Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  Rosemont took a deep breath to slow his heart and turned the lever to Open then ran through the passage into the other cave. Ross beckoned him down beside the wall. “I sent Gueng to warn Tenzing. Ready?”

  “Sure.”

  Ross tightened the rope, then tugged hard. The rope remained taut. He tugged even harder, then it slackened a foot but came no farther. Silence. Nothing. Both men were sweating. “Well,” Ross said, greatly relieved, and got up. “Better safe than sorr—” The explosion obliterated his words, a great cloud of dust and bits of metal blew out of the passage into their cave, jerking the air from their lungs, scattering tables and chairs. All radar screens burst, lights vanished, one of the red phones tore loose and hurtled across the room to smash through the steel casing of a computer. Gradually the dust settled, both men coughing their hearts out in the darkness.

  Rosemont was the first to recover. His flashlight was still on his belt. He groped for it.

  “Sahib?” Tenzing called out anxiously, rushing into the room, his flash on, Gueng beside him.

  “I’m all—all right,” Ross said, still coughing badly. Tenzing found him lying in the rubble. A little blood was running down his face but it was only a superficial wound from the flying glass. “Bless all gods,” Tenzing muttered and helped him up.

  Ross fought to stay upright. “Christalmighty!” Blankly he looked around at the wreckage, then stumbled after Rosemont through the passage into the cipher room. The safe had vanished, with it the decoder, manuals, phones, leaving a huge hole in the living rock. All electronic equipment was just a mess of twisted metal and wires. Small fires had already started.

  “Jesus,” was all Rosemont could say, his voice little more than a croak, his psyche revolted by the nearness to extinction, mind screaming; run, escape this place of your death…

  “Christ all bloody mighty!”

  Helplessly, Rosemont tried to say something, couldn’t, his legs took him into a corner and he was violently sick.

  “We’d better—” Ross found it hard to talk, his ears still ringing, a monstrous ache in his head, adrenaline pumping, trying to dominate his own wish to run. “Tenzing, are—are you finished?”

  “Two minutes, sahib.” The man rushed off.

  “Gueng?”

  “Yes, sahib. Two minutes also.” He hurried away.

  Ross went to the other corner and retched. Then he felt better. He found the flask and took a long swig, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his battle dress, went over and shook Rosemont who was leaning against the wall. “Here.” He gave it to him. “You all right?”

  “Yes. Sure.” Rosemont still felt queasy, but now his mind was working. His mouth tasted foul and he spat the foulness into the rubble. Small fires burned, throwing crazy shadows on the walls and roof. He took a careful sip. After a moment he said, “Nothing on God’s earth like Scotch.” Another sip and he handed the flask back. “We’d better get the hell out of here.”

  With the flashlight he made a quick search of the wreckage, found the twisted remains of the all-important decoder, and picked his way carefully into the next cave and laid the remains near the charge at the base of the corner computers. “What I don’t understand,” he said helplessly, “is why the whole goddamn place didn’t go up and blow us all to hell anyway—with all our explosives scattered around.”

  “I—before I came back with the rope and sent Gueng off to Tenzing, I told Gueng to remove the explosives and the detonators for safety.”

  “You always think of everything?”

  Ross smiled weakly. “All part of the service,” he said. “Communications room?”

  It was mined quickly. Rosemont glanced at his watch. “Eight minutes to blast-off. We’ll forget the generator room.”

  “Good. Tenzing, you lead.”

  They went up the escape staircase. The iron hatch creaked as it opened. Once in the cave Ross took the lead. Cautiously he peered out at the night and all around. The moon was still high. Three or four hundred yards away the lead truck was grinding up the last incline. “Which way, Vien?” he asked and Rosemont felt a glow.

  “Up,” he said, hiding the warmth. “We climb. If there’re troops after us, we forget the coast and head for Tabriz. If no troops we circle and go back the way we came.”

  Tenzing led. He was like a mountain goat, but he picked the easiest path, knowing the two men were still very shaky. Here the slope was steep but not too difficult with little snow to impede them. They had barely started when the ground shook beneath them, the sound of the first explosion almost totally muffled. In quick succession there were other small quakes.

  One to go, Rosemont thought, glad of the cold which was clearing his head. The last explosion—the communications room—where they had used all their remaining explosive was much bigger and really shuddered the earth. Below and to their right, part of the mountain gave way, smoke billowing out of the resulting crater.

  “Christ,” Ross muttered.

  “Probably an air vent.”

  “Sahib. Look down there!”

  The lead truck had stopped at the entrance to the cave. Men were jumping out of it, others staring up at the mountainside, illuminated by the lights of the following trucks. The men all had rifles.

  Ross and the others slid deeper into the shadows. “We’ll climb up to that ridge,” Rosemont said softly, pointing above and to their left. “We’ll be out of their sight and covered. Then we head for Tabriz, almost due east. Okay?”

  “Tenzing, on you go!”

  “Yes, sahib.”

  They made the ridge and hurried over it to climb again, working their way eastward, not talking, conserving their energy for there were many, many miles to go. The terrain was rough and the snow harried them. Soon their gloves were torn, hands and legs bruised, calves aching but, no longer encumbered by heavy packs, they made good progress and their spirits were high.

  They came to one of the paths that crisscrossed the mountains. Whenever the path forked, their choice was always to keep to the heights. There were villages in the valley, very few up this high. “Better we stay up here,” Rosemont said, “and…and hope we don’t run into anyone.”

  “You think they’ll all be hostile?”

  “Sure. It’s not only anti-Shah country here but anti-Khomeini, anti-every-one.” Rosemont was breathing heavily. “It’s village against village most of the time and good bandit country.” He waved Tenzing onward, thankful for the moonlight and that he was with the three of them.

  Tenzing kept up the pace but it was a mountaineer’s pace, measured and unhurried and constant and punishing. After an hour Gueng took over the lead, then Ross, Rosemont, and then Tenzing again. Three minutes rest an hour, then on again.

  The moon sank lower in the sky. They were well away now, the going easier, lower down the mountainside. The path meandered but it led generally eastward toward a curiously shaped cleft in the range. Rosemont had recognized it. “Down in that valley’s a side road that goes to Tabriz. It’s little more than a track in winter but you can get through okay. Let’s go on till dawn, then rest up and make a plan. Okay?”

  Now they were down below the tree line and into the beginnings of the pine forest, going much slower and feeling the tiredness.

  Tenzing still led. Snow muffled their footsteps and the good clean air pleased him greatly. Abruptly he sensed danger and stopped. Ross was just behind him and he stopped also. Everyone waited motionless. Then Ross went forward carefully. Tenzing was peering into the dark ahead, the moon casting strange shadows. Slowly both men used their peripheral vision. Nothing. No sign or smell. They waited. Some snow fell from one of the trees. No one moved. Then a night bird left a branch ahead and to the right and flew noisily away. Tenzing pointed in that direction, motioned Ross to wait, slid his kookri out, and went forward alone, melting into the night.

  After a few yards Tenzing saw a man crouched behind a tree fifty yards ahead and his excitement picked up. Closer he could see that the man was obl
ivious of him. Closer. Then his peripheral vision saw a shadow move to his left, another to his right and he knew. “Ambush!” he shouted at the top of his lungs and dived for cover.

  The first wave of bullets passed near him but missed. Part of the second punctured his left lung, ripped a hole out of his back, slamming him against a fallen tree. More guns opened up on the opposite side of the pathway, the crossfire racking Ross and the others, who had scrambled behind tree trunks and into gullies.

  For a moment Tenzing lay there helplessly. He could hear the firing but it seemed far away though he knew that it must be near. With a last mighty effort he dragged himself to his feet and charged the guns that had killed him. He saw some of their attackers turn back on him and heard bullets pass him, some tugging at his cowl. One went through his shoulder but he did not feel it, pleased that he was dying as men in the regiment were supposed to die. Going forward. Fearlessly. I am truly without fear. I am Hindu and I go to meet Shiva contentedly, and when I am reborn I pray Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva that I will be born again Gurkha.

  As he reached the ambush, his kookri hacked off someone’s arm, his legs gave out, a monstrous, peerless light went off in his head and he strode into death without pain.

  “Hold all fire,” Ross called out, getting his bearings, pulling the strings of battle back into his hands. He pegged two groups of guns against them, but there was no way that he could get at either. The ambush had been well chosen and the crossfire deadly. He had seen Tenzing hit. It had taken all of his willpower not to go to his aid but first there was this battle to win and the others to protect. The shots were echoing and reechoing off the mountainside. He had wriggled out of his pack, found the grenades, made sure his carbine was fully automatic, not knowing how to lead the way out of the trap. Then he had seen Tenzing reel to his feet with a battle cry and charge up the slope, creating the diversion Ross needed. At once he ordered Rosemont, “Cover me,” and to Gueng, “Go!” pointing toward the same group Tenzing was attacking.

  Immediately Gueng jumped out of his gully and rushed them, their attention diverted by Tenzing. When he saw his comrade go down, his rage burst, he let the lever on his grenade fly off, hurled it into their midst and hit the snow. The instant the grenade exploded he was up, his carbine spraying the screams, stopping most of them. He saw one man rushing away, another desperately crawling off into the underbrush. One slash of the kookri took off part of the crawler’s head. A short burst cut the other to pieces and again Gueng whirled into cover, not knowing where the next danger would come from. Another grenade exploding took his attention to the other side of the path.

  Ross had crawled forward out of safety. Bullets straddled him but Rosemont opened up with short bursts, drawing fire, giving Ross the help he needed, and he made the next tree safely, found a deep trough in the snow, and fell into it. For a second he waited, collecting his breath, then scrambled along the hard, frozen snow toward the firing. Now he was out of sight of the attackers and he made good time. Then he heard the other grenade go off and the screaming, and he prayed that Gueng and Tenzing were all right.

  The enemy firing was getting closer, and when he judged that he was in position, he pulled the pin out of the first grenade and with his carbine in his left hand went over the top. The instant he was in the open he saw the men but not where he had expected them. There were five, barely twenty yards away. Their rifles turned on him but his reactions were just a little faster and he was on the ground behind a tree, the lever off and counting before the first barrage ripped into it. On the fourth second he reached around the tree and lobbed the grenade at them, buried his head under his arms. The explosion lifted him off the ground, blew the trunk of a nearer tree to pieces, burying him under branches and snow from its limbs.

  Down by the path Rosemont had emptied his magazine into where he thought the attackers would be. Cursing in his anxiety, he slapped in a new magazine and fired another burst.

  Across the path on the other slope, Gueng was huddled behind a rock waiting for someone to move. Then, near the exploded tree, he saw one man running away, bent double. He aimed and the man died, the shot echoing. Now silence.

  Rosemont felt his heart racing. He could wait no longer. “Cover me, Gueng,” he shouted and leaped to his feet and rushed for the tree. A flicker of firing to his right, bullets hissed past, then Gueng opened up from the other slope. A bubbling scream and the firing ceased. Rosemont ran onward until he was straddling the ambush point, his carbine leveled. Three men were in pieces, the last barely alive, their rifles bent and twisted. All wore rough tribal clothes. As he watched, the last man choked and died. He turned away and rushed for the other tree, pulling branches away, fighting his way through the snow to Ross.

  On the other slope Gueng waited and watched to kill anything that moved. There was a slight stir amid the carnage behind the rocks where his grenade had ripped the three men apart. He waited, hardly breathing, but it was only a rodent feeding. Soon they will clean the ground and make it whole again, he thought, awed by the cycle of the gods. His eyes ranged slowly. He saw Tenzing crumpled to one side of the rock, his kookri still locked in his grasp. Before I leave I will take it, Gueng thought; his family will cherish it and his son will wear it with equal honor. Tenzing Sheng’khan lived and died like a man and will be reborn as the gods decide. Karma.

  Another movement. Ahead in the forest. He concentrated.

  The other side of the path Rosemont was pulling at the branches, fighting them away, his arms aching. At last he reached Ross and his heart almost stopped. Ross was crumpled on the ground, his arms over his head, his carbine nearby. Blood stained the snow and the back of the white coveralls. Rosemont knelt and turned him over and almost cried out with relief that Ross was still breathing. For a moment his eyes were blank, then they focused. He sat up and winced. “Tenzing? And Gueng?”

  “Tenzing got clobbered, Gueng’s the other side covering us. He’s okay.”

  “Thank God. Poor Tenzing.”

  “Test your arms and legs.”

  Gingerly Ross moved his limbs. Everything worked. “My head hurts like hell, but I’m okay.” He looked around and saw the crumpled attackers. “Who are they?”

  “Tribesmen. Bandits maybe.” Rosemont studied the way ahead. Nothing moved. The night was fine. “We’d better get the hell out of here before more of the bastards jump us. You think you can go on?”

  “Yes. Give me a couple of seconds.” Ross wiped some snow over his face. The cold helped. “Thanks, eh? You know. Thanks.”

  Rosemont smiled back. “All part of the service,” he said wryly. His eyes went to the tribesmen. Keeping well down he went over to them and searched where he could. He found nothing. “Probably locals—or just bandits. These bastards can be real cruel if they catch you alive.”

  Ross nodded and another spasm of pain soared. “I’m okay now, I think. We’d better move—the firing must have been heard for miles and this’s no place to hang around.”

  Rosemont had seen the pain. “Wait some more.”

  “No. I’ll feel better moving.” Ross gathered his strength, then called out in Gurkhali, “Gueng, we’ll go on.” He started to get up, stopped as an abrupt keening for danger answered him. “Get down!” he gasped and pulled Rosemont with him.

  A single rifle bullet came out of the night and chose Rosemont and buried itself in his chest, mortally wounding him. Then there was firing from the other slope and a scream and silence once more.

  In time, Gueng joined Ross. “Sahib, I think that was the last. For the moment.”

  “Yes.” They waited with Vien Rosemont until he died, then did what they had to do for him and for Tenzing. And then they went on.

  ISFAHAN MILITARY AIR BASE: 5:40 A.M. To the east the dark night was beginning to lighten with the dawn. The base was quiet now, no one about except for armed Islamic Guards who, with the people of Isfahan in their thousands and led by mullahs, had stormed the base yesterday and now possessed it, all army and air for
ce officers and men confined to their barracks under guard—or free, openly declared now for Khomeini and the revolution.

  The sentry Relazi was eighteen and very proud of his green armband and to be on guard outside the shed that contained the traitor General Valik and his family who had been caught yesterday, skulking in the officers’ mess with his CIA foreign pilot. God is great, he thought. Tomorrow they will be cast into hell with all foul People of the Left Hand.

  For generations the Relazis had been cobblers in one tiny stall of Isfahan’s Old Bazaar. Yes, he thought, I was a bazaari until a week ago when our mullah called me and all the Faithful to God’s battle, gave me God’s armband and this gun and showed me how to use it. How wonderful are the ways of God.

  He was sheltered in the lee of the hut, out of the snow, but the damp cold was going through him even though he was wearing all the clothes he possessed in the world—sweatshirt, a coarse shirt over it, a coat and trousers bought secondhand, an old sweater and ancient army coat that once had belonged to his father. His feet felt numb. “As God wants,” he said out loud and felt better. “I’ll be relieved soon and then I’ll eat again—by God, soldiers lived like veritable pashas, at least two meals every day, one with rice, imagine that, and pay every week…pay from Satan but pay even so.” He coughed badly, his breath wheezing, shifted the U.S. Army carbine to his other shoulder, found the stub of the cigarette he had been saving, and lit it.

  By the Prophet, he thought gleefully, who would have imagined that we could take the base so easily, so few of us killed and sent to Paradise before we had overwhelmed the soldiers on the gate and swarmed into the camp—our brothers on the base blocking the runways with trucks, and others seizing the aircraft and helicopters to prevent escape of the Shah traitors. Rushing the bullets of the enemy, the Name of God on our lips. “Join us, brothers,” we shouted, “join God’s revolution, help do God’s work! Come to Paradise…don’t go to hell…”