Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “All right, Major. By the way, where’s our radio op, Massil?”

  “Ah, yes, the Palestinian. He’s being interrogated.”

  “May I ask what for?”

  “PLO affiliation and terrorist activities.”

  Yesterday he had been informed that Massil had confessed and been shot—without a chance to hear the evidence or question it or to see him. Poor bastard, Ayre thought, closing the tower door now and switching on the equipment. Massil was always loyal to us and grateful for the job, so overqualified—radio engineering degree from Cairo University, top of the class but nowhere to practice and stateless. Bloody hell! We take our passports for granted—what’d it be like to be without one and to be, say, Palestinian? Must be hairy not to know what’s going to happen at every border, with every Immigration man, policeman, bureaucrat, or employer a potential inquisitor.

  Thank God in heaven I’m born British and that not even the queen of England can take that away though the bloody Labour Government’s changing our overseas heritage. Well the pox on them for every Aussie, Canuck, Kiwi, Springbok, Kenyan, China hand, and a hundred other Britishers who will soon have to have a bloody visa to go home! “Arseholes,” he muttered. “Don’t they realize those’re sons and daughters of men who made the empire and died for it in many cases?”

  He waited for the HF and other radios to warm up. The hum pleased him, red and green lights flickering, and he no longer felt locked off from the world. Hope Angela and young Fredrick are okay. Bloody, having no mail or phones and a dead telex. Well, maybe soon everything will be working again.

  He reached for the sending switch, hoping that McIver or someone would be listening out. Then he noticed that, by habit, along with the UHF, HF, he had switched on their radar. He leaned over to turn it off. At that moment a small blip appeared on the outer rim—the twenty-mile line—to the northwest, almost obscured among the heavy scatter of the mountains. Startled, he studied it. Experience told him quickly that it was a helicopter. He made sure that he was tuned into all receiving frequencies and when he looked back he saw the blip vanish. He waited. It did not reappear. Either she’s down, shot down, or sneaking under the radar net, he thought. Which?

  The seconds ticked by. No change, just the revolving, heavy white line of the sweep, in its wake a bird’s-eye view of the surrounding terrain. Still no sign of the blip.

  His fingers snapped on the UHF sending switch, and he brought the mike closer, hesitated, then changed his mind and switched it off. No need to alert the operators in the base tower, if there’re any on duty there, he thought. He frowned at the screen. With a soft, red grease pencil he marked the possible track inbound at eighty knots. Minutes passed. He could have switched to a closer range scan but he did not in case the blip was not inbound but, highly irregularly, sneaking across their area.

  Now she should be five or six miles out, he thought. He picked up the binoculars and started to scan the sky, north through west to south. His ears heard light footsteps on the last few stairs. His heart quickening, he snapped the radar off. The screen began dying as the door opened.

  “Captain Ayre?” the airman asked, uniform neat, strong good Persian face, clean-shaven, in his late twenties, a standard U.S. Army carbine in his hands.

  “Yes, yes, that’s me.”

  “I’m Sergeant Wazari, your new air traffic controller.” The man leaned his carbine against a wall, put out his hand, and Ayre shook it. “Hi, I’m USAAF trained, three years, and a military controller. I even did six months at Van Nuys Airport.” His eyes had taken in all the equipment. “Nice setup.”

  “Yes, er, yes, thank you.” Ayre fumbled with the binoculars and set them down. “What, er, happens at Van Nuys Airport?”

  “It’s a nothing little airstrip in the San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles but the third busiest airport in the States and a mother to end all mothers!” Wazari beamed, “The traffic’s amateur, most of the jokers’re learners who still don’t know their ass from a propeller, you’ve maybe twenty in the system at any one time, eight on final, all wanting to make like Richthofen.” He laughed. “Great place to learn traffic controlling but after six months you’re ape.”

  Ayre forced a smile, willing himself not to search the sky. “This place’s pretty quiet. Even normally. We’ve, er, we’ve no flights out as you know—you’ve nothing to do here, I’m afraid.”

  “Sure. I just wanted to take a quick look as we begin bright and early tomorrow.” He reached into his uniform pocket and took out a list and gave it to Ayre. “You’ve three flights scheduled for the local rigs starting 8:00 A.M., okay?” Without thinking he picked up a rag and wiped the inbound track off the radar screen, tidying the desk alongside. The red grease pencil went into its holder with the others.

  Ayre looked back at the list. “Are these authorized by Esvandiary?”

  “Who’s he?”

  Ayre told him.

  The sergeant laughed. “Well, Captain, Major Changiz personally ordered these so you can bet your ass they’re confirmed.”

  “He’s…he wasn’t arrested with the colonel?”

  “Hell, no, Captain. The mullah, Hussain Kowissi, appointed Major Changiz temp base commander, pending confirm from Tehran.” Unerringly his fingers switched channels to the MainBase Frequency. “Hello, MainBase, this’s Wazari at S-G. Do we need tomorrow’s flights countersigned by IranOil’s Esvandiary?”

  “Negative,” came back over the loudspeaker, again American-accented. “Everything okay over there?”

  “Yep. The outbound went off without incident. I’m with Captain Ayre now.” The sergeant scanned the sky as he talked.

  “Good. Captain Ayre, this’s the senior traffic controller. Any flights authorized by Major Changiz are automatically approved by IranOil.”

  “Can I have that in writing please?”

  “Sergeant Wazari’ll have it for you in duplicate at 8:00 A.M., okay?”

  “Thanks—thank you.”

  “Thanks, MainBase,” Wazari said, beginning to sign off, then his eyes fixed. “Hold it, MainBase, we’ve got a bird inbound! Chopper, 270 degrees…”

  “Where? Where… I see him! How the hell did he get in under the radar? You switched on?”

  “Negative. The sergeant trained the binoculars. “Bell 212, registration…can’t see it—she’s head-on to us.” He clicked on the UHF. “This is Kowiss Military Control! Inbound chopper, what is your registration, where are you bound, and what was your point of departure?”

  Silence but for the crackle of static. The same call repeated by MainBase. No reply.

  “That sonofabitch’s in dead trouble,” Wazari muttered. Again he trained the binoculars.

  Ayre had the second set and his heart was thumping. As the chopper joined the landing pattern, he read the registration: EP-HBX.

  “Echo Peter Hotel Boston X-ray!” the sergeant said simultaneously.

  “HBX,” MainBase agreed. Again they tried radio contact. No reply. “He’s in your regular landing pattern. Is he a local? Captain Ayre, is he one of yours?”

  “No, sir, not one of mine, not based here,” Ayre added carefully, “HBX could be an S-G registration, however.”

  “Based where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sergeant, as soon as that joker lands, arrest him and all passengers, send them over here to HQ under guard, then give me a quick report who why and where from.”

  “Yessir.”

  Thoughtfully Wazari selected a red grease pencil and traced the same line on the radar screen that Ayre had drawn and he had wiped out. He stared at it a moment, knowing Ayre was watching him intently. But he said nothing, just wiped the glass clean again and put his attention back to the 212.

  In silence the two men in the tower watched her make a normal circuit then break off correctly and head for them. But she made no attempt to land, just stayed at the correct height and made a much smaller circuit, waggling from side to side.

  “Radio’s out—he
wants a Green,” Ayre said, and reached for a signal light. “Okay?”

  “Sure, give him one—but his ass’s still in a wringer.”

  Ayre checked that the powerful, narrow-beamed signal light was set for Green, permission to land. He aimed it at the chopper and switched on. The chopper acknowledged by waggling from side to side and started the approach. Wazari picked up his carbine and went out. Again Ayre trained his binoculars but still could not recognize the pilot or the man beside him, both muffled in winter gear and goggles. Then he rushed down the stairs.

  Other S-G personnel, pilots and mechanics, had gathered to watch. From the direction of the main base, a car was speeding their way along the boundary road. Manuela stood in the doorway of the bungalow. The landing pads were in front of the office building. Crouched in the lee were the four Green Bands who had stayed behind, Wazari now with them. Ayre noticed that one was very young, barely a teenager, fiddling with his machine gun. In his excitement, cocking it, the youth dropped it on the tarmac, the gun pointing directly at Ayre. But it did not go off. As he watched, the youth picked it up by the barrel, banged the butt down to knock the snow off, carelessly shoved more snow away from the trigger guard. Some grenades hung from his belt—by the pins. Hastily Ayre joined some of the mechanics taking cover.

  “Bloody nit!” one of them said queasily. “He’ll blow himself to hell and us along with him. You all right, Cap’n? We heard Hotshot’s got his knickers in a twist.”

  “Yes, yes, he has. HBX, where’s she from, Benson?”

  “Bandar Delam,” Benson replied. He was a ruddy-faced, rotund Englishman. “Fifty quid it’s Duke.”

  As the 212 put her skids down and cut her engines, Wazari led the rush, some of the guards shouting, “Allah-u Akbarrr!” They surrounded her, all guns leveled.

  “Bloody twits,” Ayre said nervously, “they’re like Keystone Kops.”

  He still couldn’t see the pilot clearly, so he walked out of cover, praying that it was Starke. The cabin doors slid back. Armed men jumped down, careless of the rotors that still circled, shouting greetings, telling the others to put down their guns. In the pandemonium, someone excitedly fired a welcoming burst into the air. Momentarily everyone began to scatter, then with more shouts, regrouped around the doors as the car arrived and more men rushed to join the others. Hands helped a mullah down. He was badly wounded. Then a stretcher. Then more wounded and Ayre saw Wazari running for him.

  “You got medics here?” he said urgently.

  “Yes.” Ayre turned and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Benson, get Doc and the medic on the double,” then to the sergeant, hurrying back with him, “What the hell’s going on?”

  “They’re from Bandar Delam—there was a counterrevolution there, goddamn fedayeen…”

  Ayre saw the pilot’s door open and Starke get out, and he didn’t hear the rest of what Wazari said and hurried forward. “Hello, Duke, old chap.” Deliberately he kept his face set and his voice flat, though so happy and excited inside that he felt he would burst. “Where’ve you been?”

  Starke grinned, used to the English understatement. “Fishing, old chap,” he said. All at once Manuela came charging through the crowd and was in his arms, hugging him. He lifted her easily and whirled her. “Why, honey,” he drawled. “Ah guess ya like me after all!”

  She was half crying and half laughing and she hung on. “Oh, Conroe, when I saw you I liked to die…”

  “We damn near did, honey,” Starke said involuntarily, but she had not heard him and he hugged her once for luck and put her down. “Just set there for a bitty while I get things organized. Come on, Freddy.”

  He led the way through the crush. The wounded mullah was on the ground, leaning against a skid, semiconscious. The man on the stretcher was already dead. “Put the mullah on his stretcher,” Starke ordered in Farsi. The Green Bands he had brought in the 212 obeyed at once. Wazari, the only one in uniform here, and the others from the base were astonished—none of them aware of Zataki, the Sunni revolutionary leader who had taken command of Bandar Delam, who now leaned against the helicopter, watching carefully, camouflaged by the S-G flight jacket he wore.

  “Let me have a look, Duke,” the doctor said, out of breath from hurrying, a stethoscope around his neck, “so happy to have you back.” Dr. Nutt was in his fifties, too heavy, with sparse hair and a drinker’s nose. He knelt beside the mullah and began examining his chest that was wet with blood. “We’d better get him to the infirmary, quick as poss. And the rest.”

  Starke told two of those nearby to pick up the stretcher and follow the doctor. Again he was obeyed without question by men he had brought with him—the other Green Bands stared at him. Now there were nine of them, including Wazari and the four who had stayed.

  “You’re under arrest,” Wazari said.

  Starke looked at him. “What for?”

  Wazari hesitated. “Orders from the brass, Captain, I just work here.”

  “So do I. I’ll be here if they want to talk to me, Sergeant.” Starke smiled reassuringly at Manuela who had gone white. “You go back to the house, honey. Nothing to worry about.” He turned away and went closer to the side door to look inside.

  “Sorry, Captain, but you’re under arrest. Get in the car. You’re to go to the base pronto.”

  When Starke turned he was looking into the nozzle of the gun. Two Green Bands jumped him from behind, grabbed his arms, pinioning him. Ayre lunged forward but one of the Green Bands shoved a gun in his stomach, stopping him. The two men started dragging Starke toward the car. Others came to help as he struggled, cursing them. Manuela watched panic-stricken.

  Then there was a bellow of rage and Zataki burst through the cordon, dragged the carbine from Sergeant Wazari, and swung it at his head, butt first. Only Wazari’s great reflexes, boxing trained, moved his head away just in time and backed him out of reach. Before he could say anything Zataki shouted, “What’s this dog doing with a gun? Haven’t you fools heard that the Imam ordered all servicemen disarmed?”

  Wazari began hotly, “Listen, I’m authorized t—” He stopped in panic. Now there was a pistol at his throat.

  “You’re not even authorized to shit till the local komiteh clears you,” Zataki said. He was neater than before, clean-shaven now, his features well-made. “Have you been cleared by the komiteh?”

  “No…no bu—”

  “Then by God and the Prophet you’re suspect!” Zataki kept the gun hard against Wazari’s throat, then waved his other hand. “Let the pilot go and put your arms down, or by God and the Prophet I’ll kill you all!” The moment he had grabbed Wazari’s gun, his men had circled the others and now had them covered from behind. Nervously, the two men pinioning Starke let him go.

  “Why should we obey you?” one of them said sullenly. “Eh? Who are you to give us orders?”

  “I’m Colonel Zataki, member of the Revolutionary Komiteh of Bandar Delam, thanks be to God. The American helped save us from a fedayeen counterattack and brought the mullah and others who need medical help here.” Suddenly his rage broke. He shoved Wazari and the sergeant sprawled helplessly on the ground. “Leave the pilot alone! Didn’t you hear?” He aimed and pulled the trigger and the bullet tore through the neck of the sheepskin vest of one of the men beside Starke. Manuela almost fainted and they all scattered. “Next time I’ll put it between your eyes! You,” he snarled at Wazari, “you’re under arrest. I think you’re a traitor so we’ll find out. The rest of you go with God, tell your komiteh I would be pleased to see them—here.”

  He waved them away. The men started muttering among themselves, and in the lull Ayre slipped over to Manuela and put his arm around her. “Hang in there,” he whispered. “It’s all right now.” He saw Starke motion them away. He nodded. “Come on, Duke says to leave.”

  “No…please, Freddy, I’m… I’m okay, promise.” She forced a smile and continued praying that the man with the pistol would dominate the others and all this would end. Please G
od, let it end.

  They all watched in silence while Zataki waited, the pistol loose in his hand, the sergeant on the ground near his feet, those opposing him glaring at him, Starke standing in the middle of them, not at all sure that Zataki would win. Zataki checked the magazine. “Go with God, all of you,” he said again, harder this time, getting angrier. “Are you all still deaffff?”

  Reluctantly they left. The sergeant got up, pasty-faced, and straightened his uniform. Ayre watched Wazari bravely trying to hide his terror.

  “You stand there and stay there till I say to move.” Zataki glanced at Starke who was watching Manuela. “Pilot, we should finish the unloading. Then my men must eat.”

  “Yes. And thank you.”

  “Nothing. These people did not know—they are not to be blamed.” Again he looked at Manuela, dark eyes piercing. “Your woman, pilot?” he asked.

  “My wife,” Starke replied.

  “My wife is dead, killed in the Abadan fire with my two sons. It was the Will of God.”

  “Sometimes the Will of God is unendurable.”

  “The Will of God is the Will of God. We should finish the unloading.”

  “Yes.” Starke climbed into the cabin, the danger only over for the moment as Zataki was as volatile as nitroglycerin. Two more wounded were still strapped in their seats as were two stretcher cases. He knelt beside one of them. “How you doing, old buddy?” he said softly in English.

  Jon Tyrer opened his eyes and winced, a bloody bandage around his head. “Okay…yeah, okay. What…what happened?”

  “Can you see?”

  Tyrer seemed surprised. He peered up at Starke, then rubbed his eyes and forehead. To Starke’s relief, he said, “Sure, it’s…you’re a bit soft focus and my head aches like hell but I can see you okay. Course I can see you, Duke. What the hell happened?”

  “During the fedayeen counterattack at dawn this morning you were caught in some crossfire, a bullet creased the side of your head, and when you got up you started running around in circles like a headless chicken, crying out, ‘I can’t see… I can’t see.’ Then you collapsed and you’ve been out ever since.”