Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  “Morning,” both said politely, and continued to study the 212. “And the pilot?”

  “Captain Petrofi. Mr. Johnson, a mechanic, is in the cabin.” Jean-Luc felt sick. The sun was glistening off the new paint but not the old, and the bottom of the I had a dribble of black from each corner. He waited for the inevitable remark and then the inevitable question, “What was her last point of departure?” and then his airy, “Basra, Iraq,” as the nearest possible. But so simple to check there and no need to check, just walk forward and draw a finger through the new paint to find the permanent letters below. Mathias was equally perturbed. Easy for Jean-Luc, he thought, he doesn’t live here, doesn’t have to work here.

  “How long will G-HXXI be staying, Captain?” the Immigration officer asked. He was a clean-shaven man with sad eyes.

  Jean-Luc and Mathias groaned inwardly at the accent on the letters. “She’s due to leave for Al Shargaz at once, Sayyid,” Mathias said, “for Al Shargaz, at once—the very moment she’s refueled. Also the others who, er, ran out of fuel.”

  Bin Ahmed, the tower officer, sighed. “Very bad planning to run out of fuel. I wonder what happened to the legal thirty minutes of reserve.”

  “The, er, the headwind, I expect, Sayyid.”

  “It is strong today, that’s certain.” Bin Ahmed looked out into the Gulf, visibility about a mile, “One 212 here, two on our beach, and the fourth…the fourth out there.” The dark eyes came back onto Jean-Luc. “Perhaps he turned back for…for his departure point.”

  Jean-Luc gave him his best smile. “I don’t know, Sayyid Bin Ahmed,” he answered carefully, wanting to end the cat-and-mouse game, wanting to refuel and backtrack for half an hour to search.

  Once more the two men looked at the chopper. Now the rotor stopped. The blades trembled a little in the wind. Casually Bin Ahmed took out a telex. “We’ve just received this from Tehran, Mathias, about some missing helicopters,” he said politely. “From Iran’s Air Traffic Control. It says, ‘Please be on the lookout for some of our helicopters that have been exported illegally from Bandar Delam. Please impound them, arrest those aboard, inform our nearest embassy which will arrange for immediate deportation of the criminals and repatriation of our equipment.” He smiled again and handed it to him. “Curious, eh?”

  “Very,” Mathias said. He read it, glazed, then handed it back.

  “Captain Sessonne, have you been to Iran?”

  “Yes, yes, I have.”

  “Terrible, all those deaths, all the unrest, all the killing, Muslim killing Muslim. Persia’s always been different, troublesome to others who live in the Gulf. Claiming our Gulf as the Persian Gulf as though we, this side, did not exist,” Bin Ahmed said, matter-of-factly. “Didn’t the Shah even claim our island was Iranian just because three centuries ago Persians conquered us for a few years, we who have always been independent?”

  “Yes, but he, er, he renounced the claim.”

  “Ah, yes, yes, that is true—and occupied the oil islands of Tums and Abu Musa. Very hegemonistic are Persian rulers, very strange, whoever they are, wherever they come from. Sacrilege to plant mullahs and ayatollahs between man and God. Eh?”

  “They, er, they have their way of life,” Jean-Luc agreed, “others have theirs.”

  Bin Ahmed glanced into the back of the station wagon. Jean-Luc saw part of the handle of a paintbrush sticking out from under the tarpaulin. “Dangerous times we’re having in the Gulf. Very dangerous. Anti-God Soviets closer every day from the north, more anti-God Marxists south in Yemen arming every day, all eyes on us and our wealth—and Islam. Only Islam stands between them and world dominance.”

  Mathias wanted to say, “What about France—and of course America?” Instead he said, “Islam’ll never fail. Nor will the Gulf states if they’re vigilant.”

  “With the Help of God, I agree.” Bin Ahmed nodded and smiled at Jean-Luc. “Here on our island we must be very vigilant against all those who wish to cause us trouble. Eh?”

  Jean-Luc nodded. He was finding it hard not to look at the telex in the man’s hand; if Bahrain had one, the same would have gone to every tower this side of the Gulf.

  “With the Help of God we will succeed.”

  The Immigration officer nodded agreeably. “Captain, I would like to see the pilot’s papers, and the mechanic’s. And them. Please.”

  “Of course, at once.” Jean-Luc walked over to Sandor, “Tehran’s telexed them to be on the lookout for Iran registereds,” he whispered hastily and Sandor went pasty. “No need for panic, mon vieux, just show your passports to the Immigration officer, volunteer nothing, you too, Johnson, and don’t forget you’re G-HXXI out of Basra.”

  “But, Jesus,” Sandor croaked, “we’d have to’ve been stamped outta Basra, Iraq, and I got Iranian stamps over most every page.”

  “So you were in Iran, so what? Start praying, mon brave. Come on.”

  The Immigration officer took the American passport. Punctiliously he studied the photograph, compared it to Sandor who weakly took off his sunglasses, then handed it back without leafing through the other pages. “Thank you,” he said and accepted Johnson’s British passport. Again the studious look at the photograph only. Bin Ahmed went a pace nearer the chopper. Johnson had left the cabin door open.

  “What’s aboard?”

  “Spares,” Sandor, Johnson, and Jean-Luc said together.

  “You’ll have to clear customs.”

  Mathias said politely, “Of course he is in transit, Sayyid Yusuf, and will take off the moment he’s refueled. Perhaps it would be possible to allow him to sign the transit form, guaranteeing he lands nothing and carries no arms or drugs or ammunition.” He hesitated. “I would guarantee it too, if it was of value.”

  “Your presence is always of value, Sayyid Mathias,” Yusuf said. It was hot on the tarmac and dusty and he sneezed, pulled out a handkerchief, and blew his nose, then went up to Bin Ahmed—still with Johnson’s passport in his hand. “I suppose for a British plane in transit, it would be all right, even for the other two on the beach. Eh?”

  The tower man turned his back on the chopper. “Why not? When those two arrive we’ll set them down here, Sayyid Captain Sessonne. You meet them with the fuel truck and we’ll clear them for Al Shargaz as soon as they’re refueled.” Again he looked out to sea and his dark eyes showed his concern. “And the fourth, when she arrives? What about her—I presume she’s also British registered?”

  “Yes, yes, she is,” Jean-Luc heard himself say, giving him the new registration. “With…with your permission, the three will backtrack for half an hour, then go on to Al Shargaz.” It’s worth a try, he thought, saluting the two men with Gallic charm as they left, hardly able to grasp the miracle of the reprieve.

  Is it because their eyes were blind or because they did not wish to see? I don’t know, I don’t know, but blessed be the Madonna for looking after us again.

  “Jean-Luc, you’d better phone Gavallan about the telex,” Mathias said.

  OFFSHORE AL SHARGAZ: Scragger and Benson were staring at the oil and pressure gauges on number one engine. Warning lights were on, the needle of the temperature gauge at maximum, top of the red, oil pressure needle falling, almost at zero. Now they were flying at seven hundred feet, in good but hazy weather, past the international boundary with Siri and Abu Musa just behind them, and Al Shargaz directly ahead. The tower was three by five in their headsets, guiding traffic.

  “I’m going to shut her down, Benson.”

  “Yes, don’t want her seizing up.”

  Sound lessened and the chopper sank a hundred feet but when Scragger had increased power on number two and made adjustments she held her altitude. Still, both men were uneasy without the backup.

  “No reason for her to go like that, Scrag, none at all. I did her check myself a few days ago. How we doing?”

  “Just fine. Home’s not too far ahead.”

  Benson was very uneasy. “Is there anywhere we could land in an emergency? S
andbanks? A rig?”

  “Sure, sure there are. Lots,” Scragger lied, eyes and ears seeking danger but finding none. “You hear something?”

  “No…no, nothing. Bloody hell, I can hear every bloody parched cog.”

  Scragger laughed. “So can I.”

  “Shouldn’t we call Al Shargaz?”

  “Plenty of time, me son. I’m waiting for Vossi or Willi.” They flew onward and every flicker of turbulence, decibel of pitch change from the engine, or tremble of a needle made the sweat greater.

  “How far we got to go, Scrag?” Benson loved engines but hated flying, particularly in choppers. His shirt was clammy and chilled.

  Then, in their headsets was Willi’s voice: “Al Shargaz, this’s EP-HBB inbound with EP-HGF at seven hundred, course 140 degrees. ETA twelve minutes,” and Scragger groaned and held his breath, for Willi had automatically given their full Iranian call signs when they all had agreed to see if they could get away with the last three letters only The very English voice of the controller came back loud and brittle: “Chopper calling Al Shargaz, we understand you’re in transit, inbound on 140 and, er, your transmission was garbled. Please confirm you are, er, G-HYYR and G-HFEE? I say again. GOLF HOTEL YANKEE YANKEE ROMEO and GOLF HOTEL FOXTROT ECHO ECHO?”

  Bursting with excitement, Scragger let out a cheer. “They’re expecting us!”

  Willi’s voice was hesitant and Scragger’s temperature went up twenty points: “Al Shargaz, this…this is G-HY… YR…” then Vossi excitedly cut in over him: “Al Shargaz, this is GolfHotelFoxtrotEchoEcho and GolfHotelYankeeYankeeRomeo reading you loud and clear; we’ll be with you in ten minutes and request landing at the north helipad, please inform S-G.”

  “Certainly, G-HFEE,” the controller said and Scragger could almost see the man’s relief, “you’re cleared for the north helipad and please call S-G on 117.7. Welcome! Welcome to Al Shargaz, maintain course and altitude.”

  “Yes, sir! Yessir indeedeee, 117.7,” Vossi said. At once Scragger switched to the same channel and again Vossi: “Sierra One, this is HFEE and HYYR do you read?”

  “Loud and wonderfully clear. Welcome all—but where’s GolfHotelSierra VictorTango?”

  AT AL SHARGAZ OFFICE: “He’s in back of us, Sierra One,” Vossi was saying.

  Gavallan, Scot, Nogger, and Starke were listening on the VHF loudspeaker on their company frequency, the tower frequency also being monitored, everyone very conscious that any transmission could be overheard, particularly their HF by Siamaki in Tehran and Numir at Bandar Delam. “He’s in back of us a few minutes, he, er, he ordered us to go on independently.” Vossi was being pointedly careful. “We don’t, er, we don’t know what happened.” Then Scragger cut in and they all heard the beam in his voice, “This is G-HSVT on your tails, so clear the decks…”

  The room erupted in a sudden cheer, Gavallan mopped his brow, and muttered “Thank God,” sick with relief, then jerked his thumb at Nogger, “Get going, Nogger!”

  Gleefully the young man left and almost knocked over Manuela who, set-faced, was approaching from the corridor with a tray of cold drinks, “Scrag, Willi, and Ed are about to land,” he called out on the run, by now at the far end. “Oh, how wonderful!” she said and hurried into the room. “Isn’t that…” She stopped. Scragger was saying, “…am on one engine, so I’ll request a straight in, best get a fire truck ready just in case.”

  Willi’s voice at once: “Ed, do a 180 and join up with Scrag, bring him in. How’re you on gas?”

  “Plenty. I’m on my way.”

  “Scrag, this’s Willi. I’ll take care of the landing request and straight in. How’re you for gas?”

  “Plenty. HSVT, eh? That’s a lot better than HASVD!” They heard his laugh and Manuela felt better.

  For her the strain of this morning, trying to contain her fears, had been awful, hearing the disembodied voices so far away and yet so near, all of them related to persons that she liked or loved, or hated—those of the enemy: “That’s what they are,” she had said fiercely a few minutes ago, near tears because their wonderful friend Marc Dubois and old Fowler were missing missing missing and oh God it could have been Conroe and there may be others: “Jahan’s enemy! Siamaki, Numir, they all are, all of them.” Then Gavallan had said gently, “No, they’re not, Manuela, not really, they’re just doing their job…” But the gentleness had only goaded her, infuriated her, adding to her worry that Starke was here and not in bed at the hospital, the operation only last night, and she had flared: “It’s a game, that’s all Whirlwind is to all of you, just a goddamn game! You’re a bunch a gung-ho glory boys and you…and you…” Then she had run out and gone to the ladies’ room and wept. When the storm had passed she gave herself a good talking to for losing her control, reminding herself that men were stupid and infantile and would never change. Then she blew her nose and redid her makeup and fixed her hair and went to get the drinks.

  Quietly Manuela put down the tray now. No one noticed her.

  Starke was on the phone to Ground Control explaining what was necessary, Scot on the VHF. “We’ll take care of everything, Scrag,” Scot said.

  “Sierra One. How’s tricks?” Scragger asked. “Your Deltas and Kilos?”

  Scot looked at Gavallan. Gavallan leaned forward and said dully, “Delta Three are fine, Kilo Two… Kilo Two are still in place, more or less.”

  Silence on the loudspeakers. On the tower frequency they heard the English controller clearing some inbounds. A bristle of static. Scragger’s voice was different now. “Confirm Delta Three.”

  “Confirm Delta Three,” Gavallan said, still in shock at the news about Dubois and the Bahrain telex that Jean-Luc had phoned in a few minutes ago, expecting an imminent explosion from their own tower, and from Kuwait. To Jean-Luc he had said, “Air-sea rescue? We’d better call a Mayday.”

  “We’re the air-sea rescue, Andy. There isn’t any other. Sandor’s already taken off to search. As soon as Rudi and Pop are refueled they’ll go too—I’ve worked out a block search for them—then they’ll head direct Al Shargaz like Sandor. We can’t hang around here, mon Dieu, you can’t imagine how close we were to disaster. If he’s afloat, they’ll find him—there’re dozens of sandbanks to land on.”

  “Won’t that stretch their range, Jean-Luc?”

  “They’ll be okay, Andy. Marc didn’t put out a Mayday so it must’ve been sudden or perhaps his radio failed or more probably he put down somewhere. There’re a dozen good possibilities—he could have put down on a rig for fuel, if he went into the sea, he could’ve been picked up—any of a dozen things—don’t forget radio silence was one of the primes. No sweat, mon cher ami.”

  “Very much sweat.”

  “Anything on the others?”

  “Not yet…”

  Not yet, he thought again and a twinge went through him.

  “Who’s Delta Four?” It was Willi asking.

  “Our French friend and Fowler,” Gavallan said matter-of-factly, not knowing who might be listening, “A full report when you land.”

  “Understand.” Static, then, “Ed, how you doing?”

  “Fine and dandy, Willi. Climbing to one thousand and doing fine. Hey, Scrag, what’s your heading and altitude?”

  “142, at seven hundred, and if you’d open your eyes and look two o’clock you’d see me ’cause I can see you.”

  Silence for a moment. “Scrag, you done it again!”

  Gavallan got up to stretch and saw Manuela, “Hello, m’dear.”

  She smiled, a little tentatively. “Here,” she said, offering a bottle, “you’re entitled to a beer, and a ‘sorry.’”

  “No sorries, none. You were right.” He gave her a hug and drank gratefully. “Oh, that’s good, thank you, Manuela.”

  “How about me, darlin’?” Starke said.

  “All you’ll get from me, Conroe Starke, is water and a thick ear if you weren’t plain muscle between the ears.” She opened the bottle of mineral water and gave it to him, bu
t her eyes were smiling and she rested her hand lightly on him, loving him.

  “Thank you, honey,” he said, so relieved that she was here and safe and others were safe, though Dubois and Fowler were question marks and many others still to go. His shoulder and chest were aching badly and he was becoming increasingly nauseated, his head throbbing. Doc Nutt had given him a painkiller and told him it was good for a couple of hours: “It’ll hold you till noon, Duke, not much longer and perhaps less. You’d better be a noontime Cinderella or you’ll be very bloody uncomfortable indeed… I mean bloody as in hemorrhage.” He glanced past Manuela at the clock: 12:04 P.M.

  “Conroe, darlin’, won’t you please come back to bed, please?”

  His eyes changed. “How about in four minutes?” he said softly.

  She reddened at his look, then laughed and dug her nails lightly into his neck as a cat would when purring. “Seriously, darlin’, don’t you think—”

  “I’m serious.”

  The door opened and Doc Nutt came in. “Beddy-bye, Duke! Say good night like a good boy!”

  “Hi, Doc.” Obediently Starke started to get up, failed the first time, just managed to cover his lapse, and stood erect, cursing inside. “Scot, we got a walkie-talkie or a radio with the tower frequencies?”

  “Sure, sure we have.” Scot reached into a side drawer and gave him the small portable. “We’ll keep in touch—you’ve a phone by the bed?”

  “Yes. See you later—honey, no I’m fine, you stay in case of the Farsi. Thanks,” then his eyes focused out of the window. “Hey, look at that!”

  For a moment all their cares were forgotten. The London-Bahrain Concorde was taxiing out, needle-sharp, peerless, her nose dropped for takeoff. Cruising speed, fifteen hundred miles per hour at sixty-five thousand feet, the forty-three-hundred-mile flight—three hours sixteen minutes. “She’s gotta be the most beautiful bird alive,” Starke said as he left.

  Manuela sighed, “I’d just love to go in her once, just once.”

  “The only way to travel,” Scot said dryly. “I heard they’re stopping this run next year, aren’t they?” Most of his attention monitoring Willi and Scragger and Vossi talking back and forth, no problem there yet. From his position he could see the truck with Nogger, mechanics, paint and stencils speeding for the helipad near the far end of the runway, a fire truck already standing by.