Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “The 206? Yes, Sergeant Excellency,” Ali Pash said, giving the sergeant his most pleasing smile. “The captain sometimes takes me or the other radio operator when we’re off duty.” He was very sorry the Devil had moved his feet here today, worse than sorry because now he was inescapably involved in treason—treason to break rules, treason to lie to police, treason not to report curious happenings. “The captain would take you anytime you wished,” he said pleasantly, his whole being concentrated now on extricating himself from the mire the Devil and the captain had put him into.

  “Today would be a good day?”

  Ali Pash almost broke under the scrutiny. “Of course, if you ask the captain, of course, Agha. You wish me to ask?”

  Qeshemi said nothing, just moved out into the open, careless of the Green Bands, half a dozen of them, who watched curiously. To Scragger he said directly in Farsi, “Where is everyone today, Agha?”

  Ali Pash acted as interpreter for Scragger, though he twisted the words, making them sound better and more acceptable, explaining that today being Holy Day, with no revenue flights, the Iranian staff had correctly been given the day off, the captain had ordered the 212s to their designated training area for testing, had allowed the remaining mechanics to go picnicking, and that he himself was leaving to go to the mosque as soon as His Excellency the sergeant had finished whatever he wished to finish.

  Scragger was totally frustrated that he did not understand Farsi, and loathed being out of control of the situation but he was, completely. His life and those of his men were in the hands of Ali Pash.

  “His Excellency asks, What do you plan for the rest of the day?”

  “That’s a bloody good question,” Scragger muttered. Then the family motto came into his mind: “You hang for a lamb, you hang for a sheep, so you might as well take the whole bleeding flock”—the motto that had been handed down by his ancestor who had been transported for life to Australia in the early 1800s. “Please tell him as soon as he’s finished, I’m going to the cabbage patch as Ed Vossi needs checking out. His license’s due for renewal.”

  He watched and waited and Qeshemi asked a question that Ali Pash answered and all the time he was wondering what to do if Qeshemi said, Fine, I’m coming along.

  “His Excellency asks if you would be so kind as to lend the police some gasoline?”

  “Wot?”

  “He wants some gasoline, Captain. Wants to borrow some gasoline.”

  “Oh. Oh, certainly, certainly, Agha.” For a moment Scragger was filled with hope. Hold it, me son, he thought. The cabbage patch’s not so far away and Qeshemi could want the gas to send the car there and still fly with me. “Come on, Ali Pash, you can give me a hand,” he said, not wanting to leave him alone with Qeshemi, and led the way to the pump, beckoning the police car. The wind sock was dancing. He saw that the clouds aloft were building up, nimbus among them, traveling fast, shoved along by a contrary wind. Here below it was still southeasterly though it had veered even more southerly. Good for us but more of a bloody headwind for the others, he thought grimly.

  IN THE HELICOPTERS, NEARING KISH ISLAND: 9:07 A.M. Rudi’s four choppers were in sight of each other, closer than before, cruising calmly just over the waves. Visibility varied between two hundred yards to half a mile. All pilots were conserving fuel, seeking maximum range, and again Rudi bent forward to tap his gas gauge. The needle moved slightly, still registering just under half full. “No problem, Rudi, she’s working fine,” Faganwitch said through the intercom. “We’ve plenty of time to refuel, right? We’re on time and on schedule, right?”

  “Oh, yes.” Even so Rudi recalculated their range, always coming up with the same answer: enough to reach Bahrain but not enough for the legal amount of fuel in reserve. “Tehran, this is Bandar Delam, do you read?” Jahan’s voice came in his headphones again, irritating him with its persistence. For a moment he was tempted to turn off but dismissed that as too danger—

  “Bandar Delam, this is Tehran. We read you four by five, go ahead!”

  Now a flood of Farsi. Rudi picked out “Siamaki” several times but little else as the two radio ops spoke back and forth and then he recognized Siamaki’s voice, irritable, arrogant, and now very angry. “Standby One, Bandar Delam! Al Shargaz, this is Tehran, do you read?” Now even more angrily: “Al Shargaz, this is Director Siamaki, do you read?” No answer. The call repeated more angrily, then another spate of Farsi, then Faganwitch cried out, “AHEAD! Look out!”

  The supertanker, almost a quarter of a mile long, was hurtling at them broadside through the haze, towering over them, dwarfing them, easing her way carefully upstream toward her Iraqi terminal, foghorn droning. Rudi knew he was trapped, no time to climb, no space to break left or right or he would collide with the others so he went into emergency stop procedure. Kelly on his left, banking perilously left, just made it past the stern, Sandor, extreme right, safe around the bow—Dubois not safe but instantly onto max power, stick right and back into a too steep climbing turn, tighter tighter tighter 50—60—70—80 degrees, bow rushing at him, not going to make it, “Espèce de con…” not going to make it, stick back, g force sucking him and Fowler down into their seats, the ship’s gunwale racing at them, then they roared over the foredeck with millimeters to spare, the appalled deck crew scattering. Once safe, Dubois hauled her around into a 180 to go back for Rudi in the slight hope Rudi had managed to cushion the impact and had escaped into the sea.

  Rudi had the stick back, nose up, power off, watching the airspeed tumble, nose a little higher, no time to pray, nose higher, side of the tanker closer and closer, nose higher still, stall warning howling, not going to make it, stall warning shrieking, any moment she’ll fall out of the sky, tanker only yards away, seeing rivets, portholes, rust, paint peeling, closing on them but slowing, slowing, but too late, too late but maybe enough to soften the crash, now plummeting, stick forward, full power on momentarily to cushion the dreadful impact and fall and suddenly she was locked in hover five feet above the waves, the mushing blades barely inches from the side of the tanker that slid past gently. Somehow Rudi backed away a yard, then another, and hovered.

  When his eyes could focus he looked up. On the bridge of the vessel so far above them he could see the officers staring down at them, most of them shaking their fists in rage. A purple-faced man had a loudspeaker now, and he was shouting at them, “Bloody idiot!” but they could not hear him. The stern passed them by, wake churning, the spray speckling them. The way ahead was clear.

  “I’m… I’m going to hav’ta take a shit.” Weakly Faganwitch began to crawl back into the cabin.

  You can take one for me, Rudi was thinking, but he had no energy to say it. His knees were trembling and teeth chattering. “Careful,” he muttered, then eased the throttle open, gained height and forward speed and soon he was quite safe. No sign of the others. Then he spotted Kelly coming round, looking for him. When Kelly saw him he waggled from side to side so happily, came into station alongside, gave him a thumbs-up. To save the others vital fuel coming back to search for the pieces, Rudi put his lips very close to the boom mike and hissed through his teeth, “Dot-dot-dot-dash, dot-dot-dot-dash, dot-dot-dot-dash,” their privately agreed code for each to head for Bahrain independently, and to let them know he was safe. He heard Sandor acknowledge in the same simulated Morse, then Dubois who swooped alongside out of the haze, adding some self-generated static, and accelerated away. But Pop Kelly was shaking his head, motioning that he would prefer to stay alongside. He pointed ahead.

  Once more in their headsets: “Al Shargaz, this is Agha Siamaki in Tehran, do you read?” Then more Farsi. “Al Shargaz…”

  AT AL SHARGAZ HQ: “…This is Agha Siamaki…” Then another splurge of Farsi. Gavallan’s fingers drummed on the desktop, outwardly calm, inwardly not. He had not been able to reach Pettikin before he left for the hospital and there was nothing he could do to choke Siamaki and Numir off the air. Scot adjusted the volume slightly, lessening the ha
rangue, pretending with Nogger to be nonchalant. Manuela said throatily, “He’s plenty mad, Andy.”

  AT LENGEH: 9:26 A.M. Scragger had the nozzle gushing gasoline into the police car. It frothed, overflowing, staining him. Muttering a curse he let the lever go, hung the nozzle back on the pump. Two Green Bands were nearby, watching closely. The corporal screwed the tank cap back into place. Qeshemi spoke to Ali Pash a moment. “His Excellency asks if you could spare him some five-gallon cans, Captain. Of course full ones.”

  “Sure, why not? How many does he want?”

  “He says he could take three in the trunk and two inside. Five.”

  “Five it is.”

  Scragger found the cans and filled them and together they loaded the police car. She’s a bloody Molotov cocktail, he thought. Storm clouds were building quickly. A flash of lightning in the mountains. “Tell him best not to smoke in the car.”

  “His Excellency thanks you.”

  “Anytime.” Thunder came down from the mountains. More lightning. Scragger watched Qeshemi leisurely look around the camp. The two Green Bands were waiting. A few others were squatting in the lee of the wind, watching idly. Now he could stand it no longer. “Well, Agha, I better be off,” he said, pointing at the 212 then into the sky. “Okay?”

  Qeshemi looked at him strangely. “Okay? What okay, Agha?”

  “I go now.” Scragger motioned with his hand, pantomiming flying away, and kept his glazed smile. “Mamnoon am, khoda haefez.” Thank you, good-bye. He held out his hand to him.

  The sergeant stared at the hand then looked up at him, the shrewd hard eyes boring into him. Then the sergeant said, “Okay. Good-bye, Agha,” and firmly shook hands.

  The sweat was running down Scragger’s face, and he forced himself not to wipe it away. “Mamnoon am. Khoda haefez, Agha.” He nodded at Ali Pash, wanting to make it a good farewell, wanting to shake hands too but not daring to stretch their luck, so he just clapped him on the back in passing. “See you, me son. Happy days.”

  “Good landings, Agha.” Ali Pash watched Scragger climb into the cockpit and get airborne and wave as he flew away. He waved back, then saw Qeshemi looking at him. “If I may be permitted, if you will excuse me, Excellency Sergeant, I will lock up and then go to the mosque.”

  Qeshemi nodded and turned back to the departing 212. How obvious they are, he was thinking, the old pilot and this young fool. So easy to read the minds of men if you’re patient and watch for clues. Very dangerous to fly off illegally. Even more dangerous to help foreigners fly off illegally and stay behind. Madness! Men are very strange. As God wants.

  One of the Green Bands, a barely bearded youth with an AK47, wandered closer, pointedly looked at the cans of gasoline in the back of the car. Qeshemi said nothing, just nodded to him. The youth nodded back, eyes hard, strolled off insolently to join the others.

  The sergeant got into the driver’s seat. Leprous sons of dogs, he thought sardonically, you’re not the law in Lengeh yet—thanks be to God. “Time to go, Achmed, time to go.” As the corporal climbed in beside him Qeshemi saw the helicopter go over the rise and vanish. Still so easy to catch you, old man, he told himself, bemused. So easy to alert the net, our phones are working and we’ve a direct link with Kish fighter base. Are a few gallons pishkesh enough for your freedom? I haven’t decided yet.

  “I’ll drop you at the station, Achmed, then I’m off duty till tomorrow. I’ll keep the car for the day.”

  Qeshemi let in the clutch. Perhaps we should have gone with the foreigners—easy to force them to take us, my family and I, but then that would have meant living on the wrong side of our Persian Gulf, living among Arabs. I’ve never liked Arabs, never trusted them. No, my plan’s better. Quietly down the old coast road all today and all tonight, then my cousin’s dhow to Pakistan with plenty of spare gasoline for pishkesh. Many of our people are there already. I’ll make a good life for my wife and my son and little Sousan until, with the help of God, we can come home again. Too much hatred here now, too many years serving the Shah. Good years. As shahs go he was fine for us. We were always paid.

  NORTH OF LENGEH: 9:23 A.M. The cabbage patch was ten kilometers northeast of the base, a desolate, barren rocky area in the foothills of mountains, and the two helicopters were parked, side by side, engines ticking over. Ed Vossi was standing at Willi’s cockpit window. “I feel like throwing up, Willi.”

  “Me too.” Willi shifted his headset slightly, the VHF on but, according to plan, not to be used unless in emergency, only listened to.

  “You got something, Willi?” Vossi asked.

  “No, just static.”

  “Shit. He must be in dead trouble. Another minute then I go look, Willi.”

  “We go look together.” Willi watched the lightning in the hills, visibility about a mile with the clouds black and closing in. “No day for joy riding, Ed.”

  “No.”

  Then Willi’s face lit up like a rocket and he pointed, “There he is!” Scragger’s 212 was approaching at about seven hundred feet, dawdling along. Vossi took to his heels for his cockpit and got in. Now in their headphones: “How’s your torque counter, Willi?”

  “Not good. Scrag,” Willi said happily, following their plan in case anyone was listening. “I asked Ed to take a look at her and he’s not sure either—his radio’s out.”

  “I’ll land and we’ll have a conference. Scragger to base, do you read?” No answer. “Scragger to base, we’ll be on the ground awhile.” No answer.

  Willi gave the thumbs-up to Vossi. Both opened their throttles, concentrating on Scragger who was coming down in a leisurely landing approach.

  At ground level Scragger checked his descent, and led the rush for the coast. Now the exhilaration was extreme, Vossi was shouting with glee, and even Willi was smiling. “By God Harry…”

  Scragger went up over the ridge and down the other side and now he could see the coast and their small van parked on the rocky foreshore just above the waves. His heart missed a beat. A herd of goats with three herdsmen dotted his landing area. Fifty yards up the beach was a car with some people and children playing where never before had they seen anyone. Just out to sea a small powerboat was cruising along. Could be a fishing boat, could be one of the regular patrols against smugglers or escapees, for here with Oman and the pirate coast so close, historically there had always been great coastal vigilance.

  Can’t change now, he thought, heart racing. He saw Benson and the other two mechanics spot him, jump into the van, and drive toward his landing area. Behind him Willi and Vossi had throttled back to give him time. Without hesitation he went into his landing fast, goats scattering, herdsmen and picnickers transfixed. The moment his skids touched he shouted, “Come on!”

  The mechanics needed no urging. Benson rushed for the cabin door and hurled it open, charged back to help the other two who had unlocked the van’s tailgate. Together they pulled out suitcases and satchels and baggage and stumbled over to begin loading—the cabin already stuffed with spares. Scragger looked around and saw that Willi and Vossi had gone into hover, on guard. “So far so good,” he said out loud, concentrating on the onlookers who were over their astonishment and were coming closer. His eyes searched all around. No real danger yet. Nonetheless he made sure his Very pistol was ready just in case, and willed the mechanics to hurry, worried that any moment the police car would come hurrying down the road. A second load. Then another, then the last, all three mechanics sweating, and now two clambered into the cabin, slammed the door. Benson fell into the front seat beside him, swore, and began to get out. “I forgot to switch off the van.”

  “To hell with that, here we go.” Scragger opened up the throttles and got airborne, Benson locking the door, fixing his seat belt, and they were over the waves out into the haze of the Gulf. Scragger looked left and right. Willi and Vossi were flanking him tightly, and he wished he was HF equipped so he could report “Lima Three” to Gavallan. Never mind, we’ll be there in a jiffy!

/>   Once past the first of the rigs, he began to breathe easier. Hate leaving young Ali Pash like that, he thought, hate leaving Georges de Plessey and his lads, hate leaving the two 206s, hate leaving. Well, I’ve done me best. I’ve left recommendations and job promises for when we come back, if we come back, for Ali Pash and the others in the clerk’s top drawer with all the money I had left.

  He checked his course, heading southwest for Siri as though on their milk run in case they were on radar. Near Siri he would turn southeast for Al Shargaz and home. All being well, he thought, and touched the rabbit’s foot Nell had given him so many years ago for luck. Past another rig to port, Siri Six. The electrical storm was crackling his headphones, then mixed with it loud and clear was: “Hey, Scragger, you and les gars, you’re low, n’est-ce pas?”

  It was the voice of François Menange, the manager of the rig they had just passed, and he cursed the man’s vigilance. To close him down, he clicked on the transmit: “Mum’s the word, François, quiet, eh? Practicing. Be quiet, eh?”

  Now the voice was laughing. “Bien sûr, but you’re crazy to practice low on a day like today. Adieu.”

  Sweat was beginning again. Four more rigs to pass before he could turn into the open sea.

  They went through the first squall line, the wind buffeting them, rain loud on the windows, streaking them, plenty of sheet lightning all around. Willi and Vossi were tight on station and he was pleased to be flying with them. Forty times I thought Qeshemi was going to say, “You comealongame” and take me down to the pokey. But then he didn’t and here we are and in an hour forty-odd minutes we’ll be home and Iran only a memory.

  AT KOWISS AIR BASE HQ: 9:46 A.M. The mullah Hussain said patiently, “Tell me more about Minister Kia, Captain.” He sat behind the desk in the base commander’s office. A hard-faced Green Band guarded the door.

  “I’ve told you everything I know,” McIver said exhaustedly.

  “Then please tell me about Captain Starke.” Polite, insistent, and unhurried as though there were all day and all night and all tomorrow.