The Green Band pulled the gun off his shoulder and aimed at him. “Tell the kalandar you lied or you die!”
With hardly any effort, Nitchak Khan angrily ripped the gun out of the youth’s hands and threw it into the snow. “I’m the law in Zagros—not you! Go back to the village!” Filled with fear, the Green Band obeyed instantly.
The villagers waited and watched. Nitchak Khan’s face was graven and his small eyes went from chopper to chopper. They were away now, but not yet out of range of those he had posted around the base—to fire only on his signal, only his. One of the smaller choppers was banking, still climbing as fast as possible, coming around in a big circle. To watch us, Nitchak Khan thought, to watch what happens next. As God wants.
“Dangerous to shoot down the sky machines,” his wife had said. “That will bring wrath down upon us.”
“Terrorists will do that—we will not. The young pilot saw us, and the Farsi-speaking kalandar pilot knows. They must not escape. Terrorists have no mercy, they care nothing for law and order, and how can their existence be disproved? Aren’t these mountains ancient havens for brigands? Haven’t we chased these terrorists to the limit of our power? What could we do to prevent the tragedy—nothing.”
And now before him was the last of the Infidels, his main enemy, the one who had cheated him and lied and whisked the other devil away. At least this one will not escape, he thought. The barest tip of the sun was just above the horizon. As he watched, it vanished. “Peace be with you, pilot.”
“And with you, Kalandar, God watch you,” Lochart said thinly. “That envelope I gave to my French pilot. You saw me give it to him?”
“Yes, yes, I saw it.”
“That was a letter addressed to the Revolutionary Komiteh in Shiraz, with a copy to the Iranian kalandar in Dubai across the Great Sea, signed by the young pilot, witnessed by me, telling exactly what occurred in the village square, what was done by whom, to whom, who was shot, the number of men bound in the Green Band truck before it went into the Ravine of the Broken Camels, the manner of Nasiri’s murder, your terr—”
“Lies, all lies! By the Prophet what is this word murder? Murder? That is for bandits. The man died—as God wants,” the old man said sullenly, aware of the villagers gaping at Lochart. “He was a known supporter of the Satanic Shah who surely you will meet in hell soon.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Perhaps my loyal servant who was murdered here by cowardly sons of dogs has already told the One God and the One God knows who is telling the truth!”
“He was not Muslim, he did not serve Islam an—”
“But he was a Christian and Christians serve the One God and my tribesman was murdered by cowards from ambush, sons of dogs with no courage who shot from ambush—surely eaters of shit and men of the Left Hand and accursed! It’s true he was murdered like the other Christian at the rig. By God and the Prophet of God, their deaths will be avenged!”
Nitchak Khan shrugged. “Terrorists,” he blustered, very afraid, “terrorists did that, of course it was terrorists! As to the letter it’s all lies, lies, the pilot was liar, we all know what happened in the village. It’s all lies what he said.”
“All the more reason that the letter should not be delivered.” Lochart was choosing his words very carefully. “Therefore please protect me from the ‘terrorists’ as I fly away. Only I can prevent the letter being delivered.” His heart was beating heavily as he saw the old man take out a cigarette, weighing the pros and cons, and light the cigarette with Jordon’s lighter and he wondered again how he could have vengeance for Jordon’s murder, still an unresolved part of the plan that so far had worked perfectly: his taking the too vigilant Nitchak Khan away, Scot Gavallan sneaking into the makeshift coffin to be carried aboard Jean-Luc’s 212, Jordon’s shrouded body already put into the long crate that once housed tail rotors to be loaded into his 212, then the letter and the three choppers flying off together, all perfectly as planned.
And now it was time to finish. Ayre in the Alouette circled overhead in station, well out of range. “Salaam, Kalandar, God’s justice be with you,” he said and headed for his cockpit.
“I have no control over terrorists!” And when Lochart did not stop, Nitchak Khan shouted louder, “Why would you stop delivery of the lies, eh?”
Lochart got into the cockpit, wanting to be away, hating this place now and the old man. “Because, before God, I deplore lies.”
“Before God, you would stop the delivery of these lies?”
“Before God I will see that letter burned. God’s justice be with you, Kalandar, and with Yazdek.” He pressed the starter. The first jet fired up. Above him the blades began to turn. More switches. Now the second engine caught and all the time he was watching the old man. Rot in hell, old man, he thought, Jordon’s blood’s on your head, and Gianni’s, I’m sure of it though I’ll never prove it. Perhaps mine too.
Waiting. Now all needles in the Green. Lift-off.
Nitchak Khan watched the chopper shudder into the air, hesitate, then turn slowly and begin to leave. So easy to raise my hand, he thought, and so soon the Infidel and that howling monster become a funeral pyre falling out of the sky, and as to the letter, lies, all lies.
Two men dead? All know that it’s their own fault they’re dead. Did we invite them here? No, they came to exploit our land. If they had not come here they would still be alive and waiting for the hell that inevitably is their due.
His eyes never left the air machine. There was plenty of time yet. He smoked slowly, enjoying the cigarette greatly, enjoying the knowledge that he could terminate such a great machine just by raising his hand. But he did not. He remembered the advice of the kalandaran and lit another cigarette from the stub and smoked that, waiting patiently. Soon the hateful sound of the engines was distant, fading quickly, and then, overhead, he saw the smaller air machine break off circling and also head south and west.
When all Infidel sound had quite gone he judged that peace had once more come to his Zagros. “Fire the base,” he said to the others. Soon the flames were high. Without regret he cast the lighter into the flames and, contentedly, he strolled home.
MONDAY
February 26
NEAR BANDAR DELAM AIR BASE: 9:16 A.M. In torrential rain the Subaru station wagon with the Iran-Toda insignia on the doors hurried along the road, windshield wipers full speed, the road potholed and waterlogged in parts, the driver Iranian. Scragger sat uneasily beside him, his seat belt tight, and in the back a Japanese radio mechanic hung on as best he could. Ahead through the heavy rain splats, Scragger saw an old bus hogging most of the road and, not far away, oncoming traffic.
“Minoru, tell him to slow down. Again,” he said. “He’s witless.”
The young Japanese leaned forward and spoke sharply in Farsi, and the driver nodded benignly and paid no attention, jabbed his palm on the horn, and kept it there as he swerved out almost onto the other shoulder, overtaking the bus, accelerated when he should have braked, skidded, recovered, and just made the narrowing gap between the bus and the oncoming car, all three vehicles with their horns shrieking.
Scragger muttered another curse. Beaming, the driver, a young bearded man, took his attention off the road and said something in Farsi, bouncing through a large pothole in a shower of water. Minoru interpreted: “He says with the Help of God we’ll be at the airfield in a few minutes, Captain Scragger.”
“With the Help of God we’ll be there in one piece and not fifty.” Scragger would have preferred to drive but it had not been allowed, nor were any Iran-Toda personnel allowed to drive themselves. “We’ve found it to be good policy, Captain Scragger, the roads and the rules and Iranians being what they are,” Watanabe, the engineer in charge, had said. “But Mohammed is one of our best drivers and very reliable. See you this evening.”
To Scragger’s relief he saw the airfield ahead. Green Bands guarded the gate. The driver paid them no attention, just barreled through and pulled up in a shower of water ou
tside the two-story office building. “Allah-u Akbar,” he said proudly.
Scragger exhaled. “Allah-u Akbar it is,” he said, unlocked his seat belt, readying his umbrella as he looked around, his first time here. Big apron and small tower, some windows smashed, others boarded up, the two-story office building derelict with more broken windows, S-G company trailers, good hangars now closed against the storm, with bullet holes all over and in the walls of the trailers. He whistled, remembering being told about the fight here between the Green Bands and the mujhadin. Must’ve been a lot worse than Duke let on, he thought.
Two Royal Iran Air twin jet passenger airplanes were parked haphazardly—the “Royal” now crudely slashed out with black paint—tires flat, cockpit windows smashed, and left to rot. “Bloody sacrilege,” he muttered, seeing the rain pouring into the cockpits.
“Minoru, me son, tell Mohammed here not to move a muscle till we’re ready to leave, okay?”
Minoru did as he was asked, then followed Scragger out into the rain. Scragger stood beside the car, not knowing where to go. Then one of the trailer doors opened.
“Mein Gott, Scrag! I thought it was you—what the hell’re you doing here?” It was Rudi Lutz, beaming. Then he saw Starke join Rudi and his heart picked up.
“Hi, me sons!” He shook hands warmly with both of them, all three talking together for a moment. “Well, Duke, this’s a pleasant surprise!”
“What the hell’re you doing here, Scrag?”
“First things first, me son. This’s Minoru Fuyama, radio mec with Iran-Toda. My UHF was acting up on the way in—I’m on a beaut charter from Lengeh. Minoru’s pulled the box and it’s in the car, can you replace her?”
“No problem. Come along, Mr. Fuyama.” Rudi went next door to find Fowler Joines to make the arrangements.
“I’m damn glad to see you, Scrag—lots to talk about,” Starke said.
“Like weather problems and whirlwinds?”
“Yes, yes, I’d say the weather’s been on my mind a lot.” Starke seemed older, his eyes ranging the base, the downpour even heavier than before, the day warm and tacky.
“I saw Manuela at Al Shargaz, she’s same as usual, pretty as a picture—anxious, but okay.”
Rudi rejoined them, splashing through the rain, and led the way back into his office trailer. “You won’t be flying in this mess, Scrag, Would you like a beer?”
“No thanks, mate, but I’d love a cuppa.” Scragger said it automatically though his thirst for a cool beer was monumental. But ever since his first medical with Dr. Nutt just after he had sold Sheik Aviation to Gavallan, and Dr. Nutt had said, “Scrag, unless you quit smoking and cut down on the beer you’ll be grounded in a couple of years,” he had been extra careful. Too bloody right, he thought. No fags, no booze, no food, and plenty of sheilas. “You still have supplies, Rudi? At Lengeh it’s getting rough ’cept for de Plessey and his wine.”
“I got some off a tanker that’s tied up down at the port,” Rudi called back from the small kitchen, putting on the kettle. “CASEVAC, seaman with his head and face smashed up. The captain said he’d had a fall but it looked more like a bad fight. Not surprisingly really, the ship’s been stuck at anchor for three months. Mein Gott, Scrag, did you see the pileup in the port when you came in? Must be a hundred ships waiting to unload, or to take on oil.”
“Same at Kharg and all along the coast, Rudi, everywhere’s clogged. Wharfs sky-high with crates, bales, an’ Gawd knows what, all left rotting in the sun or rain. Enough of that, wot’re you doing here, Duke?”
“I ferried a 212 from Kowiss yesterday. But for the weather I’d’ve left at dawn—glad I didn’t now.”
Scragger heard the caution in the voice and looked around. No one listening that he could see. “Problem?” He saw Starke shake his head. Rudi turned on the music cassette. Wagner. Scragger hated Wagner. “Wot’s up?”
“Just cautious—these damn walls are too thin—and I caught one of the staff eavesdropping. I think most of them are spies. Then we’ve a new base manager, Numir, Nasty Numi we call him. He’s off today, otherwise you’d be explaining why you’re here in triplicate.” Rudi made his voice lower. “There are whirlwinds to talk about. But what are you doing here, Scrag? Why didn’t you call us?”
“Came into Iran-Toda yesterday on a charter for a guy called Kasigi who’s the big buyer of Siri crude and a bigwig with Iran-Toda—old Georges de Plessey arranged it. I’m here for today, leave tomorrow early. Andy asked me to see you to sound you out and this was as soon as I could make it. I couldn’t raise you on the UHF coming in—could’ve been the storm, I just snuck in in time. Couldn’t get permission to fly over here, so I pulled a wire off the pot just in ease and ‘urgently needed a repair.’ Duke, Andy told you wot we talked about in Al Shargaz?”
“Yes, yes, he did. And you better know there’s a new twist. Andy’s been told we’re being grounded pending nationalization and we’ve only five days—five safe days only. If we’re to do it, at the latest it should be Friday.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” Scragger felt his chest tighten. “Duke, there’s no way I can get ready by Friday.”
“Andy says we take out 212s only.”
“Eh?”
Starke explained what had happened at Kowiss and what, hopefully, would happen “if Andy pushes the go.”
“Come off it—not if, when. Andy has to. The question is, do we stick our necks out?”
Starke laughed. “You already have. I said I’m in if everyone else is—with two 212s it’s possible for me, and now that…well, now that our birds’re back on British registry once we’re out, that makes it legit.”
“The hell it does,” Rudi said. “It’s just not legal. I told you last night and Pop Kelly agreed. Scrag, how’re—”
“Pop’s here?”
“Sure,” Starke said. “He came down with me,” He explained why, then added, “Hotshot approved the ‘loan,’ we got two guys out on the 125 and the rest scheduled for Thursday but I’m not so sure about that. Colonel Changiz said in future all personnel movements’re to be approved by him, not just by Hotshot.”
“How’re you getting back?”
“I’ll take a 206.” Starke looked out of the window at the rain. “Goddamn front!”
“She’ll be through by tonight, Duke,” Scragger said confidently.
Rudi said, “How’re you going to get your men out, Scrag? Hein?”
“If it’s just my two 212s, that makes it much easier. Much.” Scragger saw Rudi quaff some of his ice-cold beer, the beads on the can glistening, and his thirst increased. “Friday’d be a good day for a caper because Iranians’ll be at prayer meetings or whatever.”
“I’m not so sure, Scrag,” Rudi said. “Friday they still man the radar—they’ll have to know something’s up with my four birds charging across the Gulf, let alone your three and Duke’s two. Abadan’s itchy as all hell about choppers—particularly after HBC.”
“There been any more inquiries about her, Rudi?”
“Yes. Last week Abbasi came by, he’s the pilot who blew her out of the sky. Same questions, nothing more.”
“Does he know his brother was HBC’s pilot?”
“Not yet, Scrag.”
“Tom Lochart was bloody lucky. Bloody lucky.”
“We’ve all been ‘bloody lucky.’ So far,” Starke said. “Except Erikki.” He brought Scragger up to date with the little they knew.
“Christ, wot next? How’re we going to do Whirlwind with him still in Iran?”
“We can’t Scrag—that’s what I think,” Rudi said. “We can’t leave him.”
“That’s right but maybe…” Starke drank some coffee, his own anxiety making him feel a little bilious. “Maybe Andy won’t push the button. Meanwhile we hope to God Erikki gets away, or is let go before Friday. Then Andy can. Shit, if it was up to me, just me, goddamned if I’d risk Whirlwind.”
“Nor me.” Rudi was equally queasy.
“If they were all your pla
nes and your company and your future, bet you would. Know I would.” Scragger beamed. “Me, I’m for Whirlwind. I got to be for it, sport, no bloody company’ll employ me at my age so I bloody have to keep Dirty Dunc and Andy the Gav in biz if I’m to keep flying.” The kettle began singing. He got up. “I’ll make it, Rudi. Wot about you? You in or out?”
“Me, I’m in if you two are, and if it’s a possible—but I like it not a bit and I’m telling you straight I’ll only lead my four out if I really think we’ve a chance. We talked to the other pilots last night, Scrag. Marc Dubois and Pop Kelly said they’d have a go, Block and Forsyth said thanks, but no thanks, so we’ve three pilots for four 212s. I’ve asked Andy to send me a volunteer.” Rudi mirrored his disquiet. “But reissen mit scheissen! I’ll have four to get airborne somehow, all at the same time, when we’re supposed to have startup clearance—with Green Bands all over the base, our radio op Jahan no idiot, and then there’s Nasty Numi…” His eyebrows soared.
“You’ve no problem, old cock,” Scragger said airily. “Tell ’em you’re going to do a flyby victory salute for Khomeini over Abadan!”
“Up yours, Scrag!” The music ended and Rudi turned the tape over. Then his face hardened. “But I agree with you that Andy will push the button and the when’s Friday. Me, I say if one of us aborts we all abort—agreed?”
Scragger broke the silence. “If Andy says go, I go. I have to.”
BANDAR DELAM PORT: 3:17 P.M. Scragger’s station wagon turned off a main road in the sprawling, noisy town into a lesser road, cut down it, then turned into a square in front of a mosque, Mohammed driving as usual, his finger on the horn almost constantly. The rain had lessened appreciably but the day was still miserable. In the backseat Minoru dozed, cradling the replacement radio. Scragger was absently staring ahead, so much to think about, plans, codes, and what about Erikki? Poor old bugger! But if anyone can make it he will. Swear to God old Erikki’ll make it somehow. Say he doesn’t or Andy doesn’t push go, wot you going to do for a job? I’ll worry about that next week.
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