Whirlwind

“It’s not that, Mac,” Lochart said in a rush, “Duke’s been shot.” McIver listened appalled as Lochart told him what had happened. “He’s in the infirmary now. Doc Nutt says his lung may be punctured.”

“Christ Almighty! Then put him aboard the 125, go on Johnny, get g - ” “He can’t, Mac,” Lochart overrode him with the same urgency: “Hotshot’s held up her departure till after Kia’s inspection - yesterday old Duke tried every which way to get her in and out before you arrived but Hotshot’s a sonofabitch. And that’s not all, I think Tehran’s rumbled us.” “What?”

Lochart told him about the telexes and the HF calls. “Siamaki’s been bending Hotshot’s ear, getting him worked up. I took Siamaki’s last call - Duke had gone to the mullah’s - and he was mad as a sonofabitch. I told him the same as Duke and sluffed him off saying you’d call when you got in, but Jesus, Mac, he knows you and Charlie’ve cleaned out your apartment.” “Ali Baba! He must’ve been a plant.” McIver’s head was reeling. Then he noticed the little gold St. Christopher that habitually he hung around the magnetic compass when flying. It was a present from Genny, a first present, a war present, just after they’d met, he in the RAF, she a WAAF: “Just so you don’t get lost, me lad,” she had said. “You don’t have much of a nose for north.”

He smiled now and blessed her. “First I’ll see Duke.” He could see Esvandiary and Kia wandering down the line of choppers. “Tom, you and JeanLuc see if you can chivy Kia along, butter the bugger up, flatter the balls off him - I’ll join you as quick as I can.” They went off at once. “Freddy, you spread the word that the moment we get the okay for the 125 to leave, everyone’s to board fast and quietly. Is all the baggage aboard?” “Yes, but what about Siamaki?”

“I’ll worry about that bugger, off you go.” McIver hurried away.

Johnny Hogg called out after him, “Mac, a word in your ear as soon as poss.”

The underlying urgency stopped him. “What Johnny?”

“Urgent and private from Andy: If this weather worsens he may postpone Whirlwind from tomorrow till Saturday. The wind’s changed. It’ll be a headwind now instead of a tail - ”

“You saying I don’t know southeast from northwest?”

“Sorry. Andy also said, as you’re here he can’t give you the overriding yes or no he promised.”

“That’s right. Ask him to give it to Charlie. What else?” “The rest can wait. I haven’t told the others.”

Doc Nutt was in the infirmary with Starke. Starke lay on a cot, arm in a sling, his shoulder heavily bandaged. “Hello, Mac, you have a good flight?” he said witheringly.

“Don’t you start! Hi, Doc! Duke, we’ll get you out on the 125.” “No. There’s tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow‘11 take care of tomorrow and meanwhile you’re on the 124 - 125! For Christ’s sake,” McIver said irritably, his relief at having made the flight safely and at seeing Starke alive peeled away his control, “don’t act like you’re Deadeye Dick at the Alamo!”

“He wasn’t at the goddamn Alamo,” Starke slammed back angrily, “and who the hell’re you to act like Chuck Yeager?”

Doc Nutt said mildly, “If you both don’t slow down, I’ll order the two of you bloody enemas.”

Abruptly both men laughed and Starke gasped as pain rocked him. “For crissake, Doc, don’t make me laugh…” And McIver said, “Duke, Kia insisted I accompany him. I couldn’t tell him to push off.”

“Sure.” Starke grunted. “How was it?”

“Grand.”

“What about the wind?”

“It’s not a plus for tomorrow,” McIver said carefully. “It can change back again just as quickly.”

“If it stays this way it’s a thirty-knot headwind or worse and we can’t make it across the Gulf. There’s no way we can carry enough fu - ” “Yes. Doc, what’s the poop?”

“Duke should be X-rayed as soon as possible. Shoulder blade’s shattered and there’s some tendon and muscle damage, wound’s clean. There might be a splinter or two in the left lung, he’s lost a pint or so, but all in all he’s been very bloody lucky.”

“I feel okay, Doc, I’m mobile,” Starke said. “One day won’t make that amount of difference. I can still go along tomorrow.”

“Sorry, old top, but you’re shook. Bullets do that. You may not feel it now but in an hour or two you will, guaranteed.” Doc Nutt was very glad he was leaving with the 125 today. Don’t want to cope anymore, he told himself. Don’t want to see any more fine young bodies bullet-torn and mutilated. I’ve had it. Yes, but I’ll have to stick to it for a few more days, there’re going to be others to patch up because Whirlwind’s just not going to work. It’s not, I feel it in my bones. “Sorry, but you’d be a hazard on any op, even a little one.”

“Duke,” McIver said, “it’s best you go at once. Tom, you take one - no need for JeanLuc to stay.”

“And what the hell you figure on doing?”

McIver beamed. “Me, I’ll be a passenger. Meanwhile, I’m just bloody Kia’s very private bloody pilot.”

IN THE TOWER: 4:50 P.M. “I repeat, Mr. Siamaki,” McIver said tightly into the mike, “there’s a special conference in Al Sh - ”

“And I repeat, why wasn’t I informed at once?” The voice over the loudspeaker was shrill and irritated.

McIver’s knuckles were white from the grip on the mike’s stem, and he was being watched intently by a Green Band and Wazari whose face was still swollen from the beating Zataki had given him. “I repeat, Agha Siamaki,” he said, his voice tidy, “Captains Pettikin and Lane were needed for an urgent conference in Al Shargaz and there was no time to inform you.” “Why? I’m here in Tehran. Why wasn’t the office informed, where are their exit permits? Where?”

McIver pretended to be slightly exasperated. “I already told you, Agha, there was no time - phones in Tehran aren’t working - and I cleared their exits with the komiteh at the airport, personally with His Excellency the mullah in charge.” The Green Band yawned, bored, non-English-speaking, and noisily cleared his throat. “Now if you’ll excu - ”

“But you and Captain Pettikin have removed your valuables from your apartment. Is that so?”

“Merely a precaution to remove temptation from vile mujhadin and fedayeen burglars and bandits while we’re away,” McIver said airily, very conscious of Wazari’s attention and sure that the tower at the air base was monitoring this conversation. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Minister Kia requires my presence!”

“Ah, Minister Kia, ah, yes!” Siamaki’s irritability softened a little. “What, er, what time do you both arrive back in Tehran tomorrow?” “Depending on the winds…” McIver’s eyes almost crossed as he had a sudden, almost overwhelming, desire to blurt out about Whirlwind. I must be going potty, he thought. With an effort he concentrated. “Depending on Minister Kia, the winds, and refueling, sometime in the afternoon.” “I will be waiting for you; I may even meet you at the airport if we know your ETA; there are checks to be signed and many rearrangements to be discussed. Please give Minister Kia my best wishes and wish him a pleasant stay in Kowiss. Salaam.” The transmission clicked off. McIver sighed, put the mike down. “Sergeant, while I’m here I’d like to call Bandar Delam and Lengeh.”

“I’ll have to ask base,” Wazari said.

“Go ahead.” McIver looked out the window. The weather was deteriorating, the southeaster crackling the wind sock and the stays of the radio mast. Thirty knots, gusting to thirty-five on the counter. Too much, he thought. The upended mud tank that had crashed through the roof was only a few yards away. He could see Hogg and Jones patiently waiting in the 125 cockpit, the cabin door invitingly open. Through the other window he saw Kia and Esvandiary had finished their inspection and were heading this way, toward the offices directly below. Idly he saw that a connector on the main roof aerial was loose, then noticed the wire almost free. “Sergeant, you’d better fix that right smartly, you could lose all transmission.” “Jesus, sure, thanks.” Wazari got up, stopped. Over the loudspeaker came: “This is Kowiss Tower. Request to call Bandar Delam and Lengeh approved.” He acknowledged, switched frequencies, and made the call.

“This’s Bandar Delam, go ahead Kowiss.” McIver’s heart picked up, recognizing Rudi Lutz’s voice.

Wazari handed the mike to McIver, his eyes outside on the faulty connection. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered, picked up some tools, opened the door onto the roof, and went out. He was still within easy hearing distance. The Green Band yawned, watching disinterestedly.

“Hello, Captain Lutz, McIver. I’m overnighting here,” McIver said matter-of- factly, choosing the words very carefully. “Had to escort a VIP, Minister Kia, from Tehran. How’re things at Bandar Delam?”

“We’re five by five but if…” The voice stopped. McIver had heard the inrush of breath and concern, quickly bottled. He glanced at Wazari who was squatting beside the connector. “How long… how long’re you staying, Mac?” Rudi asked.

“I’ll be en route tomorrow as planned. Providing the weather holds,” he added carefully.

“Understand. No sweat.”

“No sweat. All systems go for a long and happy year. How about you?” Another pause. “Everything five by five. All systems go for a long and happy year and vive the Imam!”

“Quite right. Reason for the call is that HQ Aberdeen urgently wants information about your ‘updated impress file.’” This was code for Whirlwind’s preparations. “Is it ready?”

“Yes, yes, it is. Where should I send it?” Code for: Do we still head for Al Shargaz?

“Gavallan’s in Al Shargaz on an inspection trip so send it there - it’s important you make a special effort and get it there quickly. I heard in Tehran there was a BA flight going into Abadan tomorrow. Get it on that flight for Al Shargaz tomorrow, all right?”

“Loud and clear. I’ve been working on the details all day.” “Excellent. How’s your crew change situation?”

“Great. Outgoing crew’ve gone, incoming replacements due Saturday, Sunday at the latest. Everything’s prepared for their arrival. I’ll be on the next crew change.”

“Good, I’m here if you want me. How’s your weather?”

A pause. “Stormy. It’s raining now. We’ve a southeaster.” “Same here. No sweat.”

“By the way, Siamaki called Numir, our IranOil manager, a couple of times.” “What about?” McIver said.

“Just checking on the base, Numir said.”

“Good,” McIver said carefully. “Glad he’s interested in our operations. I’ll call tomorrow, everything’s routine. Happy landings.”

“You too, thanks for calling.”

McIver signed off cursing Siamaki. Nosy bloody bastard! He looked outside. Wazari still had his back to him, kneeling beside the base of the aerial, near the skylight of the office below, totally concentrated, so he left him to it and made the call to Lengeh.

Scragger was quickly on the other end. “Hello, sport. Yes, we heard you were on the routine side trip escorting a VIP - Andy called from Al Shargaz. What’s the poop?”

“Routine. Everything’s as planned. HQ Aberdeen needs information of your ‘updated impress file.’ Is it ready?”

“Ready as she’ll ever be. Where should I send it?”

“Al Shargaz, that’s easiest for you. Can you get it over tomorrow?” “Gotcha, old sport, I’ll plan on it. How’s your weather?” “Southeasterly, thirty to thirty-five knots. Johnny said it might lighten tomorrow. You?”

“About the same. Let’s hope she dies down. No problem for us.” “Good. I’ll call tomorrow. Happy landings.”

“Same to you. By the way, how’s Lulu?”

McIver cursed under his breath, because in the excitement of the change of plan, having to escort Kia, he had totally forgotten his pledge to his car to save her from a fate worse than. He had just left her in one of the hangars as a further indication to the staff there he was returning tomorrow. “She’s fine,” he said. “How’s your medical?”

“Fine. How’s yours, old sport?”

“See you soon, Scrag.” Wryly McIver clicked off the sender. Now he was very tired. He stretched and got up, noticed that the Green Band had gone and Wazari was standing at the doorway from the roof, his face strange. “What’s the matter?”

“I… nothing, Captain.” The young man closed the door, chilled, was startled to see the tower empty but for the two of them. “Where’s the Green Band?”

“I don’t know.” Quickly Wazari checked the stairwell, then turned on him and dropped his voice: “What’s going on, Captain?”

McIver’s fatigue left him. “I don’t understand.”

“All those calls from Siamaki, telexes, guys leaving Tehran without permits, all the guys leaving here, spares going out, sneaked out.” He jerked a thumb at the skylight. “Minister arriving all of a sudden.”

“Crews need replacements, spares become redundant. Thanks for your help.” McIver began to walk around him but Wazari stood in his way. “Something’s mighty goddamn crazy! You can’t tell me th - ” He stopped, footsteps approaching from downstairs. “Listen, Captain,” he whispered urgently, “I’m on your side, I’ve a deal with your Captain Ayre, he’s gonna help me…”

The Green Band came stomping up the stairs into the room, said something in Farsi to Wazari, whose eyes widened.

“What did he say?” McIver asked.

“Esvandiary wants you below.” Wazari smiled sardonically, then went back out onto the roof again and squatted beside the connector, fiddling with it.

EN ESVANDIARY’S OFFICE: 5:40 P.M. Tom Lochart was frozen with rage, and so was McIver. “But our exit permits are valid and we’ve clearance to send personnel out today, right now!”

“With Minister Kia’s approval the permits’re held up until the replacements arrive,” Esvandiary said curtly. He sat behind the desk, Kia beside him, Lochart and McIver standing in front of him. On the desk was the pile of permits and passports. It was nearing sunset now. “Agha Siamaki agrees too.” “Quite correct.” Kia was amused and pleased at their discomfiture. Damned foreigners. “No need for all this urgency, Captain. Much better to do things in an orderly fashion, much better.”

“The flight is orderly, Minister Kia,” McIver said tight-lipped. “We’ve the permits. I insist the plane leaves as planned!”

“This is Iran, not England.” Esvandiary sneered. “Even there I doubt if you could insist on anything.” He was very pleased with himself. Minister Kia had been delighted with his pishkesh - the revenue from a future oil well - and had at once offered him a seat on the IHC board. Then, to his vast amusement, Kia had explained that exit permits should have fees attached to them: Let the foreigners sweat, the minister had added. By Saturday they will be most anxious of their own accord to press on you say three hundred U.S. dollars in cash, per head. “As the minister says,” he said importantly, “we should be orderly. Now I’m busy, good aftern - ”

The door swung open and now Starke was in the small office, his face blotchy, his good fist bunched, left arm in a sling. “What the hell’s with you, Esvandiary? You can’t cancel the permits!”

McIver burst out, “For God’s sake, Duke, you shouldn’t be here!” “The permits’re postponed, not canceled. Postponed!” Esvandiary’s face contorted. “And how many times do I have to tell you ill-mannered people to knock? Knock! This isn’t your office, it’s mine, I run this base, you don’t, and Minister Kia and I are having a meeting that you’ve all interrupted! Now get out, get out the lot of you!” He turned to Kia as though the two of them were alone and said in Farsi in a new voice, “Minister, I do apologize for all of this, you see what I have to deal with. I strongly recommend we nationalize all foreign airplanes and use our own p - ”

Starke’s jaw jutted. He bunched his fist. “Listen you sonofabitch.” “GET OUT!” Esvandiary reached into his drawer where there was an automatic. But he never pulled it out. The mullah Hussain came through the door, Green Bands behind him. A sudden silence pervaded the room.

“In the Name of God, what’s going on here?” Hussain said in English, cold hard eyes on Esvandiary and Kia. At once Esvandiary got up and began to explain, speaking Farsi, Starke cut in with their side, and soon both men were getting louder and louder. Impatiently Hussain held up his hand. “First you, Agha Esvandiary. Please speak Farsi so my komiteh can understand.” He listened impassively to the long-winded Farsi address, his four Green Bands crowding the door. Then he motioned to Starke. “Captain?” Starke was carefully brief and blunt.

Hussain nodded at Kia. “Now you, Excellency Minister. May I see your authority to override Kowissi authority and exit permits?” “Override, Excellency Mullah? Postpone? Not I,” Kia said easily. “I’m merely a servant of the Imam, God’s peace upon him, and of his personally appointed prime minister and his government.”

“Excellency Esvandiary said you approved the postponement.” “I merely agreed with his wish for an orderly rearrangement of foreign personnel.”

Hussain looked down at the desk. “Those are the exit permits with passports?”

Esvandiary’s mouth went dry. “Yes, Excellency.”

Hussain scooped them up and handed them to Starke. “The men and airplane will leave at once.”

“Thank you, Excellency,” Starke said, the strain of standing getting to him. “Let me help.” McIver took the passports and permits from him. “Thank you, Agha,” he said to Hussain, elated with their victory.

Hussain’s eyes were just as cold and hard as ever. “The Imam has said, ‘If foreigners want to leave, let them leave, we have no need of them.’” “Er, yes, thank you,” McIver said, not liking to be near this man at all. He went out. Lochart followed.

Starke was saying in Farsi, “I’m afraid I have to go on the airplane too, Excellency.” He told him what Doc Nutt had said, adding in English, “I don’t want to go but well, that’s it. Insha’Allah.”

Hussain nodded absently. “You won’t need an exit permit. Go aboard. I will explain to the komiteh. I will see the airplane leave.” He walked out and went up to the tower to inform Colonel Changiz of his decision. It took no time at all for the 125 to be filled. Starke was last to the gangway, legs very shaky now. Doc Nutt had given him enough painkillers to get him aboard. “Thank you, Excellency,” he said to Hussain over the howl of the jets, still afraid of him yet liking him, not knowing why. “God’s peace be with you.”

Over Hussain now hung a strange pall. “Corruption and lies and cheating are against the laws of God, aren’t they?”

“Yes, yes they are.” Starke saw Hussain’s indecision. Then the moment passed.

“God’s peace be with you, Captain.” Hussain turned and stalked off. The wind freshened slightly.

Weakly Starke climbed the steps, using his good hand, wanting to walk tall. At the top he held onto the handrail and turned back a moment, head throbbing, chest very bad. So much left here, so much, too much, not just choppers and spares and material things - so much more. Goddamn, I should be staying, not leaving. Bleakly he waved farewell to those who were left behind and gave them a thumbs-up, achingly aware that he was thankful not to be among them.

In the office Esvandiary and Kia watched the 125 taxiing away. God’s curse on them, may they all bum for interfering, Esvandiary thought. Then he threw off his fury, concentrating on the vast feast that selected friends who desperately wished to meet Minister Kia, his friend and fellow director, had arranged, the entertainment of dancers to follow, then the temporary marriages …

The door opened. To his astonishment, Hussain came in, livid with rage, Green Bands crowding after him. Esvandiary got up. “Yes, Excellency? What can I d - ” He stopped as a Green Band roughly pulled him out of the way to allow Hussain to sit behind the desk. Kia sat where he was, perplexed. Hussain said, “The Imam, God’s peace on him, has ordered komitehs to cast out corruption wherever it is to be found. This is the Kowiss air base komiteh. You are both accused of corruption.”

Kia and Esvandiary blanched and both started talking, claiming that this was ridiculous and they were falsely accused. Hussain reached over and jerked the gold band of the gold watch on Esvandiary’s wrist. “When did you buy this and with what did you pay?”

“My… my savings and - ”

“Liar. Pishkesh for two jobs. The komiteh knows. Now, what about your scheme to defraud the state, secretly offering future oil revenues to corrupt officials for future services?”

“Ridiculous, Excellency, lies all lies!” Esvandiary shouted in panic. Hussain looked at Kia who also had gone pasty gray. “What officials, Excellency?” Kia asked, keeping his voice calm, sure that his enemies had set him up to be trapped far away from the seat of his influence. Siamaki! It has to be Siamaki!

Hussain motioned to one of the Green Bands who went out and brought in the radio operator, Wazari. “Tell them, before God, what you told me,” he ordered.

“As I told you earlier, I was on the roof, Excellency,” Wazari said nervously; “I was checking one of our lines and overheard them through the skylight. I heard him make the offer.” He pointed a blunt finger at Esvandiary, delighted for an opportunity for revenge. If it hadn’t been for Esvandiary, I’d’ve never have been picked on by that madman Zataki, never been beaten and hurt, never been almost killed. “They were speaking English and he said, I can arrange to divert oil revenues from new wells, I can keep the wells off the lists and can divert funds to you…”

Esvandiary was appalled. He had carefully sent all the Iranian staff out of the office building and further, for safety, talked English. Now he was damned. He heard Wazari finish and Kia begin to speak, quietly, calmly, avoiding all complicity, saying he was only leading this corrupt and evil man on: “I was asked to visit here for just this purpose, Excellency, sent here by the Imam’s government, God protect him, for just this purpose: to root out corruption wherever it existed. May I congratulate you on being so zealous. If you will allow me, the moment I get back to Tehran, I will commend you directly to the Revolutionary Komiteh itself - and of course to the prime minister.”

Hussain looked at the Green Bands. “Is Esvandiary guilty or not guilty?” “Guilty, Excellency.”

“Is the man Kia guilty or not guilty?”

“Guilty,” Esvandiary shouted before they could answer.

One of the Green Bands shrugged. “All Tehranis are liars. Guilty,” and the others nodded and echoed him.

Kia said politely, “Tehrani mullahs and ayatollahs are not liars, Excellencies, the Revolutionary Komiteh not liars, nor the Imam, God save him, who perhaps could be called Tehrani because he lives there now. I just happen to live there too. I was born in Holy Qom, Excellencies,” he added, blessing the fact for the first time in his life.

One of the Green Bands broke the silence. “What he says is true, Excellency, isn’t it?” He scratched his head. “About all Tehranis?”

“That not all Tehranis are liars? Yes, that’s true.” Hussain looked at Kia, also unsure. “Before God, are you guilty or not?”

“Of course not guilty, Excellency, before God!” Kia’s eyes were guileless. Fool, do you think you can catch me with that? Taqiyah gives me the right to protect myself if I consider my life threatened by false mullahs! “How do you explain you’re a government minister, but also a director of this helicopter company?”

“The minister in charge…” Kia stopped, for Esvandiary was blubbering loudly and mouthing accusations. “I’m sorry, Excellencies, as God wants, but this noise, it’s difficult to speak without shouting.”

“Take him outside!” Esvandiary was dragged away. “Well?”

“The minister in charge of the Civil Aviation Board asked me to join the IHC board as the government’s representative,” Kia said, telling the twisted truth as though he were imparting a state secret, adding other exaggerations equally importantly. “We’re not sure of the loyalty of the directors. Also may I tell you privately, Excellency, that in a few days all foreign airplane companies are being nationalized…”

He talked to them intimately, modulating his voice for the most effect, and when he considered the moment perfect, he stopped and sighed, “Before God I confess I am without corruption like you, Excellency, and though without your great calling, I too have dedicated my life to serving the people.” “God protect you, Excellency,” the Green Band burst out.

The others agreed and even Hussain had had most of his doubt pushed aside. He was about to probe a little more when they heard a distant muezzin from the air base calling to evening prayer, and he chided himself for being diverted from God. “Go with God, Excellency,” he said, ending the tribunal, and got up.

“Thank you, Excellency. May God keep you and all mullahs safe to rescue us and our great Islamic nation from the works of Satan!”

Hussain led the way outside. There, following his lead, they all ritually cleansed themselves, turned toward Mecca, and prayed - Kia, Green Bands, office staff, laborers, kitchen workers - all pleased and content that once more they could each openly testify their personal submission to God and the Prophet of God. Only Esvandiary wept through his abject prayers. Then Kia came back into the office. In the silence, he sat behind the desk and allowed himself a secret sigh and many secret congratulations. How dare that son of a dog Esvandiary accuse me! Me, Minister Kia! May God burn him and all enemies of the state. Outside there was a burst of firing. Calmly he took out a cigarette and lit it. The sooner I leave this dung heap the better, he thought. A squall shook the building. Drizzle spotted the windows.

Chapter 57

LENGEH: 6:50 P.M. The sunset was malevolent, clouds covering most of the sky, heavy and black-tinged. “It’ll be closed in by morning, Scrag,” the American pilot Ed Vossi said, his dark curly hair tugged by the wind that blew from the Hormuz up the Gulf toward Abadan. “Goddamn wind!” “We’ll be all right, sport. But Rudi, Duke, and the others? If she holds or worsens they’ll be up shit creek without a paddle.”

“Goddamn wind! Why choose today to change direction? Almost as though the gods’re laughing at us.” The two men were standing on the promontory overlooking the Gulf beneath then-flagpole, the waters gray and, out in the strait, white-topped. Behind them was their base and the airfield, still wet from this morning’s passing rain squall. Below and to the right was then-beach and the raft they swam from. Since the day of the shark no one had ventured there, staying close in the shallows in case another lay in wait for them. Vossi muttered, “I’ll be goddamn glad when this’s all over.” Scragger nodded absently, his thoughts reaching into the weather patterns, trying to read what would happen in the next twelve hours, always difficult in this season when the usually placid Gulf could erupt with sudden and monstrous violence. For 363 or 364 days a year the prevailing wind was from the northwest. Now it wasn’t.

The base was quiet. Only Vossi, Willi Neuchtreiter, and two mechanics were left. All the other pilots and mechanics and their British office manager had gone two days ago, Tuesday, while he was en route back from Bandar Delam with Kasigi.

Willi had got them all out to Al Shargaz by sea: “We had no trouble, Scrag, by God Harry,” Willi had told him delightedly when he landed. “Your plan worked. Sending ‘em by boat was clever, better than by chopper, and cheaper. The komiteh just shrugged and took over one of the trailers.” “They’re sleeping on base now?”

“Some of them, Scrag. Three or four. I’ve made sure we feed them plenty of rice and horisht. They’re not a bad group. Masoud’s trying to keep in their good books too.” Masoud was their IranOil manager.

“Why did you stay, Willi? I know how you feel about this caper, I told you to be on the boat, no need for you.”

“Sure there is, Scrag, by God Harry, but you’ll need a proper pilot along with you - you might get lost.”

Good old Willi, Scragger thought. Glad he stayed. And sorry. Since getting back from Bandar Delam on Tuesday, Scragger had found himself greatly unsettled, nothing that he could isolate, just a feeling that elements over which he had no control were waiting to pounce. The pain in his lower stomach had lessened, but from time to time there was still a flick of blood in his urine. Not forewarning Kasigi about the Whirlwind pullout had added to his unease. Hell, he thought, I couldn’t have risked that, spilling Whirlwind. I did the best I could, telling Kasigi to go to Gavallan. Yesterday, Wednesday, Vossi had taken Kasigi across the Gulf. Scragger had given Vossi a private letter to Gavallan explaining what had happened in Bandar Delam and his dilemma about Kasigi, leaving it to Gavallan to decide what to do. Also in the letter he had given details of his meeting with Georges de Plessey who was gravely concerned that troubles would again spill over into the Siri complex: “Damage to pumping and piping at Siri’s worse than first thought and I don’t think she’ll be pumping this month. Kasigi’s fit to be tied as he’s got three tankers due at Siri for uplifts in the next three weeks according to the deal he worked out with Georges. It’s a carve-up, Andy. Nothing we can do. There’s little chance of avoiding sabotage if terrorists really decide to have at them. Of course I haven’t told Georges about anything. Do what you can for Kasigi and see you soonest, Scrag.” On this morning’s routine call from Al Shargaz, Gavallan had said only he had received his report and was dealing with it. Otherwise he was noncommittal.

Scragger had not mentioned McIver, nor had Gavallan. He beamed. Bet my life Dirty Dunc flew the 206! Never would’ve bet old By the Book Mclver’d’ve done it! Even so, bet my life he was like a pig in shit at the chance and no bloody wonder. I’d’ve done the same …

“Scrag!”

He glanced around. One look at Willi Neuchtreiter’s face was enough. “Wot’s up?”

“I just found out Masoud’s given all our passports to the gendarmes - every last one!”

Vossi and Scragger gaped at him. Vossi said, “What the hell he do that for?” Scragger was more vulgar.

“It was Tuesday, Scrag, when the others left on the boat. Of course a gendarme was there to see them off, count them aboard, and that’s when he asked Masoud for our passports. So Masoud gave them to him. If it’d been me I’d’ve done the same.”

“Wot the hell did he want them for?”

Willi said patiently, “To re-sign our residence permits in Khomeini’s name, Scrag, he wanted us to be legal - you’ve asked them enough times, haven’t you?” Scragger cursed for a full minute and never used the same word twice. “For crissake, Scrag, we gotta get ‘em back,” Vossi said shakily, “we gotta get ‘em back, or Whirlwind’s blown.”

“I know that, sport.” Blankly Scragger was sifting possibilities. Willi said, “Maybe we could get new ones in Al Shargaz or Dubai - say we’d lost ‘em.”

“For crissake, Willi,” Vossi exploded. “For crissake, they’d put us in the slammer so fast we wouldn’t know which way was up! Remember Masterson?” One of their mechanics, a couple of years ago, had forgotten to renew his Al Shargaz permit and had tried to bluff his way through Immigration. Even though the visa was only four days out of date and his passport otherwise valid, Immigration had at once marched him into jail where he languished very uncomfortably for six weeks, then to be let out but banished forever: “Dammit,” the resident British official had said, “you’re bloody lucky to get off so lightly. You knew the law. We’ve pointed it out until we’re blue in the face… .”

“Goddamned if I’ll leave without mine,” Vossi said. “I can’t. Mine’s loaded with goddamn visas for all the Gulf states, Nigeria, the UK and hell and gone - it’d take me months to get new ones, months, if ever… and what about Al Shargaz, huh? That’s one mighty fine place but without a goddamn passport and their valid visa, into the slammer!”

“Too right, Ed. Bloody hell and tomorrow’s Holy Day when everything’s shut tighter’n a gnat’s arse. Willi, you remember who the gendarme was? Was he one of the regulars - or a Green Band?”

After a moment Willi said, “He wasn’t a Green Band, Scrag, he was a regular. The old one, the one with gray hair.”

“Qeshemi? The sergeant?”

“Yes, Scrag. Yes, it was him.”

Scragger cursed again. “If old Qeshemi says we’ve got to wait till Saturday, or Saturday week, that’s it.” In this area, gendarmes still operated as they had always done, as part of the military, without Green Band harassment, except that now they had taken off their Shah badges and wore armbands with Khomeini’s name scrawled on them.

“Don’t wait supper for me.” Scragger stomped off into the twilight.

AT THE LENGEH POLICE STATION: 7:32 P.M. The corporal gendarme yawned and shook his head politely, speaking Farsi to the base radio operator, Ali Pash, whom Scragger had brought with him to interpret. Scragger waited patiently, too used to Iranian ways to interrupt them. They had already been at it for half an hour.

“Oh, you wanted to ask about the foreigners’ passports? The passports are in the safe, where they should be,” the gendarme was saying. “Passports are valuable and we have them locked up.”

“Perfectly correct, Excellency, but the Captain of the Foreigners would like to have them back, please. He says he needs them for a crew change.” “Of course he may have them back. Are they not his property? Have not he and his men flown many mercy missions over the years for our people? Certainly, Excellency, as soon as the safe is opened.” “Please may it be opened now? The foreigner would appreciate your kindness very much.” Ali Pash was equally polite and leisurely, waiting for the gendarme to volunteer the information he sought. He was a good-looking Tehrani in his late twenties who had been trained at the U.S. Radio School at Isfahan and had been with IHC at Lengeh for three years. “It would certainly be a kindness.”

“Certainly, but he cannot have them back until the key reappears.” “Ah, may I dare ask where the key is, Excellency?”

The corporal gendarme waved his hand to the big, old-fashioned safe that dominated this outer office. “Look, Excellency, you can see for yourself, the key is not on its peg. More than likely the sergeant has it in his safekeeping.”

“How very wise and correct, Excellency. Probably His Excellency the sergeant is at home now?”

“His Excellency will be here in the morning.”

“On Holy Day? May I offer an opinion that we are fortunate our gendarmerie have such a high sense of duty to work so diligently? I imagine he would not be early.”

“The sergeant is the sergeant but the office opens at seven-thirty in the morning, though of course the police station is open day and night.” The gendarme stubbed out his cigarette. “Come in the morning.” “Ah, thank you, Excellency. Would you care for another cigarette while I explain to the captain?”

“Thank you, Excellency. It is rare to have a foreign one, thank you.” The cigarettes were American and highly appreciated but neither mentioned it. “May I offer you a light, Excellency?” Ali Pash lit his own too and told Scragger what had been said.

“Ask him if the sergeant’s at home now, Ali Pash.”

“I did, Captain. He said His Excellency will be here in the morning.” Ali Pash hid his weariness, too polite to tell Scragger he had realized in the first few seconds that this man knew nothing, would do nothing, and this whole conversation and visit was a total waste of time. And of course gendarmes would prefer not to be disturbed at night about so insignificant an affair. What does it matter? Have they ever lost a passport? Of course not! What crew change? “If I may advise you, Agha? In the morning.” Scragger sighed. “In the morning” could mean tomorrow or the following day. No point in probing further, he thought irritably. “Thank him for me and say I’ll be here bright and early in the morning.”

Ali Pash obeyed. As God wants, the gendarme thought wearily, hungry and worried that another week had gone by and still there was no pay, no pay for months now, and the bazaari moneylenders were pressing for their loans to be repaid, and my beloved family near starving. “Shab be khayr, Agha,” he said to Scragger. “Good night.”

“Shab be khayr, Agha.” Scragger waited, knowing their departure would be as politely long-winded as the interview.

Outside in the small road that was the main road of the port town, he felt better. Curious bystanders, all men, surrounded his battered old station wagon, the winged S-G symbol on the door. “Salaam,” he said breezily and a few greeted him back. Pilots from the base were popular, the base and the oil platforms a main source of very profitable work, their mercy missions in all weather well known, and Scragger easily recognizable: “That’s the chief of the pilots,” one old man whispered knowledgeably to his neighbor, “he’s the one who helped young Abdollah Turik into the hospital at Bandar Abbas that only the highborn get into normally. He even went to visit his village just outside Lengeh, even went to his funeral.”

“Turik?”

“Abdollah Turik, my sister’s son’s son! The young man who fell off the oil platform and was eaten by sharks.”

“Ah, yes, I remember, the young man some say was murdered by leftists.” “Not so loud, not so loud, you never know who’s listening. Peace be with you, pilot, greetings, pilot!”

Scragger waved to them cheerily and drove off.

“But the base is the other way, Captain. Where do we go?” Ali Pash asked. “To visit the sergeant, of course.” Scragger whistled through his teeth, disregarding Ali Pash’s obvious disapproval.

The sergeant’s house was on the corner of a dingy, dirt street still puddled from this morning’s squall, just another door in the high walls across the joub. It was getting dark now so Scragger left the headlights on and got out. No sign of life in the whole street. Only a few of the high windows dimly lit.

Sensing Ali Pash’s nervousness he said, “You stay in the car. There’s no problem, I’ve been here before.” He used the iron knocker vigorously, feeling eyes everywhere.

The first time he had been here was a year or so ago when he had brought a huge food hamper, with two butchered sheep, some sacks of rice, and cases of fruit as a gift from the base to celebrate “their” sergeant getting the Shah’s Bronze Sepah Medal for bravery in action against pirates and smugglers who were endemic in these waters. The last time, a few weeks ago, he had accompanied a worried gendarme who wanted him to report at once the tragedy at Siri One, picking Abdollah Turik out of the shark-infested water. Neither time had he been invited into the house but had stayed in the little courtyard beyond the tall wooden door, and both times had been in daylight. The door creaked open. Scragger was not prepared for the sudden flashlight that momentarily blinded him. The circle of light hesitated, then went to the car and centered on Ali Pash who almost leaped out of the car, half-bowed, and called out, “Greetings, Excellency Chief Officer, peace be upon you. I apologize that the foreigner disturbs your privacy and dares to c - ” “Greetings.” Qeshemi overrode him curtly, clicked the light off, turning his attention back to Scragger.

“Salaam, Agha Qeshemi,” Scragger said, his eyes adjusting now. He saw the strong-featured man watching him, his uniform coat unbuttoned and the revolver loose in its holster.

“Salaam, Cap’tin.”

“Sorry to come here, Agha, at night,” Scragger said slowly and carefully, knowing Qeshemi’s English was as limited as his own Farsi was almost nonexistent. “Loftan, gozar nameh. Loftan” - Please, need passports. Please. The gendarme sergeant grunted with surprise then waved a hard tough hand toward the town. “Passports in stat’ion, Cap’tin.”

“Yes. But, sorry, there is no key.” Scragger parodied opening a lock with a key. “No key,” he repeated.

“Ah. Yes. Understand. Yes, no key. To’morrow. To’morrow you get.” “Is it possible, tonight? Please. Now?” Scragger felt the scrutiny. “Why tonight?”

“Er, for a crew change. Men to Shiraz, crew change.”

“When?”

Scragger knew he had to gamble. “Saturday. If I have key, go station and return at once.”

Qeshemi shook his head. “To’morrow.” Then he spoke sharply to Ali Pash who at once bowed and thanked him profusely, again apologizing for disturbing him. “His Excellency says you can have them tomorrow. We’d, er, we’d better leave, Captain.”

Scragger forced a smile. “Mamnoon am, Agha” - Thank you, Excellency. “Mamnoon am, Agha Qeshemi.” He would have asked Ali Pash to ask the sergeant if he could have the passports as soon as the station opened but he did not wish to agitate the sergeant unnecessarily. “I will come after first prayer. Mamnoon am, Agha.” Scragger put out his hand and Qeshemi shook it. Both men felt the other’s strength. Then he got into the car and drove off. Thoughtfully Qeshemi closed and rebelled the door.

In summertime the small patio with its high walls and trellised vines and small fountain was cool and inviting. Now it was drab. He crossed it and opened the door opposite that led into the main living’ room and rebelled it. The sound of a child coughing somewhere upstairs. A wood fire took off some of the chill but the whole house was drafty, none of the doors or windows fitting properly. “Who was it?” his wife called down from upstairs. “Nothing, nothing important. A foreigner from the air base. The old one. He wanted their passports.”

“At this time of night? God protect us! Every lime there’s a knock on the door I expect more trouble - rotten Green Bands or vile leftists!” Qeshemi nodded absently, but said nothing, warming his hands by the fire, hardly listening to her rattle on: “Why should he come here? Foreigners are so ill-mannered. What would he want passports for at this time of night? Did you give them to him?”

“They’re locked in our safe. Normally I bring the key with me as always, bul it’s lost.” The child coughed again. “How’s little Sousan?” “She still has a fever. Bring me some hot water, that’ll help. Put a little honey in it.” He set the kettle on the fire, sighed, hearing her grumbling: “Passports at this time of night! Why couldn’t they wait till Saturday? So ill-mannered and thoughtless. You said the key’s lost?”

“Yes. Probably that goathead excuse for a policeman, Lafti, has it and forgot to put it back again. As God wants.”

“Mohammed, what would the foreigner want with passports al this lime of night?”

“I don’t know. Curious, very curious.”

Chapter 58

AT BANDAR DELAM AIRFIELD: 7:49 P.M. Rudi Lutz stood on the veranda of his trailer under the eaves, watching the heavy rain. “Scheiss,” he muttered. Behind him his door was open and the shaft of light sparkled the heavy raindrops. Soft Mozart came from his tape deck. The door of the next trailer, the office trailer, opened, and he saw Pop Kelly come out holding an umbrella over his head and slop through the puddles toward him. Neither noticed the Iranian in the shadows. Somewhere on the base a tomcat was spitting and yowling. “Hi, Pop. Come on in. You get it?”

“Yes, no problem.” Kelly shook the rain off. Inside the trailer it was warm and comfortable, neat and tidy. The cover was off the built-in, reconnected HF that was on Standby, muted static mixing with the music. A coffeepot percolated on the stove.

“Coffee?”

“Thanks - I’ll help myself.” Kelly handed him the paper and went over to the kitchen area. The paper had hastily jotted columns of figures on it, temperatures, wind directions, and strengths for every few thousand feet, barometric pressures and tomorrow’s forecast. “Abadan Tower said it was up to date. They claimed it included all today’s incoming BA data. Doesn’t look too bad, eh?”

“If it’s accurate.” The forecast predicted lessening precipitation around midnight and reduced wind strength. Rudi turned up the music, and Kelly sat down beside him. Rudi dropped his voice. “It could be all right for us, but a bitch for Kowiss. We’ll still have to refuel in flight to make Bahrain.” Kelly sipped his coffee with enjoyment, hot, strong, with a spoon of condensed milk. “What’d you do if you were Andy?”

“With the three bases to worry about I’d…” A slight noise outside. Rudi got up and glanced out of the window. Nothing. Then again the sound of the tomcat, closer. “Damn cats, they give me the creeps.”

“I rather like cats.” Kelly smiled. “We’ve three at home: Matthew, Mark, and Luke. Two’re Siamese, the other’s a tabby; Betty says the boys’re driving her mad to get ‘John’ to round it off.”

“How is she?” Today’s BA flight into Abadan had brought Sandor Petrofi for the fourth 212, along with mail from Gavallan, routed since the troubles through HQ at Aberdeen, their first for many weeks.

“Fine, super in fact - three weeks to go. The old girl’s usually on time. I’ll be glad to be home when she pops.” Kelly beamed. “The doc says he thinks it’s going to be a girl at long last.”

“Congratulations! That’s wonderful.” Everyone knew that the Kellys had been hoping against hope. “Seven boys and one girl, that’s a lot of mouths to feed.” Rudi thought how hard he found it to keep up with the bills and school fees with only three children and no mortgage on the house - the house left to his wife by her father, God bless the old bastard. “Lots of mouths, don’t know how you do it.”

“Oh, we manage, glory be to God.” Kelly looked down at the forecast, frowned. “You know, if I was Andy I’d press the tit and not postpone.” “If it was up to me I’d cancel and forget the whole crazy idea.” Rudi kept his voice down and leaned closer. “I know it’ll be rough for Andy, maybe the company’ll close, maybe. But we can all get new jobs, even better paying ones, we’ve families to think of and I hate all this going against the book. How in the hell can we sneak out? Not possible. If we - ” Car headlights splashed the window, the approaching sound of the high-powered engine growing then stopping outside.

Rudi was the first at the window. He saw Zataki get out of the car with some Green Bands, then Numir, their base manager, came from the office trailer with an umbrella to join him. “Scheiss,” Rudi muttered again, turned the music down, quickly checked the trailer for incriminating evidence, and put the forecast into his pocket. “Salaam, Colonel,” he said, opening the door. “You were looking for me?”

“Salaam, Captain, yes, yes, I was.” Zataki came into the room, a U.S. army submachine gun over his shoulder. “Good evening,” he said. “How many helicopters are here now, Captain?”

Numir began, “Four 212s an - ”

“I asked the captain,” Zataki flared, “not you. If I want information from you I’ll ask! Captain?” “Four 212s, two 206s, Colonel.”

To their shock, particularly Numir’s, Zataki said, “Good. I want two 212s to report to Iran-Toda tomorrow at 8:00 A.M. to work under instructions of Agha Watanabe, the chief there. From tomorrow, you’ll report daily. Have you met him?”

“Er, yes, I, er, once they had a CASEVAC and we helped them out.” Rudi tried to collect himself. “Er, will… will they be working on, er, Holy Day, Colonel?” “Yes. So will you.” Numir said, “But the Ayatollah sa - ” “He’s not the law. Shut up.” Zataki looked at Rudi. “Be there at 8:00 A.M.” Rudi nodded. “Er, yes. Can I, er, can I offer you coffee, Colonel?” “Thank you.” Zataki propped his submachine gun against the wall and sat at the built-in table, eyes on Pop Kelly. “Didn’t I see you at Kowiss?” “Yes, yes, you did,” the tall man said. “That’s, er, that’s my normal base. I, er, I brought down a 212. I’m Ignatius Kelly.” Weakly he sank back into his chair opposite him, as blown as Rudi, wilting under the searching gaze. “A night for fishes, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“The, er, the rain.”

“Ah, yes,” Zataki said. He was glad to be speaking English, improving his, convinced that Iranians who could speak the international language and were educated were going to be sought after, mullahs or no mullahs. Since taking the pills Dr. Nutt had given him, he felt much better, the blinding headaches lessening. “Will the rain prevent flying tomorrow?” “No, not - ”

“It depends,” Rudi called out quickly from the kitchen, “if the front worsens or improves.” He brought the tray with two cups of sugar and condensed milk, still trying to cope with this new disaster. “Please help yourself, Colonel. About Iran-Toda,” he said carefully, “all our choppers are on lease, are contracted to IranOil and Agha Numir here’s in charge.” Numir nodded, started to say something, but thought better of it. “We’ve contracts with IranOil.”

The silence thickened. They all watched Zataki. Leisurely he put three heaped teaspoons of sugar into his coffee, stirred, and sipped it. “It’s very good, Captain. Yes, very good, and yes, I know about IranOil, but I have decided Iran-Toda takes preference over IranOil for the time being and tomorrow you will supply two 212s at 8:00 A.M. to Iran-Toda.” Rudi glanced at his base manager who avoided his eyes. “But… well, presuming this is all right with IranOil th - ” “It is all right,” Zataki said to Numir. “Isn’t it, Agha?” “Yes, yes, Agha,” meekly, Numir nodded. “I, I will of course inform Area Headquarters of your… your eminent instructions.” “Good. Then everything is arranged. Good.” It’s not arranged, Rudi wanted to shout out in dismay. “May I ask how, er, how we’ll be paid for the, er, new contract?” he asked, feeling stupid.

Zataki shouldered his gun and got up. “Iran-Toda will make arrangements. Thank you, Captain, I will be back after first prayer tomorrow. You will fly one helicopter and I will accompany you.”

“Smashing idea, Colonel,” Pop Kelly burst out suddenly, beaming, and Rudi could have killed him. “No need to come before 8:00 A.M. , that’d be better for us - that’s plenty of time to get there by, say, 8:15. Smashing idea to service Iran-Toda, smashing. We’ve always wanted that contract, can’t thank you enough, Colonel! Fantastic! In fact, Rudi, we should take all four birds, put the lads into the picture at once, save time, at once, yes, sir, I’ll set them up for you!” He rushed off. Rudi stared after him, almost cross-eyed with fury.

Chapter 59

NEAR AL SHARGAZ AIRPORT: 8:01 P.M. The night was beautiful and balmy, heavy with the smell of flowers, and Gavallan and Pettikin were sitting on the terrace of the Oasis Hotel, on the edge of the airfield on the edge of the desert. They were having a predinner beer, Gavallan smoking a thin cigar and staring into the distance where the sky, purple-black and star-studded, met the darker land. The smoke drifted upward. Pettikin shifted in his lounging chair. “Wish to God there was something more I could do.” “Wish to God old Mac was here, I’d break his bloody neck,” Gavallan said and Pettikin laughed. A few guests were already in the dining room behind them. The Oasis was old and dilapidated, Empire baroque, the home of the British Resident when British power was the only power in the Gulf and, until ‘71 kept down piracy and maintained the peace. Music as ancient as the three-piece combo wafted out of the tall doors - piano, violin, and double bass, two elderly ladies and a white-haired gentleman on the piano. “My God, isn’t that Chu Chin Chow?” “You’ve got me, Andy.” Pettikin glanced back at them, saw JeanLuc among the diners, chatting with Nogger Lane, Rodrigues, and some of the other mechanics. He sipped his beer, noticed Gavallan’s glass was empty. “Like another?”

“No thanks.” Gavallan let his eyes drift with the smoke. “I think I’ll go over to the Met office, then look in on ours.” “I’ll come with you.” “Thanks, Charlie, but why don’t you stay in case there’s a phone call?” “Sure, just as you like.”

“Don’t wait for me to eat, I’ll join you for coffee. I’ll drop by the hospital to see Duke on my way back.” Gavallan got up, walked through the dining room, greeting those of his men who were there, and went into the lobby that also had seen better days. “Mr. Gavallan, excuse me, Effendi, but there’s a phone call for you.” The receptionist indicated the phone booth to one side. It had red plush inside, no air-conditioning and no privacy. “Hello? Gavallan here,” he said.

“Hello, boss, Liz Chen… just to report we’ve had a call about the two consignments from Luxembourg and they’ll arrive late.” “Consignment from Luxembourg” was code for the two 747 freighters he had chartered. “They can’t arrive Friday - they’ll only guarantee Sunday 4:00 P.M.” Gavallan was dismayed. He had been warned by the charterers that they had a very tight schedule between charters and there might be a twenty-four-hour delay. He had had great difficulty arranging the airplanes. Obviously none of the regular airlines that serviced the Gulf or Iran could be approached and he had had to be vague about the reason for the charters and their cargo. “Get back to them at once and try and bring the date forward. It’d be safer if they’d arrive Saturday, much safer. What’s next?” “Imperial Air have offered to take over our position on our new X63s.” “Tell them to drop dead. Next?”

“ExTex have revised their offer on the new Saudi, Singapore, Nigerian contracts ten percent downward.”

“Accept the offer by telex. Fix a lunch for me with the brass in New York on Tuesday. Next?”

“I’ve a checklist of part numbers you wanted.” “Good. Hang on.” Gavallan took out the secretarial notebook he always carried and found the page he sought. It listed the present Iranian registration call signs of their ten remaining 212s, all beginning with “EP” standing for Iran, then “H” for helicopter, and the final two letters. “Ready. Off you go.” “AB,RV, KI…” As she read out the letters he wrote them alongside the other column. For security he did not put the full new registration, “G” denoting Great Britain, “H” for helicopter, just jotted the two new letters. He reread the list and they tallied with those already supplied. “Thanks, they’re spot on. I’ll call you last thing tonight, Liz. Give Maureen a call and tell her all’s well.”

“All right, boss. Sir Ian called half an hour ago to wish you luck.” “Oh, great!” Gavallan had tried unsuccessfully to reach him all the time he was in Aberdeen and London. “Where is he? Did he leave a number?” “Yes. He’s in Tokyo: 73 73 84. He said he’d be there for a while and if you missed him he’d call tomorrow. He also said he’ll be back in a couple of weeks and would like to see you.” “Even better. Did he say what about?” “Oil for the lamps of China,” his secretary said cryptically. Gavallan’s interest picked up. “Wonderful. Fix a date at his earliest convenience. I’ll call you later, Liz. Got to rush.”

“All right. Just to remind you it’s Scot’s birthday tomorrow.” “Godalmighty, I forgot, thanks, Liz. Talk to you later.” He hung up, pleased to hear from Ian Dunross, blessing the Al Shargazi phone system and distance dialing. He dialed. Tokyo was five hours ahead. Just after 1 A.M.

“Hai?” The Japanese woman’s voice said sleepily. “Good evening. Sorry to call so late but I had a message to call Sir Ian Dunross. Andrew Gavallan.” “Ah, yes. Ian is not here for the moment, he will not be back until the morrow, so sorry. Perhaps at ten o’clock. Please, can I have your number, Mr. Gavallan?”

Gavallan gave it to her, disappointed. “Is there another number I can reach him at, please?” “Ah, so sorry, no.”

“Please ask him to call me, call anytime.” He thanked her again and hung up thoughtfully.

Outside was his rented car and he got in and drove to the main airport entrance. Overhead a 707 was coming around for final, landing lights on, tail and wing lights winking.

“Evening, Mr. Gavallan,” Sibbles, the Met officer said. He was British, a small, thin, dehydrated man, ten years in the Gulf. “Here you are.” He handed him the long photocopy of the forecast. “Weather’s going to be changeable here for the next few days.” He handed him three other pages. “Lengeh, Kowiss, and Bandar Delam.”

“And the bottom line is?”

“They’re all about the same, give or take ten or fifteen knots, a few hundred feet of ceiling - sorry, just can’t get used to metrics - a hundred meters or so of ceiling. Weather’s gradually improving. In the next few days the wind should come back to our standard, friendly northwesterly. From midnight we’re forecasting light rain and lots of low clouds and mist over most of the Gulf, wind southeasterly about twenty knots overall with thunderstorms, occasional small turbulences,” he looked up and smiled, “and whirlwinds.”

Gavallan’s stomach heaved, even though the word was said matter-of-factly and Sibbles was not party to the secret. At least, I don’t think he is, he thought. That’s the second curious coincidence today. The other was the American lunching at a nearby table with a Shargazi whose name he had not caught: “Good luck for tomorrow,” the man had said with a pleasant smile, full of bonhomie, as he was leaving.

“Sorry?”

“Glenn Wesson, Wesson Oil Marketing, you’re Andrew Gavallan, right? We heard you and your guys were organizing a… ‘a camel race’ tomorrow out at the Dez-al oasis, right?”

“Not us, Mr. Wesson. We don’t go in much for camels.”

“That a fact? You should try it, yes, sir, lotta fun. Good luck anyway.” Could have been a coincidence. Camel races were a diversion here for expats, a hilarious one, and the Dez-al a favorite place for the Islamic weekend. “Thanks, Mr. Sibbles, see you tomorrow.” He pocketed the forecasts and went down the stairs into the terminal lobby, heading for their office which was off to one side. Neither a positive yes nor a positive no, he was thinking, Saturday safer than tomorrow. You pays your money and you takes your chances. I can’t put it off much longer. “How’re you going to decide?” his wife, Maureen, had asked, seeing him off at dawn the day before yesterday, Aberdeen almost socked in and pouring.

“Don’t know, lassie. Mac’s got a good nose, he’ll help.”

And now no Mac! Mac gone bonkers, Mac flying without a medical, Mac conveniently stuck at Kowiss and no way out but Whirlwind; Erikki still God knows where, and poor old Duke fit to be tied that he’s off the roster but bloody lucky he came here. Doc Nutt had been right. X rays showed several bone splinters had punctured his left lung with another half a dozen threatening an artery. He glanced at the lobby clock: 8:27 P.M. Should be out of the anesthetic by now.

Got to decide soon. In conjunction with Charlie Pettikin I’ve got to decide soon. He went through the NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON OFFICIAL BUSINESS door, down the corridor, double-glazed windows the length of it. On the apron the 707 was being guided into its disembarking slot by a FOLLOW ME car, the sign in English and Farsi. Several Fokkerwolf forty-passenger prop feeders were parked neatly, a Pan Am jumbo that was part of the evacuation milk run to Tehran, and half a dozen private jets, their 125 among them. Wish it was Saturday, he thought. No, perhaps I don’t.

On the door of their office suite was S-G HELICOPTERS, SHEIK AVIATION. “Hello, Scot.”

“Hello, Dad.” Scot grinned. He was alone, duty officer, and he sat in front of the HF that was on standby, a book in his lap, his right arm in a sling. “Nothing new except a message to call Roger Newbury at home. Shall I get him?”

“In a moment, thanks.” Gavallan handed him the Met reports. Scot scanned them rapidly. The phone rang. Without stopping reading, he picked it up. “S-G?” He listened a moment. “Who? Oh, yes. No, he’s not here, sorry. Yes, I’ll tell him. ‘Bye.” He replaced the phone, sighed. “Johnny Hogg’s new bird, Alexandra - ‘the Hot Tamale’ Manuela calls her because she’s certain he’s going to get his pecker burned.” Gavallan laughed. Scot looked up from the reports. “Neither one thing or the other. Could be very good, lots of cover. But if the wind picks up could be rotten, Saturday better than Friday.” His blue eyes watched his father who stared out of the window at the apron traffic, passengers disembarking from the jet.

“I agree.” Gavallan said, noncommittally. “There’s someth - ” He stopped as the HF came to life: “Al Shargaz, this is Tehran Head Office, do you read?” “This is Al Shargaz, Head Office, you’re four by five, go ahead,” Scot said. “Director Siamaki wants to talk to Mr. Gavallan immediately.” Gavallan shook his head. “I’m not here,” he whispered.

“Can I take a message, Head Office?” Scot said into the mike. “It’s a little late but I’ll get it to him as soon as possible.”

Waiting. Static. Then the arrogant voice Gavallan detested. “This is Managing Director Siamaki. Tell Gavallan to call me back tonight. I’ll be here until ten-thirty tonight or anytime after 9:00 A.M. tomorrow. Without fail. Understand?”

“Five by five, Head Office,” Scot said sweetly. “Over and out!” “Bloody twit,” Gavallan muttered. Then more sharply, “What the devil’s he doing in the office at this time of night?”

“Snooping, has to be, and if he plans to ‘work’ on Holy Day … that’s pretty suspicious, isn’t it?”

“Mac said he would clean the safe out of important stuff and throw his key and the spare into the joub. Bet those buggers have duplicates,” Gavallan said testily. “I’ll have to wait until tomorrow for the pleasure of talking with him. Scot, is there any way we can jam him listening to our calls?” “No, not if we use our company frequencies which’s all we’ve got.” His father nodded. “When Johnny comes in, remind him I may want him airborne tomorrow at a moment’s notice.” It was part of the Whirlwind plan to use the 125 as a high-altitude VHF receiver/transmitter to cover those choppers only equipped with VHF. “From seven o’clock onward.”

“Then it’s a go for tomorrow.”

“Not yet.” Gavallan picked up the phone and dialed. “Good evening, Mr. Newbury, please, Mr. Gavallan returning his call.” Roger Newbury was one of the officials at the British consulate who had been very helpful, easing permits for them. “Hello, Roger, you wanted me? Sorry, you’re not at dinner, are you?”

“No, glad you called. Couple of things: first, bit of bad news, we’ve just heard George Talbot’s been killed.”

“Good God, what happened?”

“‘Fraid it’s all rather rotten. He was in a restaurant where there were some rather high-level ayatollahs. A terrorist car bomb blew the place to bits and him with it, yesterday lunchtime.”

“How bloody awful!”

“Yes. There was a Captain Ross with him, he was hurt too. I believe you knew him?”

“Yes, yes, I’d met him. He helped the wife of one of our pilots get out of a mess at Tabriz. A nice young man. How badly was he hurt?” “We don’t know, it’s all a bit sketchy, but our embassy in Tehran got him to the Kuwait International Hospital yesterday; I’ll get a proper report tomorrow and will let you know. Now, you asked if we could find out the whereabouts of your Captain Erikki Yokkonen.” A pause and the rustle of papers and Gavallan held on to his hope. “We had a telex this evening from Tabriz, just before I left the office: ‘Please be advised in answer to your query about Captain Erikki Yokkonen, he is believed to have escaped from his kidnappers and is now believed to be with his wife at the palace of Hakim Khan. A further report will be forthcoming tomorrow as soon as this can be checked.’”

“You mean Abdollah Khan, Roger.” Excitedly Gavallan covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Scot, “Erikki’s safe!”

“Fantastic,” Scot said, wondering what the bad news had been. “The telex definitely says Hakim Khan,” Newbury was saying. “Never mind, thank God he’s safe.” And thank God another major hurdle against Whirlwind is removed. “Could you get a message to him for me?” “I could try. Come in tomorrow. Can’t guarantee it’ll reach him, the situation in Azerbaijan is quite fluid. We could certainly try.” “I can’t thank you enough, Roger. Very thoughtful of you to let me know. Terribly sorry about Talbot and young Ross. If there’s anything I can do to help Ross, please let me know.”

“Yes, yes, I will. By the way, the word’s out.” It was said flat. “Sorry?”

“Let’s say, ‘Turbulences,’” Newbury said delicately.

For a moment Gavallan was silent, then he recovered. “Oh?” “Oh. It seems a certain Mr. Kasigi wanted you to service Iran-Toda from yesterday and you told him you wouldn’t be able to give him an answer for thirty days. So, er, we added two to two and with all the rumors got a bull’s-eye, the word’s out.”

Gavallan was trying to get cool. “Not being able to service Iran-Toda’s a business decision, Roger, nothing more. Operating anywhere in Iran’s bloody now, you know that. I couldn’t handle Kasigi’s extra business.” “Really?” Newbury’s voice was withering. Then, sharply, “Well, if what we hear is true we’d strongly, very strongly advise against it.” Gavallan said stubbornly, “You surely don’t advise me to support Iran-Toda when all Iran’s falling apart, do you?”

Another pause. A sigh. Then, “Well, mustn’t keep you, Andy. Perhaps we could have lunch. On Saturday.”

“Yes, thank you. I’d, I’d like that.” Gavallan hung up.

“What was the bad?” Scot asked.

Gavallan told him about Talbot and Ross and then about “turbulences.” “That’s too close to Whirlwind to be funny.”

“What’s this about Kasigi?”

“He wanted two 212s from Bandar Delam at once to service Iran-Toda - I had to stall.” Their meeting had been brief and blunt: “Sorry, Mr. Kasigi, it’s not possible to service you this week, or the next. I couldn’t, er, consider it for thirty days.”

“My chairman would greatly appreciate it. I understand you know him?” “Yes, I did, and if I could help I certainly would. Sorry, it’s just not possible.”

“But… then can you suggest an alternative? I must get helicopter support.” “What about a Japanese company?”

“There isn’t one. Is there… is there someone else to hold me over?” “Not to my knowledge. Guerney’ll never go back but they might know of someone.” He had given him their phone number and the distraught Japanese had rushed off.

He looked at his son. “Damned shame but nothing I could do to help him.” Scot said, “If the word’s out…” He eased the sling more comfortably. “If the word’s out then it’s out. All the more reason to press the titty.” “Or to cancel. Think I’ll drop by and see Duke. Track me down if anyone calls. Nogger’s taking over from you?”

“Yes. Midnight. JeanLuc’s still booked on the dawn flight to Bahrain, Pettikin to Kuwait. I’ve confirmed their seats.” Scot watched him. Gavallan did not answer the unsaid question. “Leave it like that for the moment.” He saw his son smile and nod and his heart was suddenly overflowing with love and concern and pride and fear for him, intermixed with his own hopes for a future that depended on his being able to extract all of them from the Iranian morass. He was surprised to hear himself say, “Would you consider giving up flying, laddie?”

“Eh?”

Gavallan smiled at his son’s astonishment. But now that he had said it, he decided to continue. “It’s part of a long-term plan. For you and the family. In fact I’ve two - just between ourselves. Of course both depend on whether we stay in business or not. The first is you give up flying and go out to Hong Kong for a couple of years to learn that end of Struan’s, back to Aberdeen for perhaps another year, then back to Hong Kong again where you’d base. The second’s that you go for a conversion course on the X63s, spend six months or so in the States, perhaps a year learning that end of the business, then to the North Sea for a season. Then out to Hong Kong.” “Always back to Hong Kong?”

“Yes. China will open up sometime for oil exploration and Ian and I want Struan’s to be ready with a complete operation, support choppers, rigs, the whole kit and caboodle.” He smiled strangely. “Oil for the lamps of China” was code for Ian Dunross’s secret plan, most of which Linbar Struan was not party to. “Air Struan‘11 be the new company and its area of responsibility and operation’d be China, the China Seas, and the whole China basin. Our end plan is that you’d head it.”

“Not much potential there,” Scot said with pretended diffidence. “Do you think Air Struan would have a future?” Then he let his smile out. “Again this is all just between us - Linbar’s not been given all the facts yet.”

Scot frowned. “Will he approve me going out there, joining Struan’s and doing this?”

“He hates me, Scot, not you. He hasn’t opposed you seeing his niece, has he?”

“Not yet. No, he hasn’t, not yet.”

“The timing’s right and we have to have a future plan - for the family. You’re the right age, I think you could do it.” Gavallan’s eyes picked up light. “You’re half-Dunross, you’re a direct descendant of Dirk Struan, and so you’ve responsibilities above and beyond yourself. You and your sister inherited your mother’s shares, you’d qualify for the Inner Office if you’re good enough. That burk Linbar’ll have to retire one day - even he can’t destroy the Noble House totally. What do you say to my plan?” “I’d like to think it over, Dad.”

What’s there to think over, laddie, he thought. “Night, Scot, I may drop back later.” He gave him a careful pat on his good shoulder and walked out. Scot won’t fail me, he told himself proudly.

In the spacious Customs and Immigration hall, passengers were trickling in from Immigration, others waiting for their baggage. The arrival board announced that the Gulf Air Flight 52 from Muscat, Oman’s capital, had arrived on time and was due to leave in fifteen minutes for Abu Dhabi, Bahrain, and Kuwait. The newstand was still open so he wandered over to see what papers were in. He was reaching for the London Times when he saw the headline, PRIME MINISTER CALLAGHAN CITES LABOUR’S SUCCESSES, and changed his mind. What do I need that for? he thought. Then he saw Genny McIver. She was sitting alone, near the boarding gate with a small suitcase beside her. “Hello, Genny, what are you doing here?”

She smiled sweetly. “I’m going to Kuwait.”

He smiled sweetly back. “What the hell for?”

“Because I need a holiday.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The button’s not even pushed yet and anyway, there’s nothing you can do there, nothing. You’d be in the way. You’re much better off waiting here. Genny, for God’s sake be reasonable.”

The set smile had not even flickered. “Are you finished?” “Yes.”

“I am reasonable, I’m the most reasonable person you know. Duncan McIver isn’t. He’s the most misguided, misbegotten twit I’ve ever come across in all my born days and to Kuwait I am going.” It was all said with an Olympian calm.

Wisely he changed tactics. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going instead of sneaking off like this? I’d’ve been worried to death if you’d been missing.” “If I’d asked you you’d’ve shanghaied me. I asked Manuela to tell you later, flight time, hotel, and phone number. But I’m glad you’re here, Andy. You can see me off. I’d like someone to see me off, hate seeing myself off - oh, you know what I mean!”

It was then he saw how frail she seemed. “You all right, Genny?” “Oh, yes. It’s just… well, I just must be there, have to be, I can’t sit here, and anyway part of this was my idea, I’m responsible too, and I don’t want anything - anything - to go wrong.”

“It won’t,” he said and both of them touched the wooden seat. Then he slipped his arm through hers. “It’s going to be all right. Listen, one good piece of news.” He told her about Erikki.

“Oh, that’s wonderful. Hakim Khan?” Genny searched her memory. “Wasn’t Azadeh’s brother, the one who was living in … blast, I’ve forgotten, someplace near Turkey, wasn’t his name Hakim?”

“Perhaps the telex was right then and it is Hakim ‘Khan.’ That should be great for them.”

“Yes. Her father sounded like an awful old man.” She looked up at him. “Have you decided yet? If it’s tomorrow?”

“No, not yet, not finally.”

“What about the weather?”

He told her. “Not much of a decider, either way,” she said. “Wish Mac was here. He’d be wise in a situation like this.” “No wiser than you, Andy.” They looked across at the departure board as the announcer called for passengers on Flight 52. They got up. “For what it’s worth, Andy, all other things being equal, Mac’s decided it’s tomorrow.” “Eh? How do you know that?”

“I know Duncan. ‘Bye, darling Andy.” She kissed him hurriedly and did not look back.

He waited until she had vanished. Deep in thought he went outside, not noticing Wesson near the newsstand, putting his fountain pen away.

BOOK FOUR

Chapter 60

AL SHARGAZ - THE OASIS HOTEL: 5:37 A.M. Gavallan stood at his window, already dressed, night still heavy except to the east, dawn due soon now. Threads of mist came in from the coast, half a mile away, to vanish quickly in the desert reaches. Sky eerily cloudless to the east, gradually building to thick cover overall. From where he was he could see most of the airfield. Runway lights were on, a small jet already taxiing out, and the smell of kerosene was on the wind that had veered more southerly. A knock on the door. “Come in! Ah, morning, JeanLuc, morning, Charlie.” “Morning, Andy. If we’re to catch our flight it’s time to leave,” Pettikin said, his nervousness running the words together. He was due to go to Kuwait, JeanLuc to Bahrain.

“Where’s Rodrigues?”

“He’s waiting downstairs.”

“Good, then you’d best be on your way.” Gavallan was pleased that his voice sounded calm. Pettikin beamed, JeanLuc muttered merde. “With your approval, Charlie, I propose pushing the button at 7:00 A.M. as planned - provided none of the bases pull the plug beforehand. If they do we’ll try again tomorrow. Agreed?”

“Agreed. No calls yet?”

“Not yet.”

Pettikin could hardly contain his excitement. “Well, off we go into the wild blue yonder! Come on, JeanLuc!”

JeanLuc’s eyebrows soared. “Mon Dieu, it’s Boy Scouts time!” Then he went for the door. “Great news about Erikki, Andy, but how’s he going to get out?”

“I don’t know. I’m seeing Newbury at the Consulate first thing to try to get a message to him - to get out via Turkey. Both of you call me the second you land. I’ll be in the office from six. See you later.”

He closed the door after them. Now it was done. Unless one of the bases aborted.

AT LENGEH: 5:49 A.M. False dawn’s light was barely perceptible through the overcast. Scragger wore a raincoat and trudged through the drizzle and puddles toward the cookhouse that had the only light on in the base. The wind pulled at his peaked flying cap, driving the soft rain into his face. To his surprise Willi was already in the cookhouse, sitting near the wood stove drinking coffee. “Morning, Scrag, coffee? I’ve just made it.” He motioned with his head into a corner. Curled up on the floor, fast asleep and near to the warmth, was one of the camp Green Bands. Scragger nodded and took off his raincoat. “Tea for me, me son. You’re up early, where’s the cook?” Willi shrugged and put the kettle back on the stove. “Late. I thought I’d have an early breakfast. I’m going to have some scrambled. How about if I cook for you too?”

Scragger was suddenly famished. “You’re on! Four eggs for me and two pieces of toast and I’ll go easy at lunch. We have any bread, sport?” He watched Willi open the refrigerator. Three loaves, plenty of eggs and butter. “Good oh! Can’t eat eggs without buttered toast. They don’t taste right.” He glanced at his watch.

“Wind’s veered almost south and up to thirty knots.” “My nose says she’ll lessen.” “My arse says she’ll lessen too but still she’s shitty.” Scragger laughed. “Have confidence, mate.” “I’ll be much more confident with my passport.” “Too right, so will I - but the plan still stays.” When he had got back last night from the sergeant, Vossi and Willi had been waiting for him. Well away from prying ears he had told them what had happened. Willi had said at once, and Vossi agreed, “We better alert Andy we may have to abort.”

“No,” Scragger said. “I figure it this way, sport: if Andy doesn’t call for Whirlwind in the morning I’ve all day to get our passports. If he calls for Whirlwind, it’ll be exactly at seven. That gives me plenty of time to get to the station at seven-thirty and back by eight. While I’m away you start the plan rolling.” “Jesus, Scrag, we been thr - ”

“Ed, will you listen? We leave anyway but bypass Al Shargaz where we know we’d have trouble and duck into Bahrain - I know the port officer there. We throw ourselves on his mercy - maybe even have an ‘emergency’ on the beach. Meanwhile we radio Al Shargaz the moment we’re clear of Iran skies for someone to meet us and bail us out. It’s the best I can think of and at least we’ve covered, either way.”

And it’s still the best I can think of, he told himself watching Willi at the stove, the butter in the frying pan beginning to sizzle. “I thought we were having scrambled?”

“This’s the way to scramble.” Willi’s voice edged.

“Bloody isn’t, you know,” Scragger said sharply. “You have to use water or milk an - ”

“By God Harry,” Willi snapped, “if you don’t want the… Scheiss! Sorry, didn’t mean to bite your head, Scrag. Sorry.”

“I’m touchy too, sport. No problem.”

“The, er, this way’s the way my mother does them. You put the eggs in without beating them, the whites cook white and then, quick as a wink you put in a little milk and you mix her, then the white’s white and the yolk’s yellow…” Willi found himself not able to stop. He had had a bad night, bad dreams, and bad feelings and now with the dawn he felt no better. Over in the corner the Green Band stirred, his nose filled with the smell of cooking butter and he yawned, nodded to them sleepily, then settled more comfortably and dozed off again. When the kettle boiled Scragger made himself some tea, glanced at his watch: 5:56 A.M. Behind him the door opened and Vossi wandered in, shook the rain off the umbrella.

“Hi, Scrag! Hey, Willi, coffee and two over easy with a side order of crisp bacon and hash brown for me.”

“Get stuffed!”

They all laughed, their anxiety making them light-headed. Scragger glanced at his watch again. Stop it! Stop it, he ordered himself. You’ve got to keep calm, then they’ll be calm. Easy to see they’re both ready to blow.

AT KOWISS: 6:24 A.M. McIver and Lochart were in the tower looking out at the rain and overcast. Both were dressed in flight gear, McIver seated in front of the HF, Lochart standing at the window. No lights on - just the reds and greens of the functioning equipment. No sound but the pleasing hum and the not so pleasing whine of the wind that came in the broken windows, rattling the aerial stanchions.

Lochart glanced at the wind counter. Twenty-five knots, gusting thirty from the south-southeast. Over by the hangar two mechanics were washing down the already clean two 212s, and the 206 McIver had brought from Tehran. Lights on in the cookhouse. Except for a skeleton cookhouse staff, McIver had told the office staff and laborers to take Friday off. After the shock of Esvandiary’s summary execution for “corruption” they had needed no encouragement to leave.

Lochart glanced at the clock. The second hand seemed interminably slow. A truck went by below. Another. Now it was exactly 6:30 A.M. “Sierra One, this is Lengeh.” It was Scragger reporting in as planned. McIver was greatly relieved. Lochart became grimmer.

“Lengeh, this is Sierra One, you’re five by five.” Scot’s voice from Al Shargaz was clean and clear. Sierra One was code for the office at Al Shargaz airport, Gavallan not wanting to draw any more attention to the sheikdom than necessary.

McIver clicked on the HF transmit. “Sierra One, this is Kowiss.” “Kowiss, this is Sierra One, you’re four by five.” “Sierra One, this’s Bandar Delam.” Both heard the tremble in Rudi’s voice.

“Bandar Delam, this’s Sierra One, you’re two by five.” Now only, static from the loudspeaker. McIver wiped his palms. “So far so good.” The coffee in his cup was cold and tasted awful but he finished it.

“Rudi sounded uptight, didn’t he?” Lochart said. “I’m sure I did too. So did Scrag.” McIver studied him, concerned for him; Lochart did not meet his eyes, just went over to the electric kettle and plugged it in. On the desk were four phones, two internal and two outside lines. In spite of his resolve, Lochart tried one of the outside phones, then the other. Both still dead. Dead for days now. Dead like me. No way of being in touch with Sharazad, no post.

“There’s a Canadian consul in Al Shargaz,” McIver said gruffly. “They could get through to Tehran for you from there.”

“Sure.” A gust rattled the temporary boarding over the broken window. Lochart paid the outside no attention, wondering about Sharazad, praying she would join him. Join me for what? The kettle Began to sing. He watched it. Since he had walked out of the apartment, he had blocked the future out of his mind. In the night it had surged back, much as he tried to prevent it. From the base came the first call of a muezzin. “Come to prayer, come to progress, prayer is better than sleep…”

*

AT BANDAR DELAM: 6:38 A.M. A sodden dawn, rain slight, wind less than yesterday. At the airfield Rudi Lutz, Sandor Petrofi, and Pop Kelly were in Rudi’s trailer, no lights on, drinking coffee. Outside on the veranda, Marc Dubois was stationed on guard against eavesdroppers. No lights on elsewhere in the base. Rudi glanced at his watch. “Hope to God it’s today,” Rudi said, “It’s today or never.” Kelly was very grim. “Make the call, Rudi.” “A minute yet.”

Through the window Rudi could see the maw of the hangar and their 212s. None of them had long-range tanks. Somewhere in the darkness, Fowler Joines and three mechanics were quietly putting the last of the spare fuel aboard, finishing preparations begun cautiously last night while the pilots diverted the camp guards and Numir. Just before going to bed the four of them had individually made their range calculations. They were all within ten nautical miles of each other.

“If the wind holds at this strength, we’re all in the goddamn sea,” Sandor had said softly, difficult to talk over the music but not safe without it - earlier Fowler Joines had spotted Numir lurking near Rudi’s trailer. “Yes,” Marc Dubois had agreed. “About ten kilometers out.” “Maybe we should blow Bahrain and divert to Kuwait, Rudi?” “No, Sandor, we’ve got to leave Kuwait open for Kowiss. Six Iranian registered choppers all zeroing in there? They’d have a hemorrhage.” “Where the hell’re the new registration numbers we were promised?” Kelly said, his nervousness growing every moment.

“We’re being met. Charlie Pettikin’s going to Kuwait, JeanLuc to Bahrain.” “Mon Dieu, that’s our bad luck,” Dubois had said, disgustedly. “JeanLuc’s always late, always. Those Pieds Noirs, they think like Arabs.” “If JeanLuc screws up this time,” Sandor had said, “he’ll be goddamn burger meat. Listen, about the gas, maybe we can get extra from Iran-Toda. It’s gonna look mighty suspicious to be loaded with all that gas, just to go down there.”

“Rudi, make the call. It’s time.”

“Okay, okay!” Rudi took a deep breath, picked up the mike. “Sierra One, this’s Bandar Delam, do you read? This is …”

AT AL SHARGAZ HQ: 6:40 A.M. “… Bandar Delam, do you read?”

Gavallan was sitting in front of the HF, Scot beside him, Nogger Lane leaning against a desk behind them, Manuela in the only other chair. All were rigid, staring at the loudspeaker, all sure the call meant trouble as the Whirlwind plan called for radio silence before 7:00 A.M. and during the actual escape, except in emergencies. “Bandar Delam, Sierra One,” Scot said throatily. “You’re two by five, go ahead.”

“We don’t know how your day is but we’ve some planned flights this morning and we’d like to bring them forward to now. Do you approve?” “Standby One,” Scot said.

“Damnation,” Gavallan muttered. “It’s essential all bases leave at the same time.” Then again the airwaves crackled into life.

“Sierra One, this’s Lengeh,” Scragger’s voice was much louder and clearer and more sharp. “We’ve flights too but the later the better. How’s your weather?”

“Standby One, Lengeh.” Scot glanced across at Gavallan, waiting. “Call Kowiss,” Gavallan said and everyone relaxed a little. “We’ll check with them first.”

“Kowiss, this’s Sierra One, do you read?” Silence. “Kowiss, this’s Sierra One, do you read?”

“This’s Kowiss, go ahead.” McIver’s voice sounded strained and was intermittent.

“Did you copy?”

“Yes. Prefer firm forecast as planned.”

“That decides it.” Gavallan took the mike. “Sierra One, all bases, our weather’s changeable. We will have your firm forecast at 0700.” “We copy,” Scragger said.

“We copy.” Rudi’s voice was brittle.

“We copy.” McIver sounded relieved.

Again the airwaves were silent. Gavallan said to no one in particular, “Better to stick to the plan. Don’t want to alert APC unnecessarily, or get that bugger Siamaki more difficult than usual. Rudi could have aborted if it was urgent, he still can.” He got up and stretched, then sat down again. Static. They were also listening on the emergency channel, 121.5. The Pan Am jumbo took off rattling the windows.

Manuela shifted in her seat, feeling she was encroaching even though Gavallan had said, “Manuela, you listen with us too, you’re the only Farsi speaker among us.” The time did not weigh so heavily for her. Her man was safe, a little damaged but safe, and her heart was singing with joy for the blessed luck that brought him out of the maelstrom. “Because that’s what it is, honey,” she had told him last night at the hospital.

“Maybe, but without Hussain’s help I’d still be in Kowiss.” If it wasn’t for that mullah you would never’ve been hit, she had thought but did not say it, not wanting to agitate him. “Can I get you anything, darlin’?” “A new head!” “They’re bringing a pill in a minute. Doctor said you’ll be flying in six weeks, that you’ve the constitution of a roan buffalo.”

“I feel like a bent chicken.” She had laughed.

Now she let herself drift comfortably, not having to sweat out the waiting like the others, particularly Genny. Two minutes to go. Static. Gavallan’s fingers drumming. A private jet took off and she could see another airplane on final, a jumbo with Alitalia colors. Wonder if that’ll be Paula’s flight back from Tehran?

The minute hand on the clock touched twelve. At 7:00 A.M. Gavallan took the mike. “Sierra One to all bases: Our forecast’s settled and we expect improving weather but watch out for small whirlwinds. Do you copy?” “Sierra One, this’s Lengeh.” Scragger was breezy. “We copy and will watch for whirlwinds. Out.”

“Sierra One, this’s Bandar Delam, we copy, and will watch for whirlwinds. Out.”

Silence. The seconds ticked by. Unconsciously Gavallan bit his lower lip. Waiting, then he clicked the transmit button. “Kowiss, do you read?”

AT KOWISS: 7:04 A.M. McIver and Lochart were staring at the HF. Almost together they checked their watches. Lochart muttered, “It’s an abort for today,” wet with relief. Another day’s reprieve, he thought. Maybe today the phones’ll come back in, maybe today I can talk to her… “They’d still call, that’s part of the plan, they call either way.” McIver clicked the switch on and off. The lights all checked out. So did the dials. “To hell with it,” he said and clicked on the sender. “Sierra One, this’s Kowiss, do you read?” Silence. Again, even more anxiously, “Sierra One, this’s Kowiss, do you read?” Silence.

“What the hell’s with them?” Lochart said through his teeth. “Lengeh, this’s Kowiss, do you read?” No answer. Abruptly McIver remembered and jumped to his feet and ran to the window. The main cable to the transmitter-receiver aerial was hanging loose, flapping in the wind. Cursing, McIver tore the door to the roof open and went out into the cold. His fingers were strong but the nuts were too rusted to move and he saw that the soldered wire ring was eaten away by rust and had fractured. “Bloody hell…” “Here.” Lochart was beside him and gave him the pliers. “Thanks.” McIver began to scrape the rust away. The rain had almost stopped but neither noticed it. A nimble of thunder. Sheet lightning flickered in the Zagros, most of the mountains clouded. As he worked hurriedly, he told Lochart how Wazari had spent so much time on the roof yesterday fixing the cable. “When I came on this morning I made a routine call so I knew she was working and we were loud and clear at 6:30 and again at 6:40. The wind must’ve pulled the wire between then and now…” The pliers slipped and he ripped a finger and cursed more. “Let me do it?”

“No, it’s fine. Couple of seconds.”

Lochart went back into the tower cabin: 7:07. The base still quiet. Over at the air base some trucks were moving around but no airplanes. Down by the hangar their two mechanics still fiddled with the 212s, according to plan, Freddy Ayre with them. Then he saw Wazari cycling along the inside perimeter road. His heart nipped. “Mac, there’s Wazari, coming from the base.” “Stop him, tell him anything but stop him.” Lochart rushed off down the stairs. McIver’s heart was thundering. “Come on, for God’s sake,” he said and cursed himself again for not checking. Check check and recheck, safety is no accident it has to be planned!

Again the pliers slipped. Again he applied them and now the nuts were moving down the bolt. Now one side was tight. For a second he was tempted to risk it, but his caution overcame his anxiety and he tightened the other side. A tentative pull on the cable. Tight. He hurried back, sweat pouring off him: 7:16.

For a moment he could not catch his breath. “Come on, McIver, for the love of God!” He took a deep breath and that helped. “Sierra One, this is Kowiss, do you read?”

Scot’s anxious voice came back at once. “Kowiss, Sierra One, go ahead.” “Do you have any information on any weather for us?”

At once Gavallan’s voice, even more anxious: “Kowiss, we sent out the following at exactly 0700: our forecast’s settled and we expect improving weather but watch out for small whirlwinds. Do you copy?” McIver exhaled. “We copy, and will watch for small whirlwinds. Did, did the others copy?”

“Affirmative…”

AT AL SHARGAZ HQ: “… I say again, affirmative.” Gavallan repeated into the mike. “What happened?”

“No problem,” McIver’s voice came back, his signal weak. “See you soon, out.” Now the airwaves were silent. A sudden cheer erupted in the room, Scot embraced his father and gasped as pain ripped up from his shoulder but no one noticed in the pandemonium. Manuela was hugging Gavallan, and she said, “I’m going to phone the hospital, Andy, I’ll be back in a second,” and ran off. Nogger was jumping up and down with glee and Gavallan said happily, “I think all nonpilots deserve a large bottle of beer!”

AT KOWISS: McIver switched off the set and slumped back in the chair, collecting himself, feeling strange - light-headed and heavy-handed. “Never mind that, it’s a go!” he said. It was quiet in the tower except for the wind that creaked the door he had left open in his haste. He closed it and saw the rain had stopped, the clouds still gloomy. Then he noticed his finger was still bleeding. Beside the HF was a paper towel and he tore a piece off and wrapped it crudely around the wound. His hands were trembling. On a sudden impulse, he went outside and knelt beside the connecting wire. It took all his strength to pull it loose. Then he double checked the tower, wiped the sweat off his brow, and went down the stairs.

Lochart and Wazari were in Esvandiary’s office, Wazari unshaven and grubby, a curious electricity in the air. No time to worry about that, McIver thought, Scrag and Rudi’re already airborne. “Morning, Sergeant,” McIver said curtly, aware of Lochart’s scrutiny. “I thought I gave you the day off - we’ve no traffic of any importance.”

“Yeah, Captain, you did but I, er, I couldn’t sleep and… I don’t feel safe over in the base.” Wazari noticed McIver’s flushed face and the crude paper bandage. “You okay?”

“Yes, I’m all right, just cut my finger on the broken window.” McIver glanced at Lochart who was sweating as much as he was. “We’d better be going, Tom. Sergeant, we’re ground-testing the 212s.” He saw Lochart glance at him abruptly. “Yes sir. I’ll inform base,” Wazari said. “No need for that.” Momentarily McIver was at a loss, then the answer came to him. “For your own sake, if you’re going to hang around here, you’d better get ready for Minister Kia.” The color went out of the man’s face. “What?” “He’s due shortly for the return flight to Tehran. Weren’t you the only witness against him and poor bloody Hotshot?”

“Sure, but I heard them,” Wazari flared, needing to justify himself. “Kia’s a bastard and a liar and so’s Hotshot and they had this deal cooking. Have you forgotten Hotshot was the one who ordered Ayre beaten up? They would have killed him, have you forgotten mat? Esvandiary and Kia, everything 1 said was true, it was true.”

“I’m sure it was. I believe you. But he’s bound to be plenty bloody aggravated if he sees you, isn’t he? So will the office staff, they were all very angry. They’ll certainly give you away. Perhaps I can divert Kia,” McIver said as a sop, hoping to keep him on their side, “perhaps not. If I were you I’d make myself scarce, don’t hang around here. Come on, Tom.” McIver turned to go but Wazari stood in his way.

“Don’t forget I’m the one who stopped a massacre by saying Sandor’s load shifted, but for me he’d be dead, but for me you’d all be up before a komiteh… you’ve got to help me…” Tears were streaming down his face now, “you gotta help me…”

“I’ll do what I can,” McIver said, sorry for him, and walked out. Outside he had to stop himself from running over to the others, seeing their anxiety, then Lochart caught up with him.

“Whirlwind?” he asked, having to hurry to keep alongside. “Yes, Andy pressed the button on the dot at 0700 as planned, Scrag and Rudi copied and are probably already on their way,” McIver said, the words tumbling over one another, not noticing Lochart’s sudden despair. Now they reached Ayre and the mechanics. “Whirlwind!” McIver croaked and to all of them the word sounded like a clarion call.

“Jolly good.” Freddy Ayre kept his voice flat, holding his excitement inside. The others did not. “Why the delay? What happened?” “Tell you later, start up, let’s get on with it!” McIver headed for the first 212, Ayre the second, the mechanics already jumping into the cabins. At that moment a staff car with Colonel Changiz and some airmen swung into the compound and stopped outside the office building. All the airmen carried guns, all wore green armbands.

“Ah, Captain, you’re flying Minister Kia back to Tehran?” Changiz seemed a little flustered, and angry.

“Yes, yes, I am, at ten, ten o’clock.”

“I had a message that he wants to bring his departure forward to eight o’clock but you’re not to leave until ten as your clearance states. Clear?” “Yes, but th - ”

“I would have phoned but your phones are out again and there’s something wrong with your radio. Don’t you service your equipment? It was working then went off.” McIver saw the colonel look at the three choppers lined up, begin to go toward them. “I didn’t know you had revenue flights today.” “Just ground-testing one and the other has to test avionics for tomorrow’s crew change at Rig Abu Sal, Colonel,” McIver said hastily and to further divert him, “What’s the problem with Minister Kia?”

“No problem,” he said irritably, then glanced at his watch and changed his mind about inspecting the helicopters. “Get someone to fix your radio and you come with me. The mullah Hussain wants to see you. We’ll be back in good time.”

Lochart got his mouth moving. “I’d be glad to drive Captain McIver over in a minute, there’re a few things here he sho - ”

“Hussain wants to see Captain McIver, not you - now! You deal with the radio!” Changiz told his men to wait for him, got into the driver’s seat, and beckoned McIver to sit beside him. Blankly, McIver obeyed. Changiz drove off and his driver wandered toward the office, the other airmen spread out, peered at the choppers. Both 212s were crammed with the last of the important spares, loaded last night. Trying to be nonchalant, the mechanics closed the cabin doors, started polishing.

Ayre and Lochart stared after the departing car. Ayre said, “Now what?” “I don’t know - we can’t leave without him.” Lochart felt nauseous.

AT BANDAR DELAM: 7:26 A.M. The four 212s were out of the hangar parked for takeoff. Fowler Joines and the other three mechanics were pottering in the back of the cabins, waiting impatiently. Unwieldy forty-gallon drums of reserve gasoline were lashed in place. Many crates of spares. Suitcases hidden under tarpaulins.

“Com’ on, for effs sweet sake,” Fowler said and wiped the sweat off, the air of the cabin heavy with gasoline.

Through the open cabin door he could see Rudi, Sandor, and Pop Kelly still waiting in the hangar, everything ready as planned except for the last pilot, Dubois, ten minutes late and no one knowing if Base Manager Numir or one of the staff or Green Bands had intercepted him. Then he saw Dubois come out of his door and almost had a fit. With Gallic indifference, Dubois was carrying a suitcase, his raincoat over his arm. As he strolled passed the office, Numir appeared at the window.

“Let’s go,” Rudi croaked and went for his cabin as calmly as he could, clipped on his seat belt, and stabbed Engines Start. Sandor did likewise, Pop Kelly a second behind him, their rotors gathering speed. Leisurely, Dubois tossed his suitcase to Fowler, laid his raincoat carefully on a crate, and got into the pilot’s seat, at once started up, not bothering with his seat belt or checklist. Fowler was swearing incoherently. Their jets were building nicely and Dubois hummed a little song, adjusted his headset, and now, when all was prepared, fastened his seat belt. He did not see Numir rush out of his office.

“Where are you going?” Numir shouted to Rudi through his side window. “Iran-Toda, it’s on the manifest.” Rudi continued with the start-up drill. VHF on, HF on, needles coming into the Green.

“But you haven’t asked Abadan for engine start an - ”

“It’s Holy Day, Agha, you can do that for us.”

Numir shouted angrily, “That’s your job! You’re to wait for Zataki. You must wait for the col - ”

“Quite right, I want to make sure my chopper’s ready the instant he arrives - very important to please him, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but why was Dubois carrying a suitcase?”

“Oh, you know Frenchmen,” he said, saying the first thing that came into his head, “clothes are important; he’s sure he’s going to be based at Iran-Toda and he’s taking a spare uniform.” His gloved thumb hovered over the transmit switch on the col-umn. Don’t, he ordered himself, don’t be impatient, they all know what to do, don’t be impatient.

Then, behind Numir, through the haze, visibility down to a few hundred yards, Rudi saw the Green Band truck lumber through the main gate and stop, its noise covered by their jets. But it wasn’t Zataki, just some of their normal Green Band guards and they stood there in a group watching the 212s curiously. Never before had four 212s been started up at once. In his headphones he heard Dubois, “Ready, mon vieux,” then Pop Kelly, then Sandor, and he clicked the send switch and said into the boom mike, “Go!,” leaned closer to the window, and beckoned Numir. “No need for the others to wait, I’m waiting.”

“But you were ordered to go in a group and your clearances…” The base manager’s voice was drowned by the mass of engines shoved to full power, emergency takeoff procedure, conforming to the plan the pilots had secretly agreed on last night, Dubois going right, Sandor left, Kelly straight ahead like a covey of snipe scattering. In seconds they were airborne and away, staying very low. Numir’s face went purple, “But you were told th…” “This is for your safety, Agha, we’re trying to protect you,” Rudi called over the jets, beckoning him forward again, all his own needles in the Green; “this way’s better, Agha, this way we’ll do the job and no problem. We’ve got to protect you and IranOil.” In his earphones he heard Dubois break mandatory radio silence and say urgently, “There’s a car almost at the gates!”

At that instant Rudi saw it and recognized Zataki in the front seat. Maximum power. “Agha, I’m just going to take her up a few feet, my torque counter’s jumping…”

Whatever Numir was screaming was lost in the noise. Zataki was barely a hundred yards away. Rudi felt the rotors biting into the air, then lift off. For a moment it looked as though Numir were going to jump onto a skid but he ducked out of the way, the skid scraping him, and fell as Rudi got forward momentum and lumbered away, almost bursting with excitement. Ahead, the others were in station over the marsh. He waggled his chopper from side to side as he joined them, gave them the thumbs-up, and led the rush for the Gulf four miles distant.

Numir was choked with rage as he picked himself up, and Zataki’s car skidded to a halt beside him. “By God, what’s going on?” Zataki said furiously, jumping out, the choppers already vanished into the haze, the sound of the engines dying away now. “They were supposed to wait for me!” “I know, I know, Colonel, I told them but they … they just took off an - ” Numir screamed as the fist smashed him in the side of the face and felled him. The other Green Bands watched indifferently, used to these outbursts. One of the men pulled Numir to his feet, slapped his face to bring him around.

Zataki was cursing the sky and when the spasm of rage had passed, he said, “Bring that piece of camel’s turd and follow me.” Storming past the open hangar he saw the two 206s parked neatly in the back, spares laid out here and there, a fan drying some new paintwork - all Rudi’s painstaking camouflage to give them an extra few minutes. “I’ll make those dogs wish they’d waited,” he muttered, his head aching.

He kicked the door of the office open and stormed over to the radio transmitter and sat down near it. “Numir, get those men on the loudspeaker!” “But Janan, our radio operator isn’t here yet and I do - ” “Do it!”

The terrified man switched on the VHF, his mouth bleeding and hardly able to talk. “Base calling Captain Lutz!” He waited, then repeated the order, adding, “Urgent!”

IN THE AIRPLANES: They were barely ten feet above the marshland and a few hundred yards away when they heard Zataki’s angry voice cut in: “All helicopters are recalled to base, recalled to base! Report in!” Rudi made a slight adjustment to the engine power and to the trim. In the chopper nearest to him he saw Marc Dubois point at his headset and make an obscene gesture. He smiled and did likewise, then noticed the sweat running down his face. “ALL HELICOPTERS REPORT IN! ALL…”

AT THE AIRFIELD: “… HELICOPTERS REPORT IN.” Zataki was shrieking into the mike. “ALL HELICOPTERS REPORT IN!”

Nothing but static answered him. Suddenly Zataki slammed the mike onto the table. “Get Abadan Tower! HURRY UP!” he shouted and the terrified Numir, blood trickling into his beard, switched channels, and after the sixth call, this time in Farsi, got the tower. “Here is Abadan Tower, Agha, please go ahead.”

Zataki tore the mike out of his hand. “This is Colonel Zataki, Abadan Revolutionary Komiteh,” he said in Farsi, “calling from Bandar Delam airfield.”

“Peace be upon you, Colonel,” the voice was very deferential. “What can we do for you?”

“Four of our helicopters took off without approval, going to Iran-Toda. Recall them, please.”

“Just a moment, please.” Muffled voices. Zataki waited, his face mottled. Waiting and waiting, then, “Are you sure, Agha? We do not see them on the radar screen.”

“Of course I’m sure. Recall them!”

More muffled voices and more waiting, Zataki ready to explode, then a voice in Farsi said, “The four helicopters that left Bandar Delam are ordered to return to their base. Please acknowledge you are doing this.” It was transmitted ineptly and repeated. Then the voice added, “Perhaps their radios are not functioning, Agha, the blessings of God upon you.” “Keep calling them! They’re low and heading toward Iran-Toda.” More muffled voices, then more Farsi as before, then a sudden voice cut in in American English, “Okay, I’ll take it! This is Abadan Control. Choppers on a heading of 090 degrees, do you read?”

IN DUBOIS’S COCKPIT: His compass heading was 091 degrees. Again the crisp voice in his earphones: “This is Abadan Control, choppers on a heading of 090 degrees one mile from the coast, do you read?” A pause. “Abadan Control, choppers on a heading of 090 switch to channel 121.9…do you read?” This was the emergency channel that all aircraft were supposed to listen in on automatically. “Choppers on a heading of 090 degrees one mile from the coast return to base. Do you read?”

Through the haze Dubois saw that the coast was approaching fast, less than half a mile away, but flying this low he doubted if they could possibly be on radar. He looked left. Rudi pointed at his earphones and then a finger to his lips meaning silence. He gave him the thumbs-up and passed the message to Sandor who was on his right, turned to see Fowler Joines climbing in from the cabin to sit beside him. He motioned to the spare headset hanging above the seat. The voice was more brittle now: “All choppers outward bound from Bandar Delam to Iran-Toda return to base. Do you read?”

Fowler, connected now through the headset, said into their intercom, “Hope the effer drops dead!”

Then again the voice and their smiles faded: “Abadan Control to Colonel Zataki. Do you read?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“We picked up a momentary radar trace, probably nothing, but it could have been a chopper or choppers tightly bunched, heading 090 degrees” - the transmission was weakening slightly - “this would take them direct…”

AT THE AIRFIELD: “…Iran-Toda. Not requesting engine start and not being in radio contact is a serious violation. Please give us their call signs and names of the captains. Iran-Toda’s VHF is still inoperative otherwise we would contact them. Suggest you send someone down there to arrest the pilots and bring them before the ATC Abadan komiteh at once for contravening air regulations. Do you copy?”

“Yes … yes, I understand. Thank you. Just a moment.” Zataki shoved the mike into Numir’s hands. “I’m going to Iran-Toda! If they come back before I get them, they’re under arrest! Give Traffic Control what they want to know!” He stormed out, leaving three men on base with machine guns. Numir began, “Abadan Control, Bandar Delam: HVV, HGU, HKL, HXC, all 212s. Captains Rudi Lutz, Marc Dubois …”

IN POP KELLY’S COCKPIT: “… Sandor Petrofi, and Ignatius Kelly, all seconded from IranOil by Colonel Zataki’s order to Iran-Toda.”

“Thank you, Bandar Delam, keep us advised.”

Kelly looked right and gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up to Rudi who acknowledged…

IN RUDI’S COCKPIT: … and did the same to Dubois who also acknowledged. Then he peered into the haze once more.

The closely bunched choppers were almost over the coastline. Iran-Toda was to their left, about half a mile away, but Rudi could see none of it through the haze or mist. He accelerated slightly to get ahead, then turned from his heading of due south to due east. This gave them a deliberate direct course over the plant and he increased altitude only enough to clear the buildings. The complex rushed past but he knew that those on the ground would be well aware of their flight because of the howling suddenness of its appearance. Once past, he went down low again and held this same course, now heading inland for a little more than ten miles. Here the land was desolate, no villages nearby. Again, according to their plan, he turned due south for the sea.

At once visibility began to deteriorate. Down here at twenty feet, visibility was barely a quarter of a mile with a partial whiteout where there was no demarcation between sky and sea. Ahead, almost directly in their path, sixty-odd miles away, was Kharg Island with its immensely powerful radar and, beyond that, another two hundred and twenty miles, their landfall Bahrain. At least two hours of flying. With this wind more, the thirty-five southeasterly becoming a relative twenty-knot headwind. Down here in the soup it was dangerous. But they thought they should be able to slip under radar if the screens were manned - and should be able to avoid fighter intercept, if any.

Rudi moved the stick from side to side waggling his chopper, then touched his HF Transmit button momentarily. “Delta Four, Delta Four,” he said clearly, their code to Al Shargaz that all four Bandar Delam choppers were safe and leaving the coast. He saw Dubois point upward asking him to go higher. He shook his head, pointed ahead and down, ordering them to stay low and keep to the plan. Obediently they spread out and together they left the land and went into the deepening haze.

AT AL SHARGAZ HQ: Gavallan was on the phone to the hospital: “Quickly. Give me Captain Starke, please… Hello, Duke, it’s Andy, I just wanted to tell you we received ‘Delta Four’ from Rudi a minute ago, isn’t that marvelous?” “Wonderful, great! Fantastic! Four out and five to go!”

“Yes, but it’s six, don’t forget Erikki…”

Chapter 61

LENGEH: 8:04 A.M. Scragger was still waiting in the outer office of the police station. He sat disconsolately on a wooden bench in front of the gendarme corporal who looked down on him from a tall desk behind a chest-high partition.

Once again Scragger checked his watch. He had arrived at 7:20 in case the office opened early but the corporal had not arrived until 7:45 and waved him politely to the bench and invited him to wait. It was the longest wait he had ever had.

Rudi and the Kowiss lads must be airborne by now, he thought miserably, just like we’d’ve been if it wasn’t for the bloody passports. Another minute then that’s it. Daren’t wait any longer - daren’t; it’ll still take us an hour or more to get away and sure to God there’ll be a slipup somewhere between the three bases, bound to be some nosy parker who’ll start asking questions and set the airwaves afire - apart from that burk, Siamaki. Last night Scragger had been on the HF and had monitored Siamaki’s petulant calls to Gavallan at Al Shargaz, also to McIver at Kowiss telling him that he would meet him today at Tehran Airport.

Bloody burk! But I still think I was right not to call Andy and abort. Hell, we’ve got the easiest shot of all and if I’d put Whirlwind off until tomorrow there’d be something else, either with us or with one of the others, and there’d be no way old Mac could avoid flying back to Tehran today with bloody Kia. Can’t risk that, just can’t. Easy to hear Mac was as nervous as an old woman out to sea in a bucket.

The door opened and he looked up. Two young gendarmes came in, dragging a bruised young man between them, his clothes ripped and filthy. “Who’s he?” the corporal asked.

“A thief. We caught him stealing, Corporal, the poor fool was stealing rice from the bazaari Ishmael. We caught him during our patrol, just before dawn.”

“As God wants. Put him in the second cell.” Then the corporal shouted at the youth, startling Scragger who did not understand the Farsi, “Son of a dog! How can you be so stupid to be caught? Don’t you know it’s no longer a simple beating now! How many times do you all have to be told? It’s Islamic law now! Islamic law!”

“I… I was hungry… my…”

The terrified youth moaned as one of the gendarmes shook him roughly. “Hunger’s no excuse, by God. I’m hungry, our families’re hungry, we’re all hungry, of course we’re hungry!” They frog-marched the youth out of the room.

The corporal cursed him again, sorry for him, then glanced at Scragger, nodded briefly, and went back to his work. How stupid for the foreigner to be here on a Holy Day but if the old one wants to wait all day and all night until the sergeant comes tomorrow he can wait all day and all night. His pen scratched loudly, setting Scragger’s teeth on edge: 8:11. Grimly he got up, pretended to thank the corporal who politely pressed him to stay. Then he went for the door and almost bumped into Qeshemi. “Oh, sorry, mate! Salaam, Agha Qeshemi, salaam.”

“Salaam, Agha.” Qeshemi saw Scragger’s relief and impatience. Sardonically he motioned him to wait as he went over to the desk, his shrewd eyes reading the corporal clearly. “Greetings, Achmed, God’s peace on you.” “And on you, Excellency Sergeant Qeshemi.”

“What trouble do we have today - I know what the foreigner wants.” “There was another Islamic-Marxist meeting near midnight down by the docks. One mujhadin was killed and we’ve another seven in the cells - it was easy, the ambush went easily, thanks be to God, and Green Bands helped us. What’ll we do with them?”

“Obey the new rules,” Qeshemi said patiently. “Bring the prisoners up before the Revolutionary Komiteh when they get here tomorrow morning. Next?” The corporal told him about the youth. “Same with him - son of a dog to be caught!”

Qeshemi went through the partition gate to the safe, pulled out the key, and began to open it.

“Thanks be to God, I thought the key was lost,” the corporal said. “It was but Lafti found it. I went to his house this morning. He had it in his pocket.” The passports were on the boxes of ammunition. He brought them over to the desk, carefully checked them, signed the permit in the name of Khomeini, checked them again. “Here, Agha Pilot,” he said, and handed them to Scragger.

“Mamnoon am, Agha, khoda haefez.” Thank you, Excellency, good-bye. “Khoda haefez, Agha.” Sergeant Qeshemi shook the proffered hand, thoughtfully watched him leave. Through the window he saw Scragger drive off quickly. Too quickly. “Achmed, do we have gasoline in the car?” “There was yesterday, Excellency.”

AT BANDAR DELAM AIRPORT: 8:18 A.M. Now Numir was running frantically from one mechanic’s trailer to the next, but they were all empty. He rushed back to his office. Janan, the radio op, looked at him startled. “They’ve gone! Everyone’s gone, pilots, mechanics… and most of their things are gone too!” Numir stuttered, his face still livid from the blow Zataki had given him. “Those sons of dogs!” “But… but they’ve only gone to Iran-Toda, Excell - ” “I tell you they’ve fled, and they fled with our helicopters!” “But our two 206s are there in the hangar, I saw them, and a fan’s even drying the paint. Excellency Rudi wouldn’t leave a fan on like tha - ”

“By God, I tell you they’ve gone!”

Janan, a middle-aged man wearing glasses, switched on the HF. “Captain Rudi, this’s base, do you read?”

IN RUDI’S COCKPIT: Both Rudi and his mechanic Fagan - witch heard the call clearly. “Base to Captain Rudi, do you read?” Rudi moved the trim a fraction then relaxed again, looking right and left. He saw Kelly motion at his headset, raise two fingers, and gesture. He acknowledged. Then his glee faded: “Tehran, this’s Bandar Delam, do you read?” All pilots tensed. No answer. “Kowiss, this’s Bandar Delam, do you read?” No answer. “Lengeh, this’s Bandar Delam, do you read?”

“Bandar Delam, this’s Lengeh, you’re two by five, go ahead.” At once there was a spate of Farsi from Janan that Rudi did not understand, then the two operators talked back and forth. After a pause, Janan said in English: “Tehran, this is Bandar Delam, do you read?” Static. The call repeated. Static. Then, “Kowiss, do you read?” Then silence again.

“For the moment,” Rudi muttered.

“What was all that about, Captain?” Faganwitch asked.

“We’re pegged. It’s barely fifty minutes since we took off and we’re pegged!” There were fighter bases all around them and ahead was the big, very efficient one at Kharg. He had no doubt whatsoever that if they were intercepted they would be shot down like HBC. Correctly, he thought, sickened. And though they were safe enough at the moment down here just above the waves, visibility now less than a quarter of a mile, before long the haze would thin out and then they would be helpless. Again Jahan’s voice, “Tehran, this is Bandar Delam, do you read?” Static. “Kowiss, this is Bandar Delam, do you read?” No reply.

Rudi cursed to himself. Janan was a good radio op, persistent, and would keep calling until Kowiss or Tehran reported in. And then? That’s their problem, not mine. Mine’s to get my four out safely, that’s all I have to worry about. I’ve got to lead my four out safely.

Ten to fifteen feet below were the waves, not yet white-topped but gray and nasty and the wind had not lessened. He looked across at Kelly and waved his hand from left to right, the signal to spread out more and not to try to keep visual contact if visibility got any worse. Kelly acknowledged. He did the same to Dubois who passed the message on to Sandor, on his extreme right, then settled down to squeeze maximum range with minimum fuel, straining his eyes to pierce the whiteout ahead. Soon they would be deep in the real sea lanes.

LENGEH, AT THE AIRFIELD: 8:31 A.M. “Jesus, Scrag, we thought you’d been arrested,” Vossi burst out, Willi with him, intercepting his car, both of them weak with relief, their three mechanics also crowding around. “What happened?”

“I’ve got the passports, so let’s get on with it.”

“We gotta problem.” Vossi was white.

Scragger grimaced, still sweating from the waiting and the ride back. “Now wot?”

“Ali Pash’s here. He’s on the HF. He came in as usual, we tried to send him off but he wouldn’t go an - ”

Impatiently, Willi butted in: “And for the last five minutes, Scrag, for the last five or ten minutes he’s been by God Harry peculiar an - ” “Like he’s got a vibrator up his ass, Scrag, never seen him like th - ” Vossi stopped. Ali Pash came out onto the veranda of the office radio room and beckoned Scragger urgently.

“Be right there, Ali,” Scragger called out. To Benson, their chief mechanic, Scragger whispered, “You and your lads all set?”

“Yessir.” Benson was small, wiry, and nervous. “I got your stuff into the wagon just before Ali Pash came along. We scarper?”

“Wait till I get to the office. Ev - ”

“We got Delta Four, Scrag,” Willi said, “nothing from the others.”

“Bonzer. Everyone wait till I give the signal.” Scragger took a deep breath and walked off, greeting the Green Bands he passed. “Salaam, Ali Pash, g’day,” he said, seeing the nervousness and anxiety. “I thought I gave you the day off.”

“Agha, there someth - ”

“Just a sec, me son!” Scragger turned and with pretended irascibility called out, “Benson, I told you if you and Drew want to go and picnic to go, but you’d better be back by two o’clock or else! And wot the hell’re you two waiting for? Are you ground-checking or aren’t you?”

“Yeah, Scrag, sorry, Scrag!”

He almost laughed seeing them fall over one another, Benson and the American mechanic, Drew, jumping into the old van and driving off, Vossi and Willi heading for their cockpits. Once inside the office he breathed easier, put his briefcase with the passports on his desk. “Now, wot’s the problem?” “You’re leaving us, Agha,” the young man said to Scragger’s shock.

“Well, we, er, we’re not leaving,” Scragger began, “we’re ground-test - ”

“Oh, but you’re leaving, you are! There’s…there’s no crew change tomorrow, there’s no need for suitcases - I saw Agha Benson with suitcases - and why all the spares sent out and all the pilots and mechanics …” The tears began streaming down the young man’s cheeks. “… it’s true.” “Now listen here, me son, you’re upset. Take the day off.” “But you’re leaving like those at Bandar Delam, you’re leaving today and what’s going to happen to us?”

A burst of Farsi from the HF loudspeaker overrode him. The young man wiped away his tears and touched the transmit, replying in Farsi, then added in English, “Standby One,” and said miserably, “That was Agha Janan again repeating what he radioed ten minutes ago. Their four 212s have vanished, Agha. They’ve gone, Agha. They took off at 7:32 A.M. to go to Iran-Toda but didn’t land there, just went inland.”

Scragger groped for his chair, trying to appear calm. Again the HF, in English now: “Tehran, this’s Bandar Delam, do you read?”

“He calls Tehran every few minutes, and Kowiss, but no answer…” More tears welled out of the young man’s eyes. “Have Kowiss already gone too, Agha? Is Tehran empty of your people? What’re we going to do when you’ve gone?” On the ramp the first of the 212s started up noisily, closely followed by the second. “Agha,” Ali Pash said uneasily, “we’re supposed to request engine start from Kish now.”

“No need to bother them on their holiday, it’s hardly a flight, just testing,” Scragger said. He switched on the VHF and wiped his chin, feeling somehow dirty and greatly unsettled. He liked Ali Pash and what the young man had said was true. With them gone there was no job, no business, and for the Ali Pashes there was only Iran, and only God knew what would happen here. Over the VHF came Willi’s voice: “My torque counter’s acting up, Scrag.”

Scragger took the mike. “Take her over to the cabbage patch and test her.” This was an area some five miles inland, well away from the town where they tested engines and could practice emergency procedures. “Stay there, Willi, any problem call me, I can always fetch Benson if you need an adjustment. How you doing, Ed?”

“Dandy, real dandy. Scrag, if it’s okay, I’d like to practice some engine outs, my license renewal’s coming up soon - Willi can bird-dog me, huh?” “Okay. Call me in an hour.” Scragger went to the window, glad to have his back to Ali Pash and away from those sad, accusing eyes. Both choppers took off and headed inland away from the coast. The office seemed to be stuffier than usual. He opened the window. Ali Pash was sitting gloomily by the radio. “Why not take the day off, lad?”

“I have to reply to Bandar Delam. What should I say, Agha?” “Wot did Jahan ask you?”

“He said Agha Numir wanted to know if I’d noticed anything strange, if anything strange had happened here, spares leaving, airplanes leaving, pilots and mechanics.”

Scragger watched him. “Seems to me nothing strange’s happened here. I’m here, mechanics’ve gone picknicking, Ed and Willi are off on routine checks. Routine. Right?” He kept his eyes on him, willing him to come over to their side. He had no way of persuading him, nothing to offer him, no pishkesh, except…

“You approve of wot’s happening here, me son?” he asked carefully. “I mean, what the future holds for you here?”

“Future? My future’s with the company. If… if you leave, then… then 1 have no job, I won’t… I can’t afford to m… I won’t, can’t afford anything. I’m the only son…”

“If you wanted to leave, well, there’d be your job and a future if you wanted it - outside Iran. Guaranteed.”

The youth gaped at him, suddenly understanding what Scragger was offering. “But… but what is guaranteed, Agha? A life in your West, me alone? What of my people, my family, my young bride-to-be?”

“Can’t answer that, Ali Pash,” Scragger said, eyes on the clock, conscious of time slipping by, the lights and the hum of the HF, readying to overpower the young man who was taller than he, bigger built, younger by thirty-five years, and then disable the HF and make a run for it. Sorry, me son, but one way or another you’re going to cooperate. Casually he moved closer, into a better position. “Insha’Allah is your way of putting it,” he said kindly, and readied.

Hearing that come from the mouth of this kind, strange old man he respected so much, Ali Pash felt a flood of warmth pervade him. “This is my home, Agha, my land,” Ali Pash said simply. “The Imam is the Imam and he obeys only God. The future is the future and in God’s hands. The past too is the past.”

Before Scragger could stop him, Ali Pash called Bandar Delam and now was speaking Farsi into the mike. The two operators talked with one another for a moment or two, then abruptly he signed off. And looked up at Scragger. “I don’t blame you for leaving,” he said. “Thank you, Agha, for… for the past.” Then, with great deliberation, he switched the HF off, took out a circuit breaker, and pocketed it. “I told him we… we were closing down for the day.”

Scragger exhaled. “Thanks, me son.”

The door opened. Qeshemi stood there. “I wish to inspect the base,” he said.

AL SHARGAZ HQ: Manuela was saying, “… and then, Andy, Lengeh’s operator, Ali Pash, said to Jahan, ‘No, nothing’s strange here,’ then added, kinda abruptly, ‘I’m closing down for the day. I must go to prayers.’ Numir called him back at once, asking him to wait a few minutes but there was no answer.” “Abruptly?” Gavallan asked, Scot and Nogger also listening intently. “What sort of abruptly?”

“Like, like he kinda got fed up, or had a gun to his head - not usual for an Iranian to be that abrupt.” Manuela added uneasily, “I might be reading something into it that wasn’t there, Andy.” “Does that mean Scrag’s still there or not?” Scot and Nogger grimaced, appalled at the thought. Manuela shifted nervously. “If he was, wouldn’t he have answered himself to let us know? I think I would have. Perhaps h - ” The phone rang. Scot picked it up. “S-G? Oh, hello, Charlie, hang on.” He passed the phone to his father. “From Kuwait…” “Hello, Charlie. All’s well?”

“Yes, thanks. I’m at Kuwait airport, phoning from Patrick’s office at Guerney’s.” Though the two companies were rivals worldwide, they had very friendly relations. “What’s new?”

“Delta Four, nothing else yet. I’ll phone the moment. JeanLuc’s checked in from Bahrain - he’s with Delarne at Gulf Air de France if you want him. Is Genny with you?”

“No, she went back to the hotel but I’m all set the moment Mac and the others arrive.”

Gavallan said quietly, “Did you tell Patrick, Charlie?” He heard Pettikin’s forced laugh.

“Funny thing, Andy, the BA rep here, a couple of other guys, and Patrick have this crazy idea we’re up to something - like pulling all our birds out. Can you imagine?”

Gavallan sighed. “Don’t jump the gun, Charlie, keep to the plan.” This was to keep quiet until the Kowiss choppers were in the Kuwait system, then to trust Patrick. “I’ll phone when I have anything. ‘Bye - Oh, hang on, I almost forgot. You remember Ross, John Ross?”

“Could I ever forget? Why?”

“I heard he’s in Kuwait International Hospital. Check on him when you’re squared away, will you?”

“Of course, right away, Andy. What’s the matter with him?” “Don’t know. Call me if you have any news. “Bye.” He replaced the phone. Another deep breath. “The word’s out in Kuwait.”

“Christ, if it’s out th - ” Scot was interrupted by the phone ringing. “Hello? Just a moment. It’s Mr. Newbury, Dad.” Gavallan took it. “Morning, Roger, how’re tricks?” “Oh. Well, I, er, wanted to ask you that. How are things going? Off the record, of course.”

“Fine, fine,” Gavallan said noncommittally. “Will you be in your office all day? I’ll drop by, but I’ll call before I leave here.” “Yes, please do, I’ll be here until noon. It’s a long weekend, you know. Please phone me the moment you, er, hear anything - off the record. The moment. We’re rather concerned and, well, we can discuss it when you arrive. ‘Bye.” “Hang on a moment. Did you get word about young Ross?” “Yes, yes, I did. Sorry but we understand he was badly hurt, not expected to survive. Damn shame but there you are. See you before noon. ‘Bye.”

Gavallan put the phone down. They all watched him. “What’s wrong?” Manuela asked.

“Apparently… it seems young Ross is badly hurt, not expected to survive.” Nogger muttered, “What a bugger! My God, not fair…” He had regaled them all about Ross, how he had saved their lives, and Azadeh’s. Manuela crossed herself and prayed fervently to the Madonna to help him, then begged Her again and again to bring all the men back safe, all of them, without favor, and Azadeh and Sharazad, and let there be peace, please please please… “Dad, did Newbury tell you what happened?” Gavallan shook his head, hardly hearing him. He was thinking about Ross, of an age with Scot, more tough and rugged and indestructible than Scot and now … Poor laddie! Maybe he’ll pull through… Oh, God, I hope so! What to do? Continue, that’s all you can do. Azadeh’ll be rocked, poor lassie. And Erikki‘11 be as rocked as Azadeh, he owes her life to him. “I’ll be back in a second,” he said and walked out, heading for their other office where he could phone Newbury in private.

Nogger was standing at the window, looking out at the day and the airfield, not seeing any of it. He was seeing the wild-eyed maniac killer at Tabriz One holding the severed head aloft, baying like a wolf to the sky, the angel of sudden death who became the giver of life - to him, to Arberry, to Dibble, and most of all to Azadeh. God, if you are God, save him like he saved us…

“Tehran, this is Bandar Delam, do you read? Kowiss, Bandar Delam, do you read? Al Shargaz, Bandar Delam, do you read?”

“Five minutes on the dot,” Scot muttered. “Janan doesn’t miss a bloody second. Didn’t Siamaki say he’d be in the office from 0900 onward?” “Yes, yes, he did.” All their eyes went to the clock. It read 8:45.

AT LENGEH AIRPORT: 9:01 A.M. Qeshemi was standing in the hangar looking at the two parked 206s within. Behind him Scragger and Ali Pash watched nervously. A momentary shaft of sun broke the clouds and overcast and sparkled off the 212 that was waiting on the helipad fifty yards away, a battered police car and driver, Corporal Achmed, beside it. “Have you flown in one of those, Excellency Pash?” Qeshemi asked.

“The 206? Yes, Sergeant Excellency,” Ali Pash said, giving the sergeant his most pleasing smile. “The captain sometimes takes me or the other radio operator when we’re off duty.” He was very sorry the Devil had moved his feet here today, worse than sorry because now he was inescapably involved in treason - treason to break rules, treason to lie to police, treason not to report curious happenings. “The captain would take you anytime you wished,” he said pleasantly, his whole being concentrated now on extricating himself from the mire the Devil and the captain had put him into. “Today would be a good day?”

Ali Pash almost broke under the scrutiny. “Of course, if you ask the captain, of course, Agha. You wish me to ask?”

Qeshemi said nothing, just moved out into the open, careless of the Green Bands, half a dozen of them, who watched curiously. To Scragger he said directly in Farsi, “Where is everyone today, Agha?”

Ali Pash acted as interpreter for Scragger, though he twisted the words, making them sound better and more acceptable, explaining that today being Holy Day, with no revenue flights, the Iranian staff had correctly been given the day off, the captain had ordered the 212s to their designated training area for testing, had allowed the remaining mechanics to go picnicking, and that he himself was leaving to go to the mosque as soon as His Excellency the sergeant had finished whatever he wished to finish. Scragger was totally frustrated that he did not understand Farsi, and loathed being out of control of the situation but he was, completely. His life and those of his men were in the hands of Ali Pash.

“His Excellency asks, What do you plan for the rest of the day?” “That’s a bloody good question,” Scragger muttered. Then the 1 family motto came into his mind: “You hang for a lamb, you hang for a sheep, so you might as well take the whole bleeding flock” - the motto that had been handed down by his ancestor who had been transported for life to Australia in the early 1800s. “Please tell him as soon as he’s finished, I’m going to the cabbage patch as Ed Vossi needs checking out. His license’s due for renewal.”

He watched and waited and Qeshemi asked a question that Ali Pash answered and all the time he was wondering what to do if Qeshemi said, Fine, I’m coming along.

“His Excellency asks if you would be so kind as to lend the police some gasoline?”

“Wot?”

“He wants some gasoline, Captain. Wants to borrow some gasoline.”

“Oh. Oh, certainly, certainly, Agha.” For a moment Scragger was filled with hope. Hold it, me son, he thought. The cabbage patch’s not so far away and Qeshemi could want the gas to send the car there and still fly with me. “Come on, Ali Pash, you can give me a hand,” he said, not wanting to leave him alone with Qeshemi, and led the way to the pump, beckoning the police car. The wind sock was dancing. He saw that the clouds aloft were building up, nimbus among them, traveling fast, shoved along by a contrary wind. Here below it was still southeasterly though it had veered even more southerly. Good for us but more of a bloody headwind for the others, he thought grimly.

IN THE HELICOPTERS, NEARING KISH ISLAND: 9:07 A.M. Rudi’s four choppers were in sight of each other, closer than before, cruising calmly just over the waves. Visibility varied between two hundred yards to half a mile. All pilots were conserving fuel, seeking maximum range, and again Rudi bent forward to tap his gas gauge. The needle moved slightly, still registering just under half full. “No problem, Rudi, she’s working fine,” Faganwitch said through the intercom. “We’ve plenty of time to refuel, right? We’re on time and on schedule, right?”

“Oh, yes.” Even so Rudi recalculated their range, always coming up with the same answer: enough to reach Bahrain but not enough for the legal amount of fuel in reserve. “Tehran, this is Bandar Delam, do you read?” Jahan’s voice came in his headphones again, irritating him with its persistence. For a moment he was tempted to turn off but dismissed that as too danger - “Bandar Delam, this is Tehran. We read you four by five, go ahead!” Now a flood of Farsi. Rudi picked out “Siamaki” several times but little else as the two radio ops spoke back and forth and then he recognized Siamaki’s voice, irritable, arrogant, and now very angry. “Standby One, Bandar Delam! Al Shargaz, this is Tehran, do you read?” Now even more angrily: “Al Shargaz, this is Director Siamaki, do you read?” No answer. The call repeated more angrily, then another spate of Farsi, then Faganwitch cried out, “AHEAD! Look out!”

The supertanker, almost a quarter of a mile long, was hurtling at them broadside through the haze, towering over them, dwarfing them, easing her way carefully upstream toward her Iraqi terminal, foghorn droning. Rudi knew he was trapped, no time to climb, no space to break left or right or he would collide with the others so he went into emergency stop procedure. Kelly on his left, banking perilously left, just made it past the stern, Sandor, extreme right, safe around the bow - Dubois not safe but instantly onto max power, stick right and back into a too steep climbing turn, tighter tighter tighter 50 - 60 - 70 - 80 degrees, bow rushing at him, not going to make it, “Espčce de con…” not going to make it, stick back, g force sucking him and Fowler down into their seats, the ship’s gunwale racing at them, then they roared over the foredeck with millimeters to spare, the appalled deck crew scattering. Once safe, Dubois hauled her around into a 180 to go back for Rudi in the slight hope Rudi had managed to cushion the impact and had escaped into the sea.

Rudi had the stick back, nose up, power off, watching the airspeed tumble, nose a little higher, no time to pray, nose higher, side of the tanker closer and closer, nose higher still, stall warning howling, not going to make it, stall warning shrieking, any moment she’ll fall out of the sky, tanker only yards away, seeing rivets, portholes, rust, paint peeling, closing on them but slowing, slowing, but too late, too late but maybe enough to soften the crash, now plummeting, stick forward, full power on momentarily to cushion the dreadful impact and fall and suddenly she was locked in hover five feet above the waves, the mushing blades barely inches from the side of the tanker that slid past gently. Somehow Rudi backed away a yard, then another, and hovered.

When his eyes could focus he looked up. On the bridge of the vessel so far above them he could see the officers staring down at them, most of them shaking their fists in rage. A purple-faced man had a loudspeaker now, and he was shouting at them, “Bloody idiot!” but they could not hear him. The stern passed them by, wake churning, the spray speckling them. The way ahead was clear.

“I’m… I’m going to hav’ta take a shit.” Weakly Faganwitch began to crawl back into the cabin.

You can take one for me, Rudi was thinking, but he had no energy to say it. His knees were trembling and teeth chattering. “Careful,” he muttered, then eased the throttle open, gained height and forward speed and soon he was quite safe. No sign of the others. Then he spotted Kelly coming round, looking for him. When Kelly saw him he waggled from side to side so happily, came into station alongside, gave him a thumbs-up. To save the others vital fuel coming back to search for the pieces, Rudi put his lips very close to the boom mike and hissed through his teeth, “Dot-dot-dot-dash, dot-dot-dot-dash, dot-dot-dot-dash,” their privately agreed code for each to head for Bahrain independently, and to let them know he was safe. He heard Sandor acknowledge in the same simulated Morse, then Dubois who swooped alongside out of the haze, adding some self-generated static, and accelerated away. But Pop Kelly was shaking his head, motioning that he would prefer to stay alongside. He pointed ahead.

Once more in their headsets: “Al Shargaz, this is Agha Siamaki in Tehran, do you read?” Then more Farsi. “Al Shargaz…”

AT AL SHARGAZ HQ: “… This is Agha Siamaki…” Then another splurge of Farsi. Gavallan’s fingers drummed on the desktop, outwardly calm, inwardly not. He had not been able to reach Pettikin before he left for the hospital and there was nothing he could do to choke Siamaki and Numir off the air. Scot adjusted the volume slightly, lessening the harangue, pretending with Nogger to be nonchalant. Manuela said throatily, “He’s plenty mad, Andy.”

AT LENGEH: 9:26 A.M. Scragger had the nozzle gushing gasoline into the police car. It frothed, overflowing, staining nun. Muttering a curse he let the lever go, hung the nozzle back on the pump. Two Green Bands were nearby, watching closely. The corporal screwed the tank cap back into place. Qeshemi spoke to Ali Pash a moment. “His Excellency asks if you could spare him some five-gallon cans, Captain. Of course full ones.” “Sure, why not? How many does he want?”

“He says he could take three in the trunk and two inside. Five.” “Five it is.”

Scragger found the cans and filled them and together they loaded the police car. She’s a bloody Molotov cocktail, he thought. Storm clouds were building quickly. A flash of lightning in the mountains. “Tell him best not to smoke in the car.”

“His Excellency thanks you.”

“Anytime.” Thunder came down from the mountains. More lightning. Scragger watched Qeshemi leisurely look around the camp. The two Green Bands were waiting. A few others were squatting in the lee of the wind, watching idly. Now he could stand it no longer. “Well, Agha, I better be off,” he said, pointing at the 212 then into the sky. “Okay?”

Qeshemi looked at him strangely. “Okay? What okay, Agha?” “I go now.” Scragger motioned with his hand, pantomiming flying away, and kept his glazed smile. “Mamnoon am, khoda haefez.” Thank you, good-bye. He held out his hand to him.

The sergeant stared at the hand then looked up at him, the shrewd hard eyes boring into him. Then the sergeant said, “Okay. Good-bye, Agha,” and firmly shook hands.

The sweat was running down Scragger’s face, and he forced himself not to wipe it away. “Mamnoon am. Khoda haefez, Agha.” He nodded at Ali Pash, wanting to make it a good farewell, wanting to shake hands too but not daring to stretch their luck, so he just clapped him on the back in passing. “See you, me son. Happy days.”

“Good landings, Agha.” Ali Pash watched Scragger climb into the cockpit and get airborne and wave as he flew away. He waved back, then saw Qeshemi looking at him. “If I may be permitted, if you will excuse me, Excellency Sergeant, I will lock up and then go to the mosque.”

Qeshemi nodded and turned back to the departing 212. How obvious they are, he was thinking, the old pilot and this young fool. So easy to read the minds of men if you’re patient and watch for clues. Very dangerous to fly off illegally. Even more dangerous to help foreigners fly off illegally and stay behind. Madness! Men are very strange. As God wants. One of the Green Bands, a barely bearded youth with an AK47, wandered closer, pointedly looked at the cans of gasoline in the back of the car. Qeshemi said nothing, just nodded to him. The youth nodded back, eyes hard, strolled off insolently to join the others.

The sergeant got into the driver’s seat. Leprous sons of dogs, he thought sardonically, you’re not the law in Lengeh yet - thanks be to God. “Time to go, Achmed, time to go.” As the corporal climbed in beside him Qeshemi saw the helicopter go over the rise and vanish. Still so easy to catch you, old man, he told himself, bemused. So easy to alert the net, our phones are working and we’ve a direct link with Kish fighter base. Are a few gallons pishkesh enough for your freedom? I haven’t decided yet.

“I’ll drop you at the station, Achmed, then I’m off duty till tomorrow. I’ll keep the car for the day.”

Qeshemi let in the clutch. Perhaps we should have gone with the foreigners - easy to force them to take us, my family and I, but then that would have meant living on the wrong side of our Persian Gulf, living among Arabs. I’ve never liked Arabs, never trusted them. No, my plan’s better. Quietly down the old coast road all today and all tonight, then my cousin’s dhow to Pakistan with plenty of spare gasoline for pishkesh. Many of our people are there already. I’ll make a good life for my wife and my son and little Sousan until, with the help of God, we can come home again. Too much hatred here now, too many years serving the Shah. Good years. As shahs go he was fine for us. We were always paid.

NORTH OF LENGEH: 9:23 A.M. The cabbage patch was ten kilometers northeast of the base, a desolate, barren rocky area in the foothills of mountains, and the two helicopters were parked, side by side, engines ticking over. Ed Vossi was standing at Willi’s cockpit window. “I feel like throwing up, Willi.”

“Me too.” Willi shifted his headset slightly, the VHF on but, according to plan, not to be used unless in emergency, only listened to. “You got something, Willi?” Vossi asked.

“No, just static.”

“Shit. He must be in dead trouble. Another minute then I go look, Willi.” “We go look together.” Willi watched the lightning in the hills, visibility about a mile with the clouds black and closing in. “No day for joy riding, Ed.”

“No.”

Then Willi’s face lit up like a rocket and he pointed, “There he is!” Scragger’s 212 was approaching at about seven hundred feet, dawdling along. Vossi took to his heels for his cockpit and got in. Now in their headphones: “How’s your torque counter, Willi?”

“Not good, Scrag,” Willi said happily, following their plan in case anyone was listening. “I asked Ed to take a look at her and he’s not sure either - his radio’s out.”

“I’ll land and we’ll have a conference. Scragger to base, do you read?” No answer. “Scragger to base, we’ll be on the ground awhile.” No answer. Willi gave the thumbs-up to Vossi. Both opened their throttles, concentrating on Scragger who was coming down in a leisurely landing approach.

At ground level Scragger checked his descent, and led the rush for the coast. Now the exhilaration was extreme, Vossi was shouting’ with glee, and even Willi was smiling. “By God Harry…”

Scragger went up over the ridge and down the other side and now he could see the coast and their small van parked on the rocky foreshore just above the waves. His heart missed a beat. A herd of goats with three herdsmen dotted his landing area. Fifty yards up the beach was a car with some people and children playing where never before had they seen anyone. Just out to sea a small powerboat was cruising along. Could be a fishing boat, could be one of the regular patrols against smugglers or escapees, for here with Oman and the pirate coast so close, historically there had always been great coastal vigilance.

Can’t change now, he thought, heart racing. He saw Benson and the other two mechanics spot him, jump into the van, and drive toward his landing area. Behind him Willi and Vossi had throttled back to give him time. Without hesitation he went into his landing fast, goats scattering, herdsmen and picnickers transfixed. The moment his skids touched he shouted, “Come on!” The mechanics needed no urging. Benson rushed for the cabin door and hurled it open, charged back to help the other two who had unlocked the van’s tailgate. Together they pulled out suitcases and satchels and baggage and stumbled over to begin loading - the cabin already stuffed with spares. Scragger looked around and saw that Willi and Vossi had gone into hover, on guard. “So far so good,” he said out loud, concentrating on the onlookers who were over their astonishment and were coming closer. His eyes searched all around. No real danger yet. Nonetheless he made sure his Very pistol was ready just in case, and willed the mechanics to hurry, worried that any moment the police car would come hurrying down the road. A second load. Then another, then the last, all three mechanics sweating, and now two clambered into the cabin, slammed the door. Benson fell into the front seat beside him, swore, and began to get out. “I forgot to switch off the van.”

“To hell with that, here we go.” Scragger opened up the throttles and got airborne, Benson locking the door, fixing his seat belt, and they were over the waves out into the haze of the Gulf. Scragger looked left and right. Willi and Vossi were flanking him tightly, and he wished he was HF equipped so he could report “Lima Three” to Gavallan. Never mind, we’ll be there in a jiffy!

Once past the first of the rigs, he began to breathe easier. Hate leaving young Ali Pash like that, he thought, hate leaving Georges de Plessey and his lads, hate leaving the two 206s, hate leaving. Well, I’ve done me best. I’ve left recommendations and job promises for when we come back, if we come back, for Ali Pash and the others in the clerk’s top drawer with all the money I had left.

He checked his course, heading southwest for Siri as though on their milk run in case they were on radar. Near Siri he would turn southeast for Al Shargaz and home. All being well, he thought, and touched the rabbit’s foot Nell had given him so many years ago for luck. Past another rig to port, Siri Six. The electrical storm was crackling his headphones, then mixed with it loud and clear was: “Hey, Scragger, you and les gars, you’re low, n’ est-ce pas?”

It was the voice of François Menange, the manager of the rig they had just passed, and he cursed the man’s vigilance. To close him down, he clicked on the transmit: “Mum’s the word, François, quiet, eh? Practicing. Be quiet, eh?”

Now the voice was laughing. “Bien sur, but you’re crazy to practice low on a day like today. Adieu.”

Sweat was beginning again. Four more rigs to pass before he could turn into the open sea.

They went through the first squall line, the wind buffeting them, rain loud on the windows, streaking them, plenty of sheet lightning all around. Willi and Vossi were tight on station and he was pleased to be flying with them. Forty times I thought Qeshemi was going to say, “You comealongame” and take me down to the pokey. But then he didn’t and here we are and in an hour forty-odd minutes we’ll be home and Iran only a memory.

Chapter 62

AT KOWISS AIR BASE HQ: 9:46 A.M. The mullah Hussain said patiently, “Tell me more about Minister Kia, Captain.” He sat behind the desk in the base commander’s office. A hard-faced Green Band guarded the door. “I’ve told you everything I know,” McIver said exhaustedly. “Then please tell me about Captain Starke.” Polite, insistent, and unhurried as though there were all day and all night and all tomorrow. “I’ve told you about him, too, Agha. I’ve told you about them both for almost a couple of hours. I’m tired and there’s nothing more to tell.” McIver got up from his chair and stretched and sat down again. No use trying to leave. He had done that once and the Green Band had silently motioned him back. “Unless you have something specific I can’t think of anything to add.” He had not been surprised at the mullah probing about Kia and had repeated over and over-how a few weeks ago Kia had suddenly been made a director out of nowhere, about his own limited dealings with him in the last few weeks, though not about the checks on banks in Switzerland that had greased the way for the 125 and got three 212s out of the cauldron. Damned if I’m going to do a Wazari on Kia, he had told himself.

Kia’s understandable, but why Duke Starke? Where Duke went to school, what he eats, how long he’s been married, one wife or more, how long with the company, is he Catholic or Protestant - anything and everything and then tell it all again. Insatiable. And always the same quiet, evasive answer to his question, Why?

“Because he interests me, Captain.”

McIver looked out of the window. A speckle of rain. Clouds low. Distant thunder. There’d be updrafts and a few real whirlwinds in the thunderclouds eastward - great cover for the dash across the Gulf. What’s happening with Scrag and Rudi and their lads? rushed back into the forefront of his mind. With an effort he pushed that away for later - and his weariness, and worry - and what the hell he was going to do when this interrogation finished. If it finished. Beware! Concentrate! You’ll make a mistake if you’re not a hundred percent, then you’ll all be lost.

He knew his reserves were badly depleted. Last night he had slept badly and that had not helped. Nor had Lochart’s enormous sadness over Sharazad. Difficult for Tom to face the truth, impossible to say it to him: Wasn’t it bound to fall apart, Tom, old friend? She’s Muslim, she’s rich, you’ll never be, her heritage’s bound in steel, yours in gossamer, her family’s her lifeblood, yours isn’t, she can stay, you can’t, and the final sword hanging over you, HBC. So sad, he thought. Did it ever have a chance? With the Shah, maybe. With the inflexibility of the new?

What would I do if I were Tom? With an effort he stopped his mind wandering. He could feel the mullah’s eyes boring into him. They had hardly wavered once since Changiz had brought him here and had gone away. Ah, yes, Colonel bloody Changiz. In the car coming over here and during the waiting he too had been probing. But his probing was just to establish exactly when and how often their 125 was scheduled for Kowiss, how many Green Bands were stationed on their side of the base, when they arrived, how many stayed on the base, and did they surround and guard the 125 all the time she was on the ground. The questioning had been casual, nothing asked that could not be more than just interest, but McIver was certain the real reason was to erect an escape route - if necessary. The final cement, the barter: “Even in a revolution mistakes happen, Captain. Friends are needed in high places more than ever, sad but true.” You scratch my back or I’ll claw yours. The mullah got up. “I will take you back now.” “Oh. Very well, thank you.” McIver guardedly studied Hussain. The brown-black eyes under the heavy eyebrows gave nothing away, skin stretched over his high cheekbones, a strange, handsome face masking a spirit of enormous resolution. For good or for bad? McIver asked himself.

IN THEIR RADIO TOWER: 9:58 A.M. Wazari was hunched down near the door to the roof, still waiting. When McIver and Lochart had left him in the office he had been torn between fleeing and staying, then Changiz and the airmen had arrived, almost simultaneously Pavoud with other staff, so he had sneaked up here unseen and ever since had been in hiding. Just before 8:00 A.M. Kia had driven up in a taxi.

From his vantage point up here he had seen Kia go into a paroxysm of rage because McIver was not waiting beside the 206, ready for takeoff. The green-banded airmen relayed what Changiz had ordered. Kia had protested loudly. More apologetic shrugs and Kia stormed into the building, loudly proclaiming he would phone Changiz and radio Tehran at once, but Lochart had intercepted Kia at the bottom of the stairs and told him the phones were out, the set malfunctioning, and no radio repairer available until tomorrow. “Sorry, Minister, there’s nothing we can do about it - unless you want to go over to HQ yourself,” Wazari had heard Lochart say. “I’m sure Captain McIver won’t be long, the mullah Hussain sent for him.” At once most of the bombast had gone out of Kia and that had pleased him but did not allay his grinding anxiety and he had stayed there in the wind and the cold, forlorn, lost, and in misery.

His temporary safety did nothing to cast off his anxieties or fears or suspicions, about Kia today and up before the komiteh again tomorrow - “You’re needed for further questioning” - and why were those bastards Lochart and McIver so nervous, huh? Why did they lie to that sonofabitch turncoat Changiz about a crew change at Rig Abu Sal? No goddamn crew change needed there, not unless it was ordered in the night. Why’re we down to three pilots and two mecs with a load of work starting Monday - why so many spares shipped out? Oh, God, get me to hell outta here.

It was so cold and blustery he came back inside the tower but left the door ajar for a quick retreat. Cautiously he looked out of the windows and through cracks in the boards. If he was careful he could see most of the base without being seen. Ayre, Lochart, and the mechanics were over by the 212s. The main gate was well guarded by regular Green Bands. No activity over at the base that he could see. A chill went through him. Rumors of another purge by the komiteh, that now he was high on their list because of his evidence against Esvandiary and Minister Kia: “By the Prophet, I heard they want to see you tomorrow. You took your life in your hands speaking out like that, don’t you know the first rule of survival here for four thousand years has been to keep your tongue silent and your eyes closed on the doings of those above or, very soon, you’ll have neither left in your head? Of course those above are corrupt, has it ever been different?” Wazari moaned, helpless in the maelstrom and near breaking. Ever since Zataki had beaten him so badly, nose smashed - can’t seem to breathe anymore - four teeth knocked out, and an almost perpetual headache, his spirit had left him and so had his courage. He had never been beaten before. So Hotshot and Kia were both guilty, so what, so what? What business was it of yours? And now your stupidity will consume you too. Tears spilled down the bruises. “For crissake, for crissake, help, help me…” Then “malfunction” jumped into his head and he seized on it. What malfunction? The set was working fine yesterday.

He brushed the tears away. Making no sound, he slid over to the desk and quietly switched on the radio, keeping the volume to an absolute minimum. All seemed fine. Dials checked out. Lots of static from an electrical storm but no traffic. Unusual that there should be no traffic on the company frequency, someone somewhere should be sending. Not daring to turn the volume up, he reached into a drawer for a pair of headphones and plugged them in, bypassing the loudspeaker. Now he could have the signal as loud as he pleased. Curious. Still nothing. Carefully he switched out of the company channel to others. Nothing. Over to the VHF. Nothing, anywhere. Back to HF. He could not even pick up a routine, recorded weather report that still came out of Tehran.

He was a good radio operator and well trained and it took him no time to zero in on the fault. A look through the crack in the roof door confirmed the wire hanging free. Sonofabitch, he thought. Why the hell didn’t I notice it when I was out there?

Carefully he switched off and crawled out again and when he was at the foot of the mast and saw that the wire had been sheared off but the rust at the end had been newly cleaned off, anger possessed him. Then excitement. Those bastards, he thought. Those hypocritical bastards, McIver and Lochart. They musta been listening and transmitting when I arrived. What the hell’re they up to?

The connection was quickly repaired. HF on and instantly Farsi filled his ears on the company frequency: HQ at Tehran talking to Bandar Delam, then calling Al Shargaz and Lengeh and him at Kowiss, something about four choppers not going where they were supposed to go. Iran-Toda? Not one of our bases.

“Kowiss, this Bandar Delam, do you read?”

He recognized Janan’s voice from Bandar Delam. Automatically his finger went to the transmit switch, then stopped. No need to call back yet, he thought. The company airwaves were full now, Numir and Jahan from Bandar Delam and Gelani at Tehran, and Siamaki ranting and raving. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered after a few minutes, everything falling into place.

IN THE HELICOPTERS OFF SIRI: 10:05 A.M. Siri Island itself was a mile ahead, but before Scragger and his team could turn southeast for the international boundary, there were three more rigs to bypass. Like a bleeding minefield, Scragger thought. So far safe and no more shocks. All needles in the Green and the engines sounding sweet. His mechanic Benson, beside him, was staring at the waves rushing past just below them. Static in their earphones. From time to time, overflying international flights would report their positions to Kish radar, a checkpoint in their area, to he answered at once. Into the intercom Benson said, “Kish’re spot on, Scrag.”

“We’re under their radar. No sweat.”

“I’m sweating. Are you?”

Scragger nodded. Kish was abeam of them, fifteen-odd miles to his right. He looked left and right. Vossi and Willi were alongside and he gave them a thumbs-up and they returned it - Vossi enthusiastically.

“Another twenty minutes and we’re over the border,” Scragger said. “Soon as we are, we’ll go up to seven hundred.”

“Good. Weather’s improving, Scrag,” Benson said. The cloud cover above had thinned appreciably, visibility about the same. In plenty of time they both saw the outward-bound, heavily laden tanker ahead. With Willi, Scragger banked astern of her with plenty to spare but Vossi exuberantly pulled up high over her, then leisurely came down into station alongside him. At once in their headphones: “This is Kish Control, low-flying helicopter on a course 225, report height and destination!”

Scragger weaved from side to side to attract Willi and Vossi and pointed southwest and waved them off, commanding them to stay low and to leave him. He saw their reluctance, but he jabbed his finger southeast, waved a farewell, and pulled up in a climb, leaving them on the surface of the sea. “Hold on to your balls, Benson,” he said, a weight in his stomach, then began transmitting, moving his boom mike back and forth from his mouth, simulating a bad signal: “Kish, this is chopper HVX out of Lengeh, inbound Ski Nine with spares, course 225. Thought I saw a capsized dhow but it was negative.” Siri Nine was the farthest rig they normally serviced, just this side of the Iran-Emirate boundary, still under construction and not yet equipped with their own VHF. “Climbing back to seven hundred.” “Chopper HVX, you’re two by five, your transmission intermittent. Maintain course and report seven hundred feet. Confirm you were informed of mandatory new regulations for start engines request at Lengeh.” The operator’s American-accented voice was five by five, crisp and professional. “Sorry, Kish, this is the first day I’ve been back on duty.” Scragger saw Willi and Vossi vanish into the haze. “Do I need to request engine start from Siri Nine after I’ve landed? I’ll be there at least an hour.” Scragger wiped a bead of sweat off. Kish would be within their rights to order him to land at Kish first to give him a roasting for breaking regulations. “Affirmative. Standby One.”

In the intercom, Benson said uneasily, “Now what, Scrag?” “They’ll be having a little conference.”

“What’re we going to do?”

Scragger beamed. “Depends on what they do.” He clicked the sender: “Kish, HVX at seven hundred.”

“Kish. Maintain course and altitude. Standby One.”

“HVX.” More silence. Scragger was sifting alternates, enjoying the danger. “This’s better than flying a milk run, now isn’t it, me son?” “To be honest, it isn’t. If I could get hold of Vossi, I’d strangle him.”

Scragger shrugged. “It’s done. We could’ve been in and out of radar ever since we left. Maybe Qeshemi reported us.” He began whistling tonelessly. They were well past Siri Island now with rig Siri Nine five kilometers ahead. “Kish, this’s HVX,” Scragger said, still working the mike. “Leaving seven hundred on approach for Siri Nine.”

“Negative HVX, maintain seven hundred and hold. Your transmission is intermittent and two by five.”

“HVX - Kish, please say again, your transmission is garbled. I say again, am leaving seven hundred on approach for Siri Nine,” Scragger repeated slowly, continuing to simulate bad transmission. Again he beamed at Benson. “Trick I learned in the RAF, me son.”

“HVX, Kish. I say again maintain seven hundred and hold.” “Kish, it’s bumpy and the haze’s thickening. Going through six hundred. I will report on landing and call requesting engine start. Thanks and g’day!” he added with a prayer.

“HVX, your transmission is intermittent. Abort landing at Siri Nine. Turn 310 degrees, maintain seven hundred, and report direct to Kish.” Benson went white. Scragger belched. “Say again, Kish, you’re one by five.” “I say again, abort landing at Siri Nine, turn to 310 degrees, and report direct Kish.” The operator’s voice was unhurried.

“Roger, Kish, understand we’re to land Siri Nine and report Kish next. Going through four hundred for low-level approach, thank you and g’day.” “Kish, this is JAL Flight 664 from Delhi,” broke in. “Overhead at thirty-eight thousand inbound Kuwait on 300. Do you read?”

“JAL 664, Kish. Maintain course and altitude. Call Kuwait on 118.8, good day.”

Scragger peered through the haze. He could see the half-constructed rig, a work barge moored to one of its legs. Instrument needles all in the Green and - hey, wait a moment, temperature’s up, oil pressure’s down on number one engine. Benson had seen it too. He tapped the dial, bent closer. The oil pressure needle went up slightly then fell back again, temperature a few degrees above normal - no time to worry about that now, get ready! The deck crew had heard and seen them and stopped working, clearing away from the well-marked helipad. When he was fifty feet off the rig, Scragger said: “Kish, HVX landing now. G’day.”

“HVX. Report direct Kish next. Request engine start. I repeat, report direct Kish next,” all said clearly. “Do you read?”

But Scragger did not acknowledge, or land. At a few feet he just pulled into a hover, waved to the deck crew who recognized him and assumed it was just a practice of a familiarization-training run for a new pilot, a constant habit of Scragger’s. A last wave, then he got forward motion, dropped neatly over the side, and hugging the sea, turned southwest at full throttle.

AT KOWISS AIR BASE: 10:21 A.M. The mullah Hussain was driving, and he stopped the car outside the office building. McIver got out. “Thank you,” he said, not knowing what to expect now, for Hussain had been silent since they had left the office. Lochart, Ayre, and the others were over by the helicopters. Kia stalked out of the office, stopped on seeing the mullah, then came down the steps. “Good morning, Excellency Hussain, greetings, how pleasant to see you.” He used a ministerial voice for an honored guest, but not an equal, then to McIver in English, curtly, “We should leave at once.” “Er, yes, Agha. Just give me a couple of minutes to get organized.” Glad I’m not Kia, he told himself as he walked off, his stomach churning, and turned to Lochart. “Hello, Tom.”

“You all right, Mac?”

“Yes.” He added quietly, “We’ll have to play this cautiously for the next few minutes. Don’t know what the mullah’s up to. Have to wait and see what he does about Kia, don’t know whether Kia’s in the creek or not. Soon as we know we can move.” He dropped his voice even more. “I can’t avoid taking Kia - unless Hussain grabs him. I plan to take him part of the way, just over the hills out of VHF range, pretend an emergency, and land. When Kia’s out of the cockpit and cooling his heels, I’ll take off and skirt this area and meet you at the rendezvous.”

“Don’t like that idea, Mac. Better let me do it. You don’t know the place and those sand dunes are look-alikes for miles. I’d better take him.” “I’ve thought about that, but then I’d be flying one of the mecs without a license. I’d rather put Kia at risk than them. Besides, you might be tempted to keep on going back to Tehran. All the way. Eh?”

“Better that I drop him off and meet you at the rendezvous. Safer.”

McIver shook his head, feeling rotten about putting his friend into a corner. “You’d go on, wouldn’t you?”

After a strange pause, Lochart said, “While I was waiting for you, if I could’ve gotten airborne I’d’ve put him aboard and gone.” He smiled a twisted smile. “The airmen said no way, to wait. Better watch them, Mac, some of them speak English. What happened to you?”

“Hussain just questioned me about Kia - and Duke.”

Lochart stared at him. “Duke? What about?”

“Everything about him. When I asked Hussain why, all he’d say was: ‘Just because he interests me.’” McIver saw a tremor go through Lochart. “Mac, I think it’s best if I take Kia. You might miss the rendezvous - you can go in tandem with Freddy. I’ll get off first and wait for you.” “Sorry, Tom, can’t risk that - you’ll keep on going. If I were you I’d do the same and the hell with the risk. But I can’t let you go back. To go back now’d be a disaster. It’d be a disaster for you - I’m sure of that, Tom - as well as for the rest of us. That’s the truth.”

“Hell with the truth,” Lochart said bitterly. “All right, but by God, the moment we touch down at Kuwait, I’m on the month’s leave I’m owed, or resigned from S-G, whichever you want - from the very second.” “Fair enough but it has to be from Al Shargaz. We’ll have to refuel in Kuwait and get out of there as fast as we can - if we’re lucky enough to get there and if they’ll let us fly out.” “No. Kuwait’s the end of the line for me.” “Please yourself,” McIver said, hardening. “But I’ll make sure you don’t get a plane into Tehran, Abadan, or anywhere else in Iran.” “You’re a bastard,” Lochart said, sick that McIver had read his intentions so clearly. “Goddamn you to hell!”

“Yes, sorry. From Al Shargaz I’ll help all I c - ” McIver stopped, seeing Lochart mutter a curse. He turned around. Kia and Hussain were still conversing by the car. “What’s the matter?”

“In the tower.”

McIver looked up. Then he noticed Wazari, half-hidden by one of the boarded windows, beckoning them clearly. No way to pretend that they had not seen him. As they watched, Wazari beckoned them again and moved back into cover. “Goddamn him,” Lochart was saying. “I checked the tower just after you’d left to make sure he hadn’t slipped up there and he hadn’t so I thought he’d made a run for it.” His face flushed with rage. “Come to think of it, I didn’t go right up into the room so he could’ve hidden on the roof - the sonofabitch must’ve been there all the time.”

“Christalmighty! Maybe he found the broken wire.” McIver was rocked. Lochart’s face closed. “You stay here. If he tries to give us any trouble I’ll kill him.” He stalked off.

“Wait, I’ll come too. Freddy,” he called out, “we’ll be back in a moment.” As they passed Hussain and Kia, McIver said, “I’m just going to ask for clearance, Minister. Takeoff in five minutes?”

Before Kia could answer, the mullah said cryptically, “Insha’ Allah.” Kia said curtly to McIver, “Captain, you haven’t forgotten I told you I must be in Tehran for an important meeting at 7:00 P.M.? Good,” turned his back on them, again concentrating on Hussain. “You were saying, Excellency?” The two pilots went into the office, seething at Kia’s rudeness, bypassed Pavoud and the other staff, and headed for the tower staircase.

The tower was empty. Then they saw the door to the roof ajar and heard Wazari whisper, “Over here.” He was just outside, crouched by the wall. Wazari did not move. “I know what you’re up to. There’s no radio malfunction,” he said, hardly able to contain his excitement. “Four choppers have pushed off from Bandar Delam and vanished. Your managing director Siamaki’s screaming like a stuck pig because he can’t raise Lengeh, us, or Al Shargaz and Mr. Gavallan there - they’re just sitting tight, that’s it, isn’t it? Huh?”

“What’s that got to do with us?” Lochart said tautly.

“Everything, of course everything, because it all fits. Numir at Bandar Delam says all expats’ve gone, there’s no one left at Bandar. Siamaki says the same about Tehran, he even told Numir your houseboy, Captain McIver, your houseboy says most of your personal things and a Captain Pettikin’s’re out of the apartment.”

McIver shrugged and went to switch on the VHF. “Safety precautions while Pettikin’s on leave and I’m away. Been lots of robberies.” “Don’t make a call yet. Please. Listen, for crissake, listen, I’m begging you… there’s no way you can stop the truth. Your 212s and guys have gone from Bandar, Lengeh’s silent, so they’re the same, Tehran’s closed down, the same, there’s only here left and you’re all set.” Wazari’s voice was curious and they could not tell yet what was under it. “I’m not gonna give you away, I want to help you. I want to help. I swear I want to help you.” “Help us do what?”

“Get away.”

“Why should you do that, even if what you say’s true?” Lochart said angrily. “You were right not to trust me before, Captain, but I swear to God you can trust me now, I’m together now, earlier I wasn’t but now I am and you’re my only hope to get out. I’m up before the komiteh tomorrow and… and look at me, for crissake!” he burst out. “I’m a mess, and unless I can get to a proper doctor I’ll be a mess forever and maybe even a dead man - there’s something pressing here, hurts like hell,” Wazari touched the top of his mashed nose. “Since that bastard Zataki beat me my head’s been aching and I’ve been crazy, sure I have, I know it, but I can still help. I can cover you from here if you’ll take me with you, just let me sneak aboard the last chopper - I swear I’ll help.” Tears filled his eyes. The two men stared at him.

McIver clicked on the VHF sender. “Kowiss Tower, IHC testing, testing.” A long pause, then in heavily accented English, “This the tower, IHC, you five by five.”

“Thank you. We seem to have cleared the fault. Our 206 charter to Tehran will leave in ten minutes, also our morning flight to rigs Forty, Abu Sal, and Gordy with spares.”

“Okay. Report airborne. Your Bandar Delam is been try to contact you.” McIver felt the sweat start. “Thanks, Tower. Good day.” He looked at Lochart, then switched on the HF. At once they heard Janan’s voice in Farsi and Lochart began interpreting: “Janan’s saying the last sighting of their flight was northeast, inland from the coast… that Zataki…” For a moment his voice faltered, “… that Zataki had ordered the four choppers to service Iran-Toda and should be at Iran-Toda by now and is sure to call or send a message…” Then McIver recognized Siamaki. Lochart was sweating. “Siamaki’s saying he’ll be off the air for half an hour to an hour but he’ll call when he gets back and to keep trying to raise us and Al Shargaz… Janan says okay and he’ll wait out and if he has any news he’ll call.” Static for a moment. Then Janan’s voice in English: “Kowiss, this is Bandar Delam, do you read?”

Lochart muttered, “If the tower’s been picking all this up, why aren’t we all in the slammer?”

“It’s Friday. No reason for them to monitor your company frequency.” Wazari wiped the tears away, back in control now. “Friday crew’s minimal and trainee - no flying, nothing happening, the komiteh sacked all radar officers and five of the sergeants - sent them to the stockade.” He shuddered then hurried on: “Maybe one of the guys picked up Bandar Delam once or twice. So Bandar’ve lost contact with some of their choppers, so what, they’re foreigners and it happens all the time. But, Captain, if you don’t close Bandar and Tehran down, they’ve gotta… someone’s gotta get steamed up.” He took out a grubby handkerchief and wiped a trickle of blood from his nose. “If you switch to your alternate channel you’ll be safe enough, the tower don’t have that.”

McIver stared at him. “You’re sure?”

“Sure, listen why don’t y - ” He stopped. Footsteps were approaching. Noiselessly he ducked back onto the roof into hiding. Kia.stomped halfway up the stairs. “What’s keeping you, Captain?”

“I’m… I’m waiting for clearance to be confirmed, Minister. Sorry, I’ve been told to wait. Nothing I can do.”

“Of course there is! We can take off and leave! Now! I’m tired of wait - ” “I’m tired too but I don’t want my head blown off.” McIver’s temper snapped and he flared, “You’ll wait! Wait! Understand? You bloody wait and if your bloody manners don’t improve I’ll cancel the whole trip and mention a pishkesh or two to the mullah Hussain I happened to forget at the questioning. Now get to hell out of here!”

For a moment they thought Kia was going to explode, but he thought better of it and went away. McIver rubbed his chest, cursing himself for losing his temper. Then he jerked a thumb at the roof and whispered, “Tom, what about him?”

“We can’t leave him behind. He could give us away in a minute.” Lochart looked around. Wazari was at the doorway.

“I swear I’ll help,” he whispered desperately. “Listen, when you take off with Kia, what d’you plan, to dump him, huh?” McIver did not answer, still unsure. “Jesus, Captain, you gotta trust me. Look, call Bandar on the alternate and chew Numir out like you did that bastard’n tell him you ordered all the choppers here. That’ll take the heat off for an hour or two.” McIver glanced at Lochart.

Lochart said excitedly, “Why not? Hell, that’s a good idea, then you take off with Kia and… and Freddy can get going. I’ll wait here and…” The words trailed off. “Then what, Tom?” McIver said.

Wazari came over and switched to the alternate channel, said quickly to Lochart, “You stall for a while, Cap, and when Cap McIver’s gone and Ayre’s out of the area, you tell Numir you’re sure his four choppers’ve just switched off their HF, no need to use it, and they’re on VHF. That gives you the excuse to get airborne and wander around, then you rush off to the fuel cache.” He saw their look. “Jesus, Cap, anyone’s gotta know you can’t make it in one across the Gulf, no way, so you’ve gotta have stashed spare fuel somewheres. Onshore, or on one of the rigs.”

McIver took a deep breath and pressed the transmit. “Bandar Delam, this is Captain McIver at Kowiss, do you read?”

“Kowiss - Bandar Delam, we’ve been trying to reach you for hours an - ” “Janan, put Agha Numir on,” McIver said curtly. A moment, then Numir came on but before the IranOil manager could launch into a tirade, McIver cut in with his own. “Where are my four helicopters? Why haven’t they reported in? What’s going on down there? And why are you so inefficient that you don’t know I ordered my helicopters and personnel here…?”

AT AL SHARGAZ HQ: “… and why don’t you remember that crew replacements are due in Bandar Delam after the weekend?” McIver’s voice was faint but clear over the loudspeaker, and Gavallan, Scot, and Manuela were staring at it, aghast that McIver was still in place at Kowiss - did that mean Lochart, Ayre, and the others too?

“But we’ve been calling you all morning, Captain,” Numir said, his voice fainter. “You ordered our copters to Kowiss? But why? And why wasn’t I informed? Our copters were supposed to go to Iran-Toda this morning but never landed and have vanished! Agha Siamaki’s also been trying to reach you.”

“There’s been a fault on our HF. Now listen here, Numir, I ordered my choppers to Kowiss. I never approved an Iran-Toda contract, know nothing about an Iran-Toda contract, so that’s the end to it. Now stop creating a stink about nothing!”

“But they are our helicopters and everyone’s left, everyone, mechanics and all pilots an - ”

“Goddamnit, I ordered them all here pending an investigation. I repeat I am very dissatisfied with your operation. And will so report to IranOil! Now stop calling!”

In the office they were all still in shock. That McIver was still in Kowiss was a disaster. Whirlwind was going badly awry. It was 10:42 A.M. and Rudi and his three were overdue Bahrain. “… but we don’t know their actual headwind, Dad,” Scot had said, “or how long they’ll take to inflight refuel. They could be three quarters to an hour late and still be okay - say an ETA at Bahrain of eleven to eleven-fifteen.” But everyone knew that there could not safely be that amount of fuel on board.

Nothing yet from Scrag and his two but that’s to be expected - they don’t have HF aboard, Gavallan thought. Their flight to Al Shargaz should take about an hour and a half. If they’d left at say seven-thirty and did the pickup and got out without incident, say at seven-forty-five, their ETA’s nine-fifteen whichever way you figure it. “No need to worry, Manuela, you understand about headwinds,” he had said, “and we don’t actually know when they left.”

So many things to go wrong. My God, this waiting’s rotten. Gavallan felt very old, picked up the phone and dialed Bahrain. “Gulf Air de France? JeanLuc Sessonne, please? JeanLuc, anything?”

“No, Andy. I’ve just called the tower and there’s nothing in the system. Pas problčme. Rudi’ll be conserving fuel. The tower said they’d call me the instant they see them. Anything about anyone else?”

“We just found out Mac’s still in Kowiss.” Gavallan heard the gasp and the obscenities. “I agree. I’ll call you.” He dialed Kuwait. “Charlie, is Genny with you?” “No, she’s at the hotel. Andy, I - ” “We’ve just heard Mac’s still at Kowiss an - ” “Christalmighty, what’s happened?” “Don’t know, he’s still transmitting. I’ll call back when I’ve something definite. Don’t tell Genny yet. ‘Bye.”

Again the nauseating waiting, then the HF came alive. “Tehran, this is Kowiss, Captain McIver. Go ahead.”

“Kowiss, Tehran, we’ve been calling all morning. Agha Siamaki has been trying to reach you. He’ll be back in about an hour. Please confirm that you ordered the four 212s to Kowiss.”

“Tehran, this is Kowiss. Bandar Delam, you copy too.” McIver’s voice was slower and clearer but very angry. “I confirm, I have all my 212s - I repeat all my 212s - under my control. All of them. I will be unavailable to talk to Agha Siamaki as I am cleared to leave here for Tehran with Minister Kia in five minutes but will expect Agha Siamaki to meet the 206 at Tehran International. In a few moments we will be closing down for repairs - on orders from the authorities - and will be operating only on VFR. For your information Captain Ayre will be leaving in five minutes for rig Abu Sal with spares and Captain Lochart will remain on standby to meet my Bandar Delam 212s. Did you copy, Tehran?”

“Affirmative, Captain McIver, but can you please te - ”

McIver cut in over him: “Did you copy, Numir, or are you more useless than ever?”

“Yes, but I must insist that we be infor - ”

“I’m tired of all this nonsense. I’m managing director of this operation and as long as we operate in Iran that’s the way it is going to be, simple, direct, and no fuss. Kowiss is closing down to make repairs as ordered by Colonel Changiz and will report as soon as we are on the air again. Remain on this channel but keep it clear for testing. Everything will proceed as planned. Over and out!”

Just then the door opened and Starke came in, an anxious young nurse with him. Manuela was dumbfounded. Gavallan leaped up and helped him to a chair, his chest heavily bandaged. He wore pajama bottoms and a loose terry dressing gown. “I’m okay, Andy,” Starke said. “How are you, honey?” “Conroe, are you crazy?” “No. Andy, tell me what’s happening?” The nurse said, “We really can’t take responsibil - ” Starke said patiently, “I promise only a couple of hours and I’ll be real careful. Manuela, please take her back to the car, would you, honey?” He looked at her with that special look husbands have for wives and wives for husbands when it’s not the time to argue. At once she got up and ushered the nurse out and when they had both gone, Starke said, “Sorry, Andy, couldn’t stand it anymore. What’s going on?”

AT KOWISS: 10:48 A.M. McIver came down the tower steps, feeling sick and empty and not sure he would make it to the 206, let alone put the rest of the plan into effect. You’ll make it, he told himself. Get yourself together.

The mullah Hussain was still talking to Kia, leaning against the car, his AK47 slung over one shoulder. “We’re all set, Minister,” McIver said. “Of course, if it’s all right, Excellency Hussain?”

“Yes, as God wants,” Hussain said, with a strange smile. Politely he put out his hand. “Good-bye, Minister Kia.”

“Good-bye, Excellency.” Kia turned and walked off briskly for the 206. Uneasily McIver offered his hand to the mullah. ‘“Bye, Excellency.” Hussain turned to watch Kia get into the cockpit. Again the strange smile. “It is written: ‘The mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small.’ Don’t they, Captain?”

“Yes. But why do you say that?”

“As a parting gift. You can tell your friend Kia when you land at Tehran.” “He’s not my friend, and why then?”

“You’re wise not to have him as a friend. When will you see Captain Starke again?”

“I don’t know. Soon I hope.” McIver saw the mullah glance back at Kia, and his disquiet increased. “Why?”

“I would like to see him soon.” Hussain unslung the gun and got into the car and, with his Green Bands, drove off.

“Captain?” It was Pavoud. He was shaky and upset.

“Yes, Mr. Pavoud, just a minute. Freddy!” McIver beckoned Ayre who came at a run. “Yes, Mr. Pavoud?”

“Please, why are the 212s loaded with spares and luggage and all th - ”

“A crew change,” McIver said at once and pretended not to notice Ayre’s eyes crossing. “I’ve four 212s due here from Bandar Delam. You’d better get accommodations ready. Four pilots and four mechanics. They’re due in about two hours.”

“But we’ve no manifest or reason to h - ”

“Do it!” McIver’s tension boiled over again. “I gave the orders. Me! Me personally! I ordered my 212s here! Freddy, what the hell’re you waiting for? Get going with your spares.”

“Yessir. And you?”

“I’m taking Kia, Tom Lochart’s in charge until I get back. Off you go. No, wait, I’ll go with you. Pavoud, what the devil are you waiting for? Captain Lochart will be very bloody irritable if you’re not ready in time.” McIver stomped off with Ayre, praying that Pavoud was convinced. “Mac, what the hell’s going on?”

“Wait till we get to the others.” When McIver reached the 212s he turned his back to Pavoud who still stood on the office steps and quickly told them what was going on. “See you at the coast.”

“You all right, Mac?” Ayre said, very concerned with his color.

“Of course I am. Take off!”

OFF BAHRAIN: 10:59 A.M. Rudi and Pop Kelly were still in tandem battling the headwind, nursing their engines - their fuel gauges reading empty, red warning lights on. Half an hour ago they had both gone into hover. The mechanics had swung the cabin doors open and leaned out, taking off the tank caps. Then they had uncurled the hoses and stuck the nozzle into the tank neck and come back into the cabin. With the makeshift pumps, laboriously they had pumped the first of the forty-gallon drums dry, then the second. Neither of the mechanics had ever refueled in the air like this. Both had been violently sick when they finished. But the operation was successful.

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 fat.” 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! JeanLuc 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 JeanLuc 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? JeanLuc, please. JeanLuc, 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 - ”