Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “All these rigs’re on legs that sit on the sea floor,” de Plessey was saying, “all French built and operated, serving one well each…” He wore khakis, and had sparse sandy hair, his face sunburned. The other Frenchmen were chattering and arguing among themselves—and that’s all they do, Scragger thought, except eat and drink wine and romance the pants off any sheila without so much as a by-your-leave. Like that old bugger Jean-Luc, king cocksman of them all! Still, they’re all individualists, every one of them—not like those other buggers. The Japanese were all short, lithe, and well groomed, all dressed the same: short-sleeved white shirt and dark tie and dark trousers and dark shoes, same digital watches, dark glasses; the only difference was in their ages. Like sardines in a can, Scragger thought.

  “…The water here, as in all of the Gulf is very shallow, M’sieur Kasigi,” de Plessey was saying. “Here it’s just about a hundred feet—oil’s easy to reach at about a thousand feet. We’ve six wells in this part of the field we call Siri Three, they’re all on stream, that is connected by pipes and pumping oil into our storage tanks on Siri island—tank capacity is 3 million barrels and all tanks are full now.”

  “And the docking on Siri, M’sieur de Plessey?” Kasigi, the graying Japanese spokesman asked, his English clear and careful. “I could not see when we were over the island.”

  “We load offshore at the moment. A wharf’s planned for next year. Meanwhile there’ll be no problem to load your medium tankers, M’sieur Kasigi. We guarantee quick service, quick loading. After all, we are French. You’ll see tomorrow. Your Rikomaru hasn’t been delayed?”

  “No. She will be there at noon. What’s the final capacity of the field?”

  “Limitless,” the Frenchman said with a laugh. “We’re only pumping 75,000 barrels a day now but, mon Dieu, under the seabed here is a lake of oil.”

  “Capit’an Excellency!” At Scragger’s side window was the beaming face of young Abdollah Turik, one of the fire crew. “I very good, ver very good. You?”

  “Tip-top, young feller. How’re things?”

  “I pleased you to see, Capit’an Excellency.”

  About a year ago Scragger’s base at Lengeh had been alerted by radio there was a CASEVAC on this rig. It was in the middle of a dirty night and the Iranian manager said perhaps the fireman had a burst appendix and could they get there as quick as possible after dawn—night flying being forbidden in Iran except for emergencies. Scragger had been duty officer and he had gone at once—it was company policy to go immediately, even in minimum conditions, and part of their special service. He had fetched the young man, taken him direct to the Iranian Naval Hospital at Bandar Abbas and talked them into accepting the youth. But for that the youth would have died.

  Ever since then the young man would be there to welcome him, and once a month there was a haunch of fresh goat meat at the base, much as Scragger tried to prevent it, because of the expense. Once he had visited the village in the hinterland of Lengeh where the youth had come from. It was usual: no sanitation, no electricity, no water, dirt floors, mud walls. Iran was very basic outside the cities but, even so, better than most of the Gulf states outside the cities. Abdollah’s family was like all the others, no better no worse. Many children, clouds of flies, a few goats and chickens, a few scrubby acres and soon, his father had said, one day soon we’ll have our own school, Excellency pilot, and our own water supply and one day electricity, and yes it is true we are much better off with work from our oil that foreigners exploit—thanks be to God for giving us oil. Thanks be to God that my son Abdollah lived. It was the Will of God that Abdollah lived, the Will of God that persuaded the Excellency pilot to take so much trouble. Thanks be to God!

  “How’re things, Abdollah?” Scragger repeated, liking the youth who was modern, not like his father.

  “Good.” Abdollah came closer, put his face almost into the window. “Capit’an,” he said haltingly, no longer smiling, his voice so soft Scragger had to bend forward to hear. “Soon much trouble… Communist Tudeh, mujhadin, perhaps fedayeen. Guns and explosives—perhaps a ship at Siri. Danger. Please please say not anything who says, yes?” Then he put back the smile on his face and called out loudly, “Happy landings and come again soon, Agha.” He waved once and, hiding his nervousness, went back to join the others.

  “Sure, sure, Abdollah,” Scragger muttered. There were a number of Iranians watching but that was usual. Pilots were appreciated because they were the only link on a CASEVAC. He saw the landing master give him the thumbs-up. Automatically he turned around and rechecked that all was locked and everyone back in his place. “Shall I take her, Ed?”

  “Yeah, sure, Scrag.”

  At a thousand feet Scragger leveled off, heading for Siri One where the rest of the passengers were due to disembark. He was very perturbed. Stone the crows, he thought. One bomb could blow Siri island into the Gulf. This was the first time there had been any whisper of trouble. The Siri field had never been subjected to any of the strikes that had closed down all other fields, mostly, expats believed, because the French had given sanctuary to Khomeini.

  Sabotage? Didn’t the Jap say he’s got a tanker due tomorrow? Yes, he did. Wot to do? Nothing at the moment, just put Abdollah aside for later—now’s not the time, not when you’re flying.

  He glanced at Vossi. Ed did good, very good, better than…better than who? His mind ranged over all the pilots he had helped train over the years. Hundreds. He had been flying since he was fifteen, Royal Australian Air Force at seventeen in ’33, Spitfires in ’39 and flight lieutenant, then converting to choppers in ’45. Korea ’49, and out after twenty years’ service, still a flight lieutenant, still ornery, and only thirty-seven. He laughed. In the air force he was always on the mat.

  “For Christ’s sake, Scragger, why pick on the air vice-marshal? You’ve done it this time…”

  “But, Wingco, the Limey started it, the bastard said all us Aussies were thieves, had chain marks around our wrists, and were descended from convicts!”

  “He did? Fucking Limeys’re all the same, Scrag, even though in your case he was probably right as your family’s been Down Under forever, but even so you’re still busted a rank again and if you don’t behave I’ll ground you forever!”

  But they never did. How could they? DFC and Bar, AFC and Bar, sixteen kills, and three times as many missions, happily, as anyone in the whole RAAF. And today still flying which was all he wanted in the world, still trying to be the best and safest, and still wanting to walk away from a prang, all passengers safe. If you fly choppers you can’t not have equipment failures, he thought, knowing he had been very, very lucky. Not like some, equally good pilots, whose luck ran out. You’ve got to be lucky to be a good pilot.

  Again he glanced across at Vossi, glad there wasn’t a war on which was a pilot’s great testing ground. I wouldn’t like to lose young Ed, he’s one of the best in S-G. Now who’s better that you’ve flown with? Charlie Pettikin, of course, but then he should be, he’s been a bush pilot and through the wringer too. Tom Lochart the same. Dirty Duncan McIver’s still the best of the lot even though he’s grounded, may he rot with his bleeding three-month medicals—but I’d be just as mean and just as careful with him if I was grounded and he was flying around at sixty-three like a junior birdman. Poor bugger.

  Scragger shuddered. If the CAA bring in the new regs about age and enforced retirement, I’ve had it. The day I’m grounded I’m for the pearly gates and no doubt about it.

  Siri One was still well ahead. He had landed there three times a week for a year or more. Even so he was planning his approach as though it were the first time. “Safety’s no accident, it has to be prepared.” Today we’ll do a nice gentle low approach an—

  “Scrag.”

  “Yes, me son?”

  “You scared the bejesus outta me.”

  He chuckled, “You scared the bejesus out’ve yourself, that’s lesson number one. Wot else did you learn?”

  “I guess
how goddamn easy it is to panic, how lonely you feel, helpless, and to bless your eyes.” Vossi almost burst out, “I guess I learned how mortal I am, goddamnit. Jesus, Scrag, I was scared—shit-scared.”

  “When it happened t’me I did it in my pants.”

  “Huh?”

  “I was flying out of Kuwait, a 47G2 in the old days, the sixties.” The 47G2 was the small, three-seat, bubble-shaped, piston-engined Bell, now the workhorse of most traffic control and police forces. “The charter was for a doc and an engineer in ExTex. They wanted to go out to an oasis, past Wafrah, where they had a CASEVAC—some poor sod mixed his leg up with the drill. Well, we were flying with the doors off’s usual ’cause it was summer, about a hundred and twenty degrees, and dry and rotten for man and chopper as only the desert can be—worse’n our Outback by a long shot. But we’d been promised double charter and a bonus, so my old pal Forsyth volunteered me. It wasn’t a bad day as desert days go, Ed, though the winds were red-hot’n gusting’n playing tricks, you know, the normal: sudden eddies whipping the sand into dust clouds, the usual whirlwinds in the eddies. I was at around three hundred feet on the approach when we hit the dust cloud—the dust so fine you couldn’t see it. How it got through my goggles God only knows but one moment we were okay and the next coughing and spluttering and I had both eyes full and was as blind as an old Pegleg Pete.”

  “You’re kidding me!”

  “No. It’s true, swear to God! Couldn’t see a bleeding thing, couldn’t open my eyes, and I’m the only pilot with two passengers aboard.”

  “Jesus, Scrag. Both eyes?”

  “Both eyes and we swung all over the sky to hell until I got her more or less even and my heart back in me chest. The doc couldn’t get the dust out, and every time he tried or I tried we near turned belly-up—you know how twitchy the G2 is. They were as panicked as me and that didn’t help a bleeding bit. That’s when I figured the only chance we got was to set her down blind. You said you was shit-scared, well, when I got our skids on the sand there wasn’t a dribble left to come out, not even a dribble.”

  “Jesus, Scrag, you got her down for real? Just like today but for real, both eyes full of dust? No shit?”

  “I got ’em to talk me down, just like I did to you—’least the doc did, the other poor sod’d fainted.” Scragger’s eyes had never left his landfall. “How’s she look to you?”

  “No sweat.” Siri One was dead ahead, the landing pad esplanaded over the water. They could see the landing master and his obligatory fire crew standing by. The wind sock was half full and steady.

  Normally Scragger would report into radar and begin their gradual descent. Instead he said, “We’ll stay high today, sport, a high-angle approach and let her settle in.”

  “Why, Scrag?”

  “Make a change.”

  Vossi frowned but said nothing. He rescanned the dials, seeking something amiss. There was nothing. Except a slight strangeness about the old man.

  When they were in position high over the rig, Scragger clicked on the transmit: “Kish radar, HST, leaving one thousand for Siri One.”

  “Okay, HST. Report when ready for takeoff.”

  “HST.”

  They were set up for a steep-angle approach, normally used when high buildings or trees or pylons surrounded the point of touchdown. Scragger took off the exact amount of power. The chopper began to settle nicely, perfectly controlled. Nine hundred, eight seven six five…four…three… They both felt the vibration in the controls at the same time.

  “Jesus,” Vossi gasped, but Scragger had already put her nose down sharply and floored the collective lever. Immediately she began to go down very fast. Two hundred feet, one fifty, one, vibrations increasing. Vossi’s eyes leaped from dial to dial to landing point and back again. He was rigid in his seat, his mind shouting, Tail rotor’s gone or tail rotor gearbox…

  The landing pad was rushing at them, the ground crew scattering in panic, passengers hanging on in sudden fright at the untoward steepness, Vossi holding on to the side of his seat to steady himself. Now the whole instrument panel was vibrating, the engine pitch different. Any second he expected them to lose the tail rotor completely and then they’d be lost. The altimeter read sixty feet…fifty…forty…thirty…twenty, and his hands reached to grab the controls to begin the flare but Scragger anticipated him by a fraction of a second, gave her full power and flared perfectly. For a second she seemed poised motionless three feet up, engines screaming, then she touched down hard but not too hard on the near edge of the circle, skidded forward, and came to rest six feet off center.

  “Fuck,” Scragger muttered.

  “Jesus, Scrag.” Vossi was hardly able to talk. “That was perfect.”

  “Oh, no, no, it wasn’t. I’m off six feet.” With an effort Scragger unlocked his hands from the controls. “Shut her down, Ed, quick as you can!” Scragger opened his door and slid out fast, the airflow from the blades whipping him, and went back to the cabin door, opening it. “Stay where you are a moment,” he shouted over the dying scream of the jets, wet with relief that everyone was still belted in and no one hurt. Obediently they stayed put, two of them pasty gray. The four Japanese stared at him impassively. Cold bloody lot, he thought.

  “Mon Dieu, Scrag,” Georges de Plessey called out, “What happened?”

  “Don’t know, think it’s the tail rotor—soon’s the rotors slow we c—”

  “What the hell are you playing at, Vossi!” It was Ghafari, the Iranian landing manager, and he had shoved his face near the pilot’s window, taut with rage. “How dare you pull a practice engine out on this rig? I’ll report you for dangerous flying!”

  Scragger whirled on him. “I was flying, not Capt’n Vossi!” Abruptly, Scragger’s enormous relief that he had got down safely, mixed with his long-standing detestation of this man snapped his temper. “Piss off, Ghafari, piss off, or I’ll thump you once and for all!” His fists bunched and he was ready. “PISS OFF!”

  The others watched, appalled. Vossi blanched. Ghafari, bigger and heavier than Scragger, hesitated then shook his fist in Scragger’s face, cursing him in Farsi, then shouted in English, wanting to provoke him: “Foreign pig! How dare you swear at me, threaten me? I’ll have you grounded for dangerous flying and thrown out of Iran. You dogs think you own our skies…”

  Scragger lunged forward but Vossi was suddenly between them and he blocked the lunge with his great chest, “Well, what you know, old buddy? Hey, sorry, Scrag,” he said easily, “but we’d better look at the tail rotor. Scrag, Scrag, old buddy, the tail rotor, huh?”

  It took a few seconds for Scragger’s eyes to clear. His heart was pumping and he saw them all staring at him. With a great effort he fought down his rage, “You’re…you’re right, Ed. Yes.” Then he turned on Ghafari. “We had a…we had an emergency.” Ghafari began to scoff and Scragger’s rage soared but this time he controlled it.

  They went aft. Many of the oil riggers, European and Iranian, were crowding around. The tail rotor stopped. About four inches were missing from one blade, the break jagged. When Vossi tried the main bearing, it was completely loose—the enormous torque caused by the imbalance of the blades had wrecked it. Behind him one of the passengers went to the side of the rig and was violently sick.

  “Jesus,” Vossi muttered, “I could break it off with two fingers.”

  Ghafari broke the silence with his bluster. “Clearly bad servicing, endangering the li—”

  “Shut up, Ghafari,” de Plessey said angrily. “Merde, we are all alive and we owe our lives to Captain Scragger. No one could forecast this, S-G’s standards are the highest in Iran.”

  “It will be reported, Mr. de Plessey, an—”

  “Yes, please do that and remember that I will be commending him for his airmanship.” De Plessey was imposing in his rage. He loathed Ghafari, considering him a rabble-rouser, openly pro-Khomeini one moment, inciting the workers to strike—provided there were no pro-Shah military or police nearby—the next f
awningly pro-Shah and punishing the riggers for a minor infraction. Foreign pig, eh? “Remember, too, this is a French-Iranian coventure and France is not, how shall I put it, France has not been unfriendly to Iran in her hour of need.”

  “Then you should insist Siri be serviced only by Frenchmen and not by old men! I will report this incident at once.” Ghafari walked off.

  Before Scragger could say or do anything, de Plessey put his hands on his shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks and shook his hand with equal warmth. “Thank you, mon cher ami!” There were loud cheers from the French as they congratulated themselves and crowded Scragger, formally embracing him. Then Kasigi stepped forward. “Domo,” he said formally, and to Scragger’s further acute embarrassment, the four Japanese bowed to him in unison to more French cheers and much backslapping.

  “Thank you, Captain,” Kasigi said formally. “Yes, we understand and thank you.” He smiled and offered his card with both hands and another little bow. “Yoshi Kasigi, Toda Shipping Industries. Thank you.”

  “It wasn’t a bad one, Mr. er, Mr. Kasigee,” Scragger said, trying to get over his embarrassment—over his rage now and back in control though he promised himself that one day soon he’d get Ghafari alone ashore. “We’ve, er, we’ve flotation gear, we’d plenty of space and we could have put her down in the water. It’s our job, our job to get her down safely. Ed here.” He beamed at Vossi genially, knowing that by getting in the way the young man had saved him from a matting he would not have won. “Captain Vossi would’ve done the same. Easy. It wasn’t a bad one—I just wanted to save you getting wet though the water’s nice and warm but you never know about Jaws…”