OIL, The Secret War, 2040 A.D.

Contents

Eurasia 2040.A.D.

The theater of war

The Turpan Depression

Chapter  1

Chapter  4

Chapter  7

Chapter 10

Chapter 13

Chapter 16

Chapter 19

Chapter 22

Chapter 25

Chapter 28

Chapter 31

Chapter 34

Chapter 37

Chapter 40

Chapter 42

About the Author

More Books by James Babcock

Oil, The Secret War, 2040 A.D.

The theater of the war in Xinjiang

The Turpan Depression

Prologue

2041 A.D.

The world has moved on, and we are in the future.

If you are one of those who bothered to vote in America’s 2040 national elections, no doubt you were among the many who drove our once popular President from office. But you probably don’t know all the circum-stances behind the scandal that shattered his reelection chances like a sudden unexpected earthquake. It’s quite a story. And just like its unlikely protagonist journalist Henry Thomas—I have unearthed the details, which I will share with you. 

I’ve written the story as a novel of intrigue and adventure, as the blurb proclaims. That’s probably why you decided to acquire this book. And you want to get on with it. 

First, however, a word of preparation. To understand the whole tale and to enjoy it more fully, I suspect you would benefit from a brief review of the larger setting. Of course, if you are a student of history and politics, or economics and ecology, you may already be conversant with the trends that have brought the world to its present condition as we approach mid-century. If so, you may prefer to skip what follows. If not, I offer this back-ground.

In the three decades following the financial crisis and Great Recession of 2008, immense changes—unnoticed by most of the peoples who lived through them—reshaped the world’s energy and economic systems and realigned international politics. Fiscal collapse and a demographic surge forced abandonment of the welfare state. Nations were governed less by their legislatures and more by bureaucracies of technocrats and lawyers. Innovative technologies of climate capitalism fostered a new industrial revolution.

Fear was the motivator. Most insidious was climate change: As predicted for years by physical scientists, the world’s temperature increased, glaciers and ice sheets melted, and the ocean rose. The trend proceeded imperceptibly. But it was punctuated by a striking event: As seawater at last engulfed their island nations, the entire populations of the Maldives, Kiribati, Tuvalu, and Nauru immigrated to the continents.

Countries adapted to ecological change at different rates. Driven by rising temperatures and sea levels, forward-thinking nations planned ahead to escape from the Carbon Era that for a single blazing century had burned through much of the Earth’s storehouse of easily accessible natural gas and liquid petroleum.

The European Union, the world’s largest economy, led the way. To power their cars, Europeans completed their conversion from gasoline to natural gas. For electricity they abandoned coal for scores of safe small nuclear plants. They rebuilt their dwellings, offices, and factories with materials that absorbed solar energy. This sun-renewable power and nuclear electricity were distributed over a newly decentralized grid or stored in the fuel cells used to run their trains and planes. They hoarded their petrochemicals to make plastics. Ironically, through its economic dominance, Germany achieved the political hegemony it had sought by force a century earlier.

China’s economy remained slightly smaller than Europe’s and was still a large user of the country’s own oil and coal deposits, thus continuing its surging contribution to global warming. But in surpassing the United States, China also became the leading developer of solar, wind, and synfuel technologies. Its aggressive and efficient manufacturing sector spewed the exports that gripped the United States as the country’s main trading partner and financial vassal, a dominance enforced by treaty. And Earth’s most populous nation maintained its one-party political control of its own part of the globe through its leadership role in ECOPAL, the East-Asia Co-Prosperity Alliance.

In the United States, by contrast, the national government remained paralyzed by polarizing ideologies and bitter partisan wrangling. As a result, the nation had dawdled both in dealing with its debt overhang and in converting its energy systems. There were plenty of critics, especially in the universities, and a few states and municipalities had gone green. Scientists and engineers struggled with the still challenging technologies of geo-engineering and exotic energy sources, including cultured bacteria, artificial photosynthesis, and nuclear fusion. But public fear of nuclear power and the lobbying clout of the country’s energy companies held the country in thrall to coal, shale oil, and other carbon-heavy forms of transportation fuel and electricity generation. Ongoing government borrowing weakened the dollar, and eventually the weak dollar made it prohibitively expensive to import the materials needed to invest in a European-style energy system. Although still the envy of the world for its political freedoms, the U.S. was bound by a secret treaty that gave China control of America’s currency.

Based on the ascendancy of the English language as the world’s lingua franca, the rest of the so-called Anglo Bloc, composed of Great Britain and its Commonwealth partners, converted to natural gas and nuclear power and maintained themselves through tourism.

The countries of Latin America opted for the Euro-pean energy model. In addition, following the lead of Brazil, those with sugarcane and other grasses pioneered in biomass forms of energy generation. The countries situated on the western Andean slopes exploited wind and the hydroelectric potential of their mountain rivers. Venezuela and Mexico imitated the others, even as they continued to sell oil into the insatiable U.S. market, as did Canada. 

Russia’s economy stagnated under its Mafia-like government. The country was no longer able to export much of its dwindling oil and gas reserves to the European Union, which needed them less. Instead, the government struggled to acquire new sources of oil to support its sales to the United States, now its largest customer. 

Perhaps most striking was the transformation of the Middle East and North Africa. While still exporting oil, those few nations that still possessed any oil understood that the Carbon Era was tailing off and they would need to find other livelihoods. Young people everywhere succeed-ed in overthrowing their absolutist governments, even in Iran. After several hopeful revolutions they lapsed back into moderately authoritarian Islamic regimes with parliamentary trappings. They freed women from their burkas, copied European energy technologies, and undertook huge water desalinization projects. These innovations turned their deserts into agricultural export bonanzas. Furthermore, once Iran joined the nuclear power club, a political transformation was achieved as well: Arabs and Persians, Sunnis and Shias, all joined hands to press a settlement on democratic Israel. The result was a truly independent Palestine and an internationalized Jerusalem in the form proposed by the United Nations almost a hundred years earlier. Nevertheless, religious fanaticism continued to fuel sporadic terrorist outrages.

To the east, in Central Asia, affairs moved in the opposite direction. Following a Moslem religious revival, Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Pakistan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, and Uzbekistan merged to form a new country—Islamistan. Its revolving presidency was over-seen by a religious court that enforced a moderate form of sharia law.

Finally, although sub-Saharan Africa emulated the European Union’s energy system with the help of the United Nations, it lagged the rest of the warming world in  every way. As always, its governments struggled to provide food, water, health, and work for their peoples.

Now back to 2040 A.D. and the war for the world’s last large pool of oil.

Chapter 1

Moscow, Sunday, April 8

Oh, damn! I’m sorry!

Jostled from behind, the American spilled his glass of vodka on the Russian woman who had just stepped before him. They stood close together in the crowded reception hall of the Journalists’ Club.

To his surprise, she laughed.  It’s not your fault.  He bumped you on purpose. Their goons do it to me all the time.

Her eyes twinkled as he lifted his handkerchief and patted the damp fabric of her dress. In your country, she said, this would be an accident. But not in mine.

I’m so sorry, he mumbled again.

Even here they stick their snouts in. She touched his arm sympathetically, smiled, and relieved him of the handkerchief.  Look, why don’t we just get a fresh drink and go to the lounge.

She tucked his handkerchief in her purse and turned away.  He followed her through the crowd.

As they waited at the bar, she held out her hand. My name is Irina. Irina Abramovna Nasimova.  Moscow News.

He looked with fresh respect at the woman. Her dark hair was prematurely streaked with gray and there were circles under her eyes, but she was still pretty. And she was famous for her outspoken criticism of the Russian government. I’ve heard of you, he said.  "I’m Hank Thomas. DC Journal."

And I’ve heard of you. You covered the bombing at the sports palace. Very vivid reporting. She smiled. But you missed the hidden story.

Oh?

Bring your drink, Mr. Hank Thomas. I’ll tell you about it when we’re alone in the lounge.

They wended their way to a smaller room with subdued lighting and chairs arranged for conversation. They sat down beside a window. Outside in the dark, streetlamps shed yellow circles on slushy snow.

She crossed her legs and opened her purse. Do you smoke?

No thanks. He leaned forward, took the matches, and lighted her cigarette. You said I missed the story.

The sports palace bombing wasn’t done by terrorists at all, she said. It was done by the security people.

You’re kidding. You mean the government itself?

Yes, of course.  How long have you been in Russia?

You’re saying the government set the bombs? Why would they do that?

To create fear, and fear gets Markov reelected.

He nodded. Well, fear works in American elections, too. But it’s hard to believe any responsible government would blow up one of its own prize buildings, not to mention doing something that kills so many people!

Only seventy-nine. That’s peanuts, at least here. And who says they have any sense of responsibility?

That’s cynical.

Naturally. She smiled. After all, I’m a Russian journalist.

But how do you know such a thing?  No one I talked to suggested anything of the sort.

Of course not. They would lose their jobs if they did—at least the people you are allowed to interview. But I have government friends who aren’t afraid. They’re careful, of course, because they have wives and children. But they tell me things.

And you’re telling them to me. Why?

No. I’m not telling you anything. For you, it’s only hearsay, a rumor.  She took a long drag on her cigarette. I’m saving the truth for my book.

A book. And here I thought you were about to give me a scoop. He shrugged. So when do you expect to publish?

When I have saved enough money to get out of Russia—and can get a job abroad.

Ah, now I understand. You are looking for me to help you. Is that it?

Yes.

It was his turn to smile.  And I thought you were just flirting with me.

Well, that too—you’re not unattractive, you know.

You amaze me, Irina.

But don’t get excited. I’m married, sort of.

What does that mean?

She frowned as she stubbed out her cigarette. My husband is locked away in a labor camp.

You would go abroad and leave him behind?

She sighed. How else can I help him? If my book is a success and I can achieve some notoriety, perhaps diplomatic pressure can get him out.

Not likely.

But not unheard of. Yes, we now have nice apartments, cars, and consumer goods. But this is a regime that lives a great sham, pretending to be democratic while controlling everything important. It’s exactly like the old days under the Communists. They’re just thieves and bullies. And they don’t like bad publicity.

You couldn’t possibly have anything so embarrassing on them

Well, it’s true they are not thin-skinned. But they need things from the West, and they are getting desperate. So a deal might be possible.

A deal to spring your husband?

Yes, but that would be merely incidental. There’s a bigger picture.

Bigger? How so?

Much bigger! But she didn’t explain. Instead she drained her glass and stood up. Will you walk me home? It’s not far from the subway. I’d feel safer.

He got to his feet. Don’t tell me you actually think you’re in danger.

She sighed. Mostly from drunks. But also in Russia it’s dangerous if the authorities know you know things, or even if they suspect you know things.

People tell me that, but it’s hard to believe. 

She shrugged. If you’d rather not walk me home, I’ll understand—and of course it will make them suspicious to see me with an American. But also they’re less likely to try anything. ‘American journalist mugged in Moscow’ isn’t a headline they would like to see.

Well, of course I’ll go with you.

Thank you, Hank. I’ll invite you in for tea.

I’ll accept the tea if you’ll tell me about ‘much bigger.’

We’ll see. She smiled and gave a sidelong glance. Perhaps you’ll manage to overwhelm me with your interrogation technique.

They retrieved their heavy overcoats, scarves, and boots from the cloakroom. Wrapped snuggly against the cold, they left the Club and walked through the snow to the subway.

They got off at the Teatralnaya station. As they hurried through the underground corridor, Irina pointed up to the distinctive bas relief figures carved into the vaulted white ceiling. They represent different styles of dance and music from our nationalities. Aren’t they beautiful?

Hank nodded. A tour of the Moscow metro is like visiting a museum.

They climbed up the stairs to a broad avenue that opened on a wide square dominated by an ornate dish-shaped fountain. The illuminated façade of Moscow’s grand national theater loomed on their left.

As you see, Irina pointed, I live near the Bolshoi opera house, and I love opera. Do you?

I’ve only seen one. Carmen. Very tuneful.

Yes. And a great story—forbidden love. You wouldn’t believe what is playing now. It’s called Stalin, Great Defender, a sort of centenary historical celebration, like Boris Godunov.  Imagine!

I have trouble thinking of Stalin as a hero.

It’s true that Stalin was at the helm when we saved ourselves from the Nazis, but glorifying that monster is another symptom of our decadence. Then she laughed. But I admit I love the music.

Two blocks farther on they entered a six-story apartment house and climbed the stairs to the third floor.

It’s not very modern, she said, and my place is small. But I live alone so it’s all I need.

Her door opened directly into a small foyer with a kitchenette and sitting room on one side and a bedroom and bathroom on the other. 

At least I have my own facilities. She nodded toward the bathroom as they shed their outdoor clothing.  Wash up if you like while I put on some tea and get out of this wet dress.

When he returned she stood at the kitchen counter in a long robe. She poured water into an ornate brass pot. This samovar belonged to my great grandmother. It’s the only thing left in our family from the old days.

Hank opened a cabinet above the sink and found the cups and saucers. How old? Before the revolution?

Oh, certainly. My family lived in St. Petersburg—Leningrad—and what they didn’t lose in the revolution they lost during the war. You know the story, how the city literally starved to death. But my grandparents were a couple of tough young Jews and they survived with one son, my father. Unfortunately, after he lived through all that, he was deported to Israel as a dissident. He was one of the last to be thrown out before the Soviet Union collapsed.

So your dislike of the regime is inherited.

Well, you know that in Russia we Jews are considered troublemakers, and—she smiled—I was raised to always meet expectations. Anyway, he came back when the USSR fell apart, but my mother was an Israeli, and she was never very happy here. I suppose I also get my sour opinions from her.

She poured the tea and they took their cups into the sitting room. 

The walls of the small room were covered with abstract paintings, most of them unframed. A canvas was propped on an easel beside a table covered with tubes of paint and a pot of brushes.

What do you think of my art gallery? she asked.

I’m impressed, Irina. You like bright colors, I see. Very exciting.  I like the pictures.

It’s my only vice, or at least the only one I admit to. I buy frames when I can afford them.

You’re a person of many talents.

It helps me fight the boredom.

Hank sat on one end of the sofa and Irina on the other.

He sipped the warm beverage. This is good tea. Are you also a good cook?

She laughed. No, terrible. I eat out.

He nodded. That goes with our profession. Let me ask: How did you become a journalist?

She paused to consider her answer. I loved to listen to my father tell fanciful stories—the classic Russian tales of fairies and wolves—and I began writing my own little stories as a child. And also, with so much talk of politics at the dinner table, it seemed a natural choice.

Your husband is also a journalist?

Yes. Well, really more of a novelist. And a foolish one. He wrote a parody of Markov, so they put him away for ‘undermining the state.’

I’m really sorry, Irina.

She shrugged. I try not to think about it. Tell me about yourself.

Hank spoke of his childhood in Vermont, his love of skiing and hockey, about college with a major in political science and a turn on the university newspaper. He told her about his three years of service in the Marine Corps, then about his brief involvement with the campaign of his local congressman, a job as the congressman’s assistant, and finally, when the congressman was not reelected, the opportunity to land a job with the DC Journal as a political reporter.

Your Russian is very good.

Not as good as your English.

But where did you learn our language?

In the Marine Corps. I had an intelligence assignment.

So you must have been a very bright college student. Only our smartest young people are recruited for state security work.

I did well enough, in any case.

She crossed her arms across her chest. So now I must imagine I am not talking with a simple newspaperman at all but to a secret CIA agent sent to spy on my homeland.

He laughed. I’m not smart enough for that—or that stupid. Nope, just a simple drudge. He drained his teacup and set it down on a side table. So, Irina, what is the ‘much bigger’ thing you promised to tell me?

"Oh yes, I did promise that, didn’t I? Well, it is this. Important news. We are going to see an announcement soon from the Russian government that our state oil company has made a contract with an American oil company to drill in the offshore shelf of the Kara Sea. That’s in the Arctic, you know, north of Siberia. Well, there