Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  The haze was still strong, sea swell heavy under the wind, and since the near miss with the tanker all had been routine, grinding along, seeking maximum range, adjusting, always adjusting, and praying. Rudi had seen nothing of Dubois or Sandor. One of Rudi’s jets coughed but picked up almost at once.

  Faganwitch winced. “How far we got to go?”

  “Too far.” Rudi switched on his VHF, breaking their radio silence. “Pop, switch to HF, listen out,” he said rapidly and switched over. “Sierra One, this is Delta One, do you read?”

  “Loud and clear, Delta One,” Scot’s voice came back instantly, “go ahead.”

  “Off Boston”—their code for Bahrain—“at seven hundred, heading 185, low on fuel. Delta Two is with me, Three and Four on their own.”

  “Welcome from Britain to sunny lands, G-HTXX and G-HJZI, repeat G-HTXX and G-HJZI! Jean-Luc is waiting for you. We’ve no news yet of Delta Three and Four.”

  “HTXX and HJZI!” Immediately Rudi acknowledged with their new British call signs. “What about Lima Three and Kilo Two?” Lima for Lengeh’s three, Kilo for Kowiss’s two.

  “No news yet except that Kilo Two is still in place.” Rudi and Pop Kelly were shocked. Then they heard, “This is Tehran HQ, Al Shargaz, do you read?” quickly followed by Siamaki’s voice: “This is Tehran, who is calling on this channel? Who is Kilo Two and Lima Three? Who is Sierra One?”

  Scot’s voice cut in loudly, “No sweat, HTXX, some twit’s using our channel. Phone us on landing,” he added to caution against unnecessary talk.

  Pop Kelly butted in excitedly, “Sandbanks ahead, HTXX!”

  “I see them. Sierra One, HTXX, we’re almost at the coast now…”

  Again one of Rudi’s engines coughed, worse than before, but picked up, the rev counter needles spinning drunkenly. Then through the haze he saw the coast, a point of land and some sandbanks and now the beach and knew exactly where he was. “Pop, you deal with the tower. Sierra One, tell Jean-Luc I’m…”

  AT AL SHARGAZ HQ: Gavallan was already dialing Bahrain and over the loudspeaker Rudi continued urgently, “…I’m at the northwest point at Abu Sabh beach, to the east…” a burst of static, then silence.

  Gavallan said into the phone, “Gulf Air de France? Jean-Luc, please. Jean-Luc, Andy. Rudi and Pop’re… Standby One…” Kelly’s voice came in loudly: “Sierra One, I’m following Delta One down, he’s engined out…”

  “This is Tehran, who is engined out and where? Who’s calling on this channel? This is Tehran who is call—”

  AT THE BAHRAIN SHORE: The beach had good white sand, but was almost empty of people right here, many sailing boats and other pleasure craft out to sea, flocks of windsurfers in the fine breeze, the day balmy. Up the shore was the Hotel Starbreak, brilliant white, with palm trees and gardens and multicolored sunshades dotting the terraces and beaches. Rudi’s 212 came out of the haze fast, rotors windmilling, jets coughing and no longer useful. His line of descent gave him little choice, but he was thankful that it would be a hard landing and not a sea landing. The beach was rushing toward them and he chose the exact point of landing just past a lonely sunshade slightly up the beach toward the road. He was into wind now and very close, steadied, then pulled the collective, altering the pitch of the blades to give momentary lift enough to cushion the fall and he skidded forward a few yards on the uneven surface, tipped a fraction but not enough to do any damage and they were safe.

  “Bloody hell…” Faganwitch said, breathing again, heart working again, sphincter locked.

  Rudi began the shutdown, the silence eerie, his hands and knees trembling now. On the beach ahead sunbathers and people on the terraces had got up and were looking at them. Then Faganwitch gasped, frightening him. He turned around and gasped too.

  She wore dark glasses and little else under the lonely sunshade, topless, as good as bottomless, blond and beautiful and propped on one elbow watching them. Without hurrying she got up and slipped on the excuse of a bikini top.

  “Christalmighty…” Faganwitch was speechless.

  Rudi waved and called out throatily, “Sorry, I ran out of fuel.”

  She laughed, then Kelly came out of the sky and spoiled it all and they both cursed him, as the wash of his rotors tugged at the sunshade and her long hair, blowing her towel away and scattering sand. Now Kelly saw her too, politely backed downwind nearer the road and, as distracted as the others, promptly landed a foot high.

  AT BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: 11:13 A.M. Jean-Luc and the mechanic Rod Rodrigues came out of the building at a run and headed across the tarmac toward a small tanker truck marked GAdeF—Gulf Air de France—that he had arranged to borrow. The airfield was busy, the modern terminal and allied buildings grand and gleaming white. Many jets of many nations loading or unloading, a JAL jumbo just landing.

  “On y va, let’s go,” Jean-Luc said.

  “Of course, Sayyid,” The driver turned up the volume of the intercom, and with one smooth movement started the engine, got into gear, and was in motion. He was a slim, young Palestinian Christian wearing dark glasses and company overalls. “Where should we go?”

  “You know Abu Sabh beach?”

  “Oh, yes, Sayyid.”

  “Two of our choppers’ve landed there out of fuel. Let’s go!”

  “We are almost there!” The driver did a racing change and increased speed. Over his intercom loudspeaker came: “Alpha Four?” He picked up the hand mike and continued to drive flamboyantly one-handed. “This is Alpha Four.”

  “Give me Captain Sessonne.”

  Jean-Luc recognized the voice of Mathias Delarne, the Gulf Air de France manager for Bahrain—an old friend from French Air Force days and Algeria. “This’s Jean-Luc, old friend,” he said in French.

  In French, Delarne said quickly, “The tower called me to say another chopper’s just come into the system on your expected heading, Dubois or Petrofi, eh? Tower keeps calling her but cannot make contact yet.”

  “Just one?” Jean-Luc was abruptly concerned.

  “Yes. She’s on a correct VFR approach for helipad 16. The problem we discussed, eh?”

  “Yes.” Jean-Luc had told his friend what was really happening and the problem of the registrations. “Mathias, tell the tower for me she’s G-HTTE in transit,” he said, giving the third of his four allocated call signs. “Then phone Andy and tell him I’ll send Rodrigues to deal with Rudi and Kelly. We’ll deal with Dubois or Sandor—you and me—bring the second batch of stuff. Where do we meet?”

  “My God, Jean-Luc, after this lot we’ll have to join the Foreign Legion. Meet me in front of the office.”

  Jean-Luc acknowledged, hung the mike back on its hook. “Stop here!” The track stopped instantly. Rodrigues and Jean-Luc almost went through the windshield. “Rod, you know what to do.” He jumped out. “Off you go!”

  “Listen I’d rather walk an—” The rest of it was lost as Jean-Luc ran back and the track rushed off again with a screech of tires, out through the gate and onto the road that led to the sea.

  AT KOWISS, IN THE TOWER: 11:17 A.M. Lochart and Wazari were watching McIver’s distant 206 climbing up into the Zagros Mountains. “Kowiss, this is HCC,” McIver was saying over the VHF, “leaving your system now. Good day.”

  “HCC, Kowiss. Good day,” Wazari said.

  Over the HF loudspeaker, in Farsi: “Bandar Delam, this is Tehran, have you heard from Kowiss yet?”

  “Negative. Al Shargaz, this is Bandar Delam, do you read?” Static, then the call repeated, now silence again.

  Wazari wiped his face. “You think Cap Ayre’d be at your rendezvous yet?” he asked, desperately anxious to please. It was not hard to sense Lochart’s dislike of him, or his distrust. “Huh?”

  Lochart just shrugged, thinking about Tehran and what to do. He had told McIver to send both mechanics with Ayre: “Just in case I get caught, Mac, or Wazari’s discovered or betrays us.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Tom, like going to Tehran in the
212, with or without Wazari.”

  “There’s no way I could sneak back to Tehran without alerting the whole system and screwing Whirlwind. I’d have to refuel and they’d stop me.”

  Is there a way? he asked himself, then saw Wazari watching him. “What?”

  “Is Cap McIver gonna give you a sign or call when he’s dumped Kia?” When Lochart just looked back at him, Wazari said bleakly, “Goddamnit, don’t you see you’re my only hope to get out…”

  Both men whirled, feeling eyes. Pavoud was peering at them through the stair banisters.

  “So!” he said softly. “As God wants. You’re both caught in your betrayals.”

  Lochart took a step toward him. “I don’t know what’s bothering you,” he began, throat parched. “There’s noth—”

  “You’re caught. You and the Judas! You’re all escaping, running off with our helicopters!”

  Wazari’s face contorted and he hissed, “Judas, eh? You get your Commie ass up here! I know all about you and your Tudeh comrades!”

  Pavoud had gone white. “You’re talking nonsense! You’re the one who’s caught, you’re th—”

  “You’re the Judas, you lousy Commie bastard! Corporal Ali Fedagi’s my roommate and he’s commissar on the base and he’s your boss. I know all about you—he tried to get me to join the Party months ago. Get your ass up here!” And when Pavoud hesitated, Wazari warned, “If you don’t I’m calling the komiteh and blowing you, Fedagi, along with Mohammed Berani and a dozen others an’ I don’t give a shit…” His fingers went to the VHF send switch but Pavoud gasped out, “No,” and came onto the landing and stood there shakily. For a moment nothing happened, then Wazari grabbed the whimpering, petrified man and shoved him down into a corner, picked up a spanner to smash his head in. Lochart caught the blow just in time.

  “Why’re you stopping me, for crissake?” Wazari was shaking with fear. “He’ll betray us!”

  “No need…no need for that.” Lochart had difficulty talking for a moment. “Be patient. Listen, Pavoud, if you keep quiet, we’ll keep quiet.”

  “I swear by God, of course I’ll ke—”

  Wazari hissed, “You can’t trust these bastards.”

  “I don’t,” Lochart said. “Quick. Write it all down! Quick! All the names you can remember. Quick—and make three copies!” Lochart shoved a pen into the young man’s hand. Wazari hesitated then grabbed the pad and began to scribble. Lochart went closer to Pavoud who cringed from him, begging mercy. “Shut up and listen. Pavoud, I’ll make a deal, you say nothing, we’ll say nothing.”

  “By God, of course I won’t say anything, Agha, haven’t I faithfully served the company, faithfully all these years, haven’t I been ev—”

  “Liar,” Wazari said, then added to Lochart’s shock, “I’ve overheard you and the others lying and cheating and slobbering after Manuela Starke, peeping at her in the night.”

  “Lies, more lies, don’t belie—”

  “Shut up, you bastard!” Wazari said.

  Pavoud obeyed, petrified by the venom, and huddled back into the corner.

  Lochart tore his eyes off the quaking man and took one of the lists, put it into his pocket. “You keep one, Sergeant. Here,” he said to Pavoud, shoving the third into his face. The man tried to back away, couldn’t, and when the list was thrust into his hand, he moaned and dropped it as though it were on fire. “If we get stopped I promise you before God this goes to the first Green Band and don’t forget we both speak Farsi and I know Hussain! Understand?” Numbly Pavoud nodded. Lochart leaned down and picked the list up and stuffed it into the man’s pocket. “Sit down over there!” He pointed to a seat in the corner, then wiped his sweating hands on his trousers and switched on the VHF, picked up the mike.

  “Kowiss calling inbound choppers from Bandar Delam, do you read?” Lochart waited, then repeated the call. Then, “Tower, this is base, do you read?”

  After a pause a weary, heavily accented voice said, “Yes, we hearing you.”

  “We’re expecting four inbound choppers from Bandar Delam that’re only equipped with VHF. I’m going to get airborne and try to raise them. We’ll be off the air until I get back. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Lochart switched off. From the HF came: “Kowiss, this is Tehran, do you read?”

  Lochart asked, “What about him?” Both of them looked at Pavoud who seemed to shrink into his chair.

  The stabbing pain behind Wazari’s eye was the worst it had ever been. I’m gonna have to kill Pavoud, that’s the only way I can prove I’m on Lochart’s side. “I’ll deal with him,” he said and got up.

  “No,” Lochart said. “Pavoud, you’re taking the rest of the day off. You walk downstairs, you tell the others you’re sick, and you’re going home. You say nothing else and leave at once. We can see you and hear you from here. If you betray us, by the Lord God, you and every man on this list’ll be betrayed too.”

  “You swear you…you’ll…” the words started to pour out, “you swear you’ll tell no one, you swear?”

  “Get out and go home! And it’s on your head not ours! Go on, get out!” They watched him totter away. And when they saw him on his bicycle pedaling slowly down the road toward the town, they both felt a little easier.

  “We should have killed him…we should have, Cap. I’d’ve done it.”

  “This way’s just as safe and…well, killing him wouldn’t solve anything.” Nor help me with Sharazad, Lochart thought.

  Again over the HF, again the nagging: “Kowiss, this is Bandar Delam, do you read?”

  “It’s not safe to leave those bastards broadcasting, Cap. Tower’s gotta pick ’em up, however untrained and inefficient they are.”

  Lochart put all his mind on the problem. “Sergeant, get on the HF for an instant, pretend you’re a radio mec who’s pissed off with having his holiday screwed up. Tell ’em in Farsi to shut up, to stay the hell off our channel until we’re repaired, that this lunatic Lochart’s gone aloft to raise the four choppers on the VHF, perhaps one of them had an emergency and the others are with him on the ground. Okay?”

  “Got it!” Wazari did it all, perfectly. When he switched off he held his head in his hands a moment, pain blinding him. Then he looked up at Lochart. “You trust me now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can come with you? Honest?”

  “Yes.” Lochart put out his hand. “Thanks for the help.” He pulled the company HF frequency crystal out, mutilated it, and put it back, then pulled out the breaker of the VHF and pocketed it. “Come on.”

  In the office downstairs he stopped a moment. “I’m going aloft,” he told the three clerks who stared at him strangely. “I’m going to try to raise the Bandar choppers on the VHF.” The three men said nothing, but Lochart felt they knew the secret too. Then he turned to Wazari. “See you tomorrow, Sergeant.”

  “Hope it’s okay to quit. My head hurts like hell.”

  “See you tomorrow.” Lochart pottered in the office, conscious of the scrutiny, to give Wazari enough time to pretend to saunter off, actually to go around the hangar and sneak aboard: “Once you’re out of the office you’re on your own,” Lochart had told him, “I won’t check the cabin, I’ll just take off.”

  “God help us all, Captain.”

  AT BAHRAIN AIRPORT: 11:28 A.M. Jean-Luc and Mathias Delarne were standing beside a station wagon near the helipad watching the incoming 212, shading their eyes against the sun, still unable to recognize the pilot, Mathias was a short, thickset man, with dark wavy hair, half a face, the other half badly burn-scarred when he had bailed out on fire not far from Algiers.

  “It’s Dubois,” he said.

  “No, you’re wrong, it’s Sandor,” Jean-Luc waved, motioning him to land crosswind. The moment the skids touched, Mathias rushed under the rotors for the left cockpit door—paying no attention to Sandor who was shouting across at him. He carried a large paintbrush and a can of quick-drying airplane paint and he slapped the white paint o
ver the Iran registration letters just below the door’s window. Jean-Luc used the stencil they had prepared and black paint and his brush, then carefully peeled the stencil off. Now she was G-HXXI and legal.

  Meanwhile, Mathias had gone to the tail boom and painted out IHC, ducked under the boom to do the same on the other side. Sandor just had time to move his arm out of the way of the door as, enthusiastically, Jean-Luc stenciled the second G-HXXI.

  “Voilà!” Jean-Luc gave his material back to Mathias who went to the station wagon to stash it under a tarpaulin, while Jean-Luc wrung Sandor Petrofi’s hand and told him about Rudi and Kelly and asked about Dubois.

  “Don’know, old buddy,” Sandor said. “After the pileup”—he explained about the near miss—“Rudi waved us off to head here independently. I never saw any of them again. Me, I put her into minimum consumption, stuck to the waves, and prayed. I’ve been on empty, warning lights on, for maybe ten goddamn minutes and crapping for twenty. What about the others?”

  “Rudi and Kelly landed on Abu Sabh beach—Rod Rodrigues’s looking after them—nothing yet on Scrag, Willi, or Vossi, but Mac’s still at Kowiss.”

  “Jesusss!”

  “Oui, along with Freddy and Tom Lochart, at least they were, ten or fifteen minutes ago.” Jean-Luc turned to Mathias who came up to them, “Are you tuned into the tower?”

  “Yes, no problem.”

  “Mathias Delarne, Sandor Petrofi—Johnson, our mec.”

  They greeted each other and shook hands. “How was your trip—merde, best you don’t tell me,” Mathias added, then saw the approaching car. “Trouble,” he warned.

  “Stay in the cockpit, Sandor,” Jean-Luc ordered. “Johnson, back in the cabin.”

  The car was marked OFFICIAL and it stopped broadside to the 212 twenty yards away. Two Bahraini men got out, a uniformed Immigration captain and an officer from the tower, the latter wearing a long-flowing white dishdasha and headcloth with a twisted black coil holding it in place. Mathias went to meet them. “Morning, Sayyid Yusuf, Sayyid Bin Ahmed. This is Captain Sessonne.”