Welcome to the Kingdom - Parts 6-7

This is the third installment of a multi-part posting.

For the first installment, go here:
http://sparedfromtheshredder.blogspot.com/2008/09/welcome-to-kingdom.html

For the second installment, go here:
http://sparedfromtheshredder.blogspot.com/2008/09/welcome-to-kingdom-2.html

continued from installment 2:

-6-
I awoke with a start. I felt terrible. Someone was screaming “Allah Akbar” into my ear. I opened my eyes; it was still dark, “Allah Akbar” again, followed by a thunderous “"LAA ELAAHA ELLA HOO”. I opened my eyes, which felt as if they contained half the sand of Arabia. My stomach churned, from too little sleep.

I looked at the alarm clock; 5:00 AM. What the hell? I then realized what was occurring. I had read that there were prayers five times a day. One was at dawn. The Saudi’s, in their eagerness to convert the non-believer, had surrounded the hotel with loud speakers suspended from four towers. I was being called to Morning Prayers.

I thus, learned my first of many lessons while in Saudi Arabia: “Never Sleep with the Windows Open”! I definitely wasn’t in Kansas, anymore!

Slamming the patio door shut, I returned to bed, threw the covers over my head and did my best to get another hour of fitful sleep.

I awoke to the alarm, and still feeling like hell, rose. After a shower, which did nothing to improve my disposition I went to the lobby, but strode past the restaurants. There was no way that I could eat breakfast. After stopping by the cashier and exchanging American Dollars for Saudi Riyals, the local currency, and with stomach still churning, I walked outside and hailed a cab.

I needed to get to my sponsor’s headquarters so I could make arrangements to get into the plant and begin my work; the clock was ticking. I gave the driver the address to Bandarah, a Saudi business named in honor of Prince Bandar, and settled back for the drive, which was about 15 minutes. Traffic was crazy. Stop signs were apparently optional. I began to remember passages from the book I had read while on the plane. As the cab jerked in and out of traffic, the driver gave me knowing looks in the rear view mirror, apparently attempting to impress me with his driving finesse. I realized that this imbecile could land me in one of those pits I had been reading about.

Mercifully, we got off of the main highway and turning down a side street, arrived at an office building with a somewhat worn marble façade. It had the proper address and after paying the driver, I exited the cab.

I walked into the building, and eyes adjusting to the dim light, found myself in a rather dingy corridor. At one end were a non-descript and very dull, gray steel elevator door and a roster. Upon confirming the location of Bandarah, I entered the elevator and got off at the designated floor. I was quite surprised. Bright lights, gleaming marble floors, paneled fine woods and a full-length glass wall greeted me! I proceeded through the matching glass door and introduced myself to the receptionist. After a few minutes an impeccably dressed Lebanese entered the room and asked me a few questions. He asked for my passport, and taking it, handed it to the receptionist, who flipped it over and affixed a large white sticker with blue Arabic text, to the rear. My passport was then returned to me. I later inspected the sticker and determined that the Arabic matched the text on the glass wall, and I learned to read the Arabic phone numbers; apparently it was the equivelant of a business card, identifying me as an associate of Bandarah.

I was ushered into the offices and to Mohammed, my sponsor. He greeted me with great enthusiasm, welcoming me to the Kingdom and told me that a driver and a car would be provided to take me to Shedgum. If I had any questions he instructed me to direct these to his office manager or to Patrick, an American ex-pat who worked in Mohammed’s employ. I asked if the specialized equipment I required had arrived. He advised me to discuss this with the office manager. On exiting Mohammed’s office, I made another inquiry regarding the equipment; I was informed that it had arrived. Relieved, I thanked them and about 30 minutes later I was being whisked down a wide boulevard, toward the highway. I spoke to the driver, a dark Syrian who eyed me carefully. I soon discovered that he spoke little English. As we sped through traffic on what I later learned was the “Pepsi Road”, so named because it passed the facilities of the local Pepsi Cola bottler, I attempted to converse with him. I could read the street signs as we passed the intersections. These were in English and Arabic. On discussing these with the driver, I soon realized he was possibly illiterate. I would talk about the sights on the street and name the streets as I read them and he would respond with a local name for that same street, and even argue with me if I used the actual street name, as occurred on the Pepsi Road. However, I concluded that this was more to be helpful to the American rather than to argue with me, per se.

I occupied myself by absorbing the sights and by drawing a map on a small notebook I always carried within my breast pocket. I intended to learn the route. After about 12 miles of driving Al-Khobar began to fade behind us as we entered the desert.

We continued for another 60 miles on the highway which was flanked by dunes and sand and even contained a sandy median. After several changes in direction we drove on a two-lane bituminous concrete road. I could see a large industrial facility ahead and on the right. We pulled into a driveway and I assumed that we had arrived at the Shedgum plant. I was satisfied with my map and pocketed the note pad. The driver parked at the Saudi Arabian Oil Company “Aramco” security office. Upon entering, I presented the letter, written in Arabic, which I had been given by my sponsor and for this purpose, and was asked for my Passport. I was informed that I needed to fill out a questionnaire, have my photo taken and eventually, I would be issued a regulation photo ID, in Arabic, not unlike a driver’s license. While I was no stranger to the procedures required, having entered many different industrial facilities ranging from steel mills, petrochemical facilities, power plants and nuclear re-processing facilities, I expected some delays for security processing. However, I soon realized that the pace at this Aramco facility was different, and as I went through the steps, I further realized that this process would take most of the morning. I began to doubt that I would complete the assignment in the stipulated time.

Finally, I had my ID and my Passport was returned to me and I was permitted to go to the final security checkpoint. I returned to the automobile and informed my driver that I would enter the plant and might not return until late afternoon, gesturing in the direction of the walkway leading to the secured plant entrance. He shrugged. So I left him and walked up to and into a rotating cage, which with a guarded and gated road were the only means of passing through two parallel chain-link fences topped by razor wire which encircled the entire plant. As I walked, I wondered if my driver would be there when I returned and if not, how would I get back to Bandarah? Exiting the cage I walked up to a guard office and was motioned inside. I was greeted by two guards, who were most polite and chatty. I was surprised. I told them in English who I was to meet. One of them asked me to place my case on the desk and open it. He began removing the contents, looking for contraband or smuggled secrets. This would become a twice a day routine, repeated upon entering and leaving. While the inspection occurred, one of the guards offered me, using perfect English, a cup of tea. I accepted and was given a small, clear glass teacup. It contained a very sweet, slightly thick, golden tea. This, I was to later discover, was one of two drinks preferred by the Arabs. The other was “Arabic coffee” which was an unusual greenish-yellow color, because the beans were not fully roasted. Upon first drinking Arabic coffee, it struck me as having an appearance similar to the fluorescence dye used in automobile anti-freeze. The smell and taste were surprising as the coffee was laced with the pungent spice, cardamom.

After a few minutes the guard, satisfied, replaced the contents of my case. By then I was offered a second cup of tea. After about 20 minutes I completed my second tea just as the first guard returned. Pointing, he advised me that I was to proceed about 100 yards to a building he identified as “Engineering”. Once there, I assumed I would be met by my contact.

I walked to the building and upon entering; I stopped at a desk and displayed my newly minted Aramco ID. I stated my sponsors name, that of my client in Houston, and the name of my Aramco contact, which I had been given prior to leaving Houston. After a relatively short delay an American engineer by the name of Ray arrived and introduced himself. After exchanging pleasantries, I reaffirmed my purpose and he told me that I would need to meet with Bisham, the Senior Instrument Engineer for the facility. Bisham was an Indian and I learned that most senior technical staff were from America or from India. Bisham would decide if I would proceed further. On this pronouncement, I realized that something was amiss. I had been briefed and fully expected to get immediately to work on the upgrade. Ray’s demeanor and tone made it clear that no such agreement existed.

He escorted me to a conference room and we each took a seat. Ray deflected my questions. A few minutes later, Bisham entered the room and I was introduced. I again stated my purpose. Bisham glared at me. He told me that he and only he would decide what I was to do. He told me that I would be given an assistant and, with this assistant as my guide only then would I be permitted to enter the plant. I was told to return after my initial survey and we would then discuss what was to be done by whom and when and that he would make those decisions. Somewhat dejectedly, I sat back and we waited for Roddie’s arrival. About 20 minutes later a young Saud entered the room. He appeared very western. In later conversation I learned that he had been born of Saudi parents in Phoenix, Arizona. He had attended college in the states and even worked for a short time at a division of Honeywell, a large automation and aircraft instrumentation supplier in the USA. He was eventually granted permission to return to Saudi as a permanent resident and was thrilled to be home. He later told me that he, as was the case with all true Arabs, loved the desert.

Bisham gave Roddie instructions and specifically ordered him to keep notes of all my activities. He specified my limits of access and after receiving Roddie’s affirmation to the instructions, released us so we could enter the plant proper. I requested that we proceed to the control room and that was granted. Roddie provided me with a hard hat, which was regulation so that we could proceed to the interior of the plant.

The control room is the nerve center of these production facilities. Some facilities have more than one. This facility had two; one for the control of the gas plant proper, and one for the control of the Industrial Boilers, which were my assignment. From these large, centrally located, environmentally controlled and sometimes explosion proof buildings, a production plant several miles in area is controlled; every valve, every pump and every sensor is remotely observed and managed by a hand full of human beings using sophisticated computer technology. Shedgum is a gas plant; it manufactures liquefied petroleum gas in huge quantities. This gas is condensed until it is a liquid then stored in seven incredibly large, insulated tanks until needed. It is then pumped via refrigerated pipelines eight miles into the Gulf of Arabia where it is loaded onto insulated supertankers. The liquefied gas (called NGL) is shipped to Europe, Japan and elsewhere where it is unloaded and converted back to a gas, very similar to the natural gas we used here in the states for cooking and heating.

Some of that NGL is diverted for use in fuelling four Industrial Boilers at Shedgum. The purpose of the boilers is to generate steam for a very large power plant which sits a few hundred yards distant. By now you get the idea; everything about these plants is large!

The steam is piped underground to the plant and spins turbines, which produces the electrical power for Riyadh, the capital and for several provinces. I was later told that this plant generated one-third of the entire electrical energy consumed in Saudi Arabia. As it powered Riyadh, any disturbance to the boilers or turbine-generators would immediately be noticed in that city, as the result would be an electrical brown out or worse, so named because that is what happens to incandescent lighting as it transitions from the normal brightness to orange, to full darkness.

As I exited the engineering office with Roddie, and stepped into the full Saudi sunlight, I gazed at the plant ahead. To the left and right of me stood two steel structures, containing vessels and piping and extending for hundreds of yards into the distance. A flare rose about a hundred feet, burning H2S laden waste gas. In the foreground was a smaller industrial building parts of which were open and parts enclosed, with four rectangular satellites; these were the boilers. Behind all of this and near the horizon I observed large, white, oval topped storage tanks shimmering in the desert heat. They dwarfed everything else! At a later time, during a conversation in which I inquired into special safety procedures I needed to follow and potential hazards in the plant, I asked about those tanks. I was told that each tank contained an amount of NGL which if ignited had the explosive power equivalent to a tactical nuclear weapon! I had been in many, large industrial facilities, but not like this.

-7-
Roddie and I stepped up to an automobile that was “borrowed” as necessary so as to permit high level staff access to the various areas of the plant. While the distances made walking impractical, many workers did just that. We were “special” and so we were afforded the luxury and status of an automobile.

Driving around structures and buildings, we shortly arrived at the Utility Boiler Control Room, obvious as this was posted in Arabic and English on the door we entered.

I stood in the Control Room and relaxed, enjoying the coolness. The Operator went about his business, adjusting knobs and dials on various instruments, as if tuning something to a sound we could not hear. Several technicians stood in a corner, chatting quietly and cracking jokes.

A small, crisply dressed Arabic man approached me. He introduced himself as “Ibrahim”, the Process Control Foreman. From this title I knew that his duty was to manage the Operators and relay commands from above and see that they were carried out. As this was a 24/7 operation, he was one of several foremen who worked in shifts so that there was one in the control room at all times, each and every hour of every day. On a day to day basis, he supervised the Operators and made decisions for all manner of actions relating to the operation of the Industrial Boilers. The title “Foreman” implied that he did not have an engineering degree, or stature sufficient to use the title. He was a subordinate to the Engineers, and to the Saudi managers.

I recited what was now becoming a litany; who I was, why I was here, and so on, putting as much energy into it as I could so as to sound fresh. I told him that I was operating specifically under the Senior Instrument Engineer’s orders and that Bisham would not yet permit me to do anything; in fact I was simply looking. Ibrahim smiled and shook my hand. I sensed genuine warmth in the man. He said: “Fine, Mr. Norman, you can look and if you need any assistance, any assistance at all, please let me know.” That became the name to which I became known at Shedgum; I was thereafter called “Mr. Norman”.

Suddenly, the chatter in the corner stopped. Ibrahim stiffened visibly. Roddie stepped back and away from me. A tall man, western in dress but obviously an Arab had entered the room. He wore pressed slacks, light jacket and a hard hat. He paused at the technicians and spoke a few words. They gestured deferentially at him and then stepped quietly away, as he continued moving in our direction. The tall man ignored us but spoke quietly to the Operator in a language I did not understand. I assume it was Arabic. Satisfied with the responses of the Operator, the tall man greeted Ibrahim and then turned to me.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, in excellent English. There was no greeting. The sound of his voice echoed slightly in the room, which was still but for the clicking of some of the instruments and the slight mechanical noise of the air conditioning. I looked into his expressionless eyes and whoever he was; I knew this was a significant question. I could see Ibrahim standing slightly behind and to the tall man’s left. He had visibly stiffened when the question was asked of me and his skin seemed to turn a shade lighter.

I knew something was terribly wrong. Whatever had occurred here that had resulted in Dwight’s leaving the country was far more serious than I had been led to believe. The room was very still as the tall man observed me, waiting for my answer. This was it! I did not know who the tall man was, but whoever he was, he was important and whatever I said to him would be significant. I centered myself and, with great clarity and strength of purpose I looked into the tall man’s eyes and said two words that formed a pact and a promise, and in that moment set my course: “I understand!” I said, nodding slightly.

The tall man watched me closely, his eyes scanning my face and reading my body language. He nodded his head in response and said, so that all could hear: “If you make a mistake, the King will know.” With that he turned and strode out of the room.

I realized that I had not been breathing. I turned to Ibrahim, who I noticed, had a small rivulet of sweat on his brow. This was certainly not due to the temperature of the control room, which was maintained a constant 70F. Ibrahim exhaled slowly and then took a deep breath. I did the same. “Who”, I asked “was that?” Ibrahim replied: “He is the Plant Superintendent, a Saudi Prince!” At the time there were about 1500 princes in the Kingdom. All power and wealth was centered in these men and I had just met one of them, who had issued a challenge!

The plant superintendent is the most senior manager for the plant. He is responsible for the success of the operation and reports directly to princes more senior and to the king himself. The superintendent has a large staff of engineers and managers to whom he delegates all details regarding process, production and maintenance. His appearance to speak to me was most unusual. I should not have drawn this attention. My mind raced. The information I had been given was incomplete. I had to determine what had actually occurred here. Only then would I know how to react and respond. The entire scope and nature of my visit had changed. I felt as if I was walking blind in a mine field. I needed to establish my bearings. I turned to Roddie and said: “I need to talk to Bisham!”.

----- to be continued -----