Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  Blankly Ayre began to give names and Esvandiary was in shock. To close down the base did not suit him at all. Wasn’t Minister Ali Kia visiting here on Thursday and wasn’t he then going to offer him an extraordinary pishkesh? If the base was closed that would ruin all his plans.

  “You can’t take our helicopters out of this area without my approval,” he shouted. “They’re Iranian property!”

  “They’re the property of the joint venture when they’re paid for,” Gavallan shouted back, more than a little imposing in rage. “I’m going to complain to higher authority you’re interfering with the Imam’s direct order to get production back to normal. You are! Y—”

  “You’re forbidden to close down. I’ll have the komiteh put Starke in jail for mutiny if y—”

  “Balderdash! Starke, I’m ordering you to close the base down. Hotshot, you seem to forget we’re well connected. I’ll complain directly to Minister Ali Kia. He’s adviser to our board now and he’ll deal with you and IranOil!”

  Esvandiary blanched, “Minister Kia’s on…on the…on the board?”

  “Yes, yes, he is.” For a split second Gavallan was nonplussed. He had used Kia’s name as the only one he knew in the present government and was astonished at the impact it had had on Esvandiary. But hardly missing a beat, he pressed home his advantage. “My close friend Ali Kia will deal with all this! And with you. You’re a traitor to Iran! Freddy, get five men aboard the 125 right now! And Starke, send every aircraft we have to Bandar Delam at first light—at first light!”

  “Yessir!”

  “Wait,” Esvandiary said, seeing his whole plan in ruins. “There’s no need to close down the base, Mr. Gavallan. There may have been misunderstandings, mostly due to Petrofi and that man Zataki. I wasn’t responsible for that beating, it wasn’t me!” He forced his voice to be reasonable but inside he wanted to shout with rage and see them all in jail, flogged and screaming for mercy they would never get. “No reason to close the base down, Mr. Gavallan. Flying can stay normal!”

  “It’s closed,” Gavallan said imperiously and glanced at Starke for guidance. “Much as I’m against it.”

  “Yessir. You’re right,” Starke was very deferential. “Of course you can close the base. We can redeploy the choppers or mothball them. Bandar Delam needs an immediate 212 for…for the Iran-Toda contract. Perhaps we could send ’em one of ours, and close down the rest.”

  Esvandiary said quickly, “Mr. Gavallan, work is getting more normal every day. The revolution is successful and over, the Imam in charge. The komitehs…the komitehs’ll soon disappear. There’ll be all the Guerney contracts to service, double the number of 212s needed. As to overdue license renewals—Insha’Allah! We will wait thirty days. No need to close operations. No need to be hasty, Mr. Gavallan, you’ve been on this base a long time, you’ve a big investment here an—”

  “I know what our investment is,” Gavallan snapped with real anger, hating the unctuous undercurrent. “Very well, Captain Starke, I’ll take your advice and by God you’d better be right. Put two men on the 125 tonight, their replacements will be back next week. Send the 212 to Bandar Delam tomorrow—how long is she to be on loan?”

  “Six days, sir, back next Sunday.”

  Gavallan said to Esvandiary, “She’ll come back, pending an improved situation here.”

  “The 212 is ours…the 212 is the base’s equipment, Mr. Gavallan,” Esvandiary corrected himself quickly. “We carry it on our manifests. It will have to come back. As to personnel, the rule is that incoming pilots and mechanics arrive first to replace those going on leave an—”

  “Then we’re going to bend the rules—Mister Esvandiary—or I close the base now,” Gavallan said curtly and held on to his hope. “Starke, put two men on the plane tonight, all but a skeleton staff on the Thursday flight, and we’ll send her back with full replacements on Friday, pending the situation coming back to normal.”

  Starke saw Esvandiary’s rage returning so he said quickly, “We’re not allowed to fly on Holy Day, sir. The full crew should come first thing Saturday morning.” He glanced at Esvandiary. “Don’t you agree?”

  For a moment Esvandiary thought he was going to explode, his pent-up rage almost overcoming his resolve. “If you…if you apologize—for the foul names and your foul manners.”

  There was a big silence, the door still open, the room chill, but Starke felt the sweat on his back as he weighed his answer. They had achieved so much—if Whirlwind was to come to pass—but Esvandiary was no fool and a quick acquiescence would make him suspicious, as a refusal might jeopardize their gains. “I apologize for nothing—but I will call you Mr. Esvandiary in future,” he said.

  Without a word Esvandiary turned on his heel and stormed off. Starke closed the door, his shirt under his sweater sticking to him.

  “What the hell was all that about, Duke?” Ayre said angrily. “Are you bonkers?”

  “Just a moment, Freddy,” Gavallan said. “Duke, will Hotshot go along with it?”

  “I… I don’t know.” Starke sat down, his knees trembling. “Jesus.”

  “If he does…if he does… Duke, you were brilliant! It was a brilliant idea, brilliant.”

  “You caught the ball, Andy, you made the touchdown.”

  “If it is a touchdown.” Gavallan wiped the sweat off his own brow. He began to explain to Ayre, stopped as the phone rang.

  “Hello? This’s Starke… Sure, hang on… Andy, it’s the tower. McIver’s on the HF for you. Wazari asks if you want to go over right away or call him back—McIver says to tell you he’s gotten a message from a guy called Avis-yard.”

  In the control room, Gavallan touched the send switch, almost sick with worry, Wazari watching him, another English-speaking Green Band as attentive. “Yes, Captain McIver?”

  “Evening, Mr. Gavallan, glad I caught you.” McIver’s voice was heavy with static and noncommittal. “How do you read?”

  “Three by five, Captain McIver, go ahead.”

  “I’ve just got a telex from Liz Chen. It says: ‘Please forward to Mr. Gavallan the following telex, dated 25 Feb., just arrived: “Your request is approved, [signed] Masson Avisyard.” A copy has gone to Al Shargaz.’ Message ends.”

  For a moment Gavallan did not believe his ears. “Approved?”

  “Yes. I repeat: ‘Your request is approved.’ Telex’s signed Masson Avisyard. What should I reply?”

  Gavallan was hard put to keep the glow off his face. Masson was the name of his friend in the Aviation Registration Office in London and the “request” was to put all their Iranian-based helicopters temporarily back onto British registry. “Just acknowledge it, Captain McIver.”

  “We can proceed with planning.”

  “Yes. I agree. I’m off in a couple of minutes, is there anything else?”

  “Not for the moment—just routine. I’ll bring Captain Starke up to date tonight at our regular time. Very glad about Masson, happy landings.”

  “Thanks, Mac, and you.” Gavallan clicked off the switch and handed the mike back to young Sergeant Wazari. He had noticed the bad braising, broken nose, and that some of his teeth were missing. But he said nothing. What was there to say, “Thank you, Sergeant?”

  Wazari motioned out of the windows at the apron below where the refueling crew had started winding in the long hoses. “She’s all gassed, s—” He just stopped the automatic “sir.” “We’ve, er, we’ve no runway lights operating so you’d best be aboard soon as possible.”

  “Thank you.” Gavallan felt almost light-headed as he walked for the stairs. The interbase HF crackled into life. “This’s the base commander. Put Mr. Gavallan on.”

  At once Wazari clicked the send switch. “Yessir.” Nervously he handed the mike to Gavallan whose caution had soared. “He’s Maj—sorry, he’s now Colonel Changiz.”

  “Yes, Colonel? Andrew Gavallan.”

  “Aliens are forbidden to use the HF for code messages—who is Masson Avisyard?”

 
; “A design engineer,” Gavallan said. It was the first thought that came into his head. Watch yourself, this bastard’s clever. “I certainly wasn’t tr—”

  “What was your ‘request’ and who is…” There was a slight pause and muffled voices “…who is Liz Chen?”

  “Liz Chen is my secretary, Colonel. My request was to…” To what? he wanted to shout, then all at once the answer came to him “…to confine seating to a configuration six rows of two seats either side of a gangway of a new chopper, the X63. The manufacturers wanted a different configuration but our engineers believe that this six by four would enhance safety and make for speedy exit in case of emergency. It would also save money and m—”

  “Yes, very well,” the colonel interrupted him testily. “I repeat, the HF is not to be used except with prior approval until the emergency is over, and certainly not for code. Your refueling is completed, you’re cleared for immediate takeoff. Tomorrow’s landing to pick up the body of the Zagros casualty is not approved, EchoTangoLimaLima may land Monday between 1100 and 1200, subject to confirm by HQ that will be sent to Kish radar. Good night.”

  “But we already have Tehran’s formal approval, sir. My pilot gave it to your landing chief the moment he arrived.”

  The colonel’s voice hardened even more: “The Monday clearance is subject to confirmation by Iran Air Force HQ. Iran Air Force HQ. This is an Iran Air Force base, you are subject to Iran Air Force regulation and discipline and will abide by Iran Air Force regulations and discipline. Do you understand?”

  After a pause, Gavallan said, “Yes, sir, I understand, but we’re a civilian oper—”

  “You’re in Iran, on an Iran Air Force base and therefore subject to Iran Air Force regulations and discipline.” The channel went dead. Nervously Wazari tidied his already meticulous desk.

  SUNDAY

  February 25

  ZAGROS—RIG BELLISSIMA: 11:05 A.M. In the biting cold Tom Lochart watched Jesper Almqvist, the down-hole expert, handle the big plug that now was suspended by a wire over the exposed drilling hole. All around was the burned-out wreckage of the rig and trailers from the terrorist firebomb attack, already half buried in new snow.

  “Lower away,” the young Swede shouted. At once his assistant in the small, self-contained cabin started the winch. Awkwardly fighting the wind, Jesper guided the plug down into the well’s metal casing. The plug consisted of an explosive charge over two metal half cups fixed around a rubber sealing ring. Lochart could see how tired both men were. This was the fourteenth well they had capped over the last three days, still five more to go, the sunset deadline only seven hours away, each well a two- to three-hour job in good conditions—once they were on site.

  “Sonofabitching conditions,” Lochart muttered, equally weary. Too many flying hours since the Green Band of the komiteh had decreed the deadline, too many problems: scrambling to close down the whole field with its eleven sites, rushing to Shiraz to fetch Jesper, airlifting crews to Shiraz from dawn to dusk, spares to Kowiss—deciding what to take and what to leave, impossible to do everything at such short notice. Then the death of Jordon and Scot being clipped.

  “That’s it, hold her there!” Jesper shouted, then hurried back through the snow to the cabin. Lochart watched him check the depth gauge, then stab a button. There was a muffled explosion. A puff of smoke came out of the drill hole. At once his assistant winched in the remains of the wire as Jesper went back, fought the pipe rams closed over the drill hole, and it was done—“The explosive charge blows the two cups together,” Jesper had explained earlier; “this forces the rubber seal against the steel casing and she’s capped, the seal good for a couple of years. When you want to open her, we come back and with another special tool drill out the plug and she’s as good as new. Maybe.”

  He wiped his face with his sleeve. “Let’s get the hell out, Tom!” He trudged back to the cabin, turned the main electric switch off, stuffed all the computer printouts into a briefcase, closed and locked the door.

  “What about all the gear?”

  “It stays. The cabin’s okay. Let’s get aboard, I’m frozen to hell.” Jesper headed for the 206 that was parked on the helipad. “Soon as I get back to Shiraz I’ll see IranOil and get ’em to get us permission to come back and pick the cabin up, along with the others. Eleven cabins’re one hell of an investment to leave lying around and not working. Weatherwise they’re good for a year, locked up. They’re designed to take a lot of weather beating, though not vandalizing.” He motioned to the wreckage around them. “Stupid!”

  “Yes.”

  “Stupid! Tom, you should’ve seen the IranOil execs when I told them you’d been ordered out and Mr. Sera was closing down the field.” Jesper grinned, fair hair, blue eyes. “They screamed like slitted pigs and swore there were no komiteh orders to stop production.”

  “I still don’t see why they didn’t come back with you and overrule the bastards here.”

  “I invited them and they said next week. This’s Iran, they’ll never come.” He looked back at the site. “That well alone’s worth sixteen thousand barrels a day.” He got into the left seat beside Lochart, his assistant, a taciturn Breton, clambered into the back and pulled the door closed. Lochart started up, heat to maximum.

  “Next, Rig Maria, okay?”

  Jesper thought a moment. “Better leave her till last. Rig Rosa’s more important.” He stifled another yawn. “We’ve two producers to cap there and the one still drilling. Poor bastards haven’t had time to tip out about seven thousand feet of pipe so we’ll have to plug her with it all in. Sonofabeetching waste.” He clipped his seat belt on and huddled closer to the heat fan.

  “What happens then?”

  “Routine.” The young man laughed. “When you want to open her up, we core the plug, then start fishing the pipe out piece by piece. Slow, tedious, and expensive.” Another huge yawn. He closed his eyes and was almost instantly asleep.

  Mimmo Sera met the 206 at Rig Rosa. A 212 was also on the pad, engine idling, Jean-Luc at the controls, men loading luggage and getting aboard. “Buon giorno, Tom.”

  “Hi, Mimmo. How’d it go?” Lochart waved a greeting to Jean-Luc.

  “These are the last of my men except for a roustabout to help Jesper.” Mimmo Sera was bleary with fatigue. “There was no time to tip pipe out of Three.”

  “No problem—we’ll cap her as is.”

  “Sì.” A tired smile. “Think of all the money you’ll make tipping it out.”

  Jesper laughed. “Seven thousand, eight hundred and sixty feet at—maybe we’ll make you a special price.”

  Good-naturedly the older man made an expressive Italian gesture.

  Lochart said, “I’ll leave you two to it. When do you want me to come back for you?”

  Jesper looked at his watch. It was near noon. “Come for us at four-thirty. Okay?”

  “Four-thirty on the dot. Sunset’s at six-thirty-seven.” Lochart went over to the 212.

  Jean-Luc was muffled against the cold but still managed to look elegant. “I’ll take this batch direct Shiraz—they’re the last—except for Mimmo and your crew.”

  “Good. How’s it below?”

  “Chaos.” Jean-Luc swore with great passion. “I smell disaster, more disaster.”

  “You expect disaster all the time—except when you’re bedding. Not to worry, Jean-Luc.”

  “Of course to worry.” Jean-Luc watched the loading for a moment—almost completed now, suitcases, knapsacks, two dogs, two cats, with a full load of men waiting impatiently—then turned back, lowered his voice, and said seriously, “Tom, the sooner we’re out of Iran the better.”

  “No. Zagros’s just an isolated case. Anyway, I’m still hoping Iran works out.” HBC swirled up into the front of Lochart’s brain, and Sharazad, and Whirlwind. He had told no one here about Whirlwind and his talk with Starke: “I’ll leave that to you, Duke,” he had said just before he left. “You can put the case better than me—I’m totally against it
.”

  “Sure, That’s your privilege. Mac approved your trip to Tehran Monday.”

  “Thanks, Has he seen Sharazad yet?”

  “No, Tom, not yet.”

  Where the hell is she? he thought, another twinge going through him. “I’ll see you at the base, Jean-Luc. Have a safe trip,”

  “Make sure Scot and Rodrigues are ready when I get back. I’ll have to do a quick turnaround if I’m to get to Al Shargaz tonight.” The cabin door slammed shut, Jean-Luc glanced around, and got the thumbs-up. He acknowledged, then turned back again. “I’m off—make sure Scot slips aboard quietly, eh? I don’t want to get shot out of the skies—I still say Scot was their target, no one else.” Lochart nodded bleakly, headed for his 206.

  He had been en route back from Kowiss when the dawn disaster had happened yesterday, Jean-Luc was getting up at the time and, by chance, had been looking out of his window. “The two of them, Jordon and Scot, were very close together, carrying spares between them, loading HIW,” he had told Lochart as soon as he had landed. “I didn’t see the first shots, just heard them, but I saw Jordon stagger and cry out, hit in the head, and Scot look off toward the trees at the back of the hangar. Then Scot bent down and tried to help Jordon—I’ve seen enough men shot to know poor Effer was dead before he touched the snow. Then there were more shots, three or four, but it wasn’t a machine gun, more like an M16 on automatic. This time Scot got one in the shoulder and it spun him around and he fell into the snow beside Jordon, half covered by him—Jordon between him and the trees. Then the bullets started pumping again…at Scot, Tom, I’m sure of it.”

  “How can you be sure, Jean-Luc?”

  “I’m certain. Effer was directly in the line of fire, directly, and took them all—the attackers weren’t spraying the base, just aiming at Scot, I grabbed my Very pistol and charged out, saw no one, but fired anyway in the general direction of the trees. When I got to Scot, he had the shakes and Jordon was a mess, hit perhaps eight times. We got Scot to the medic—he’s all right, Tom, shoulder wound, I watched him patched myself, wound’s clean and the bullet went right through.”