by Tony Criddle
Apart from Abadan, only small, rustic subsistence towns and villages nuzzled the inland waterway, and the people along the river were tied to those few arable, workable acres. Amini felt free to push the shallow draft boat hard. The isolated population was used to the sleek patrol craft venturing up river, their powerful propellers carving a white frothy path in the sluggish, green waters. He was twelve kilometres short of the city by evening.
Amini needed full darkness for what had to happen next. The darker the better. The commander tied to the bank under a healthy stand of pistachios, and his sailors ransacked the boat for anything they could carry while they waited.
Nick gave the British Embassy a bell before they headed for home, “Gerry Hawkins, can I help you?”
“Nick Evans mate. What’s the score?”
“I’m glad you called Nick. Things are a bit clearer here now. How about your end?”
“Nothing much is happening yet but we’re getting low on a few things.”
“Okay, here’s what I have got. It looks like it’s only the Americans affected so far, and everything else is virtually back to normal. We aren’t expecting any more problems for the time being either, but we’ve taken a few precautions like getting the Swedes to provide our security. I’m only on the switch because the local staff was stood down.”
There was a pause while Hawkins dragged up a chair.
“The party line is that America allowed the shah to travel to the US for cancer treatment at the Mayo Clinic, but the hardliners reckoned he should have been left in Egypt to rot. The government said it’s all about that.”
“Jesus, that sounds a bit harsh.”
“It’s not really that simple either Nick. America froze a lot of Iran’s financial assets in world banks during the revolution and now she wants them back. Our intelligence bloke here predicted that Carter would do bugger all about the takeover, and he was spot on, so Khomeini is using the hostages to make that happen. They let a few with health problems go, but they’re still holding about sixty of them. No doubt they’ll keep them until they get what they want.”
“How about people like me and Jock?”
“A couple of foreign companies operate under fairly strict supervision Nick, but none of them are American. The clergy have impounded all their files but still bill the Yanks for fuel and rents and the American State Department still pays. The companies have got to protect their people I suppose, so it could be all part of the negotiations. You carry on as you are for now, but drop in at the embassy sometime soon.” The diplomat gave himself time to think.
“We’re holding our Christmas party on Thursday week and you guys should get your invitation soon, so we can top you up and give you an update at the same time. Let me know if you can make it. We’ve also started negotiations to get British subjects out, but it’s still a no go if they worked for the Yanks and we can’t do much about that. We’ve got a few real innocents out so far mate, but you won’t be on that list.”
“Okay, thanks Gerry. I’ll keep in touch and give you a bell soon on the Christmas thing.”
“Right Nick, take care.”
Nick was thinking hard when he motored back to Shahabad. Tomorrow was the big day and the embassy couldn’t do much about it if they were caught. He updated Sinclair over a Teachers when he got there.
It was dark and sticky on the river with no moon at all. A light, eerie mist also blotted out the stars, but a dim yellow glow reached skyward from Ahvaz. It made the city look almost holy, as if it was surrounded by a smoky biblical halo. Amini eased his boat away from the river bank to avoid the few lanterns where houses were. There was no hurry but the poor visibility didn’t help either. The engines barely ticked over.
When he got closer to the town lights Amini could see that a savage revolution hadn’t been all bad for him. Any garish touches were long gone, there were no flashing electronic advertising anything, and only a few dim street lights brightened spasmodically. The early to bed ethic on the eve of the Sabbath helped too.
No-one was fishing and no-one strolled along the river banks either. Waterside cafés were already shut with the river banks in town dark and silent as a graveyard at midnight. He knew more expensive houses spilled out onto the western bank, but there was hardly a glow from those either. What light there was only washed the right-hand river bank. He eased to port.
The downtown business area was also steeped in deep black shadow, with only a few apartment windows reflecting dully off the ebony waters near the city’s centre and that scared Amini. He reasoned that if the boat was the only thing moving it would be the centre of attraction, but he needn’t have worried.
The night was quiet and inky, and barely supported a shadow. Amini couldn’t see the bulk of the channel buoys at all, only ghostly green or red lights flashing at their peaks. His confidence climbed as he reached the northern outskirts.
The next leg to Dezful was about the same distance they’d already motored as the crow flies, but patrol boats are short on wings. The first thirty kilometres weren’t a problem with sparse housing and a wide river, but it didn’t last. The Karun had been dredged as far as a small town called Vey but that’s where the dredging ended.
Four major tributaries emptied into Karun waters at Vey, but the river banks were low and vague, and the gaping river mouths were difficult to identify. Amini knew that small villages and towns on the main river were supplied by shallow barges, but which one was the Dez? The roads weren’t all that plentiful either, but decent road surfaces were probably not even buildable in the moist, swampy runoff. He had to rely on logic. A lot of water gurgled from the Dez, the boat only drew five feet, and the main river had to be marked. He wasn’t worried about grounding but navigation from here on could be a nightmare.
Almost instantly the first part was solved. While it was barely moving his boat over-ran an unlit buoy that marked the river’s mouth. The waters closed in quickly after that and soon he could see both banks in a strengthening silver moonlight. Large, sturdy trees hugged the lazy water, adding to their cover, but several huge branches had cracked and tumbled into the river’s shallows, and those straggling, irregular barriers cut down further on its useable width. He had little choice though, he opened up the taps.
Shahabad had been sleeping for hours, but not Nick Evans. He was prowling again before six. Re-heated ibex stew and flat bread left over from the night before did for breakfast, and he was less tense now he was on his feet. He’d made his own decisions and fed on the enthusiasm of the others. He was ready to go.
Minutes dragged like hours and the hours seemed like days, but it was far too early yet. He scanned a month-old magazine over a second cup of coffee then blitzed a bedroom and dresser for Amini. Even so, Sinclair was still early when he appeared with his team.
“Imran wants to sort out a few things at the airfield Nick. It’s gone nine so we might as well go now.”
A relieved Nick tried not to show it, tried to look cool and collected.
“Okay, I’ll get my sunnies.”
It didn’t take long for the Cherokee to glide out to the airfield. Jock dismounted on the run, and he and his team dragged out and preflighted a helicopter while Nick gave the maps a final hammering. Twenty minutes later Sinclair sauntered into the crew-room alone.
“The boys are sorting out a few things in the hangar Nick.”
Nick nodded and went back to his maps while the engineer made himself a brew. The Scot had barely sat before the phone trilled. Both jumped in surprise. Nick answered it.
“Nick its Farhad. Thank the gods you’re there.” Nick’s pulse rate headed north.
“The team are sorting out a few things before we go Fred. What’s the problem?”
“I’m not going to be anywhere near where I said. I’m phoning from Andimesht, the last big town before the mountains, and it’s nearly ten already. Luckily I brought your card.”
“Jesus Fred, I haven’t got the legs to get anywhere near there and back. What the hell happene
d?”
“We got through Ahvaz okay then started up the Dez, but the river was a bloody nightmare. Big trees overhung the water everywhere and all of it was a lot tighter than I expected. But that’s not the real problem. It twists and turns like a bloody cork-screw with rickets. We were constantly changing direction so I couldn’t open up the taps, and we didn’t get near the dam. I swear the distance to Dezful by river is over twice the distance by land, and by the time it was getting light we’d only made it to a small place called Safar. It’s about fifty clicks south of where I am now.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Well, we got lucky there. The village was Bakhtaran, the same tribe that my sailors come from. Their dress is different, easy to distinguish, and the lads twigged it right away. I’d lifted a fair bit of money from the safe at Abadan when we left, so we paid one of the farmers to bring us on in his wagon. It’s one of the bigger Japanese four-wheel drive jobs so there was plenty of room”
“So how much further can he get you?”
“That’s it Nick. The road from here parallels the mountain folds heading for Khorramabad. It doesn’t cross them. The rail line we talked about meets the road where it turns hard north, about fifty clicks from here. There are several villages along a dirt road running beside the railway, so he’s happy to take me a further forty-seven clicks to a village called Toveh. That’s at the head of the dam waters, but that’s as far as the road goes. There are some feluccas in Toveh but unfortunately no motor boats. We’d never reach anywhere near Do Rud on time.”
“How many people are we talking about, Fred? I can only carry five and there’ll be two of us already.”
“That’s not a problem. Several villages have sprouted up around the junction, and my sailors prefer to be let off there anyway. It’s easier for them to scatter from the main road.”
“I’d better have another look at the maps then.”
“I’ve done the calculations Nick. If you straighten out a few corners on the river it’s an extra seventy odd miles all up.”
Nick exploded. “That puts me right on the bones of my arse for fuel Fred. Christ, depending on winds I might not even get back!” You could smell the growing tension. Wisely Amini said nothing it was Sinclair who jumped to his feet.
“Nick, listen.”
“Stand by Fred, Jock wants to say something.” He cradled the phone against his shoulder.
“I filled two twenty-gallon containers a few flights ago, about 160 pounds in each. If we take them we’ll piss it.”
“It’s Fred’s stuff up though Jock and it all adds to the risk of us being seen. I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable about this one. You got a frigging death wish mate?”
“Not at all laddie, but if you don’t do this you’ll remember you didn’t for the rest of your bloody life.” Jock knew Nick would; he just needed to believe he could.
Nick mused with the phone still on his shoulder. Bugger it! Why not?
“Fred, you’d better make it or I’ll kick your skinny arse all the way to Tehran myself. Get going now and I’ll pick you up on the railway line north of Toveh. It’ll be about thirty minutes later than we talked about. And shit, will you owe me.”
“I’m sorry Nick, and I know what I’m asking. With the distance I’ve got to go, and you getting there at about 1430, I should have walked about eight clicks up the track by then.”
“Right-o Fred. We’ll see you this afternoon.”
Chapter Seventeen
Amini eased from the battered call box in the dusty town centre into a swarming mob of chattering, animated people. Nobody seemed interested in him at all. He’d been offered a multi-coloured woollen shawl to drape over the upper half of his coveralls and a vivid woollen beanie for his head, but he’d declined. The smell of half processed wool and animal fat nauseated him, but he had got rid of his epaulettes and unpicked the squadron badge. Three of his sailors waiting nearby looked local.
The vehicle had needed fuel, so his chief and the driver had gone to top up while Amini phoned. Now he felt exposed and apprehensive as he scanned around nervously, but the vehicle lumbered into sight before anxiety became concern. Amini and his sailors piled in and the chief raised his eyebrows. The commander gave him a quick rundown.
Their driver didn’t race the Toyota along the main arterial link to Khorramabad, but it ate the distance rapidly even with a steepening gradient. Within forty-five minutes they’d reached a junction with the railway and gritty, potholed side road. Amini knuckled his aching back when he stepped down. He knew he wouldn’t see this area again.
Tortured steel rails lumbered in from the south and disappeared quickly to the north east, small expansion wrinkles flashing brightly in the dazzling sunlight. The wooden sleepers that supported them were weathered and splintered, and once pristine, water-washed pebble ballast was now streaked by generations of scalding steam and dripping black oil.
Nearby, huge stone crags thrust reluctantly towards an intimidating steely sky, while rolling foot-hills effectively hid their vehicle from the main road. The peaks were domed rather than jagged, the upper reaches relentlessly beaten down by unsympathetic elements, and a dusting of snow said it had to be cold up there.
The pastures nearby were more battered and tangled than those on the southern tracts, and although still a vibrant green, they were not as dense or tall. The spongy acres had been reduced to handkerchiefsized pockets of short forage up there as well, but dozens of daggy sheep did their best to crop them down further still.
Shallow, winding streams forced a passage through the uneven tussocks, with the silver ponds glinting among them marked by the darker green of reeds and sedges. The steeper slope forced the rivulets to ran faster and angrier up there, and tumbling waters broiling into mini cascades as they fought around the pale, washed rocks.
Small islets of bulging ground did support leafy trees and bushes, but a high underlying water table stopped them getting too feisty, while the adobe villages on the periphery were harder to see, the positions marked only by the hazy spirals of smoke writhing slowly above them. It looked more bleak and lonely than it did scenic, more a place to struggle with, than to enjoy. Amini sighed. He rummaged through his battered black grip while his sailors dragged their gear from the Toyota.
As well as the Bofors up front and fifty cal: on the bridge wings, there was also a steel armaments cabinet on the bridge itself. It held three automatic rifles, two hand-guns and a heavier rifle/grenade launcher combination, all of American origin and all in pristine condition. But the cabinet on their boat didn’t have weapons anymore. Those with Bakhtaran genes are born with guns in their hands and it would have been impossible for them to leave any behind.
The unmistakable clatter of rifles being loaded got the commander’s attention. The weapons he’d expected, but not the smaller pots, pans and utensils from the galley they were stuffing into their bags.
Amini turned back to his chief with bundles of gaudily colourful notes in his hand and gave each of his troops one. They weren’t huge amounts, topping at about 500 American dollars apiece, but it was a small fortune to them.
“There you go lads. Something to get you started in a new life.”
The sailors looked at him soberly, his chief’s eyes a little moist even then. It appeared as if he wanted to do or say something, maybe even get physical, but rigid naval discipline prevented it. It was their final farewell though and Amini guessed what they were thinking. They weren’t in anyone’s navy anymore.
Amini dragged the chief into his arms before hugging each of his sailors in turn. The moisture in the chief’s eyes overflowed and the eyes on the others sparkled too.
“Thank you for all you did lads. May your gods smile on you.” Amini could think of nothing else to say. He was finding it hard to speak himself, but the old farmer in the background nodded his approval.
“Thank you for our lives commander. We left you the grenade launcher, a pistol and the distress flares,
just in case. The other guns suit us better. Your plans are in the hands of your god sir, but remember that news travels fast in these hills. If you need us let someone know. We will find you.”
Amini nodded gratefully and thrust out a hand. Each shook it before turning towards the nearest village.
“Okay Grandfather let’s go. There’s more money for you if the villagers at Toveh are told they haven’t heard or seen anything.”
“We’ll have to do what we called a hot refuel when we do the pickup Jock, I won’t chance shutting down. There won’t be any hoses either, but kerosene’s pretty docile, and we’ve got some metal nozzles in the hangar. The containers are heavy though. Get Fred to help you before he climbs in and I suggest you only use one. Keep the other handy just in case.”
Nick was back on top, he was beginning to think ahead again.
“You sound as if you’re really enjoying this Nick. Could be it’s a bit of action that’s been missing from your life.” Sinclair grinned but Nick looked startled.
“Knock it off mate. I just wasn’t enchanted with all that military bullshit in the end.”
“It might have been the nonsense of Ulster though laddie, not the military itself. You were never posted to any other combat theatres were you?”
“Up yours you bloody Scottish heathen! It’s just been a bit boring around here lately. It’s nice to have something to do again that’s all.”
“Aye, well you be careful laddie. Remember you’ve got my heathen Scottish arse in there with you.”
Nick Evans snorted but Jock was right, he did feel alive again. His tail was definitely in the vertical.
Amini said his farewells to the wrinkled, perpetually grinning farmer, but maybe it was the elder’s lack of teeth that made him look like that. The villagers at Toveh had congregated when they arrived, quietly circling them with serious faces, but any explanations he’d left to the Bakhtaran. They were his people. His attitudes were their attitudes and he’d know what to say. Amini picked up his bag and the ugly weapon, waved his farewells, and headed for the tracks.
