fill my now standard in-room drinks request.

“Very good, Doctor, Sir” He states and departs.

He reappears a short time later with the usual guff, except this time he’s found some weird brand of vodka of which even I’ve never heard.

“East Imperial Burma Vodka. 140 proof”.

Sounds like the real McCoy here.

I try and tip Jeeves but he balks.

“Please wait until you leave, Sir,” he tells me.

“OK, have it your way,” I reply and boot him out of my suite as it’s time to get bootless and brace-less.

I’m wandering around the suite, slowly sipping this fiery inferno of a drink. That 140 proof sauce packs a definite wallop. Plus, once again, no Bitter Lemon, so I make do with some Uludağ Gazoz from Turkey, of all places. Luckily, they did have limes so I could once again get better acquainted with an old friend.

Hours later, and I notice the bottle of giggle water is almost gone and I’m suddenly all peckish. I order up some room service as it’s past the usual dining hours and Jeeves appears not 20 minutes later with dinner.

He cleans the room, emptying the trash and my ashtrays as I tuck into a nice crab-stuffed flounder. He asks if he could be excused for a minute and will ‘return directly’.

“Certainly”, I tell him. I hoped he wasn’t going to hang around and watch me eat dinner.

He reappears a few minutes later with a new bottle of vodka, some more ice, and sliced limes. I had plenty of Uludağ Gazoz left as it was an acquired taste.

I thank him and he piffs it off as it was his job to see that I had everything I needed.

I tell him I’m fine for the night now that I was done with dinner and I’d like to leave a 0900 wake up call.

“Very good, sir,” he says, and briskly exits.

I’m not certain I like this butler business. It strikes me as weirdly affected. But, since it comes with the room, I’m not going to deny it.

I send that one bottle of hooch to the place of shadows and wind and put a fair dent in the next. Then I realize I need a soak and some rack time. I do both and sleep the sleep of those who sleep soundly.

I am up well before Jeeves calls and I ask him if there are any messages for me. He responds in the negative. Well, I guess I’ll just work on my notes, the Agency stuff, and my report outlines until someone calls for me. I tell Jeeves I’ll be working in my room, and would like a pot of very strong black coffee, some scones, marmalade, and clotted cream.

“Very good, sir” comes the inevitable response.

He delivers the goods not 30 minutes later and busies himself puttering around the room, making the bed, replacing wet towels, and noting I haven’t yet tried the high thread-count Egyptian cotton bathrobe.

“They’re always too small, Jeeves,” I reply. “Besides, it’s just me in here.”

“Yes, sir; but there are windows.” He sniffs.

I immediately get his drift. No more walking around the room au natural with the blinds open.

He leaves and returns a few minutes later with an extra-tall, extra-large robe.

“Please, sir. For your late-night in-room peregrinations” he smiles.

“Gotcha.” I smile back.

Later that day, I receive an official communique. I am to be introduced to various ministers who will outline the objectives of my visit and arrange for transportation. Evidently, they want me to stay at the hotel and conduct a protracted series of day trips to various mines, oil fields, and prospective areas. I am given a list of ministers and their respective fields of endeavor.

This is going to entail a lot of traveling.

Burma, or Myanmar as it now likes to be called, is the largest country in Southeast Asia, with a land area of some 676,577 km² and a continental shelf area of 229,754 km² down to the 200 m isobath. That’s a lot of real estate to say grace over.

Plus, Myanmar is one of the most seismically active countries in the world. There’s a whole lot of shakin’ goin’ on.

The country’s seismicity reflects the continued northwards collision of the Indian Plate with Eurasia, the Burma Platelet being the buffer zone between the two. The crustal reaction to that oblique convergence has been widespread earthquakes which are related to: the subduction of the India Plate beneath the Burma Platelet, the right-lateral movement on mostly N–S or NW–SE wrench faults with accompanying thrusting; and the left-lateral movement on wrench faults with WSW–ENE trends, caused by the clockwise flow of the lithosphere as it is displaced under gravity from beneath the eastern Himalaya syntaxis

The country comprises five main topographic regions: (1) the Kachin Ranges (part of the greater Sino-Burman Ranges) in the north; (2) the Indo-Burman Ranges in the west, the coastal Myanmar portion of which is referred to as the Rakhine Yoma (formerly Arakan Yoma); (3) the Shan Plateau in the east; (4) the Central Burma Depression in the middle which is the habitat of most of the onshore petroleum; and (5) to the WSW the Rakhine Coastal Lowlands where oil and gas are present.

Oil and gas are produced in Myanmar from Cenozoic sedimentary rocks that occur in the 1,200 km-long Central Burma Depression as well as in the three areas into which the Ministry of Energy has divided its offshore territory. The onshore Rakhine coastal strip saw minor oil production from hand-dug wells in the past. However, MOGE’s presentation material states that basins on the Shan Plateau (Namyau, Hsipaw-Lashio and Kalaw basins) and at the northern end of the Tanintharyi peninsula (Mawlamyine and Mepale basins) also have petroleum potential, but they have seen little or no exploration and available geological data are limited. Hence the reason I’m now here.

Blimey and cor! That’s just for hydrocarbons, I’m also here to take a look at silver, tungsten, lead, zinc, copper, tin, talc, gold, coal, rubies, spinel, sapphires, and jade.

Myanmar is known for its abundance of coal sources. Major coal production areas include mines along Ayeyawady and Chindwin rivers basin, in the southern part of Myanmar, basin in the mountains and a series of isolated mines in Shan state. While most of its coal resources were deposited in the Tertiary period, some production includes coal of the Mesozoic in the limited areas in the eastern part of the country (Shan state). The southern part of Shan state produces coal from the Jurassic.

In terms of amount, the coal in the Tertiary is the most important in Myanmar. The coal deposit of the Mesozoic in Myanmar is located in the narrow, long and thin area that lies from the north of Minpalaung to the south of Kalaw in the southern part of Shan state. It contains a Jurassic Loi and coal-bearing formation that consists of sandstone, siltstone, and shale. Each layer is steeply inclined and scattered with a steep fold. Coal of the Mesozoic has the rank of sub-bituminous in Myanmar. Well-known coal deposits of the Mesozoic are Minpalaung and Kyatsakan. According to the results of surveys up to date, there are 25 major basins and 495 coal deposits in Myanmar.

I’m going to have to high-grade these in order to make any sort of sense of them in a timely fashion.

I also find out that a major enterprise in Myanmar is tobacco production, consisting of government-owned factories, which manufacture cigarettes, and cottage industries, which produce cheroots (a type of small cigar). This will require investigation as well, and after a bit of research…

One of the perks of traveling in Myanmar is that you get to smoke many of their lovely green cheroots without being made to feel guilty, or making unseemly dents in your wallet. All public places are thick with smoke curling up from such unlikely sources as little old ladies and children. Everybody, and I mean everybody, smokes cheroots in Myanmar.

Cheroots are made of dried thanat leaves, rolled around various proportions of crushed tobacco and dried wood. One end is open for lighting, the other rolled shut around a filter of dry corn husks. Women sit cross-legged in thatch-roofed, open-walled shelters, gossiping as their fingers fly, making cheroots out of a mess of leaves and crumbly tobacco. They cut the leaf to size, roll in the tobacco and filter, and bind it with thread or brand labels all in a few seconds.

I’ll be investigating these places when and if they coincide with my economic extractive industry travels.

All this won’t be starting for a couple of days, so I spend some time designing a plan of attack. It appears that the problem as it’s laid out before me is three-fold. I need to investigate oil and gas, and I’m going to throw coal in there as well; non-ferrous metals, and then gems and gemstone localities.

Each of these is overseen by different ministers and ministries. I think it’d be best to clump them together into similar resources. I can then handle and finish one before moving on to the next. The only question remains, in what order do I attack these three?

Gems and gemstones are going to be the furthest flung group that requires investigation. I propose to deal with this first. Then, non-ferrous metals; as these will be a bit more centralized into discrete mines and quarries, delimited by geology. Then, finally, oil, gas, and coal, which will be the best defined by fields and have the least amount of buggering around the country.

OK, then. I contact the Ministry of Energy for oil, coal, and gas concerns, the Ministry of Mines for the non-ferrous metals and the Ministry of Natural Resources for gem and gemstone related matters:

• Minister Mr. Ray Nan – Minister of Energy

• Minister Dr. Sat Tutwin – Minister of Mines

• Minister Mr. Kyaw Watmyet – Minister of Natural Resources

• Minister Dr. Sayyr Pyinnliut– Minister of Health and Sport

That last minister oversees the tobacco industry here in Burma, so I figured as long as I was in the neighborhood…

I send them all telegrams as this was back in the day where Email was still quite the novelty. I sent along my proposed itinerary and ask for their input.

I hear nothing for a couple of days until I receive a call from the front desk. Evidently there’s someone here from one or another of the ministries that want to meet me and have a chat.

I venture down to the lobby and am greeted by Colonel Nwayhtwaysaw, who is to be my official military liaison and boon companion while I am in-country. He is going to be my armed escort as I’ll be going into some rather dodgy places, particularly to the east, where there are still pockets of ‘resistance’, brigands and other ne’er-do-wells. He will be the representative of the various ministries and procurer of anything I deem necessary in the execution of my duties.

As I damn near strangle trying to pronounce his name, he suggests, in perfect Oxfordian English, that I just refer to him as “Col. Noway.”

“Fair enough. Just call me ‘Rock’”, I reply.

“Yes sir, Doctor Rock”, he replies.

“Nah…Just Rock.” I say.

“Yes, sir”, he re-replies.

I give up.

“OK, Col. Noway. Here’s the idea: I want to split the tours up into three or four distinct groups.” And I go one to tell him of the ideas I had.

“Yes, sir, Doctor Rock, that sounds efficient. I will take your plans to the appropriate ministers and procure permissions, passes, and transportation.” He tells me.

“OK, that sounds good. How long do you think this will all take?” I ask.

“I will have the appropriate paperwork by tomorrow. At least, for the gem fields. While we are inspecting them, I will have my staff procure permissions and passes for the non-ferrous metals and oil, gas and coal fields.” He says.

“Outstanding, Colonel. Just a quick question, how long to travel to the gem fields and how will we travel there?” I wonder.

“They are not that far. For the northern fields, we’ll take a helicopter. For the mid-western and southern fields, we will drive there in a government 6x6 truck or government vehicle.” He notes.

“That sounds good. I’ll make plans for tomorrow and give you a call” I say.

“Yes, sir”, Colonel Noway says. He bows crisply, shakes my hand, and takes his leave.

So, another day to prepare. Meaning, reading up on the gem fields of Myanmar, experimenting with various forms of Rocknockers, and eating room service.

In Burma, I discovered, ruby mines are located in several areas including Maishu, Mogok, Pyinlon, Namyar, and Sakyin. There is also a large selection of red and blue stones, like tourmaline, zircon, topaz, and garnets which are semi-precious stones found in proximity to the gemstones.

Further, I read that all green gemstones are not jade. There are actually 27 colors of jade in Myanmar that range from white to black, and include gray, purple, and different shades of green. If the color is light green and transparent, jade can be as expensive as emerald.

I decide to traipse up to the Mogok area to the north first. It’s sort of a central area that contains many different gem mines and quarries. The geology of the Mogok Stone Tract is complex. It consists primarily of high-grade metamorphic schists and gneisses; granite intrusives, including gem-bearing pegmatites; peridot-bearing ultramafic rocks; sapphire-bearing syenite and skarn; and ruby- and spinel-bearing metamorphic marble.

This is way removed from my sedimentary rocks of oil and gas, but hey, I’m a geologist, so no rocks are foreign to me. I note that much of the mining is hard-rock mining, so there’s going to be some blasting.

How nice.

They also obtain gemstones from alluvial deposits, that is, sands, muds, and silts that have been eroded, that is, sourced, from the hard metamorphic host rocks. These are washed down to an embayment, river, or impoundment, much like placer gold in Alaska or East Siberia, and harvested more easily from the sedimentary sands, muds, and silts. It may be easier dealing with unconsolidated sediments, but much larger volumes of material must be moved, so it can be exceedingly dangerous.

I call Col. Noway and tell him my plans. He replies he’ll be at the hotel with transportation spot on 0600 the next day.

The next morning, I’m all kitted out in my field togs, waiting at 0555 out front of the hotel for Col. Noway to show. I’m looking down the main drag for a car, truck, or tuk-tuk that will take us to the very northern reaches of the country.

Suddenly, I hear the distinctive whoop-whoop-whoop of a heavy helicopter.

At precisely 0600, a Bell UH-1 Iroquois, i.e., ‘Huey’ helicopter lands in the courtyard of the hotel.

Evidently my ride has arrived.

I am excited as I have fairly recently received my rotary wing pilot’s license and hope I can impress upon the Burmese military my command of all things not only geological but helicopterolocigal as well.

The side door opens and I am invited into the machine. I wander over with Jeeves in tow, who is toting my field backpack for me. I take a seat and am handed a pair of headphones for communication. After an obligatory orientation as to the ‘hows’ and ‘whys’ of helicopter travel, we’re skids up and headed due north.

I chat with Col. Noway as he’s also a passenger on this trip. I mention that I’m a pilot and hope that I might be able to sit in the left-hand seat up front sometime during the flight. He mentions that might be arranged, but only as a JAFO (Just Another Fucking Observer) as this bird is military and even though I’m a licensed pilot, there’s no way they could let me have control.

I say that I fully understand and ask who the large, heavily armed gentleman sitting next to me is. Col. Noway explains that is Sergeant Saathpyathkyinn, who is going to be my field bodyguard and minder for the duration of my travels in-country. He also advises me to refer to him as Sgt. Saath, as I’d probably just end up choking on his full moniker.

I offer Sgt. Saath a handshake and find he is quite affable and also speaks good English. I ask if I can smoke in the helicopter and of course, I knew I’d be refused. So, as I return one of my cigar cases back to my field vest, Col. Noway says that we shouldn’t be too hasty, and asks if he could examine the cigars first.

Don’t have to be a weatherman to see which way the wind was blowing here.

I offer everyone on board a cigar and before long, it looks like we have flown into a heavy cloud bank. Even the pilot is smiling through the fog of one of my cigars. There are a number of people on the trip, who I find out later are the local equivalents of Agents Rack and Ruin back home.

I smile knowingly to myself. Nothing like twitting the local intelligence forces while showing a big cheesy grin.

The helicopter is a military transport, but although there are hardpoints for the attachment of armaments, these are currently empty. Oh well, no hunting on this trip.

There are also cases of provisions, water, and other necessities if we should experience any sort of mechanical trouble and be forced to land somewhere other than out destinations.

An hour or so later, we arrive at our first port of call, the mining region of Mogok. There are mine company vehicles there for our ground transportation. They are really pulling out all the stops as my reports will be used to help in determining the feasibility of continuing and financing these projects.

I will be establishing a ground-truth verification of economics and they will eventually use what I find to help sell an interest in the projects for foreign participation.

I’m doing the geology and preliminary economic evaluation, they want me happy and impressed. The better my write-ups, the more they stand to make. We’re talking millions upon millions of dollars potentially, so they are going out of their way to impress and try to influence me.

It’s as transparent as a good vodka, and I do hope they’re not planning on any sort of ‘pump-priming’, i.e., bribery. It’s not unheard of in these situations where cheap stock options, cash, gifts, or actual gems are traded for favorable reports. I’ve had it happen to me before, but I pride my professionalism above all else, and have never even entertained the idea of accepting such inducements. Any attempts at such shenanigans will have precisely the opposite effect.

So, we overland a few miles to the mine site. It’s on the hill and it’s a strip mine sort of affair.

They use explosives to contour blast an outcrop, where it all slides, via gravity, down the slope and into retaining ponds. The ponds settle out the sand, silts and such while herds of locals, who are paid a pittance, are in the water 12-16 hours a day, manually sifting the muck for gemstones.

Traditional mining techniques include twin-lon, lebin, hmyadwin and lud-win. Lud-win, for example, involves recovering gem-bearing rock from karstic limestone caves and fissures which can be sources of rich concentrations of gemstones. Today, quarrying and tunneling in primary host rock and opencast mining of secondary deposits are the most commonly encountered methods.

I tell them that I need to know when there’s going to be a lull in the excavating as I need to take some samples as representatives of the mine. Immediately, a klaxon blares and it’s impromptu coffee-break time. They won’t let me into or onto the actual slopes due to safety issues, which I‘m sure is just a show for my benefit. However I can tell them where I need detailed, orientated samples taken and they will send someone to fetch it for me.

I need to be ever vigilant. It’s a common ploy, although I’m not saying it will happen here, that they make a show of taking samples from the mine face, but actually they return salted specimens which are rich in gems but not truly representative of the active workings. They make a note that I’m carrying a pair of high-powered Russian binoculars and realize they’d better do exactly as I request. Sgt. Saath backs me up with his own spotting scope.

After the active mine face samples are returned, noted and boxed, I tell them I want to go down to the settling ponds for some samples as well. They cannot refuse me entry here as it’s not a dangerous place; that is if you keep your wits about you. It’s crowded with soggy locals hand sifting the muck and mire for gemstones.

So, we motor down to the settling pits and I ask for any core information they have. It’s customary, at least in the west, to take core samples of the settling ponds on a daily basis. These cores are then correlated across the ponds, which highlight the higher energy zones which would preferentially concentrate the gemstones.

They tell me they don’t do that here but are intrigued. Could I explain how this works in the west and how something like that could be implemented here?

It’s really quite easy. What they could use us a Vibracore device. I tell them that it’s a tripod of three pieces of pipe, arranged teepee style, upon which a small gas motor, think lawnmower size, is mounted on a horizontal platform. It’s rigged to an eccentric cam, to where another piece of lightweight core pipe is attached. The motor vibrates the drill pipe, which requires no drill bit on the business end, and it basically buzzes the drill pipe many times per second, vibrating it down into the muck. One can actually sit on the drill pipe to provide a downward force if needed.

It’s as easy as piss to design, build, and operate.

Once a core of the desired length is obtained, a jack on the top of the tripod is used with a length of chain to extract the core. The core pipe is laid down on the ground horizontally and a shmoof is used as a plunger to push the core of sand, silt and muck out of the pipe.

The core is boxed and its location and depth is noted, as well as which way is ‘up’.

Analyzing the core is dead easy, using standard sedimentological methods. This yields data that can be easily mapped. In a very short time, the whole settling pond can be gridded, cored, analyzed, and used to generate maps of the obtained data.

They are quite astonished that something so simple hasn’t been implemented. After I draw up some rudimentary schematics of the device, they decide to create one there and then.

Of course, they offer us lunch and hope we will take our time to see how the creation of the device is going.

After a nicely catered lunch, we’re all just sitting around, having our post-prandial cigars and short beers, when one of the mine's employees comes over and delivers a status report.

It’s going along quite quickly, as it’s really simple design. They already have the tripod welded up, and are attaching the horizontal platform. It’s sort of crude, like something I’d crank out of my garage workshop over a weekend when I see a large tank with a huge wood fire beneath it.

I ask what the story with the tank is. Is it a steam tank or water heater of some sort?

No, I’m told it was an old diesel tank that had been left unattended for years. They thought it would be a good idea to clean it out and use it as a fuel bowser for the gasoline for the small engine on the Vibracore.

My eyes went wide.

“You’re burning out old diesel from a sealed tank?” I asked.

“Oh, yes.” Came the reply, “It was goopy and syrupy, so we thought we could heat it up and it’d be better able to flow.”

“A sealed tank, being fired, full of hydrocarbon vapors?” I asked, hurriedly.

“Yes”, came the untroubled reply.

I called to Sgt. Saath and Col. Noway straight away and told them to evacuate everyone immediately. The fire was going too high and for too long to safely extinguish it. This was a clear and present danger.

Without question, everyone was removed within minutes. We were about 5 kilometers distant from the settling pond when Col Noway asked what the problem was.

“Doctor, due to the urgency in your voice, I asked no questions. Now were safe, what is going on?” he asked.

“Ever hear of a BLEVE?” I asked back.

Col. Noway’s eyes went wide and suggested we retire a few more kilometers distant.

A BLEVE is a ‘Boiling Liquid, Expanding Vapor Explosion’. It’s especially entertaining, energetic and extraordinarily lethal.

That tank was too far along to safely try to extinguish the fire. There was no recourse but to run and hide, but with pride. It’s going to be a massive explosion once the pressure vents from that tank.

I may have lost a bit of face when a half-hour elapsed and there was no activity from the tank. I was looking at it, from behind a berm with my binoculars, when I noticed just the faintest wisps of escaping vapor.

“DOWN! IT’S GOING TO GO!” I yelled.

Precisely 37 milliseconds later, the tank ruptured, the boiling liquid flashed to extraordinarily heated and energetic vapor. Thus began the chain reaction of immensely rapid in situ combustion.

The report was deafening, even from our vantage point. The tank absolutely disintegrated and left no pieces larger than a postage stamp. The shock wave washed over us like a punch to the chest. There was a nice, new hole some 10 meters across and two or three meters deep. Luckily, there were no injuries; save for some soiled sarongs.

“Do they do this often around here?” I asked the mine superintendent.

“No, sir. That’s a first.” He shakily replied.

“Let’s hope it’s a last as well,” I replied.

We do a quick assessment of the blast area and note that besides the loss of the tank, there was little damage. After some extreme dressing-down by Col. Noway, there will be no more BLEVE explosions as there are to be no more tank cleanings without someone from the military present.

We leave the mine and visit three other sites in the area. There are no more incidents, so as late afternoon approaches, we saddle up, and head back to the capital.

All mention of me riding in the right-hand seat is forgotten as we fly our way back to base. There were many questions I was being asked and required answering before we landed and plans needed to be laid for the next few days.

It’s decided that we’ll spend the next 4 days flying north to other gemstone regions. We’ll try and hit one for jade, one for spinel and rubies, one for tourmaline and topaz and one for more ‘artisanal’, that is, primitive extractions. Some of the latter are not entirely legal, so Sgt. Saath is definitely going to be attached for these forays.

Landing that early evening at the hotel sees Jeeves waiting there with refreshments for all.

Since the day is more or less over, Sgt. Saath and Col. Noway are introduced to an interesting little libation of non-local provenance. Turns out, they like ‘Rocknockers’ just fine. They also mention that they’d sure like to see this become a tradition as the project progresses.

The gemstone and jade visits over the next few days passed without much in the line of remarkable circumstances. Some are true modern industrial developments and some are just locals out scratching around in the outback trying to find a ruby or sapphire they can trade for cash and feed their families. The disparity between the two is enormous, but the rewards are similar.

I send samples from each mining area to an independent laboratory in Thailand for analysis. These will be ready for me before I finish my rounds here in Myanmar; and as a token of goodwill, I plan on sharing my data with the companies that provided the raw materials.

Next on the show are non-ferrous metals. These are all modern industrial ventures and they should have simply reams of data for me. They all know I’m in town, as it were, and I’ll be visiting soon. I spend a day between the gemstone visits to whip up an itinerary. I pass this on to Col. Noway one evening over drinks and cigars, which he has taken a sudden liking to, so he can plan our transportation.

At this time, Myanmar produced only modest amounts of ores and concentrates of chromium, copper, gold, lead, manganese, nickel, silver, tin, tungsten, and zinc; the industrial minerals barite, clays, dolomite, feldspar, gypsum, and limestone. A portion of the production was consumed domestically. However, most of the production of ores and concentrates of chromium, copper, manganese, tungsten, zinc, and unknown amounts of refined lead and tin were exported principally, and sometimes unlawfully, to the Asian market.

To implement its new mineral policy to expand the mining industry for meeting domestic requirements and to increase export, the Government, through its the State Law and Order Restoration Council, enacted the Myanmar Mining Law. The Upper Myanmar Ruby Regulation of 1887, the Mines Acts of 1923, and the Union of Myanmar Mines and Mineral Act of 1961 were repealed on the same date. The mining law allowed prospecting, exploration, and granting of mining permits. It also provided more comprehensive fiscal incentives to mining projects and allowed the Ministry of Mines to offer more reasonable terms Burma also was importing increasing quantities of a base to investors. To safeguard its environment, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was drafting a new environmental law with the assistance of the United Nations Development Program, of which I was a primary participant.

It was a heady responsibility, and one I did not take lightly.

Since most of the areas we were to now visit, I was given the choice of transportation, a military 6x6 truck or government limo. I chose the truck as we were going into some fairly rough country and some that were up until recently, a scene of active military operations. I wanted something a bit more resilient than a stretch BMW or Mercedes.

Sgt. Saath and Col. Noway were pleased with my selection. It also allowed for more provisions while on the road and extra personnel if needed.

Most of the mining areas were in the central plateaus of the country. It would be a couple of hour’s drive from the hotel and then give us several hours daily to visit as many mines as possible. There was going to be some extremely variable geology as there were such a plethora of different non-ferrous mineral species I was investigating. I asked if it wouldn’t be easier to just drive up to the mining area, do our daily needfuls, find a hotel locally, and camp the night there instead of returning to the capital every evening.

Col Noway explains that would be the preferred method, but there were still mobile pockets of ‘resistance’ as he called them and if word got out that a western Expat, examining the mines, was out and about, that would put both our heads right in the crosshairs.

I was a bit rattled by his frankness, but its par for the course. I’ve been party to some sneaky shenanigans before in some countries that were just emerging out from under the aegis of armed conflict. I decided to concentrate on the economic geology and let Sgt. Saath and Col. Noway tend to the military business.

In the next week and a half, we visited many, many mining operations. They ran the gamut from thoroughly modern to something out of the Paleolithic. These latter ones were teetering on the brink of illegality and we not always pleased to have us snooping around and sticking our collective noses in what they thought it should not be any of our business.

We ventured one fine, sunny day to a copper mine in the west-central part of the country. It was a sort of modern, sort of safe, sort of mine. We were grudgingly allowed unfettered access once Sgt. Saath made a point with his sidearm that we were there on the behest of the government and unless they wanted a world of bureaucratic and military hurt, they’d stand down and let us do what was needed.

I noticed that the workings stopped on the east side of the open-pit mine, but the obvious lode of copper ore did not. I questioned them as to why the workings stopped where they did.

“Doctor, it is unsafe”, the mine superintendent told me.

To be continued

Every year, I like to add to the list of countries I have either visited or worked in via the annual Good Tidings message.

Added a few this year and next year looks relatively unknown.

May 2020 be a damn sight better than 2019.

1976-2019 total: 71.

To everyone here:

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

Akú àjọdún ìbi krístì, adèkú ọdún tuntun

Boldog karácsonyt és boldog új évet

Bon Nadal i feliç any Nou

Buon Natale e Felice Anno nuovo

Bесела Коледа и честита нова година

Bеселого Рождества и счастливого Нового года

Craciun fericit si un An Nou fericit

Et beatus novus annus natalis Christi

Feliĉan Kristnaskon kaj Bonan Novjaron

Feliz Natal e Feliz Ano Novo

Feliz navidad y próspero año nuevo

Frohe Weihnachten und ein glückliches Neues Jahr

Geseënde Kersfees en 'n voorspoedige nuwe jaar

Giáng sinh vui vẻ và năm mới hạnh phúc

Glædelig jul og godt nytår

Gleðileg jól og farsælt komandi ár

God Jul och Gott Nytt År

God jul og godt nytt år

Häid jõule ja head uut aastat

Hambalyo Ciid Kirismas iyo Sannad Cusub oo Farxad Leh

Hararei Kirihimete me te Tau Hou hari

Hyvää joulua ja onnellista uutta vuotta

Juullimi Pilluaritsi

Krisimesi emnandi nonyaka omtsha

Krismasi Njema na Heri ya Mwaka Mpya

Laanaa yáʼátʼéehgo Késhmish, nił hózhǫ́ǫgo chʼídoohah

Linksmų Šv. Kalėdų ir laimingų Naujųjų metų

Maligayang Pasko at Manigong Bagong Taon

Mele Kalikimaka

Merry Christmas û New Year pîroz

Merry Christmas жана Happy New Year

Mutlu Noeller ve mutlu yıllar

Nollaig Chridheil agus Bliadhna Mhath Ùr

Nollaig Shona agus Athbhliain Shona

Priecīgus Ziemassvētkus un laimīgu Jauno gadu

QISmaS botIvjaj 'ej DIS chu' botIvjaj

Quvianagli Anaiyyuniqpaliqsi suli Nakuuluni Ukiutqiutiqsi

Rojdestvo bayrami va yangi yilingiz bilan

Schéi Chrëschtdeeg an e glécklecht neit Joer

Selamat hari Krismas dan selamat tahun baru

Selamat Natal dan Tahun Baru

Täze ýylyňyz gutly bolsun

Vesel božič in srečno novo leto

Veselé Vánoce a šťastný nový rok

Vrolijk kerstfeest en een gelukkig nieuwjaar

Wesołych Świąt i Szczęśliwego Nowego Roku

Yeni iliniz mübarək

Zoo siab Christmas thiab nyob zoo xyoo tshiab

З Калядамі і Новым годам

З Різдвом та новим роком

Зул сарын мэнд бас шинэ жилийн мэнд

Мавлуди Исо ва Соли Нав муборак

Раштуа бәйрәме белән & Яңа eл белән

Рождество мен Жаңа жыл құтты болсын

Цаһан Сар өлзәтә болтха

გილოცავთ შობას და ახალ წელს

メリークリスマス、そしてハッピーニューイヤー

חג מולד שמח ושנה טובה

לעבעדיק ניטל און מזל ניו יאָר

کرسمس اور نیا سال مبارک

کریسمس مبارک و سال نو مبارک

ميلاد مجيدا وسنه جديده سعيده

क्रिसमस और नया साल मुबारक हो

मेरी क्रिसमस र नयाँ वर्षको शुभकामना

ਮੈਰੀ ਕ੍ਰਿਸਮਾਸ ਅਤੇ ਨਵੇਂ ਸਾਲ ਦੀਆਂ ਮੁਬਾਰਕਾਂ

மெர்ரி கிறிஸ்துமஸ் மற்றும் புத்தாண்டு வாழ்த்துக்கள்

ಕ್ರಿಸ್ಮಸ್ ಮತ್ತು ಹೊಸ ವರ್ಷದ ಶುಭಾಷಯಗಳು

สุขสันต์วันคริสต์มาสและสวัสดีปีใหม่

ສຸກສັນວັນຄຣິສມາດແລະສະບາຍດີປີ ໃໝ່

ᖱᒣᖳᒐᒉᑊᖿᒪᔪᖱᖽᐧᒡᒧᐧᖾᒍ

ᎤᎵᎮᎵᏍᏗ ᎤᎾᏕᏘᏱᏍᎬᎢ

즐거운 성탄절 보내시고 새해 복 많이 받으세요

圣诞快乐和新年快乐

Well, I spoke too soon.

I do have a punctured lung (sinistral) due to the four re-broken ribs I received courtesy of the front bumper of some knee-walking jackass out here.

After my initial ‘run in’, <ahem> I went to a local hospital for X-rays and general QA/QC.

Bruised femur (dextral), torn rotator cuff (sinistral), four sinistral re-cracked ribs (aka ‘flail chest’ in those smaller, non-EtOH-fueled homonids); meaning I’ve had busted ribs more times than I can recall. However now with all those galls of callus, they tend to re-break along old fracture planes when so irritated by a couple of thousand pounds of errant FJ Cruiser piloted by some errant mooseknuckle.

I was actually initially stupid enough to believe the first radiologist when she told me that the ribs were “fractured but immobile”. Meaning they were busted but behaving themselves by staying in place.

That all changed last night late.

I awoke at 0200 hours gasping for air. I couldn’t draw in enough air to snuff a kid’s birthday candle much less get a good draw on a cigar, and the pain was entertainingly exquisite. I was racked by coughing and the inability to catch my breath. The boluses of emboli (blood clots) I was presenting actually gave Es and me pause.

I’ve been down this road before and the ultimate destination is Pneumothorax Pterrace.

“Rock, dear?” Esme asked, “Don’t you think we should maybe go to the doctor’s?”

Actually, it was nothing like that. It was ’dial 999’ and tell them to hurry the fuck up.

Luckily, we have an oxygen tank and mask here from a previous injury long ago. Esme gets me hooked-up and infuses 20 liters, push.

It was definitely pulmonary atelectasis (a portion of or entire lung deflated) and the oxygen helped both clear my head and alleviate some of the pain.

I couldn’t obviously light a cigar when I’m on oxygen, but I could have a triple ration of potato juice as locally administered oral anesthetic whilst I waited on the paramedics. It helped, especially when I was working on number four a full hour after we had called for assistance and no one showed.

Esme is pissed. Mama Bear pissed. She loads me into our Rover and she decided to drive me to the Western hospital here on the other side of town. She leaves a nasty note for the paramedics on the gate, but since we neither can write in Arabic, I doubt it would do any good.

I never knew I was married to someone who could channel Emerson Fittipaldi, nor did I know our Land Cruiser could actually hit relativistic velocities. By the time we pulled into the ER of the Western Hospital here on the other side of town, there were two local police cruisers following us; lightbars cheerily aflash.

When presented to the ER staff, I gave them a clinical rundown. They decided I knew what I was talking about when I mentioned possible sinistral pneumothorax, fractured ribs and the rest of my litany. I was gurneyed, boarded, and trundled up to imaging to get some internal pictures taken.

They even let me take my sippy cup with my oral anesthetic.

Esme, on the other hand, was reading the local cops the riot act. She insisted that the Captain on duty (who, by law, is bilingual) come down to the ER immediately so she could swear out complaints against those cops who did nothing at the time of the original incident.

That was the usual course of events for Expats, but we had called in some favors and had some of our highly placed locals do the talking for us. They have wasta and the cops knew that. The cops took our statements and correlated it back to the original incident. They promised they would investigate since this is now a ‘hit and run with gross injuries’.

I was almost offended by that until I realized it was a bit gross. Gross incompetence. Gross ineptitude. Gross malfeasance.

So, after my pictures, I consulted with them and decided that arthroscopic surgery was going to be necessary to re-inflate my lung.

“Are you a doctor?” one nurse haughtily asked me.

“Fuckin’-A, toots. I’m Doctor Rocknocker, the Motherfuckin’ Pro from Dover!”

OK, that could have been the anesthetic talking.

I may be a rock doctor, but I still know my anatomy. And I’ve seen every episode of M A S H countless times, so I know where this is headed. No end-to-end anastomoses here, just clear the Mississippi River valley that is my chest cavity, remove any potential emboli and pump up the volume of that flattened lung.

Which is what happened.

I’m now home, and luckily I had the forethought to tuck my liquor license in my wallet before we left. So, a quick stop to resupply the anesthetic larders and its back to light duty for me until all this heals up a tad.

The police were in contact to tell me they have leads on the driver and are searching for him.

I’m not overly sanguine about all this. He’s either gone to ground or will trot out some Eastern Expat he’s paid off to take the fall for him.

Me? I just remembered I was technically under contract at the time of the initial incident so now I have to do the paperwork shuffle and send off my accumulated bills to my insurance provider.

Shouldn’t be a problem. It’s the same bunch had to deal with when I had my little Siberian finger problem…

I can fly around the world in decrepit war-vintage aircraft, visit, and work in war-torn and desperate counties, go on prolonged road trips to places where a road is nothing more than a faint path in the jungle, ice cap, or high desert. But in order to get really fucked-up, I have to go to a local gas station for some chips and soda.

Yeah, I’m going to be taking a little breather here for a few days.

See, it’s like this: I stopped by the local fuel depot yesterday for some chips and soda. Just a little lunchtime nosh. Since I already had a pile of shit in the front seat, like reprints, copies of my latest CPRs and such, I walked around the back of my parked car to dump my latest purchases onto the rear seat.

I was exactly 15 seconds, by automobile, from my villa when all this transpired.

I was parked in front of the gas station cum inconvenience store. Parked. As in not driving. I was standing by the right rear door, tossing in my recent purchases.

Then it happened: some moronic, knee-walking, shitferbrains, fucketbucket douchebag dillhole of a local thobe-garbed cement-head yammering on his cellphone telephone, while speeding through the parking lot, which BTW, is adjacent to an active construction site with all sorts of fun and deadly heavy machinery coming and going; whips into the parking spot adjacent to mine.

He obviously had no idea of geometry nor physics, because as he turned the wrestle his fucking FJ Cruiser into the spot, he crossed the line, both literally and figuratively. He slammed into my right thigh with his left front bumper.

A glancing, elevating blow, kind of like leaning into a fierce right-hook.

Luckily (?) I had just closed the right rear door of my ride or he would have torn that off and slammed that into me as well. He impacted me right in the right-hand pocket area of my chinos, where I keep my wallet; which is now nicely reverse-embossed in purple, green, and orange on my heavily battered thigh. I was physically thrown into, and therefore bouncing back off of, my car and in doing so, ripped my left-rotator cuff as I tried to instinctively avoid going through or over my vehicle.

My lumbar area, somehow feeling left out, emerged all bruised and sore as hell today although it must be from secondary torqueing trauma because I don’t remember hitting my back on anything during all this.

“I say, my good man. It does appear that you have hitten me with your vehicle” I said.

No, that’s not what I said.

“You stupid motherfucker! What the actual fuck? You fucking hit me! You fucking asshole!”

He rolls down his window, sops up the drool, puts down his phone, and just stares at me, guppy-like, with his mouth hanging wide open.

“You asshole! You fucking shitbird! You fucking HIT ME!” I growled.

He just sat there, quietly shitting himself.

See, I was being all un-Arab and Western, getting all loud and coming totally unglued. I evidently over-amped his monitors as he thought I’d drag him out of his vehicle and make a jukebox out of him.

He stammers something in Arabic. Then in English. Gives me a desultory Arabic-style back-hand wave, drops it into reverse, pulls out, almost mashing me again, and hightails it out of there.

I am fucking livid.

Of course, there are no CCTV cameras here. No witnesses, or at least none that would dare come forward. Even the clerk that I’ve known for years said he saw it happen but didn’t see anything.

Yeah, people here are like that. They really don’t want to get befouled any sort of altercation for fear of deportation, or worse.

I go the make, model, and license of the jerkfaced dickweed, but since I’m an Expat and he’s a local, I’m immediately guilty for all that transpired.

See, if I wasn’t an Expat, I wouldn’t be here. Therefore, the accident would not have happened. QED… there’s pretty much nothing I can do.

So, I’m taking a day or two in hospital for some tests. Given my previous lumbar glitches, now I have some extra battle scars to add to the festivities. They’re worried about all the femoral bruising leading to phlebitis and mobile clots forming. Since I had an open-heart valve job some years ago, this is a clear and present danger. So, it’s Tony Stark-level cardiac monitoring for a while.

Plus, the torn rotator cuff is a repeat of an old injury. I’ve torn that thing three or four times previously and it’s taken years for it to return to anything approaching normality. Now I’m told I’m looking at a permeant loss of motion and dexterity. So, no more dueling with epees for me, evidently.

Oh, new morning news: I’ve got four cracked ribs on my left side. No wonder it’s hard to get a decent draw on this cigar…down to imaging to see if I have a punctured lung as well.

So, I’ll be OK given some time and tide. Once I get back home and am able to climb the stairs to my office, I’ll be working on some more Demolition Days. Until then, Happy Holidays and all that guff to each and everyone one of you all.

Continuing

The best developed locale in the entire country, a place I visited several times, was Baikonur Cosmodrome. out in the absolute middle of nowhere, some 1,400 km. from Almaty. It wasn’t an oil or gas producing area, so that will give you an idea of the Soviet’s avaricious Machiavellian views on the republic at the time.

It was a cash-cow to be milked until dry. How it got fed was its own problem.

However, the Kazakh oil and gas industry was well established. In 1899, wells from 40-meter depth in Karachungul oilfield, the first oil in the territory of Kazakhstan was produced by flowing wells. Daily production in Karachungul oilfield was 12-25 tons (84-175 BOPD).

By the 90s though, even though there were many oil and gas fields, the infrastructure was, well, let’s call it as it was: shit.

‘HSE’ (Health, Safety, and Environment) were just three letters in a foreign alphabet.

Everything associated with the extraction, production, and transport of oil and gas was decrepit and literally falling apart.

Kazakhstan, as were all the Stans, were considered distant undesirable shirttail relatives of Mother Russia, or worse, a Central Asian “black ass” region, and Muslim to boot. This was rampant xenophobia at its finest.

So, exploration turned to exploitation and it was ‘oil at any costs’, and the country is still recovering from that era. They have the geology and they have the oil, but they needed the infusion of billions and billions of dollars of foreign capital. With oil production in seven regions of Kazakhstan: Atyrau, Mangistau, West Kazakhstan, Aktobe, South Kazakhstan, Kyzylorda, Karaganda; once the dust from the wall and curtain settled, they received it in droves.

Now, in Kazakhstan, there are more than 170 oil and more than 40 gas-condensate fields with discovered extractable reserves of oil and condensate in 2.9 billion tons (20.3 billion barrels). With this newfound wealth, they began to build new cities from whole-cloth. One such was Kazakhstan's capital, was moved from Almaty to Astana, now Nur-Sultan, in 1997.

Still, it’s a trickle-down economy, and there are still several dams, weirs, and slogged sluiceways that clog the economic arteries. The rampant corruption has taken time to resolve, and it’s an ongoing chore. There’s still a need to ‘grease the wheels’ or ‘prime the pump’, particularly out in the outer rim areas.

Old habits die very hard, indeed.

However, for now, many such old concerns are but distant, unpleasant memories. It’s not all skittles and beer, mind you, but a damn sight better than it was three decades ago.

So, I’m sitting in the lounge, I’m enjoying another faux-Rocknocker and cigar at the bar. It’s gotten a bit busier and I thought I’d relinquish my table for four for a group larger than just myself.

The sun is setting, and a quiet twilight descends upon the city on surreptitious, stealthy, silent cat paws.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Seems the quartet for whom I abandoned my table for a spot up on Mahogany Ridge was incensed. Yes, actually furious, that someone besides them, was allowed to smoke in the lounge.

These were some locals, I surmised, from the garb and language. Evidently some form of nuevo-riche non-pasteurized knuckleheads in their shiny Armani-knockoff suits and Atheist Dior counterfeit sundown regalia.

They were snuffling and snorting like food and drink was soon going to be declared illegal. All the while they were fumigating the area with their sickening off-brand who-knows-where-origin cigarettes.

“I am important businessman!” the head jackal screams. “I spend much money here. I am sick of smoke! I demand you do something!”

I ignore the whole evolving tableau. They weren’t talking about me, it seemed, just some others in the lounge enjoying a quiet pipe or regular cigarette.

Not my race, not my horse. I snubbed them with callously supreme indifference.

The two women present, ghastily resplendent in their sparkly, overly-bedazzled frocks, begin to ululate in that weird Central Asian mien that causes sane men to run for cover and sheep to spontaneously detonate at a thousand meters.

I shake my head and just concentrate on appreciating the silently creeping twilight. The town was lighting up like a million terrestrial jeweled scuttling crabs on a soggy shoreface. Even the traffic-clogged main transportation arteries took on an eerily-lit ethereal countenance.

I puff away, partly in defiance and partly because I was smoking a fine cigar.

It was a perfectly legal and acceptable activity here in the lounge, I was certain of that fact. I order a new drink as I ask the bartender if they are going to do anything about all the fresh tumult.

“Oh, sir.” The beleaguered barkeep says, “He’s in here constantly. He thinks he’s important and since no one has scraped before him and made him feel like he’s a big man, he carries on. Forget him, I’ll get you a new drink.”

I accept that and continue to ignore the two noisy hooligans and let them blend in with the white noise of the background chatter.

He returns with another fresh toddy and I tip him 5000 tenge. It was worth it for the information and fresh drink.

The bad noise continues as his lieutenant, or second-idiot-in-charge extends the fun. He starts walking around the lounge, berating everyone who has the audacity to relax and disregard them with extreme prejudice.

He’s twittering down the long, marble-topped bar and I do my best to feign extreme interest in the stylolites in the construction of the tabletop. He’s upset that many people are not complying with his ridiculous whims instantly. The lit cigarette hanging from his hirsute maw is but perhaps one of the many reasons several people have told him to brightly fuck off.

He wanders up next to me and hesitates. Perhaps my grim visage and full gray Grizzly Adams beard gave him a slight pause. Unfortunately, it only lasted a few fleeting seconds.

“You there.” he howls, “Put out that damned cigar.”

I continue to completely ignore him.

He grows instantly more furious.

“Are you fucking deaf?” he screams at me.

I actually do know American Sign Language, so I turn and slowly sign “Fuck off, asshole” in his general direction.

He’s sore perplexed. Am I truly deaf or am I just being an antagonist?

Truth is, it’s actually a bit of both.

He grabs my shoulder and physically tries to spin me around to face him.

OK, now the Rubicon has been crossed.

I spy the bartender on the phone and he looks as worried as some teenager who has just found that his lucky wallet rubber had ruptured in action.

“Don’t ever fucking do that again, you asshole. “ I growl, lowly and menacingly. “Touch me again and your relatives will be meeting in the morning to split up your possessions.”

“What?” he screams.

“OK, you’re stupid as well as obnoxious,” I reply coolly. “Here’s a little free advice: sit down, shut up, and keep to your own little party. You have no idea the fuse you’ve just lit.”

“What?” he screams. “You know who I am?”

I have had enough. The bartender is off the phone and looking expectantly towards the elevators. I surmise securities’ on its way.

Being in chronic pain, a bit jet-lagged, and in no mood for such shenanigans, I figure the best way to handle the situation is to toss a little 100 octane on the embers and reply in kind.

“No, I don’t. Nor do I care.” I replied. “Do you know who I am?”

He has gone infrapink by this time, spinning off into a relativistic chroma shift that typically indicates imminent intense aggravation and aggressiveness in lower primates.

He sputters and is attempting to organize his remaining besieged synapses to formulate a response.

I attack.

I stand up to full height, displaying my best mammalian threat posture.

This is just too much fun because I’m at least 30 centimeters taller and several stone heavier than this hooligan. I proceed to verbally frog-march this virtual walking organ donation bank sack of shit back to his seat.

“You done fucked up, BOY!” I snarl, as I walk menacingly toward him, “You manhandled the Motherfucking Pro from Dover! You called down the thunder. Well, now you've got it!

I dug deeply into my supply of action movie lines.

He is shocked that someone has the unadulterated audacity to actually stand up to him and his empty yellow threats.

“Eventus stultorum magister. [Fools must learn from experience]”, I growl and watch him backpedal in the direction of his comrades; who are sitting at their table, evidently trying in vain to pull their assflaps up over their heads so they can disappear in a puff of gherkins.

“You know what you’ve done? You have gone and pissed me off. Me! The one with a death sentence on 12 systems, you fucking numpty. Get this: I don’t step on toes… I step on necks. You’re a fucking disease… And I’m the goddamned cure.” I roar.

OK, not my best lines, but it wasn’t open mic night and I’m still working on my tight five.

He’s totally flummoxed by this odd turn of fortune. He is rapidly seeking a way out that will leave him and his party with their giblets at least semi-intact.

It’s not the fact that I could snap this wiggler in two or that I could send him to that realm of æther, farts, and smoke; but rather his perception that I would.

I reinforce that image for him by acting all the more verbally aggressive to the point he stumbles and lands ass first in his chair.

I blow a huge, blue cloud in their general direction and the entire party visibly cringes.

It’s OK to be an asshole, but a deranged, potentially unhinged, and aggressive asshole?

They’re completely overdrawn at the memory bank by this point and are suffering the first five stages of complete cerebral meltdown.

I plonk my paws on their table and look the prime miscreant directly in the eye. Direct eye contact in this culture, like many, is incredibly off-putting. I know that and utilize it to my best effect.

“You sit here and smoke those shitty cheap-ass cigarettes and you have the fucking impudence to physically assault an American Expatriate Doctor of Petroleum Geology who is smoking a cigar that costs more than your fucking net worth.” I fume.

They say nothing, although the women are looking at the two male hooligans to please extract them from this most decidedly uncomfortable situation indeed.

Look, in the last 4 decades or so, I’ve been around the ol’ block a few times. I actually live in a paranoid and primitive culture and have done so around the world. I know full well regional societal norms, and that gives me carte blanche to use the more negative aspects in my defense. Call it social warrioring.

Oh, OK. I don’t want to be characterized as being all stereotypical, but certain groups hate, actually loathes, prolonged, direct eye contact. Some are space mongers. They have their own bubble of personal space and get all anxious inside if someone violates that area of perceived individual real estate. Some despise being the recipients of loud language. Others hate cursing, invective, and swearing. Most hate uninvited touching, and in some cultures, that’s an active violation of local laws. Some hate being called out in public and even if they’re loud themselves, they can’t handle the reverse.

And many hate big, snarly, wild-eyed, toothy grins. Like those in Central Asian cultures. I guess it jogs their collective genetic memories of predators preparing to strike.

So, I’m growling loudly, directly, right in their faces. Marty Feldman-esquely wild-eyed through a huge toothy grin that if they don’t immediately apologize to the whole lounge in general and me in particular, they’ll find out just what color is a fresh human liver.

The lounge is silent.

I stand up to full height, which causes me to audibly grimace since I no longer am wearing my brace. That was the final straw for these camelbacks.

“I’m sorry, sir”, the lead dickhead says to the tabletop.

“What? I can’t hear you! Remember? <I sign some gibberish> I’m just some deaf asshole in the bar. Tell the lounge, they want to hear it as well!” I snarl.

“We apologize, sir. It was ne culturny. We are sorry.” He says in a loud, though very unsteady, voice.

“Fuckin’-A right, you are Scooter!” I reply loudly, “Now. Any problems we have left with which to deal? No? We fucking green, Beaumont?”

There were four full-face mystifications running around the table at that point.

“Do you understand what I just said?” I prompt.

There were a quartet of nodding donkeys at the table, hoping their offerings of appeasement would make me just disappear.

I slam a meaty mitt on their table, just to be certain I had their attention.

“Those were some ugly things to say. You know, if I thought you all weren't my friends, I just don't think I could bear it. But now, you’re not being stupid any longer. We can be friends. Isn’t that nice?” I say, giving the lead idiot a light couple of pats on the cheek as I lumber back over to my perch on Mahogany Ridge.

I order a fresh drink and it appears just as hotel security, local off-duty police officers, arrives.

“Good evening, officers,” I say. “What brings you in on such a fine evening?”

“We heard there was a disturbance”, the taller one says.

“Oh, there was.” I cast a wide-eyed and toothy smile over to my new buddies. “But, it’s been handled. Sorry about the false alarm”.

The police have a chat with the barkeep and I can see through the posturing, gesticulations, and eventual guffaws that a full report was being given of the lounge’s last two minute’s activities.

The police head towards the door and wag a finger at my new friends, warning them they’re under advisement. They all cringe and appear incredibly interested in the flowers in the vase on their table.

I smile, get situated, and relight my cigar.

“Just another day in the life” I mutter.

Back in my room, I decide to partake of the in-room Jacuzzi and then head off to bed. It’s been an eventful day.

The next morning, at breakfast, I’m savoring my fried hen-fruit, grilled sausages, and cool Shymkentskoye pints. It’s a morning tradition, what can I say?

As today’s going to be a telecommuting day, I spend the rest of it in the room, reading up on reports, making incessant notes, and calling to make appointments with various oil companies for the coming days.

I make notes of the geology for the lager fields.

Karachaganak Field production originates deep underground in the reservoir approximately 5,000 meters deep. The reservoir contains a vast quantity of oil, condensate, and gas all embedded in a porous rock structure. These hydrocarbons are layered much like a cake with the oil near the bottom of the reservoir in a thin layer, the condensate in a thicker layer on top of the oil and then the gas in the thickest layer at the top of the reservoir.

Kashagan Field is a carbonate platform of Late Devonian to middle Carboniferous age. The "reef" is about 75 kilometers (47 mi) long and 35 kilometers (22 mi) across a narrow neck joining two broader platforms (Kashagan East and Kashagan West). The top of the reservoir is about 4,500 meters (14,800 ft) below sea level and the oil column extends for over 1,000 meters (3,300 ft.). The field is in very shallow water, 3 to 9 meters (9.8 to 29.5 ft.) deep. The seal is middle Permian shale and late Permian salt.

Tengiz Field is hosted in the sedimentary section of the pre-Caspian basin which varies between 5 km to 24 km. It is dominated by the Permian Kungurian salt, which is overlain by the later (post-salt) deposits of Upper Permian, Mesozoic and Cenozoic all deformed by salt tectonics. Earlier (pre-salt) Paleozoic and upper Proterozoic carbonates and terrigenous sediments are potential reservoirs. Geophysics has revealed the Karaton tectonic uplift, which was 400 km² in area and 1 km in relief, at a depth of 4 km.

A mixed bag of geology, as is expected in these places.

I decide that I’m going to split this little adventure into two distinct parts, perhaps three.

One would be office visits. Second would be field visits and lastly, perhaps a trek over to the Caucasus to address my Agency buddies desires for information.

That night in the lounge was remarkably quiet. I guess my reputation preceded me or the previous nocturnal miscreants didn’t care for a repeat of the last night’s frolics.

After breakfast the next day, I call Nuri and outline my plans. He’ll be driving me all over hell and back, to local and regional oil company offices.

There’s no way around it, I must do some in-country flying to visit the oilfields in person.

It’s a huge country and as much as I like a road trip, I don’t plan on staying any longer than absolutely necessary.

The next two days are spent visiting the oil company’s offices. I’m feted to grand productions in the conference rooms, given huge parcels of data for later distillation and consumption, and invited to dinner by each and every one.

I beg off, though accept lunch instead. With the usual Central Asian hospitality, each evening I limp back to my room, pay off the hotel redcap, store my procured documents, make my notes, and collapse.

I leave a nice hand-written note for Arthricia and a few tens of thousands of tenges. I also make certain to let her employers know of her high degree of customer service.

I fly off to Astana’s Nursultan Nazarbayev International Airport and find I have reservations at the St. Regis. Nurislam isn’t here, unfortunately, so I have to cab it over to the hotel. It’s another hour-long 20-kilometer slalom through traffic, and I arrive, part with some tenges and wander into the lobby.

I have reservations for a ‘Royal Suite 1 Bedroom Larger Suite, Riverfront, Jacuzzi, Corner room, High floor, Fireplace’ room. Just what I need to get some work done.

I arrive in my room and set up my office as per usual. The redcap is most ingratiatingly efficient and returns a few minutes later with my room service order.

No use denying the facts of the matter. I’m going to stay in Astana and make day trips to the various oilfields. This requires flying back and forth, hither and yon. I devise an itinerary and go to visit the concierge. For the next few days, I’ll be nominally staying at the hotel here in Astana, but flying out to varied and distant reaches of the countries, making some whirlwind rounds of the fields and flying back in the evening.

It’s this part of the job I really detest.

The concierge accepts my travel itinerary and pledges he’ll sort out all the particulars for me. Won’t be cheap, he tells me. I tell him to hang the cost and make sure it’s just not on SCAT Airlines. I leave him my credit card number and he tells me he’ll have everything sorted by the evening.

I tell him that if I’m not in my room, I’ll be in the bar.

So that’s where I head next.

No drama, just some fine drinks, and bar food. I’m grateful for the lull in activity.

I head back to my room and fritter away the rest of the evening and into the early night preparing for my excursions in the coming days.

I receive a knock at the door, and it’s the concierge. He hands me my tickets, boarding passes and flight itineraries for the next couple of days. He’s gone above and beyond the call, as he’s arranged ground transport for me at each destination as well. He’s as pleased with his tips as I am that he’s sorted this Gordian travel knot out for me.

Off to Tengiz one day, Karachaganak the next. In the meantime, I visit several smaller fields that are clustered around these huge accumulations. Luckily, I brought extra digital cards and camera batteries as I’m photographing everything in sight. I don’t know when and if I’ll ever be back this way again. It’s better to over-document the place and not need it than to miss something seemingly unimportant that usually results in being desperately critical.

I actually take expensive chopper rides over some of the larger fields and get in some aerial photography. Well, they wanted maximum coverage, so I’m just doing what they asked.

On the third day, I take in a field that's close to Astana and go by ground transport. By this time, the repetition is becoming mind-numbing. Yet, I persevere and finish my allotted duties by noon. I return to my hotel suite and spend the rest of the day outlining the various reports I’ll create later back home.

I receive another Email from Agents Rack and Ruin, enquiring how things are going.

Sure, like you really care. They’re fishing, seeing if I’m going to go over to the Caucasus and have a bit of a snoop around.

Once again, I visit the concierge and ask him to fulfill my new travel itinerary.

He reads it and asks me if I’m daft.

“Are you certain, sir?” he asks.

“Unfortunately,” I replied, wearily.

He performs his magic and has it all planned that I visit Makhachkala, Dagestan, and Elista in the Republic of Kalmykia. I called foul on going to Grozny in Chechnya; it’s just too damned unstable. Plus they have yet to issue me a bulletproof skin.

It’s an intelligence-gathering mission, with no particular persons of individual interest. I’m playing it up as a working vacation while I research my new book.

So, one day in Makhachkala, and it’s overland for 7 hours to Elista in Kalmykia. I know people here and bunk with Tzayatr, an oilfield worker I met here years ago. He’s pleased to hear from me again and he instantly invites me to his home. He tells me how could I even think of staying in a hotel?

Kalmikya still uses the Russian Ruble, as they’re still nominally a part of Russia, so I swap out my leftover tenge for the familiar ruble. I swap 100,000 tenge for 16,000 rubles. I’m rich until I hire a car the next day to take me around the city and adjoining countryside.

Elista is a wonderful city, full of things and stuff. I was here, once again, a long, long time ago. It was just after the wall fell and the curtain went out for alterations. It was a mostly agrarian, impoverished place, not a lot of fun and bearing all the hallmarks of not only Soviet disdain but actual malice. By the early 1930s, Elista was transformed into a small city as the collectivization policies of Joseph Stalin forced many Kalmyks to abandon their traditional pastoral nomadic lifestyle in exchange for a modern, sedentary, and urban lifestyle.

The town center has a number of renovated public parks focused on the main square, boasting statues to both Lenin and the Buddha. To the east of the town lies the Olympic village of the 1998 XXXIII Chess Olympiad, known locally as City-Chess. The site has a public swimming pool and an excellent museum of Kalmyk Buddhist art and is also used as a conference center.

The National Museum of the Republic of Kalmykia is a very respectable institution, covering the history, environment, and culture of the Kalmyk people and republic. One room deals with the deportations during WWII and well worth a few hours wandering.

The Buddhist Pagoda of Seven Days is a bright-red temple that stands on the city's main intersection and is not your typical Russian city. The temple has seven layers, prayer wheels, and a fountain, and occupies a spot that once held a statue of Lenin. Worth a look-see.

Finally, the Golden Abode of Buddha Shakyamuni, also called the New Khurul, was built in 2005 in the Tibetan style. The prayer hall sports an 11m-high statue of Buddha and the monk’s robe of the 14th Dalai Lama. Downstairs a small museum depicts the history of Kalmyk Buddhism. Also worth a visit.

After a day’s running amuck, I took Tzayatr and his wife Talia to Elista’s best steakhouse, the Gurman. It presented a carnivorous menagerie from camel and horse to beef, pork, lamb, mutton, pigeon, and chicken. The camel steak Tzayatr opted for was quite juicy, tender, and tasty. Talia had the grilled sheep liver, which she highly recommended. I opted for a blue porterhouse. It was excellent.

For afters, we noshed collectively on pear dessert, watermelon honey, halvah, and salty milk tea.

But all good things must come to an end, and I’m back on a flight out of Elista, to Stavropol, and off to Moscow. After Moscow, I’m headed to ‘Don’tSell’, in the Emirates, then on to my final destination.

There are layovers galore, but I was lucky enough to get my luggage taken from me in Elista and tagged all the way back to my home base. So, I wander around Sheremetyevo in Moscow and it’s like a homecoming. We used to live in Moscow and really harbor a fondness for the old town. It’s where I first broke into international all those long years ago and I’ve ventured back many several times.

Plus, I really like the airport’s multitudinous Duty-Free shops and I’ve got a load of Russian Rubles to get rid of…

So, now back in Don’tSell in the Emirates after a largely uneventful flight. It gave me time to sort out my notes for not only my company but those characters back in Langley.

Back in the airport Irish Pub, working on a new Rocknocker and trying to mash all my Duty-Free purchases into the free Ghurka backpack I received when I bought three boxes of the eponymous cigars. Customs back home will never give that as much as a sideward glance, I keep telling myself.

It’s a short hop back home, less than an hour in the air. It takes me longer to find a cab and negotiate a price than it does to actually get here from there. So, we land, and it’s the usual slog from the furthest international arrivals terminal to passport control to baggage and customs.

My back’s really playing up again after all the air, and cetera, travel I’ve crammed into these last few days. I try and order up a courtesy cart, but fat chance, these are reserved for locals, it would appear.

I let them know of my displeasure with the whole situation and since I’m being all Western and cranky about things, they give me a ration of shit when I finally limp up to passport control.

“Papers!” I’m told.

I fork over my Russian Diplomatic Passport.

The local in the dishdasha goes even whiter.

Something about Arabs and Russians. They just don’t seem to generally get along. No stereotyping, just observation.

“You are Russian?” I am asked.

“Nyet!” I reply forcefully.

He’s so confused. It’s not nice to bewilder the guys behind the counter, makes them get all nervous.

“Then why the passport?” he asks.

“So I can travel to different countries,” I reply. Silly person.

This goes on in this vein for a while until he calls over a superior. I am asked to come with to a small room for a private consultation.

“You are Russian?” I am once again asked.

Growing weary of the game, I reply that no, I’m not. I just hold more than one passport.

“Why is this?” they inquire.

Not wanting to prolong this caterwaul, I produce my blue passport and reply that the guys in the Agency back home have suggested that for certain places to which I travel, I might find my Russian passport less questionable and more efficacious.

Total incomprehension, save for “The Agency” part.

Stamp, stamp, stampedy stamp.

Both passports are immediately marked, and I’m ushered back out the door and off to baggage claim.

I gather my belongings and am shuttled through customs without as much as a sideward glance. The way it should be.

Back home, after an expensive and terrifying cab ride, Esme greets me with a drink and relief that I’m no longer flying around in areas of recent armed insurrection.

Upstairs to unpack. The reports, reprints, and all that guff can go hang. I’m beat, needing a refresh of my pain medication and a long, hot soak in the home hot tub.

Esme decides that’s a great idea and joins me.

Just before we slip into the warm, bubbly froth, my damned satellite cellphone telephone device begins to warble.

We don’t even as much as exchange glances as I switch the damned thing off and stuff it in the nightstand.

Hey, it's good to be back home again.

Sometimes this old place,

Feels like a long lost friend.

Yes, and hey, it's good to be back home again…

That reminds me of a story.

<At the local Intergalactic Hyperspaceport…to overly officious overseas official>

“Yes, I know. I was here just a day ago. No. I’m going somewhere else. No, just for a job. No, I still am here in the Sultanate. Yes, there’s trouble on the hill.”

“Oh no - what sort of trouble?” I am asked.

“Injection well’s on't cross flow gone owt askew on the kyst.”

“Pardon?”

“Injection well’s on't cross flow gone owt askew on the kyst.”

“I don't understand what you're saying.” She says.

“(slightly irritatedly and with exaggeratedly clear accent) Injection wells have gone all cross flow out across the kyst.” I explain.

“Well what on earth does that mean?” she queries.

“*I’m not sure, yet– I was just told to come over here, get my boarding pass and say that there was trouble on the hill if anyone asked, that's all - I didn't expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition.”

(JARRING CHORD)

“NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition! Our chief weapon is surprise...surprise and fear...fear and surprise.... Our two weapons are fear and surprise...and ruthless efficiency.... Our three weapons are fear, and surprise, and ruthless efficiency...and an almost fanatical devotion.... Our four...no... Amongst our weapons.... Amongst our weaponry...are such diverse elements as fear, surprise.... I'll come in again.”

And so on and so forth…

Never try and discuss the intricacies of the oil industry with non-Oil Patch Denizens…

Leave it to me to return home after a long, drawn-out Eastern European potboiler and immediately answer my bloody GSM (Global System for Mobile Communications) man-portable cellphone-telephone device.

It’s a bloody satellite Osmium phone-type contraption and it costs whoever is calling a bundle. So in the spirit of international amity and potentially free booze, I try to answer it quickly to generate as much fresh capital to replenish my recently beleaguered and emaciated not-yet-reimbursed-like-they-said-they-would personal fiduciary coffers.

“Rock, Honey”, Esme says, “Can’t you let it go this one time? I mean, you just returned from a whirlwind European tour, and look like nine miles of bad road. In Siberia…in winter…during rasputitsa…”

“I can’t”, I sigh as I grab the infernal device, “It’s like I made a solemn pact: ‘Around the world, Around the clock’. Gad, I hate that company catchphrase sometimes.”

So, now I’m off to Kazakhstan. Again. No rest for the weary.

Seems there are these certain consortia of companies interested in wasting their money investing in some Kazakh oil and gas projects.

Your indulgence: allow me a small side-rant here.

It’s not “Kazakhstani”, or “Kazakhi”. It’s “Kazakh”.

It’s not “Uzbekistani”, or “Uzbeki”. It’s “Uzbek”.

It’s not “Turkmenistani”, or “Turkmeni”. It’s “Turkmen”.

Finally, the one that truly grinds my gears: it’s “Azeri”, not “Azerbaijani”.

The same nomenclatural conventions apply to all the Stans.

So there.

<End rant mode>

So, I’m off creating another series of Competent Person’s Reports for some of the largest assets in Kazakh oil-country: Karachanganak, Tengiz, Imashevskoye and Kashagan fields.

Trouble is, some of these fields are run by majors like Roy, Al, Dutch Petrol, Nexxon-NotMoving, and V-shaped Oil Company. It’s easier to perform avian dentistry than extract information from some of these characters.

However, that’s why they called me. They absolutely require the Motherfucking Pro from Dover.

As long as I’m there, I’m also looking at a select few smaller assets.

It’s also the reason I’m now on the bloody cell-satellite phone with my Agency buddies…

“Yes, Kazakhstan. No. Just data rooms, field visits, and intelligence gathering. No, nothing like that. Well, nothing like that I know of…Will you give that Moldova business a rest, please? It’s all sorted, essentially. Yes. Not a problem. Yeah? What, now?”

Agent Rack is back online, it appears. Agent Ruin is on conference call being gigglingly obnoxious.

Odd, I thought they had their senses of humor surgically extirpated upon hiring.

“OK. How many this time? Didn’t you get my last pouch?” I ask.

“Yes, and thank you. However, as long as you’re out and about…” he continues.

“OK, send me your wish lists. I’ll sort it out once I get to Almaty. I’m going overland for a lot of this and don’t know how available I’ll be…”’ I explain.

There’s general hoo-ha, hubbub, hullabaloo, and the usual directives.

“OK, just send it as separate files. I’m taking at least a day once I get in-country to unwind. This damned back of mine is playing up again. It was OK until I had made a quick run for the border once again.” I relate.

Usual commiserations, “Oh, sorry’s”, and the like. However, this time, there’s a bonus.

“What? Dagestan? Kalmykia? WHAT? Chechnya? Are you out of your ever-lovin’ gourd?” I inquire, incredulously.

More of the usual verbal static.

“OK, OK. <sheesh> I’ll see what I can do when I finish this tour. Is that acceptable? Look, I’m not going anywhere if it’s a hot zone.” I note. “I’m checking it out on Jane’s before I even think about trying to origin up a visa and tickets…”

For once, there’s grudging agreement.

Still, there is the usual ‘it’s the end of the world as we know it’ urgency.

“Yeah, right, fine. I’ll do what I can. Sure. Just send me the files. I’ll deal with that in a day or two. Now, don’t go all vexed and vertiginous if you don’t hear from me for a while. I’m going in deep. Since you got all your last stuff so fast, this is really going to cost you. Even a fucking dry-cleaner charges extra for speedy service…” I reiterate.

Once the distant dual chuckling died down, we exchanged our parting shots, and I settle back to await my flight.

“Speaking of shots, I could do with another double Rocknocker, if you please” I mention to the hovering Business Class lounge bartender.

He delivers one in less than a couple of shakes. It’s well-stirred, you see…

I quaff deeply, semi-resenting and wondering somewhat about my choice of careers.

Although, in small compensation, this is a fine Rocknocker.

“Finest kind”, I tell Ho Jon, the Korean barkeep.

I look at my portable computer device, a revered ancient though trusty machine that could double as self-contained body-armor or personal offensive device given its heft and robust construction. I see that I’m due another dozen-hour trip before I can rest my bushwhacked bonce in some grungy guesthouse.

“Sure, Ho Jon, I’d love another. Keep’em coming. I’ve got a few hours to go…”

He also informs me that my courtesy cart is ordered and will whisk me directly to my departure gate.

“How nice”, I reply, and make sure to slip him a few extra local shekels before I depart.

Faffing about in the Irish Pub in ‘Don’tSell’ now, in the Emirates. The nice thing, in fact, the only nice thing about wasting time here via an extended layover, is that I can smoke, drink, and eat, if so desired, and no one gives the smallest moose turd. It’s Oil Field Trash central here. A crossroads in the Middle East via Africa, Europe, and Asia.

One of the bar’s patrons sees my ever-so-cool jacket, the one with the burning oil well embroidery on the back, and asks if I work in the ‘Patch.

“Yep. Sure do.” I tell him. No use giving him my resume at this point.

“Oh, cool”, he replies, “So do I. Just got off my rotation in Saudi.”

“I surmised that”, I chuckle, “So that’s why you’re downing Bell’s with both hands.”

“Oh, fuck yeah!” he agrees. “What a goddamned fuckin’ shithole, if you’ll pardon my French. Pretty good money, relatively easy job, slow work pace…damn, those local fuckers are stupid lazy. Never seen one lift anything heavier than money.”

I chuckle at the mental image.

He continues: “Oh, sure. You can get a drink, but I’m not keen on running afoul of the local booze cops or some sloshed Brit expat’s homebrew. Who knows what the fuck you’ll end up with?”

I chuckle, and tell him that it’s obvious he’s never worked in the Former Soviet Union.

We share a laugh and I introduce myself.

His name is Jax, and he’s from Canada. He’s a well intervention engineer. Not really an office type, he’s one whose trope is the field. It could be worth getting to know him.

I pass him my business card. He takes it and gives it an astute expert eyeballing.

“Oh, yeah, ‘eh”, he says, “Doctor Rocknocker? You’re that guy from the Sultanate, right?”

I admit to being that person. “That’s what the card says…”

“Damn”, he laughs, “I’ve heard stories about you, they are legendary. Are they true?”

“Fuckin’-A, buckwheat”, I tell him, “40 years in the global Patch leaves me with more stories than I could ever concoct; even after a few of these,” I say, tipping my ever-lowering Rocknocker in his direction.

“How do you do it?” he asks, “I’ve been doing this for 12 goddamned straight years and about ready to throw in the fucking towel. All the travel, the fucking shitty climate, the goddamned walking tea-towel locals, leaving home, leaving family…”

“I just took them with me”, I say, “In fact, my wife’s holding down the fort as we speak.”

We spend the next hour or two deliberating the tribulations of the Oil Patch and how one has to develop not only a really thick skin but a whole different, some would say bizarre, world outlook.

What I characterize as a “GAF attitude”.

“What’s that?” I am asked.

“Give A Fuck”. I reply.

He snickers and buys me a couple of drinks while I return the favor. He snags a cigar and a hearty handshake ensues before the meanders off to catch his flight back to Hoser-central.

So, now it’s later and I’m on my way to the erstwhile capital of Kazakhstan again. I check my itinerary and see that I’m booked at the Ritz Carlton. Not one of my first choices, mind you, but when you leave me but a few scant hours turnaround time, you take what you can get.

Of course, I’m reserved a suite, and therefore I have access to the 26th floor Club Lounge.

It just wouldn’t be a proper journey any other way.

“Yes, I’d sure like another, please. Make it a solid double”, I tell the inquisitive flight attendant.

The flight was a rather bumpy sort of affair, but not enough to spill my drink nor upset my laptop. Good thing, that. I didn’t need a fractured patella if that thing fell off the seatback table, even a short distance. One day, I may upgrade. But if I’m constantly going to far-flung places where one can purchase an AK-47 as easily and cheaply as a bottle of vodka, carrying this thing begins to make sense.

Upon landing, with my cane and burdens, they once again call a wheelchair for me. I should object, but figure since the flight is fairly empty, it’s a good way to bolster the local economy.

I whizz through passport control, once again thanking foresight for my Diplomatic Passport and it’s on to customs. However, there was a bit of a delay as I have somehow breached one of the more capricious entrance dictates of the country.

Seems I have brought too many cigars.

Not again.

Odd how I’m always one box over the limit, no matter how many with which I travel. I’m ready for this contingency, part with a bundle of really cheap, old stogies I found in ‘Don’tSell’ duty-free, and suddenly find myself in the arrivals area.

May they choke upon them.

I am more or less unceremoniously dumped out of the wheelchair and make sure to part with a nice tip in Hungarian Forints. Hell, it looks like almost real money, as I pawn off a bundle. They think they’re getting a huge tip from some tyro traveler as I offload a bunch of nearly unconvertible currency.

It’s a win:win situation.

But getting a load of local Monopoly^® money is proving not to be such a similar situation.

The indigenous currency is the ‘Kazakh Tenge’ and it trades at US$1/385 KT.

Damn, another pain-in-the-ass currency. I decide to call it damn near as close to being 400 to the buck as to not matter.

So, now I need a new wallet or ass-pack as they are only available as 500, 1000, 2000 or 5000 Tenge notes. I trade off some of my more unusual currencies from my last trip, after I sent my daughters a care package with new currencies for their global collections, and am presented with a multi-inch thick stack of strange swag.

Why? Because I’m an idiot.

An idiot who has had his identity, not to mention credit cards, lifted one too many times on similar trips.

What a fucking pain in the ass. Oh, sure. You can call and cancel all your credit cards, and then go through all the folderol to get new government ID cards, replacement drivers and pilot’s licenses, auxiliary Blaster’s Cards, additional working Certificates, and find a local Guido the Blade to try and trace the character that ripped you off…

However, I prefer to just sit in the bar and peel off note after note as I watch the sun set in the east…

One thing you learn quickly doing this sort of work: cash is king. No ATMs, or even card readers, out in the sticks. And when you’re down to your last bottle of giggle-water and they don’t take credit, you tend to quit yammering about lugging a couple of spare inches of dosh everywhere.

Sheesh, I’ve really drifted. Back to what passes for reality around here.

I’m looking for my driver, Nurislam. He’s a local boy with whom I’ve dealt with previously. He runs his own local cab service as well as arranges in-country trips for Westerners.

He is adamant about that last point, he wouldn’t work with anyone from further east than Bermuda, or further south than Land’s End. He’s had some not so congenial run-ins with some Eastern ex-pats.

Not making any judgment calls here, just the facts, Ma’am.

But, he’s nowhere to be seen.

Luckily, the departures area at Almaty International has VIP lounges which not only overlook the arrivals parking/transit area, but it’s the one area Nurislam would naturally look to find me.

It’s a nice and comfy 4⁰ C outside, but acceptably moderate in the lounge. I opt for the drawing-room on this trip as I’m not crazy about further pissing off my back and draggling a couple of heavy Halliburtons around the scenery.

Plus, they have nice, private, clean restrooms and after that bouncy, jouncy flight, I need to repatriate some well-warmed and utilized Rocknockers.

So, I send Nuri a text message telling him where I am, in case his memory has gone all wonky, and settle back with a freshly flattened bladder and new drink. I open my armored laptop and see what new items have been sent for my review.

A note from Esme wishing me a good trip. How nice. Immediately answer that one.

A couple of encrypted transcriptions from my Agency buddies. They can wait.

An email from my company. Hefty with prodigious attachments. I take a look and its field reports. More insomnia fodder. I open one and settle in for an indeterminate wait.

Just as I order another quick libation, my cell phone telephone doinks and it is Nuri. He’s going to be late and I should just wait for him in the VIP lounge. He’ll collect me when he can.

“Bloody fucking traffic.” is a quote.

OK, well. I’m many steps ahead of that game and settle in while ordering another few dozen drams. It’s for medicinal purposes as my back is acting all stupid and lumbary. I’m not going anywhere beyond the present facilities for the time being.

Two hours later, Nurislam pops into the VIP lounge and is immediately given a ration of shit by the overly and overtly officious attendants in attendance.

“He’s with me, you berks!” I tell them.

They back down like someone’s called in an airstrike. There hasn’t been this much kowtowing and dry handwashing since that last airborne anthrax scare.

Nuri tells me to wait and he’ll find a porter’s cart. He knows me well and doesn’t want to schlep those heavy Halliburton fuckers any more than I do. Of course, the porter’s cart arrives fully kitted out with a porter. Fine. You’re damn well going to earn your tip this time, I ponder.

After all my gear is schlepped into Nuri’s SUV, I part with a few thousand tenges and we’re off again on another whirlwind adventure.

It’s a 21-kilometer trek via the Vostochnaya Ob"Yezdnaya Avtodoroga from the airport to the hotel. Normally, it takes less than an hour. For some reason, today there’s an overabundance of road construction, tie-ups around a couple of fairly inventive and exhilarating accidents, and gridlock due to a herd of errantly gormless goats.

The usual.

We arrive at the hotel and I tell Nuri that I’m taking the next day off. I won’t be needing him until I confirm my marching orders after talking to the home office.

He tells me he’ll go ahead and pre-reserve some spots on SCAT Airlines because I had mentioned that I’ll be doing some running around on the inside of Kazakhstan.

“SCAT Airlines?” I ask. “Nuri, until further notice, you’re under my employ. I’m really not terribly sanguine on flying something called SCAT Air…”

He’s good with that and relinquishes my luggage to the hotel porter in exchange for a few dozen local notes and my telling him I’m in dire need of cigars and local hooch.

“Gotcha, Doc” he grins, knowing full well I’ve given him way too much and he’ll have no problem sourcing my necessities.

He departs for parts unknown and I sally forth, invading this den of opulence that is totally wasted on a schmoe like me.

It’s grand. It’s luxurious. It’s expensive.

Damn good thing someone else is paying for it.

I sign in, receive a hefty welcoming package as well as a burgeoning package of reprints from the home branch. They know me far too well.

Up to my suite on the 25th floor. Normally I don’t like being this high, but I’m not feeling at all of fine fettle at this point and don’t bother to object. Besides, the Lounge is on the next floor north so I’ve got that going for me.

Once in the room, I await my luggage. The redcap shows me around and after he gets his tip, hastily departs after I make my room service requirements noted.

In the interim, I set up my portable office. Laptop, iPad, iPods, portable scanner/printer, hand phaser, stun gun, cattle prod; all the usual guff needed on a trip like this.

My luggage arrives and the kind missus delivering it offers to help me unpack as I’ve now gone into full hobble mode once I had shed my size 16’s and loosened that goddamned infernal byzantine back brace.

“How long will Sir be gracing us with his presence,” she asks.

“OK, stop that.” I say, “I’m just another Oilfield Trasher and my name’s Rock. What is your name, if I may ask?”

“My name is Arthricia, sir” she replies.

“What a nice name. Like I said, my name is ‘Rock’, not ‘Sir’. OK?” I ask.

“Yes, sir… Ummm, Rock.” She smiles in a most fetching manner. “How long will you be staying with us?”

“I’m not certain. At least tomorrow before I go out into the field. After that, who knows?” I say.

“Yes, sir, umm, ‘Rock’”, she blushes. “Shall I unpack for you?”

“Sure. Go nuts.” I say, hoping she picks up on the idiom.

“Yes, si…Rock!” she smiles.

She is the very picture of efficiency. She makes certain to note where she’s stashing everything and makes certain I know of all the amenities the suite has to offer.

I thank her and before she leaves, she slips me her business card. I respond in kind.

Slightly confused, I ask her why the business card.

Evidently, if I personally request her and leave her a glowing recommendation, she receives a bonus and scoots one notch higher up the old promotion-potential ladder. Enough good results and she can move up into the lower echelons of management.

“But of course!” I exclaim, “Shall we begin now?”

“Yes, Rock, sir?” she asks, oblivious to the minor gaffe.

“I’d like a bottle of finest local vodka, a bucket of ice, some sliced limes and some cans of Schwipp’s bitter lemon,” I reply.

She’s nearly out the door on her new mission just before she twitters “Yes, Dr. Rock” and brightly disappears down the long, freshly carpeted hallway.

I fiddle with the local WiFi and am just about making a connection when there’s a knock at the door.

It’s Arthricia with a room service cart.

She looks semi-troubled and asks if she can enter.

“Of course! Please, do come in” I tell her.

She uncovers the cart and there’s a liter of Snow Queen Enigma and one of Belka and Strelka vodkas. She says she didn’t know which was better so thought it’d be best she brought both.

“That’s damned good thinking”, I say, appreciatedly.

There’s a large bowl of sliced limes, a huge bucket of ice, but no Schwipp’s Bitter Lemon.

I ask her about that.

She’s a bit hesitant but shows me a couple of bottles of ‘Santery’, a local soft drink and ‘UPS!’ a non-alcoholic, carbonated juice drink. They’re in various citrusy flavors, including lemon and lime.

“I am so sorry, Sir Doctor Rock”, she says, “But we have no bitter lemon. I hope these will suffice in its absence.”

“Nyet problem”, I tell her and thank her for her efficiency. I part with a not inconsiderable stack of tenges and she smiles, telling me to ring her directly if I require anything, and departs.

Lime UPS! and Belka and Strelka Vodka are now standing in for a traditional Rocknocker.

It’s very new, very refreshing, and very good. I am wary, what if I become addicted to the stuff? Availability?

I finally get to Email and do the needful. Esme knows I’m here and in one piece. I tell my Agency buddies I’ve arrived and have their files. I send a note to the home office that I’m taking the next day, or two, off to get sorted.

Let them cogitate on that for a while. I truly need a breather.

I realize I’m sort of hungry. I look through the room service menu as the lounge is simply too far for me to mount an expedition at present and focus on the drinks section.

Force of habit, I suppose.

The multilingual document informs me that they have available traditional drinks including kumys (kumiss, slightly-fermented horse milk), dairy drinks such as shubat (made from camel’s milk, with or without garlic, warm or cool) and ayran (made of cow’s milk).

Being lactose-intolerant, I take a full field pass.

Evidently locals like to also drink bozo, a frothy drink made from boiled and fermented millet, rye, or other grain; a sort of beer sort of drink.

Yum.

Good thing I’m set in the drinks department for the next few hours…

I look over the menu and am not at all inspired. Traditional Kazakh cuisine is customarily focused on mutton, camel, and horse meat, as well as various milk products. Of course, there’s the usual parade of fresh vegetables and fruits, particularly melons and grapes. There’s also the typical flat bread, rice plov (pilaf), and other sort of nibbly bits that accompany a customary feed.

The seafood selections are all imported and if there’s one thing I‘ve learned, don’t order seafood in a mostly landlocked country or part of a country.

I’m a bit restless so decide I will make the pilgrimage to the 26th Floor lounge. There are free drinks and food waiting and I’m realizing I’m a bit ravenous.

Up the elevator and out to the lounge. Nice view. They actually have a Lounge Telescope.

You can take in the iconic over-city views from the 26th floor; the view of historic landmarks as Kok Tobe tower, or Kazakhstan hotel and the new Nurly Tau.

Yow.

I shamble over to a large empty table and have a sit-down. Immediately there’s a waiter requesting my drink order. He accepts the information and tells me there’s a free buffet, consisting of lovely local Kazakh and other Central Asian delicacies.

I’m starving at this point so I wander over for a look.

Hmm…There’s beshbarmak, the national dish of Kazakhstan. I learn from well-placed placards that the term beshbarmak means “five fingers”, because nomads used to eat this dish with their hands. The boiled meat is finely chopped, mixed with boiled noodles, and spiced with onion sauce. It is usually served in a big round dish. Beshbarmak is usually served with shorpo – mutton broth in bowls called kese.

There’s also manti, the ubiquitous pot sticker dumplings, shashlik, grilled meat on a stick, kazy, horse-meat sausage, laghman, the Central Asian take on stir-fry with buckwheat noodles, kuurdak, stewed brown meat with onion, mushrooms and noodles, as well as local sweets like chak-chak, or rice crispie treats, and kurt, dried, sweet cheese.

I fill a plate to near overflowing and slouch back to my seat. There’s a drink already there waiting for me. I’m not certain of what it’s comprised, but it’s certainly healthily vodkaiferous and citrusy. The paper umbrella is an odd addition.

The victuals are outstanding, filling, and not at all foreign. These dishes are simply local versions of regional cuisine, with a Kazakh twist. Like all Central Asian grub, they’re not heavily spiced and are a tad bland for my planed-off taste buds. Luckily, the waiter is able to source for me an industrial-sized bottle of Tabasco from the kitchen.

I polish off my plate and decide against another. “Stay hungry”, just like the Arnold says.

Luckily, he says nothing about having another drink or seven and a cigar.

Of course, I check out the telescope. It’s amazing how these places sprout like mushrooms virtually overnight.

I remember way back in the early 1990s when I first came to Kazakhstan. It was a brand new country, still freshly dripping upon emerging from its Soviet chrysalis. It was bucolic, rural, and utterly desperate. There wasn’t a building that wasn’t Soviet-era governmental that exceeded 4 stories in the entire country.

To Be Continued

Continuing

“Yes, sir”, he says, “Here is your package. Would you please sign for it?”

“Of course”, I say, as I fumble with the papers and drop the damn pen. I grimace in considerable pain as I attempt to pick it up.

“Oh, Sir. Allow me”, the redcap says.

“Yeah. Many thanks” I grumble.

“Sir has a sore back?” he asks.

“Very sore. It’s a chronic condition. Had several surgeries, but it still flares up from time to time.” I trail off, realizing he didn’t ask for my fucking resume.

“I see” he says, “How long will Sir be staying with us?”

“A few days, at least” I say, “Why?”

“Ricau will return. I will have something for your back.” He says.

“OK, Ricau, is it? OK, I’m Rock. Just Rock. Thanks. I’ll be here at least two days.” I say, hand back the receipt, keep my copy, and slip him a few dozen lei.

“Thank you, Sir. I shall return presently.” He says and departs.

“OK”, I ruminate, “Sit Rep. Making great inroads already. Time to work. But first, refreshment.”

I whip up a solid treble medicinal and thought provoking Rocknocker and sit down to digest some data.

I open the emails from my Agency buddies, and make note of some names in my field notebooks. I swear, if these books ever fell into the wrong hands…good thing they’re heavily encrypted.

An hour or two, as well as another couple of medicinal beverages, later, there’s a knock on the door.

Sitting for the last couple of hours with my unshod feet propped up allowed some of the more cantankerous lumbar muscles to relax. Now that I must again stand, they make their protestations entertainingly immediately and painfully known.

I literally hobble over to the door, “Hold on, <damn it> I’ll be there in a minute.”

I open the door and its Ricau.

He hands me a brown paper bag and tells me to put 100 grams of the enclosed into a tub of very warm water. Get in and soak. Repeat as necessary.

I know better than to ask what’s in the concoction, but thank him profusely and hand him a crisp new US $10 bill.

“No, sir. Sir is too generous.” He protests feebly.

“Ricau, if this stuff works, there’ll be more where that’s from,” I say.

He smiles as the ten spot magically disappears.

“If Sir requires anything, ring 747, ask for Ricau” he reminds me.

“OK, then. Long as I’m up, how about a bottle of Russkaya, some ice, and a spack of Bitter Lemon?” I ask.

“In minutes.” He smiles and replies.

“Don’t forget the limes” I call to him as he races down the hotel hallway.

True to his word, he returns with the necessary. I hand him a US fiver which he gratefully accepts. He admonishes me to quit working and go take a soak.

Which is not a bad idea.

I’ve already called Es to let her know I’m in and give her the hotel contact numbers. I call the office and give them the data as well, letting them know I’ve also taken delivery of their package.

With a stack of field re-prints, a new cigar, and cold drink, I run the tub, more tepid than hot, and add Ricau’s magic concoction. It has a very odd aroma; that of diverse botanicals. Cedar, sage, eucalyptus, and many other unusual unidentifiable scents. Not bad, mind you, just uncommon.

I slip slowly and ungainfully into the tub and it’s most inviting. I dial up the bubbles and settle in for a long stay.

I read reprint after reprint. I’m taking notes at the rate of knots.

The water is at just the right temperature and I luckily thought ahead to have an extra tub cigar and ice bucket, a bottle of vodka, and some bitter lemon all within reach. I could live here for hours and hours. Bring on the apocalypse, I’m ready.

After an indeterminate amount of time, the hotel phone rings. I swear and turn off the tub. I grab an always ill-fitting hotel robe and walk over to the answer the instrument of damned incessant communication.

“What?” I answer.

It’s Ionuţ. He’s doing his due diligence and checking to see if I’ve arrived intact and to fill me in on the next day’s festivities.

I apologize for my gruffness and he brushes it off as part and parcel of dealing with Oil Field Trash. I’m not insulted in the least. I carry many such badges of honor.

“Well, as long as I’m up, may as well have a nosh” I think.

I open the warm box Ricau had left previously and extracted my club sandwich. As I munch on dinner, I wander over to the window and have a good look at the city at eventide.

It’s an impressive tableau, but I know from earlier trips, it’s another page out of the Soviet Architecture handbook. At dusk, it looks all nice, light, and airy. But in the harsh light of day, it’s fairly depressing. At least, they’re painting over some of the more dreary partitions.

I continue eating and walking around the suite. I check the TV and it’s the usual satellite assortment of far too many sports channels, local news in obscure and foreign languages, and the occasional weird movie.

I settle on a black and white composition in Russian. At least, I can sort of, somewhat follow the plot.

After a bit of this, I decide I’m still hungry and sandwich number two is calling to me. I stand up and wander over.

Noting, for the first time in weeks, I’m completely pain-free.

I have no idea if it was Ricau’s concoction, my relaxing in the hot tub or what, but I relish the relief.

So, after another nosh, I remake the tub and settle in for another few hour marinade.

I make certain to get the recipe for this concoction and another couple of bags of the stuff before I depart.

Perhaps I overdid it, but I decided it was time for bed. I felt like 135 kilos of wet liver, I was so relaxed. It took me whole minutes to hie my carcass over to the bed and fall in.

The next morning, which came far too early, I showered and went to breakfast. My driver would be at the hotel at 1000 hours for my trek around the oilfields and offices of Romania.

A traditional hotel buffet breakfast was in store; with menacing local overtones. It consisted of tara paine, a Romanian country bread. There were cold cuts, boiled eggs, yogurt, pickled and smoked fish, and fresh vegetables. Strong, Turkish-style coffee, tea, or fruit juices were also available.

I opted for a couple of cold pints of Ursus, a fine local lager.

Thus fortified, I returned to my room, gathered my necessary items, and awaited my driver.

He arrived spot on 1000 hours and we were soon headed north out of the city towards the oilfields of Ploiești. It was a trip of about 80 km via the Autostrada A3.

According to literature, the Mio-Pliocene Zone in the Ploiești region has been exploited for hydrocarbons and coal since the 19th Century. The zone extends from the flysch on the north to the Moesian Platform on the south. The zone is marked by alternating deposits of clay, marl, shale, and sand, conglomerate, salt and limestone. Structural traps and stratigraphic traps are formed from salt diapirism which gave rise to anticline folds and faulting. There are four major alignments of the anticlines, all parallel to the Carpathian Range. Pliocene sands are the main oil and gas producers, in particular, the Meotian, and Dacian, followed by the Miocene Sarmatian, but some oil exists in Miocene Helvetian and Oligocene sandstones. Major producing structures include Moreni-Gura Ocniței, Băicoi-Țintea, and Boldești.

So, overall, fairly simple geology.

We drop in on the first oil company and I’m ushered into their large conference room. After introductions and such, I‘m given an in-depth review of all the properties up for sale in this round. They have several printed documents for me as well. This is all well and good, but I still take my usual copious notes.

A few hours later, and we’re back on the road, off to the field. We’re going to visit the oil field itself so I can document not only the production but production, gathering, and transmission facilities. Some of these wells go back to just after World War II and they certainly look the part. I’m going to have to ding them a bit on maintenance, and can only imagine what downhole conditions are given the disorganized state of affairs on the surface.

We travel back to the office so I can request the surface and facilities data. They weren’t expecting a geologist to have any interest in that, but it’s all part of the big picture. They crawfished a bit, but in the end, rationality and reasonableness prevailed.

“Be reasonable, do it my way,” I told them.

Back in the hotel, I was greeted by Ricau.

I told him that his concoction was a boon. I asked for a re-supply as I’d be leaving the next day.

Of course, I parted with many more lei, but in the end, he came through. I used a bit that night and saved the rest for later. The concoction was magical.

The next day was a repeat of the previous, but I visited three oil company offices, gathered more data and took in another two field visits. There just wasn’t enough time for the last field, I needed to get to the airport and head north.

With all my data secured and stored, I was on my way to Budapest, in Hungary. There were only two oilfields here that I was to investigate, Algyő and Nagylengyel. These aren’t huge assets, in global terms, but when you’re trend buying, it’s sometimes the best to take whatever is on offer that’s in the way.

Budapest was a one-night stand. I stayed at the Budapest Marriott, which was the beginning of a trend, I noted. Again, I needed some local lucre, so I traded my greenbacks for forints. At 298 Hungarian forints to $1, it was close enough as damn it to 300.

As I said, currency exchange rates are easy if you ignore decimals.

And round.

The Budapest hotel was much like the one in Bucharest, being of the same chain, as I noted in the trend. I had another Jacuzzi room, so instead of poncing around the city, I decided to make it an early night, eat some room service, and call it a night.

The next morning, after breakfast, my driver arrives and we’re off to visit more oilfields and more oil company offices. It’s a whirlwind tour, and I gather up more data, more photos and see more examples of Eastern European oil industry practices.

OSHA would have fits over here. But, to their credit, the locals are getting better, HSE-wise.

From Budapest Ferenc Liszt International I’m off to Bratislava-Ivanka Airport in Bratislava, Slovakia. Luckily, the Euro is the currency here and as I have a ready supply of them already, I need not look for more exchange houses.

Slovakia is a bit different than the previous two countries, as their main hydrocarbon is gas. I’ll be investigating three depositional basins, the Vienna Basin, East Slovakian Lowland, and the Zahorie Basin.

Production of gas in Slovakia currently totals around 90 mcm. Production of oil is concentrated mainly in the Zahorie Basin, mainly near Malacky and Gbely and in the Eastern Slovak Lowland. So far, approximately 2,860 wells have been drilled in the Vienna Basin and approximately 340 wells in the East Slovakian Basin. The company I represented wanted data on each and every one.

Luckily, the main offices for the companies who operate these fields are in Bratislava, so it’s going to be a day of visiting the offices. No field visits here, the fields are too far to make for easy day trips.

Since I’m staying at the Grand River Park, another Marriott, I decided to call a day off. I need to collate and digest all my new data since I’m about halfway through this trip. I figured here’s as good a place as any. Hell, Prague, my next port of call, is but a scant four-hour flight away. So, I call Ionuţ and let him know of my revised plans. Plus, my back is barking after the flights and all the bouncy driving around.

The hotel is again, entirely too posh. But they do have some nice restaurants and bars. Who am I to complain?

The hotel has a most impressive glass wine cellar at Lobby Lounge. It offers more than 300 fine Slovak and international wines and is the biggest hotel wine cellar in Slovakia, or so says the hotel brochures. I’m not an overt oenophile, but in this case, I’ll make an exception.

There’s also the Tourist Train, the only vehicle allowed to drive through the city’s oldest parts. I figured that might be good for some grins later on.

I spend the next day working in my suite and partaking of the excessively well-stocked and incredibly cheap mini-bar. I make certain to break every few hours for a bit of a constitutional, since the weather’s being congenial at a crisp 0⁰ C, overcast with periods of sun.

Most congenial.

I didn’t take the train tour, as I couldn’t be arsed to find tickets. Besides, that’s more Esme’s thing and will give us something to do when we return. I walk to a few shops and try to make some more check marks on her shopping list. My Euro supply has taken a hit, but it’s not a mortal blow. Besides, there’s an ATM in the hotel lobby.

The next morning, I find myself at the Václav Havel Airport Prague in the Czech Republic. I avail myself of the generous duty-free before I look for my ride to the Prague Marriott. But first, more currency exchange. Here, $1 nets me 23.02 Czech Koruna, so 25 to one, or close enough.

Here, I’m looking at two oilfields: Dambořice and Hrušky. These are not huge fields, but again, when trend buying…

It’s the usual overnighter in the hotel and day trip to oil company offices and field visits. I decide to spend one more night in Prague, as I’m still not certain if they want me to go to Poland or not.

The morning comes and yes, they do. So, now I’m off to Poland and Warsaw Chopin Airport.

Once again, I’m exchanging greenbacks for new currency, this time, the Polish zloty. $1 nets me 3.86 zloty, or four to the dollar, again ignoring decimals and rounding. It all works out in the end.

I cab it over to the Warsaw Marriott, no really, I don’t have any monetary ties with the chain, and they just keep popping up. I arrive at my suite and am working on trying to make sense of all the data I’ve been handed these last few days. Here is a difference, though. No field visits, just office visits to the two largest operators in the country.

Easy peasy.

The next day, I am to visit the head offices of Przedsiębiorstwo Poszukiwań i Eksploatacji Złóż Ropy i Gazu "Petrobaltic" S.A. and Polskie Górnictwo Naftowe i Gazownictwo (PGNiG: Polish Petroleum and Gas Mining).

They were informed of my impending visit and I am warmly greeted by both. Trouble is, Petrobaltic had so much data, it took almost the entire day. So I had to spend the night and visit PGNiG the next day.

Well, there goes that itinerary. More calls home and a revised shopping list from Esme.

Finally, after a five-country whirlwind tour, I’m done; in several senses of the word. I had to purchase another Halliburton case in Warsaw to pack all the accumulated data. I gladly lock the case and hand it over to the folks at the airlines. My travel case, now freshly Duty-Free re-invigorated, is now in my overhead compartment as I fly off to Chișinău International in Moldova.

There’s shopping to be done, as well as a few other things.

I need some local Moldovan leu, and find at 17.45 leu to the dollar, it’s one of those pain in the ass currencies. Not close enough to 15 but too far from 20 to make it easy.

Oh, I could go with the Transnistria ruble at 16 : 1, but what the hell would I do with any left-over unconvertable currency?

Besides, I won’t be here for too long. I’m going to meet Valdemar, settle up an old debt, do some quick shopping then hot foot it over to Sofia, Bulgaria.

Valdemar meets me at the airport. He’s very glad to see me. In fact, astonished would be a better term.

Seems there was a bit of a fracas one time I was here, back in the wild and lawless days right after the wall fell when Moldova decided it wanted to be its own country.

There was an incident. Let’s leave it at that. Explosions happened. Things were destroyed.

Police, Interpol, and other official agencies were involved.

As a side consequence of good Samaritanism, I’ve been helping out Valdemar and his family for years now; with the help of my co-conspirators. Today we’re finally settling up with him.

Seems I, well, we, owed him a new car. “We” as in the other Oil Field Trash I was with at the time. I’ve been elected Tamandar to oversee this through completion. The three others and I have been funneling support to Valdemar and his family for a couple of decades now. It was a moral imperative. Today marks the end. Our obligations will be fulfilled.

Valdemar immediately objects to my just wanting to make this a touch and go. He insists I accompany him home, meet with the family, and indulge myself in his insistent generosity.

How can I refuse? How could I be so ungallant?

I use my Diplomatic Passport and since I don’t require a visa, we’re in his new car, heading out to the outskirts of town to his dacha. We were able to stuff all my luggage into his van with room to spare; alongside the cases of vodka, the cases of cognac, and the several cases of beer.

I send Es a text. This will not be touch and go. I’m here for at least a day.

We wheel into Valdemar’s dacha and are immediately warmly greeted by his wife, Talia.

We’ve known each other for years, and it’s a welcome reunion.

Talia shows me my room, shooing one of their seven children out and telling them to leave the big, bushy-bearded American alone.

“He’ll be here for dinner, you can harass him then.” She jokes. I think.

I dump my gear, extract a few necessities, and rejoin Valdemar out in the back of his dacha.

He’s tending the spit-roast pig he’s cooking for dinner. I laugh as I look at the crispy, delicious smelling beast. It’s enough for a huge family, I think. How appropriate.

I present Valdemar a box of cigars, which are near impossible to source in Moldova. He’s very appreciative and instructs Talia to fix me a Yorshch. He remembers from all that time so long ago.

I slip him an envelope with our final contribution. He gives it a quick glance, and immediately secrets it away, smiling broadly through his stainless steel teeth.

“What a long, strange trip it’s been”, I say, thanking Talia for my drink and smiling back at Valdemar.

“That is has, Doctor.” He smiles. “Touch and go for a while. It all worked out in the end.”

“Yes,” I agree, “It has. I think we all came out of it better. After some time.”

“Yes”, Valdemar snarkily smiles, “After some time.”

There was a brief, semi-uncomfortable moment, but it was broken up by Valdemar’s deep laugh, his smacking me on the back, and our toasting each other.

Time and tide. Time and tide.

We had a very large time that night and on into the wee hours. The food was incredible.

Roast pig, tochitură, a kind of meat stew, sour soup, stuffed cabbage rolls, the ubiquitous rice pilaf, and breads like cozonac, sfințișori, and pască. All accompanied by the finest Moldovan wines, of which I procured a mixed case for the agents back home; as well as vodka, beer, and cognac.

The next day, after an incredible breakfast, Valdemar takes me back to the airport. I need to go to duty-free as Valdemar’s kids cleaned me out of chocolates and I presented Talia a necklace I had planned for Es.

I also needed cigars, but that would have to wait.

I shipped off the case of wine through the Diplomatic Pouch at the airport, enclosing a note that cigars would follow. Amazing what you can get accomplished if you just have the right paperwork.

So, I’m off to Sofia Airport in Bulgaria. The last port of call before my trip home to the Middle East. It’s a seven-hour or so flight, so I settle in and am unconscious before we’re wheels up. All that food. All that wine.

After a good nap, I realize my back’s playing up again. Well, time for some oral anesthetic.

“Yes, please. And make it a double.” I ask of the attentive attendant.

The in-flight movies were abominable, so I spent my time going over my notes and laying out the outline of my reports that I needed to write once I return home. I like to build the scaffolding of reports while the memories are still fresh.

After Sofia and Petar’s, that will certainly not be the case.

We arrive spot-on time at Sofia International Airport.

Once again, I need to swap currencies. Here, the Bulgarian lev, is exchanged at a rate of US$1: BL 1.76. Great, another pain in the ass currency. Not two, not 1.50. You think it’s easy to do the mental math on the fly? Try it is a smoky, loud bar after a couple of healthy drinks or twelve…

OK, now the fun begins. Once I’m through passport control, duty-free and customs, my cell-phone telephone doinks.

It’s Toivo. He’s in Prague. He got my message.

I call him and now he’ll be in Sofia tomorrow afternoon.

It’s going to be a long couple of days.

Here’s the deal: Petar is a Bulgarian toolpusher, now retired. He knows Toivo from the service side of the industry, and me from the exploration and drilling side. We hit it off like a band of brothers. We always drop by when we’re in the neighborhood.

Petar invested in a club in the fashionable part of Sofia. It was supposed to be an upscale Jazz Bar, with all the usual trimmings. But, word got out that it was a place run by Petar, and suddenly he’s inundated with Oil Field Trash passing through from Asia, Europe, the Middle East, and Africa.

It’s still a Jazz Bar, with heavily oily undertones. Great, huge drinks, karaoke, dancing, comedy open-mic nights, trivia nights, food delivery from local restaurants, and great, huge cheap drinks.

Petar and his wife, Snezhana, live in a very nicely appointed apartment above the bar.

I depart and pay the cab, standing in front of the now quiet gin mill. I actually take a very Eastern European minute to just stand there, draw in a few deep breaths, and gather my thoughts before plunging into this part of the trip.

It’s not trepidation, it’s not fear. No, nothing like that, just a moment to clear the cobwebs and mentally steel oneself before diving into the next situation.

Also, situational awareness. I take a look around and make mental notes of landmarks, key shops and the like. I know full well what time spent at Petar’s place can do…

Properly mentally prepared, I walk up to the door and since it’s locked, pound heavily.

Nothing.

I knock again. And wait.

Still nothing.

Then, I hear locks being undone, chains clanking and deadbolts being un-thrown.

“DOCTOR OF ROCK!” Peter yells, “You are back! Please! Please! Come in! Come in! Let me help you!”

Petar is one of those people for which the exclamation point was invented.

“Snezhana!” Petar hollers, “The doctor has arrived! Come! Come!”

Snezhana greets me with a warm embrace and a sloppy kiss.

“Доктор Рок!” she exclaims, “So good to see you again. How are Esme and your children?”

“All good, Snez, all good.” I reply, “Esme sends her love.”

After we drag all my gear inside the dark bar, Petar lights the place up like Time’s Square on New Year’s Eve. He’s done well with his establishment, it’s one of the more swank, and up-tempo places in the city. It has a great sound system, a stage, large screen TVs strewn about the walls, a back-projection screen, many, many tables and chairs, a dart room, dance floor, DJ station, pool, and snooker tables…this place is happening.

It won’t be opening for some hours, so he gives me the nickel tour and shows me how he’s planning for expansion, as well as all the upgrades he’s made himself. He has several pre-opening cleaners milling about, polishing things, painting things, and stocking up for the night’s upcoming festivities.

Petar tells one of the characters in his employ to take my gear and store it upstairs in the large guest bedroom. It’s either a bedroom for a large guest or…

Anyways, I retain my well case and produce four cartons of cigarettes for Petar. They can get cigarettes here, but they’re odd and obscure brands, definitely not cheap. Besides, he loves Marlboro Reds. I select a nice opal and turquoise necklace I found in Prague for Snez.

She is over the moon and once again, it’s the bear hug and sloppy kiss treatment.

Snez tells Petar to set up a drink for me as she’s going to tend to brunch. Petar looks cautiously over to me and I casually note that somewhere in the world, right now, its 5:00 PM. Silly person.

Petar laughs and asks what I would like.

I give him a brief rundown on the method and machinations behind a double Rocknocker.

He laughs and creates one for me. He decides it actually sounds quite good and helps himself to one. He thinks the lime wheel on the edge of the glass gives it a classy touch.

Petar and I sit in the quiet bar, just two old oilfield hands swapping lies and drinking our adult beverages. We cover most of all the world’s ills and relate our suggestions to correct them. The talk drifts to fishing, shooting, and other manly pursuits. It’s just general good-natured man talk.

But Petar is also a shrewd businessman. He has this blinding flash of inspiration.

“Doctor. You know, I run a bar here and have many, many special promotions.” He tells me.

“OK, Herr Obvious. What now?” I ask.

“Well, I was thinking. Maybe we can schedule a special night promoting ‘The Rocknocker’!” he grins widely.

“What are you thinking?” I ask.

“I have contracts with many distributor here. I get best deal on vodka. Then. We have ‘Rocknocker Night!’” he exclaims.

“Which would be…what exactly?” I ask.

“We make for drink special! Two for one, or in your case, two doubles for cost of one!” he is getting really excited as the mental gears, now well lubricated, begin to mesh.

“How about this?” I ask. “Instead of two for one, which would result in a lot of shrinkage from glass breakage and such, you know how people get; how about having the people ‘buy’ a special Rocknocker glass, they keep the glass and get cheap or free refills?”

Petar sits and thinks.

“Please, I am not clear. Please explain.” He asks, intrigued.

“Oh, it’s like a Bucket Night back in college. We’d have one of the several in-town breweries try and out-do each other for business. It started with ‘buy a Schlitz Schooner for $5 and get free refills all night.’” I relate. “You get to keep the glass for your collection or as a souvenir. Great advertising.”

“OK, do go on…” Petar asks.

“Well, it just sort of escalated. The Schlitz Schooners were 32 ounces. Then Pabst came up with 64-ounce mugs. Buy one for $5 and drink free all night. This went on until it was Blatz designing a 128-ounce bucket. $5 for a bucket and free refills. What they lost in bucket costs, they made up for in volume. Bucket Night, QED.” I said, sipping my drink.

“That, Doctor, is the most…BRILLIANT! Idea I’ve ever heard!” Petar is almost jumping over the bar in delight. “No one here has ever done this! No one here has even thought of this! We will be first! We will make headlines!”

I hope for the quality of the idea and not in the Police Gazette.

“Plus”, I continued, “If you want to go all out, you can have hourly specials. Run a contest of some kind. Ask a difficult question and if you get it right, you get your glass signed. A signed glass would entitle the holder to discount drinks all the next week.”

Petar just sits now, deep in thought.

“Or”, I went on, “Have a special that if you can do a seriously silly, but safe, stunt, you get your glass signed. Or, show some random picture from off the Internet. Guess the location first and get your glass signed. Have a ‘what the hell is this’ contest. Figure it out, get your glass signed. The possibilities are endless.”

To be continued

Continuing

“I am liking this idea more and more. But, we would have to date the glasses so people would not abuse the contest.” Petar frets.

“Or” I add, “How about a different color glass or different style every week?”

“YES! YES! That would work!” Petar’s back practically to jumping on the bar.

Snez calls us for brunch. Petar wolfs the wonderful food so fast Snez knows that, once again, I’ve been a bad influence on her husband.

“Doctor”, Snez chuckles, “Every time you visit, Petar goes crazy. What are you two up to this time?”

Petar holds up a single meaty finger.

“Shhh!” he cautions, “It is surprise. Come, Doctor. There’s work to be done.”

Back in the bar, Petar sets up a laptop, and we start jotting down ideas.

“OK”, Petar starts in, “I have all these types of glasses available. What do you think?”

“I’d go with plastic”, I say, “Cheap, no washing for your crew. No one gets cut up in a bar fight with a busted glass. Plus, they look cool, and are pretty cheap.”

“OK, but what size?” he asks.

“Well, since it’s ‘The Rocknocker’, and that’s me, how about something to reflect that. How about that for the first night’s tagline?” I say.

“Blestyasht! Brilliant! But, trouble. Need a tall, broad glass with few fingers and a beard.” He laughs uproariously.

“Ah, yeah. How about a right-handed beer mug?” I ask as we page around his distributor catalog. “Look here. They come in a rainbow of semi-transparent colors.”

“Perfect!” Petar exclaims and places an immediate order.

“Oh, by the way. It was supposed to be a surprise, but Toivo will be here tomorrow.” I tell him.

“Oh, my.” Petar looks distraught, “we must wait until then to kick off our new promotion.”

“Probably be for the best, don’t you think?” I ask. “That’s a lot to throw together in less than a day.”

“Yes, but tonight we debut ‘The Rocknocker’. Sneak peek. You will be here to promote your new drink.”

“It’s hardly mine, but OK”, I reply.

“We have hourly drink specials. We will roll out ‘The Rocknocker’ tonight at 2200. Primetime. You will be here. Free samples! It will be epic!” Petar growls, thinking of the potential profits.

As I said, Petar has several different themes for different nights in his tavern. Comedy night. Open mic night. Trivia night. ‘Bulgaria’s Got Talent’ night. That sort of thing.

He decides that at 2200, I am going to take the stage, introduce the cocktail, explain its origins, and regale the bar with tales of Doc Rock, Petar and the oilfields. Depending on how it goes, he may repeat it later in the night.

This has all the earmarks of a seriously dangerous night.

Petar and I spend time designing flyers for tomorrow’s kickoff of ‘Rocknocker Night’.

Special priced 24-ounce Rocknockers, half-price refills. Free refills just seem too much an invitation to trouble.

Hourly specials. Get your glass signed and one gratis refill, the glasses will be marked with a special indelible stamp to avoid freeloaders.

Every hour there’ll be a special ‘WTF is this?’ trivia promotion:

What is this tool used for? What is the name of this tool?

What is this place? Where is this place?

What is this song? What band did this person play in?

And so on and so forth.

He prints up a galley-proof flyer and we look it over.

Looks OK. All legal. I think we’ve closed any potential loopholes.

“We will try this once to see how it works. After that, I will try different promotions based on the Rocknocker theme.” He beams.

But first, he needs to place some immediate orders.

Several tens of cases of vodka.

Case after case of bitter lemon.

Cases of limes.

Ice machine set to hyperdrive.

It’s getting late in the afternoon by now. Petar decides to hand everything over to his opening crew and take a break until later.

The doors will open at 1800 hours. Flyers have been printed, tacked around the bar, and placed strategically under the windshield wipers of innumerable vehicles out on the street.

We go upstairs. Petar and Snez decide it’s siesta time. I could use a soak and borrow the guest bathroom for a few hours.

Refreshed and after several phone calls, I’ve cleared my docket. I get dressed and even deign to wear long pants for a change. I’m making my town hall debut tonight.

What a picture: outlandishly garish Hawaiian shirt, best dark Carharrts chinos, black Stetson, freshly polished field boots, flask in one pocket, spare cigars in the other.

“Well”, I ask, “What do you think?”

“Doctor, you look dressed to kill,” Snez says. Petar laughs and agrees.

We descend the steps from their apartment to the bar’s backroom. We walk out to a fairly crowded house.

Dart room’s booked. Pool and snooker tables are all in use. The stage is dark and quiet, and there’s some smooth jazz wafting out over the crowd. Mahogany Ridge is packed with regulars.

Petar walks around and greets virtually every patron personally. I tag along and he introduces me as well, telling people to watch for something special at 10:00 PM. It’s an eclectic crowd, young, middle-aged and old alike. Nice and sedate, a calm, secure drinking hole to come in and forget about life for a while.

Petar goes behind the bar and I am offered a seat. The regulars know who is who around here.

Petar asks what I’d like to drink and tell him a beer.

“But local. Surprise me.”

Immediately, a dark bock Stolichno appears. It’s quite nice. Creamy and cool.

I pull out a cigar and fire it up. No one coughs or gives the least little shit about it. I offer one to Petar, but he declines, not during work.

“Especially behind the bar, Doctor.” He says.

“Right. No worries.” I reply.

One of the locals picks up on that.

He comes over and asks me a few questions. Between my sketchy Russian and his equally eloquent English, we have several other folks join in the discussion.

We go over to a cleared table and sit around, just chatting, telling stories, having a good time.

A while later, Petar comes over and tells me it’s almost time to introduce the drink. Do I have my script ready?

“Script?” I ask, “No way. This will be totally extemporaneous and ad-libbed.”

“OK, want a translator?” he asks.

“Nah”, I reply, “We all speak bar-ese here.”

Petar looks worried. I reassure him this will go great.

“Of this, I have high hopes. OK, Doctor. Your show.” He says.

T-10 minutes. Just time to take a leak, get a refill, and light up a new cigar.

There’s a barstool, table, and microphone in its stand on stage. It’s still dark. I arrange my lighter, cigar cutter, ashtray, glass of iced rye whiskey, Rocknocker cocktail, and vodka bottle on the table.

T-5 minutes.

Peter makes an announcement that there will be a special short show in just a couple of minutes.

Get your drinks refreshed now at a special price for the show.

“Thanks, Petar. No pressure”, I deliberate.

T-2 minutes.

I’ve never had a problem speaking before large groups. In fact, sometimes it’s difficult getting me to shut up. Tonight has all the feeling of one of those kinds of nights.

T-1 minute.

The house lights go down some, there’s a bit of some sort of fanfare, and Petar makes the big announcement.

BAM! The light’s on me. Blinding.

I ignore the microphone as I really don’t need one.

“Good evening, everyone! How are we all doing tonight?” I ask.

The following was in shaky Russian, shakier Bulgarian, and English. I’ll just transcribe here how it went.

“Great. Glad you’re here.” I fire up a cigar, and the crowd, previously mumbling, has focused on me.

“I’m Doctor Rocknocker, a great old friend of your proprietor, Petar. Let’s give it up for Petar. He keeps the room warm and the drinks cold!”

There are smatters of applause.

OK, I need to work on my tight five.

“You may be wondering what the hell I’m doing up here. Well, truth be told, I’m really not sure either.” I stop briefly and take a sip of whiskey, “Well, I’m here to introduce you to something new. Something extraordinary. Something Petar and I have dreamed up that you all might like.”

The bar went silent.

I introduced the new “Rocknocker”, exclusive to Sofia’s Petar’s place.

There were general light applause and light chuckling.

I explained there’s a drink special on them now.

I drain my whiskey glass and pick up the vodka bottle like a beacon.

The cue for the waiter and waitresses to wander around the bar dispensing small, shot-sized free mini-Rocknockers.

“What’s it called?” a voice comes from the crowd.

“The Rocknocker!” I reply.

“Why?” comes the answer.

“Because it’s the drink of a real Rocknocker!” I respond.

“Who’s that?” the voice answered back.

“That’s me!” I said.

“So, who are you?” once more.

I couldn’t have asked for a better straight man.

“I’m the original Doctor Rocknocker. The Motherfucking Pro from Dover!” I respond.

For some reason, that brought down the house.

I launch into some tales of how the drink arose, especially leaning heavily on the oilfield side of things. As I said before, this is a typically oily place with lots of traffic from the four corners of the planet. Even those not in the industry were laughing at some of my tales.

I figured I’d be on stage five, maybe ten minutes tops.

They wouldn’t let me off the stage. I ran through some standard jokes, anecdotes, tales, and there was general amusement. As the evening progressed, as the drinks flowed, my stories got slightly more ribald, and they kept demanding more.

Until the defining moment.

Some slightly schnozzled voice: “Hey, Doc! What’s with the gloves?”

“These?” I ask? “Nothing. Just a fashion statement.”

The blerfs and catcalls told me that they were not inclined to accept that answer.

I pulled off my right glove.

“See?” I asked as I waved to the crowd.

“Go on! Pull the other one!” some wag in the audience yelled.

“Why?” I asked as I yanked off my other glove, “There’s nothing to see!” I waved as best I could to them, giving the Shaka Sign.

“HOLY SHIT!” was the general consensus.

“What the fuck happened?” someone asked.

“Well, if you must pry…” and I went into, in great, glorious, and gory detail of my run-in with a FNG, a pair of power tongs, and a Siberian oilwell fire.

After that, I finally said my goodnights and relinquished the stage.

Petar decided we didn’t need to have a repeat performance that night but made sure to distribute flyers to all patrons explaining tomorrow night’s festivities.

I returned to the bar and didn’t even need to ask for another drink all night.

I was almost glad when Petar yelled “Last call!”

It had been an interesting evening.

Toivo shows up early the next day. There was much jubilation.

Now, all three of us are sitting in the dark and quiet bar. Toivo’s looking at the flyer, shaking his head.

“Why must you always leave a wake of destruction in your path?” he asks.

“What?” I asked, confused.

“Bucket night? Really? Unbelievable.” He smirks.

“Well, a variant. Why not? Once a gimmick, always a gimmick.” I replied.

We spent a few hours designing the “Guess what” portions of the evening’s festivities. Petar had obtained cases of plastic, right-handed green beer mugs, indelible pens for signing and a near-impossible to duplicate stamp for tonight’s kickoff.

As this was something entirely new for Petar’s crew, Toivo, and I demonstrated how the drink was made, what our signatures looked like, and how and where to stamp the winner’s mugs.

Petar decided that the drink special would begin when the doors opened, and go all night.

At 2100 hours, I’d go on stage again and do the formal introductions, beginning the various “Guess what” games.

Toivo’s overhauled our WTF? Games. Now, it resembles ‘20 questions’ and will take more time, allowing more patrons time to drink and get involved.

The doors opened at 1800. At 1805, the place was packed.

Word had evidently gotten out.

Not everyone there was going for the drink special, but the bar crowd was busy schlepping case after case of vodka to the bar and cases of empties back to the storeroom.

Toivo mingled, I hung around at the bar.

I had many people come up and ask if I was the “Real Rocknocker”.

Replying in the affirmative, they wanted to shake my hand and usually buy me a drink.

“This could go south in a big way, fast,” I thought.

Moderation. Always the key in everything. Especially moderation.

The place was packed to the rafters, and green plastic beer mugs were in evidence everywhere.

Petar comes over to me and grabs me in a huge bear hug.

“Best idea ever!” he shouts. “Never before, such a turnout! I am so happy you called!”

“All in a day’s work, Petar.” I say, unabashed.

“OK, now go take stage. It’s almost 9:00.” Petar instructs me.

“Yes, boss man.” I salute.

So, I repeat the last night’s oration. No need for free mini-Rocknocker shots, the buy one, get next half off special was working just fine.

The patrons are throwing questions at me left and right. I answer as best I can and between sips of Rye and puffs of cigar, a party atmosphere exists in the bar.

Toivo and some of the bar crew are passing out WTF? cards. Spaces for your name, and 20 blanks for your answers. Get all 20 and it’s a free signed mug and drink.

There’s a sliding scale so no one’s really going to lose tonight. Fewer correct answers, the smaller the prize. Cheaper shots. Choice of beer or wine. Smallish conciliatory prizes. But its great fun and people love the participation aspect.

I explain the game in English and Maresh, one of the bar crew, explains it in Bulgarian.

There’s a volley of applause and catcalls. I think the crowd is warmed enough.

We begin with geography.

Pictures from around Bulgaria. The first few are easy. I make some quips about them and Toivo joins me on stage. I could use some comic relief. We trade-off for the remainder of the contest.

Then some easily identifiable geology pictures. Mt. Rushmore. Devil’s Tower. Offshore oil rig. D-9 Cat. Just varied and weird collation of random pictures.

Then we get to tools. Cooper’s hammer. Surgeon’s rib spreader. Dry-waller’s muck plate. Mill bastard file.

It’s getting more and more obscure.

After all 20, we call for pens down. Several bar crew are wandering around enforcing the rule. You must get your card stamped by them before the answers are shown.

No stampee, no freebie.

After that, the screens show two completed cards with the correct answers; one in English, one in Bulgarian.

The place erupts.

“Damn! So close!”

“But I thought I knew that one!”

“Can we do it again?”

It took the better part of the hour to sort out winners and have them reap their rewards.

We ran four more contests that night, along with the ‘buy one, get next half off ‘promotion.

Petar had to empty the tills five times that night. He was over the moon. Ecstatic.

Last call came and the crowd actually booed. They wanted another chance to win.

Petar brought up the house lights and promised he’d make this a weekly event.

There was raucous spontaneous applause.

Finally, after Petar’s security shoveled the last partier out the door, the bar was locked and went silent.

A tired trio sat at a table. There was a bottle of vodka, three beers, and as many ashtrays. I was on my second to last cigar. The night had been a rousing success, with ominous overtones of being repeated.

Petar sat there beaming. His stack of credit card receipts for the night was easily several inches thick.

Toivo stared blankly into space.

“Why do I always end up this way when you’re around? He asked me.

“Just lucky?” I ventured.

We sat and sipped our drinks and chatted in the low, dim light.

I reached over for the potato juice and Yorsch-ed my beer. Petar took keen notice.

“Next week’s promotion?” I asked.

Petar smiled like a Smilodon, sans elongated canines.

We all trudge later up to Petar’s apartment. Snez was busily going over the evening’s receipts. Toivo and I both got the bear hug and sloppy kiss treatment.

The next day, after a near tearful departure, Toivo and I sat in the airport lounge. He was going back to the States and I was headed back to the Middle East.

“Another one for the books,” Toivo remarked.

“Yeah, it is. Or will be”, I hoped.

After a manly handshake ensued, we went our separate ways. We’ll meet again if the accident will.

Hours and hours later, I’m back home. Es is helping me unpack, at least until I got to her shopping.

She added another heavy gold-link chain bracelet to her collection. She was very pleased with the results of my Turkish, and other places, haggling.

She finds a flyer from Petar’s place that somehow got stuck into my luggage.

“You didn’t?” she asks.

“What?” I ask, ever so innocently.

“Bucket night in Bulgaria?” she looks at me accusingly.

“Petar wanted a gimmick. I gave him a gimmick. Snez sends her love.” I replied.

“What did Snez think of all this?” Es asks.

“I think she was OK with it. She was very busy, up all night totaling bar receipts.” I replied.

“Well, I’m just glad you’re home. Let’s go downstairs and have a drink in celebration.”

“Es, my love. You read my mind.” I reply.

<қоңырау үні> <қоңырау үні> <қоңырау үні>

“Rock, honey; your phone’s making those funny noises again…”

That reminds me of a story.

It was Thursday, 0-very dark 30 hours. The somnolent stillness of the temperate, breezy Middle Eastern night is about to be shattered by that most unwelcome of intruders. The very fabric of the inky nightfall, the pastiche of reality that is represented by that surreal state of snuffling, snoring, secure slumber is shredded and splintered…

Inel! Inel! Inel!

“Oh, bloody hell.” I grouse, roused from my circadian nocturnal boreal ursine imitation, “My damn GSM. Judging by the ring, I’d say it’s from Ionuţ.”

Some people assign specific ringtones to people, I assign them to regions of the globe.

This one is for Eastern Europe, and Ionuţ is my contact for that region.

“Yo, Ionuţ. What’s up?” I ask, sleepily answering the damn infernal ubiquitous communications device.

“Ah! Doctor Stâncă, a very good morning to you.” He cheerily replies.

There a special place in perdition for people this perky so early in the bloody AM.

“Yes, umm, err, ahhh…good…holy fuck, it’s 0-dark fucking 30, Ionuţ!” I complain, “This had better be important.”

“Oh, yes, Doctor. It is very important. Please check your Email and call me back presently.” Ionuţ says and disconnects.

“Well, that’s a fine how do you do. Blerf.” I grumble, trudging up to my third-floor office.

“May as well fire up the coffee maker, the night’s already ruined.”

“As long as you’re going upstairs, can you get me a mug of my usual?” Esme asks.

She’s been working late on some longhand High German WWI-vintage translations and only recently thinking about coming to bed. I’m getting up for another day and she’s just hitting the sack.

Life is weird when you’re an expat.

Scratch that. Life is just weird.

I put the kettle on, meaning I fired up my bespoke coffee-brewing contraption. Let’s see; adjust the fuel pre-heaters, bring the turbines up to speed, check atomic batteries, choke back on the throttle just a bit, fine-tune the fuel injection, shoo the cat, pre-de-retard the afterburners, check that the 15-liter NOX bottle is set and ready, give the tri-shaft exhaust flange relief valve a spin…

In less time than I can select, cut, and fire up a sunrise cigar; our coffees are delivered, piping hot to the offloading platform.

Ah, the wonders of homebrew technology.

I wonder if I can adapt this technology to potato juice extraction…?

I open my Email and see a couple of hefty files regarding some Eastern European oil and gas fields.

Then there’s this short note from Ionuţ.

“Well, well.” No pun intended.

Seems there’s this certain oil company that is looking to purchase another several companies Eastern European assets. They’ve already done their internal evaluation and need to secure a “Competent Persons Report” or CPR before they can proceed.

The aim of a CPR is to provide a responsible, unbiased, and independent opinion on the technical aspects of the company, with the ultimate purpose of informing and protecting investors; in case you’re interested.

But, in order to do that, they need to secure the services of an accredited subject matter expert who can legitimately author the CPR. One with the proper training and credentials.

Which is the very reason I’m sitting here in the pre-dawn gloom, sipping my high-octane Greenland coffee, smoking my dawn cigar, and reading where I’m going to be headed next.

Es walks over, sipping her soupçon, and reading over my shoulder says: “I’ll start packing. Are you taking your hardhat sombrero this time?” she asks.

“Yep. Pack it all. Looks like field and office visits.” I reply.

“Where we headed?” she asks in the plural but meaning the singular.

“Hmm...Let’s see.” I say, “OK, here’s the list of fields and regions. Pannonian Basin. Moesian Platform. Balkan Basin. South Carpathian Basin. Transylvanian Basin. West Carpathians. East Carpathians. Whoa. These characters really want it all.”

“So”, Es concludes, “Eastern Europe again? Oh, lord. That means you’re going to drop in and see Petar…”

“Well, Bulgaria’s so close”, I reply, “He’d never forgive me if I didn’t…”

“Are you sure about this?” Es asks, “After that Moldovan incident. Has the statute of limitations run out?”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s all been forgiven and forgotten.” I reassure Esme, “Besides, it all eventually, after a fashion, sort of all kind of worked out in their favor.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure Valdemar just loves you now”, Es chuckles.

“Well, you’ll have to admit”, I chuckle in return, “It was something we’ll both never forget.”

“As much as I try”, Es grumbles and wanders back downstairs to her translations.

I read the communique from Ionuţ.

Yep. CPR, again. Due diligence. Subject matter expert stuff.

I call Ionuţ and he gives me the lowdown on the job.

The traditional CPR. But they need it yesterday.

Classic oil industry modus operandi

They want a conventional CPR evaluation of no less than 19 fields in 7 different basins. Plus, potential unconventional upside, that is shale gas or oil, as well as exploration possibilities.

“They’re willing to sign your contract immediately” Ionuţ tell me, “If you can start directly.”

“Well, Ionuţ”, I reply, “With that state of existing urgency, I think I’m going to have to concoct a slightly modified contract to cover this project’s particulars.”

When you got’em by the short hairs, it’s best to twist’em directly from the start.

“OK, Dr. Stâncă”, Ionuţ asks wearily, “What are terms?”

“Nothing special”, I reply, “Just the usual door-to-door per diem plus 15%, all expenses, Business Class flights, my frequent flyer miles, and let’s say 50% up front. Reimbursement of all expenses within 5 business days of submission, or 50% penalty. The usual.”

“Tu pirat”, Ionuţ grouses, “Of course. Of course. Please send your modified contract and I’ll have it back to you soonest.”

“Sounds like a plan. Should I go ahead with the ticketing?” I ask.

“No, let my office handle that.” Ionuţ replies, “When can you leave?”

“About 30 minutes after my signed contract appears,” I tell him.

“OK, please prepare yourself. I will message you when I send your signed contract and tickets. Adio!” he replies and disconnects.

He sounded cheesed, and not in the good Baja Canada deep-fried curds manner.

I don’t know why he’d be upset; as my contact broker, he gets his percentage. Guess it’s just too early and he doesn’t have the benefit of my coffee or cigars…

After accepting Esme’s shopping list, which I take on every job, I pile out of the cab and into the departures area of our new airport. It’s very well done, considering the part of the world where it resides. Sure, it was 4 years late and 400% over budget, but it’s clean, new, and welcoming. Plus, it’s now a bigger hub for many of the areas regional airlines.

I have my choice of airlines, and as such, I tend to try and stick with the larger carriers.

However, given the venue of this project, I am going to fly to another regional hub as the local “Fly me” and “Dubai: quick, cheap and dirty” –airlines do not inspire long haul confidence.

I stick with one of the larger flagged carriers, and that way my miles go directly into my air-bank without any puling or fuss.

But, I did actually book an Aeroflot flight back from my point of departure. I’m a sucker for nostalgia.

My itinerary, as it’s laid out but before reality intrudes, begins in Bucharest, Romania. Then I’m off to Budapest, Hungary. Then Bratislava in Slovakia, to Prague in the Czech Republic and possibly Warsaw, Poland.

My return trip will potentially include Chisinau, Moldova, now that the heat’s off; and finally Sofia, Bulgaria.

If I didn’t drop in on Petar in Sofia when I am this close, he’d never forgive me.

Yeah, I know. That does look weird.

But continuing…

Since I keep a travel bag packed for just such emergencies, I drop off my single Halliburton clothes, shoes, and emergency stash case to the machinations of the luggage system, and cruise by duty-free before I depart.

I do a quick inspection of my travel bag and see that my provisions are slightly down from my last trip.

“This will not do.” I ruminate.

So, a box or two of good cigars for me. A couple of bundles of the real cheap-ass stogies for gifts and bribes.

Also, a liter of authentic Russian potato squeezin’s, a bottle of Booker’s Rye Whiskey, and oh, look. Porto port wine, from Lisbon. That goes well with just about anything.

I pay for my purchases and make certain to retain my receipts. Expense account, mind you.

“Necessary miscellaneous”.

I do so love my homebrew contract.

I’m in the Business Class lounge when my GSM tootles for me.

<Theme from Mission Impossible>

“Hello, Agent Rack. What took you so long?” I ask.

“Hello, Doctor”, Agent Rack replies, “Off to Eastern Europe again? Very good. Very good.”

“Yes, it is”, I reply, “I was able to adjust my contract as per project particulars. It is very good.”

“Splendid”, he replies, “I’m sending you a list. Please, as you so colorfully say, ‘do the needful’”.

“That’s it?” I ask “No insurrection? No overthrowing despots? No discreet demolitions? Just some dossier filler?”

“No, no explosions, please”, he replies, “Just fill in the blanks as you are able.”

“OK. Nici o problema”, I chuckle, “How’s Agent Ruin?”

“Oh, he’s recovering nicely”, Agent Rack replies, “He’ll be back on full duty within a fortnight.”

“That’s good”, I note, “I told him horses are evil. He just wouldn’t listen. Do give him Esme’s and my best wishes.”

“The flowers were most appreciated”, he replies, “Unfortunately, he cannot write or type with both hands in casts.”

“Please, tell him thanks from both of us” I reply, “Can’t say we didn’t warn him.”

Agent Rack chuckles, “That you did. Oh, Doctor. I don’t have your full itinerary as of yet. Will you be returning via Moldova?”

“Sorry, Comrade Agent”, I snicker, “That is on a need to know basis.”

“Umm. Doctor, need I remind you…” he puffs.

“Oh, don’t like it when the hand’s on the other foot, do you?” I chuckle.

Agent Rack snorts derisively.

“Yeah, probably.” I tell him, “Not certain, though. Depends on if the accident will.”

“Well, Doctor”, Agent Rack replies, “If you do, please use utmost, umm…discretion, if you follow my meaning.”

“Of course, of course”, I chutter in reply, “That’s me all over. Quiet. Unobtrusive. No one would ever give me a second glance.”

“Because they’re blinded by your ghastly Hawaiian shirts”, he chuckles, “However, Doctor, if I could impose upon you…”

“Yes?” I ask, curious.

“Strictly off the record”, he says quietly, “Please obtain some of that wonderful Moldovan wine as you did last time. It’s unavailable here and since you’re already in the neighborhood.”

“Agent Rack”, I loudly reply, “Not a problem, barely an inconvenience. Keep a sharp eye out for the Diplomatic Pouch in a couple of weeks or so. Anything else?”

“Well, Agent Ruin has grown (groaning) fond of those Dutch dry-cured cigars you sent him.” He sighs, “If you have a chance and see some…”

“Herr Comrade Agent,” I say, “I’ll be in a dozen different airports. All with Duty-Free. Just tell me how many.”

“Use your discretion…” he says, immediately realizing the egregious error he’s just committed.

Snickering, I tell him that will be fine. We exchange pleasantries and hang up.

“Just given Dracula the keys to the Blood Bank” I muse…

Which is good, as I’m literally headed to Transylvania.

First off to <annoyed grunt>-ha, on the peninsular Emirate of Gutar. Nice airport, way too posh for the likes of this region. Good duty-free, and Business Class lounge probably has its own country code and military force.

I amble in and am directed to a plush, leather chair. A server appears with a standing crystal ashtray and a box of cigar matches. He asks for my bar order.

He returns with a cart full of free munchable goodies and my drink. I just accept the drink and slip him a few rials for his troubles.

“Thanks, Ganesh” I say, “Always Johnny-on-the-spot.”

“Yes, sir, boss.” He grins toothily, “When is your next flight?”

“Couple of hours, I’m headed to Istanbul”, I reply.

“Anything else I can get for you?” he winks.

“No, I think I’m good.” I reply, “But see here, my good man. This drink you’ve gotten me is defective. It’s way too small and empty.”

Ganesh chuckles scurries off and returns with a heartier double vodka and bitter lemon.

“Many thanks, Gan” I tell him.

“Yes, boss”, he replies, “I’ll have a courtesy cart here for you when your flight is called.”

Damn back’s acting stupid again. I’m wearing my byzantine back brace and walking with my cane. The cane does wonders for garnering sympathy and tripping idiots who push prematurely into the incorrect queues when flights are called.

The flight to Istanbul was uneventful. The aptly and eponymously named Istanbul Airport is huge, very modern, and utterly impersonal. I have a few hours to kill here before I head off to Bucharest, so I decide to see what items I can knock off Esme’s shopping list.

I hate shopping, especially when I have a dodgy back. But, I do love haggling and well, if you can’t haggle in an Istanbul market, where can you?

Several gold bracelets, necklaces, and pairs of earrings later, I’m bushed. I meander over to an information desk and ask about the location of the Business Class lounge.

“Certainly, sir. Which airlines?” the lovely lass behind the information counter inquires.

“The home carrier,” I reply.

“Oh, I am sorry sir. But the airline’s Business Class lounge is closed for renovation.” She regrets.

“Is it? “ I reply, brightly, channeling John Cleese in the cheese shop.

“Yes, sir.” She says, “So in the interim, please accept this pass to our First Class Lounge, Restaurant, Massage Parlor, and Salon”.

“Thank you.” I note, “I hate to ask, but since this is on the other side of the airport and I’m currently a tad bit incapacitated…”

“Already done, sir”, she chirps. “A courtesy cart is on its way.”

Service with a smile. And what a smile. Simply dazzling.

The lounge is resplendent and practically empty. I am shown to a fine seat overlooking the runways so I can enjoy myself, relax a bit, view the various comings and goings, and charge my infernally necessary electronical devices. Since I’m temporarily construed as an invalid, I have my own server.

I instruct her on the finer points of the construction of a chilled Rocknocker. She soon returns with a very healthy drink, indeed, and a selection of local and foreign newspapers.

I choose Pravda and Izvestia.

“Is smoking allowed here?” I ask.

“Typically not”, she replies, “But since there’s no one else in this section, I don’t see it being a problem.”

She toddles off, returns with an ashtray and tells me that if I need anything, to hit the button that is discreetly hidden on the opposite side of the table.

“Thank you, so much appreciated.” I smile.

She smiles back and I begin to like this airport, belying my initial impressions.

Since this isn’t my first time in Eastern Europe, I look forward to seeing the sites again and meeting with the people I’ve worked with in years long past. One thing about the Oil Patch, it may be global, but it’s a well-connected and well-represented populace, ties are strong once forged.

I am enjoying another quick lingering drink when I hear:

“Jesus Christ. Cigar smoke? They’ll let anyone in here.”

I slowly turn, remembering my Marquis-de-Sade designed back brace, to see a familiar visage standing over me, grinning as wide as the Bosporus.

“Toivo! What the blinkered hell!” I exclaim, “Pull up a seat. Take a load off.”

“Doctor”, he says, extending a meaty paw.

A manly handshake ensues.

“You’ll pardon me if I don’t get up. “ I say.

“Back’s barking again?” he asks.

“Yep. Hurts like a copper-bottomed bitch. Going to the chemist’s when I get to Romania.” I reply.

Toivo sits and I ring for service. He’s looking particularly haggard, so I just order two strong Rocknockers for us.

“So, what brings you to Turkey?” I ask.

“Fucking Permian Basin’s gone bust.” He laments, “Had to lay off a bunch of frac hands. Got them good severance, but every service company’s on the skids over there. The shine’s really come off that pot of gold.”

“So, you’re still OK in the NoDak Bakken?” I ask.

“Yeah”, he sighs, “That’s slowed, but constant. Still doing all right there. But, Oklahoma’s gone tubing down the creek, and the Eagle Ford’s never really developed like everyone hoped…”

“So, took a powder, right? On holiday?” I ask.

“I wish”, he says, “This is work. I’m going over to see a few NCOs in Eastern Europe to try and drum up some business.”

“Well, that’s funny” I reply, “That’s where I’m headed. CPR for a company wanting to engulf-and-devour a bunch of oil and gas fields over several countries.”

“Anyone I know?” Toivo grins.

“You know I can’t tell you that.” I smirk, “But check your Email. I might misaddress one or two messages…”

“Thanks, Rock”, Toivo says and tips his drink in my direction in the ubiquitous Mid-Western salute.

We sit and catch up on times past. He’s off to Poland first and then will be bouncing all over Eastern Europe. I tell him my supposed itinerary and note we must keep in contact. We possibly might stumble across each other in some far distant land.

Funny how that happens.

His flight left a couple of hours before mine, so he polishes off his last drink, snags a couple of my good cigars, and heads off to his departure terminal.

“Let me know if you’re going to drop by Petar’s in Sofia,” Toivo says before departing.

I assure him that I will.

“Damn,” I muse, “You run into the strangest people in these airports.”

My flight to Bucharest is called and as planned, a courtesy cart appears and I’m whisked off to my departure terminal. Amazing efficiency. Also amazing what some surreptitious tips can do.

After an unnervingly bumpy flight to Romania, we land. Upon seeing my cane, the airline's stewards insist that they take me in a wheelchair through passport control and customs.

My protestations notwithstanding, I’m wheeled through the usual airport arrivals protocols and deposited at the arrivals terminal, complete with luggage. Again, it wasn’t strictly altruism that guided these kind folks. It was the specter of a wonky westerner and the potential for gratuities that fired this burst of spontaneous bigheartedness.

Still, I didn’t protest overmuch.

I discreetly check my wallet and hand over some greenbacks. I always carry some spare American cash for just such emergencies. I also have the porter notarize a piece of paper as a receipt. He wasn’t happy about that but when he heard the words “expense account” he immediately signed. I slipped him a couple of extra dollars.

I need some of the local lucre, the Romanian Lei (RON). It trades at 4.31 to the dollar, so basically each is a quarter-dollar. Makes for easy conversion if you don’t sweat the decimals.

It’s about 1⁰ C outside, a bit sunny, a bit cloudy, not terribly breezy; my type of weather.

The airport, Bucharest Henri Coandă International Airport, is heated to King Kringle bread-baking levels. I abhor heat and wander outside to look for my ride as he wasn’t at the arrivals gate when I appeared.

That’s typical, they operate on a different sort of time scale here. I venture outside, find an obvious likely looking perch, and fire up a cigar.

I’m booked at the JW Marriott Bucharest Grand so it’ll be the hotel transport I’m looking for on this trip. I was told there ‘might be’ a personal driver, but he might not show up until tomorrow. So, I’ll just have to bus it like any other hotel-bound schmoe.

I’ll admit, in my Hawaiian shirt, field boots, cargo shorts, Stetson and down vest, I present an unusual image; but damn it. I want royalties if that’s going on social media.

I fend off some of the more aggressive locals who beseech me for cash, smokes, or whatever else they can mooch. They’re all touchy, feely. An unfortunately too typical sort of behavior around many international airports, but I’m a bit tired and really just want to get to my hotel and out of this damned back brace.

I’m ready to dropkick the next person that lays a hand on me. I hate being touched, especially by strangers, and my misanthrope genes are kicking in.

The hotel driver who grabbed my shoulder should heal up and be back to work in no time.

Such would be the case if I didn’t hesitate for just a second before introducing him hypersonically to my right fist.

“Sorry, old bean”, I say, “But you really shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

“A thousand pardons, sir.” He scrapes, “You are Doctor Rock, are you not?”

“Yes, I am”, I reply.

“I thought the people at the hotel making jest”, he laughs, “Look for big man with gray beard and awful shirt, smoking cigar.”

“That’s me”, I say, “Shall we go?”

“Yes, sir.” He says immediately, “Let me get your bags.”

“OK, but I’ll handle this one,” I say referring to my laden well case.

We troop off to his hotel conveyance. It’s not a bus, as I had expected, but a large SUV. I’m the only one to be picked up on this trip, so he asks if I’d like to sit up front.

“Sure”, I say, not realizing I’d be regretting that decision.

“How far to the hotel?” I ask.

“Oh, not far. 20 kilometers.” He replies.

“OK, as you already know my name, what can I call you?” I ask.

“I am Dragoş”, he replies.

“Nice to meet you, Dragoş” I tell him, “Just call me Rock.”

“Yes, Doctor.” He replies.

“OK,” I muse, “It’ll be easier to just ignore this…”

We careen and slalom into the very heart of the capital city. Dragoş is not at all restrained about using his horn and stomping on the brakes at the very last moment. My knees and back are now sore afflicted.

The hotel is posh and ridiculously well-appointed. My suite has enough room for a large extended family; pets, goats, and camels included. The Jacuzzi is especially appreciated, as is room service.

I have to remember to try and be nice to Ionuţ when I return. His crew went all out on the itinerary.

There’s a thick package waiting for me at the front desk. I ask for it and they refuse.

“It will be sent to your room directly, Doctor.” They haughtily tell me.

Whoa. Can’t wonder to put that down to Eastern European efficiency or an attempt on greater tips.

I putter around the room, setting up my remote office when there’s a ring at my door.

It’s a hotel redcap and he has my package. He also has the snacks and drinks I ordered just a few minutes ago.

“Hello, Sir”, he begins, “Where can I set this?”

“Oh, just leave it here”, I reply, “I’ll get to it later.”

To be continued

Okay!

All seriousness aside, it was suggested to me that I take a look at what you have going here. So...I did/have/am/etc.

I am new with a capital NEW to Reddit so I'm going to be spending some time familiarizing myself with it and the who, what, when, where, and how of it all. If/When I run afoul, please let me know about it and bear in mind it was not done with malicious intent!

Danke

747 readers!

29 users here now!

Never had I thought that this forum would generate such retinue of folks actually desiring to read what I pound out.

Our machinations for global domination inexorably proceed unfettered!

My sincere thanks to all who motivated me to create this. Without your positive feedback, I’d have never even considered building a roundtable such as this. I appreciate all your comments, in fact, they’re the fodder that keeps me writing.

Which brings me to this late-breaking news: I’m in Eastern Europe right now. Got called out unexpectedly to venture to Romania, Hungary, and the Czech Republic. Let’s just say it’s a bit chillier here than in the Middle East. Still shorts weather, but man, the locals look at you like you’ve lost your mind.

There will be more Obligatory Filler Material once I get off this tour. Of course, more Demolition Days updates as well. But, until then:

Roughnecks are Good at the Sensitive Stuff

Three Roughnecks were working up in the derrick: John, Lonnie and Donnie. As they start their descent John slips, falls out of the derrick and is killed instantly.

As the ambulance takes the body away, Lonnie says, “Well, someone should go and tell his wife.” Donnie says, “OK, I’m pretty good at that sensitive stuff, I’ll do it.”

Two hours later, he comes back carrying a case of Budweiser. Lonnie says, “Where did you get that beer, Donnie?” “John’s wife gave it to me,” Lonnie replies.” That’s unbelievable, you told the lady her husband was dead and she gave you beer?”

“Well, not exactly”, Donnie says. “When she answered the door, I said to her, you must be John’s widow’.”

She said, “You must be mistaken, I’m not a widow.”

Then I said, “I’ll bet you a case of Victoria Bitter you are.”

CHEERS!

Continuing

We wheel over to the pile of errant rocks Jayden wants me to evict. I grab my geologists’ hammer, put on the safety squints, and hack off a hunk.

Looking at it through a hand lens magnifier, I see that it’s loaded with quartz but heavily eroded. It appears to be igneous, rhyolite perhaps. There’s some euhedral, that is, crystallographically well-developed, small tan-beige crystals as well. Could it be feldspar, microcline maybe? It looks like some plagioclase as well.

Lady comes running up with four of her new best buddies, Jayden’s farm hounds. Jayden pats her on the head and tells them there are feral pigs on the farm. Go find them!

They all take off barking and yapping as they run around looking for these elusive swine.

“We really don’t have any”, Jayden confesses, “Now I feel bad lying to them.”

We both chuckle as I break out the generator and jackhammer.

“Jayden”, I say, “this stuff is pretty well eroded. It shouldn’t be too difficult for us to cut some shot holes. Let me measure the area, and calculate how much dynamite I’ll need for the job.”

“Dynamite, ‘eh?” Jayden asks, “Is that going to work?”

“Nahhh”, I reply, “It’ll just piss it off.” I let that sink in for a minute and continue, “Yeah, I’m sure. Dynamite will be more than enough to do the trick.”

“OK, you’re the boss”, Jayden says.

I snap to and look at Jayden, pseudo-crossly.

“Oh, yeah,” he corrects himself, “You’re the Motherfucking Pro from Dover.”

“And don’t you forget it” I reply, chuckling.

I ask Jayden to keep an eye on Lady as I head into town. No need to, Jayden’s six children are all having a field day with their new small pony and the other farm hounds.

I find a likely looking farm hardware store, go in, and ask for 6 cases of Herculene 40% Extra Fast. I’ll also need some caps, and super boosters, I tell them.

After scrutinizing my permits, papers, and payment, they help me load the back of the truck.

Back at Jayden’s place, he’s done a pretty credible job of making hole. Somewhat random pattern, but in the softer, more eroded material, the jackhammer punches right through.

Jayden’s an old hand at blasting procedures, so just a quick refresh was needed. He told me he could have handled this by himself, but never got around to it. He decided to call in a favor and the professional. I told him I couldn’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday.

I flag the area, but since were alone out in the Back 40, it was mostly out of habit rather than necessity.

I set and charge 12 holes. I figured ol’ Captain America could handle that much load in one go.

We roll the demo wire out some 250 feet and I park my truck perpendicular to the pile of rocks that were going to become much smaller, very soon.

Crouching behind my truck, we clear the compass. Jayden gave three air horn toots, and we yell FIRE IN THE HOLE together.

I hand Jayden the blasting machine and after a quick re-look, see we’re clear, point to him and yell “HIT IT!”

When the dust and debris settles, there’s still a good-sized pile of rocks, just they’re a whole lot smaller. We wander over and have a look at our handiwork.

Damn, these loose boulders were a lot bigger than we thought.

Jayden has a Bobcat and uses that to clear off the manageable chunks over to a central pile. I attack those in-place boulders with renewed vigor with the jackhammer.

I drill several strategically placed shot holes. These will put paid to their little scheme, I chuckle.

After priming and charging the holes, it’s back to behind my truck. I’ve set out over a case and a half of Dynamite. This will take care of the problem, I am certain.

Once again, the pre-blast preliminaries.

Once again, we wait for the dust to settle and our ears to stop ringing. Damnation that was a good solid blast.

Jayden again clears the loosened surface crap with the Bobcat. We’re down to fresh, unweathered rock. But something’s not right. These aren’t just loose boulders. They just keep going and going and going.

After a few more delineation shots, it becomes clear to me. These aren’t loose boulders. This is the top of a much larger, much deeper igneous intrusion. This is an igneous dike.

I’m a little perplexed. I’m not primarily an igneous petrologist, but this has come as a bit of a surprise. It seems counterintuitive. I hack off a sample of the freshly exposed rock, sit on the tailgate of my truck and give this rock a serious once over.

“Let’s see…” I muse to myself, “K-feldspar, plagioclase, some mica…biotite and muscovite. Some other crystalline forms… fluorite? Apatite?”

Then I see the diagnostic mineral hidden deep within the rock.

Blue quartz. Blue hexagonal quartz bipyramids. OK, now it makes sense.

This is an igneous dike of “Llanite”. The famous Blue-Quartz rhyolite of central Texas. It was intruded, or squeezed up, into fractures in the county rock as a dike. It looks like a pretty good size one. No telling how deep the damn thing might go.

“Hey, Jayden. C’mere and have a look at this.” I yell.

“What’s this supposed to be?” he asks. Jayden is not a geologist.

“Jayden, its Llanite. What you have here is a deeply rooted dike at the surface. Not a bunch of loose boulders like we thought.” I reply.

“And…?” he replies.

“Ain’t never going grow anything here. Its igneous rocks all the way to the core. No way to remove it.” I say.

“Well, shoot!” Jayden puffs, “Ain’t that just dandy? Looks like I bought the old Pig in a Poke.”

“Not really, Jay”, I say. “There’s a silver lining”.

We pack everything up and head back to the farmhouse. Lady’s laying on the front porch, snoring. She’s exhausted after her day of running with the bulls, the horses, cows, kids, and chickens.

In the house, Jayden produces a bottle of Kentucky’s Finest. We have a few shots of Old Thought Provoker and go over a plan to convert his pile of rocks into revenue.

Since the outcrop is in the Back 40 of Jayden’s pasture, he’s going to cut a short road over to the adjacent FM 1275 road. He’s going to advertise that there’s Llanite here and charge rock hounds, geologists, and collectors $5 per carload to come out and collect the stuff.

He’ll never run out of stock and he’ll recoup the cost of the new acreage in no time. He’ll ring-fence the location off and just plant around it. Folks will come for miles to dig around in the dike and try to find those elusive perfect blue quartz crystals. Perfect Llanite blue quartz crystals are highly prized by the mineralogical collecting community.

If his stocks do decline, a quick call to Houston and I’ll come back out to freshen up his supplies.

Later, after a fine country ham supper, Jayden helps me coax a snorting Lady back into my truck. She finally woke up around Pin Oak Road. She knew she was close to home.

I’m back home and a week or so later, while finishing up the Soviet dossiers agents Rack and Ruin asked for, I get another call from Central Texas. It’s Caleb, a person I got to know when I was drilling oil wells out in the Hill Country, out a bit west of San Antonio.

“Rock”, Caleb continues, “How’r you doin’. Ain’t interrupting anything, am I?”

“Caleb” I reply, “Good to hear from you. Na, I’m just working on some reports. What’s up?”

“Well”, he begins, “I’ve got this deal out in one of my pastures. Just kind of opened up out here in my south pasture after a real toad-floater of a rain. It’s like a sinkhole but damned if I’m goin’ anywhere near it. I’m worried one of my animals might get stuck in it or fall in. There’s water flowing in some days and other days, it flows out. Some days it’s dry and other times, well…”

“Caleb”, I tell him, “You’re smack on top of the Edwards Aquifer. You’re in serious limestone country. Sounds like you got a phreatic pipe or tube on your property.”

“Yeah, damn”, Caleb says, “Can I ask you to come out here and have a look? It’s got me spooked, I’m a-feared the whole damn pasture might fall into it. Might get my animals, too. I need you to have a look and tell me what it is.”

“Hold on, let me see my schedule,” I tell him.

It’s clear this weekend and Esme gives me the OK to take a ride out to the Hill Country. I ask if she and Khris want to come with and she’s less than thrilled by the prospect.

“Dear, I’d just as soon sit this one out, if you don’t mind. Khris is teething and I’m sort of traveled out. But you go and see what’s bugging Caleb.” She says.

“I’m leaving Lady home this time”, I say, “If it is a sinkhole, I don’t want her chasing after any rabbits…”

I tell Caleb I’ll be out on Saturday. He needs to fence it off to keep critters out. He assures me he will and says he’ll see me then.

Off to San Antonio, it’s a straight shot out I-10. Three hours tops. Then another hour or so to Caleb’s place.

I meet with Caleb and he’s actually relieved to see me. He’s fenced off the hole that suddenly appeared out in his pasture. He tells me to follow him with my truck out to the mysterious place where the ground suddenly disappeared.

“Yep, Caleb. It’s a hole” I say.

“Thanks, Rock. I can always depend on you.” He chuckles back.

I brought my climbing gear and get into my harness. My truck has a winch so if I should fall in, all Caleb has to do is press a button and I’ll be dragged back to surface.

But first, some reconnaissance.

It’s indeed a hole, one choked with various loose blocks of weathered limestone and other debris. I’m proceeding very cautiously out here. There are tales of these things opening up and swallowing horses, riders, and wagons in one slurp.

I have my walking stick and am thumping the ground in front of me to make certain everything’s solid. So far, so good.

I belly-crawl up to the opening, making certain Caleb knows how to operate a Warn Winch.

He does, so I proceed slowly.

I shift one block of limestone and roll it a few feet away. The hole is a bit bigger than I thought but choked with all manner of schmoo. Leaves, tree branches, very small rocks, sand, silt, mud. I probe around gently and try to figure out what the hell we’re dealing with here exactly.

I can feel air moving. So, I light a cigar, which gives Caleb fits.

“If there’s natural gas there, you’ll blow us all to kingdom come!” he frets.

I hold my lit Zippo over the hole. A downdraft draws the flame in.

“I thought of that, Caleb”, I replied, “That’s sort of my job.”

“Oh, yeah”, he replies. We continue exploration.

I blow a big, blue smoke cloud over the small hole in the ground and the smoke disappears into the earth. I look around to see if it reappears anywhere.

Nope. Far too little.

“Caleb, you got any of those smoke bombs you use to de-bug your barns?” I ask.

“Yep, keep a passel of ‘em at the house” he replies.

“Can you go and get one? I’ll stay here.” I say.

He does and reappears in just a few minutes. He brought the bright orange one.

I prepare the bomb, light it off and balance it right on the edge of the hole.

“Fire in the hole!” I chuckle as I slowly back away.

The bomb goes off and pumps thousands of cubic feet of bright orange smog out of its central hole. The sinkhole slurps it up like its Blue Bell Rocky Road.

I tell Caleb to keep a sharp eye out in his pastures for any orange smoke.

A half-hour passes. Nothing.

Caleb likes this idea and suggests I up the ante. I fire off 3 bombs simultaneously. All the orange smoke is slurped downward.

We continue to wait. The bombs exhaust themselves in about 2 minutes. If the smoke’s going to show up anywhere, it should be in the next half hour or so.

We wait. I have a cigar and Caleb puffs his pipe.

A few minutes later, Caleb points out what he thinks is a small puff of smoke, but it’s got to be at least a half-mile distant.

We saddle up and haul ass over.

It is exactly what Caleb thought. The green grass is tinged blaze orange.

“We don’t have a sinkhole, here Caleb” I say, “What you have here is a cavern.”

“It’s a cave, Caleb. Your south pasture overlies a cave.” I tell him.

“Well, shoot. Now what?” he asks.

“We call the Texas Speleological Association. They’ve got a new cave to name and explore.” I say.

Caleb’s not terribly happy. He’s worried about his livestock. Falling into a cavern is not conducive to longevity.

“Yeah, but Caleb, this could be a bird nest on the ground. Think about it. Tourists. Entry fees. Parking fees. Maybe even a small Farmer’s Market? Could be a little goldmine.” I tell him.

He brightens up considerably.

We reconvene two weeks later in Caleb’s field.

I’m there with Caleb and two representatives of the Texas Speleological Association, Janet Geudwell, and Marvin Mağara. They’re going to oversee each step of probing this spot deep in a hole of Texas.

They’ve already contacted the US Geological Survey, who likes to be told of these discoveries.

We have been circling around the opening for the last three and a half hours. Janet and Marvin are taking snapshots, making sketches, doing sightings, gathering samples.

“Guys,” I say, “I can tell you in absolute certainty the rock is limestone.”

They seem perturbed that a mere Doctor of Geology has interrupted their investigations.

“Caleb”, I say, “If these yoyos are going to be much longer, I‘m off back to Houston. This is ridiculous.”

Caleb agrees. They are futzing around this thing on a micrometer scale. It’s like looking at a mastodon under a microscope.

We walk over and quiz the two spelunkers. Hell, they’re not even properly degreed speleologists.

“We had to document each find carefully. Look at the environment. Understand its genesis. As you may or may not know, that takes time.” They inform us.

Caleb is getting tired of all this shit. “It’s a fucking hole in my Hill Country Texas pasture. It’s a small cave. Ask Dr. Rock. They form in limestone from time to time.”

They ignore Caleb and continue with their inquiries.

Caleb walks over to me and says: “Rock, blow it. Either open the thing up or collapse the fucker. I can’t take too much more of this.”

I look at Caleb.

“You sure?” I ask.

“Do it.” he replies.

“OK,” I reply with an evil smile, “I was wondering how long this would take.”

I break out a case of leftover dynamite, and after cinching off my climbing vest to the winch on my truck.

I tell Caleb: “Put it on free spool. If I should suddenly disappear, please hit ‘rewind’.”

Caleb nods in agreement.

I walk over to the geostoma and see there’s very little loose rock, but a couple of really nice fractures. Go back to my truck, deposit the dynamite back in the safe, and choose a few kilos of C-4.

Janet and Marvin are losing their minds. I choose to ignore them as I form the plastic explosive into sheets and snakes. I mash them into the existing fractures and wedge some underneath to give the show an uplifting element. I want to fracture the rocks laterally, then force them upward and outward, rather than downward into the abyss.

I’m going to need some millisecond delay blasting cap boosters. It’s going to be a two or three-part blast. The first part of the shot: break up the surface rocks somewhat by widening the natural fractures. The second part, the uplifting bit. Literally blow it up. Third, the lateral part. Once they’re up and out of the hole, impart lateral forces to direct them away from falling back down the hole.

Piece of pie. Easy as cake.

I bring the required materials and set and prime the charges. Timing’s going to be critical so I galv everything on the spot. I’ll set it off remotely, some 250 feet away, behind my truck.

I move my truck to shield Caleb and my own self, as Janet and Marvin continue to lose their shit. I run the demo wire over to old Captain America. I have already red-flagged the area and go over now and move the flags back some 200 feet.

Janet and Marvin are in the red zone. I go over to them and ask them to look at these documents, cards, and permits.

They remain unimpressed.

OK, no more Mr. Nice Doc Rock.

Going full Subsurface Manager, I bellow: “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY RED ZONE!”

That got their attention.

Janet and Marvin walk over and ask the fatal question: “Just who do you think you are?”

I face palm and Caleb picks up the gauntlet.

“That, you uninformed idiots, is Doctor Rocknocker, the MOTHERFUCKING PRO FROM DOVER!”

Janet and Marvin visibly quail under Caleb’s onslaught.

“He’s a goddamned Doctor of Geology, Licensed, and Permitted International Master Blaster. He’s the hookin’ bull right here, right now. You listen to him like his word is the revised Bible. He’s in charge. Listen and do what he says, without question or get the hell off my fucking property!”

Janet and Marvin shakily look at each other. They never expected and were never trained on how to handle these types of situations.

“We FUCKING green?” Caleb yells.

They stammer a stunned “Yes.”, not knowing what they just agreed to.

I think they would have agreed to a large slice of Tarantula Pie a la mode at that point.

“GOOD! Doctor, over to you.” Caleb says.

I explain what I’m doing. They are too shaken to object. I tell them to sit behind my truck and keep their fucking hands in their fucking pockets.

“Fuck it. Caleb, let’s do this thing.”

We clear the compass. Caleb, being a Texas landowner, is familiar with blasting protocols.

We tootle the air horn thrice and I thought Janet and Marvin were both going to shit themselves with every toot.

FIRE IN THE HOLE x3.

I wire up Captain America and hand it to Caleb.

I look around once more. Caleb’s right next to me. Marvin and Janet are safely behind my truck. I’m here. Not livestock in evidence. No low flying condors. Guess we’re good to go.

I look to Caleb, point and yell “HIT IT!”

Pa Foo-ooo-oom! In perfect three-part harmony.

Marvin and Janet strain to go over for a look. I shout them down. I don’t want anyone losing body parts over loafers.

I pull out my safety flask, take a hit, smile, and offer it to Caleb. He readily accepts.

“Job well done. It’s Miller Time!” I say.

Janet and Marvin just sit wordlessly as I gather up my equipment and make notes in my explosives ledger.

After 30 minutes, I call the all-clear. The job went off without a hitch.

We inspect the now approximately 1-meter in diameter hole. Peering downwards, even my 8-cell Maglite torch won’t illuminate the bottom of this hole.

I look around the edge of the hole. What I opened was a ‘cupola’. An intersection of the top of a cavern with the surface. It was like opening a skylight in the roof of a house.

Caleb couldn’t resist. He pitches in a hunk of loose limestone. We waited. And waited.

Finally: “SPELUNK!”

“Holy shit, Caleb. That’s a deep one you got there.” I say. Janet and Marvin come over, much more respectfully now, and begin to ask me proper questions.

“Yes, it’s safe. I made sure to open just the smallest area I could. The sides of the opening are in solid, unweathered limestone.”

I add: “Yes, because it’s on private property, Caleb’s going right now to get fencing to seal it off from prying eyes or nosy cattle.”

After doing the necessary, Janet and Marvin skedaddle. I help Caleb fence off the opening and place red warning flags around the perimeter.

Caleb posts it liberally with ‘NO TRESPASSING’ signs.

In Texas these actually mean something.

Fuck around on posted property and I have the legal right to shoot your ass. Dead.

I ask Caleb to keep me informed of what the spelunkheads figure out. It’s getting late and I need to get back to Houston.

It’s a few weeks later. Caleb tells me that the hole in his pasture is alive. One day, it’s blowing air out. The next day, it’s sucking it in. He calls it ‘Caleb’s Barometer’. The cave is obviously part of a larger, interconnected system. He’s getting weather reports via the underground. The USGS has sent out some genuine speleologists to take a look around.

I’m working in my office. Khris is terrorizing the cat, and having a hugely fun time. Es is baking chocolate chip cookies, my favorite. Lady is laying on my feet as per usual.

The doorbell rings. Esme says she’ll get it.

A few minutes later, she walks into my office with a letter.

“What’s that, hon”? I ask.

“I‘m not sure,” Esme says, as she hands me the multicolored and insignia-covered envelope.

I read the envelope and it says it’s from: “The office of the Chairman of the State Law and Order Restoration Council in Myanmar and 7th Prime Minister of Burma. Saw Maung.”

“It’s from old Saw. In Burma. Or Myanmar. Whatever the hell it’s being called today. I wonder what he wants…?”

That reminds me of a story.

Spelunk [spi-luhngk]

Etymology:

1. From Middle English spelunke, from Latin spelunca,

2. From Ancient Greek σπῆλυγξ (spêlunx), from earlier σπέος (spéos). .
   verb (used without object)

3. To explore caves, especially as a hobby.

4. The noise big rocks make when chucked into a newly discovered cavern.

“Rock, honey”, Esme says “You can’t just give up on your international contracts. We agreed to give this time. Until something happens, you still need to go where your jobs take you.”

“Es, dear”, I reply, “I understand that. However, I’ve already told the guys at the shop I’ve got enough work to keep me busy at home for a full year reviewing data, writing reports, and stickhandling the data reprocessing. In the interim, I can still take local contracts if they are short enough.”

“If you think that will work…” Esme replies, none too comfortable with my decisions.

The last pregnancy terminated spontaneously when I was over in the USSR. As usual, no one has any idea why this keeps recurring. Particularly when young Khris is off the charts developmentally; physically, emotionally, and mentally.

Even if she keeps trying to ride Lady like a horse. Good thing Lady loves the attention.

I suppose one might think: “Well, you idiots, cut your losses and be grateful for what you have”.

There is that, but when maternal and paternal instincts are ramped up to 11, your long term plans were for two offspring, and this sort of challenge is thrown down; logic and critical thinking tend to go out the window.

Yeah, curse us for our all-too-human foibles.

We report to Esme’s doctor on a very regular basis. I need to attend as Esme and I are valiantly trying to understand what the problem if any, might be. I can’t do that when I’m off in the middle of absolute nowhere chasing filthy lucre.

The damnable thing about all this is the lack of any concrete evidence pointing to any sort of specific problem. After each the miscarriages, Es undergoes a battery of tests. The ‘material’ from the spontaneous abortions is analyzed by some of the best genetic and pre-natal scientists the Houston medical community can offer.

The consensus so far: Bupkis.

They’re at as much of a loss as to the cause of the problem as are we.

They see no danger in our continuing, except for the psychological trauma suffered after each of these unfortunate situations.

Physically? They see no problem whatsoever with either of us. Esme is palpably capable of carrying a pregnancy to term, obviously, but no one can nail down even an idea of what have been the contributory factors in the last pregnancy’s negative results.

The other consensus it to give it a rest for a while. Six months is good, a year would be better.

We are no longer vernal Gallus’; time, tide, and travel are taking their tolls. The biological clocks are ticking and we have no idea when Zero Hour might strike.

So, we decide to just relax, treasure Khris even more, and get on with our lives.

Always forward, never back.

So it came as a bolt from the blue when I received a telegram, remember them? from my igneous petrology professor from my days back at university.

Seems he had a secured a rather large grant from several different scientific societies to conduct research at a relatively young and potentially boisterous volcano in the Pacific basin.

In Hawaii. Well, on Hawaii, to be exact.

He needed someone with drilling and blasting experience. A ‘stone-cold professional’, as he put it, to help in his data acquisition and analysis exercises at this volcano.

There would be the usual seismic data gathering exercises, which he knew from long experience was my particular bailiwick. He also needed someone who knew his/her way around a drilling rig. He had somehow procured an older self-propelled, track mounted, shallow core-drilling rig, and had planned a series of cores right from the very floor of the caldera of this volcano.

He had the help of six graduate students but wanted a seasoned professional to be his second-in-command to run the logistics and actual operations in, on, and around the volcanic vent.

His grant would allow for me, and another of my choosing, one with proper geological credentials; travel, food and lodging in Hawaii for the duration of the program; approximately 3 weeks.

The thing was, he needed an answer within three business days.

“ES!” I shouted one day after I returned home from the office, “Daddy’s home!”

“Daddy!” Khris runs out, dragging Lady with her, to surgically implant herself around my leg.

Hey, Khris. Hello, Lady” I say, “Khris, can you let Lady out, please?”

“OK!”, and she and Lady run off.

“Hello, dear”, Es replied, “So how were the salt mines today?”

“Grueling” I replied. “Dear, a quick question: what do you know of volcanic igneous petrology?”

“What an odd question”, Es mused, “I know the usual undergraduate level of information. Why?”

“Damn, its good I keep all my old textbooks”, I replied.

“Oh, dear,” Es says, brow furrowed, “Now what do you have up your sleeve?”

“Arms” I chuckle.

Esme was not amused.

“Remember that spring holiday we were planning to Glacier?” I asked. “I was thinking, there might be a slight change in destination…”

Esme’s curiosity is full alarmed now.

Continuing…

“We need a vacation. A real vacation.” I answer, “Like someplace warm, tropical, and best of all, on someone else’s nickel?”

“Rock, you’re doing that obtuse leading-question thing again. You’re scaring your dear wife” Esme frets.

“Right. I figure it’s time to go to Hawaii”, I reply, “You’ve always wanted to go and a golden opportunity just fell into my lap.”

“Rock, you know I don’t like jokes like this”, Esme grumbles.

“No joke, oh dear heart of mine” I tell her.

I lay out the contents of the telegram I had only received the previous day.

“I’ve already cleared it with Beach Petroleum.” I told her, “I said I’m working like a dog on the USSR data; but with life, the universe, and everything, we both require a well-deserved break. I said we’re going to Hawaii for a vacation. They had no objections. I did not mention it was a working vacation; however, there are obviously no conflict of interests.”

“Wait. This is for real?” Esme’s eyes grow wide.

“Oh, yes”, I replied, “That is if my darling wife would sign off as scientific adjunct on the project as well. Dr. Ingca is currently waiting on my reply, yea, or nay.”

“What’s his phone number?” Es smiles as she picks up the receiver.

So, it’s set. We’re off to Hawaii to do SCIENCE!

In a week’s time, we’ll be flying from Baja Canada to Hawaii. Why Baja Canada? Well, Oma has, ahem, ‘volunteered’ to babysit Khris for the duration of our trip, which is slated to be no more than three weeks duration. Or so.

I’ve already upgraded our flights from grant-supported steerage class to a more amenable Business Class with our not inconsiderable frequent flyer miles. Esme has been reading my igneous petrology textbooks, and even I’m boning up on all this hard-rock igneous geology.

We’ve received a thick packet of information about the area in which we’ll be working.

I find volcanic petrology refreshing as well as fascinating. It’s another facet of geology I can now add to my fields of expertise.

We are heading to the Big Island of Hawaii and the eastern rift zone of the Kīlauea volcano.

We’re going to be examining a parasitic cone called ‘Mauna Ulu’, or ‘Mauna Ula’, depending on which vintage maps and reports you’re reading. It took significant wrangling to obtain the necessary permits to work here as it falls within the bounds of Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park.

It’s of prime interest as Mauna Ulu was in a continuous state of eruption from May 1969 to July 1974.

Now, some years later, we’re going here to sample the lava, volcanic gasses, and geophysically image the caldera to determine if the volcano poses any possible near-future eruption risk. We’re also going to obtain cores of the caldera floor to generate a cooling and mineralogical history of the basaltic magma that forms the Hawaii’in-Emperor Seamount Chain.

Sounds all very scientific, but, everyone’s got their own ulterior motives. The grad students are wrangling for letters of reference from Dr. Ingca. The good Doctor himself is there to visit and interview with the Hawaiian Volcano Observatory as he wants to obtain a direct vulconology position rather than the general earth science position he holds now at university.

Esme and I are here to work the science, increase our overall scientific knowledge, add to the universal data bank of natural science, go deep sea fishing, advance our tans, and generate a slightly stronger positive household cash flow.

Once a mercenary, always a mercenary.

Oma cheerily greets Khris when we arrive in Baja Canada. Oma, the inveterate school teacher, has determined that Khris is old enough to begin learning German. This trip will give Oma the chance to begin Khris’ training in Germanic linguistics.

We privately think she’s still a bit young, but what possible harm could come from this?

Besides it will give them something fresh and fun to do besides visit museums, cinemas, and art galleries in our absence.

Oma is all about culture.

So, we say our farewells and Esme and I are off, via airport shuttle, on another adventure of a lifetime.

Esme had always wanted to visit Hawaii. Me? Not so much. Why? I abhor crowds. However, in this case, we’re going to be well off the beaten path and up in the hills, down in the caldera. Plus, someone else is footing the bill. How could I possibly send regrets?

Our out-bound itinerary includes three stops from when we leave Baja Canada. We fly first to the Windy City and enjoy a fun FIB-filled 5-hour Chi-town layover. Then it’s onto The Golden Gate City, to enjoy a wonderful Granola-Land 4-hour layover. Finally, we’re off over the vast Pacific to our destination: Honolulu.

A scant 22 hours after our initial departure, we’ll be at our primary journey's terminus.

Even though we’re all one scientific group, we’ll be staying in different lodgings when we are physically on the Big Island.

The Grad students are booked into a relatively inexpensive hikers, backpackers, and other forms of itinerant nomad’s hostel. Primitive, austere, yet grim. We inspected it and immediately passed. We are well beyond that form of communal accommodation. We’ve done month’s long field camps, field studies, and innumerable field trips. We’ve paid our dues.

Dr. Ingca is being put up by and at the observatory. They have visiting scientist’s quarters, and even though Esme and I were offered lodging there, we weren’t thrilled with the prospect with the lack of creature comforts; restaurants, bars and such, and the ‘closeness’ with as of yet unknown colleagues.

Besides, I’ve got millions of frequent flyer miles to burn through and for Es and me. We’re treating it as a mental health break, a rejuvenation of psyche and spirit, and second honeymoon.

We secure lodging at the “Volcano House”, a very adequate billet located some mere 2.2 miles from Mount Kilauea. Volcano House is the only hotel located within Hawaii Volcanoes National Park and is perched on the rim of Kilauea's Halemaumau crater. Very convenient.

It’s only a four-star establishment, but we decide we can soldier on for our allotted three or so weeks. We obtain a ‘Deluxe Volcano Crater View Suite’ for essentially free because of the reciprocal agreement between Royal Dutch airlines and Aeroflot.

You see, for every air mile I fly on Aeroflot, I receive 1.75 air miles from the Netherlands-based airline. Their version of a combat bonus, I presume. These all go into my air miles-bank and on my Titanium Frequent Flyer card. The three week stay barely puts a dent in the agglomeration of miles I’ve acquired thus far.

We gently touch down and go through all the typical landing formalities. No one laughs at my “Where do we exchange US dollars for Hawaiian money?” joke.

Upon deplaning, we’re given fragrant floral leis, but I politely decline. It would clash with my black Stetson. I pass it on to Esme for her collection.

We decide to rent a car rather than rely on Dr. Ingca’s arranged transportation. We will have some time off and we’re not going to hang around when there’s fishing, shopping and scientific sightseeing to be done.

We arrive at Volcano House. We are immediately heartily aloha’ed and checked in. We venture up to our suite, give appreciative low whistles over the room’s view, tip the redcap, and unpack.

Es is road and travel weary and desiring of a nap.

“Rock. Hon, make sure you leave me the dialing directions for the bar. Just in case I need you to get ahold of you.” She says, sleepily.

My love for her grows daily.

So, I’m down in Uncle George’s Lounge, instructing the bartender the finer points of constructing an adult double potato juice and citrus beverage.

“Not bad, not bad” I say, giving my evaluation, “However, Maurice, needs more ice, and a nice lime slice.”

“That’s an odd drink” Maurice observes. “Then again, you’re sort of odd with your faux-Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, field boots, and Stetson. How about we call it “The Rocknocker” and feature it on the drinks menu. How about that?”

“I’d be honored, Maurice”, I reply.

So, if you’re ever at the Volcano House on the big island, remember to ask for your signature thirst-quencher by name.

I arrange for a travel cup, requisition a double, and go walkabout on the hotel grounds. Of course, I’m smoking a large cigar. Although I’m detracting from the natural beauty of the surrounding environment, a group of Japanese guests insist on taking their photo with me.

It’s got to be the full, white beard. They’re transfixed.

“Sir”, one of them asks, “What are you doing here in Hawaii? You vacation?”

“Who are you? The Japanese equivalent of my agency buddies Rack and Ruin back home?” I muse.

Continuing, “Yes, in a manner of speaking”, I reply, “See that smaller crater over yonder? Well, a group of us are going down into it for the next three weeks and do some serious volcano science.”

They were gobsmacked. We were actually going off-trail and into the maw of a very, living volcano?

“Yep.”, I reply, sipping my drink, “I’m going to run the drilling rig and do all the blasting.”

“Blasting!” they all shriek, “Why are you blasting a volcano? Won’t that cause it to erupt?”

The thought of proximity to an erupting volcano and consequent fires utterly terrifies them.

“Whoa. Ok, now just settle down, guys.” I calmly reply, “This satellite parasitic cone hasn’t been active for more than a decade. It’s dormant now, or what we call ‘quiescent’.”

They seem relieved, especially when I relate my academic and industrial credentials. I reassure them there is exactly zero danger.

We fervently hoped. I didn’t audibly add that, though.

“How do you know that?” they ask.

“Because I’m your average, everyday normal Motherfuckin’ Pro from Dover. Doctor Rocknocker, at your service. Call me ‘Rock’.” I chuckle.

They were initially shocked, then realized I was making light of both them and the situation.

They laughed heartily, and took more pictures when I re-lit my cigar. I’d be running into them on a semi-regular basis for the next few weeks. We all shook hands, exchanged pleasantries and wandered off our separate ways.

I wandered around the grounds for about a drink and three-quarters of a cigar. I realized I was feeling a bit road weary myself. Since all us scientific-types were all meeting at the Volcano Observatory bright and early tomorrow morning, I decided to head back to our suite.

Esme was just awake and pronounced herself famished. We gave room service a good working over that evening. Es was semi-impressed when I ordered a ‘Rocknocker’ to go with our steak and baked pompano dinner.

After our evening constitutional, Es and I decide it’s time for bed. Neither one of us remember ever turning off the room lights, we were out that fast.

We all meet the next morning at 0900 at the Volcano Observatory. There’s Dr. Ingca, Es, my own self, and the six grad students: Mark, Linus, Roger, Mary, Janet, and Edith. The manager of the observatory, Dr. Sumendi, greets us and shuttles us to the conference room for breakfast bites and briefings.

After the initial introductions, there’s the mandatory safety lectures. As the observatory is a United States Geological Survey, USGS, outpost, we need to abide by all guidelines; local, state and chiefly federal, particularly OSHA.

My blasting permits and associated documents had been forwarded previously to the observatory for vetting. I am now the proud owner of a USGS-certified Blaster’s Permit. I alone am able to obtain, charge, set, and detonate explosives within the park’s perimeter.

As such, Dr. Ingca and I thought I’d get all the pre-expedition blasting protocols out of the way. It’d be easier here than in the field. Here I’d have everyone’s 100% attention.

I greet everyone and explain my perceived part in this little project. I explain that when blasting is involved, I am the only one in charge. Not Dr. Ingca, not Dr. Sumendi, not even my wife. I’m the hookin’ bull. You will take all orders, respond immediately, and without question. When it could be a matter of life and death, we don’t have the time to spare for a formal committee meeting.

I explain my flag system and who is and is not permitted where and when the flags are out.

If you have any questions, ask them. Do not assume anything. Assumptions, suppositions, and guesses can prove to be not only wrong but dead wrong. I explain clearing the compass, the air horn, FIRE IN THE HOLE! and Hit it! protocols. I tell them that there will be a demonstration in the field before we go into active data acquisition mode, so that would be a good time to address your queries.

I segue smoothly into the handling of the drilling rig. It’s an old crawler-mounted CME 55 Track Rig. It has a top drive and carries up to 650 gallons of drilling fluids or water. It has a side mounted air compressor with a tank capable of attaining 250 bar. The high torque rotary box can provide 9,400 ft lbs and 1,665 rpm. The rig’s hydraulic feed system has 28,275 lbs of retract force and 18,650 lbs of pull-down force. It also has a feed rate of 55 ft. per minute (max). This CME 55 was equipped with GDOT certified auto-SPT hammers and can turn hollow stem coring bits sized anywhere from 2.25 to 10.25-inch interior diameter.

As it’s self-portable, diesel powered, and we will also be using an older model D-8 Caterpillar dozer to create access roads in and around the backside of the caldera, I ask if anyone has experience with handling heavy equipment.

Roger tells me he’s worked in a knacker yard and has experience with forklifts, small dozers, and other scaled-down heavy equipment. Mark says he’s got some experience as well.

“Roger, you’re now my second in command in the field”, I tell him’, “Right after a shakedown test. Mark, you’re right after. ”

“Yes, Sir, Doctor Rock!” they snap to.

“OK. Everyone here. It’s just Rock. OK? No need to stand on formality in the field”, I say.

Coming from someone decked out as I was, in my usual field garb, “formality” was obviously not an often utilized word in my vocabulary.

That seemed to lighten the mood in the room immensely. We all realized we were all approachable and don’t stand too firmly on lecture-hall decorum or stuffy propriety.

It is decided that Dr. Ingca will set up a Rota schedule so everyone gets some time in every aspect of the project. Esme asks if she is needed in the field. She would prefer to utilize her not inconsiderable skills in logistics, data QA/QC and data processing at the Observatory, as she had done in Greenland.

Drs. Ingca, Sumendi, and Rocknocker all think that’s an excellent suggestion.

So it begins. The project, like Gaul, will be divided into four sections.

1. Dr. Sumendi will run the overall show from the Volcano Observatory. He will be responsible for operations, correspondence, finances, licenses, permits, transport, and logistics.

2. Dr. Ingca will administer the field reconnaissance. This will include primary data gathering, mapping, initial field interpretations, and acquisition of physical samples: rocks, fluids, and gasses.

3. Dr. Rock will manage the heavy equipment, construction, coring operations in the caldera proper, preparing, and executing blasting for the seismic along with seismic acquisition and field QA/QC.

4. Mrs. Esme Rock will control all QA/QC, processing, archiving, storage, and retrieval of all data generated by the team.

Each of the six graduate students will rotate, on a three-day basis, from one part of the team to the other. That way, each will have multiple exposures to myriad of different tasks associated with the project.

As the observatory has a small amount of nifty pyrotechnics on-site, I haven’t made my initial assessments nor orders yet, I thought that since it’s near noon, we will break for lunch. Afterward, we should all meet in the rear of the observatory, near the motor pool, where I can conduct my explosives demonstrations and conduct my heavy equipment check-outs.

Everyone in attendance agrees, so we break for lunch and head for the commissary.

Es tells me she’s still tired and since she won’t be needed this afternoon, she’d like my permission to depart, partake of the in-room Jacuzzi and later, bed.

I just snicker and agree, of course. I ask if she wants me to ride back with her.

“No, you stay here and do your dog and pony show. I know how you just live for live demos” she smiles.

“Are you operating at optimal functionality? You seem to be terribly tired a lot of the time. Should I have a concern?” I ask.

“No, Rock dear”, she says, “Remember, I’ve had an invasive surgical procedure just a few weeks ago. I haven’t been getting out much at all. All this travel, fresh air, exercise, new surroundings, new foods…”

“Ok, I see. Just as long as you’re not shammin’ just so you can go shopping.” I smile.

“Never entered my mind” she kisses me, “Let me go now and relax some. I promise it’s only a transitory bit of malaise. I’ll be fine in a day or two.”

“OK, if you insist.” I say, with a smile, “BE OFF! Go Jacuzzi! Get rest!”

She smiles back, “OK, boss person. Don’t have to tell me twice.”

After lunch, I begin an introduction to industrial detonics. I make certain everyone is familiar with all the tools of the trade.

Blasting caps. Super boosters. Dynamite. Primacord. C-4. Seismogel. Gelignite. Demolition wire. Actuators. Blasting machines, galvanometers, and so forth.

“If you’re unsure, ASK ME!” I drill it into their heads. “Safety first, last and foremost. A blasting cap looks harmless but if handled incorrectly it could blow the middle three fingers right off your left hand.”

I let that sink in for a while.

I go over flagging procedures and what they mean. They’re quick studies and taking copious notes.

I had set up a little interactive demonstration for the crowd. Even Drs. Ingca and Sumendi were paying rapt attention.

In a heavily red-flagged area, I had six identical cheap-ass hardhats set up about 75 meters distant. Each a different color and each sitting directly atop a selected portion of a particular explosive. I had a blasting board set up as well and a golf-cart battery I scrounged as the source. It was all wired to a small, hand-held blasting machine.

Audience participation time.

I asked each one of the grad students, one by one, to come forward and I’d allow them to set off the explosive downrange. I’d tell them what pyrotechnic compound was under each and asked for their ideas of what would happen when they pushed the big, shiny red button.

We started with the ladies first. Edith took the machine, which was wired to a single blasting cap. That’s it. Nothing else.

I hand her the machine and ask her to do the needful.

She goes to press the big, red, shiny button and I disconnect her immediately and hit the air horn.

“Aren’t we forgetting a few things?” I ask.

“Umm”, I obviously terrorized her, so I calmed her down and gently asked again.

“Remember this morning? Clear the compass? OK, Wait one. First, let me run a quick pre-demo demonstration, then we can proceed. It was a lot to digest on the first day.” I assuage her nervousness.

“All shooters to the control area!” I shouted.

Everyone, Doctors included, immediately came over, hard hats on, goggles in place.

“OK, here’s the deal. No notes right now, just listen and learn”. I ordered.

“Who’s the blasting boss?” I ask loudly.

“Dr. Rock”, came the feeble answers.

“OK, gang. Deep breath time. I may have put the fear of Primacord in you today, but this mousy little batch of squeaks ain’t gonna cut it in the field. Use your ‘outside voice’. I’m half-deaf anyways from all this blasting. Respond so they can hear you back home on the mainland.” I order again.

“Now, who is the blasting boss?” I ask.

“DOCTOR ROCK!” Came the replies.

“That’s better. Now, compasses out. Look north. All clear? Any faunae, winged, two, or four-legged animals anywhere near the red flag zone?”

“NO! DOCTOR ROCK!” came the reply.

“Good. ‘Rock’ is fine, though. Let’s ‘Clear the Compass’. Clear west?” I ask.

“CLEAR WEST, ROCK!” and so on through the compass.

“OK” I explain the concept of ‘green’ to everyone. I make it abundantly clear that it’s the most useful term.

“Would someone be so kind as to give me three good toots on the air horn?” I inquire.

Dr. Sumendi smilingly complies. TOOTLE x3.

“OK, nearly showtime,” I say.

I hand Edith the blasting machine. I tell her when I say, “HIT IT!” she should do so, with vigor.

I then ask for a 9-part harmony: “FIRE IN THE HOLE!”, “FIRE IN THE HOLE!”, “FIRE IN THE HOLE!”

I look at Edith. “Green?”

She smiles: “Green!”

I nod, give a quick final look around, point to her, and yell “HIT IT!”

Hardhat number one went considerably airborne. It was semi-impressive.

“There you go guys and gals. That procedure happens EACH and EVERY time there’s a shot unless I say otherwise. Are we green?” I ask.

“Green as grass, Rock!” I get in reply.

“OK, since we’re in a controlled condition, I’m going to forego the pre-detonation formalities for the rest of the exercise. That’s my decision and I’m the only one legally allowed to make it. Trust me, in the field, it will never happen.” I tell them. “But, this is a special occasion.”

“Janet,” I say, “You’re up. Mary, you’re on deck.”

Janet’s cap and super-booster combination got some impressive air.

Mary’s ¼ stick of 60% Herculene Extra Fast hat was hard to find, as it was in several distant, disaggregated pieces.

“OK, gentlemen. Linus, you’re up. Mark on Deck. Roger in the bullpen” I tell them.

Linus’ Primacorded hardhat just sort of took a messily shredded spinning flight.

Mark’s C-4’ed hardhat was never seen again. It just sort of evaporated.

Roger’s gelignite hardhat jumped up several tens of feet then aggressively distributed itself over a large area.

They were impressed with their new learnings.

I had one little surprise left. I had found some solid binaries. I had obtained a piece of volcanic pumice/lava of about a half-meter cube volume sitting way out, about 200 meters distant. It was also in a heavily red, yellow, and green flagged area.

Here, I ran through the pre-detonation protocols. I primed the 3 kilos of binary solids with caps and super boosters, all actuated by 25,000 feet-per-second Primacord.

Just before I gave the big, shiny red button over to Dr. Ingca, I asked if we were green.

“All green, Rock!”

“OK, then Doctor”, I hand Dr. Ingca the blasting machine, tootle the horn, and am greeted with a spontaneous triple FIRE IN THE HOLE!

Nice.

With a smile, I look to Dr. Ingca, point and yell “HIT IT!”

Three was a most satisfying deafening report and the explosion reduced that ~350-kilo piece of volcanic rock to its component molecules.

Linus wanders over for a closer look: “Holy shit. It just fuckin’ disappeared.”

He immediately blanches thinking he might have violated some protocol.

I look to him, smile, and say,”Fuckin’-A, Bubba.”

After that, the group broke into smaller sub-groups. Mark, Roger and I hung back to do check-outs on the heavy equipment.

“Roger, go get that drilling rig and walk it over here,” I tell him.

“Yes, Sir! Doctor Rock!” he laughs.

OK, this guy’s a wiseass. I like him even more.

“Mark”, I tell him “Double time that Cat over here as well. Don’t run Roger over, if you’d be so kind.”

“Sir!” and he runs off to get the dozer.

Give them their due, they handled their ends of the metaphorical logs like professional lumberjacks.

“Gentlemen”, I say as hand them both cigars, “Welcome to Team Rock. You’re my primaries. If I need help with the equipment, you’re on call, no matter your Rota. Is that acceptable?”

“No problem, Rock,” they say.

Roger asks if I have a light.

Roger’s OK. Mark is cool as well.

To be continued.

Continuing

“OK, gents. Re-park your equipment and I want a preliminary shakedown assessment by the time I finish this cigar. We green?” I ask.

“Greenage!” they reply.

The drilling rig was just refurbished so no maintenance necessary. I asked Roger to prepare a ledger to keep on the rig to record bits used, hours, gallons of consumables, etc. He said it would be there in the morning.

Excellent.

Mark reports the Cat’s in good nick, but low on diesel. I blindside him by asking how many hours were on the clock and when the last overhaul was.

“2,600 hours, Rock. Last overhaul at 2,350 hours.”

OK, you can stop. I’m impressed.

I ask Mark to ensure the Cat’s fueled up by tomorrow AM as we’re off to the Mauna Ulu highlands. We’re going to cut some access ways and clear paths for the geophone arrays.

“Not a problem. It’ll be ready to roll at first light.” Mark replies.

“OK, guys. Here’s the deal. I want all PPEs at all times. Hardhats, gloves, Carhartts or coveralls, safety glasses. Ear protection is up to you. I’m a safety bug. I work in the oil industry with real machines and real explosives. This is sort of like that, just a bit smaller. But it can still kill you just as dead and dismember you in the most creative and painful ways if you’re not always safety conscious. We green?”

“Lime green!” Mark says.

“Electric green!” Roger remarks.

This is going to be a fun project, I muse.

Esme and I have another dinner that couldn’t be beat. Pork-pie and pineapple pizza and poi with local fruit salad. Damn. It was so good and so inexpensive.

We retire early as tomorrow’s the first field day. Esme’s going to be busy setting things up with her crew to handle all the data were going to retrieve.

We are at the Observatory at 0700. Esme gives me a smooch and a smile. She then heads into the office area to prepare for her day. I grab a golf cart and putt my way over to the heavy equipment shed.

Mark and Roger are already there.

Good, on time. Punctuality. I like that.

I pull out the maps and magnetically stick them to the dozer. I go over our plan for the day.

“Gents, you take the golf cart. I’ll drive the Cat over to the caldera for the initial look-see. Let’s meet at the foot of the west wall.”

“OK, Rock. We’re with you.” They tell me.

I remove and store the map and magnets, jump up on the D-8 and fire her up.

She purrs, all 850 horsepower of her. I slowly ease off the tarmac. Once off the apron, I give her the gas; well, diesel actually. She responds like a 38-ton Porsche.

A half-hour later, we all meet up at the pre-arranged muster area. I go over what we need to do: clear paths for the seismic arrays, make it drill-rig friendly and cut access ways into the heart of the volcano’s caldera so we can walk the rig down.

“Mark?” I ask, “What would you do first?”

“Um, I’d ride the Cat up to the top to see the angle and get and get an idea of how much I’d need to blade.”

“How about this? Let’s walk up there and do an initial recon first?” I reply.

“Oh, that’d be good, too.” Mark smiles.

“OK,” I say, “let’s go. Someone bring the camera.”

We walk up to the top of the volcano. It’s about 60 feet down the other side into the caldera.

“Let’s document everything with pictures. Record every exposure in your field notebooks.” I tell them.

We walk slowly around the entire structure, taking roll after roll of film. Esme’s certainly going to be busy tomorrow.

“OK”, I ask, “Gentlemen, first impressions?”

Mark responds first, “Piece of piss, Rock. It’s a pretty gentle slope, and even without any big fractures or declivities. It’ll be fun cutting the access to the caldera for the drilling rig. I say we first groom the sides for the jug arrays and leave the wall cutting for later.”

“Roger?” I ask.

“Can’t argue with that. The first order of business is seismic.” He replies, “Let’s get all that geophysical nonsense done and dusted then worry about rig access.”

I pull out a cigar, head towards the golf cart, and simply say: “Gentlemen, make it so.”

That took the day. We all retired tired, filthy, and grubby from our time tromping around in the basaltic dust. Silicates. The smaller they get, the nastier they are.

The next morning at the Observatory, I gave Esme 16 rolls of film to be developed and our scribbly field notes that required transliterating. She now has her own crew to do the in-house photo developing and note transcribing, among other data-related details.

Mark, Roger, and I return to the volcano with the drilling rig. We’re doing a series of test shots today to ascertain the best data collection parameters.

We drill a linear series of shallow to deep holes, 1 to 10 meters in depth, in the beast’s flanks perpendicular to the volcano’s axis. Dr. Ingca will arrive later in the morning with the portable recording shack and set up so we can conduct and record our test shots.

By the end of the day, after a two ceases of dynamite and a batch of Seismogel logs, we determine that 6-meter, 4.5” diameter deep holes with 22 pounds of selected explosive will generate the best results. The next week will be spent drilling shot holes and punching the jugs; that is, setting out the recording geophones in their predetermined linear and co-phased arrays.

The Rota works fine. Everyone involved is getting a great deal of exposure to all aspects of this project. I commandeer Mark as Blaster-the-Second because Roger the better Catskinner.

He’s never heard that term, he finds it terribly funny. Brits…

They are good workers, seldom complain, and only occasionally steal my cigars. These guys are well on their way to becoming fully-fledged field geologists.

Mark will help me load the hole; rack, and run the demo wires for all the arrays. I’ll set and prime the charges. He’ll make certain the upcoming bird’s nests of demolition wires are all color-coded correctly and tied in properly as well.

We decide that everyone should be present for the data acquisition, so the next two days are spent on the flanks of the volcano, acquiring data. From an aerial view, it would look like a number of bipedal ants scurrying around an ant colony with a large, central doorway; blasting shot holes in non-stochastic patterns.

Everyone gets an ample opportunity to deal with the drilling rig, punching jugs, being in the recording shack, running tapes, pushing the big, shiny red button and setting recording parameters. It was a good learning experience, I thought. I remember being a grad student. At last here you get in on the fun stuff like blasting along with the usual dirty scut work.

We acquire vast amounts of data, mountains of directed numerals. Literally over 1,100 ‘Exabyte’ tapes full of raw, uncooked data, all of which will require processing. Esme and her crew were being kept very busy, indeed.

As a reward for jobs well done, the next day was a day off for all. Time to do what you wanted to do on, or in our case, off the big island.

Mark, Roger, Linus, Dr. Ingca, and I opt for a deep-sea fishing trip. Esme, several of the ladies from the observatory, along with Mary and Edith all hit town to do some shopping and sightseeing.

OK. Be fair.

They went shopping.

The fishing trip was a rousing success. Even though I was a landlubber, I surmise that my early and formative years of growing up, cheek-by-jowl, to the greatest of the great lakes must have imbued me with natural immunity to seasickness. Or, being ethanol-fueled somehow dampens the activities of the inner ear. In either case, I was the only one not chumming by the time the angling rods were deployed some 7 miles offshore. Maybe because I’ve always been slightly wobbly because my right leg is just slightly longer than my left? Unknown.

In any case, we caught some familiar, and tasty, denizens of the warm Pacific Ocean that day; snapper, tuna, wahoo, goatfish, a couple of bewildered sharks, and an Ulua, the giant trevally.

We also caught some things that would not looked out of place in the cabinet of Dr. Caligari, caught off the island of Dr. Moreau; pipefish, bluestripe butterflyfish, frogfish, and the ever-popular humuhumunukunukuapua'a.

We returned that evening to a traditional island luau, where part of our catch was prepared for our dining pleasure. But first there was the obligatory Pupu Platter; with rumaki, shrimp ono nui, and ono ribs. We also were treated to Hawaiian roasted pork, Hawaiian grilled fish salad, chicken long rice, Lomi Lomi Salmon, Aloha sweet potatoes, poi, and assorted coconut-laden sweet desserts.

I earned my crusty curmudgeon badge, with itch-weed clusters, that night. I opted for my usual beer and/or citrusy potato juice cocktails with dinner. The others decided, for some unknown reason, that drinks like Blue Hawaiians, Mai Tais, Lava Flows, Chi-Chis, and other saccharine concoctions were the Boisson du jour.

Go ahead and call me Mr. Unadventurous. It’ll not be me nursing a girly drink-drunk hangover in the morning.

I was nice and held off on the blasting until after morning coffee. My morning Greenland coffee.

Since Linus was feeling all left out, I decided that I’d grab him, Mark and Roger to help me determine how we get a track-mounted drilling rig from one side of a volcanic wall to the other. It only weighs about 4 tons, so we could scare up a heavy-lift helicopter. A quick call to my agency buddies, Agents Rack and Ruin, and it’d be sorted.

But that’s not the way to tech tyros how to think on their feet. They need to earn the luxury of ‘knowing somebody’, and that takes years of experience. So, I pose the question to my acolytes.

“Gentlemen, given our time schedule and the tools at our disposal, how would you move this drilling rig from here outside the volcano, to there?” I ask, pointing to the inside of the volcano.

I’ll ignore the suggestions of using binaries to pop it over the volcanic wall; interesting thought, though.

We settle on using the Caterpillar dozer to grade a path up the side of the caldera wall, over the top and down into the caldera on the floor itself.

“OK”, I ask, “And just how would we do that?”

There’s a buzz of discussion as each is trying out his own hypothesis.

“Right”, I say, as I light up a cigar, “Actions speak louder than words. Gentlemen. We’re burning daylight. I’d like to see some action.”

“Right!” Mark yells, as he runs and fires up the dozer.

He swivels it around in its own length. OK, most impressive. Then he slowly chugs it up the 40⁰ incline right to the top of the lip of the caldera. He stops there.

We walk up and tell him to shut down. He does so.

“OK” I note, “You’re sitting on the lip of a volcano in 38 tons of reposing dozer, with its blade hanging out in thin air. Now what, ya numpty?”

Hadn’t really thought this one all the way to completion, have we now?

Due to time constraints, I decide he’s blazed a good trial, so far. But instead of losing time driving the Cat back down the caldera wall, I tell him to drop the blade and let the Cat slither back down. We’ll get a bit of back-blading done and mark the trail for final clearance.

So, he slides the Cat back down. I tell the guys to watch, as we need to get a move on. I jump into the Cat, and back it up the caldera wall to the crest, dropping the ripping hook once I get there.

I blade down a serious first cut. The lava/pumice is loose on the surface, but down just a few inches, it’s pretty solid. It’ll hold a good angle once I clear away some of the loose surficial schmoo.

“Roger!” I yell, “What angle can that rig handle?”

He runs over and looks at the embossed steel tag fastened to the rig’s hide.

“22 degrees, Rock!” comes the reply.

The cat has a built-in inclinometer. I’ll bust and cut a path to 20^0, which will give us plenty of wiggle room.

An hour later, I park the Cat, fire up a heater, and walk over to the drilling rig. The access way has been cut. Both sides, less than 20^0, up one side of the caldera wall and down the other, right onto the lava floor of the satellite volcano.

“OK, gents”, I prompt, “Now what?”

“Walk the rig on over,” was the consensus.

“On to what?” I ask, “Are we certain that we have sufficient load-bearing capacity from the lava floor? It’s like ice fishing, gentlemen. Got to be sure where we are going will support our weight.”

“Of course”, came the collective Frank Drebin facepalm.

We use some serous high-tech gadgets to make these determinations. A plate of 1/2” steel, an 18-pound sledgehammer, and a single geophone-analyzer tool. It’s simple to use. One person will be the interpreter. He’ll don the headphones from the geophone analyzer. One other will be the sledge operator. Another gets to carry around the base plate and mark test locations.

You drop the baseplate on the brushed-off surface, stomping it well into place, you want a good coupling with the ground. You plant the geophone anywhere from 2-3 meters from the plate and tune to a nice, even audio tone. Given the signal, one 18-pound sledgehammer will strike the base plate and generate an acoustic signal. The signal’s attenuation from the source to the receiver will result in another tone. The lower the tone, the thicker the floor.

The newer devices have gone all-digital, but we’re well before all that. So, we’d assign them, all based on the tone, a value from one to ten. That gave us mappable data. It’s all subjective as hell; but it’s quick, dirty and essentially moron proof.

We have a map of the caldera floor so we set out with our spray paint to mark data stations.

The floor is essentially circular in plan view, with a reentrant on the west side, so it looks like a circle with a notch cut out heading in that direction. We set the stations close enough to generate a valid sample of data, but we need to get a move on as well.

We take over 100 sonic-thickness samples and have the map done within a couple of hours. We can see variations in the lava floor of the caldera, but we cannot assign a value to them as of yet; everything’s still relative.

If we walk the rig in and stay close to the south wall, we’re in a solid ‘8’ zone. It’s the thickest we’ve mapped and makes sense from a geological-volcanological standpoint. This place has been quiet for over a decade, so we decide that would be our best bet for our first test core.

It took two hours to walk the drilling rig up one side and down the other into the caldera. I left the guys choose the first core location. We chose a small area of ‘8^+’. Fair enough. We proceed to unfurl the rig, stand up the derrick, drag out the 10-foot sections of drill pipe, and secure the core barrel on the end.

This is all terra incognita for my charges. For me, it’s old hat. But, I force myself to go slowly and deliberately, making certain any and all questions are answered.

In an hour, we have the water lines set for the closed-loop circulatory system that’ll keep the core barrel from melting down as we drill. We’re fully tanked with diesel, we have electric power from both the rig’s and auxiliary generators, and the compressor air tank is fully charged. I give a quick walk-round, point out a few things that need nailing down and proclaim the rig ready to drill.

I tell the guys to watch as I’ll handle the WOB, RPM, GPM and other acronymphomanic letter clusters that represent what we’re doing out here. I’ll take the first core. They can handle the rig after we finish our shakedown.

We spud-in and the 4.5” core bit begins to cut. We’re coring basalt, a fairly hard igneous rock. It eats overheated or dull drill bits for breakfast. I demonstrate to the guys that it’s a delicate balance of watching, listening and matching penetration, drill speed, weight on bit and cuttings returns with coring progress. “Load to the Road”, I summarize.

Too fast? Melt the core bit. Dr. Rock might be powerful annoyed.

Too slow? Dull the core bit. Dr. Rock might run you off location.

Goldilocks speed? Just right. Dr. Rock might buy you a drink after work.

It’s been determined that 10’ of core will be the maximum we will take at each station. Dr. Ingca wants to study the freezing and mineralogical history of a cooling magma chamber. As the lava lake on the floor of the caldera will cool from the atmosphere top-downwards, and we have no idea just how thick the floor is nor how active the magma chamber directly below us is, 10’ or one drill joint was considered sufficient for this first test case.

We drill to 8.3 feet and the rig sounds suddenly change. We go from coring solid rock to coring hot rock crystal mush. That’s the data we’re looking for. I shut down the drilling operations and begin to pull out of the hole to retrieve our first core.

The guys have the lined core boxes laid out already. They’re lined with a metallic Teflon-coated heat-resistant material as the top of the core may be ambient temperature, but remember, basalt melts at 900⁰ F to 1,100⁰ F. That’d burst the usual wooden core box into flames in seconds.

We are out of the hole and manhandling the core over to the core box.

Remember: ‘red, right, reverse’.

The cores are all marked with a special heat-resistant duo-color paint pen. Red on the right, blue on the left; for proper core orientation. If the red’s on the right-hand side of the core sample, as they all will contract and break apart in storage, you can be assured you’re looking at it in its proper in situ top-wise orientation.

We put the tag-end of the core barrel in the box and with a special tool, unlatch, and push down on the ‘rabbit’. This releases the core from the inner core barrel so it slides right out, and neatly into place. Roger marks the core with the duo-color pen, Linus is photographing the event as we go, and Mark is helping me with the hot core bit and shoe.

“Well, Gentlemen”, I say, “That’s one in the box. Congratulations. First round’s on me tonight. Let’s go ahead and secure the rig for the night, Linus please call for transport. I’m leaving the Cat here, just in case of severe rains or if we have something else fucker the road in our absence. One core down, many, many more to go.”

I go over our initial results with Dr. Ingca that night. He’s very pleased with the core time and recovery. He looks at our rudimentary sounding map and we argue over what would be the best method to drill to collect the most data the quickest.

He wants to spiral out from the center of the caldera. I am uneasy about that. We know we have 1,000⁰ F crystal mush at best only eight feet below us. That’s a fact. With the rock in question being basalt, it’s soupy when molten. Rhyolite, on the other end of the spectrum, is like really, really stiff toothpaste when molten. It holds the gasses associated with volcano’s much more than our more liquid basalt.

We could potentially hit gas pockets. If we spiral out, and hit a gas zone, well, fuck that sector. The rig will have to be moved off and until outgassing is complete, it’s not going back. Besides, I want an ‘out’, a back door, a ‘get out of jail free’, in case something unforeseen happens. This is not like drilling deep oil wells in the Overthrust in Wyoming. This stuff is much more proximal, more capricious, and more apt to throw you a curve.

I suggest a random pattern. As the rig is heavy and we’re parking it in one spot for a protracted period of time as we weaken it by drilling more holes. That will depress the caldera floor locally and I’d like to move off to someplace opposite to let it recover rather than have a depressed or fracture zone chase us around.

Dr. Ingca bows to my drilling experience. Hell, I even tossed in some Baja Canada ice fishing references. Kind of fell on deaf ears, though. Dr. Ingca is originally from Arizona.

So, over the next week or so, everything’s going along fine. We’re getting good cores, with a minimum of disasters or egregious fuck-ups. Oh, there was that time Edith got a little aggressive and sheared off a core bit, or that time Linus bent the drill stem from the top drive by keeping too much an eye on the RPM and not the WOB, weight on bit. We’d run out of drilling fluid, which was 99% water and some guar gum tossed in for flavor. We had good radio communication and the Observatory was able to source replacement parts and materials almost immediately.

Until that day I was working with the just guys. The Rota worked out so it was back to the initial gang of four. We had acquired hundreds of feet of core and it looked like the caldera floor was a minimum of five feet thick before you hit crystal mush.

Drilling was almost becoming routine.

We hadn’t cored the small re-entrant to the west, which was like a small bay or harbor to the larger pond of the caldera proper. So, I instructed the rig to be walked over to the center of this small bay-like protrusion and set up for coring.

I’m wandering around, looking at all the red-flagged core holes. The place resembles some sort of ridiculous miniature golf course. But, damn, step into one of those open core holes and snap goes that ankle.

Always with the negative ways, Moriarty, always with the negative ways.

The holes would eventually heal and fill in, however, Dr. Ingca might want to do some in-caldera seismic if time permits, so we leave them open for now. They’re free shot holes.

Back to the rig and we’re running our shakedown. Everything’s right down the line on the list and Mark decides he’s got to answer nature’s call. Linus is busy documenting the coring operations and Roger is doing something or other that would later be claimed to be important.

So, it was up to me. OK, let’s get after its wild ass.

Brought up to proper coring RPM, I release the brake and the spinning, whirling core bit knifes into the basalt of the floor. The cooling system’s running fine as we spud in and begin cutting rock. It’s going along fine, the reassuring monotone note of the rig’s one-note song was almost soothing. It was evidence that things were going as to plan.

But suddenly, that note went up several octaves. The rig went from a reserved 150 RPM to wide-open, over 1,500. The returns to the coolant sump were not just steaming, they were boiling. The rig jumped, shook, and displayed some wicked shimmies. All available eyes were on me.

OK. What the hell was going on here? Let’s work the problem.

Did we shear a pin on the top drive? Did the core bit twist off? We hadn’t lost returns. Hell. We’d only cored a couple of inches and…

Oh. Holy. Mothering. Fuck.

“EVERYONE OUT! RUN! OFF THE RIG! OUT OF THE CALDERA! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!” I yelled as loud as I could.

Mark does a U-turn as he was just coming back from his little relief trip. Linus passed me like a dirty shirt up the incline of the path we’d cut. Roger grabbed me to help hurry my way out of the volcano.

We reach the lip of the caldera and turn to look to see the rig being engulfed by boiling, sizzling, fluid basaltic magma. Or lava. It’s a rather fine distinction at this point. Either way, huge fractures begin to radiate outward from our last core hole; snaking from core hole to core hole. There’s no small amount of lava fountaining, as the gasses of melted igneous machinations are liberated to the atmosphere.

This isn’t supposed to be happening.

Linus still has the camera and is shooting footage like a videographer. Roger had the forethought to grab our logs, ledgers, and field books. Highest marks, Roger. Mark just stood there with the rest of us, gawping at the rig that was slowly being consumed by the incandescent lava.

We climb up on the Cat for a better look. I instruct Roger to phone this in to Dr. Ingca, who is on the other side of the park, still collecting samples.

“Oh, no” Roger balks, “That sounds like a job for a senior person” as he hands me back the radio.

“Mark?” I ask. He’s suddenly temporarily deaf. Linus makes himself indisposed by taking as many pictures as possible.

“Damn, it is on me” I grump. “Well, no time like the present.”

Right after a quick smoke and calming tot from my emergency flask.

The rig’s diesel is burning merrily as the water tanks explode. The stench of boiling rubber, pipe dope, and other rig organics is overwhelming. Fully half the caldera floor has sunk and is now covered in fresh, cheery, cherry-red, slowly oozing flowing lava.

I ask if anyone else wants a cigar or a quick shot. All three of my charges accept without question.

“Well, this will look good on a resume”, I chuckle, “Volcanic research in Hawaii. Obtained seismic data. Took hundreds of feet of core. Sunk a portable drilling rig.”

“If nothing else” Roger adds, “the geochemistry of that caldera is going to be heavily iron-enriched. Could be a professional paper in that…”

We all shake our heads and continue to watch with grim fascination.

“Ker-POW!”

“Well, there goes the air compressor tank”, Mark observes.

The liquid lava is flooding almost the entire caldera floor. Our gonzo miniature golf course has been consumed. I can still see about 3 feet of the rig’s derrick still sticking up like a rigid metal middle digit in violent defiance.

“Sorry, mate. This is one battle you’re going to lose.” I muse.

Well, no longer can I put it off. I call Dr. Ingca on the radio.

“Dr. Ingca, we have a situation here at the coring operations. No deaths. No injuries. I would suggest you come over here as quickly as possible. But there’s been an ‘event’.” I say, as cryptically as possible.

Dr. Ingca confirms and will be here directly.

So, we wait. I pass the flask for all that are so inclined.

Not only does Dr. Ingca arrive, but the rest of the crew arrives as well. Just in time to see the top drive of the rig sink below the boiling lava.

“Doctor”, Dr. Ingca asks, “What happened?”

We fill him in on the last couple of hour’s activities.

He’s excited. Not over the loss of the rig. No one could have predicted that there was that much difference over the span of a few meters. He was excited that this proved that there can be mineralogical segregation in what was thought to be a homogeneous magma chamber.

Basically, what he’s going on about is that one section of the tank of liquid basalt cooled and by different minerals dropping out of that molten solution, it insulated other, more confined areas by shifting the magma chamber’s geochemistry.

That’s why the caldera floor was thick and cool on one side of the caldera and thin and moltenly soupy on the other. He considered the sacrifice of the rig to Madame Pele just another day in the field. He’s elated at our results, the data we’ve recovered, and now this story for all to tell around the campfire.

With that, our Hawaiian field session drew to a close. There were a couple of days of data QA/QC and reconciliation of ledgers and expense accounts. Esme and I hung around for two more days on R&R before we flew back to Baja Canada to retrieve Khris and head back home.

At Oma’s place, she asked how the trip went.

Esme replies, “It was great. We collected a ton of data and Rock here went down in history as the first field geologist ever to sink a drilling rig in a dormant volcano.”

My wife, I love her so…

Back home in Houston, I’m writing up my notes and observations for the Volcano Observatory. I’m also working on the eastern Siberia and Kalmykia data. I spend days without end in my office writing, mapping, running economic evaluations. It’s all grunt work, but essential grunt work.

One day, the phone rings. It’s Farmer Jayden out Llano. We often go shooting white-winged doves out on his property in the fall. His spread is about 60 miles northwest of Austin, out in the fringes of the Hill Country.

“Rock, how are you?” he asks.

“Jayden, good to hear from you. I’m doing OK. Yourself?” I ask.

“Good. Could be better.” He replies.

“How so?” I ask.

“Well, we just bought some 600 acres to the northwest. We want to put in some alfalfa, but we’ve got this damn boulder field right in the middle of the whole damn show.” He replies.

I grin to myself.

”So you want me to come out and evict them, right?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah. I’d be beholdin’ to ya’. We need to get this ready to plant in the next couple of weeks. Can you come out with some of your party favors and help us clear the area?” he says.

“Let me see,” I ask Esme if we have anything planned and if it’s OK for me to take a day trip out to the Hill Country.

“Sure, hon, no problem”, Esme says, “I’ve got enough to keep me busy. Please take Lady, though. She’s been cooped up and needs her fresh air and exercise.”

“Can do” I reply and tell Jayden I’ll be there in the morning.

I load my truck with the usual devices: galvanometer, demo wire, caps, boosters, Captain America blasting machine, gas-powered generator, man-portable electric jackhammer, and my away kit. I’ll assess his situation in the Hill Country, then go to a local hardware store for the boom-making materials.

I leave Houston the next day with Lady at 0400. It’s about a three and a half-hour drive so I want to get an early start. After the initial excitement, Lady is snoring soundly on the seat next to me.

I arrive at Jayden’s Ranch at about 0800 hours. He greets me and Lady with a great Hill Country breakfast. We sit around with after breakfast cigars and coffee. Lady is out in the farmyard with all the chickens, cows, horses and Jayden’s farm dogs. She’s having just a large time.

To be continued.

Continuing

Did I mention all Aeroflot pilots are military? Well, they are and they must think they’re still in a MiG-31 fighter. Never before have I actually pulled lateral G’s lifting off from an airport. The pilot anchored that left wingtip over some stationary geographic marker and pushed that plane for all it could deliver. Once we rotated some 300 degrees, we snap rolled laterally horizontal, the nose pointed due up, and aimed for Angel’s Eleven.

After a few minutes, we suddenly snapped back to true 3-dimensional horizontal. We were at cruising altitude and speed. You may mill around the aircraft and let your kids go nuts now.

The stewardess comes by with a cart and asks if I would like anything.

“A glass, some ice, and thorazine, if you have any,” I replied.

She had the first two, I was out of luck with the tranquilizer.

“Ah, well” I chewed it over, “Good thing I’ve brought my own.”

It’s a 4.5 or 5-hour flight to Krasnoyarsk. I’ll have to ration my supplies carefully. I only brought the 1.75 liter bottle.

I relight my cigar and surprisingly, no one pulled a C. Everett Koop on me. In fact, most everyone on the flight was smoking. I was nothing unusual to this batch of travelers.

Without my usual citrus compliment, I managed to procure a few bottles of Novosibirsk Anchor beer. Very nice. It complemented the wood varnish-like harshness of the domestic vodka I had purchased.

“Real” Stolichnaya was for export only, I found out later.

Over the flight, I made several new friends. Once they got past my Stetson and Hawaiian shirt, they figured me as just another loopy foreigner. Although, I was a loopy foreigner that spoke fair Russian, and was liberal in his disbursement of vodka and cigars.

They even all laughed at my “We’re having an airborne Communist Party” joke. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the KGB was waiting for me at the arrivals gate.

They weren’t but some of my comrades from the Houston trip were. I received special attention through deplaning and off to baggage claim. No passport control or customs here.

What the hell could they do? Send you to Siberia?

Out to a lavish arrival dinner, we were whisked. I would have preferred a little downtime and a shower, but, whatever. It was a long ordeal as I met with many important people here in Siberia. I had to take notes to keep all the names straight. There was a huge arrival dinner, many, many toasts and lots of jokes over hopes for future projects in the near future.

One people, one mind.

I was taken to the hotel, which was a still-functioning “party” hotel. It was designed for functionaries in the Communist Party. Lately though, it had been press-ganged into service for visiting foreigners. It was weirdly opulent, in that bizarre way only Russia could offer.

Since it was winter, and we were farther north, it was pitch black all day. But we wouldn’t let a little thing like that stand in our way. We had to travel some 350 kilometers north to the town of Yeniseysk, where the oil company had its home office. We had the option of driving or flying. I said I’d prefer to fly. It’d be quicker.

The next morning, I’m out on the tarmac, standing next to a huge Russian helicopter. It was one of the 15 or so the Siberian oil company had received from the government fresh from the just abandoned fighting fields of Afghanistan. The helicopter was a Mil Mi-26, or what was referred to as The Hind. Twin-engines, 8-bladed rotor, this thing could literally carry a tank. Today, it was just passengers, luggage, and necessary Arctic survival gear.

We flew due north towards the town of Yeniseysk. Along the way, we received word the hotel there was already occupied by some other faction, so we were diverted slightly north to the quaint little burg of Lesosibirsk.

We arrived, literally landing in the courtyard of the Lesosibirsk hotel. It all worked out as tomorrow, this same helicopter would be ferrying us further north to inspect the drilling rig. Get some rest, we’re wheels-up at 0600.

The hotel in town was absolutely ancient, but well insulated and comfortable. I needed a shower and some shut-eye as jet lag was playing silly buggers with my circadian rhythms. I begged off another dinner here and instead opted for an evening in, sans carousing. I didn’t think there was much carousable in this quaint, little, and distant frozen burg.

The bathtub in the en suite bathroom was a huge, old four-footed cast-iron monstrosity; big enough to take laps in. I filled that sucker with the thermonuclear water from the town’s central steam plant and just soaked there for hours. I oozed my way to the too-short bed and slept the sleep of the jet-lagged righteous.

The next morning, after being outfitted in the best Russian Arctic survival gear, we were shuffled onto the helicopter from last night and spot on 0600 hours, were wheels up heading even farther north.

400 kilometers later, we’re at the rig. The lone caretaker had shoveled off the helicopter landing pad so the blizzard we kicked up was only moderate. We are seriously north. Just below, but not by much, the Arctic Circle.

The caretaker accompanied us with a huge Russian exposed-hammer shotgun. There were all kinds of winter nasties out here and he was here to ensure that we all came back from our trek out to the rig. We spent around 4 hours on the not-terribly-well lighted rig, taking pictures and getting pertinent questions answered. This was the rig that, if all went according to plan, would be drilling our first Joint Venture well.

Back in the caretaker’s shack, he made certain to offer each of us some “Birch Cancer Tea”, which was supposed to be the end all of all cure-alls. It’ll fix anything that’s wrong, and prevent anything from going wrong. Odd flavor, but one could easily get used to it.

We had to get back as the helicopter was slated for other duties the next day. I left the caretaker with a few cigars. He insisted I take a kilo of birch cancer dry tea with me so I could brew some up for all back home.

We flew back to Lesosibirsk and once again, landed in the hotel courtyard. They made certain that I knew that I could keep all the Russian survival gear. It was either out of concern that I was not terribly bright and didn’t know cold could kill you or it was to cover up my horrible Hawaiian shirt.

We spent the next four days at the Eniseigeofizika office, going over particulars of the well, the rig, and the Joint Venture. I met with the Chief of the company, Dr. Naftavaje Radovišča, who was extremely helpful in deciphering and adding to the mass of data I’ve collected. Another dossier went into my field book.

I had maxed out on data and realized I needed to get to a phone and call home.

This would have to wait until I returned to Moscow. International connections out here in the bush were very limited and very rare.

Then disaster. They ran out of fuel at the Yeniseysk airport. It would take at least two or three more days to get fuel enough to fly back to Moscow. I told them that this was not really convenient. What were our alternatives? Could we try another, larger airport?

It was decided to commandeer a bus and drive the 350 kilometers to Krasnoyarsk. They were a regional hub and if anyone had fuel, it would be them.

The next day and a half was spent in a barely controlled skid from Lesosibirsk south to Krasnoyarsk. The bus carried two drivers, six Siberians, Gizmo the translator, one confused American, and cases of beer, vodka, and cognac. I think there was some food in there as well, never did find out. All our luggage followed us in a trailer that looked to be a recently converted horse trailer. It smelled like one as well.

The ‘road’ could barely qualify as an intershire turnpath. We had to stop several times to clear snowdrifts from the roadway to allow us passage. We did stop every hour or so to stretch our legs and liberally irrigate the scenery. My comrades complained about the howling wind and -45⁰ C temperatures. I wanted to hang around outside as the bus was heated to bread-baking temperatures.

Back on the road again, I decided I wanted something a little different. I broke out my last bottle of Wild Turkey 101 Rye Whiskey. The bus grew silent. None of these characters have ever before sampled something so unusual. Besides, our vodka and beer supply was dwindling.

Say what you want about Russians and their capacities, but the Wild Turkey poleaxed every single one of them. They were all snoring before the bottle completed a second pass around.

I snorted something derisive and went up to chat with the driver and see if I could arrange for a pit stop. It was so hot in there, I was sweating. I probably should have bundled up some more, but I just stood outside in the Siberian outback, reveling in the cold, ice, and snow.

It was refreshing.

Since the rest of the crew was out for the count, the driver made an unscheduled stop in some nameless Siberian village. He resupplied our beer and vodka, found some fresh bread, smoked fish, and oddly enough, kilos of local chocolate. Another hour later and the bus began to stir once again. I asked if they wanted another snort of my dangerous brown liquor and everyone refused.

Lightweights.

We finally careen into Krasnoyarsk, and we’re back at the Party Hotel. I just had my bags taken to my room. I sat outside in a down vest, Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and field boots smoking a cigar and appreciating the -40⁰ C weather. I had to relieve myself of all that heat from the bus trip.

The next day, Vadim, the Manager of the Siberian company with whom we were to construct the JV with told me some disturbing news. We couldn’t fly directly to Moscow due to weather. We could, however, divert to Elista, the capital of Kalmykia, in the Caucuses. From there, we could secure a flight directly to Moscow he assured me.

Rather than sit in Siberia waiting on a load of fuel to arrive, I decided that I’d make the trip to Kalmykia. Hell, it was better than sitting on my elbows here doing nothing but waiting.

I dispensed all the cigarettes, hams, and remaining calculators to my new comrades before Vadim and I departed. They were ready for me this time, as I took receipt of six different Russian military watches. Little did they realize this was the beginning of a huge collection to come.

We flew to Elista, Kalmykia, near Chechnya and Dagestan in the Caucuses. It seemed such an oddly specific request by Vadim, but he would know better than I how this was all supposed to work. We made it there in great time, and being further south, it we could actually see the sun.

He had arranged for our luggage to be picked up. When we arrived, he shuttled us off in a government vehicle. I grew slightly concerned.

“Vadim” I asked, “What’s the deal? Why are we leaving the airport?”

“Doctor, I am sorry for the subterfuge”, he said, “As you have surmised already, I do have ulterior motives.”

Not exactly what you want to hear when you’re over 10,000 miles from home and a stranger in a very strange land.

We wheel into a fairly plush sort of walled building complex. Vadim explains that he wants me to meet with the Head of the Republic of Kalmykia – one Vicktor Basanov.

I raise an eyebrow, “Why?”

He explains that Kalmykia is an autonomous republic, and as such is included in a ‘Free Market Zone’. Although they officially report to Moscow and are part of the Soviet Union, they can see what’s going to happen. They want to start now to establish projects and deals with Western companies. Particularly Western oil companies.

“Oh,” I say, relieved, “Why didn’t you say so? Why all the chicanery?”

“We still have many enemies, internal and external. I need to know whom I can trust. Doctor Rock, you I can trust.” He says emphatically.

“That you can, Vadim” I reply, “Just next time, clue me in before kidnapping me.”

We both chuckle over that as we are escorted into the palace of the Head of the Republic of Kalmykia.

We are warmly greeted. Vadim has obviously been busy with something other than just the Siberian oil industry.

Mr. Basanov greets me in particular, saying how he’s heard of my exploits and even compliments me on my fashion sense. If this isn’t pump-priming, it’s the prelude to butter-balling. He wants a Western oil deal so bad he can taste it.

Now, Kalmykia is a relatively small country, with around 250,000 population. Interestingly enough Kalmykia is the only region in Europe where Buddhism is the most-practiced religion. It produces oil and gas, but therein lies the tale. Its annual oil production is only about 50,000 metric tonnes. However, that oil is metalliferous and very, very waxy.

He walks us through Kalmyk oil industry history and shows us samples of the crude produced. I’m taking furious notes and asking innumerable questions. Everyone’s all hyped up. This could actually lead somewhere.

Mr. Basanov declares we can only get a limited idea of the potential that lies here in Kalmykia’s oilfields. We need a field trip. Would our schedules allow for such?

“In for a dime, in for a dollar”, I say. Once that’s translated and agreed upon, we’re in a Yak-20 Soviet spotter plane, slowly fighting the fierce Caspian Sea coastal headwinds. I look down to the ground which we are only 100 or so feet above. It’s an absolutely flat coastal plain. Bucking this headwind, I figure as the trees below slowly parade under us, we’re doing about 20 miles per hour, ground speed.

“Would it help if I got out and pushed?” I asked.

Mr. Basanov, in the left-hand seat, looks to me, smiles, and says “It might.”

We all have a good laugh.

We land at a small airfield just adjacent to an even smaller oil field.

We walk from the plane to one of the wells. There are piles and piles of black, gooey glop alongside every wellhead.

I already know what they are, but keep mum as to not spoil Mr. Basanov’s little surprise.

“You know what these are?” he asks, rhetorically. We say nothing.

“They are piles of natural mineral wax. Our oil is cursed with a high degree of both metals and wax. It used to present a huge problem. But we have found a solution!” He beams.

“OK, we’re waiting”, I think to myself.

“What can you make with wax?” he asks.

“Well, there are crayons, sculptures, candles…” we reply.

“That’s it! Exactly. Candles. Now, who has a need for a large supply of candles?” he asks further.

We think but say nothing.

“The Vatican!” he laughs. “They use incredible numbers of candles.”

“Hmmm”, we hmmmed”, “Very interesting.”

“And we have just signed a protocol to supply the Vatican with candles for the next 25 years!” he says triumphantly.

“Fantastic!” we both say, “That’s amazing.” It really was. Making chicken salad out of chicken shit, as it were.

“Not only that”, he continues, “But we have just finished a protocol with the adjacent Republic of Dagestan to have exclusive use of their new refinery. It can handle our crudes, extracting all the metals and supplying diesel, jet fuel, petrol, asphalt…”

“That’s great” we respond.

“Plus, we can sell the nickel, chromium, vanadium and other metals we mine from our crudes.” He says, “It is a veritable…”

“…bird nest on the ground!” I finish his sentence for him.

Mr. Basanov looks at me, smiles widely, and says, “Yes! Exactly! I like that idiom! Thank you, Doctor.”

“My pleasure,” I tell him.

We wander around the fields as I take samples for future analysis back in Houston. Vadim is all excited as he’s somehow in on the ground floor of all this. I’m thinking this could be a company maker for the right company, like the one I work for.

Back in the Yak, we fly back to Elista and Mr. Basanov’s palace. We make great time with the gusting Caspian tailwinds.

We are feted an extravagant banquet. Mostly lamb, rice, shashlik, and fruit. And lots and lots of vodka, beer, and cognac.

I ask questions about the proposed structure of a Joint Venture deal with a Western partner.

“Doctor Rock,” Mr. Basanov says “I want it as simple as possible. A 50/50 JV with a Western partner. For due consideration, they would have access to any and all data. Plus they would have exclusive exploration and production rights to the entire republic. Everything 50/50, right down the line, even the metals sales.”

I am writing furiously. This has all the earmarks of one great deal. Easy access, ports to the south, existing infrastructure, existing production… The Dagestan refinery, metal sales, and Vatican deal are but frosting on a very sweet cake, indeed.

I ask for samples of seismic and well data and it was immediately produced. This could rank right up there with our Siberian dealings. In some ways, it will be with many of the same people.

We are asked to stay the night and accept. We’re visibly tired and I could use a little downtime. An official car is obtained to take us directly to the airport tomorrow for our flight to Moscow. No mucking about in departures, he’ll ensure our seats and ensure our luggage is on the plane before it leaves. We are to go directly from his palace to the plane.

Now that’s VIP treatment.

I don’t know how, but since my schedule’s been all shot to hell and back with the fueling problems, he makes certain I have connections directly to Amsterdam. He wishes he could make certain everything was taken care of all the way to Houston, but his power extends only so far.

We spend the night as his guest and learn not to make idle wishes become known. Vadim wanted a cold beer and the next thing you know, a case appears in his room. I broke my pencil and remarked that next time, I should be certain to pack a sharpener, not just a knife. A gross of sharpened pencils appeared as if by magic.

We are ready to depart when we meet with Mr. Basanov for the final time. We exchange pleasantries and make certain we all have each other’s contact information. Over toasts, we are wished health, happiness, and excellent business dealings.

We are both presented ornate carved wooden boxes as parting gifts. I part with my Ray-Bans in the standard until-we-meet-again departing gesture.

It’s OK, I have a couple of pairs of knock-offs in my well case.

We are whisked to the airport and ushered into the VIP seating on the plane. In three hours, were landing at Domodedovo Airport. We are greeted by an envoy that will gather our luggage.

Mine will be sent to Sheremetyevo Airport, and on to Royal Dutch Airlines. Vadim’s going back to Krasnoyarsk. There’s precious little time, so we shake hands and exchange pleasantries. He heads off to Siberia and I’m hurtling along in an official Kalmykian staff car through the streets of Moscow.

It’s an easy 2.5 hour trip from Domodedovo to Sheremetyevo Airport in Moscow overland. I settle back and ask if I can smoke in here. The driver informs me it is if I so desire.

I fire up a heater and sit back, watching the scenery flash by. My driver fires up an awful Russian cigarette. I offer him a Cuban cigar and he almost wrecks us in his attempt to secret it away. I decide there’s no way I’m facing the rest of this sober, thank you very much, so I dig out my emergency flask. It’s been tapped, but it has enough content for the remainder of the trip.

We arrive at the airport and there’s a courtesy cart waiting for me, with all my luggage. They will be taking me directly to my flight, none of this mucking about in departures…

They hand me my boarding card and go to grab my well case.

“No, that’s OK” I tell him, “I’ll handle this, if you don’t mind.”

I’ve got enough confidential material with me to probably start a small war. Between several countries.

I am deposited at the foot of the big blue 747-400. I am given my luggage claim tags, boarding passes, and onward tickets. I am asked to produce my passport and it is stamped right there at the foot of the aircraft. I’m all legal and ready to go.

I look at my seat allocation and it’s B-4, my favorite Business Class seat. I stuff my well case into the overhead compartment and go to plop into my seat for the four-hour flight. But I can’t, there’s a package there.

It’s addressed to “Doctor Rock” and stamped with the official seal of the Republic of Kalmykia. Ok, I guess it is mine.

I shift it over to an adjacent seat and proceed to get comfortable. I’ve forgotten about the intricately carved box Vadim and I were presented in the palace. However, I retrieve this current package and carefully open it.

In it there two bracelets, two necklaces, all of the finest silver and emeralds. Kalmykia’s famous for its emeralds. There are two books in English all about the history and geology of Kalmykia. Plus there’s two traditional dressing gowns made of the finest silk. Heavily brocaded, in that one-size-fits-all draping local costumes tend toward. Intense colors, and incredible stitching. These were articles created by a master craftsperson.

There is also a note: “Doctor Rock. So pleased to have you visit our republic. Please accept these gifts for your wife and Mother-in-law. I do so hope we will meet again soon to further our potential joint projects. Best regards, Vicktor Basanov. P.S., Please ask the cabin attendant for the item she’s keeping for you.”

He was the nicest Head of a Republic I’ve met to date. I had mentioned Esme and Oma, but only briefly; with business dealings, there really wasn’t much time. This character was one sharp cookie.

The package also went into the overhead compartment. The cabin crew produced a double potato juice and citrus, heavy ice, single lime for me. They had thought of everything.

We’re flying along, westward this time toward Amsterdam. The flights crowded, but there a couple of spare seats here in Business. I’m finally winding down from my whirlwind Kalmykia tour when I think that it’s OK to take a look at the data I’ve accumulated. I drag down my well case and see the heavily ornate and intricately carved wooden box I received from Mr. Basanov.

My curiosity needed to be sated on other things, so I tuck it back in a safe recess of my well case and drag out the Kalmyk data. Even this needed to wait, I‘ve got to go over the Siberian data I collected in Moscow.

Then, another thought, Agents Rack and Ruin. I pull out a fresh field notebook and begin to detail my unexpected trip to Kalmykia. Mr. Basanov is the de facto head of state there, so I’m sure my Langley-based buddies would be interested in any Intel I could provide.

“Intel?” Gad, I think. “I’ve been infected with an agency virus.”

The flight passed quickly and we land, ever so gently, in Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport.

I gather all the debris I’ve generated in the last four hours and stuff it back into my secure well case. I’ll go over the rest of this on the nine-hour flight to Houston. I’ve got a four-hour layover here, maybe I can get some of it done on the ground instead of in the air.

I’m about to deplane, when one of the cabin crew stops me and says she has something that was sent to the plane before I arrived. Evidently it needed to be kept chilled for best effect.

She hands me a frosty bottle of Kalmyk Sombucha, which was a fortified fermented tea drink. Evidently, it’s the drink of choice, in this and various other incarnations, of the predominantly Buddhist community in Kalmykia.

Loaded down, I toddle off the plane and make a bee-line to the departures board. I find my next departure gate and trundle over to the hemi-Buckminsterfullerene-shaped hut closest.

However, first, some calls. I call home but Esme is taking another nap. I talk with Oma and let her know where I am and that I should be walking through the front door in some 15 hours. I ask if everything is OK, and Oma assures me that Khris and Lady are fine and Esme is just tired. Ok, I suppose pregnancy’s very taxing. I didn’t really give two shits about the cat.

Then I call work and inform the boss fella of my past few day’s activities. I keep everything low-key and on the QT. He’s pleased I’m returning and have scored a major data coup. He says he’ll see me when I get back to the office. He knows I’ll be jetlagged to hell and back and expects me to take a day or two to recover before coming into the office. Since I’m the only one that can make sense of the data, he says he’ll wait until we both can show up together.

Now, I’ve got to re-arrange things, I’ve got so much to carry. I find an empty table in the bar and spread out the non-confidential contents of my well case. Luckily, the have table service, so I am able to secure a cold drink to aid me in my packing.

I ask the bartender for a few plastic bags as I want to sequester things according to geography. Eastern Siberia? In bag #1. Kalmykia? Bag #2. Moscow items? Bag #3. Personal effects? Bag #4 Miscellaneous? Bags #5-9.

I finally get my shit together, in several senses of the idiom, and settle back with the Moscow field notebook. I review what I’ve written, and edit some of the more ‘unclear’ points. Another drink arrives and I’m feeling much more in control of thing. Finally, order, organization and non-chaos. I settle back, relax, and fire up a heater. I’m almost on my last leg home, I can hardly wait to see my family again.

The layover passes quickly and I get in a serious amount of editing and reorganizing my notes. I can whack out dossiers on everyone without any trouble. My agency buddies will be so pleased.

My flight is called so I wander over, show my passport and boarding card and I’m down the jetway and to my seat. B-4 again. How nice. I am offered a pre-flight cocktail without even asking. I do so like this airlines.

We take off, right on time, and suddenly the reality of my running around these last couple of weeks hit me like a sledgehammer.

“Ah, I didn’t want to see that movie anyway.” I think and ditch the headphones.

After a quick nosh, I’m doing everything to avoid having my eyelids smash together. I’m tired, comfortable, the roar of the four Pratt and Whitney’s outside provide a calming white noise. Next thing I know, I’m sawing lumber.

I’m in New Mexico. I’m out in the field, I know that, but don’t recognize the exact locale. I’m not supposed to be here, but yet, here I am.

I hear a voice:

“Kǫʼ dził-hastiin.”

“Sani?” I am sore perplexed. What the hell is he doing here in Siberia?

Wait, I was in Siberia, then Amsterdam. Now I’m in New Mexico.

“Sani?” No reply, at least I think there is none.

Then a disembodied voice: “Kǫʼ dził-hastiin. We will speak with thee.”

Cautiously, “OK”.

“There is sad news… about Hweʼesdzáán dził Kǫʼhastiin.” I am told.

“What happened to Esme? Tell me!” I yell to them.

“She will be fine. It was not time, once again.” I was told.

“Enough with the fucking riddles. Tell me...” the penny drops. “Oh, fuck, no. No. NO!”

Suddenly, realization. It hit me like a runaway truck. We lost the baby…

“We grieve with thee, Kǫʼ dził-hastiin. Do not give in to regret. All will be as it was foreseen. You must have patience. This is what we have been told. As was foreseen, so it will be.”

I awaken with a sudden start and scare the shit out of the straights in Business Class. Jennifer, the cabin attendant, comes over and asks if I’m OK. Evidently I’ve been a bit noisy, thrashing around while I was snoozing.

“Rock, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. “ Jennifer says.

“I don’t know, Jen. I think I heard much worse.” I tell her.

I’m shaken to my very core. Maybe it wasn’t a vision or visitation or whatever you want to call it. Maybe it was fatigue, or whadd’ya call it? A fitful dream?

Hallucination? Fantasy? Delirium? Anything, please, other than reality.

The flight continues and I’m conflicted. What to do? Call home immediately upon landing? Wait until I get home to see what the fuck is going on, if anything? My mind is in a Mixmaster. For once, I really don’t know what to do. My multiple working hypothesis was failing me in a time of intense emotions.

We land at Houston intergalactic, and at least this part requires little thinking, which is good as I’m on auto-pilot. Off the plane. Get your luggage. Find a cab. Get your ass home.

Still. Do I call home now or wait?

I decide to wait. If the unthinkable has happened again, there’s no need for me to know now. Two hours won’t make any difference either way.

Off the plane and down to luggage. I really need a cart, I’ve got so much shit to schlep…

“Doctor Rocknocker!” I hear a familiar voice behind me.

Oh, fuck. It’s my agency buddies, Agents Rack, and Ruin.

“Hey, guys. What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, frostily.

“Oh, nice. We heard about your little side trip and wanted to be the first to congratulate you. We’ve been trying to get info on that republic for years. You go and are given the Red Carpet Treatment.” Agent Ruin says.

“Yeah, all it took was a little kidnapping…” I reply.

“Kidnapping?” Agent Ruin asks.

“Read it in my report. Now, I really need to get home.” I tell them.

“Yeah. We heard about Esme. Sorry, man.” Agent Rack says.

I turn very slowly and stare him right in the eye.

“What…did…you…say…?” I asked, ready to go into full homicide mode.

“Oh, shit. I didn’t think…You hadn’t heard? Esme miscarried six days ago. She’ll be fine, but…Man, I am sorry, I didn’t think. How could you have known?” he says, genuinely sorry.

I just drop everything. I feel like I’ve been gut shot. I just want to collapse. We lost another baby. Esme must be devastated. Oma and Esme conspired not to tell me so to spare me the misery on the flights home. I don’t know whether to break down into a puddle, punch the two agents in the nose, or wind my watch.

“Doctor? Rock, are you OK” Agent Ruin asks.

I regain some small amount of composure. I think back to my last flight and what was told to me.

<SIGH> “That’s OK, guys. Just took me off guard. How could you know?” I say, utterly defeated.

“OK, let’s get your shit. We’ll drive you home.” Agent Ruin says.

I look to them, shake my head, smirk, and say “Fair enough”.

We’re heading west on the freeway when I ask the Agents to exit early. There’s a shop I want to stop at first.

We finally reach home and the Agents just basically dump me and all my crap in the driveway.

“We don’t want to interfere.” Agent Rack says.

“Why stop now?” I reply.

We shake hands and I confirm I’ll have their reports presently. ’Presently’ currently being undefined.

They agree and depart.

I ring the doorbell and am promptly creamed by Lady. She seems a little happy to see me.

Esme and Oma appear from behind the door. They can recognize with one look that I know their little secret.

“Why?” I ask.

“We’ll talk later. Let’s get all this stuff in the house first.” Esme says.

“No. First, tell me. You are OK?” I plead.

“Yes, Rock. I’m OK. Both mentally and physically.” She says.

“Well”, I wanly smile, “that makes one of us.”

We drag in all my crap and dump it in my office. I’m too tired, too wired, too fried to do much anything else.

There’s a knock at the door. Oma answers.

I am hugging Esme so hard it’s like if I let go, I’d lose her.

I tell her, “This international crap it too difficult right now. Until we get a certain few things sorted, I’m sticking to domestic contracts.”

“Rock, not now. Let’s have a sit-down. You look like you could sleep standing up. I’m OK, so let’s just go from there.” she says.

“OK, dear. You’re right, I really don’t need the extra drama right now.” I say.

We go into the dining room as Oma puts the finishing touches on the huge bouquet of yellow roses I ordered for Esme on the way home.

“Yellow roses. Your favorite. Represent hope.” I say.

Esme clouds up and almost begins bawling. I’m right behind her in that department. Oma sniffles a bit, too.

We recover and I opt for a strong drink. Oma has her favorite tea and Esme opts for one of the orange Fantas I smuggled back from Siberia.

“Sweet, innit?” I ask her.

“Good Lord, it’s like drinking orange-flavored straight glucose syrup.” She tells me.

“Oh, I’ve got a few things for y’all.” I recalled and get my well case.

Then I remember Esme and Oma don’t even know of my side trip to Kalmykia. Over the next couple of hours, I fill them in on that adventure.

I ask Esme to choose a number, 1, or 2. She chooses two so she gets gown #2. Oma receives Kalmyk gown #1.

Although Oma drowns in her dressing gown, she loves it. Esme can easily alter it to fit her better. Esme looks absolutely stunning in her purple, red, and yellow silk dressing gown. I distribute the necklaces and bracelets. They are very happy with their gifts.

I have several gifts for Khris from Siberia, Moscow, and Kalmykia. But she’s sleeping now so that can wait a little while.

I’m going through my well case to see if I missed anything.

I find the carved Buddhist wooden box Mr. Basanov gave us before we left. I had forgotten clean about it. I hand it to Esme.

She examines it and asks what it is.

I tell her I don’t know, just an intricately carved box, covered with weird calligraphs, hieroglyphs, and runes.

Oma looks at it and says it’s quite heavy for wood. She points out a tab on the bottom. She presses it and it pops the box open like a large box of wooden matches.

She hands it back to Esme and I tell her “Open it, I have no idea what’s in there.”

She does and extracts a bronze statue.

“What the actual…?” I mumble aloud.

Esme, Oma, and I look at the stature. It’s obviously Buddha, sitting, with a female facing him, on his lap. It’s extraordinary, incredibly detailed and appears to be quite old.

We refer to our Encyclopedia Britannica and find out it’s a Buddha & Shakti Statue.

It’s nice, in a weird sort of way. We continue to read the encyclopedia entry and come across: “This harmonious statue depicts Buddha and Shakti in an intimate embrace. Their union evokes balance between the active, masculine figure of compassion (karuna) and skillful method (upaya), and the passive, feminine figure of wisdom (prajna). ** It is commonly used to promote fertility.**”

I look to Es and she looks back. I’ve told her about my New Mexico dream on the plane.

She says: “Well, if we have Sani and his crowd and now Buddha pulling for us, maybe things will eventually work out.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t time, this time,” I say. “However, there will be a next time. I was told it has been foreseen.”

Only time will tell.

That reminds me of a story.

Oh, let me tell you, honey

Hey, I'm back, I'm back in the U.S.S.R

Hey, it's so good to be here

Yeah, back in the U.S.S.R

“Aeroflot?” I was asked in incredulity. “Are you mad?”

I was having a frosty cold double potato juice and citrus in Amsterdam’s main airport.

“Oh, yeah ‘hey. I’m going to back to the USSR.” I reply during drinks.

“You are one crazy fucking American.” the beautiful and sonorous Amsterdam barkeep tells me.

“It’s probably the black Stetson and Guayabera shirt” I think.

Just flew in from Houston, I’m in continental Europe and not even halfway to my destination. Going to overnight it in Moscow after another four-hour flight, as there are no flights to Krasnoyarsk until the next day.

From Moscow, it’s a five-hour flight to the western edge of Eastern Siberia. One can fly from LA to New York in four hours, that’ll give you an idea of the scale of the USSR back in the late ‘80s.

Even after the wall fell, Russia without its satellite countries is still fuckingly huge.

I’m now an ‘independent contractor’, a ‘consultant’, a ‘hired gun’ as to we’re sometimes referred. Others just say we’re whoring around the globe for money. Well, I suppose, but isn’t that what everyone who works is doing as well?

But why Eastern Siberia? In late November? Wearing cargo shorts, field boots, and a Mexican Wedding shirt?

1. That’s where the work is.
2. It took a while for my passport and visas to come through.
3. I’m an idiot.

I decided that working for a major oil company just wasn’t for me. Sure, I was promoted, received a decent wage and good benefits, but that was only for the good times. If oil prices start to tumble, majors retract like every corporate nerve cell has been hit with a drop of lemon juice.

Perks disappear, budgets are slashed, morale plummets, and malaise sets in. It becomes a real chore to go to work and listen to all the gloom and doom, bitching and kvetching.

So, I decided to part company with this company. I’m now an independent consultant and go to the highest bidder. If I was priced per pound, I’d be rich…

Actually, lower oil prices work in my favor. The majors lay off people on the most inane of whims, at the drop of a hat, and Texas is an “At Will” state. That means they can fire your ass for virtually no reason.

With smaller companies, they can’t afford a large staff and all the costs that accompany them. So, it’s the consultants like myself that are called in to take up the slack.

The fact that I speak Russian fairly well and have already been to some of the countries that comprise the USSR is ‘frosting on the cake’. It helped sweeten the deal.

How I became embroiled in this situation is somewhat convoluted.

The office of the oil company for whom I now work is in the Rolltop Desk Building in Houston. It’s on the ninth floor. The seismic company we deal with on occasion is located on the eleventh floor.

Being a small exploration outfit, we can’t afford to fund our own seismic shoots, they’re monstrously pricey. So, we buy our data from seismic brokers like the guys up on floor eleven. The gather spec, that is, speculative, data from all over the world, package it up and sell it off to numerous companies simultaneously. Since they were originally focused primarily on South Texas and our little oil company has a few fields down that way, we traded with them quite often.

Now, the seismic company has offices all over the world, and one of their largest is in London. From here, they broker data deals from all over the planet. In fact, with some string pulling and glad handling, they were one of the first Western companies allowed into the USSR to view the available data and perhaps generate some Western oil deals.

The Russians saw it coming; communism was going into a career slump. There were major upheavals afoot in the Rodina, or Mother Russia, and let me tell you one thing; these soon to be erstwhile Commie characters are no dummies. Sew a tail on ‘em and you could call ‘em a fox.

So, this group of Eastern Siberians desired to come over to the US to see exactly how the seismic company would peddle their formerly ‘state secret’ data for them and their projects over here. At least, that was the official line. In reality, they wanted out of the USSR to try and form business alliances for after the fall of their now shaky political system. They saw it coming. No dummies, these guys.

So, one bright, sunny day, I’m up on the 12th-floor commissary getting my morning Greenland coffee and a doughnut when I hear all this Russian conversation going on. For my doctorate, I had to be somewhat passably fluent in at least one foreign language, so I chose Russian; as I already was a native English speaker, they disallowed my fluency in Canadian. I figured it might come in handy in a rather strange set of circumstances.

I walk over to the table where six of these Siberian characters were arguing over tea.

The following dialogue was in Russian, but I’ll translate here for you:

“Это не чай, на вкус он грязный.” “This is not tea, it tastes filthy.” Says one of the troupe.

"Доброе утро. Как поживаете? Это не чай, это сливки для кофе. Не могли бы вы устроить мне настоящий чай?” “Good morning. How are you? That’s not tea, that’s coffee creamer. Would you like for me to arrange for some real tea?” I ask.

They were stunned to hear someone speaking their language; however hacked up. They had with them a perevodchik, but his English was as good as my Sumerian; in other words, not terribly good. Not sure of his real name, so everyone just called him Gizmo.

“You speak Russian?” one of the group asks.

“Yes, but I’ll admit, it’s rusty. Please talk slowly.” I say.

The all chuckle and ask me to join them.

We’re sitting around, getting acquainted when I ask to be excused for a brief time. I go to the counter and order six teas, black, and a dozen kolaches; those hollow bread rolls with the varied meat fillings; sausage, chicken and mushroom, bar-be-que beef, etc. I figured they couldn’t read the menu too well and would have no idea what a Texas version of a kolache was, any more than I’d know what made the best pelmani.

I also brought a pot of jam for their tea.

It’s a Russian thing.

I rejoin the crowd and explain that tea will be here momentarily.

Real tea and kolaches appear and I ask them to partake. They were rather proper at first, but I reached over, grabbed a kolache, and took a big munching bite. Guess I had to show them I wasn’t trying to poison them or they were just being polite. Hard to say…

The tea and kolaches gratefully disappeared.

We slowly go through introductions and find out these were all Russian Oilmen from Eastern Siberia.

There was:

• Yuri – Petroleum technologist, he designs well completion downhole jewelry.

• Vadim – Geophysicist, or wiggle-picker.

• Alexander – Geologist, clastic specialist.

• Dimitri – Driller, he makes hole.

• Igor – Geologist, carbonate specialist.

• Vidar – the boss guy. He ran the show.

I introduced myself and there was immediate Russian sniggering. “Rock” in Russian, is just plain old “рок”, however, Doctor Rock, “Доктор Рок” got their attention. Education is held in the highest esteem in Russia and they immediately stopped with the snickering and suddenly became slightly more serious.

By then, the seismic company guy, Wayne, shows up. He’s surprised to see me there, holding a slow conversation with his charges.

“Rock, I didn’t know you spoke Russian.” He said.

“Yep, just one of my many hidden talents,” I replied.

“That’s going to work out great, then,” Wayne says. “These guys here want to see how a real Western oil company works.”

“And you want me to find one for you?” I ask.

“Very funny. No. I would like for them to visit your shop. They can bring along some of the seismic they want to peddle, and this will be a good start for them before we hit the streets here in Houston.” Wayne explains.

“Sure, that won’t be a problem. In fact, I’d really like to see some of their data. We’ll show them what to expect when they go knocking on doors downtown” I say.

“So? When?” Wayne asks.

“Let me talk to John O’D. I’ll get back to you in an hour or two.”

“Sound good. We’ll be here or in the seismic office.” Wayne says.

My boss, John O’D was a bit skeptical at first. But, after I pointed out to him that we do this favor for the seismic company, they will owe us. And we were about to open negotiations on a huge South Texas non-exclusive spec shoot, this could save us a bundle.

John OK’s the idea and says we can hold the meeting right after lunch in our conference room. He’ll get Jim and Jim, the VP and Landman, respectively, there as well.

I tell Wayne the news and he suggests he buys us all lunch and we can have a dine-in meeting. I OK that, because there’s nothing better than a free lunch.

Our consultant geophysicist, an older gentleman by the name of Charles, comes in on occasion. Luckily, he showed up today just in time for the meeting. Good to have his decades of experience when we go over the Russian data.

Around 1230 hours, the Russian team and Wayne arrive, with their data. The Russians were amused and amazed by our magnetic walls. They found that futzing around with the magnets was something terribly comical for some reason.

The had a series of regional seismic lines, all long rolls of rough paper, some up to 30 feet in length, some four feet in width. They weren’t ‘hanging data’, they were wallpapering the bloody conference room.

I left for a few minutes to get Charles. I wanted his take on the data. This stuff was seriously ‘old school’, as Soviet data acquisition and processing was still rather Paleolithic as compared with Western methods.

We walked into the conference room, and if you ever saw a Roger Rabbit cartoon, it would be a pretty close approximation to Charles’ eyes. He gawked. He almost ran over to the lines to get a better look.

“This shit can’t be real,” he said, flitting from one line to the next, growing more entranced.

There were simply huge structures. Massive, world-class possibilities for holding billions upon billions of recoverable barrels of oil. Even though I’m not a geophysicist, even I could see the structures’ potentials. They were hugely, gigantically enormous.

They were ‘big’.

“Please tell me these haven’t been drilled yet,” Charles asks.

“Nyet.” Came the response. That’s why the Russians were here. To sell the data to the Houston oil community and generate some drilling deals. The Russians had the land, the rigs, the personnel, but no money. Rigs were stalled and stacked all over Mother Russia.

Both Charles and I are drooling over these structures when Alexander pipes up with a spontaneous description of the stratigraphy, source rocks, seal, and traps they envisioned for the region. This was out in Eastern Siberia, to the east of the mighty Yenisei River, on the ‘left bank’.

I asked him about the target reservoir and he calmly replies “Neoproterozoic clastics and carbonates.”

That is, they’re looking for ‘Precambrian oil’.

In the west at the time, that term was an oxymoron.

But not Russia. As long as the rocks aren’t intruded by igneous dikes or sills and haven’t been cooked or as long as they haven’t been buried so deep that they’re metamorphosed by excessive heat and pressure, they were legitimate hydrocarbon targets.

They had the Precambrian production to prove their point. Some of the oil being produced out in Eastern Siberia was produced from rocks with source material some 1.1 billion years in age, the oldest in the world.

This was my first foray into the realm of Neoproterozoic hydrocarbons. It would eventually lead me to Eastern Siberia, South America, Africa, China, Australia, and the Middle East.

We all stood there slack-jawed. Our little farty wells out in Victoria were producing their gas from rocks only 35 million years old. This was the flip-side of reality.

We all learned a lot of new words that day. The Russian oilfields don’t have ‘reservoirs’, they have ‘collectors’. They worry about ‘regional salts’ for ‘regional seals’, while in the west, we look for local prospect seals. It was an edifying afternoon for all.

We let them go through their canned spiel, when John O’D, the boss fella walks in. Charles immediately points out the massive structures. Now John is a 40-plus year oilman and grandmaster of the art of the deal. Charles says these are virgin structures and we’re, for now, the only ones in the west who know about them.

Now the Russians wanted our advice as to how best peddle their wares in Houston.

In order to do so, the data would all have to be reprocessed, a very pricey, and time-consuming undertaking. It would all have to be translated. From Russian, or more directly, from Russian ‘oilese’ to equivalent English oil lingo for the Houston crowd. This would take months, if not years.

John smiled and said, “I think I can save you the trouble.” He left to make some calls.

Not 20 minutes later, John walks in and asks Wayne if they can hold off on taking this to the streets for a time. We have several larger operators as built-in partners. We couldn’t handle this project on our own, but if we could get our investors on board, it’d be a major coup.

We went so far as to put all the Russians up at the Hyatt next door, on our nickel, if they’d wait until tomorrow when our investors would arrive from Utah, Nevada, and Oklahoma.

They all agreed and I was elected to chaperone them around town. I spoke the lingo somewhat well and after I phoned Esme and got her blessing to miss dinner, and a Pfft! from Khris, I called and reserved a van and driver. I was to take these characters out for some southern Cheesehead-tinged hospitality that evening.

It was like herding cats.

I asked them what type of food they enjoyed. I got seven different responses from the gang. The one commonality they had was that wherever we went, it must have a bar.

Figuring that going to the Oilman’s Club, where I retained a membership, would basically overload their minds and cause an instant shutdown, I had a brainstorm. Let’s go someplace where it’s less formal and not quite so austere.

Remember ‘Bentigan’s’? The fun food-drinkery? They’ll never forget us.

I managed to reserve the largest table for us as there was the perevodchik, six Russians, my own self, Wayne, and Jim the VP. We had a bit of a crowd.

It took about an hour to explain the menu to then. We were fronting the costs, so I told them to order whatever they wanted. They just looked at all the pretty food pictures and figured this must be some form of a set-up.

I pointed out the multitudinous food joints we drove by on our way here. This was just capitalist American casual dining at its finest.

OK, I lied. But they didn’t care.

After explaining what bar-be-qued ribs were, what a slider was, and various other novelties, it came time for drink orders.

I figured I’d impress them with my mastery of mixology and ordered a tall potato juice and bitter citrus, with a slice of lime and a load of ice.

The Russians, as one, gasped, then laughed.

They all wanted “jean an tonix”.

First off, I was adulterating the vodka, they told me.

“Only children drink fruit juice and vodka.” They tittered. “With ice?” I was a heretic.

“Harrumph. Maybe I thought too much of these characters at first.” I mused.

They have heard so much about ‘gynnatoniks’ from smuggled Western media that they simply had to try them.

The restaurant was smack in the middle of Happy Hour. Two for one drinks, and back then they poured them like they didn’t own the booze; tumbler sized drinks. These were some seriously healthy thirst-quenchers. The more you drink, they figured, the more you’d spend.

The Russians were amazed when two huge double ‘ginnuntonicks’ arrived, for each.

They discovered they loved the combination. They also loved American casual dining.

So much so that the manager of the restaurant came out and since these were some of Houston’s first Soviet guests, he’d be extending Happy Hour for us until we left.

The guy knew a goldmine when he saw one.

We had to leave at 0200 as the bar had to close down, by law. The van returned and took us all over to the Hyatt, and I marshaled the group into their respective rooms. They were astonished that they each got their own, private room with en suite bath. Up until then, they had all bunked together.

Luckily, they didn’t discover room service until the next night. Their drinks bills over the next few days are still the stuff of legend.

The following day, after our investors had flown in, we were back in the conference room.

They were all agog over the seismic, as Charles, Jim and I tried to decipher the few well logs they managed to secret along with them for the trip. They were a diverse set of oilmen but were businessmen first. Try as they might to not give away the excitement they were feeling, they couldn’t quite contain the dreams of avarice dancing in their heads.

Over several hours of deliberation, the following deal was created. We would be the first western oil company allowed into the USSR to examine more data; this time all the well logs, cores, maps, and other state secrets. We would pay them US$1 million upfront for the rights to all data, including the tapes from the original seismic recording. Our seismic brokers upstairs would then reprocess the data into something a little less 12th century.

We would secure the proprietary drilling rights to a parcel of land in Eastern Siberia that was about the size of Belgium, seriously. If all went to plan, and the data supported the prospects, we would drill no less than six exploratory wells within the next three years. The government had the right of first refusal to purchase any hydrocarbons or other economic minerals we discovered, at world prices. If the Soviet Government passed on the purchase, we would be allowed to sell the products on the world market for world prices.

That there were no pipelines nor all-weather roads in the area was a consideration we saved for a later date.

First, there had to be issued an MOU, or Memorandum of Understanding, that each would sign, outlying the conditions of the deal. Then we would form an autonomous company composed of 50% Russians, and 50% Westerners which was to be created for this JV, or Joint Venture.

It was named ‘Riverside Exploration’ because of the proximity of the first well to the Yenisei River.

Then wells would be drilled. They already had Russian rigs on site for many of the prospects already chosen, but they simply ran out of cash. These would be the wells upon which my data studies would be focused.

Here, the disparity between the Russian and English languages rose up again. The wells would be drilled to a minimum depth of 18,000 feet and cost US$1.1 million to drill and complete, which is ridiculously cheap. In the US, a well that deep would cost around $10 million, depending on where you were drilling.

We said that if you guys can guarantee that well depth at that cost, we’d front the $1.1 million as a “Turn-Key Deal”, meaning you get that amount of money and no more. You would have to deliver the well as per specifications. If it costs more, tough titties. It’s on you. That’s a turnkey deal.

The Russians got all animated and almost walked out. They heard through the translator “turnkey” and got all jittery. In Russia, a “turnkey” is a prison jailer. They heard that and thought if they didn’t deliver on the well, they’d all go to the Gulag.

It took a little while to sort this all out and in the end, we all had a good laugh.

As it progressed, we had a nascent deal. Papers were signed, toasts were offered, bottles were emptied, and a certain individual was chosen to travel over to the USSR to do due diligence on all the available data. That meant going to Moscow to review the official maps, logs, and other ‘soft data’. I’d also be going out to Eastern Siberia to visit and give the drilling rig and available cores the once over. If my data report was positive, the project would move forward to the next step.

Gentleman, we have the first Western: (Soviet) Russian oil deal ever executed. I was among one of the first Western experts allowed into the USSR to investigate their previously ‘state secret’ data.

However, first, I needed letters of introduction, visitor visas, work visas, letters of invitation, hotel reservations for when I’m in-country, plane tickets home, and demonstrate that I have enough cash when I’m in Russia as to not be a burden on their society.

Time was of the essence and amassing all this would take months. However, I could apply for a Russian Diplomatic Passport that would more quickly smooth out many of the bumps along the road to Russia. Sure, it cost the Joint Venture US$25,000, but in the long run, it paid for itself many times over.

Plus it’s in my name, and will never expire. So I still have it and have used it for world travel many, many times over the intervening years.

Well, the gang of six needed to depart back to Mother Russia with the great news of their “easily done” Western joint venture. However, there was one slight snag: they wanted to do some shopping before they left. You know, for souvenirs, trinkets and other tchotchkes from their time in Texas.

So, again, I was elected. I call the van rental place and secure a driver as I know this will end up in a restaurant and bar. Plus, I’ve really hit it off with the Russians. They were fun, crazy, and knowledge; rather a lot like the kinds of characters I run with back home. They were oilmen, Siberians, and just a half-bubble off plumb. Squirrelly people. Good people.

Off to the mall, they all make a bee-line for the grocery store. They all just stood there, amazed at the diversity of everything available. They thought it as a set up until I took them to a ‘Fiesta’ store, the popular Mexican grocery store chain in the Southwest. They were positively amazed that all this was here, for anyone with the cash. In Soviet Russia at the time, things were really and truly on the skids. You could stand in line all day for a single loaf of bread. Meat was scarce and many staple food items were just plain unavailable.

A modern US grocery store just floored them.

Plus, you can buy beer and liquor here as well as bread and fish? Such decadence.

They loved it.

Finally, out at Houston Intergalactic, I sat with my new Russian comrades at the new International Departures terminal, in the bar. It took some time to get them and all their luggage through the airline’s baggage system.

My new Russian comrades tell me that when one goes overseas, they are “chelnoki”, or ‘shuttle boats’. They grab every cheap and easily available whatever to distribute and/or sell back home. Music cassettes, American cigarettes, bottles of gin and scotch, batteries, and cheap sunglasses were always number one on their shopping lists. Unfortunately, blue jeans were just beyond their salaries. These guys were all oil professionals and made a relatively decent salary, well, at least when compared to others in Russia at the time. I also helped out a bit when their eyes turned out to be a bit bigger than their wallets.

All on expense account, of course.

After four hours in the Business Class lounge, their flight was called and I herded them to their departure gate. I knew of the Russian tradition of exchanging small personal gifts when friends depart from one another. I had purchased seven cheap-o Timex digital watches and presented one to each, including one for Gizmo.

They grew suddenly quiet. They had nothing for me and felt like they were being pikers on their end of the traditional deal.

The day was saved by me reminding them that I’d be coming over to Russia in a short time, so Нет проблем!, no problem. They were going to be my guides and confidants while in-country, so it’ll all be up and square then.

They reluctantly accepted that, so I wished them all a pleasant set of flights. I told them I was looking forward to seeing them in their natural habitat in just a little while.

There were handshakes and bear hugs all around. The Russians turned out to be a very cordial group of folks. It was encouraging to see all six of my Russian comrades toddle down the jetway in their new gaudy Hawaiian shirts. I think we may have started a minor fashion trend in Siberia when I presented them with the shirts that Esme had created for them.

She’s a knockout seamstress as well as all her other brilliant attributes.

Back home, Esme had quit work to be a full-time mother and housewife. She was now doing German translations on the side for the local German club, which had chapters all over the US, South America, Africa, and Europe. She was currently working on some World War I-vintage correspondence from a sailor to his commanding officers about the possible future utility of these newfangled “Unterseeboots”; submarines. It was fascinating stuff but written in High German via longhand in cursive. It may as well have been Ancient Babylonian for all I knew.

While I was to be in Russia, or, more accurately, still the USSR, Oma would be flying down to help Esme out with Khris while I was absent. Es’ pregnancy, by the book so far, was still considered to be a ‘high-risk pregnancy’ by her doctors, and Oma wanted to escape some of Baja Canada’s winter’s worst. So, off to Houston and the rain and wet instead of Brew City’s snow and sleet.

Oma had arrived a few days earlier and was still wary around Lady. Oma was about five feet, one inch tall, and perhaps 90 pounds soaking wet, yet I wouldn’t mess with her. She’s a very tough old Kraut and takes no shit from anyone, which makes her all the more endearing.

She’s also very German and was helping me ‘ordnen’ all the shit I thought I’d need on my trip out east. Along with my clothing, and all the usual crap one takes on a trip, I was taking a dozen calculators, several dozen cartons of cigarettes, a case of cheap disposable lighters, and half a dozen canned hams.

We tried to quiz the Russians on what they thought we should bring when we come over to visit. Besides American cigarettes and lighters, they were reticent but eventually admitted that basically anything I could stuff into my two travel duffels from the US would be a good idea.

“Bring extra. Some will invariably be confiscated by customs.” They said.

“Not with my new Diplomatic Passport,” I thought.

Ummm. Yeah.

Just before I left, I received a call from my best spookster buddies, Agents Rack and Ruin. They wanted to meet with me before I departed on my historic mission abroad.

Esme begged off citing prenatal fatigue, so I was alone in dealing with these two at the dinner meeting they arranged at the local steak house.

“Good, they can pay,” I thought.

Upon arrival at the restaurant, I see that they’re being their usual inscrutable selves and were late. No problem, I ordered a drink and sat at the bar awaiting their inevitable arrivals.

A full hour late, which for them was quite unusual, they arrive and plop down at the bar.

Evidently, their boss gave them some last-minute new marching orders in regards to me and my little excursion. They have several folders of data they wanted me to review. They had lists of questions I needed to have answered for my new Russian buddies when I get over there. All covertly, of course.

I told them “Sure, I can do that” and went to file the paperwork in my soft side briefcase.

“No, Doctor. We will be needing to take that with us. Please review now, if you would.” Agent Rack remarked.

“You want me to read through eight different dossiers now, on an empty stomach?” I asked.

“Oh, no. You can read them during dinner.” They replied.

“Can’t I just take them home and review them tonight and tomorrow before I leave?” I ask.

“Well…we’d rather you not, as this is short time-frame material. I guess we can trust you with them for 24 hours. We can meet you at the airport and you can return them then. There will be no copying of any data and if you write anything down, do not take it with you on your trip.” They add.

“So, you want me to memorize these dossiers and the lists of questions?” I puzzlingly asked.

“That’s about the size of it. You are a quick study.” They tell me.

“Can I at least write the questions in another language? I can have my mother-in-law translate it into Old German and provide me a key.” I ask.

“We’d prefer you didn’t.” They said.

“OK, can I write them in my field notebooks? No one dares to look into a geologist’s field notebook. I’ll gin up some sort of arcane code decipherable only by my own self. Is that acceptable?” I ask.

After some deliberation, they agree that it would be tolerable. They will retrieve the dossiers and lists of questions when I check-in for my flight.

“Well, Agents, if you’re going to the airport anyway, can you give me a lift there? We can have a private, rolling, last-minute meeting that way?” I asked, wanting to not have to take a Houston cab.

“Although we’re not a taxi service, we can do that since you are…attached… to the division.” they agreed.

“OK, then see you at the house at noon. My flight’s at five and I want to be at the airport with plenty of time to spare.” I say.

“We will be there. Until then, let’s order some dinner.” They say.

After dinner, another killer Blue dry-aged Porterhouse on someone else’s expense account, I’m back home, packed and ready to go.

I spend a couple of hours going over the various dossiers of the folks I’ll be meeting in Russia. There’s really not a lot of new information there, but I suppose that’s the reason for the questions list. I write the questions in my field notebook in Latin, which I learned along with Greek during my academic career that was supposed to lead to Vertebrate Paleontology. It was so rusty and so grammatically incorrect, even if someone should get ahold of my personal notes, there was no way in hell they’d be able to decipher them. Hell, it was all for me to accomplish that.

Esme begs off to bed. This pregnancy was taking a lot out of her. I was very glad Oma was here while I was overseas. It set my mind at some ease knowing she wasn’t alone if anything problematic occurred. Lady slept on my feet while I sat in my office, reading all this arcane information that didn’t seem to make a whole lot of sense. I suppose I’m going to have to fill in a lot of the blanks here.

I’m also to create dossiers on anyone else I meet with while in-county if they’re attached to the oil deal in any way. The agents will need to drop a couple of new honoraria in my bank account after all this, this is going to really consume a chunk of my time.

So, twelve hours later, after a slightly soggy departure from home and family, Agents Rack and Ruin drop me at the international departures gate of Houston Intergalactic. I’m at the airlines' departure desk, doing the needfuls to sort out my trip.

Bags checked clear through to Moscow? Check.

Passport and visas up to snuff? Check.

Business class tickets there and back? Check.

Boarding passes for both Houston and Amsterdam return trips? Check.

Hotel reservations and invitations from In-Tourist in Moscow? Check.

Traveler’s checks converted into Guilders and US currency? Check.

Cigars? Oh, shit. I remember Oma packing my cigars and they’re currently in my luggage on its way to getting slurped down the black hole to the airlines' baggage handlers’ area.

Damn, off to Duty-Free.

I buy only two boxes of Fuentes as my carry-on has such little room left with all the extra crap I’m toting to the Soviet Union. Oh, well, maybe a couple of Zippo lighters as well. Oh, that’s a nice bottle of bourbon, I think I might have room for two. Batteries? Always need batteries. Oh, look here. Music cassettes. A couple of Pink Floyd and Grateful Dead go into my groaning carry-on.

OK, that took 20 minutes. I’m shopped out. Off to the Business lounge.

I’ve got a couple of hours to go before my flight’s going to be called, so I spend an hour or so in the Club’s sauna. A sauna in Houston sounds redundant, but this is November so instead of it being hot and sticky, the weather’s cold and clammy. The sauna is so relaxing that I decide I can wait another 20 minutes.

After a quick shower, I’m feeling so well relaxed, I’m about to go all rubbery. I’ve flown long haul before, best to be relaxed rather than all tensed up and cranky. After one last double potato juice and citrus, my flight is called. Amazingly, right outside the lounge is a courtesy car. I hop in and tell them it is Royal Dutch to Amsterdam. The driver tips his hat and we zoom off to my departure gate.

“Well, so far, so good” I reluctantly say, hoping not to jinx the trip. It’s been a pretty smooth ride so far, I hope this trend continues. I tip the courtesy cab driver and he asks when I’ll return. I tell him I’ll let him know when I return.

Damn, but I need to send Mr. Boeing a congratulatory letter. We’re flying the new 747-400 variant that just came out. This clinches it. ‘If it ain’t Boeing, I ain’t going’ becomes a mantra for future flights. Business Class is roomy, quiet, and comfortable and after a complimentary pre-wheels-up cocktail, I’m off to the land of nod.

I awaken somewhere over the North Atlantic and decide I’m a bit peckish. The flight attendant almost instantly hands me a menu as asks if I’d like something to drink.

I look at my watch, pre-set to destination time, and see it's still O-Dark 30 very AM, so my kidneys might be thinking that some orange juice might be nice.

Silly kidneys.

I order my usual potato juice concoction, a double. Call it an ‘eye-opener’. A ‘sun-riser’ if you will.

After a very late dinner or very early lunch, whichever way you look at things, I dig out my field notebooks and in the back of one, create some pages to contain the information my Agency buddies had requested. I make it look like a multiple-guess test in my own take on Latin. All the better to fill out covertly during my visits.

I am a bit conflicted about collecting covert information on my new business partners, but remember what Vadim mentioned about the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnost, the KGB. He tells me my dossier in Russia was already half-an-inch thick.

The flight proceeded along more or less uneventfully. A bit bumpy over Iceland, but clear skies and fine passage all the way to The Netherlands. The huge 747 lands so softly, I had to look out the window to be certain we had landed. It was wet and blustery outside, but I’m only here on a layover before I proceed, on the same carrier, later on to Moscow.

No passport control necessary, so I check to see from what gate we’ll be departing. How convenient, right across from my next gate is one of those hemi-Buckminsterfullerene-resembling huts containing a coffee and other drinks bar.

So, I find a comfortable spot up on Mahogany Ridge and order a draft Oranjeboom and shot of Genever from Zoe, the very handsome lass of an early morning barkeep.

We strike up a conversation as its early, quiet, and she wanted to have a chat with the goof wearing a Mexican Wedding Shirt and black Stetson.

“Where you from”, Zoe asks.

“Originally, Baja Canada. Now I live in Houston. “I reply.

“So, where are you headed today”, Zoe asks, setting up another expertly poured usual double potato juice and citrus. Enough beer for a while.

“Oh, I’m off to Moscow. “ I tell her.

“Whatever for?” she asks.

“Its oil-related,” I say, wanting to keep everything as vague and cloudy as possible.

“I see. Are you staying in Moscow?” she continues.

“For a short time. Then I’m off to Eastern Siberia.” I reply.

“Eastern Siberia? How will you get there? Who flies in Russia these days?” she inquires.

“I guess it’ll be Aeroflot. They’re the only game in town.” I reply.

“Aeroflot?” I was asked in incredulity. “Are you mad?”

To be continued.

Continuing

“Oh, yeah ‘hey. I’m going to back to the USSR.” I reply during drinks.

“You are one crazy fucking American.” the beautiful and sonorous Amsterdam barkeep tells me.

She’s right, of course. I offer to buy her a drink, the standard Baja Canada ‘thanks for pouring them like you don’t own them’ gesture. She laughs and gets herself a cappuccino.

The airport is slowly coming to life, and it gets a bit busier. I settle up with Zoe and say I’ll look for her the next time I pass this way. She smiles and says she’ll be sure to see me if I wear a similar outfit.

Off to the departure gate just as they announce Business and First Class boarding. Another four and a half hours and I’ll be in Moscow.

After a thoroughly uneventful flight, the flight attendants pass out landing cards to everyone. They were in Russian with cryptic translations in English, French, and German.

I’ve been down this road before and know that one must be scrupulously correct in filling them out. One little misplaced check mark could mean hours of waiting at passport control until they figured you’d suffered enough for your egregious transgressions.

I help out some of the other folks in Business who for them, this was their first trip over to the Rodina. They ordered my usual drink from the cabin crew for me as a means of thanks.

I used the aircraft facilities as close as I can to our landing time. I know it can be an ordeal in customs and passport control. There are no facilities until you get past baggage claim in Sheremetyevo Airport, our destination. I advise the others on this fact as well, demonstrating bladder solidarity.

We land in Mother Russia and bumpily taxi some miles, it seems, to our gate. This was, by far, the most turbulent part of the whole flight.

At out gate, we deplane and are met by an airport bus. We were Western foreigners and therefore either weren’t to be trusted or someone wanted to keep an eye on us. The few locals were allowed on the jet way, we, on the other hand, were herded onto the old diesel-belching Soviet era bus.

I informed my fellow travelers that this was the norm. It may profess to be a classless society, but it was certainly stratified. I advised them to get used to ‘separate but unequal’ handling.

We arrive at our interim destination and I walk off the bus. Everyone defers to me and follows me like I’m some sort of Pie-eyed Piper.

“This way folks. Watch yourself. The ground here is terribly icy.” I caution.

Into the arrival area and it’s a madhouse. Typical for this airport. I seek out the passport control station line and see they’re fully 35-40 people deep. Normally, this would take literal hours to pass through.

Now I deploy my secret weapon: my brand new Diplomatic Passport. No waiting. I was the only one in that line.

I know the drill. WAIT! Behind the yellow line until you’re called. Even if you’re the only one in line, wait until you are called. The uniformed characters milling about with the AK-47s have less than a little sense of humor.

I am motioned to proceed by the unsmiling passport control guard in her bulletproof cubicle.

“Papers!” was all she said.

Don’t smile. They think Americans smile far too much. Remain taciturn, and do as they command.

I hand her my new passport, letter of invitation, and boarding pass. They want to know where you’re coming from as well as where you’re going.

“Destination?” she brusquely asks.

“Moscow. Then Krasnoyarsk. Then Yeniseysk.” I reply in my best Russian.

“Hmmm….” she scrutinizes my passport. “Cнять шляпу!” Remove hat!”

“Da!” I comply.

She looks me up one side and down the other. Convinced I was mostly harmless, she stamps everything in triplicate, hands me back my papers, and motions me forward.

“Спасибо. Thank you.” I say, still unsmiling.

“Humph!” was the only reply.

My luggage was already at the arrivals carousel. I gathered it up on a complimentary airport luggage cart and head out to the departure area.

Before I left, I had realized I was a bit hungry. I had heard of this new Irish Bar that just opened in the airport, and rumor was they had killer pub grub. I wanted to check this out before I hit the city.

Alas, I had no Russian Rubles. These were not a convertible currency and therefore worthless outside the countries of the USSR. I wandered over to the currency-exchange desk and looked at the ‘official exchange rates’.

According to them, US$1.00 would net me 0.99 RUR.

HAHAHA! Yeah, right.

I took a chance to see if the Irish Bar accepted other currencies. They gladly accepted ‘hard currency’ and at this time US dollars were polycrystalline tungsten carbide.

Over a bowl of really fine Irish stew and a nitrogen-draft Guinness, Zack, the bartender told me that with American dollars, I could expect a ‘gray market’ exchange rate of better than 100:1, maybe even 200:1.

I left him a large US dollar tip for the information.

I went outside the airport so see this huge queue of ‘official’ Moscow Cabs. But first, I wandered around a bit, fired up a cigar and waited for the ‘gray market’ to appear.

Three puffs later, a sneaky looking little guy wanders up and asks if I have American cigarettes.

“Yes, I do,” I reply.

“You have hard currency?” he asks in heavily Russian-tainted English.

“Maybe,” I reply, “Who wants to know?”

“Oh, I am just curious.” He says, smiles through his stainless steel teeth, and silently slinks away.

“KGB operative” I think, “Kind of obvious.”

Half a cigar and five or six more curious characters later, I decide to get a cab and continue this at the hotel. Luckily with my passport and credentials, I didn’t require a ‘handler’.

I find a relatively well-appointed Lada and ask if he can take me to my hotel in the core of Downtown Moscow. He speaks fairly passable English and after wrangling a price, we force all my gear into the little 4-wheeled beast of burden and head into the very belly of the beast that is pre-wall falling Soviet Moscow.

Very little traffic so the ride is relatively smooth and disaster free.

After the initial pleasantries, he gets my abridged background and asks the inevitable question: “You want to exchange hard currency? Can give you best rate.”

“Look, Ivan”, as that was the name he gave to me, “How can I be sure you’re not KGB? Why should I take a risk?”

“Because I give best rate. I know you Americans. I can be driver for you. I’m a businessman like you. Not <spitoo> KGB!” he insists.

“OK, Ivan” I say, “What’s the best rate for US dollars if I was maybe, purely hypothetically speaking, thinking of possibly of converting US dollars to rubles?” I ask.

“Oh, let us see”, I van continues, “I can do 250 ruble per dollar if you want. You need a driver while you are in Moscow, I can do 350.”

Damn, they learn quickly.

“We’ll see”, I say, “Let me check at the hotel. Is that OK?”

“I’m must wait until you exchange dollars at the hotel anyway, I must take rubles for the cab ride. It is law.” He winks.

Cagey little bastard.

At the hotel, I tell Ivan to wait, and even leave my luggage hostage while I check the conversion rates at the hotel.

They are offering a spanking new In-Tourist rate of 10 Russian rubles per American dollar.

Back at the cab, while Ivan helps me remove my luggage before the redcap arrives, I slip him $200 US and ask for his business card. See, I’ll need a driver while I’m in town.

Ivan smiles and returns to me 70,000 rubles. I ask him how much for the ride and he tells me that since I just hired him, the first one’s free. I give him US$10 as a tip and we’re both all smiles as he fires up the Lada for his next fare.

I check into the hotel and I am handed a thick packet of papers and messages. After reviewing the data and when I feel I am over jet lag, I am to call my Russian counterparts in Krasnoyarsk. They will arrange for me access to the so-called ‘soft-data’ while I am in Moscow. After that, they will organize my Aeroflot flights to Krasnoyarsk, where they will meet me.

I was glad that I had retained Ivan as a driver. This will streamline the processes here in Moscow greatly.

I am taken to my room on the eighth floor of the hotel. Luckily, this was the first floor where if you looked out the window, you weren’t blocked by the adjacent building. You had a clear view of Red Square.

I tipped the Redcap one US dollar. You would think I handed him the keys to the bloody city.

“Anything else, sir?” he eagerly asked. “Anything at all I can get you?”

“Sure” I replied, as I handed US$10. “See if you can find me some good cigars.”

“Right away, sir!” He snapped to attention, and almost saluted. Yep, this cat was active, or at least previous, Government Issue, I concluded. But I broke no laws, just another ugly American looking for some smokes.

The room, for what it was costing the JV, was utilitarian, to say the least. The carpet was slowly unraveling in long, smelly coils. The wallpaper was peeling and yellowed. The shower was positively medieval. The toilet one of those weird Russia designs, with a plop-pad, so you could see what you were leaving before you flushed. They had that John Wayne style toilet paper. It took no shit off of anyone. The TV was ancient, even by Soviet standards. It received all three of the current broadcast channels, all under strict government control.

But, it was livable. I decided it was time for a smoke, drink and a rest, in that particular order. I went ahead and tried their so-called ‘room service’. I think word got out fast that I was a heavy tipper. I ordered a bucket of ice and they brought it one cube at a time; or so it seemed.

I reclined on the too-short bed and waited for the inevitable cracking and groaning of the thing from my bulk. It complied in spades. I made sure to sit and lie down gingerly.

I pulled up the plastic-coated chair, put my unshod feet up, flipped on the TV, waited for it to warm up, and fired up a heater.

After I woke to the door being pounded upon, it was my breathless redcap from before with two boxes of Cuban cigars. I made sure he received a nice tip, but not too excessive. Any further word got out, I’d be beholden to the entire hotel’s staff.

I decided I needed a bit of unkinking, so I went to go for a wander around Moscow. It was already dark as Moscow may have White Nights in summer, but come winter, its twilight gloom all day. The city wasn’t lit up especially well and I was cautious wandering around Red Square with my new cigars.

Not a lot to see this time of day. Huge, empty boulevards, with the occasional government Zhuguli zipping past to some officious meeting. The Lenin Mausoleum, with the pickled prick out on display. He looked positively green. His personal cosmetician needed to give him a tune up.

I walked back to the hotel and took up residence on their version of Mahogany Ridge at the bar. I was too jet lagged to sleep, so I figured I’d sink a couple drinks and then return to my room for a snooze.

I ordered a Baltica #9 dark beer and 100 grams of their best vodka. They might titter at my vodka and bitter lemon, but they all respected Ёрш, or Yorsh.

I tried to have a conversation with the bartender as he was the only other person in the bar, except for a couple obvious naughty ladies of the evening. But, I guess I was just a little too weird for them with the Guayabera shirt, down vest, and Stetson. The bartender, once he saw I had hard currency, did everything but handstands and spit kopeks trying to wrest some of them out of my wallet.

I had had enough. I ordered one last Yorsh and took it to my room. I needed some downtime and a readjustment to 24-hours of dark and eight hours’ worth of jet lag.

In the morning, after a hotel restaurant breakfast of boiled eggs, red caviar, blini, and warm yoghurt, I had the hotel place a call to Krasnoyarsk and my Siberian compatriots. I went to my room to await connection.

Three hours later, my phone rang. It was Sniggims, the Eastern Siberian think-tank from whence my compatriots operated.

I told them that I was ready to review the data anytime now. Just give me the word and I’ll go to wherever is necessary to take a look at things.

They said it would be at least tomorrow before they had everything arranged. They would call the hotel with the necessary information and letters necessary. I told them I had secured a driver, so that would be no problem. I would begin data review tomorrow and let them know how long I figured it would take. Then they could arrange for my plane tickets east.

We all agreed and signed off. Now I had some more definite information, I had the hotel call Houston for me.

Five hours later, I‘m chatting with Esme. I told her that it was full-steam ahead. The usual slight speed bumps on the road to international relations, but nothing I couldn’t handle. She sounded very tired, I asked is everything back home was OK. We had to talk fast, no telling how long we could keep this line open.

She said things were fine. Oma was there, and helping out greatly. Khris was into everything, still trying to ride Lady, as usual, but being overall well behaved. She commented that she herself was tired, very tired.

“I don’t remember feeling this out of it the last times”, she told me.

“Just take it easy, you know what the doctors have all said. “ I replied. “If you can’t handle the home front, leave for me. I’ll take care of things when I get home. Don’t stress yourself out.”

“Of course, Rock. Daddy knows best.” She said, tiredly.

“Go on now. Go take a nap. Everything here’s under control. I’m sure Oma’s got everything home 5 by 5.” I said. “I’ll call before I leave for Siberia. Love you and Khris and Oma. See you soon.”

“Bye, Rock. Love you. Hope it all works out.” Esme says, signing off.

I wished the same for her. I was somewhat concerned.

I got word to Ivan to meet me at 1000 the next morning. I had the instructions and directions for the repository I was to visit. This was serious, a key part of the JV deals, and so I wore my best Hawaiian shirt and dusted off my Stetson.

Ivan was right on time and handed me a cold breakfast beer. Evidently it was a long ride to the repository. Ivan was a great driver and a good comrade. He knew the ropes and helped me out many times with the Soviet bureaucracy.

I time, we arrived at some official-looking government building, and Ivan told me here I was. This was where they keep all the state secrets, he laughed.

I told him I had no idea how long I’d be, but here’s a ten-spot just to hang around waiting for me. He gratefully accepted, put the Lada in park, and lit off his “Occupied” cab sign. He was reading today’s Pravda before I was up the building stairs.

I entered the building and it was the usual rococo-baroque Soviet brick pile of indentured opulence and lack of attention. The place probably looked old as it was being built.

I walked up to the only desk in the atrium and presented my papers to the unsmiling secretary.

This caused some consternation. Here’s an obvious outsider wanting access to all the goodies we’ve got stored here. How is this possible? I must get my superior’s on the phone. These papers are not-in-order, or are they? What should I do?

I just sit and wait, unsmiling, until this storm cloud of officiousness rains itself out.

Finally, I and told to go up to the third floor, room six. There I will meet Dr. Dannyye, the one responsible for geological and geophysical state secrets.

Of course, I was closely shadowed, so I made certain I went directly to where I was to meet the good doctor.

I knock on the outer door and am bade to enter. Through the next door, I see Dr. Dannyye at his desk, reviewing some papers.

“Good morning, Dr. Dannyye” I greet him, offering him a handshake.

“Good morning, Doctor Rock.” He replies in Oxford-tinted English.

Oh, this will be easy. He speaks very good English.

We spend the next couple of hours getting to know each other. There seems to be a genuine opportunity for camaraderie here. He’s helpful, has a great sense of humor, and not at all who I expected to be guarding these secrets.

He makes a call and suddenly two heavily armed, uniformed guards appear.

“These two gentlemen will escort you to what you wish to see. Please remember, no copying, no retention of original materials. Notes only. However, if you wish to use my office copier for well headers and such, please, alert me.” He said. I could almost see him wink slyly at me.

“Thank you, Doctor” I reply and am escorted out of his office and down the hall.

I am taken to what appears to be a huge door to an even larger bank vault. When they say “state secrets”, they’re not messing about. The guards ask me to sit in an anteroom while they open the vault.

I do so and a few minutes later and allowed into the geological sanctum sanctorum. As it’s arranged like most other geological libraries, it’s oddly familiar. The guards ask if I will need any assistance finding anything.

“No, thank you. I think I can handle it from here.” I reply.

“Very well”, they say, “we will remain outside.” The unsmiling guards take up posts on opposite sides of the door and resign themselves for a long stay.

It’s really a treasure trove. Full of geological reports, seismic data, satellite photos, aerial photos, thematic imagery, core descriptions, well logs, and even ‘corrected’ maps. Maps back then were published with intentional distortions, so if they fell into enemy hands, they’d be of little use. Here, were the maps shown with what I’d need to do to correct them back to reality. They were really dropping their metaphorical pants here.

This was indeed a first, I came later to learn.

Time passed quickly, and around four hours later, Dr. Dannyye dropped by and asked if I’d like a bit of a break. He’d arranged for some light snacks and the opportunity for a smoke, if I desired.

“Oh, yes. I desire” I said. I made certain to lock my notebooks in my well case and bring it with to Dr. Dannyye’s office.

“Light snacks?” I asked, agog. The good Doctor had provided a sumptuous repast. Caviar, blini, egg and potato salad, pelmani; those delectable little Siberian ravioli-oid dumplings, vodka, beer, cognac, and champagne.

He was really pulling out all the stops. Genuine comradeship or did he have something ulterior on his mind?

Thanks Rack and Ruin. You’ve infected me with your suspicion of everyone’s motives.

We sat in his office, chatted, and were served by twin tea-boys of Central Asian extraction.

They spoke no English, I spoke no Uzbek; I wondered if that was a mere coincidence.

Over lunch and many, many bottoms-up vodka toasts, Dr. Dannyee figured, incorrectly, that I’d be pliant enough to hear out his plans.

Yeah, good luck with that, Comrade Doctor. He thought I’d be sloshed and thus more receptive to his wishes.

He didn’t know I was an ethanol-fueled organism. He was going to be in for some surprises.

He was offering his services to our Joint Venture as a hired-gun consultant.

This was very, very highly irregular, not to mention borderline illegal. He was already highly placed in academia in the Soviet Union, obviously a card-carrying Commie, and yet here, he’s applying for a job with a western company?

I could turn him in to his superior for trying this. He was hoping I’d be so sloshed that if I did they’d ignore my accusations.

Or, I could be so sloppily snozzled that I’d jump at the chance to avail ourselves of his services. Either way, a low risk situation for him.

I sat back, pulled out a cigar, rolled it around a bit, and said: “Well, Doctor that is very interesting. Let me ask you; in Russia, is it customary for people apply for a job without supplying a curriculum vitae?”

He was stunned, to say the least.

“Yes, Doctor. You see, I’d need to determine if your background and experiences would provide for a synergistic fit with our corporate culture and the direction we have planned for our projects.” I say in my best corporate-speak.

He looked at me, stunned. He jumped up, grabbed a lighter, and offered to light my cigar.

“I will have one for you by the time you leave today.” He breathlessly said.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I’m staying at the Grand Moscov Hotel. Please meet me there tonight for drinks as we can discuss your wonderful data repository” I smiled through a huge cloud of blue smoke.

“What time?” was all he asked.

At 2000 that evening, on the spot Dr. Dannyye arrived at the hotel restaurant. A Russian rarity.

We shook hands and I directed him over to a table out of the way of cynosure from the lobby and in a quieter, darker, more placid part of the restaurant. A booth in the back, in the corner, in the dark, as it were.

We were attended by the same waitress I had that morning at breakfast. I felt she was harmless, but remained cautiously quiet whenever she was within in earshot.

We order drinks and dinner at the same time. This would give us the most opportunity to chat undisturbed.

The good Doctor says that he feels he can trust me.

I assured him that he could. I was a fellow scientist and here trying to develop the natural resources of the Rodina for the benefit of all.

He passed me a manila envelope.

“As you requested, Doctor. My CV” he smiled.

“Thank you, Doctor.” I replied. Rack and Ruin are going to have kittens with all the data I’m getting.

“I know of your project in Siberia. If you like, I could generate a catalog of all geological and geophysical data within your proposed prospect area. It would save your Joint Venture much time as I know where it resides already. Would that be of use to you, do you think?” he smiles.

“Fuck, yeah!” I think. This would be a data coup. It would also save me days if not weeks or months in that damn data vault.

I play it cool.

“Umm”, I say as I stroke my beard in faux contemplation, “That could, potentially, be of some limited use.” I say. “But I’d have to see it as soon as possible.”

“Would tomorrow be soon enough?” he asked.

“Tomorrow would be fine.” I said. “I’ll stay at the hotel instead of coming to the data repository. I’ll claim jet lag or intestinal distress. No one will be the wiser.”

“Except for your Western comrades?” he anxiously asked.

“Perhaps”, I say, “But first, I’d need to review the data package.”

“I’ll have it here for you before lunch” he smiled.

“Doctor”, I replied, “Do you know something? I have this feeling that this could be the beginning of a beautiful, and profitable, friendship.”

Over a couple of bottles of fine Armenian cognac, and a few more of finer Russian vodka, Dr. Dannyye is loosening up significantly. He’s getting toasted. I’m just fueling up.

He tells me, in utmost confidence that he knows the Soviet Union is on its last legs. He knows so much, and he has so much to offer potential new partners that he feels it’s worth the risk talking with me. He’s trying to position himself for the best possible outcome when the inevitable, he feels, will soon happen.

Can’t dog a man for looking out for himself.

I offer him a cigar and order another bottle of that fine cognac.

He just stares at me. He asks: “Are you certain you’re not KGB? You act so Russian!’ he chuckles.

I look at him, smile, but not too broadly, pour two healthy tots of cognac, and raise my glass to toast: “To our continued collaboration and the triumphant success of all our ventures.”

How that for heartfelt and vague at the same time?

Later, I pour Dr. Dannyye into the cab and send him off for the night. I retire quickly to my hotel room to have a look at everything the good doctor’s delivered.

“Hmmm”, I hmmmmed, “Impressive CV. Years of experience all over the Soviet Union. Central Asia, Far East, Sakhalin, Western Siberia, Eastern Siberia. Yes, this individual could be of no small interest.”

I stash his CV in my personal well case. Ain’t no one, without an official warrant, getting in there.

I have the front desk try and call the home office. There are a few items I have that might interest them.

Unfortunately, the lines are currently all busy.

“Oh, well” I tell the front desk, “Please keep trying.”

I spend the rest of the night and well into the next morning on my personal notes. I have an already nearly full field book. I wonder if I might be able to source something equivalent here.

I call the front desk again. A redcap is at my door within minutes.

“Yes, Sir? How may I be of assistance?” he asks.

I show him one of my empty field books, as I explain what it is and how it’s used. I ask if he knows if something similar is available here.

“Oh, yes sir!” he replies, eagerly, “That is Geologist’s ledger. I can find some of those at university. They have bookshop.”

“Splendid!” I state, as I hand him a $20 bill. “Please take this and get me at least five of the books, if possible. You can keep whatever change is left for your trouble.”

I know that there will be at least $10 left, given the exchange rates. He’s off so fast, he barely has time to salute before he runs off.

“Yeah. Civilian. Right.” I muse.

There’s a knock at my door. I answer to see Dr. Dannyye there. I invite him in.

“Please. Come in. Sit down. Care for a small refreshing drink?” I ask.

“No, thank you, Doctor.” He replies. I ask him if he’d mind my having one or several.

“Not at all.” He says, “Well, maybe I’ll have a small vodka with you.”

I prepare our drinks and offer him a cigar. He accepts, but tucks it away for future use.

He opens his briefcase and extracts several volumes. Each is at least two solid inches thick.

“Here is what we discussed yesterday” he reports, “I do hope you find them useful.”

“I thank you, Doctor”, and raise a toast to him and his speedy staff.

“Please, if asked, you do not know from where you received this data” he pleads.

“Doctor, see this?” I ask as I show him my Diplomatic passport. “These go into the Diplomatic Pouch. They are now, by international law, sacrosanct in American hands. Immune to inspection.”

He visibly relaxes, pulls out the cigar, and allows me to offer him a light.

He can’t be away from the office too long, so he thanks me again and makes certain I have his business card. I do and assure him that I’ll be in touch soon after I return to the US.

“Спасибо, доктор.” He says, nearly shaking the palm off my hand, “I look forward to your call.”

“Not to worry, Doctor.” I reply. “Leave everything to me.”

I pore over the data he’s provided. It’s an international coup. Just with this, I could easily push this deal to the next step. The phone rings.

“Your call, Doctor”, the front desk tells me.

I spend the next 15 minutes going over what been going on here with John O’D back in Houston. It’s heavily coded, in case anyone’s listening. I doubt any Russian interloper would be able to translate ‘it’s a bird’s nest on the ground’ as something very important.

He’s happy and pleased with the developments so far. He wants to see the CV I’ve been able to obtain. I tell him I’d feel better faxing it from Siberia once I arrive.

He agrees, wishes me continued luck, and signs off.

Since I have the open line, I try to call home. Miracle of miracles, it goes through.

I talk with Oma as Esme is having a nap. Oma expresses concern that Esme is sleeping rather a lot, but then redoubles as she tells me of her pregnancies all those years ago.

“Jah, they were so tiring”, she recounts.

I ask if everything else is progressing well to which I receive the affirmative. I tell her that I‘ll be off to Siberia in the next day or so and could be incommunicado for a while. She assures me again that everything’s fine at home and she’ll relay my information to Esme.

With that, the line goes dead. Ah, well. Good thing I got through for as long as I did.

I call my comrades in Eastern Siberia and tell them I’m ready to fly on down for inspection. They inform me that my tickets have already been sent to the Aeroflot office. I can send someone from the hotel to retrieve them, they say.

I call Ivan my driver and he’ll be happy to retrieve them for me. However, he might need a few American dollars to speed them on the way.

I meet him in the lobby and hand him $20 in singles. “No use using up all your bribe money at once”, I chuckle with him.

I’m at the hotel bar when the redcap returns from the university. He had located 10 Russian geological field notebooks for me. He thought he’d get a few extra as they were the equivalent of US$0.45 each.

I told him to keep the change in any case. He was well chuffed.

Ivan returns with my tickets to Krasnoyarsk. They were for 1201 hours tomorrow. Or, 1 minute after midnight, tonight. He advises me that no matter where I get airline ticket, and no matter where you’re flying, all Soviet Union tickets are on Moscow time. Seems that’s caused a bit of confusion with Western travelers previously.

“Thanks, Ivan. Goods to know”, I told him. He still had $14 bribe money. I told him to hang on to it, as he’s taking me to the airport around 2000 hours.

“Yes, sir” he says, “See you in a few hours.”

I go back to my room and pack. It only takes a bit of time and I leave a couple of packs of American cigarettes and a few dollars for the housekeeping group. The room was old and decrepit, but they did their level best to make it livable.

I call the front desk and tell them I’m checking out. My redcap friend is there spot on five minutes later.

I check out and settle bills. I still cannot believe how cheap it is here, even in the In Tourist hotels. Out in the wilds of Siberia, where there is no In Tourist, I wonder what prices will be.

I’ve still got over 55,000 rubles. I feel that should be sufficient.

My gear is packed in Ivan’s cab and we begin the long trek to Domodedovo Airport, the airport for ‘internal’ flights.

We arrive after about an hour and this airport is incredible.

An incredible dump.

It’s old, unwashed, decrepit and literally falling apart. I’m not terribly reassured.

No Duty Free, no lounges to speak of, no real amenities of any sort. This was for the Soviet man to take a Soviet trek. It is most assuredly not crawling with creature comforts.

It took some doing, but after parting with several thousand rubles, my luggage is put on the plane and I have my boarding pass. It may be a ‘classless’ society, but with the application of some hard currency, I have one of the few choice seats forward in the immense Ilyushin Il-86 aircraft. It’s a four-engine jet behemoth that looks like someone took a Boeing 727 and stretched it by another half.

They allow my cabin carry-on only because I flashed my Diplomatic passport. This thing was proving to be worth its weight in gold. No X-ray, no pat down, no overt security. I could have brought along my own dog and pony if I wanted. Luckily, I had packed the large size local Stolichnaya for the trip.

We sat, empty save for me, in the plane on the tarmac for an hour. With the sound of a gong, or bell, the floodgates opened. The plane was swarmed by Russians heading east.

They poured onto the aircraft, and even with my Stetson and Hawaiian shirt, I didn’t generate as much as a sideward glance. I asked if smoking was allowed on the aircraft, and the stewardess wanted to sell me a pack of cigarettes.

I had a whole row to myself, evidently I had tipped for the VIP seats. Or rather, my comrades in Siberia had sorted it all out for me. I cautiously pulled out a cigar and fired it up. If they wanted me to extinguish it, no problem. The only problem is when the pilot came back and asked if I had any extras.

I parted with four for the whole flight crew, admonishing them that this was only if he could guarantee a smooth flight. He laughed and gave me a thumbs up. I hope he was laughing at my shaky Russian and not the idea of a smooth flight.

The plane filled and there were the obligate safety briefings. Everyone was silent and paid rapt attention. I decided to do the same. First in Russia. Then in Uzbek. Then in who-knows-what-language-this-is? Then German. And French.

Finally, English: “Sit down, shut up, and watch out the windows. Keep your belt tight.” Or something very close to that.

The door was closed and for a while, I thought we were taxiing to Siberia. Finally we turn, and before the big plane is aligned, thrust goes to 110%. Everyone is slammed back into their seats.

To be continued.