His pen scratched loudly, setting Scragger’s teeth on edge: 8:11. Grimly he got up, pretended to thank the corporal who politely pressed him to stay. Then he went for the door and almost bumped into Qeshemi. “Oh, sorry, mate! Salaam, Agha Qeshemi, salaam.”
“Salaam, Agha.” Qeshemi saw Scragger’s relief and impatience. Sardonically he motioned him to wait as he went over to the desk, his shrewd eyes reading the corporal clearly. “Greetings, Achmed, God’s peace on you.”
“And on you, Excellency Sergeant Qeshemi.”
“What trouble do we have today—I know what the foreigner wants.”
“There was another Islamic-Marxist meeting near midnight down by the docks. One mujhadin was killed and we’ve another seven in the cells—it was easy, the ambush went easily, thanks be to God, and Green Bands helped us. What’ll we do with them?”
“Obey the new rules,” Qeshemi said patiently. “Bring the prisoners up before the Revolutionary Komiteh when they get here tomorrow morning. Next?” The corporal told him about the youth. “Same with him—son of a dog to be caught!”
Qeshemi went through the partition gate to the safe, pulled out the key, and began to open it.
“Thanks be to God, I thought the key was lost,” the corporal said.
“It was but Lafti found it. I went to his house this morning. He had it in his pocket.” The passports were on the boxes of ammunition. He brought them over to the desk, carefully checked them, signed the permit in the name of Khomeini, checked them again. “Here, Agha Pilot,” he said, and handed them to Scragger.
“Mamnoon am, Agha, khoda haefez.” Thank you, Excellency, good-bye.
“Khoda haefez, Agha.” Sergeant Qeshemi shook the proffered hand, thoughtfully watched him leave. Through the window he saw Scragger drive off quickly. Too quickly. “Achmed, do we have gasoline in the car?”
“There was yesterday, Excellency.”
AT BANDAR DELAM AIRPORT: 8:18 A.M. Now Numir was running frantically from one mechanic’s trailer to the next, but they were all empty. He rushed back to his office. Jahan, the radio op, looked at him startled.
“They’ve gone! Everyone’s gone, pilots, mechanics…and most of their things are gone too!” Numir stuttered, his face still livid from the blow Zataki had given him. “Those sons of dogs!”
“But…but they’ve only gone to Iran-Toda, Excell—”
“I tell you they’ve fled, and they fled with our helicopters!”
“But our two 206s are there in the hangar, I saw them, and a fan’s even drying the paint. Excellency Rudi wouldn’t leave a fan on like tha—”
“By God, I tell you they’ve gone!”
Jahan, a middle-aged man wearing glasses, switched on the HE “Captain Rudi, this’s base, do you read?”
IN RUDI’S COCKPIT: Both Rudi and his mechanic Faganwitch heard the call clearly. “Base to Captain Rudi, do you read?” Rudi moved the trim a fraction then relaxed again, looking right and left. He saw Kelly motion at his headset, raise two fingers, and gesture. He acknowledged. Then his glee faded: “Tehran, this’s Bandar Delam, do you read?” All pilots tensed. No answer. “Kowiss, this’s Bandar Delam, do you read?” No answer. “Lengeh, this’s Bandar Delam, do you read?”
“Bandar Delam, this’s Lengeh, you’re two by five, go ahead.”
At once there was a spate of Farsi from Jahan that Rudi did not understand, then the two operators talked back and forth. After a pause, Jahan said in English: “Tehran, this is Bandar Delam, do you read?” Static. The call repeated. Static. Then, “Kowiss, do you read?” Then silence again.
“For the moment,” Rudi muttered.
“What was all that about, Captain?” Faganwitch asked.
“We’re pegged. It’s barely fifty minutes since we took off and we’re pegged!” There were fighter bases all around them and ahead was the big, very efficient one at Kharg. He had no doubt whatsoever that if they were intercepted they would be shot down like HBC. Correctly, he thought, sickened. And though they were safe enough at the moment down here just above the waves, visibility now less than a quarter of a mile, before long the haze would thin out and then they would be helpless. Again Jahan’s voice, “Tehran, this is Bandar Delam, do you read?” Static. “Kowiss, this is Bandar Delam, do you read?” No reply.
Rudi cursed to himself, Jahan was a good radio op, persistent, and would keep calling until Kowiss or Tehran reported in. And then? That’s their problem, not mine. Mine’s to get my four out safely, that’s all I have to worry about. I’ve got to lead my four out safely.
Ten to fifteen feet below were the waves, not yet white-topped but gray and nasty and the wind had not lessened. He looked across at Kelly and waved his hand from left to right, the signal to spread out more and not to try to keep visual contact if visibility got any worse. Kelly acknowledged. He did the same to Dubois who passed the message on to Sandor, on his extreme right, then settled down to squeeze maximum range with minimum fuel, straining his eyes to pierce the whiteout ahead. Soon they would be deep in the real sea lanes.
LENGEH, AT THE AIRFIELD: 8:31 A.M. “Jesus, Scrag, we thought you’d been arrested,” Vossi burst out, Willi with him, intercepting his car, both of them weak with relief, their three mechanics also crowding around. “What happened?”
“I’ve got the passports, so let’s get on with it.”
“We gotta problem.” Vossi was white.
Scragger grimaced, still sweating from the waiting and the ride back. “Now wot?”
“Ali Pash’s here. He’s on the HF. He came in as usual, we tried to send him off but he wouldn’t go an—”
Impatiently, Willi butted in: “And for the last five minutes, Scrag, for the last five or ten minutes he’s been by God Harry peculiar an—”
“Like he’s got a vibrator up his ass, Scrag, never seen him like th—” Vossi stopped. Ali Pash came out onto the veranda of the office radio room and beckoned Scragger urgently.
“Be right there, Ali,” Scragger called out. To Benson, their chief mechanic, Scragger whispered, “You and your lads all set?”
“Yessir.” Benson was small, wiry, and nervous. “I got your stuff into the wagon just before Ali Pash came along. We scarper?”
“Wait till I get to the office. Ev—”
“We got Delta Four, Scrag,” Willi said, “nothing from the others.”
“Bonzer. Everyone wait till I give the signal.” Scragger took a deep breath and walked off, greeting the Green Bands he passed. “Salaam, Ali Pash, g’day,” he said, seeing the nervousness and anxiety. “I thought I gave you the day off.”
“Agha, there someth—”
“Just a sec, me son!” Scragger turned and with pretended irascibility called out, “Benson, I told you if you and Drew want to go and picnic to go, but you’d better be back by two o’clock or else! And wot the hell’re you two waiting for? Are you ground-checking or aren’t you?”
“Yeah, Scrag, sorry, Scrag!”
He almost laughed seeing them fall over one another, Benson and the American mechanic, Drew, jumping into the old van and driving off, Vossi and Willi heading for their cockpits. Once inside the office he breathed easier, put his briefcase with the passports on his desk. “How, wot’s the problem?”
“You’re leaving us, Agha,” the young man said to Scragger’s shock.
“Well, we, er, we’re not leaving,” Scragger began, “we’re ground-test—”
“Oh, but you’re leaving, you are! There’s…there’s no crew change tomorrow, there’s no need for suitcases—I saw Agha Benson with suitcases—and why all the spares sent out and all the pilots and mechanics…” The tears began streaming down the young man’s cheeks. “…it’s true.”
“Now listen here, me son, you’re upset. Take the day off.”
“But you’re leaving like those at Bandar Delam, you’re leaving today and what’s going to happen to us?”
A burst of Farsi from the HF loudspeaker overrode him. The young man wiped away his tea
rs and touched the transmit, replying in Farsi, then added in English, “Standby One,” and said miserably, “That was Agha Jahan again repeating what he radioed ten minutes ago. Their four 212s have vanished, Agha. They’ve gone, Agha. They took off at 7:32 A.M. to go to Iran-Toda but didn’t land there, just went inland.”
Scragger groped for his chair, trying to appear calm. Again the HF, in English now: “Tehran, this’s Bandar Delam, do you read?”
“He calls Tehran every few minutes, and Kowiss, but no answer…” More tears welled out of the young man’s eyes. “Have Kowiss already gone too, Agha? Is Tehran empty of your people? What’re we going to do when you’ve gone?” On the ramp the first of the 212s started up noisily, closely followed by the second. “Agha,” Ali Pash said uneasily, “we’re supposed to request engine start from Kish now.”
“No need to bother them on their holiday, it’s hardly a flight, just testing,” Scragger said. He switched on the VHF and wiped his chin, feeling somehow dirty and greatly unsettled. He liked Ali Pash and what the young man had said was true. With them gone there was no job, no business, and for the Ali Pashes there was only Iran, and only God knew what would happen here. Over the VHF came Willi’s voice: “My torque counter’s acting up, Scrag.”
Scragger took the mike. “Take her over to the cabbage patch and test her.” This was an area some five miles inland, well away from the town where they tested engines and could practice emergency procedures. “Stay there, Willi, any problem call me, I can always fetch Benson if you need an adjustment. How you doing, Ed?”
“Dandy, real dandy. Scrag, if it’s okay, I’d like to practice some engine outs, my license renewal’s coming up soon—Willi can bird-dog me, huh?”
“Okay. Call me in an hour.” Scragger went to the window, glad to have his back to Ali Pash and away from those sad, accusing eyes. Both choppers took off and headed inland away from the coast. The office seemed to be stuffier than usual. He opened the window. Ali Pash was sitting gloomily by the radio. “Why not take the day off, lad?”
“I have to reply to Bandar Delam. What should I say, Agha?”
“Wot did Jahan ask you?”
“He said Agha Numir wanted to know if I’d noticed anything strange, if anything strange had happened here, spares leaving, airplanes leaving, pilots and mechanics.”
Scragger watched him. “Seems to me nothing strange’s happened here. I’m here, mechanics’ve gone picknicking, Ed and Willi are off on routine checks. Routine. Right?” He kept his eyes on him, willing him to come over to their side. He had no way of persuading him, nothing to offer him, no pishkesh, except… “You approve of wot’s happening here, me son?” he asked carefully. “I mean, what the future holds for you here?”
“Future? My future’s with the company. If…if you leave, then…then I have no job, I won’t… I can’t afford to m… I won’t, can’t afford anything. I’m the only son…”
“If you wanted to leave, well, there’d be your job and a future if you wanted it—outside Iran. Guaranteed.”
The youth gaped at him, suddenly understanding what Scragger was offering. “But…but what is guaranteed, Agha? A life in your West, me alone? What of my people, my family, my young bride-to-be?”
“Can’t answer that, Ali Pash,” Scragger said, eyes on the clock, conscious of time slipping by, the lights and the hum of the HF, readying to overpower the young man who was taller than he, bigger built, younger by thirty-five years, and then disable the HF and make a run for it. Sorry, me son, but one way or another you’re going to cooperate. Casually he moved closer, into a better position. “Insha’Allah is your way of putting it,” he said kindly, and readied.
Hearing that come from the mouth of this kind, strange old man he respected so much, Ali Pash felt a flood of warmth pervade him. “This is my home, Agha, my land,” Ali Pash said simply. “The Imam is the Imam and he obeys only God. The future is the future and in God’s hands. The past too is the past.”
Before Scragger could stop him, Ali Pash called Bandar Delam and now was speaking Farsi into the mike. The two operators talked with one another for a moment or two, then abruptly he signed off. And looked up at Scragger. “I don’t blame you for leaving,” he said. “Thank you, Agha, for…for the past.” Then, with great deliberation, he switched the HF off, took out a circuit breaker, and pocketed it. “I told him we…we were closing down for the day.”
Scragger exhaled. “Thanks, me son.”
The door opened. Qeshemi stood there. “I wish to inspect the base,” he said.
AL SHARGAZ HQ: Manuela was saying, “…and then, Andy, Lengeh’s operator, Ali Pash, said to Jahan, ‘No, nothing’s strange here,’ then added, kinda abruptly, ‘I’m closing down for the day, I must go to prayers.’ Numir called him back at once, asking him to wait a few minutes but there was no answer.”
“Abruptly?” Gavallan asked, Scot and Nogger also listening intently. “What sort of abruptly?”
“Like, like he kinda got fed up, or had a gun to his head—not usual for an Iranian to be that abrupt.” Manuela added uneasily, “I might be reading something into it that wasn’t there, Andy.”
“Does that mean Scrag’s still there or not?”
Scot and Nogger grimaced, appalled at the thought. Manuela shifted nervously. “If he was, wouldn’t he have answered himself to let us know? I think I would have. Perhaps h—” The phone rang. Scot picked it up. “S-G? Oh, hello, Charlie, hang on.” He passed the phone to his father. “From Kuwait…”
“Hello, Charlie. All’s well?”
“Yes, thanks. I’m at Kuwait airport, phoning from Patrick’s office at Guerney’s.” Though the two companies were rivals worldwide, they had very friendly relations. “What’s new?”
“Delta Four, nothing else yet. I’ll phone the moment. Jean-Luc’s checked in from Bahrain—he’s with Delarne at Gulf Air de France if you want him. Is Genny with you?”
“No, she went back to the hotel but I’m all set the moment Mac and the others arrive.”
Gavallan said quietly, “Did you tell Patrick, Charlie?” He heard Pettikin’s forced laugh.
“Funny thing, Andy, the BA rep here, a couple of other guys, and Patrick have this crazy idea we’re up to something—like pulling all our birds out. Can you imagine?”
Gavallan sighed. “Don’t jump the gun, Charlie, keep to the plan.” This was to keep quiet until the Kowiss choppers were in the Kuwait system, then to trust Patrick. “I’ll phone when I have anything. ’Bye—Oh, hang on, I almost forgot. You remember Ross, John Ross?”
“Could I ever forget? Why?”
“I heard he’s in Kuwait International Hospital. Check on him when you’re squared away, will you?”
“Of course, right away, Andy. What’s the matter with him?”
“Don’t know. Call me if you have any news. ’Bye.” He replaced the phone. Another deep breath. “The word’s out in Kuwait.”
“Christ, if it’s out th—” Scot was interrupted by the phone ringing. “Hello? Just a moment. It’s Mr. Newbury, Dad.”
Gavallan took it. “Morning, Roger, how’re tricks?”
“Oh. Well, I, er, wanted to ask you that. How are things going? Off the record, of course.”
“Fine, fine,” Gavallan said noncommittally. “Will you be in your office all day? I’ll drop by, but I’ll call before I leave here.”
“Yes, please do, I’ll be here until noon. It’s a long weekend, you know. Please phone me the moment you, er, hear anything—off the record. The moment. We’re rather concerned and, well, we can discuss it when you arrive. ’Bye.”
“Hang on a moment. Did you get word about young Ross?”
“Yes, yes, I did. Sorry but we understand he was badly hurt, not expected to survive. Damn shame but there you are. See you before noon. ’Bye.”
Gavallan put the phone down. They all watched him. “What’s wrong?” Manuela asked.
“Apparently…it seems young Ross is badly hurt, not expected to
survive.”
Nogger muttered, “What a bugger! My God, not fair…” He had regaled them all about Ross, how he had saved their lives, and Azadeh’s.
Manuela crossed herself and prayed fervently to the Madonna to help him, then begged Her again and again to bring all the men back safe, all of them, without favor, and Azadeh and Sharazad, and let there be peace, please please please…
“Dad, did Newbury tell you what happened?”
Gavallan shook his head, hardly hearing him. He was thinking about Ross, of an age with Scot, more tough and ragged and indestructible than Scot and now… Poor laddie! Maybe he’ll pull through… Oh, God, I hope so! What to do? Continue, that’s all you can do. Azadeh’ll be rocked, poor lassie. And Erikki’ll be as rocked as Azadeh, he owes her life to him. “I’ll be back in a second,” he said and walked out, heading for their other office where he could phone Newbury in private.
Nogger was standing at the window, looking out at the day and the airfield, not seeing any of it. He was seeing the wild-eyed maniac killer at Tabriz One holding the severed head aloft, baying like a wolf to the sky, the angel of sudden death who became the giver of life—to him, to Arberry, to Dibble, and most of all to Azadeh. God, if you are God, save him like he saved us…
“Tehran, this is Bandar Delam, do you read? Kowiss, Bandar Delam, do you read? Al Shargaz, Bandar Delam, do you read?”
“Five minutes on the dot,” Scot muttered. “Jahan doesn’t miss a bloody second. Didn’t Siamaki say he’d be in the office from 0900 onward?”
“Yes, yes, he did.” All their eyes went to the clock. It read 8:45.
AT LENGEH AIRPORT: 9:01 A.M. Qeshemi was standing in the hangar looking at the two parked 206s within. Behind him Scragger and Ali Pash watched nervously, A momentary shaft of sun broke the clouds and overcast and sparkled off the 212 that was waiting on the helipad fifty yards away, a battered police car and driver, Corporal Achmed, beside it. “Have you flown in one of those, Excellency Pash?” Qeshemi asked.
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