In the Lap of the Gods

by Tony Criddle

  He’d never tried this before, but then again why would he have. The distance between sleepers was about as awkward as it could get. Missing one didn’t work, the stride was too long for human legs, and stepping on each one didn’t help either, it forced him to mince. He hadn’t gone far before his legs began to ache severely. Eventually Amini tried walking on the sliding pebbles beside the track, but that didn’t work either. It was like wading through an unstable, rattling sand dune. The commander prayed that the helicopter wouldn’t be late.

  In the end they set off ten minutes early. Nick couldn’t hold himself in any longer. He’d studied the map a hundred times, identified Toveh a hundred times more, and poured over the extra distance minutely. The land was higher in there, even more isolated and thinly populated, and any indiscrete inhabitants would take a week to reach civilisation over that heavy, torturous terrain. And following the river made it easy. A handful of swift waterways tumbled into the Dez from the hills, and the slope itself would also help the navigation. The shortish stretch overland near the end would save him twenty kilometres, but it was wild and woolly up there so no-one should clock him anyway. He felt good, he was ready to go.

  “Right-o Jock, let’s get this over with.”

  “I’m ready if you are laddie, and if we’re a bit early he won’t have so far to walk. There’s one fuel container in the luggage compartment, and one on the deck in the back of the cabin. I remembered to throw in a nozzle as well.” There was a hint of sarcasm in it.

  Nick snorted. The Scot had crewed many helicopters over the years so basic navigation wasn’t a mystery to him. They were airborne within ten minutes of walking out to the hangar.

  The chopper winged down the river past Shahabad at its maximum recommended of 120 knots, but it wasn’t exuberance. Nick had factored the speed in knowing that the faster a turbo-jet flew the more distance it covered per pound of fuel. Aircraft fuel loads are measured in pounds not litres. It was what he did for a living.

  Sometime in the past the Zagros had been majestic and angry, but now they were much lower than in the grandeur of their youth. That made it easier to pick a route. Gigantic cliff faces had been savagely eroded into Titanic boulders, and the once jagged slopes were now gentle and more friendly. Nick zoom climbed towards the Dez and rarely sacrificed speed for height again.

  The air was pristine, and the visibility a dusty endlessness, so it was easy to keep away from anything bigger than an extended village. He flew barely fifty feet above the burnt pastures as the chopper twisted around the rolling, rocky tors, and although they didn’t see much, not much saw them either. The mark one eyeball was the only detection device up where they were and Nick wasn’t worried much about that.

  Nick threw the map on the instrument panel hood when they started off, but after Do Rud it was virgin territory. He handed it to the Scotsman.

  “Follow the Dez to a place called Espirizi Jock. Can you see it?”

  Sinclair paused. “Aye, I’ve got that.”

  “We’ll leave the river to the right there, go cross-country and re-join the river again at Tang Panj. The heading’s 190. I’ve written it down.”

  Sinclair smiled. “That’s right laddie, and Toveh is about twenty clicks past that.”

  “Okay. We’ll come out the same way we go in, but keep us away from Tang Panj itself, there’s some sort of highway running through it. Eighty clicks and we can go home again mate; thirty minutes or so.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was still early afternoon. The mallet of a fierce but ill-defined sun hung stationary in a pale metallic sky, while the deep river valley was an anvil wilting under the hammer blows of blistering heat. Lines of winking steel disappeared into watery mirages not far ahead and Amini was struggling rather than striding along the railway track beside them. His coveralls were unzipped to the waist and his once white T-shirt was now saturated and liberally stained yellow. Bloodshot eyes stung from the rivulets of salty sweat trickling down his brow. Amini had forgotten about something to drink in the turmoil of the moment, so heat exhaustion wasn’t all that far away either.

  A scramble to the river was getting close, the craving insistent, but he fought it. The water had to be polluted down there after passing through several townships. He still clung to his bag and the ugly black weapon.

  A couple of hundred metres further on Amini had to rest anyway. He doubled at the waist, dragging in as much of the hot, thin air as he could, and as his breathing quietened he thought he heard a muffled, mechanical clatter peaking above the silence. It had to be his baked, addled brain playing games. It had to be an illusion. He was in the middle of nowhere for god’s sake.

  At first Amini dismissed it but it grew louder and more insistent, the thump of rotor blades now compelling and distinct. Something clicked, and along with the return of reason came frantic action. He tore open the zip of his bag and rummaged for a signal tube.

  One end was a bright magnesium flame for night use, but that would be pointless in the harsh sunlight. What he needed was smoke but he had to hold the flare close to his face to work out which end to use. The operating ring separated with a loud pop and he watched the thick orange tendrils swirl loosely around his legs.

  The mechanical clatter changed slowly at first, getting slightly louder and more insistent, but then through eyes too dry to lubricate themselves properly he saw a hazy white shape materialise on the tracks ahead. It was like the second coming. Amini raced towards it.

  The distance between the rails was about the same as the distance between his aircrafts skids, and Nick knew when to be careful. He biased his landing with the right skid over a rail, but still on the end of the sleepers, before lowering the machine gingerly. He put more room on the left where the refuelling point was, and as soon as the skids touched Sinclair hopped onto the unstable, rolling pebbles. The Scot shuffled in a crouch to where Amini had slid to a halt and grasped the grimy, damp hand thrust in his direction.

  “I’m Jock and you must be Fred.” It wasn’t the most imaginative of greetings.

  “That’s right, and boy am I glad to see you.” Both grinned as they yelled over the noise of the whistling engine.

  Sinclair shouted a warning about the rotors to Amini, pointing as he did, then grabbed the bag and lead off in a crouch. He stuffed both the weapon and bag under the back seat, raised a hand to stop Amini climbing in, then wrestled the squat, white fuel container and the nozzle free. Sinclair motioned to the Iranian to help lift the jet fuel and the container was empty within minutes. It joined the bag and gun.

  Sinclair was strapping Amini into the cabin bench seat when he froze. A long whistle, fluting mournfully in the distance, peaked faintly above the sound of the idling chopper. The Scot squinted towards the source. Wavering layers of heat hid the engine but he could see a column of billowing, greasy smoke twisting and bubbling above the quivering mirage. It was behind Nick who wouldn’t be able to hear in the noisy cabin either. Sinclair speeded up dramatically.

  It didn’t take long to buckle Amini in. The lap strap was laid across the rear bench seat, and a lightweight headset lolling beside it was already plugged into the intercom system. That went on quickly too, before Sinclair slammed and locked the rear cabin door. He plugged in his own headset as he scrambled in.

  “Move it Nick, there’s a fucking train a couple of miles behind you.”

  Nick had looked relaxed and complacent watching the two embark, but he rapidly turned to startled. He lifted quickly and dumped the nose while barely glancing at his instruments. He accelerated so hard the power flickered in the red, and the light helicopter rapidly ran the lake’s headwaters down and the small sepia village of Toveh beyond. Before he reached the village Nick zoomed steeply before turning for the high, neutral mountains. Jock Sinclair was still fiddling with his harness as the lake disappeared swiftly behind.

  It was safe up there ducking through the isolated, lonely valleys. Nick trimmed the speed back and adjusted his flight
path before glancing over his shoulder with a grin. But it faded quickly. Amini had tears in his eyes and an embarrassed pilot turned forward again. It was several more minutes before the Iranian broke the silence.

  “Thanks so much for this Nick, I’m really grateful. I didn’t know what else to do.” Amini choked over the last few words. It sounded as if he had something stuck in his throat.

  “That’s okay mate we needed something to relieve the boredom anyway. Sorry about the frigging train though, we must have missed it when we went cross-country.” Nick didn’t look behind, but continued talking casually.

  “If you push that small circle of plastic in the window outwards and turn the open bit forward, you’ll get a good blast of cool air. I’ve got to concentrate on what I’m doing now, so we’ll natter about your trip over a beer tonight.”

  Farhad Amini would need time to collect himself again. Sinclair knew it, he’d seen Fred’s reaction too, but was surprised that Nick realised it. He threw a shrewd glance.

  “Did you guys bring anything to drink? I forgot. The inside of my mouth is like the bottom of a bird cage.”

  Both Nick and Sinclair carried a bottle of mineral water. Both were still half filled. Both passed them over.

  On the way back a dirty beige haze hid most of Do Rud, but minarets and high-rises pushing aggressively into a clearer sky marked precisely where it huddled. The helicopter was well south of the town however, skating low through barren hills, and it wouldn’t be heard or seen out there. It had been easy, almost completely uneventful, and the build-up of tension evaporated like a warm ether bath. Nick kept the natter casual and light for the rest of the trip, keeping it about the treeless landscapes, the rolling frosted hills, and the vast empty stretches they were thundering through. He dropped the speed when they were in Shahabad’s humid river valley, pointed out their house and then Qom looming some twenty kilometres beyond.

  Nick turned the machine directly towards the isolated, dusty airfield, but as the ground around them dropped even lower Sinclair shot bolt upright.

  “Shit Nick, there’s a couple of troop carrier things in convoy on the road from Qom. They could be going to Kashan, but I bet the bastards are bound for the airfield.” Three pulse rates climbed towards the roof simultaneously.

  Nick pushed the nose further earthwards, taking the speed over the top again. The machine was low and smoking when the company buildings obscured him from the north, making the troop carriers look as if they were parked. His flare was harsh with a hundred metres to go, and his collective lever danced to some demonic aria as he juggled to stop the chopper from ballooning. The only other time he’d flared that seriously flitted through the memory banks. He didn’t have time to smile.

  The machine stopped abruptly in front of the hangar, and Imran gave him the unmistakable, whirling hand above his head to keep the helicopter turning. Nick obliged as two of the maintenance team dragged Farhad Amini and his luggage out of the cabin and fled into the hangar.

  Nick was faced into wind, away from the aircraft shed, but could see the tension drain from an agitated Imran almost instantly. The Pakistani gave the order to cut with a casual index finger slashed across the throat, and nick closed the throttle.

  By the time the troop carriers braked in a whirlwind of swirling sand, the rotors had almost stopped and the adrenaline high merely bubbled. Mohamed Arak, the religious copper with a menacing squint, climbed from one and two armed soldiers from the other. They stayed well back, covering him. Nick and Sinclair scrambled down to the concrete warily.

  “So we meet again Mister Evans. We saw you were airborne, where have you just been?” He didn’t offer his hand and ignored the others.

  Nick wasn’t about to show he was apprehensive, and he’d read somewhere that attack was a good defensive move. He gave that a go. “A survey in the hills like we’re supposed to mate. The fuel and rents are still being paid so we’ll keep on doing our job.”

  “Very commendable Mister Evans” Arak continued in his fractured English. “Where will you submit you reports?”

  “We haven’t found anything yet mate, so I haven’t got a clue, but I was sure someone like you would be out to tell me before long.”

  “That’s what I’m here for Mister Evans. The government wants any positive reports immediately and a summary of negative reports every two weeks. You are aware of the golden mosque in the centre of Qom? We have an office there.”

  Arak had been straining to see into the gloomy hangar and deliberately walked towards it. Nick looked alarmed. The Scot inclined his head slightly. Nick hurried to catch Arak up.

  “What do you keep in those big boxes Evans?”

  Nick thought quickly. He tried sounding casual.

  “A spare engine in one, and a main gearbox in the other. It’s dusty and sandy out here, and they’re hermetically sealed until we need them. Both items costs over a half a million bucks Mister Arak. I’d hate that on my slop chit if we opened ’em before we needed too.

  Arak looked at Nick, then the large ply boxes. He wasn’t sure where he stood himself. He shrugged and walked outside again. Nick kept the pressure on.

  “I presume there are no further restrictions on our activities Mister Arak?”

  “Only one Mister Evans. I’ve been requested to hold your passports for safe keeping at our office. Can I have them please?”

  Nick frowned. He could see Sinclair fiddling with the machine while trying to keep himself within earshot, and saw him shrug. Nick knew they wouldn’t be catching any flights out soon, but he was being deliberately wound up and began to boil. His fingers twitched, he was about to lose it.

  “They can have mine Nick. We’ll get them back when they let us move on.”

  Nick listened. It was hard but he held back.

  “Fine Mister Arak. They’re in a safe in our office.”

  Nick led off without looking back and Arak almost ran to catch up. Sinclair tagged along at a more leisurely pace. There was a mottled gunmetal safe bolted to a wall in the survey office and Nick screened the door with his body while he twirled the combination.

  He handed Arak a well-used red booklet, and a near pristine dark blue one with a kangaroo and emu crest that belonged to him. Arak looked surprised.

  “I didn’t know you were an Australian citizen Mister Evans.”

  “Well you do now Mister Arak. Perhaps you could somehow get a message back to your government. Their current actions are going to piss off a lot more countries than just America.”

  Arak paused. He looked less sure of himself. “There are three Westerners here, where is the other one?”

  “Mister Webster went to Tehran a few days ago. He’s a Canadian, and I suspect you’ll have to ring their embassy to find out what he’s up to. As I said before, you’ve involved a lot more powerful countries than just Americans in this already.”

  Arak felt further confused and could think of nothing to say. Minutes later the troop carriers disappeared in a billow of dirty sand towards a disembodied Qom in the mid distance. The pair watched through the plate glass window.

  “The Australian passport Nick. Nice touch.”

  Nick turned. “It struck home when I was walking in Jock. Ours is an American company and there are only seven of us out here, but with your team as well that’s five big countries that will all be a bit pissed off about what’s happening. I bet nobody has really thought about the full consequences yet. It should give them something to think about anyway. Make them a bit more cautious.”

  “Aye, well it should keep ’em off our backs for sure. I’ll find out what the boys did with Fred.”

  But they had to wait. The bowser motored up billowing clouds of black diesel as two of the team were fitting small rubber ground handling wheels to the skids. Nick and Sinclair watched with hands in pockets as it was refuelled. The bowser was on its way back again before Imran walked to the stack of boxed spares in the corrugated shed. He opened four quick-release screws from an empty engine
container and helped a bedraggled, sweaty Amini climb out.

  Within minutes Amini was rigged up in a loose pair of baggy trews and an open necked cream shirt with a light sleeveless jacket over the top. All pre-used, but all cleaned and pressed. Amini really looked the part after the Pakistani wound a loose shamagh around his head with the frayed end of the head-dress draped loosely across his lower face.

  The maintainers dragged the helicopter away Nick while took Amini to the crew-room before dumping the slate grey coveralls down a thunderbox. He was effusive when Nick got back, gushing more than talking, but an embarrassed Nick brushed it off.

  “I don’t think anybody will go looking down there for the overalls Fred, but finish your coffee and we’ll chat about the rest of it tonight.” He pointed to the small changing room. “Take your bag with you but stash the gun behind the lockers in there. We couldn’t explain it away in Shahabad, but we could deny all knowledge of it out here.”

  Jock and his team bundled into the crew-room shortly after. Nick locked up and drove them home.

  Mohammed Arak phoned Tehran as soon as he got to Qom. He wanted to speak to the imam who controlled the revolutionary religious police. It took several minutes before he got an answer.

  “Holiness, I have confiscated the passports as you instructed, but they seem to be operating normally out there from what I could see.”

  “Let them continue for now then Mohammed. We do not have the expertise to do what they do, and the minerals will be ours in future anyway.”

  “There is one small problem Mullah. It’s an American company, but there are several other nationalities working out there. Four are from Pakistan, one from Britain, and one from Australia. A Canadian was with them but now he’s at his embassy in Tehran. I thought this was about our problems with the great Satan America Mullah. The Australian pilot pointed out that we were already inconveniencing a large group of other countries, and I didn’t quite know what to say.”

  There was silence at the other end. Arak waited impatiently.