by Tony Criddle
Nick Evans quickly absorbed everything he was taught, but even so he was gratified to receive a clearance for all solo flights before they deployed. Forty-two Commando, Royal Marines was bound for Ulster a couple of months later and his squadron went with them.
Nick’s first action in that small, vicious conflict didn’t upset him all that much, although the secular fighting behind supposedly religious tenets got him thinking. It was a close re-run of the idiocy of his youth. Nick could see little justification for it, but by then his country was knee deep into jingoism and no-one cared much what he thought about it anyway. It was good enough just to do your job well, but then again none of them had been where Nick had been either.
A few months after he got back from Ulster Nick was recommended for a six-month instructional course with the Air Force. A teaching tour followed that back in Somerset, and it was another two and a half years before he was posted to the truncated green fields and thick, dangerous hedges of Northern Ireland once more. But this time it was different. This time he was a flight leader and got his say at the planning level too, but that also had a down side. No matter what or where it happened, now he was in the thick of it. The training kicked in a few months later.
Chapter Four
Prospecting had taken off in a big way by the time Nick got around to his late twenties. Owning oil and mineral rights meant big money by then and a frantic avarice fostered a myriad of companies to spring up overnight. Finding the black, viscous geysers of oil or the iridescent glitter of minerals became an obsession, an inroad to seemingly limitless cash and power, and helicopters were just about the perfect machines for doing it in. Chasing down those elusive smears or supporting the oil rigs that did the drilling quickly ate into any available helos, and the pilots who could fly them became as rare as rocking horse manure. And it’s disgustingly expensive to train helicopter pilots, so most were ex-military.
These were the guys who’d been there and done it and had a good idea of what there was out there. They knew where a balmy sun shone almost daily, where warm, crystal oceans lapped pristine white sands, and even where conditions were so extreme that they attracted hefty pay cheques. A deployment to an exotic, favoured destination therefore became a casual throw of loaded dice. Nick’s future prospects didn’t worry him much.
The other side of the world was something of a mystery to Nick. He hadn’t been there or done that. For him driving rains and bitter, snow-blown winters were the norm and it was something different he craved. He saw an opening in a magazine and contracted to search for diamonds in the Kimberley region in Australia.
Whispering solitude and the vast, turbulent pastels of north-western Australia were about right for Nick’s nomadic soul, and he soon discovered a kinship with the ruggedly laconic outback people. The pale reds and rich olives of that isolated, unforgiving landscape got his attention for hours on end, and his battered romantic soul even appreciated the vivid riot of wild flowers in the wet and the withered burnt browns of the blistering dry. Before long he was looking for signs of ancient Australians who had been there for maybe 50,000 years already.
He took to exploring deep into musty caves and clambered high over crumbling, dusty rock faces in his search for century’s old ochre cave paintings. Digging for hours for flint points or other crude artefacts in ancient middens also got his attention, and fossicking for colourful opal or sifting for deceptively dull sapphires was something he wouldn’t get to do anywhere else either. He had his friends, and they knew where he was going, but he often went alone.
His absorbing curiosity with antiquity got further fuelled by the outlandish, mystical stories of those rugged loners who stumbled haphazardly through his life. He took to lounging around campfires on starry, crystal-clear nights with the mahogany drifters who passed through the nearby bush, and he even got to enjoy the spectacular thunderstorms and savage, ground battering cyclones in a perverse sort of way. A self-sufficient, artistic soul struggled deep inside him somewhere.
In the end he felt obliged to take out an Australian citizenship.
But even that didn’t last for long. A few years later his feet began to itch again when huge open cut mines took over the isolated areas he operated from. And finally, when the few alike souls around became hundreds who weren’t, it was time to pack his bags.
An American exploratory company with a Sydney subsidiary was advertising for helicopter pilots at the time, and he’d never been to the middle east.
Chapter Five
Tehran – Late Autumn 1979
Nick got a big surprise when the Emirates airliner deposited him in Tehran late in the northern autumn. He had his illusions, and desert sands and the Middle-East conjured up pictures of excessive heat, unfriendly camels and dry, musty air. He hadn’t expected Iran to be as wickedly gelid nor most of the land he’d flown over so empty and desolate. He’d been relaxed and comfortable in business class, but once outside the heated aluminium tube an unexpectedly cold breeze whipped fiercely at his trouser legs. It dragged up memories of wisps of steam coursing around his feet on the train station at Cardiff many years before.
When he got there Nick found that the jostling, animated hordes of humanity weren’t his thing either. He only had a single suitcase to collect, and was first to push through the gate into the cacophony of the crowded terminal, but he wasn’t prepared for the noisy, bustling crowds dressed in a multitude of robes and headscarfs in Arrivals. The sinister posters of local clergymen that draped any spare wall-space didn’t turn him on either. The digitally altered pictures of Ayatollah Khomeini were particularly fierce and intimidating, and the raw aroma of sweating bodies and acrid taste of scorched, dry sands had him sneezing as if he had an allergy. Nick felt uncomfortable, easing towards claustrophobic. Completely hemmed in.
A quick look round registered a local in an anorak holding up an ink-stained cardboard sign over his head with Nick’s name on it. He attracted the man’s attention and from then on it was easy. The driver deposited him at a down-town high rise and an elevator took him to the third floor.
When he arrived a company manpower honcho with an iron-grey crew-cut, the inevitable ‘Chuck,’ took charge. They also expected a Canadian geologist two days later, and Chuck would take them both south to the small base in the Kavir desert. Until then he would get the grand tour, so the next few days would be fairly full
The inevitable company brief was first up the next morning. It was supposed to be a ‘boots and all’, meant to answer Nick’s superfluous questions. He thought it was a bit vague, but a visit to the American Embassy after eased it out of his mind, and that evening Chuck and a company publicist shouted him dinner. Nick didn’t exactly learn much then either but at the time he was too jet lagged to notice.
Nick had read up on Iran when he knew he was going there, but Australia was a long way off. He hadn’t picked up much. The shah had disappeared to Egypt with his entourage by then anyway, leaving the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini to assume some sort of Islamic leadership, and Nick didn’t know a lot about the politics behind it. He felt the first prickling of apprehension when he realised he still had a lot of unanswered questions. Tomorrow started with the grand tour.
Wales and Scotland had their share of mountains, and he’d operated amongst more in Norway on the odd detachment, and the word conjured up pictures of large, stony bumps on treeless, wind-swept moorland. When the car crested a small hillock to the north of town Nick’s gaze fixated. The Elburzs were in a different league altogether. Those leviathans were still young and feisty, nowhere near as eroded as other Iranian mountain ranges and Nick’s senses were swamped. Jagged rocks, as sharp as shark’s teeth, punched high into the pristine layers of cooling atmosphere, and the ragged range was long as well, easily disappearing into the horizon to the east and west. The higher reaches were already draped in a cold blanket of powdery snow.
But it was the almost perfect volcanic cone of Mount Damavand itself that impressed. At a bit over 18,000 f
eet, Nick knew it was the highest peak in Iran, but the panorama had him gaping. He just hadn’t realised how central the mountain was to Tehran’s north, nor how Damavand over-awed, nay, dominated the shimmering city. From there it resembled pictures of Mount Fuji in Japan, but this time it was set amongst other mountains. Tehran itself was a conglomeration of glass and concrete, regally reminiscent of many a county’s capital, so it was the bitter, impossibly high mountains that impressed. Only the cocktail party at the British Embassy later surprised him more, but that was for other reasons.
Chuck took Nick along to the Brit: Embassy’s glass and sandstone edifice, arriving promptly at six. As a business concern of an ally the company always got a couple of tickets and as a national Nick was a natural. He was well aware of the importance of cementing good relations with the embassy staff and was happy to be included.
And although they were spot on time the party was already in full swing. Booze flowed copiously, canapés and finger food circulated in minor mountains and the talk and laughter had already climbed high up the decibel scale.
The place was filled with a colourful cross-section of people from the city and nearby embassies, some civilians in lounge suits or even in national dress while most of the women were decked out as bright as butterflies. There was also a sprinkling of pristine military uniforms from the resident embassy, but also from other embassies and establishments as well.
The Ambassador and his wife were still greeting guests when they arrived so Nick got his obligatory few words. A staffer holding a silver tray of booze glasses hovered just beyond the official line, and the American raised expressive eyebrows before plucking drinks for them all. He looked around then pointed with his chin.
“That dude over there is Gerry Hawkins. He’s the embassy’s real wheeler-dealer and handles ex-pats, visits and social events. It will pay you to get to know him.”
Chuck excused himself from his wife, already buried deep in a diplomatic circle, and led off toward a small group from the resident embassy. A tall civilian in his late thirties turned as they approached, almost as if he sensed them. Chuck did the introductions.
“Hi Nick, I was hoping you’d make it. There’s some stuff I need to fill you in on before you head south. Give me a half an hour while I do the circulation thing, then I’ll look you up.” The voice was pure foreign office but the twinkle in the pale blue eyes suggested it was more about the right schools than affected sentiment. It could have been a diplomatic evasion of course, but Nick didn’t think so. He wandered around chatting idly until a hand gripped his shoulder.
Gerry Hawkins raised his voice over the laughter. “You’re a British citizen Nick so I just wanted a quick word in private before you head off south.” He canted his head towards a passage off to the right. “You’ve only been in Iran for five minutes, so I won’t swamp you with much local stuff. Your engineer can fill you in on the latest when you get down there, and I’ll give you anything you need expanded on when you pop up again.” He led off to a side office and indicated a chair.
“What do you know about what’s going on?”
“Well, the company didn’t say much. I know that a high-profile cleric who the shah exiled earlier was let back into the country recently and that the shah and his entourage shot through to Egypt. I don’t know much about the politics of it.”
“That’s it essentially, but it goes a lot deeper. The shah was fairly liberal and pro west, whereas Ayatollah Khomeini is the leader of the Shi’ite Muslims, and sharia law is as fundamental and strict as it gets. It was all about power really. Riots and street fighting were big news here a year ago and a lot of people were killed, so eventually the shah hopped it. The ayatollah quickly jumped in after that and got voted in by playing the religious card. The unrest here hasn’t disappeared totally yet, but we think the recent stuff has been more about payback. Several other countries pissed the Arabs off too and now we think it’s about getting their own back.
“Jesus! I thought I’d left all that religious bullshit behind me long ago.”
Hawkins grimaced. “You and Jock are British subjects, but your company is American, so none of us are sure where this is leading right now. I’ve got to admit that Brits aren’t that popular here either, so I’d use the embassy for duty free grog and it’ll be safer to use us as a mail drop too. Jock Sinclair pops in every month or so for that sort of stuff, so if there is anything a bit controversial save it until you come up. I’ll keep you up to date.”
“I’ll be honest Gerry, I had no frigging idea that things had deteriorated this much. I doubt I’d have come if I’d known.”
“That’s okay Nick. Jock can fill you in on the rest of it, but what I’m trying to say is watch your six o’clock. That’s it for now, so if you’re happy we’ll re-join the punters.” Hawkins rose and Nick followed. Gerry handed him on to a group of embassy military staff and that was where the second surprise came from.
A commander introduced him around as an ex-navy flier, and a lieutenant commander in Iran naval uniform turned towards him. Their eyes met, and both started. Nick struggled with a name initially. “Farhad Amini isn’t it – Fred? I didn’t expect to see you again.” Amini got rid of the more formal face he’d adopted and grinned. “Nick – the Evans bit gave it away.” He turned to the others, “Nick and I were team-mates at Dartmouth many eons ago.” They shook hands and were into old times almost instantly, but it wasn’t long before Chuck hunted Nick down to return him to his hotel. Amini and Nick exchanged cards as they parted. It was the first card he had passed on from a stack the company had given him. In fact it was the first card Nick Evans had ever exchanged.
Chapter six
At seven sharp the next morning, Nick Evans rocked up for breakfast. Three Caucasians were eating in the sparsely populated restaurant by then and two he’d seen at breakfast before. Webster was probably the third. He ambled towards the table and the redhead looked up.
“Hi, I’m Nick Evans. You must be Floyd Webster.” The man made a half attempt to stand and shot out a hand.
“Arrived yesterday evening and got a quick rundown then. I believe we’re off south this morning.”
Nick nodded. “Mind if I join you?”
“Fill your boots. The stuff I was told seemed a bit vague. So perhaps you can fill in a few gaps.”
Nick nodded again. He went to the buffet before he sat and ordered a pot of coffee before he waded in.
They descended to the foyer in the same lift. Chuck was waiting for them, and waved to an SRV drawn up at the main entrance.
“The company’s taken care of the hotel guys. Throw your stuff in there and we’ll be on our way.”
And it was an interesting drive. The small villages and farms south of Tehran were built with what looked like roughly plastered adobe, and the diminutive city of Qom looked different again.
The trip was a revelation. Tehran had its concrete edifices for sure, and so did Qom, but most of the mosques and larger decorative buildings looked ancient, almost medieval, and crafted from hard, sun-baked mud. It looked distinctly Arabic. The car slowed but didn’t stop in the tiny, ancient streets, but Chuck did point out the grander shopping areas and a market place as they inched through.
They rolled onto a gateless airfield twenty minutes later and aimed towards a semi-circular hangar and a long, prefabricated building in the distance. Chuck pulled up alongside a similar ‘Cherokee’ SRV, and all three climbed out. Nick Evans arched his back before kneading it with balled knuckles. An ill-defined sun glittered through vaguely distorting alto cirrus clouds, but it was still blistering for all that. He pivoted slowly as he looked around. The heavy silence hurt his ears, and more empty seconds of solitude passed before he spoke.
“Nobody’s out here Chuck. I don’t suppose they can do much without a pilot and surveyor anyway.”
“They wouldn’t leave a truck here and the hangar half open if they’d left Nick. There’d be nothing left in half an hour. They’ll be in the shed
. I didn’t tell them what time we’d arrive so they’re probably into something they can’t just drop. Jock Sinclair’s got a team of four mechanics down here to do the heavy stuff, but that’s the lot, so they’re pretty thin on the ground. His name is Alistair by the way but if you call him that he’ll probably thump you.”
Nick smiled as he swung up the two steps onto the building’s veranda. Slowly he spun, but although he could now see further there was little but pastel shades of sand wherever he looked.
A couple of single-storey buildings to the north squatted close to large fuel tanks on concrete bases, all distorted by a mild autumn mirage. About thirty metres further on a windsock drooped immobile and dejected in the wavering heat. The buildings had the fuzzy outline that advertised adobe bricks and untrimmed straw binders, and the flat roofs were almost certainly made of bitumen covered ply. And apart from a single, sealed runway, that was it. The company’s buildings were located as far away from them as the airport allowed, as if they would contaminate native Iranians if they got any closer.
Sure, the two Bell 206 Jet Rangers wouldn’t be much of a threat, but the Allison 250 C20J engines or the main and tail rotors could bite when they were turning, but then again casual observers weren’t likely to get that close anyway.
Nick panned around and saw the higher rise buildings of Qom shimmering further to the north. And he didn’t want them any closer than that. He swung down again as a rattle of chains rasped from the hangar.
Two figures took their time strolling towards them. The taller of the two was dressed in a loose, light robe and pantaloons, with the mahogany skin and finely chiselled features of someone from the north of the Indian sub-continent. The other was European.
