Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “Lousy luck—thank God young Scot’s okay, huh?”

  “Yes, but lousy that anyone got hurt, lousy.” What if it was Scot’s corpse and Scot’s coffin? Gavallan was thinking again, the question never ending. What if it had been Scot, could you still compartmentalize the murder so easily? No, of course not. All you can do is bless your joss this time and do the best you can—just do the best you can. “Curiously, Tehran ATC and the airport komiteh were as shocked as we were, and very helpful. Let’s go and chat—I’ve not much time. Here’s mail for some of the lads and one from Manuela. She’s fine, Duke. She said not to worry. Kids’re fine and want to stay in Texas. Your folks’re fine too—she asked me to tell you first thing when I caught up with you…”

  Then Gavallan had delivered the bombshell of six days and now Starke’s mind was in a fog. “With Zagros’s birds here, I’ll have three 212s, one Alouette, and three 206s plus a load of spares. Nine pilots, including Tom Lochart and Jean-Luc, and twelve mechanics. That’s way too many for a caper like Whirlwind, Andy.”

  “I know.” Gavallan looked out the window. The fueling truck was lumbering alongside the 125 and he saw Johnny Hogg come down the steps. “How long will she take to refuel?”

  “If Johnny doesn’t hurry them up, three quarters of an hour, easy.”

  “Not much time to make a plan,” Gavallan said. He looked back at the map. “But then there’d never be enough. Is there a rig near that bearing that’s empty—still closed down?”

  “Dozens. There’re dozens that’re still as the strikers left them months ago—doors welded closed, crazy, huh? Why?”

  “Scrag said one of them might be an ideal spot to park gasoline and refuel.”

  Starke frowned. “Not in our area, Andy. He’s got some big platforms—ours’re little bitty ones mostly. We’ve none that could take more than one chopper at a time, and we sure as hell wouldn’t want to wait around. What’d old Scrag say?”

  Gavallan told him.

  “You think he’ll get to go see Rudi?”

  “He said in the next few days. I can’t wait that long now. Could you find an excuse to get down to Bandar Delam?”

  Starke’s eyes narrowed. “Sure. Maybe we could send a couple of our birds there an’ say we’re redeploying them—even better, tell Hotshot we’re putting ’em on loan for a week. We can still get occasional clearances—so long as that sonofabitch’s out of the way.”

  Gavallan sipped the beer, making it last. “We can’t operate any longer in Iran. Poor old Jordon should never have happened, and I’m damned sorry I didn’t order an evacuation weeks ago. Damned sorry.”

  “He wasn’t your fault, Andy.”

  “In a way he was. In any event we have to pull out. With or without our planes. We have to try to salvage what we can—without risking personnel.”

  “Any caper’s going to be goddamn risky, Andy.” Starke’s voice was gentle.

  “I know. I’d like you to ask your lads if they’d be part of Whirlwind.”

  “There’s no way we could get out all our choppers. No way.”

  “I know, so I propose we concentrate on our 212s only.” Gavallan saw Starke look at him with more interest. “Mac agreed. Could you fly your three out?”

  Starke thought a moment. “Two’s max that I could handle—we’d need two pilots, with say one mechanic per chopper for emergencies and some extra hands to handle the spare drums or in-flight refuel—that’d be minimum. It’d be tricky but if we got lucky…” He whistled tonelessly, “Maybe we could send the other 212 to Rudi at Bandar Delam? Sure, why the hell not? I’d tell Hotshot she’s on loan for ten days. You could send me a confirm telex asking for the transfer. But hell, Andy, we’d still have three pilots here an—”

  The interbase phone rang. “Goddamn,” he said irritably, getting up and going over to it. “I’m so used to having the phones out, every time one rings I jump like a scalded cat expecting Armageddon. Hello, this’s Starke. Yeah?”

  Gavallan watched Starke, tall, lean, and so strong. Wish I was as strong, he thought.

  “Ah, thanks,” Starke was saying. “Okay…sure, thanks, Sergeant. Who?… Sure, put him on.” Gavallan noticed the change in the voice and his attention increased. “Evening… No, we can’t, not now… NO! We can’t! Not now, we’re busy.” He put the phone down with a muttered “sonofabitch.” “Hotshot, wanting to see us. ‘I want you both over in my office at once!’ Asshole!” He sipped some beer and felt better. “It was also Wazari in the tower reporting the last of our birds has just touched down.”

  “Who?”

  “Pop Kelly, he’s been on the Flotsam run, ferrying a few oilers from rig to rig—they’re way down in strength, except in fat-ass komitehs who’re more concerned with prayer meetings and kangaroo courts than pumping oil.” He shivered. “I tell you, Andy, the komitehs are Satan-sponsored.” Gavallan noted the word but said nothing as Starke continued, “They’re the pits.”

  “Yes. Azadeh nearly got killed—by stoning.”

  “What?”

  Gavallan told him about the village and her escape from the village. “We still don’t know where the hell old Erikki is—I saw her before I left and she was…glazed is about the only word, still not over the shock.”

  Starke’s face became even grimmer. With an effort he shook off his anger. “Say we can get the 212s out, what about the guys? We’ve still three pilots and maybe ten mecs to get out before the caper, what about them? And what about all the spares? We’d be leaving three 206s and the Alouette…and what about all our household bits and pieces, our bank accounts, apartments in Tehran, photos, and all the kids’ stuff—hell, not just ours but all the other guys’, the ones we got out in the exodus? If we shove off, everything’ll be lost. Everything.”

  “The company’ll reimburse everyone. I can’t do the bric-a-brac but we’ll pay bank accounts and cover the rest. Most’re minimal as most of you keep your funds in England and draw on them as you need them. For the last few months—certainly since the banks went on strike—we’ve been crediting all pay and allowances in Aberdeen, We’ll pay to replace furniture and personal stuff. Seems to me we can’t get most of it out anyway—ports are still clogged, practically no truckers, railways aren’t working, air freight almost nonexistent. Everyone’ll be reimbursed.”

  Starke nodded slowly. He finished his beer to the dregs. “Even if we get the 212s out, you’re going to take a bath.”

  Gavallan said patiently, “No. Add it up for yourself. Each 212’s worth $1 million, each 206 $150,000, an Alouette $500,000. We’ve twelve 212s in Iran. If we could get them out we’d be okay, still in business, and I could absorb Iran’s losses. Just. Business’s booming and twelve 212s would keep us going. Any spares we could get out’d be an extra bonus—again we could concentrate on 212 spares only. With our 212s we’re in business.”

  He tried to maintain his confidence, but it was waning. So many hurdles to jump, mountains to scale, gorges to cross. Yes, but don’t forget that a journey of ten thousand leagues begins with one step. Be a little Chinese, he told himself. Remember your childhood in Shanghai and old Nanny Ah Soong and how she taught you about joss—part luck, part karma: “Joss is joss, young Master, good or bad. Sometimes you can pray for good joss and get it, sometimes not. But ayeeyah, don’t trust the gods too far—gods are like people. They sleep, go out to lunch, get drunk, forget what they’re supposed to do, lie, and promise, and lie again. Pray all you want but don’t depend on gods—only yourself and your family and even with them depend on yourself. Remember gods don’t like people, young Master, because people remind them of themselves…”

  “Of course we’ll get the lads out, every last one. Meanwhile, would you ask for volunteers to fly out your two birds if, if I push the button on Whirlwind?”

  Starke glanced back at the map. Then he said, “Sure. It’ll be me and either Freddy or Pop Kelly—the other guy can take the 212 to Rudi and join him in his plan, they’ve not so far to go.” He smiled wr
yly. “Okay?”

  “Thanks,” Gavallan said, feeling very good inside. “Thanks. Did you mention Whirlwind to Tom Lochart when he was here?”

  “Sure. He said to count him out, Andy.”

  “Oh.” The good feeling vanished. “Then that’s it. If he stays we can’t go forward.”

  “He’s a ‘go,’ Andy, whether he likes it or not,” Starke said compassionately. “He’s committed—with or without Sharazad. That’s the tough part, with or without. He can’t escape HBC, Valik, and Isfahan.”

  After a moment Gavallan said, “I suppose you’re right. Unfair, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Tom’s all right, he’ll understand eventually. I’m not so sure about Sharazad.”

  “Mac and I tried to see her in Tehran. We went to the Bakravan house and knocked for ten minutes. No answer. Mac went yesterday too. Maybe they’re just not answering the door.”

  “Not like Iranians.” Starke took off his flight jacket and hung it up in the small hall. “Soon as Tom gets back here tomorrow, I’ll send him to Tehran if there’s enough daylight left—latest, Monday morning. I was going to clear it with Mac tonight on our regular call.”

  “Good idea.” Gavallan went on to the next problem. “Damned if I know what to do about Erikki either. I saw Talbot and he said he’d see what he could do, then I went to the Finnish embassy and saw a first secretary called Tollonen and told him too. He seemed very concerned—and just as helpless. ‘That’s rather a wild country and the border’s as fluid as the rebellion, insurrection, or fighting that’s going on there. If the KGB’s involved…’ He left it hanging, Duke, just like that. ‘If the KGB’s involved…’”

  “What about Azadeh, can’t her daddy, the Khan, help?”

  “Seems they all had a huge row. She was very shook. I asked her to forget her Iranian papers and get on the 125 and wait for Erikki in Al Shargaz, but that went down like a lead balloon. She won’t move till Erikki reappears. I pointed out the Khan’s a law unto himself—he can reach into Tehran and kidnap her back too easily if he wants. She said, ‘Insha’Allah.’”

  “Erikki’ll be okay. I’d bet on that.” Starke was confident. “His ancient gods’ll guard him.”

  “Hope so.” Gavallan had kept his parka on. Even so he was still feeling cold. Out of the window he could see the fueling still continuing. “How about a cuppa before I leave?”

  “Sure.” Starke went to the kitchen. Above the sink was a mirror and over the butane stove opposite was an old, worn needlepoint mounted in frame that a friend in Falls Church had given to Manuela as a wedding present: SCREW HOME COOKING. He smiled, remembering how they had laughed when they had got it, then noticed the reflection of Gavallan in the mirror brooding at the map. I must be crazy, he thought, zeroing back to six days and two choppers. How the hell’re we gonna clean out the base and still keep ourselves in one piece ’cause Andy’s right that one way or another we’re finished here. I must be crazy to volunteer. But what the hell? You can’t ask one of your guys to volunteer if you don’t do it yourself. Yeah, bu—

  There was a knock on the front door and it opened immediately. Freddy Ayre said softly, “Hotshot’s heading this way with a Green Band.”

  “Come on in, Freddy, and shut the door,” Starke said. They waited in silence. An imperious knock. He opened the door, saw the arrogant sneer on Esvandiary, instantly recognizing the young Green Band as one of the mullah Hussain’s men and also a member of the komiteh at his questioning. “Salaam,” he said politely.

  “Salaam, Agha,” the Green Band said with a shy smile. He had thick, cracked glasses and threadbare clothes and an M16.

  Abruptly, Starke’s mind went into overload and he heard himself say, “Mr. Gavallan, I think you know Hotshot.”

  “My name’s Esvandiary—Mr. Esvandiary!” the man said angrily, “How many times do you have to be told? Gavallan, it would help your operation greatly to get rid of this man before we throw him out as an undesirable!”

  Gavallan flushed at the rudeness. “Now just a minute, Captain Starke’s the best capt—”

  “You’re Hotshot, you’re also a sonofabitch,” Starke exploded, bunching his fists, suddenly so dangerous that Ayre and Gavallan were aghast, Esvandiary backed off a foot, and the young Green Band gaped. “You’ve always been Hotshot and I’d call you Esvandiary or whatever goddamn name you want but for what you did to Captain Ayre. You’re a sonofabitch with no balls and need pasting and before you’re very much older you’re gonna get it!”

  “I’ll have you before the komiteh tom—”

  “You’re a yellow-bellied eater of camel dung, so go blow it outta your ass.” Contemptuously Starke turned to the Green Band who was still gaping at him, and without missing a beat, switched to Farsi, his voice now polite and deferential. “Excellency, I told this dog,” he jerked his thumb rudely at Esvandiary, “that he is an eater of camel dung, with no courage, who needs men with guns to protect him while he orders other men to beat and threaten unarmed peaceful members of my tribe against the law, who will not…”

  Choked with rage, Esvandiary tried to interrupt but Starke overrode him, “…who will not stand against me as a man—with knife or sword or gun or fist—according to custom among the Bedouin to avoid a family blood feud, and according to my custom also.”

  “Blood feud? You’ve gone mad! In the Name of God, what blood feud? Blood feuds’re against the law…” Esvandiary shouted and continued the tirade, Gavallan and Ayre watching helplessly, not understanding Farsi and completely thrown by Starke’s outburst.

  But the young Green Band closed his ears to Esvandiary, then held up his hand, still awed by Starke and his knowledge and not a little envious. “Please, Excellency Esvandiary,” he said, his eyes magnified by the thickness of the old, cracked lenses, and when there was quiet he said to Starke, “You claim the ancient right of blood feud against this man?”

  Starke could feel his heart pumping, and he heard himself say firmly, “Yes,” knowing it was a dangerous gamble but he had to take it, “yes.”

  “How can an Infidel claim such a right?” Esvandiary said furiously. “This is not the Saudi desert, our laws forbid blo—”

  “I claim that right!”

  “As God wants,” the Green Band said and looked at Esvandiary. “Perhaps this man is not an Infidel, not truly. This man can claim what he likes, Excellency.”

  “Are you mad? Of course he’s an Infidel and don’t you know blood feuds’re against the law. You fool, it’s against the law, it’s ag—”

  “You’re not a mullah!” the youth said, angry now. “You’re not a mullah to say what is the law and what isn’t! Shut your mouth! I’m no illiterate peasant, I can read and write and I’m a member of the komiteh to keep the peace here and now you threaten the peace.” He glared at Esvandiary who once more backed off. “I will ask the komiteh and mullah Hussain,” he said to Starke. “There is little chance that they would agree but…as God wants. I agree the law is the law and that a man does not need other men with guns to beat unarmed innocents against the law—or even to punish the evil, however evil, only the strength of God. I leave you to God.” He turned to go.

  “A moment, Agha,” Starke said. He reached over and took a spare parka that hung on a hook beside the still-open door. “Here,” he said, offering the coat, “please accept this small gift.”

  “I could not possibly do that,” the youth said, eyes wide and filled with longing.

  “Please, Excellency, it is so insignificant that it hardly bears noticing.”

  Esvandiary began to say something but stopped as the youth looked over at him, then again turned his attention to Starke. “I could not possibly accept it—it is so rich and I could not possibly accept it from His Excellency.”

  “Please,” Starke said patiently, continuing the formality, then at length held the coat up for the youth to slip on.

  “Well, if you insist…” the youth said, pretending reluctance. He gave Ayre the M16 while he slipped int
o the coat, the others not knowing quite what was going on, except Esvandiary who watched and waited, swearing revenge. “It is wonderful,” the youth said, zipping it up, feeling warm for the first time in many months. Never in all his life had he had such a coat. “Thank you, Agha.” He saw the look on Esvandiary’s face and his disgust for him increased—wasn’t he just accepting pishkesh as was his right? “I shall try to persuade the komiteh to grant the right His Excellency asks,” he said, then contentedly went off into the gloaming.

  At once Starke whirled on Esvandiary. “Now what the hell did you want?”

  “Many pilots’ licenses and resident permits’re out of date an—”

  “No British or American pilot’s license’s out of date—only Iranian and they’re automatic if the others are okay! Of course they’re out of date! Haven’t your offices been closed for months—pull your head out of your ass!”

  Esvandiary went beet red and the moment he started to reply, Starke turned his back on him and looked directly at Gavallan for the first time. “It’s clearly impossible to operate here any longer, Mr. Gavallan—you’ve seen it for yourself now, we’re harassed, Freddy here was beaten, we’re overruled, and there’s no way we can work with this sort of crap. I think you should close down the base for a couple of months. At once!” he added.

  Gavallan suddenly understood. “I agree,” he said and grabbed the initiative. Starke sighed with relief, pushed past, and sat down with pretended sullenness, heart racing in his chest. “I’m closing the base at once. We’ll send all our choppers and personnel elsewhere. Freddy, get five men overdue leave and put them aboard the 125 right now with their luggage, right now an—”

  “You can’t close down the base,” Esvandiary snarled. “Nor can y—”

  “It’s closed, by God,” Gavallan said, working himself into a towering rage. “They’re my aircraft and my personnel and we’re not going to suffer all this harassment and beating. Freddy, who’s overdue leave?”