“Yes, yes I did once. But warm wine…sake’s not to my taste.”
“I agree,” de Plessey said, then added hurriedly, “except in winter, like hot toddy. You were saying about Australia?”
“I enjoy the country very much. My eldest son goes to Sydney University too, so we visit him from time to time. It’s a wonderland—so vast, so rich, so empty.”
Yes, Scragger had thought grimly. You mean so empty and just waiting to be filled up by your millions of worker ants? Thank the Lord we’re a few thousand miles away and the U.S.’ll never allow us to be taken over.
“Bollocks!” McIver had said to him once during a friendly argument, when he, McIver, and Pettikin were on a week’s leave two years ago in Singapore. “If some time in the future Japan picked the right time, say when the U.S. was having at Russia, the States wouldn’t be able to do a thing to help Australia. I think they’d make a deal an—”
“Dirty Duncan’s lost his marbles, Charlie,” Scragger had said.
“You’re right,” Pettikin had agreed. “He’s just needling you, Scrag.”
“Oh, no, I’m not. Your real protector’s China. Come hell or strawberries, China’s always going to be there. And only China will always be in a position to stop Japan if ever Japan got militant and strong enough to move south. My God, Australia’s the great prize in the whole Pacific, the treasure chest of the Pacific, but none of you buggers down there care to plan ahead or use your loaf. All you bloody want’s three days’ holiday a week, with more pay for less bloody work, free bloody school, free medical, free welfare, and let some other bugger man the ramparts—you’re worse than poor old bloody England who’s got nothing! The real tr—”
“You’ve got North Sea oil. If that’s not the luck of the devil I do—”
“The real trouble is you bloody twits Down Under don’t know your arse from a hole in the wall.”
“Sit down, Scrag!” Pettikin had said warningly. “You agreed no fighting. None. You try and thump Mac when he’s not smashed you’ll end up in the sewer. He may have high blood pressure but he’s still a black belt.”
“Me thump Dirty Duncan? You must be joking, cobber. I don’t pick on old buggers…”
Scragger smiled to himself, remembering their bender to end all benders. Singapore’s a good place, he thought, then turned his attention back to the ship, feeling better now, well fed and very glad that the loading was done.
The night was grand. Far above him he saw the blinking navigation lights of an airplane heading westward and wondered briefly where its landfall was, what airline it was and how many passengers were aboard. His night vision was excellent and he could see that now the men on the barge had almost unscrewed the pipe. Once it had been winched aboard, the tanker could leave. At dawn the Rikomaru would be in the Strait of Hormuz and he would take off and fly home to Lengeh with de Plessey.
Then his sharp eyes saw some men running away from the semifloodlit pumping junction just ashore. His attention zeroed on them.
There was a small explosion, then a gush of flame as the oil caught fire. Everyone aboard watched aghast. The flames began to spread, and they heard shouting—Iranian and French—ashore. Men were running down from the barracks and storage tanks area. A sudden flicker of a machine gun in the darkness, the sharp ugly crackle following. Over the ship’s loudspeaker system came the captain’s voice in Japanese: “Action stations!”
At once the men on the barge redoubled their efforts, petrified that somehow the fire might spread through the pipe to the barge and blow it up. The moment the nozzle fell away from the valve, the Iranians hastily jumped into their small motorboat and fled, their work completed. The French engineer and Japanese seamen ran up the gangplank as the tanker’s deck winch rattled into life, dragging the pipe aboard.
Belowdecks the crew had scurried to emergency positions, some to the engine room, some to the bridge, others to the main gangways. Momentarily the three Iranians monitoring the fuel flow in various parts of the ship were left alone. They rushed for the deck.
One of them, Saiid, pretended to stumble and fall near the main tank inlet. When he was sure he was not observed he hastily opened his trousers and brought out the small plastic explosive device that had been missed in the body search when he had come aboard. It had been taped to the inside of a thigh, high up between his legs. Hastily he activated the chemical detonator that would explode in about one hour, stuck the device behind the main valve, and ran for the gangway. When he came on deck he was appalled to find that the men on the barge had not waited and that now the motorboat was almost ashore. The other two Iranians were chattering excitedly, equally enraged to be left aboard. Neither were members of his leftist cell.
Onshore the oil spill was blazing out of control but the oil supply had been cut and the break isolated. Three men had been badly burned, one French and two Iranians. The mobile fire-fighting truck poured seawater into the flames, sucking it up from the Gulf. There was no wind and the choking black smoke made fire fighting even more difficult.
“Get some foam onto it,” Legrande, the French manager, shouted. Almost beside himself with rage, he tried to get order, but everyone was still milling about in the floodlights not knowing what to do. “Jacques, round up everyone and let’s count heads. Fast as you can.” Their full complement was seven French and thirty Iranians on the island. The security force of three men hurried off into the darkness, unarmed except for hastily made batons, not knowing what further sabotage to expect or from where.
“M’sieur!” The Iranian medic was beckoning Legrande.
He went down toward the shore to the complex of pipes and valves that joined the tanks to the barge. The medic was kneeling beside two of the injured men who lay on a piece of canvas, unconscious and in shock. One of them had had his hair completely singed off and most of his face severely burned; the other had been sprayed with oil in the initial explosion that had instantly conflagrated his clothes, causing first-degree burns over most of the front of his body.
“Madonna,” Legrande muttered and crossed himself, seeing the ugly charred skin, barely recognizing his Iranian foreman.
One of his French engineers sat hunched over and was moaning softly, his hands and arms burned. Mixed with his agony was a constant stream of expletives.
“I’ll get you to the hospital, fast as I can, Paul.”
“Find those fornicators and burn them,” the engineer snarled, then went back into his pain.
“Of course,” Legrande said helplessly, then to the medic, “Do what you can, I’ll call for a CASEVAC.” He hurried away from the shore for the radio room that was in one of the barracks, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Then he noticed two men on the far side of the tiny airstrip, running up the track on the slight bluff. Over that bluff was a cove with a small wharf used for sailing and swimming. I’ll bet the bastards have a boat there, he thought at once. Then, almost berserk with rage, he shouted after them into the night, “Bastardsssss!”
When the first explosion had occurred de Plessey had rushed for the ship-to-shore radio that was on the bridge. “Have you found that machine gun yet?” he asked the base submanager in French. Behind him, Scragger, Kasigi, and the captain were equally grim. Lights on the bridge were dimmed. Outside, the moon was high and strong.
“No, m’sieur. After the first burst, the attackers vanished.”
“What about the damage to the pumping system?”
“I don’t know. I’m waiting for a…ah, just a moment, here’s M’sieur Legrande.” After a moment again in French: “This’s Legrande. Three burned, two Iranians very badly, the other’s Paul Beaulieu, hands and arms—call for a CASEVAC at once. I saw a couple of men heading for the cove—probably the saboteurs, and they’ve probably a boat there. I’m assembling everyone so we can see who’s missing.”
“Yes, at once. What about the damage?”
“Not major. With luck we’ll have that fixed in a week—certainly by the time the next tanker arri
ves.”
“I’ll come ashore as soon as I can. Wait a moment!” De Plessey looked at the others and told them what Legrande had said.
Scragger said at once, “I’ll take the CASEVAC, no need to call for one.”
Kasigi said, “Bring the injured aboard—we’ve a surgery and a doctor. He’s very skilled, particularly with burns.”
“Good on you!” Scragger rushed off.
Into the mike de Plessey said, “We’ll deal with the CASEVAC from here. Get the men onto stretchers. Captain Scragger will bring them aboard at once. There’s a doctor here.”
A young Japanese deck officer came and spoke briefly to the captain who shook his head and replied curtly, then explained in English to de Plessey: “The three Iranians who were left aboard when the others on the barge fled want to be taken ashore at once. I said they could wait.” Then he called down to the engine room preparing to make way.
Kasigi was staring at the island. And at the tanks there. I need that oil, he thought, and I need the island safe. But it’s not safe and nothing I can do to make it safe.
“I’m going ashore,” de Plessey said and left.
Scragger was already at the 206, unhooking the rear doors.
“What’re you doing, Scrag?” de Plessey said, hurrying up to him.
“I can lay the stretcher on the backseat and lash it safe. Quicker than rigging an outside carry sling.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Hop in!” They glanced around at the noise behind them. The three Iranians had run over and were jabbering at him. It was clear they wanted to go ashore in the helicopter. “Shall we take them, Scrag?”
Scragger was already in the pilot’s seat, his fingers dancing over the switches. “No. You’re an emergency, they’re not. Get in, old sport.” He pointed at the right seat then waved the Iranians away. “Nah, ajaleh daram”—No, I’m in a hurry—he said, using one of the few expressions in Farsi he knew. Two of them backed off obediently The third, Saiid, slid into the backseat and started to buckle up. Scragger shook his head, motioning him to get out. The man took no notice and spoke rapidly and forced a smile and pointed at the shore.
Impatiently Scragger motioned him out, one finger pressing the Engine Start button switch. The whine began instantly. Again the man refused and, angry now, pointed at the shore, his voice drowned by the cranking engine. For a moment Scragger thought, Okay, why not? Then he noticed the sweat dripping off the man’s face, his sweat-soaked overalls, and seemed to smell his fear. “Out!” he said, studying him very carefully.
Saiid paid no attention to him. Above them the blade was turning slowly, gaining speed.
“Let him stay,” de Plessey called out over. “We’d better hurry.”
Abruptly Scragger aborted the engine start, and with very great strength for such a small man, had Saiid’s belt unbuckled and the man out on the deck, half unconscious, before anyone knew what was happening. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted up at the bridge. “Hey there, aloft! Kasigi! This joker’s too bloody anxious to go ashore—wasn’t he belowdecks?” Without waiting for an answer, he jumped back into the cockpit and jabbed Engine Start.
De Plessey watched him silently. “What did you see in that man?”
Scragger shrugged. Long before the engine came to full power, seamen had grabbed the man and the other two and were herding them up to the bridge.
The 206 went like an arrow for the shore. The two injured men were already on stretchers. Rapidly a spare stretcher was lashed in place across the backseat and the first stretcher lashed to this. Scragger helped the injured Frenchman, arms and hands bandaged, into the front seat alongside him, and trying to close his nostrils to the stench, eased her airborne and flew back, landing like gossamer. Medics and the doctor were waiting, plasma ready, morphine hypodermic ready.
In seconds Scragger darted shoreward again. In more seconds the last stretcher was in place and he was away, again to land delicately. Once more the doctor was waiting, needle ready, and again he ducked down and ran for the stretcher under the whirling blades. This time he did not use the needle. “Ah so sorry,” he said in halting English. “This man dead.” Then, keeping his head low, he scurried for his surgery. Medics took the body away.
When Scragger had shut down and had everything locked and safe, he went to the side of the ship and was violently sick. Ever since he had seen and heard and smelled a pilot in a crashed, burning biplane, years upon years ago, it had been an abiding horror of his to be caught in the same way. He had never been able to stomach the smell of burned human hair and skin.
After a while he wiped his mouth, breathing the good air, and blessed his luck. Three times he had been shot down, twice in flames, but each time he had got out safely. Four times he had had to autorotate to save himself and his passengers, twice over jungle and into the trees, once with an engine on fire. “But my name wasn’t on the list,” he muttered. “Not those times.” Footsteps were approaching. He turned to see Kasigi walking across the deck, an ice-cold bottle of Kirin beer in each hand.
“Please excuse me, but here,” Kasigi said gravely, offering the beer. “Burns do the same for me. I was sick too. I… I went down to the surgery to see how the injured were and… I was very sick.”
Scragger drank gratefully. The cool, hops-flavored liquid, bubbles tingling as he swallowed, rebirthed him. “Christ Jesus that was good. Thanks, cobber.” And having said it once it became easier to say it the second time. “Thanks, cobber.” Kasigi heard it both times and considered it a major victory. Both of them looked at the seaman hurrying up to them with a teleprinter message in his hand. He gave it to Kasigi who went to the nearest light, put on his glasses, and peered at it. Scragger heard him suck in his breath and saw him become even more ashen.
“Bad news?”
After a pause Kasigi said, “No—just, just problems.”
“Anything I can do?”
Kasigi did not answer him. Scragger waited. He could see the turmoil written in the man’s eyes though not his face, and he was sure Kasigi was trying to decide whether to tell him. Then Kasigi said, “I don’t think so. It’s…it’s about our petrochemical plant at Bandar Delam.”
“The one Japan’s building?” Along with most everyone else in the Gulf, Scragger knew about the enormous $3.5 billion endeavor that, when completed, would easily be the biggest petrochemical complex in Asia Minor and the Middle East, with a 300,000-ton ethylene plant as its heart. It had been building since ’71 and was almost finished, 85 percent complete. “That’s some plant!”
“Yes. But it’s being built by Japanese private industry, not by the Japanese government,” Kasigi said. “The Iran-Toda plant’s privately financed.”
“Ah,” Scragger said, the connection falling into place. “Toda Shipping—Iran-Toda! You’re the same company?”
“Yes, but we’re only part of the Japanese syndicate that put up the money and technical advice for the Shah…for Iran,” Kasigi corrected himself. All gods great and small curse this land, curse everyone in it, curse the Shah for creating all the oil crises, curse OPEC, curse all the misbegotten fanatics and liars who live here. He glanced at the message again and was pleased to see his fingers were not shaking. It was in private code from his chairman, Hiro Toda.
It read; “URGENT. Due to absolute and continuous Iranian intransigence, I have finally had to order all construction at Bandar Delam to cease. Present cost overruns total $500 million and would probably go to 1 billion before we could begin production. Present interest payments are $495,000 daily. Due to infamous secret pressure by ‘Broken Sword,’ our Contingency Plan 4 has been rejected. Go to Bandar Delam urgently and give me a personal report. Chief Engineer Director Watanabe is expecting you. Please acknowledge.”
It’s impossible to get there, Kasigi thought crestfallen. And if Plan 4 is rejected, we’re ruined.
Contingency Plan 4 called for Hiro Toda to approach the Japanese government for low-interest loans to take
up the shortfall, and at the same time, discreetly, to petition the prime minister to declare the Iran-Toda complex at Bandar Delam a “National Project.” “National Project” meant that the government formally accepted the vital nature of the endeavor and would see it through to completion. “Broken Sword” was their code name for Hiro Toda’s personal enemy and chief rival, Hideyoshi Ishida, who headed the enormously powerful group of trading companies under the general name of Mitsuwari.
All gods curse that jealous, lying son of vermin, Ishida, Kasigi was thinking, as he said, “My company is only one of many in the Syndicate.”
“I flew over your plant once,” Scragger said, “going from our base to Abadan. I was on a ferry, ferrying a 212. You’ve trouble there?”
“Some temporary…” Kasigi stopped and stared at him. Pieces of a plan fell into place. “Some temporary problems…important but temporary. As you know we’ve had more than our fair share of problems since the beginning, none of them our fault.” First there was February ’71 when twenty-three oil producers signed the OPEC price agreement, formed their cartel, and doubled the price to $2.16…then the Yom Kippur War of ’73 when OPEC cut shipments to the United States and raised the price to $5.12. Then the catastrophe of ’74 when OPEC shipments were resumed but again at over double the price, $10.95, and the world recession began. “Why the U.S. allowed OPEC to wreck the economy of the world when they alone had the power to smash it, we’ll never know. Baka! And now we’re all in a perpetual pawn to OPEC, now our major supplier Iran is in revolution, oil’s almost $20 a barrel and we have to pay it, have to.” He bunched his fist to smash it on the gunnel, then unclenched, disgusted with his lack of control. “As to Iran-Toda,” he said, forcing outward calm, “like everyone else we found Iranians very…very difficult to deal with in recent years.” He motioned at the message. “My chairman asked me to go to Bandar Delam.”
Scragger whistled. “That’s going to be dicey—difficult.”
“Yes.”
“Is it important?”
“Yes. Yes, it is.” Kasigi left that hanging in the air, sure that Scragger would suggest the solution. Ashore the oil-soaked earth around the sabotaged valve complex still burned brightly. The fire truck was spreading foam now. They could see de Plessey nearby, talking to Legrande.
Whirlwind Page 22
