He saw two choppers well away now, the third was hovering twenty feet over the mud tank a hundred yards away, waiting for the ground crew to link its skyhook into the big steel ring that topped the hawsers. In front of the office Ayre, surrounded by other expats, was being succored by Doc Nutt. Rotten bastard to give me so much trouble, Esvandiary thought, and glanced at his watch, admiring it. It was a gold Rolex that he had bought on the black market this morning as befitted his increased stature, the money pishkesh from a bazaari who wanted his son to join IranOil.
“Do you need anything, Excellency?” Pavoud asked unctuously from the doorway, “May I add my congratulations for the way that you handled the foreigners. For years they’ve all needed a good beating to put them in their places, how wise you were.”
“Yes. From now on the base will run smoothly. The moment there’s a problem, whoever’s in charge will be made an example of. Praise God that son of a dog Zataki leaves in an hour with his thugs for Abadan.”
“That’s one flight that will leave on time, Excellency.” Both men laughed.
“Yes. Bring me some tea, Pavoud.” Deliberately Esvandiary left out the normal politeness and noted the man’s humility increase. He stared out of the window again. Doc Nutt was dabbing a cut over Ayre’s eye. I enjoyed watching Freddy being beaten, he thought. Yes, yes, I did.
In the chill wind Doc Nutt had wrapped a spare parka around Ayre. “You’d better come over to the surgery, laddie,” he said.
“I’m all right,” Ayre said, hurting all over. “Don’t think…don’t think anything’s damaged.”
“Bastards,” someone said. “Freddy, we’d better figure how we’re going to get to hell out of here.”
“It’s me on the first plane out… I’m not going to risk an—”
They all looked off as the jet engines of the chopper hovering over the mud tank picked up tempo. Getting such a heavy load airborne was tricky—particularly in this wind—but no problem for a professional like Sandor. The hook went in first time and the moment the ground crew had their hands clear, he increased power, the engines screamed at a higher pitch, taking the strain, then chopper and load eased into the sky. The guard in the front seat beside Sandor waved excitedly—as did the one in the cabin.
“You’re doing fine, Captain…no sweat,” came into Sandor’s headphones from Wazari in their tower, Sandor estimating the distance, gaining height, his hands and feet perfectly coordinated—seeing only Esvandiary at the office window, still maddened by Ayre’s savage beating by many armed men at the orders of a coward. It took him back in time to his childhood in Budapest during the Hungarian Revolution. He had been helpless then—but not now.
“You’re okay, HFD, but kinda close.” Wazari’s voice cautioned him. “You’re kinda close, ease south…”
Sandor increased power, moving toward the tower that topped the office building. “Is the load okay?” he asked. “Feels strange.”
“Looks fine, no sweat, but ease south as you climb. Everything five by five…ease south, do you read me?”
“You sure, for crissake? She feels sluggish as all hell…” The needle climbed through a hundred feet. Sandor’s face closed and his hand snapped the stick right, at the same time he gave her hard right rudder. At once the chopper reeled sickeningly, the guard in the seat beside him was thrown off balance; he bashed against the door, then grabbed Sandor, trying to steady himself, and tangled with the controls. Again Sandor overcorrected, cursing the guard as though the petrified man was a real hazard.
For a moment it seemed that the gathering swing would take the chopper out of the sky, then Sandor shoved the frantic guard away. “Mayday—load’s shifted,” he shouted, his ears shut to Wazari, eyes concentrating below, oblivious of everything except the need for revenge. “Load’s shifted!”
His hand pulled the Emergency Load Release, the hook freed, the steel tank plummeted out of the sky directly onto the office. The ton and a half of steel smashed through the roof, pulverizing rafters and walls and glass and metal and desks, obliterating the whole corner, and came to rest upended against the remains of the inner wall.
A moment of appalled silence took the whole camp, then the screaming engines filled the sky as, released suddenly from its load, the chopper had careened upward out of control. Sandor’s reflexes fought the controls, his mind not caring whether he dominated them or not, whether he landed or not, just knowing that he had had vengeance on one brute. Beside him the guard was vomiting and his earphones were filled with, “Jesuschrist… Jesuschrist…” from the tower.
“Christ, look outttttt!” someone shouted as the chopper whirled down at them. Everyone scattered but Sandor’s reflexes cut engines and went for the impossible emergency landing. The skids hacked into the snow of the grass verge, did not buckle, and the chopper skeetered forward to come to rest unharmed forty yards away.
Ayre was the first at the cockpit. He jerked the door open. Sandor was sheet white, numb, staring ahead. “Load shifted…” he croaked.
“Yes,” was all Ayre could say, knowing it to be a lie, then others joined them and they helped Sandor, his limbs momentarily uncontrollable, out of the cockpit. Behind him, near the building, Ayre saw Green Bands gaping at the wreckage, then Pavoud and the other clerk totter out of the front door in shock, the window and corner where Esvandiary had been standing was rubble. Doc Nutt pushed through the crowd and hurried toward the ruins as Wazari came down the emergency steps outside the tower that were twisted precariously, half off the side of the building. Christ, Ayre thought, Wazari must’ve seen everything. He knelt beside his friend. “You all right, Sandy?”
“No,” Sandor said shakily. “I think I went crazy. I couldn’t stop.”
Wazari was shoving through the people toward the cockpit, still panicked from seeing the tank hurtling down on him, knowing the pilot had deliberately disregarded his instructions. “You crazy, goddamnit?” he exploded at Sandor over the wind-down scream of the engines.
Ayre’s temper snapped. “Goddamnit, the load shifted! We all saw it and so did you!”
“You’re goddamn right I saw it and so did you.” Wazari’s eyes were frantically darting this way and that, watching for Green Bands, but none were near—then he saw Zataki approaching from one of the bungalows. His dread escalated. He was still badly bruised from the beating Zataki had given him, his nose mashed, his mouth still aching where three teeth had been knocked out, and he knew he would admit anything to prevent another beating. He knelt beside Sandor, half pulling Ayre with him. “Listen,” he whispered desperately, “you swear by God you’ll help me? You promise, huh?”
“I said I’d do what I could!” Angrily Ayre jerked his arm away, the pain of bending very bad. He stood upright and found he was looking into Zataki’s face. The suddenness chilled him—and the eyes. Everyone else had backed away from them.
“Pilot, you did that to kill Esvandiary. Eh?”
Sandor stared up at him from the snow. “The load shifted, Colonel.”
Zataki put his eyes on Ayre who remembered what Doc Nutt had said about the man, his own head aching, his groin, and pain everywhere. “The, er, the operation’s difficult, it was the wind. The load shifted. An Act of God, Excellency…”
Wazari went back a pace as Zataki turned on him. “It’s true, Excellency,” he said at once. “The winds aloft’re gust—” He cried out as Zataki’s fist rammed into his stomach and he doubled up in agony, then Zataki grabbed him and shoved him against the chopper. “Now tell me the truth, vermin!”
“It’s the truth,” Wazari whimpered, barely able to talk through his nausea. “It’s the truth! It was Insha’Allah!” He saw Zataki’s fist ready again and he cried out in a jumble of Farsi and English, “If you hit me I’ll say anything you want, anything, I can’t stand another beating and I’ll swear to anything you want, anything, but the load shifted—by God, the load shifted, I swear by God the load shifted…”
Zataki stared at him. “God will put you int
o the fiery vats for all eternity if you’ve sworn a lie by His Name,” he said. “You swear it was God’s will alone? That the load shifted? You swear it was an Act of God?”
“Yes, yes, I swear it!” Wazari was trembling, helpless in his grasp. He tried to keep his eyes guileless, knowing that his only chance for life lay with Ayre, proving his value to him. “I swear by God and the Prophet it was an accident, an…an Act of God. Insha’Allah…”
“As God wants.” Zataki nodded, absolved, and released him. Wazari slid to the snow, retching, and all the others were thanking God or joss or heaven or karma that, for the moment, this crisis had passed. Zataki jerked a thumb at the wreckage. “Get what remains of Esvandiary out of there.”
“Yes…yes, at once,” Ayre said.
“Unless the captain returns, you will fly me and my men to Bandar Delam.” Zataki walked off. His Green Bands went with him.
“Christ!” someone muttered, all of them almost sick with relief. They helped Sandor to stand and Wazari. “You okay, Sergeant?” Ayre asked.
“No, goddamnit, no, I’m not!” Wazari spat out some vomit. When he saw the Green Bands had gone with Zataki his face twisted with hatred. “That bastard! I hope he fries!”
Ayre pulled Wazari aside and dropped his voice. “I won’t forget I said I’d try to help you. When Zataki leaves you’ll be okay. I won’t forget.”
“Nor me,” Sandor said weakly. “Thanks, Sergeant.”
“You owe me your goddamn life,” the younger man said and spat again, his knees weak and chest hurting. “You could’ve killed me too with that goddamn tank!”
“Sorry.” Sandor stuck out his hand.
Wazari looked at the hand, then up into his face. “I’ll shake hands with you when I’m safe out of this goddamn country.” He limped off.
“Freddy!” Dr. Nutt was at the wreckage with a couple of mechanics, lifting off rafters and mess, beckoning him. Green Bands stood around watching. “Give us a hand here, will you?”
All of them went to help. None of them wishing to be the first one to see Esvandiary.
They found him crumpled in a pocket under one side of the tank. Dr. Nutt squeezed down beside him, examining him awkwardly. “He’s alive,” he cried out, and Sandor’s stomach turned over. Quickly they all helped get the last of the splintered rafters and the remains of Starke’s desk out of the way and gently eased the man out. “I think he’s all right,” Dr. Nutt said, hoarsely. “Get him over to the infirmary—nasty bonk on the head but limbs seem okay and nothing crushed. Someone get a stretcher.” People rushed to do his bidding, the pall off them now, all of them hating Hotshot but all of them hoping he’d be all right. Unnoticed, Sandor went behind the building, so relieved he could have wept, and was very sick.
When he came back only Ayre and Nutt were waiting. “Sandy, you’d better come along too, let me give you the once-over-lightly,” Nutt said. “Bloody casualty ward, that’s what we’ve got now.”
“You’re sure Hotshot’ll be okay?”
“Pretty sure.” The doctor’s eyes were watery and pale blue and a little bloodshot. “What went wrong, Sandy?” he asked quietly.
“Don’t know, Doc. All I wanted was to get that bastard an’ at the time dumping the tank seemed the perfect way to do it.”
“You know that would have been murder?”
Uneasily Ayre said, “Doc, don’t you think it’d be better to leave it?”
“No, no, I don’t.” Nutt’s voice hardened. “Sandy, you know that was a deliberate attempt at murder.”
“Yes,” Sandor looked back at him. “Yes, I understand that and I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry he’s not dead?”
“Swear to God, Doc, I thank God he’s alive. I still think he’s become vile and evil and everything I detest and I can’t forgive him for…for ordering Freddy’s beating but that’s no excuse for what I did. Doing what I did was crazy, and no excuse, and I really thank God he’s alive.”
“Sandy,” Nutt said, his voice even quieter, “you’d better not fly for a day or two. You were pushed beyond the limit—nothing to worry about, laddie, so long as you understand. Just take it easy for a day or so. You’ll get the shakes tonight but don’t worry. You too, Freddy. Of course this’s all between the three of us and the load shifted. I saw it shift.” He brushed the threads of hair over his bald pate that the wind toyed with. “Life’s strange, very strange, but just between us three, God was with you today, Sandy, if there is such a thing.” He walked off, crumpled like an old sack of potatoes.
Ayre watched him. “Doc’s right, you know, we were bloody lucky, so near to disaster, so n—”
There was a shout and they looked off. One of the pilots near the main gate shouted again and pointed. Their hearts leaped. Starke was coming down the road from the direction of the town. He was alone. As far as they could see from there, he was unhurt, walking tall. They waved excitedly and he waved back, the word flashed throughout the camp and Ayre was already running to meet him, oblivious of his pain. Maybe there’s a God in heaven after all, he was thinking happily.
AT LENGEH: 2:15 P.M. Scragger was sunbathing on the big raft that was moored a hundred yards offshore, a small rubber dinghy attached to it. The raft was made with planks lashed to empty oil drums. In the dinghy was fishing equipment and the walkie-talkie, and below it hung a strong wire cage with the dozen fish that he and Willi Neuchtreiter had already caught for dinner—the Gulf being abundant with shrimp, Spanish mackerel, tuna, sea bass, rock cod, and dozens of others species.
Willi, another pilot, was swimming lazily in the warm shallow water nearby. On the shore was their base—half a dozen trailers, cookhouse, dormitories for the Iranian staff, office trailer with attached radio tower and antenna, hangars with space for a dozen 212s and 206s.
The present complement was five pilots, including himself, seven mechanics, fifteen Iranian staff, day laborers, cooks and houseboys, and the IranOil manager Kormani, presently sick. Of the other pilots two were British, the last, Ed Vossi, American.
On base now were three 212s—with just enough work for one at the moment—and two 206 Jet Rangers with hardly any work at all. Apart from the French Consortium with their Siri contracts from Georges de Plessey, all other contracts had been canceled or held up pending the end of the troubles. There were still rumors of bad trouble at the big naval base of Bandar Abbas eastward and of fighting all along the coast. Two days ago trouble had spilled over to the base for the first time. Now they had a permanent komiteh of Green Bands, police, and one mullah: “To protect the base against leftists, Excellency Captain.”
“But, Excellency Mullah, old sport, we don’t need protection.”
“As God wants, but our vital Siri island oil installations were attacked and hurt by those sons of dogs. Our helicopters are vital to us and will not be hurt. But don’t be concerned, nothing will be changed by us—we understand your nervousness about flying with guns so none of us will be armed though one of us will fly with you every time—for your protection.”
Scragger and the others had been reassured by the presence on the komiteh of their local police sergeant, Qeshemi, with whom they had always had good relations. The troubles of Tehran, Qom and Abadan had hardly touched them here on the Strait of Hormuz. Strikes had been minimal and orderly. De Plessey was paying EPF’s bills, so everything had been fine, except for the lack of work.
Idly Scragger glanced shoreward. The base was tidy and he could see men about their tasks, cleaning, repairing, a few of the komiteh idly sitting around in the shade. Ed Vossi was near the duty 206 doing his ground check.
“Just not enough work,” Scragger muttered. It had been the same for months and he knew only too well how costly and disastrous that could be. It was the lack of steady charters and the need to get modern equipment that had persuaded him to sell his Sheik Aviation to Andrew Gavallan so many years ago.
But I’ve no regrets, he thought. Andy’s a beaut, he’s been straight with me, I’v
e a little piece of the company, and I can fly so long’s I’m fit. But Iran’s terrible for Andy now—not even getting paid for work done or for current work, excepting here, and that’s a pittance. It must be four or five months the banks’ve been closed, so he’s been carrying Iran ops out of his own swag bag. Something’s got to go. With only Siri working, that’s not enough to half pay our way.
Three days ago, when Scragger had brought Kasigi back from the Iran-Toda plant near Bandar Delam, Kasigi had asked de Plessey if he could charter a 206 to go to Al Shargaz or Dubai. “I need to be in immediate telephone-telex touch with my head office in Japan to confirm arrangements I’ve made with you for your spot price, and about uplifting future supplies.” De Plessey had agreed immediately. Scragger had decided to do the charter himself and was glad he had. While he was in Al Shargaz he had met up with Johnny Hogg and Manuela. And Genny.
In private she had brought him up to date, particularly about Lochart.
“Gawd Almighty!” he had said, shocked how rapidly their ops were falling apart and the revolution was embroiling them personally. “Poor old Tom.”
“Tom was due from Bandar Delam the day before I left but he never arrived so we still don’t know what really happened—at least I don’t,” she said. “Scrag, God knows when we can talk privately again but there’s something else: just between us?”
“Cross my heart and cut my throat!”
“I don’t think the government’s ever going to get back to normal. I wanted to ask you: even if it does, could the partners—with or without official help—or IranOil force us out and keep our planes and equipment?”
“Why should they do that? They’ve got to have choppers…but, if they wanted to, sure, too right they could,” he had said and whistled, for that possibility had never occurred to him before. “Bloody hell, if they decided they didn’t need us, Genny, that’d be dead easy, dead easy. They could get other pilots, Iranian or mercenaries—isn’t that what we are? Sure they could order us out and keep our equipment. And if we lost everything here, that’d gut S-G.”
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