Whirlwind

“No, mate,” Scrag Scragger said, equally concerned, making a slight adjustment to the volume of his headset. At sixty-three, he was the oldest pilot in S-G, senior pilot at Lengeh, a wizened little man, very thin, very tough, with grizzled gray hair and deep-set, light-blue Australian eyes that always seemed to be searching the horizon. His accent was interesting. “I’d like to know wot the hell’s up. Radar’s as itchy as a roo in a twiddle and that’s the third flight we’ve seen since we got airborne, though the first Yankee.”

“Gotta be a task force, Scrag. Or maybe they’re escort fighters the U.S. sent to Saudi Arabia, with the AWACs.”

Scragger was sitting in the left seat, acting as training captain. Normally the 212 used a single-pilot configuration, the pilot in the right seat, but Scragger had had this airplane fitted with dual controls for training purposes. “Well,” he said with a laugh, “so long as we don’t spot MIGs we’re in good shape.”

“The Reds won’t send equipment down here, much as they want the strait.” Vossi was very confident. He was barely half Scragger’s age and almost twice his size. “They won’t so long as we tell them they’d better the hell not - and nave airplanes and task forces and the will to use them.” He squinted down through the haze. “Hey, Scrag, lookit.”

The huge supertanker was heavily burdened, low in the water, steaming ponderously outward bound toward Hormuz. “I’ll bet she’s five hundred thousand tons or more.” They watched her for a moment. Sixty percent of the free world’s oil went through this shallow, narrow waterway between Iran and Oman, barely fifteen miles across where the neck was navigable. Twenty million barrels a day. Every day.

“You think they’ll ever build a million-ton tanker, Scrag?” “Sure. Sure they’ll build her if they want, Ed.” The ship passed below them. “She was flying a Liberian flag,” Scragger said absently. “You got eyes like an eagle.”

“It’s all my clean living, sport.” Scragger glanced around into the cabin. All the passengers were in their seats, belts on, regulation Mae West life jackets on, ear protectors on, reading or looking out of the windows. Everything normal, he thought. Yes, and instruments’re normal, sounds’re normal, I’m normal and so’s Ed. Then why’m I itchy? he asked himself, turning back once more.

Because of the task force, because of Kish radar, because of the passengers, because it’s your birthday, and most of all because you’re airborne and the only way you stay alive airborne is to be itchy. Amen. He laughed out loud. “What’s up, Scrag?”

“You’re up, that’s wot. So you think you’re a pilot, right?” “Sure, Scrag,” Vossi said cautiously.

“Okay. You’ve pegged Siri Three?”

Vossi grinned and pointed at the distant rig that was barely visible in the haze, slightly east of the cluster.

Scragger beamed. “Then close your eyes.”

“Aw c’me on, Scrag, sure this’s a check flight but how about le - ” “I got control,” Scragger said happily. Instantly Vossi relinquished the controls. “Now close your eyes ‘cause you’re under training.” Confidently the young man took a last careful look at the target rig, adjusted his headset, took off his dark glasses, and obeyed.

Scragger handed Vossi the special pair of dark goggles he had had made. “Here, put ‘em on and don’t open your eyes till I say. Get ready to take control.”

Vossi put on the goggles, and smoothly, still with his eyes closed, his hands and feet reached out, barely touching the controls as he knew Scragger liked. “Okay. Ready, Scrag.”

“You got her.”

At once Vossi took over the controls, firmly and lightly, and was pleased that the transition was smooth, the airplane staying straight and level. He was flying now with only his ears to guide him, trying to anticipate the slightest variation in engine note - slowing down or speeding up - that would indicate he was climbing or descending. Now a small change. He anticipated nicely, almost sensing it before it happened, that the pitch was rising, therefore the engines were gathering speed and therefore the chopper was diving. He made the correction and brought her level again. “Good on you, sport,” Scragger said approvingly. “Now open your eyes.” Vossi had expected the usual training glasses that excluded outside visibility but allowed you to see the instruments. He found himself in total blackness. In sudden panic, his concentration vanished and with it his coordination. For a split second he was totally disoriented, his stomach reeling as he knew the airplane would reel. But it didn’t. The controls stayed rock firm in Scragger’s hands that he had not felt on the controls. “Jesssus,” Vossi gasped, fighting his nausea, automatically reaching up to tear off the goggles.

“Keep ‘em on! Ed, this’s an emergency, you’re the pilot, the only pilot aboard and you’re in trouble - you can’t see. Wot’re you going to do? Take the controls! Come on! Emergency!”

There was bile in Vossi’s mouth and he spat it out, his hands and feet nervous. He took the controls, overcorrected, and almost cried out in panic as they lurched, for he was expecting that Scragger would still be monitoring them. But he wasn’t. Again Vossi overcorrected, totally disoriented. This time Scragger minimized the mistake.

“Settle down, Ed,” he ordered. “Listen to the bloody engine! Get your hands and feet in tune.” Then more gently: “Steady now, you’re doing fine, steady now. You can vomit later. You’re in an emergency, you’ve got to put her down, and you got thirteen passengers aft. Me, I’m here beside you but I’m not a bleeding pilot, now wot you going to do?”

Vossi’s hands and feet were together again and his ears listening to the engine. “I can’t see but you can?”

“Right.”

“Then you can talk me down!”

“Right!” Scragger’s voice edged. “Course you got to ask the right questions. Kish Control, HST leaving one thousand for Siri Three.”

“Roger, HST.”

Scragger’s voice became different. “My name’s Burt from now on. I’m a roustabout off one of the rigs. I know nothing about flying but I can read a dial - if you tell me proper where to look.”

Happily Vossi hurled himself into the game and asked the right questions, “Burt” forcing him to use the limits of his knowledge of flight control, cockpit control, where the dials were, making him ask what only an amateur could understand and answer. From time to time when he was not accurate enough, Burt, with rising hysteria would screech, “Jesus, I can’t find the dial, which dial for Christ’s sake, they’re all the bloody same! Explain again, explain slower, oh, God we’re all going to die. …” For Vossi the darkness fed on darkness. Time became stretched, no friendly dials or needles to reassure him, nothing but the voice forcing him to his own utmost limits.

When they were at fifty feet on their approach, Burt calling out landing advice, Vossi was nauseous, terrified in the darkness, knowing that the tiny landing circle on the oil rig was coming up to meet him. You’ve still time to abort, to put on power and get to hell out of here and wait it out aloft, but for how long?

“Now you’re ten feet up and ten yards away just like you wanted.” At once Vossi put her into hover, the sweat pouring off him. “You’re perfect, just over the dead center, just like you wanted.” The blackness had never been more intense. Nor his fear. Vossi muttered a prayer. Gently he eased off power. It seemed to take a lifetime and another and another and then the skids touched and they were down. For an instant he didn’t believe it. His relief was so intense that he almost wept for joy. Then, from a great distance, he heard Scragger’s real voice and felt the controls taken over. “I got her, sport! That was bloody good, Ed. Ten out of ten. I’ll take her now.”

Ed Vossi pulled off the goggles. He was soaking, his face chalky, and he slumped in his seat, hardly seeing the activity on the working rig before him, the heavy rope net spread over the landing pad that was a bare thirty yards in diameter. Jesus, I’m down, we’re down and safe.

Scragger had put the engines to idle; no need to shut down as this was a short stop. He was humming “Waltzing Matilda” which he did only when he was very pleased. The lad did very well, he thought, his flying’s bonzer. But how fast will he recover? Always wise to know, and where his balls are - when you fly with someone.

He turned and gave the thumbs-up to the man in the side front seat of the cabin, one of the French engineers who had to check electrical pumping equipment that had just been installed on this rig. The rest of the passengers waited patiently. Four were Japanese, guests of the French officials and engineers from EPF. Scragger had been disquieted about carrying Japanese - pulled back to memories of his war days, memories of Australian losses in the Pacific war and the thousands who died in the Japanese POW camps and on the Burma railway. Murders more like, he told himself darkly, then turned his attention to the off-loading. The engineer had opened the door and was now helping Iranian deck laborers take packing cases from the cargo hatch. It was hot and humid on the deck, enervating, and the air stank of oil fumes. In the cockpit it was scorching as usual, humidity bad, but Scragger was comfortable. The engines were idling and sounding sweet. He glanced at Vossi, still slumped in his seat, his hands behind his neck, gathering himself.

He’s a good lad, Scragger thought, then the dominating voice in the cabin behind him attracted his attention. It was Georges de Plessey, chief of the French officials and EPF’s area manager. He was sitting on the arm of one of the seats, delivering another of his interminable lectures, this time to the Japanese. Better them’n me, Scragger told himself amused. He had known de Plessey for three years and liked him - for the French food he provided and the quality of his bridge which they both enjoyed, but not for his conversation. Oil men’re all the same, oil’s all they know and all they want to know, and as far as they’re concerned all the rest of us are here on earth to consume the stuff, pay through the bloody nose for it till we’re dead - and even then most crematoriums’re oil fired. Bloody hell! Oil’s skyrocketed to $14.80 a barrel, $4.80 a couple of years ago, and $ 1.80 a few years before that. Bloody highway robbers, the bloody lot, OPEC, the Seven Sisters, and even North Sea oil!

“All these rigs’re on legs that sit on the sea floor,” de Plessey was saying, “all French built and operated, serving one well each…” He wore khakis, and had sparse sandy hair, his face sunburned. The other Frenchmen were chattering and arguing among themselves - and that’s all they do, Scragger thought, except eat and drink wine and romance the pants off any sheila without so much as a by-your-leave. Like that old bugger JeanLuc, king cocksman of them all! Still, they’re all individualists, every one of them - not like those other buggers. The Japanese were all short, lithe, and well groomed, all dressed the same: short-sleeved white shirt and dark tie and dark trousers and dark shoes, same digital watches, dark glasses; the only difference was in their ages. Like sardines in a can, Scragger thought.

“.. .The water here, as in all of the Gulf is very shallow, M’sieur Kasigi,” de Plessey was saying. “Here it’s just about a hundred feet - oil’s easy to reach at about a thousand feet. We’ve six wells in this part of the field we call Siri Three, they’re all on stream, that is connected by pipes and pumping oil into our storage tanks on Siri island - tank capacity is 3 million barrels and all tanks are full now.”

“And the docking on Siri, M’sieur de Plessey?” Kasigi, the graying Japanese spokesman asked, his English clear and careful. “I could not see when we were over the island.”

“We load offshore at the moment. A wharf’s planned for next year. Meanwhile there’ll be no problem to load your medium tankers, M’sieur Kasigi. We guarantee quick service, quick loading. After all, we are French. You’ll see tomorrow. Your Rikomaru hasn’t been delayed?”

“No. She will be there at noon. What’s the final capacity of the field?” “Limitless,” the Frenchman said with a laugh. “We’re only pumping 75,000 barrels a day now but, mon Dieu, under the seabed here is a lake of oil.” “Capit’an Excellency!” At Scragger’s side window was the beaming face of young Abdollah Turik, one of the fire crew. “I very good, ver very good. You?”

“Tip-top, young feller. How’re things?”

“I pleased you to see, Capit’an Excellency.”

About a year ago Scragger’s base at Lengeh had been alerted by radio there was a CASEVAC on this rig. It was in the middle of a duty night and the Iranian manager said perhaps the fireman had a burst appendix and could they get there as quick as possible after dawn - night flying being forbidden in Iran except for emergencies. Scragger had been duty officer and he had gone at once - it was company policy to go immediately, even in minimum conditions, and part of their special service. He had fetched the young man, taken him direct to the Iranian Naval Hospital at Bandar Abbas and talked them into accepting the youth. But for that the youth would have died. Ever since then the young man would be there to welcome him, once a month there was a haunch of fresh goat meat at the base, much as Scragger tried to prevent it, because of the expense. Once he had visited the village in the hinterland of Lengeh where the youth had come from. It was usual: no sanitation, no electricity, no water, dirt floors, mud walls. Iran was very basic outside the cities but, even so, better than most of the Gulf states outside the cities. Abdollah’s family was like all the others, no better no worse. Many children, clouds of flies, a few goats and chickens, a few scrubby acres and soon, his father had said, one day soon we’ll have our own school, Excellency pilot, and our own water supply and one day electricity, and yes it is true we are much better off with work from our oil that foreigners exploit - thanks be to God for giving us oil. Thanks be to God that my son Abdollah lived. It was the Will of God that Abdollah lived, the Will of God that persuaded the Excellency pilot to take so much trouble. Thanks be to God!

“How’re things, Abdollah?” Scragger repeated, liking the youth who was modern, not like his father.

“Good.” Abdollah came closer, put his face almost into the window. “Capit’an,” he said haltingly, no longer smiling, his voice so soft Scragger had to bend forward to hear. “Soon much trouble … Communist Tudeh, mujhadin, perhaps fedayeen. Guns and explosives - perhaps a ship at Siri. Danger. Please please say not anything who says, yes?” Then he put back the smile on his face and called out loudly, “Happy landings and come again soon, Agha.” He waved once and, hiding his nervousness, went back to join the others.

“Sure, sure, Abdollah,” Scragger muttered. There were a number of Iranians watching but that was usual. Pilots were appreciated because they were the only link on a CASEVAC. He saw the landing master give him the thumbs-up. Automatically he turned around and rechecked that all was locked and everyone back in his place. “Shall I take her, Ed?”

“Yeah, sure, Scrag.”

At a thousand feet Scragger leveled off, heading for Siri One where the rest of the passengers were due to disembark. He was very perturbed. Stone the crows, he thought. One bomb could blow Siri island into the Gulf. This was the first time there had been any whisper of trouble. The Siri field had never been subjected to any of the strikes that had closed down all other fields, mostly, expats believed, because the French had given sanctuary to Khomeini.

Sabotage? Didn’t the Jap say he’s got a tanker due tomorrow? Yes, he did. Wot to do? Nothing at the moment, just put Abdollah aside for later - now’s not the time, not when you’re flying.

He glanced at Vossi. Ed did good, very good, better than … better than who? His mind ranged over all the pilots he had helped train over the years. Hundreds. He had been flying since he was fifteen, Royal Australian Air Force at seventeen in ‘33, Spitfires in ‘39 and flight lieutenant, then converting to choppers in ‘45. Korea ‘49, and out after twenty years’ service, still a flight lieutenant, still ornery, and only thirty-seven. He laughed. In the air force he was always on the mat.

“For Christ’s sake, Scragger, why pick on the air vice-marshal? You’ve done it this time… .”

“But, Wingco, the Limey started it, the bastard said all us Aussies were thieves, had chain marks around our wrists, and were descended from convicts!”

“He did? Fucking Limeys’re all the same, Scrag, even though in your case he was probably right as your family’s been Down Under forever, but even so you’re still busted a rank again and if you don’t behave I’ll ground you forever!”

But they never did. How could they? DFC and Bar, APC and Bar, sixteen kills, and three times as many missions, happily, as anyone in the whole RAAF. And today still flying which was all he wanted in the world, still trying to be the best and safest, and still wanting to walk away from a prang, all passengers safe. If you fly choppers you can’t not have equipment failures, he thought, knowing he had been very, very lucky. Not like some, equally good pilots, whose luck ran out. You’ve got to be lucky to be a good pilot. Again he glanced across at Vossi, glad there wasn’t a war on which was a pilot’s great testing ground. I wouldn’t like to lose young Ed, he’s one of the best in S-G. Now who’s better that you’ve flown with? Charlie Pettikin, of course, but then he should be, he’s been a bush pilot and through the wringer too. Tom Lochart the same. Dirty Duncan McIver’s still the best of the lot even though he’s grounded, may he rot with his bleeding three-month medicals - but I’d be just as mean and just as careful with him if I was grounded and he was flying around at sixty-three like a junior birdman. Poor bugger.

Scragger shuddered. If the CAA bring in the new regs about age and enforced retirement, I’ve had it. The day I’m grounded I’m for the pearly gates and no doubt about it.

Siri One was still well ahead. He had landed there three times a week for a year or more. Even so he was planning his approach as though it were the first time. “Safety’s no accident, it has to be prepared.” Today we’ll do a nice gentle low approach an - “Scrag.”

“Yes, me son?”

“You scared the bejesus outta me.”

He chuckled, “You scared the bejesus out’ve yourself, that’s lesson number one. Wot else did you learn?”

“I guess how goddamn easy it is to panic, how lonely you feel, helpless, and to bless your eyes.” Vossi almost burst out, “I guess I learned how mortal I am, goddamnit. Jesus, Scrag, I was scared - shit-scared.” “When it happened t’me I did it in my pants.”

“Huh?”

“I was flying out of Kuwait, a 47G2 in the old days, the sixties.” The 47G2 was the small, three-seat, bubble-shaped, piston-engined Bell, now the workhorse of most traffic control and police forces. “The charter was for a doc and an engineer in ExTex. They wanted to go out to an oasis, past Wafrah, where they had a CASEVAC - some poor sod mixed his leg up with the drill. Well, we were flying with the doors off’s usual ‘cause it was summer, about a hundred and twenty degrees, and dry and rotten for man and chopper as only the desert can be - worse’n our Outback by a long shot. But we’d been promised double charter and a bonus, so my old pal Forsyth volunteered me. It wasn’t a bad day as desert days go, Ed, though the winds were red-hot’n gusting’n playing tricks, you know, the normal: sudden eddies whipping the sand into dust clouds, the usual whirlwinds in the eddies. I was at around three hundred feet on the approach when we hit the dust cloud - the dust so fine you couldn’t see it. How it got through my goggles God only knows but one moment we were okay and the next coughing and spluttering and I had both eyes full and was as blind as an old Pegleg Pete.” “You’re kidding me!”

“No. It’s true, swear to God! Couldn’t see a bleeding thing, couldn’t open my eyes, and I’m the only pilot with two passengers aboard.” “Jesus, Scrag. Both eyes?”

“Both eyes and we swung all over the sky to hell until I got her more or less even and my heart back in me chest, The doc couldn’t get the dust out, and every time he tried or I tried we near turned belly-up - you know how twitchy the G2 is. They were as panicked as me and that didn’t help a bleeding bit. That’s when I figured the only chance we got was to set her down blind. You said you was shit-scared, well, when I got our skids on the sand there wasn’t a dribble left to come out, not even a dribble.”

“Jesus, Scrag, you got her down for real? Just like today but for real, both eyes full of dust? No shit?”

“I got ‘em to talk me down, just like I did to you - ‘least the doc did, the other poor sod’d fainted.” Scragger’s eyes had never left his landfall. “How’s she look to you?”

“No sweat.” Siri One was dead ahead, the landing pad esplanaded over the water. They could see the landing master and his obligatory fire crew standing by. The wind sock was half full and steady.

Normally Scragger would report into radar and begin their gradual descent. Instead he said, “We’ll stay high today, sport, a high-angle approach and let her settle in.”

“Why, Scrag?”

“Make a change.”

Vossi frowned but said nothing. He rescanned the dials, seeking something amiss. There was nothing. Except a slight strangeness about the old man. When they were in position high over the rig, Scragger clicked on the transmit: “Kish radar, HST, leaving one thousand for Siri One.” “Okay, HST. Report when ready for takeoff.”

“HST.”

They were set up for a steep-angle approach, normally used when high buildings or trees or pylons surrounded the point of touchdown. Scragger took off the exact amount of power. The chopper began to settle nicely, perfectly controlled. Nine hundred, eight seven six five … four… three … They both felt the vibration in the controls at the same time. “Jesus,” Vossi gasped, but Scragger had already put her nose down sharply and floored the collective lever. Immediately she began to go down very fast. Two hundred feet, one fifty, one, vibrations increasing. Vossi’s eyes leaped from dial to dial to landing point and back again. He was rigid in his seat, his mind shouting, Tail rotor’s gone or tail rotor gearbox…. The landing pad was rushing at them, the ground crew scattering in panic, passengers hanging on in sudden fright at the untoward steepness, Vossi holding on to the side of his seat to steady himself. Now the whole instrument panel was vibrating, the engine pitch different. Any second he expected them to lose the tail rotor completely and then they’d be lost. The altimeter read sixty feet… fifty … forty … thirty … twenty, and his hands reached to grab the controls to begin the flare but Scragger anticipated him by a fraction of a second, gave her full power and flared perfectly. For a second she seemed poised motionless three feet up, engines screaming, then she touched down hard but not too hard on the near edge of the circle, skidded forward, and came to rest six feet off center. “Fuck,” Scragger muttered.

“Jesus, Scrag.” Vossi was hardly able to talk. “That was perfect.” “Oh, no, no, it wasn’t. I’m off six feet.” With an effort Scragger unlocked his hands from the controls. “Shut her down, Ed, quick as you can!” Scragger opened his door and slid out fast, the airflow from the blades whipping him, and went back to the cabin door, opening it. “Stay where you are a moment,” he shouted over the dying scream of the jets, wet with relief that everyone was still belted in and no one hurt. Obediently they stayed put, two of them pasty gray. The four Japanese stared at him impassively. Cold bloody lot, he thought.

“Mon Dieu, Scrag,” Georges de Plessey called out. “What happened?” “Don’t know, think it’s the tail rotor - soon’s the rotors slow we c - ” “What the hell are you playing at, Vossi!” It was Ghafari, the Iranian landing manager, and he had shoved his face near the pilot’s window, taut with rage. “How dare you pull a practice engine out on this rig? I’ll report you for dangerous flying!”

Scragger whirled on him. “I was flying, not Capt’n Vossi!” Abruptly, Scragger’s enormous relief that he had got down safely, mixed with his long-standing detestation of this man snapped his temper. “Piss off, Ghafari, piss off, or I’ll thump you once and for all!” His fists bunched and he was ready. “PISS OFF!”

The others watched, appalled. Vossi blanched. Ghafari, bigger and heavier than Scragger, hesitated then shook his fist in Scragger’s face, cursing him in Farsi, then shouted in English, wanting to provoke him: “Foreign pig! How dare you swear at me, threaten me? I’ll have you grounded for dangerous flying and thrown out of Iran. You dogs think you own our skies …” Scragger lunged forward but Vossi was suddenly between them and he blocked the lunge with his great chest. “Well, what you know, old buddy?Hey, sorry, Scrag, “he said easily, “but we’d better look at the tail rotor. Scrag, Scrag, old buddy, the tail rotor, huh?”

It took a few seconds for Scragger’s eyes to clear. His heart was pumping and he saw them all staring at him. With a great effort he fought down his rage. “You’re… you’re right, Ed. Yes.” Then he turned on Ghafari. “We had a… we had an emergency.” Ghafari began to scoff and Scragger’s rage soared but this time he controlled it.

They went aft. Many of the oil riggers, European and Iranian, were crowding around. The tail rotor stopped. About four inches were missing from one blade, the break jagged. When Vossi tried the main bearing, it was completely loose - the enormous torque caused by the imbalance of the blades had wrecked it. Behind him one of the passengers went to the side of the rig and was violently sick.

“Jesus,” Vossi muttered, “I could break it off with two fingers.” Ghafari broke the silence with his bluster. “Clearly bad servicing, endangering the li - ”

“Shut up, Ghafari,” de Plessey said angrily. “Merde, we are all alive and we owe our lives to Captain Scragger. No one could forecast this, S-G’s standards are the highest in Iran.”

“It will be reported, Mr. de Plessey, an - ”

“Yes, please do that and remember that I will be commending him for his airmanship.” De Plessey was imposing in his rage. He loathed Ghafari, considering him a rabble-rouser, openly pro-Khomeini one moment, inciting the workers to strike - provided there were no pro-Shah military or police nearby - the next fawningly pro-Shah and punishing the riggers for a minor infraction. Foreign pig, eh? “Remember, too, this is a French-Iranian coventure and France is not, how shall I put it, France has not been unfriendly to Iran in her hour of need.”

“Then you should insist Siri be serviced only by Frenchmen and not by old men! I will report this incident at once.” Ghafari walked off. Before Scragger could say or do anything, de Plessey put his hands on his shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks and shook his hand with equal warmth. “Thank you, mon cher ami!” There were loud cheers from the French as they congratulated themselves and crowded Scragger, formally embracing him. Then Kasigi stepped forward. “Domo,” he said formally, and to Scragger’s further acute embarrassment, the four Japanese bowed to him in unison to more French cheers and much backslapping.

“Thank you, Captain,” Kasigi said formally. “Yes, we understand and thank you.” He smiled and offered his card with both hands and another little bow. “Yoshi Kasigi, Toda Shipping Industries. Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a bad one, Mr. er, Mr. Kasigee,” Scragger said, trying to get over his embarrassment - over his rage now and back in control though he promised himself that one day soon he’d get Ghafari alone ashore. “We’ve, er, we’ve flotation gear, we’d plenty of space and we could have put her down in the water. It’s our job, our job to get her down safely. Ed here.” He beamed at Vossi genially, knowing that by getting in the way the young man had saved him from a matting he would not have won. “Captain Vossi would’ve done the same. Easy. It wasn’t a bad one - I just wanted to save you getting wet though the water’s nice and warm but you never know about Jaws….”

The tension broke and they all laughed, albeit a little nervously, for most of the Gulf and the mouths of the rivers that fed it were shark-infested. The warm waters and the abundance of food waste and untreated sewage that the Gulf nations poured into it for millennia encouraged fish of all kinds. Particularly sharks. And because all food waste and human waste from the rigs went overboard, sharks would usually be nearby.

“Have you ever seen a big one, Captain?”

“Too right. There’s a hammerhead that lurks off Kharg Island. I was stationed there for a couple of years and I’d spot him, oh, once or twice every few months. He’s maybe twenty-five, maybe thirty feet. I’ve seen plenty of giant stingrays but he’s the only big one.”

De Plessey shuddered. “Merde on all sharks. I was almost caught once on Siri and I was, how do you say it, ah, yes, I was only paddling but the shark came racing at me in the shallows and going so fast it beached itself. It was about eight feet long. We shot it six times but it still thrashed around and tried to get us and took hours to die and even then not one of us wanted to get within range of it. Eh, sharks!” He glanced back at the broken blade. “Me, I am very happy to be on the rig.”

They all agreed. The Frenchmen started chattering among themselves, gesticulating, two went to unload some hampers and another went to help the man who was still being sick. Riggers wandered off. The Japanese waited and watched.

Superstitiously Vossi touched the blade. “Just for luck, huh, Scrag?” “Why not? So long as you and the passengers walk away, it was a good landing.”

“What caused it?” de Plessey asked.

“Don’t know, mate,” Scragger said. “There was a flock of

small seabirds, terns I think, at Siri Three. One of them might have gone into the rotor and caused a stress point - I never felt anything, but then you wouldn’t. I know the rotor was perfect this morning because we both checked her as routine.” He shrugged. “Act of God.”

“Oui. Espčce de con! Me, I don’t like to be that close to an Act of God.” He frowned at the landing pad. “Can a 206 or Alouette get in to take us out by stages?”

“We’ll send for another 212 and park our bird over there.” Scragger pointed to the inside of the landing pad near the tall stack of the working derrick. “We’ve wheels in the baggage compartment, so it’ll be no sweat, and no delay for you.”

“Good. Good, then we’ll leave you to it. Come along the rest of you,” de Plessey said importantly. “I think we all need some coffee and then a glass of iced Chablis.”

“I thought all rigs were dry,” Kasigi said.

De Plessey’s eyebrows soared. “They are, m’sieur. Of course. For Iranians and non-French. Of course. But our rigs are French and subject to the Code Napoleon.” He added grandly, “We should celebrate our safe arrival, and today you are guests of la Belle France so we can be civilized and bend the rules - what are rules for if not to be bent? Of course. Come along, then we’ll begin the tour and have the briefing.”

They all followed him, except Kasigi. “And you, Captain?” he asked. “What will you do?”

“We’ll wait. The chopper’ll bring out spares and mechanics,” Scragger said, ill at ease, not liking to be so near to any Japanese, unable to crush the memory of so many friends lost in the war so young with him still alive, and the constant, nagging question why them and not me? “We’ll wait till she’s repaired, then we’ll go home. Why?”

“When will that be?”

“Before sundown. Why?”

Kasigi glanced back at the blade. “With your permission I would like to fly back with you.”

“That’s … that’s up to Capt’n Vossi. He’s formally captain on this flight.”

Kasigi turned his attention to Vossi. The young pilot knew Scragger’s dislike for Japanese but could not understand it. Just before takeoff he had said, “Hell, Scrag, World War Two was a million years ago. Japan’s our ally now - the only big one we’ve got in Asia.” But Scragger had said, “Just leave it, Ed,” so he had left it.

“You’d, er, best go back with the others, Mr. Kasigi, there’s no telling how long we’ll be.”

“Choppers make me nervous. I’d prefer to fly with you, if you don’t mind.” Kasigi looked back at Scragger, hard eyes in a lived-in face. “It was a bad one. You had almost no time, yet you autorotate at barely three hundred feet to make a perfect setdown on this fly-spot. That was incredible flying. Incredible. One thing I don’t understand: why were you high angle, on a high-angle approach?” He caught Vossi glance at Scragger. Ah, he thought, you’re wondering too. “There’s no reason on a day like today, is there?” Scragger stared at him, even more unsettled. “You fly choppers?” “No, but I’ve been in enough to know when there’s bad trouble. My business is tankers, so oil fields, here in the Gulf, Iraq, Libya, Alaska, everywhere - even Australia.” Kasigi let the hatred pass over him. He was used to it. He knew the reason, for he did a great deal of business now in Australia, a very great deal. Some of the hatred’s merited, he thought. Some. Never mind, Australians will change, they’ll have to. After all, we own a considerable section of her raw materials for years to come and soon we’ll own more. Curious that we can do economically so easily what we failed to do militarily. “Please, why did you choose a high-angle approach today? On a normal approach we’d be under the sea right now, on the bottom. Why?” Scragger shrugged, wanting to end it.

“Skipper,” Vossi said, “why did you?”

“Luck.”

Kasigi half smiled. “If you’ll allow me I would like to fly back with you. A life for a life, Captain. Please keep my card. Perhaps one day I can be of service to you.” He bowed politely and left.

11:56 A.M. “Explosives on Sin, Scrag?” De Plessey was shocked. “There might be,” Scragger replied, equally softly. They were on the far side of the platform, well away from everyone, and he had just told him what Abdollah had whispered.

The second 212 was long since there, waiting for de Plessey to give the word to start up and take him and his party on to Siri where they were due to have lunch. Mechanics had already stripped most of the tail section of Scragger’s 212 and were well into repairs, Vossi watching attentively. The new rotor and gearbox were already in place.

After a moment, de Plessey said helplessly, “Explosives could be anywhere, anywhere. Even a little explosive could wreck our whole pumping system. Madonna, it would be a perfect ploy to further wreck Bakhtiar’s chances - or Khomeini’s - of getting back to normal.”

“Yes. But be careful how you use the info - and for God’s sake keep it to yourself.”

“Of course. This man was on Siri Three?”

“At Lengeh.”

“Eh? Then why didn’t you tell me this morning?”

“There was no time.” Scragger glanced around, making sure they were still not overheard. “Be careful, whatever you do. Those fanatics don’t give a twopenny damn for anything or anyone and if they think there’s been a leak, that someone’s ratted … there’ll be bodies floating from here to Hormuz.” “I agree.” De Plessey was very worried. “Did you tell anyone else?” “No, cobber.”

“Mon Dieu, what can I do? Security is … how can you have security in Iran? Like it or not we’re in their power.” Then he added, “Thank you a second time. I must tell you I’ve been expecting major sabotage on Kharg, and at Abadan, it’s to the leftist advantage to create even more chaos, but I never thought they’d come here.”

Moodily he leaned on the rail and looked down at the sea sluggishly washing the legs of the platform. Sharks were circling and feeding. Now we’ve terrorists threatening us. Siri’s tanks and pumps are a good target for sabotage. And if Siri’s interfered with, we lose years of planning, years of oil that France desperately needs. Oil we may have to buy from the shit-stenched English and their shit-stenched North Sea oil fields - how dare they be so lucky with their 1.3 million barrels a day and rising! Why isn’t there oil off our coasts or off Corse? God-cursed English with their two-faced, two-hearted approach to life! De Gaulle was right to keep them out of Europe, and now that we, out of the goodness of our hearts, have accepted them, even though we all know they’re lying bastards, they care nothing to share their windfall with us, their partner. They only pretend to be with us in the EEC - they’ve always been against us and always will be. The Great Charles was right about them but incredibly wrong about Algeria. If we still had our Algeria, our soil and therefore our oil, we’d be rich, content, with Britain and Germany and all the rest licking the grime from between our toes.

Meanwhile, what to do?

Go to Siri and have lunch. After lunch you will think better. Thank God we can still get supplies from sensible, civilized Dubai, Sharjah, and Al Shargaz: Brie, Camembert, Boursin, fresh garlic and butter from France daily, and real wine without which we might as well be dead. Well, almost, he added cautiously and saw Scragger staring at him. “Yes, mon brave?” “I said, wot’re you going to do?”

“Order a security exercise,” he said majestically. “It seems that I had forgotten clause 56/976 of our original French-Iran contract that says every six months for a period of several days security must be checked against any and all intruders for… for the great glory of France and, er, Iran!” De Plessey’s fine eyes lit up with the beauty of his ruse. “Yes. Of course my subordinates forgot to remind me but now we will all hurl ourselves into the exercise with perfect French enthusiasm. Everywhere, on Siri, on the rigs, ashore, even at Lengeh! Les crétins! How dare they think they could sabotage the work of years.” He glanced around. There was still no one near. The rest of the party was assembled now near the second 212. “I’ll have to tell Kasigi because of his tanker,” he said quietly. “That might be the target.” “Can you trust him? I mean to do everything quietly.”

“Yes. We will have to, mon ami. We will have to warn him, yes, we’ll have to do that.” De Plessey felt his stomach rumbling. My God, he thought, very perturbed, I hope it’s just hunger and that I’m not in for a bilious attack - though I wouldn’t wonder with all that’s happened today. First we almost have an accident, then our top pilot almost has a fight with that barrel full of dung Ghafari, and now the revolution may come to us. “Kasigi asked if he could fly back with you. When will you be ready?”

“Before sundown, but there’s no need for him to wait for us, he can go back with you.”

De Plessey frowned. “I understand why you don’t like Japanese - me, I still can’t stand the Germans. But we must be practical. He’s a good customer and since he asked, I’d appreciate it if you’d, you’d, er, ask Vossi to fly him, mon cher ami. Yes, now we are intimate friends, you saved our lives, and we shared an Act of God! And he is one of our very good customers,” he added firmly. “Very good. Thank you, mon ami. I’ll leave him at Siri. When you’re ready, pick him up there. Tell him what you told me. Excellent, then that’s decided, and rest assured I will commend you to the authorities and to the Laird Gavallan himself.” He beamed again. “We’ll be off and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Scragger watched him go. He cursed silently. De Plessey was the top man so there was nothing he could do and that afternoon on the way to Siri he sat back in the cabin, sweating and hating it.

“Jesus, Scrag,” Vossi had said, in shock, when he had told him he was riding in the back. “Passenger? You all right? You sure y - ”

“I just want to see what it feels like,” Scragger had said irritably. “Get your arse in the captain’s seat, fetch that bugger from Siri, and set her down like a bleeding feather at Lengeh or it’s in your bleeding report.” Kasigi was waiting at the helipad. There was no shade and he was hot, dusty, and sweating. Dunes stretched back to the pipelines and tank complex, all dirty brown from the dust. Scragger watched the dust devils, little whirlwinds, dance over the ground, and he thanked his stars that he could fly and didn’t have to work in such a place. Yes, choppers are noisy and always vibrating and maverick, he thought, and yes, I miss flying the high skies, flying fixed wing alone in the high skies, diving and turning over and falling like an eagle to rise up again - but flying is flying and I still hate sitting in the bleeding cabin. For God’s sake, here it’s even worse than a regular aircraft! He hated flying without the controls and never felt safe and this added to his discomfort as he beckoned Kasigi to sit beside him and slammed the door shut. The two mechanics were dozing in their seats opposite, their white overalls stained with sweat. Kasigi adjusted the Mae West and snapped his seat belt tight.

Once airborne Scragger leaned closer to him. “There’s no way to tell you but quickly so here it is: there may be a terrorist attack on Siri, one of the rigs, perhaps even your ship. De Plessey asked me to warn you.” The air hissed out of Kasigi’s mouth. “When?” he asked over the heavy cabin noise.

“I don’t know. Nor does de Plessey. But it’s more than possible.” “How? How will they sabotage?”

“No idea. Guns or explosives, maybe a time bomb, so you’d better tighten security.”

“It is already optimum,” Kasigi replied at once, and then saw the flash of anger in Scragger’s eyes. For a second he could not fathom the why, then he remembered what he had just said. “Ah, so sorry, Captain, I did not mean to be boastful. It is just that we have always very high standards and in these waters my ships’re…” He had almost said “on a war footing” but stopped himself in time, containing his irritation at the other’s sensitivity. “In these waters everyone is more than careful. Please excuse me.” “De Plessey wanted you to know. And also to keep the tip mum - to keep it to yourself - and not get any Iranian backs up.”

“I understand. The tip is safe with me. Again, thank you.” Kasigi saw Scragger nod briefly then settle back in his seat. The bigger half of him also wanted to nod briefly and end everything there, but because the Australian had saved his companions’ lives as well as his own, therefore enabling them to give further service to the company and their leader, Hiro Toda, he felt it his duty to attempt a healing.

“Captain,” he said as quietly as he could over the thunder of the jets, “I understand why we Japanese are hated by Australians and I apologize for all the Changis, all the Burma Roads, and all the atrocities. I can only tell you the truth: these happenings are well taught in our schools and not forgotten. It is to our national shame that these things happened.” It’s true, he thought angrily. To commit those atrocities was stupid even though those fools did not understand they were committing atrocities - after all, the enemy were cowards, most of them, and meekly surrendered in tens of thousands and so forfeited their rights as human beings according to our Bushido, our code, that stipulates for a soldier to surrender is the worst dishonor. A few mistakes by a few sadists, a few ill-educated peasants of prison guards - most of whom were the garlic eaters, Koreans - and all Japanese have to suffer forever. It is a shame of Japan. And another, the worst of all shames, that our supreme war-leader failed in his duty and so forced the emperor into the shame of having to terminate the war. “Please accept my apology for all of us.”

Scragger stared at him. After a pause he said simply, “Sorry, but I can’t. For one thing my ex-partner Forsyth was the first man into Changi; he never got over what he saw; for another too many of my cobbers, not just POWs, bought it. Too many. I can’t forget. An’ more than that, I won’t. I won’t because if I did, that’d be their last betrayal. We’ve betrayed them in the peace - wot peace? We’ve betrayed ‘em all, that’s what I think. Sorry, but there it is.”

“I understand. Even so we can make a peace, you and I. No?” “Maybe. Maybe in time.”

Ah, time, Kasigi thought, bemused. Today I was again on the edge of death. How much time do we have, you and I? Isn’t time an illusion and all life just illusions within illusions. And death? His revered samurai ancestor’s death poem had summed it up perfectly: What are clouds,/But an excuse for the sky?/What is life,/But an escape from Death?

The ancestor was Yabu Kasigi, daimyo of Izu and Baka and supporter of Yoshi Toronaga, first and greatest of the Toronaga shoguns who, from father to son, ruled Japan from 1603 until 1871 when the Meiji emperor finally obliterated the shogunate and outlawed the entire samurai class. But Yabu Kasigi was not remembered for his loyalty to his liege lord or his courage in battle - as was his famous nephew Omi Kasigi, who fought for Toronaga at the great battle of Sekigahara, had his hand blown off but still led the charge that broke the enemy.

Oh, no, Yabu betrayed Toronaga, or tried to betray him, and so was ordered by him to commit seppuku - ritual death by disembowelment. Yabu was revered for the calligraphy of his death poem, and his courage when he committed seppuku. On that day, kneeling before the assembled samurai, he contemptuously dispensed with the second samurai who would stand behind him with a long sword to end his agony quickly by cutting off his head and so preventing the shame of crying out. He took the short knife and plunged it deep into his stomach, then leisurely made the four cuts, the most difficult seppuku of all - across and down, across again and up - then lifted out his own entrails to die at length, never having cried out.

Kasigi shivered at the thought of having to do the same, knowing he would not have the courage. Modern war’s nothing to those days when you could be ordered to die thus at the whim of your liege lord… .

He saw Scragger watching him.

“I was in the war, too,” he said involuntarily. “Fixed wing. I flew Zeros in China, Malaya, and Indonesia. And New Guinea. Courage in war is different from… from courage alone…. I mean, not in war, isn’t it?” “I don’t understand.”

I haven’t thought about my war for years, Kasigi was thinking, a sudden wave of fear going through him, remembering his constant terror of dying or being maimed, terror that had consumed him - like today when he was certain they were all going to die and he and his companions had been frozen with fear. Yes, and we all did today what we did all those war years: remembered our heritage in the Land of the Gods, swallowed our terror as we had been taught from childhood, pretended calm, pretended harmony so as not to shame ourselves before others, flew missions for the emperor against the enemy as best we could and then, when he said lay down your arms, thankfully laid down our arms, however much the shame.

A few found the shame unbearable and killed themselves in the ancient way with honor. Did I lose honor because I didn’t? Never. I obeyed the emperor who ordered us to bear the unbearable, then joined my cousin’s firm as was ordained and have served him loyally for the greater glory of Japan. From the ruins of Yokohama I helped rebuild Toda Snipping Industries into one of Japan’s greatest firms, constructing great ships, inventing the supertankers, bigger every year - soon the keel of the first million-tonner to be laid. Now our ships are everywhere, carrying bulk raw materials into Japan and finished goods out. We Japanese are rightly the wonder of the world. But, oh, so vulnerable - we must have oil or we perish. Out of one of the windows he noticed a tanker steaming up the Gulf, another going toward Hormuz. The bridge continues, he thought. At least one tanker every hundred miles all the way from here to Japan, day in day out, to feed our factories without which we starve. All OPEC knows it, they’re gouging us and gloating. Like today. Today it took all my willpower to pretend outward calm dealing with that… that odious Frenchman, stinking of garlic and that revolting, stinking, oozing vomit mess called Brie, blatantly demanding $2.80 over and above the already outrageous $14.80, and me, of ancient samurai lineage, having to haggle with him like a Hong Kong Chinese. “But, M’sieur de Plessey, surely you must see that at that price, plus freight an - ”

“So sorry, m’sieur, but I have my instructions. As agreed the 3 million barrels of Siri oil are on offer to you first. ExTex have asked for a quote and so have four other majors. If you wish to change your mind…” “No, but the contract specifies ‘the current OPEC price’ and w - ” “Yes, but you surely know that all OPEC suppliers are charging a premium. Don’t forget the Saudis plan to cut back production this month, that last week all the majors ordered another sweeping wave of force majeure cutbacks, that Libya’s cutting her production too. BP’s increased its cutback to 45 percent….”

Kasigi wanted to bellow with rage as he remembered that when at length he had agreed, provided he could have all 3 million barrels at the same price, the Frenchman had smiled sweetly and said, “Certainly, provided you load within seven days,” both of them knowing it was impossible. Knowing too that a Romanian state delegation was presently in Kuwait seeking 3 million tons of crude, let alone 3 million barrels, to compensate for the cutoff of their own Iranian supplies that came to them through the Iran-Soviet pipelines. And that there were other buyers, dozens of them, waiting to take over his Siri option and all his other options - for oil, liquid natural gas, naphtha, and other petrochemicals.

“Very well, $17.60 a barrel,” Kasigi had said agreeably. But inside he swore to even the score somehow.

“For this one tanker, m’sieur.”

“Of course for this tanker,” he had said even more agreeably. And now this Australian pilot whispers to me that even this one tanker may not be safe. This strange old man, far too old to be flying yet so skilled, so knowledgeable, so open, and so foolish - foolish to be so open, for then you put yourself into another’s power.

He looked back at Scragger. “You said we could make a peace maybe in time. We both ran out of time today - but for your skill, and luck, though we call that karma. I truly don’t know how much time we have. Perhaps my ship is blown up tomorrow. I will be aboard her.” He shrugged. “Karma. But let us be friends, just you and I - I don’t think we betray our war comrades, yours and mine.” He put out his hand. “Please.”

Scragger looked at the hand. Kasigi willed himself to wait. Then Scragger conceded, half nodded and shook the hand firmly. “Okay, sport, let’s give it a go.”

At that moment he saw Vossi turn and beckon him. At once Scragger went forward to the cockpit. “Yes, Ed?”

“There’s a CASEVAC, Scrag, from Siri Three. One of the deck crew’s fallen overboard….”

They went at once. The body was floating near the legs of the rig. They winched it aboard. Sharks had already fed on the lower limbs and one arm was missing. The head and face were badly bruised and curiously disfigured. It had been Abdollah Turik.

Chapter 6

NEAR BANDAR DELAM: 4:52 P.M. Shadows were lengthening. Beyond the road the land was scrubby, and beyond that stony foothills rose to snowcapped mountains - the northern end of the Zagros. This side, beside the stream and marshes that led at length to the port a few miles away, was one of the numerous oil pipelines that crisscrossed this whole area. The pipeline was steel, twenty inches in diameter, and set on a concrete trestle that led down into a culvert under the road, then went underground. A mile or so to the east was a village - lowlying, dust-covered, earth-colored, made from mud bricks - and coming from that direction was a small car. It was old and battered and traveled slowly, the engine sounding good, too good for the body.

In the car were four Iranians. They were young and cleanshaven and better dressed than usual, though all were sweat stained and very nervous. Near the culvert the car stopped. One young man wearing glasses got out from the front seat and pretended to urinate on the side of the road, his eyes searching all around.

“It’s all clear,” he said.

At once the two youths in the back came out swiftly, a rough, heavy bag between them, and ducked down the dirt embankment into the culvert. The young man with glasses fastened his buttons, then casually went to the trunk of the car and opened it. Under a piece of torn canvas he saw the snub nose of the Czech-made machine pistol. A little of his nervousness left him. The driver got out and urinated into the ditch, his stream strong. “I wanted to, Mashoud, but couldn’t,” the youth with glasses said, envying him. He wiped the sweat off his face and pushed at his glasses. “I can never do it before an exam,” Mashoud said and laughed. “God grant university will open again soon.”

“God! God’s the opiate of the masses,” the youth with glasses said witheringly, then turned his attention to the road. It was still empty as far as they could see in both directions. South a few miles away, the sun reflected off the waters of the Gulf. He lit a cigarette. His fingers trembled. Time passed very slowly. Flies swarmed, making the silence seem more silent. Then he noticed a dust cloud on the road, the other side of the village. “Look!”

Together they squinted into the distance. “Are they lorries - or trucks, army trucks?” Mashoud said anxiously, then ran to the side of the culvert and shouted, “Hurry up, you two. There’s something coming!” “All right,” a voice called from below.

“We’re almost done,” another voice said.

The two youths in the culvert had the sack open and were already packing the flat bags of explosive haphazardly against the welded steel pipe and along its length. The pipe was covered with a sheath of canvas and pitch to protect it from erosion. “Give me the detonator and fuse, Ali,” the older one said throatily. Both of them were filthy now, the dirt streaked with sweat.

“Here.” Ali handed it to him carefully, his shirt clinging to his skin. “Are you sure you know how to do it, Bijan?”

“We’ve studied the pamphlet for hours. Didn’t we practice doing it with our eyes closed?” Bijan forced a smile. “We’re like Robert Jordan in For Whom the Bell Tolls. Just like him.” The other shivered. “I hope the bell’s not tolling for us.” “Even if it does, what does that matter? The party will conquer, and the Masses will have victory.” Bijan’s inexperienced fingers awkwardly jammed the highly volatile, nitroglycerin detonator against one of the explosives, connected one end of the fuse beside it, and piled the last of the bags on top to hold it in place.

Mashoud’s voice called out even more urgently, “Hurry, they’re … we think they’re army trucks with soldiers!”

For a moment both young men were paralyzed, then they unreeled the length of fuse, tripping over each other in their nervousness. Unnoticed, the fuse end near the detonator came away. They laid the ten-foot length along the ground, lit the far end, and took to their heels. Bijan glanced back to check everything, saw that one end was spluttering nicely, and was aghast to notice the other end dangling free. He rushed back, shakily stuffed it near the detonator, slipped, and slammed the detonator against the concrete. The nitroglycerin exploded and blew the bag of explosives next to it and that blew the next and the next and they all went and tore Bijan to pieces with twenty feet of the pipe, blowing off the culvert roof and overturning the car, killing two of the other youths and ripping a leg off the last. Oil began gushing from the pipe. Hundreds of barrels a minute. The oil should have ignited but it did not - the explosives had been wrongly placed and detonated - and by the time the two army trucks had stopped cautiously a hundred yards away, the oil slick had already reached the stream. The lighter oils, gaseous, volatile, floated on the surface, and the heavier crude began to seep into the banks and marshes and soil, making the whole area highly dangerous.

In the two commandeered trucks were some twenty of Khomeini’s Green Bands, most of them bearded, the rest unshaven, all wearing their characteristic armbands - peasants, a few oilfield workers, a PLO-trained leader, and a mullah - all armed, all battle-stained, a few wounded, the uniformed police captain bound and gagged and still alive lying on the floor. They had just attacked and overwhelmed a police station to the north and were now heading into Bandar Delam to continue the war. Their assignment was to help others subdue the civilian airport that was a few miles to the south. The mullah leading, they came to the edge of the blown-up culvert. For a moment they watched the oil gushing, then a moaning attracted them. They unslung their guns and went carefully to the overturned car. The youth missing a leg was lying half under it, dying fast. Flies swarmed and settled and swarmed again, blood and entrails everywhere.

“Who are you?” the mullah asked, shaking him roughly. “Why did you do this?” The youth opened his eyes. Without his glasses everything was misted. Blindly he groped for them. The terror of dying engulfed him. He tried to say the Shahada but only a petrified scream came forth. Blood welled into his throat, choking him.

“As God wants,” the mullah said, turning away. He noticed the broken glasses in the dirt and picked them up. One lens was fractured, the other missing. “Why should they do this?” one of the Green Bands asked. “We’ve no orders to sabotage the pipes - not now.”

“They must be Communists, or Islamic-Marxist carrion.” The mullah tossed the glasses away. His face was bruised and his long robe torn in places and he was starving. “They look like students. May God kill all His enemies as quickly.”

“Hey, look at these,” another called out. He had been searching the car and found three machine pistols and some grenades. “All Czech made. Only leftists are so well armed. These dogs’re enemy all right.” “God be praised. Good, we can use the arms. Can we get the trucks around the culvert?”

“Oh, yes, easily, thanks be to God,” his driver, a thickset bearded man said. He was a worker in one of the oil fields and knew about pipelines. “We’d better report the sabotage,” he added nervously. “This whole area could explode. I could phone the pumping station if there’s a phone working - or send a message - then they can cut the flow. We’d better be fast. This whole area’s deadly and the spill will pollute everything downstream.” “That’s in the Hands of God.” The mullah watched the oil spreading. “Even so it’s not right to waste the riches God gave us. Good, you will try to phone from the airport.” Another bubbling scream for help came from the youth. They left him to die.

BANDAR DELAM AIRPORT: 5:30 P.M. The civilian airport was unguarded, abandoned, and not operational except for the S-G contingent that had come here a few weeks ago from Kharg Island. The airport had two short runways, a small tower, some hangars, a two-story office building, and some barracks, and now a few modem trailers - S-G’s property - for temporary housing and HQ. It was like any one of the dozens of civilian airports that the Shah had had built for the feeder airlines that used to service all Iran: “We will have airports and modern services,” he had decreed and so it was done. But since the troubles had begun six months ago and all internal feeder airlines struck, airplanes had been grounded throughout Iran and the airports closed down. Ground crews and staff had vanished. Most of the aircraft had been left in the open, without service or care. Of the three twin jets that were parked on the apron, two had flat tires, one, a cockpit window broken. All had had their tanks drained by looters. All were filthy, almost derelict. And sad.

In great contrast to these were the five sparkling S-G helicopters, three 212s and two 206s lined up meticulously, being given their daily bath and final check of the day. The sun was low now and cast long shadows. Captain Rudiger Lutz, senior pilot, moved to the last helicopter and inspected it as carefully as he had the others. “Very good,” he said at length. “You can put them away.” He watched while the mechanics and their Iranian ground crew wheeled the airplanes back into the hangars that were also spotless. He knew that many of the crew laughed at him behind his back for his meticulous-ness, but that didn’t matter - so long as they obeyed. That’s our most difficult problem, he thought. How to get them to obey, how to operate in a war situation when we’re not governed by army rules and just noncombatants in the middle of a war situation whether Duncan McIver wants to admit it openly or not.

This morning Duke Starke at Kowiss had relayed by HF McIver’s terse message from Tehran about the rumored attack on Tehran Airport and the revolt of one of the air bases there - because of distance and mountains Bandar Delam could not talk direct to Tehran or to their other bases, only to Kowiss. Worriedly Rudi had assembled all his expat crew, four pilots, seven mechanics - seven English, two Americans, one German, and one Frenchman - where they could not be overheard and had told them. “It wasn’t so much what Duke said but the way he said it - kept calling me ‘Rudiger’ when it’s always ‘Rudi.’ He sounded itchy.”

“Not like Duke Starke to be itchy - unless it’s hit the fan,” Jon Tyrer, Rudi’s American second-in-command, had said uneasily. “You think he’s in trouble? You think maybe we should go take a look at Kowiss?” “Perhaps. But we’ll wait till I talk to him tonight.”

“Me, I think we’d better get ready to do a midnight skip, Rudi,” mechanic Fowler Joines had said with finality. “Yes. If old Duke’s nervous … we’d best be ready to scarper, to get lost.”

“You’re crazy, Fowler. We’ve never had trouble,” Tyrer said. “This whole area’s more or less quiet, police and troops disciplined and in control. Shit, we’ve five air force bases within twenty miles and they’re all elite and pro-Shah. There’s bound to be a loyalist coup soon.” “You ever been in the middle of a coup for crissake? They bloody shoot each other and I’m a civilian!”

“Okay, say the stuff hits the fan, what do you suggest?”

They had discussed all sorts of possibilities. Land, air, sea. Iraq’s border was barely a hundred miles away - and Kuwait within easy range across the Gulf.

“We’ll have plenty of notice.” Rudi was very confident. “McIver‘11 know if there’s a coup coming.”

“Listen, old son,” Fowler had said, more sourly than usual, “I know companies - same as bloody generals! If it gets really tough we’ll be on our tod - on our bloody own - so we’d better have a plan. I’m not going to get my head shot off for the Shah, Khomeini, or even the Laird-god Gavallan. I say we just scarper - fly the coop!”

“Bloody hell, Fowler,” one of the English pilots had burst out, “are you suggesting we hijack one of our own planes? We’d be grounded forever!” “Maybe that’s better than the pearly gates!”

“We could get shot down, for God’s sake. We’d never get away with it - you know how all our flights are monitored, how twitchy radar is here - bloody sight worse than at Lengeh! We can’t get off the ground without asking permission to start engines. …”

At length Rudi had asked them to give him contingency suggestions in case sudden evacuation was necessary, by land, by air, or by sea, and had left them arguing.

All day he had been worrying what to do, what was wrong at Kowiss, and at Tehran. As senior pilot he felt responsible for his crew - apart from the dozen Iranian laborers and Jahan, his radio op, none of whom he had been able to pay for six weeks now - along with all the aircraft and spares. We were damned lucky to get out of Kharg so well, he thought, his stomach tightening. The withdrawal had gone smoothly with all airplanes, all important spares, and some of their transport brought here over four days without interfering with their heavy load of contract flying and CASEVACs. Getting out of Kharg had been easy because everyone had wanted to go. As quickly as possible. Even before the troubles, Kharg was an unpopular base with nothing to do except work and look forward to R and R in Tehran or home. When the troubles began everyone knew that Kharg was a prime target for revolutionaries. There had been a great deal of rioting, some shooting. Recently more of the IPLO armbands had been seen among the rioters and the commander of the island had threatened that he’d shoot every villager on the island if the rioting didn’t stop. Since they had left a few weeks ago the island had been quiet, ominously quiet.

And that retreat wasn’t a real emergency, he reminded himself. How to operate in one? Last week he had flown to Kowiss to pick up some special spares and had asked Starke how he planned to operate at Kowiss if there was real trouble.

“The same as you, Rudi. You’d try to operate within company rules which won’t apply then,” the tall Texan had said. “We got a couple of things going for us: just about all of our guys’re ex-service of some sort so there’s a kinda chain of command - but hell, you can plan all you want and then you still won’t sleep nights because when the stuff hits the fan, it’ll be the same as ever: some of the guys’ll fall apart, some won’t, and you’ll never know in advance who’s gonna do what, or even how you’ll react yourself.” Rudi had never been in a shooting war, though his service with the German army in the fifties had been on the East German borders, and in West Germany you’re always conscious of the Wall, the Curtain, and of all your brothers and sisters behind it - and of the waiting, brooding Soviet legions and satellite legions with their tens of thousands of tanks and missiles also behind it, just yards away. And conscious of German zealots on both sides of the border who worship their messiah called Lenin and the thousands of spies gnawing at our guts.

Sad.

How many from my hometown?

He had been born in a little village near Plauen close to the Czechoslovakian border, now part of East Germany. In ‘45 he had been twelve, his brother sixteen and already in the army. The war years had not been bad for him and his younger sister and mother. In the country there was enough to eat. But in ‘45 they had fled before the Soviet hordes, carrying what they could, to join the vast German migrations westward: two million from Prussia, another two from the north, four from the center, another two from the south - along with other millions of Czechs, Poles, Hungarians, Romanians, Austrians, Bulgarians, of all Europe - all starving now, all petrified, all fighting to stay alive.

117 Ah, staying alive, he thought.

On the trek, cold and weary and almost broken, he remembered going with his mother to a garbage dump, somewhere near Nürnberg, the countryside war-ravaged and towns rubbled, his mother frantic to find a kettle - their own stolen in the night - impossible to buy one, even if they had had the money. “We’ve got to have a kettle to boil water or we’ll all die, we’ll get typhus or dysentery like the others - we can’t live without boiled water,” she had cried out. So he had gone with her, in tears, convinced it was a waste of time, but they had found one. It was old and battered, the spout bent, and the handle loose but the top was with it and it did not leak. Now the kettle was clean and sparkling and in a place of honor on the mantelpiece in the kitchen of their farmhouse near Freiburg in the Black Forest where his wife and sons and mother were. And once a year, each New Year’s Eve, his mother would still make tea from water boiled in the kettle. And, when he was there, they would smile together, he and she. “If you believe enough, my son, and try,” she would always whisper, “you can find your kettle. Never forget, you found it, I didn’t.”

There were sudden warning shouts. He whirled around to see three army trucks burst through the gate, one racing for the tower, the other toward his hangars. The trucks skidded to a halt and Green Band revolutionaries fanned out over the base, two men charging at him, their guns leveled, screaming Farsi which he did not understand, as others started rounding up his men in the hangar. Petrified, he raised his hands, his heart pounding at the suddenness. Two Green Bands, bearded and sweating with excitement-fear shoved gun barrels at his face and Rudi flinched. “I’m not armed,” he gasped. “What do you want? Eh?” Neither man answered, just continued to threaten him. Behind them he could see the rest of his crew being herded out of their barrack trailers onto the apron. Other attackers were jumping in and out of the helicopters, searching them, carelessly overturning gear, one man hurling neatly rolled life jackets out of their seat pockets. His rage overcame his terror. “Hey, Sie verrückte Dummköpfe,” he shouted. “Lass’n Sie meine verrückten Flugzeuge allein!” Before he knew what he was doing he had brushed the guns aside and rushed toward them. For a moment it looked as though the two Iranians would shoot, but they just went after him, caught up with him, and pulled him around. One lifted a rifle by the butt to smash his face in.

“Stop!”

The men froze.

The man who shouted out the command in English was in his early thirties, heavyset, wearing rough clothes, with a green armband, a stubbled beard, dark wavy hair, and dark eyes. “Who is in charge here?”

“I am!” Rudi Lutz tore his arms out of his assailants’ grasp. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

“We are possessing this airport in the name of Islam and the revolution.” The man’s accent was English. “How many troops are here, air staff?” “There’re none. No troops - there’s no tower staff, there’s no one here but us,” Rudi said, trying to catch his breath.

“No troops?” The man’s voice was dangerous.

“No, none. We’ve had patrols here since we came here a few weeks ago - they come from time to time. But none are stationed here. And no military airplanes.” Rudi stabbed a finger at the hangar. “Tell those… those men to be careful of my airplanes, lives depend on them, Iranian as well as ours.”

The man turned and saw what was happening. He shouted another command, cursing them. The men shouted back at him carelessly, then after a moment came out into the sunset, leaving chaos in their wake.

“Please excuse them,” the man said. “My name is Zataki. I am chief of the Abadan komiteh. With the Help of God, we command Bandar Delam now.” Rudi’s stomach was churning. His expats and Iranian staff were in a frozen group beside the low office building, guns surrounding them. “We’re working for a British comp - ”

“Yes, we know about S-G Helicopters.” Zataki turned and shouted again. Reluctantly, some of his men went to the gate and began to take up defensive positions. He looked back at Rudi. “Your name?”

“Captain Lutz.”

“You have nothing to fear, Captain Lutz, you and your men. Do you have arms here?”

“No, except Very light pistols, aircraft stores. For signaling, distress signaling.”

“You will fetch them.” Zataki turned and went nearer to the S-G group and stood there, examining faces. Rudi saw the fear of his Iranians, cooks, ground staff, fitters, Jahan, and Yemeni, the IranOil manager. “These are all my people,” he said trying to sound firm. “All S-G employees.”

Zataki looked at him, then came very close, and Rudi had to steel himself not to flinch again. “Do you know what mujhadin-al-khalq means? Fedayeen? Tudeh?” he asked softly, heavier than Rudi, and with a gun. “Yes.”

“Good.” After a pause, Zataki went back to staring at the Iranians. One by one. The silence grew. Suddenly he stabbed a finger at one man, a fitter. The man sagged, then began to run frantically, screaming in Farsi. They caught him easily and beat him senseless.

__ * “The komiteh will judge him and sentence him in God’s name.” Zataki glanced at Rudi. “Captain,” he said, his lips a thin line, “I asked you to fetch your Very pistols.”

“They’re in the safe, and quite safe,” Rudi said, just as toughly, not feeling brave inside. “You may have them whenever you want. They’re only in the airplane during a mission. I… I want that man released!” Without warning, Zataki reversed his machine gun and slammed the butt at Rudi’s head but Rudi caught it with one hand, deflecting it, tore it out of the man’s grasp, his reflexes perfect, and before the gun crashed to the ground, the hardened edge of his other, open hand was axing into Zataki’s unprotected throat. But he stopped the death blow, barely touching the man’s skin. Then he stepped back, at bay now. All guns were trained on him. The silence grew. His men watched, appalled. Zataki was staring at Rudi enraged. The shadows were long, and a slight wind toyed with the wind sock, crackling it slightly.

“Pick up the gun!”

In the bigger silence, Rudi heard the threat and the promise and he knew that his life - all of theirs - was in balance. “Fowler, do it!” he ordered and prayed that he had chosen correctly.

Reluctantly Fowler came forward. “Yessir, coming right up!” It seemed to take a long time for him to cover the twenty yards, but no one stopped him and one of the guards moved out of his way. He picked the gun up, automatically put the safety on, carefully handed it back to Zataki, butt first. “It’s not bent and, er, good as new, me son.”

The leader took the gun and slipped the safety off and everyone heard the click as though it were a thunderclap. “You know guns?”

“Yes … oh, yes. We … all mechanics were … we all had to have a course in the RAF… Royal Air Force,” Fowler said, keeping his eyes on the man’s eyes and he thought, What the fuck am I doing here, standing up to this smelly son of a whore’s left tit? “Can we dismiss? We’re civilians, me son, we’re noncombatants, begging your pardon. Neutral.”

Zataki jerked a thumb at the line. “Go back there.” Then he turned to Rudi. “Where did you learn karate?”

“In the army - the German army.”

“Ah, German. You’re German? Germans have been good to Iran. Not like the British, or Americans. Which are your pilots, their names and their nationalities?”

Rudi hesitated, then pointed. “Captain Dubois, French, Captains Tyrer, Block, and Forsyth, English.”

“No Americans?”

Rudi had another great sinking in his stomach. Jon Tyrer was American and had false identity cards. Then his ears heard the sound of the approaching chopper, recognized the thrunk-thrunk of a 206, and automatically he searched the skies, along with all of them. Then one of the Green Bands let out a cry and pointed as others rushed into defensive positions, everyone scattering except the expats. They had recognized the markings. “Everyone into the hangar,” Zataki ordered. The chopper came over the airfield at a thousand feet and began to circle. “It’s one of yours?” “Yes. But not from this base.” Rudi squinted into the sun. His heart picked up when he read the markings. “It’s EP-HXT, from Kowiss, from our base in Kowiss.”

“What’s he want?”

“Obviously to land.”

“Find out who’s aboard. And don’t try any tricks.”

Together they went to the UHF in his office. “HXT, do you read?” “HXT, loud and clear. This is Captain Starke of Kowiss.” A pause, then, “Captain Lutz?”

“Yes, it’s Captain Lutz, Captain Starke,” he said, knowing by the formality that there must be hostiles aboard, as Starke would know something was wrong here.

“Request permission to land. I’m low on gas and require refueling. I’m cleared by Abadan radar.”

Rudi glanced at Zataki. “Ask who’s in that airplane?” the man said. “Who’ve you got aboard?”

There was a pause. “Four passengers. What’s the problem?” Rudi waited. Zataki did not know what to do. Any of the military bases might be listening in. “Let him land… near the hangar.”

“Permission to land, HXT. Set her down near the east hangar.” “HXT.”

Zataki leaned over and switched off the set. “In future you will only use the radio with permission.”

“There are routine reports to give to Abadan and Kharg radar. My radio op’s been with us f - ”

Blood soared into Zataki’s face and he shouted, “Until further orders your radio’s only to be used with one of us listening in. Nor will any planes take off, nor land here without permission. You are responsible.” Then the rage evaporated as quickly as it had arrived. He lifted his gun. The safety was still off. “If you’d continued the blow you would have broken my neck, my throat, and I would have died. Yes?”

After a pause, Rudi nodded. “Yes.”

“Why did you stop?”

“I’ve…I’ve never killed anyone. I did not want to start.” “I’ve killed many - doing God’s work. Many - thanks be to God. Many. And will kill many more enemies of Islam, with God’s help.” Zataki clicked on the safety. “It was the Will of God the blow was stopped, nothing more. I cannot give you that man. He is Iranian, this is Iran, he is an enemy of Iran and Islam.”

They watched from the hangar as the 206 came in. There were four passengers aboard, all civilians, all armed with submachine guns. In the front seat was a mullah and some of Zataki’s tension left him, but not his anger. The moment the chopper touched down his revolutionaries swarmed out of hiding, guns leveled, and surrounded her.

The mullah Hussain got out. His face tightened seeing Zataki’s hostility. “Peace be with you. I am Hussain Kowissi of the Kowiss komiteh.” “Welcome to my area in the Name of God, mullah,” Zataki said, his face even grimmer. “I am Colonel Zataki of the Abadan komiteh. We rule this area and do not approve of men putting themselves between us and God.” “Sunnis and Shi’as are brothers, Islam is Islam,” Hussain said. “We thank our Sunni brethren of the Abadan oil fields for their support. Let us go and talk, our Islamic revolution is not yet won.”

Tautly Zataki nodded and called his men off and beckoned the mullah to follow him out of earshot.

At once Rudi hurried under the rotors.

“What the hell’s going on, Rudi?” Starke said from the cockpit, his shoulders aching, finishing shutdown procedures.

Rudi told him. “What about you?”

As rapidly Starke told him what had happened during the night and in Colonel Peshadi’s office. “The mullah and these thugs came back at midday and they near bust a gut when I refused to fly armed men. Man, I liked to die, but I’m not flying armed men, that makes us accessories to revolution, and the revolution’s nowhere near settled yet - we saw hundreds of troops and roadblocks coming here.” His hard eyes went over the base and the pockets of Green Bands here and there, the rest of the crew still standing near their barracks under guard, and the fitter still senseless. “Bastards,” he said and got out. He stretched against the ache in his back and felt better. “Eventually we compromised. They kept their weapons but I kept their magazines and stowed them in the baggage compart - ” He stopped. The tall mullah, Hussain, was approaching them, the blade above circling leisurely now.

“The baggage key please, Captain,” Hussain said.

Starke gave it to him. “There’s no time to get back to Kowiss and no time to get to Abadan.”

“Can’t you night fly?”

“I can but it’s against your regulations. You had a headset, you heard how radar is here. You’ll have military choppers and airplanes buzzing us like hornets before we’re halfway airborne. I’ll refuel and we’ll overnight here - least I will. You can always grab some transport from your buddies here if you need to go into town.”

Hussain flushed. “Your time is very short, American,” he said in Farsi. “You and all your imperialist parasites.”

“If it is the Will of God, mullah, if it’s the Will of God. I’ll be ready to leave after first prayer. Then I leave, with or without you.” “You will take me to Abadan and wait and then return to Kowiss as I wish and as Colonel Peshadi ordered!”

Starke snapped in English, “If you’re ready to leave after first prayer! But Peshadi didn’t order it - I’m not under his orders, or yours - IranOil asked me to fly you on this charter. I’ll have to refuel on the way back.” Hussain said irritably, “Very well, we will leave at dawn. As to refueling…” He thought a moment. “We will do that at Kharg.” Both Starke and Rudi were startled. “How we going to get cleared into Kharg? Kharg’s loyal, er, still air force controlled. You’d have your heads blown off.”

Hussain just looked at them. “You will wait here until the komiteh has decided. In one hour I want to talk to Kowiss on the HF.” He stormed off. Starke said quietly. “These bastards’re too well organized, Rudi. We’re up shit creek.”

Rudi could feel the weakness in his legs. “We’d better get ourselves organized, prepare to get to hell out of here.”

“We’ll do that after food. You okay?”

“I thought I was dead. They’re going to kill us all, Duke.” “I don’t think so. For some reason we’re VIPs to them. They need us and that’s why Hussain backs off, your Zataki too. They might rough us up to keep us in line but I figure at least for the short haul we’re important in some way.” Again Starke tried to ease the tiredness out of his back and shoulders. “I could use one of Erikki’s saunas.” They both looked off at a burst of exuberant gunfire into the air from some Green Bands. “Crazy sonsofbitches. From what I overheard this operation’s part of a general uprising to confront the armed forces - guns against guns. How’s your radio reception? BBC or Voice of America?”

“Bad to very bad and jammed most days and nights. Of course Radio Free Iran’s loud and clear as always.” This was the Soviet station based just over the border at Baku on the Caspian Sea. “And Radio Moscow’s like it was in your back garden, as always.”

Chapter 7

NEAR TABRIZ: 6:05 P.M. In the snow-covered mountains far to the north, not far from the Soviet border, Pettikin’s 206 came over the rise fast, continuing to climb up the pass, skimming the trees, following the road. “Tabriz One, HFC from Tehran. Do you read?” he called again. Still no answer. Light was closing in, the late afternoon sun hidden by deep cloud cover that was only a few hundred feet above him, gray and heavy with snow. Again he tried to raise the base, very tired now, his face badly bruised and still hurting from the beating he had taken. His gloves and the broken skin over his knuckles made it awkward for him to press the transmit button. “Tabriz One. HFC from Tehran. Do you read?”

Again there was no answer but this did not worry him. Communication in the mountains was always bad, he was not expected, and there was no reason for Erikki Yokkonen or the base manager to have arranged a radio watch. As the road climbed, the cloud cover came down but he saw, thankfully, that the crest ahead was still clear, and once over it, the road fell away and there, half a mile farther on, was the base.

This morning it had taken him much longer than expected to drive to the small military air base at Galeg Morghi, not far from Tehran’s international airport, and though he had left the apartment before dawn, he did not arrive there until a bleak sun was well into the polluted, smoke-filled sky. He had had to divert many times. Street battles were still going on with many roads blocked - some deliberately with barricades but more with burned-out wrecks of cars or buses. Many bodies sprawled on the snow-covered sidewalks and roadways, many wounded, and twice, angry police turned him back. But he persevered and took an even more circuitous route. When he arrived, to his surprise the gate to their section of the base where they operated a training school was open and unguarded. Normally air force sentries would be there. He drove in and parked his car in the safety of the S-G hangar but found none of the day skeleton crew of mechanics or ground personnel on duty.

It was a cold brisk day and he was bundled in winter flight gear. Snow covered the field and most of the runway. While he waited he ground-checked the 206 that he was going to take. Everything was fine. The spares that Tabriz needed, tail rotor and two hydraulic pumps, were in the baggage compartment. Tanks were full which gave it two and a half to three hours’ range - two to three hundred miles depending on wind, altitude, and power settings. He would still have to refuel en route. His flight plan called for him to do this at Bandar-e Pahlavi, a port on the Caspian. Without effort he wheeled the airplane onto the apron. Then all hell let loose and he was on the edge of a battle.

Trucks filled with soldiers raced through the gate and headed across the field to be greeted with a hail of bullets from the main part of the base with its hangars, barracks, and administration buildings. Other trucks raced down the perimeter road, firing as they went, then a tracked armored Bren carrier joined the others, its machine guns blazing. Aghast, Pettikin recognized the shoulder badges and helmet markings of the Immortals. In their wake came armored buses filled with paramilitary police and other men who spread out over his side of the base, securing it. Before he knew what was happening, four of them grabbed him and dragged him over to one of the buses, shouting Farsi at him.

“For Christ’s sake, I don’t speak Farsi,” he shouted back, trying to fight out of their grasp. Then one of them punched him in the stomach and he retched, tore himself free, and smashed his attacker in the face. At once another man pulled out a pistol and fired. The bullet went into the neck of his parka, ricocheted violently off the bus, speckles of burning cordite in its wake. He froze. Someone belted him hard across the mouth and the others started punching and kicking him. At that moment a police officer came over. “American? You American,” he said angrily in bad English. “I’m British,” Pettikin gasped, the blood in his mouth, trying to free himself from the men who pinioned him against the hood of the bus. “I’m from S-G Helicopters and that’s my - ”

“American! Saboteur!” The man stuck his gun in Pettikin’s face and Pettikin saw the man’s finger tighten on the trigger. “We SAVAK know you Americans cause all our troubles!”

Then through the haze of his terror he heard a voice shout in Farsi and he felt the iron hands holding him loosen. With disbelief he saw the young British paratroop captain, dressed in a camouflage jumpsuit and red beret, two small, heavily armed soldiers with Oriental faces, grenades on their shoulder belts, packs on their backs, standing in front of them. Nonchalantly the captain was tossing a grenade up and down in his left hand as though it were an orange, the pin secured. He wore a revolver at his belt and a curiously shaped knife in a holster. Abruptly he stopped and pointed at Pettikin and then at the 206, angrily shouted at the police in Farsi, waved an imperious hand, and saluted Pettikin.

“For Christ’s sake, look important, Captain Pettikin,” he said quickly, his Scots accent pleasing, then knocked a policeman’s hand away from Pettikin’s arm. One of the others started to raise his gun but stopped as the captain jerked the pin out of his grenade, still holding the lever tight. At the same time his men cocked their automatic rifles, held them casually but very ready. The older of the two beamed, loosened his knife in its holster. “Is your chopper ready to go?”

“Yes … yes it is,” Pettikin mumbled.

“Crank her up, fast as you can. Leave the doors open and when you’re ready to leave, give me the thumbs-up and we’ll all pile in. Plan to get out low and fast. Go on! Tenzing, go with him.” The officer jerked his thumb at the chopper fifty yards away and turned back, switched to Farsi again, cursed the Iranians, ordering them away to the other side where the battle had waned a little. The soldier called Tenzing went with Pettikin who was still dazed.

“Please hurry, sahib,” Tenzing said and leaned against one of the doors, his gun ready. Pettikin needed no encouragement.

More armored cars raced past but paid no attention to them, nor did other groups of police and military who were desperately intent on securing the base against the mobs who could now be heard approaching. Behind them the police officer was angrily arguing with the paratrooper, the others nervously looking over their shoulders at the advancing sound of “Allah-uuuu Akbarrrr!” Mixed with it was more gunfire now and a few explosions. Two hundred yards away on the perimeter road outside the fence, the vanguard of the mob set fire to a parked car and it exploded.

The helicopter’s jet engines came to life and the sound enraged the police officer, but a phalanx of armed civilian youths came charging through the gate from the other direction. Someone shouted, “Mujhadin!” At once everyone this side of the base grouped to intercept them and began firing. Covered by the diversion, the captain and the other soldier rushed for the chopper, jumped in, Pettikin put on full power and fled a few inches above the grass, swerved to avoid a burning truck, then barreled drunkenly into the sky. The captain lurched, almost dropped his grenade, couldn’t put the pin back in because of Pettikin’s violent evading action. He was in the front seat and hung on for his life, held the door open, tossed the grenade carefully overboard, and watched it curve to the ground.

It exploded harmlessly. “Jolly good,” he said, locked the door and his seat belt, checked that the two soldiers were okay, and gave a thumbs-up to Pettikin.

Pettikin hardly noticed. Once clear of Tehran he put her down in scrubland, well away from any roads or villages, and checked for bullet damage. When he saw there was none, he began to breathe. “Christ, I can’t thank you enough, Captain,” he said, putting out his hand, his head aching. “I thought you were a bloody mirage at first. Captain …?”

“Ross. This’s Sergeant Tenzing and Corporal Gueng.”

Pettikin shook hands and thanked both of them. They were short, happy men, yet hard and lithe. Tenzing was older, in his early fifties. “You’re heaven sent, all of you.”

Ross smiled, his teeth very white in his sunburned face. “I didn’t quite know how we were going to get out of that one. Wouldn’t have been very good form to knock off police, anyone for that matter - even SAVAK.” “I agree.” Pettikin had never seen such blue eyes in a man, judging him to be in his late twenties. “What the hell was going on back there?” “Some air force servicemen had mutinied, and some officers, and loyalists were there to put a stop to it. We heard Khomeini supporters and leftists were coming to the help of the mutineers.”

“What a mess! Can’t thank you enough. How’d you know my name?” “We’d, er, got wind of your approved flight plan to Tabriz via Bandar-e Pahlavi and wanted to hitch a ride. We were very late and thought we’d missed you - we were diverted to hell and gone. However, here we are.” “Thank God for that. You’re Gurkhas?”

“Just, er, odd bods, so to speak.”

Pettikin nodded thoughtfully. He had noticed that none of them had shoulder patches or insignias - except for Ross’s captain’s pips and their red berets. “How do ‘odd bods’ get wind of flight plans?”

“I really don’t know,” Ross said airily. “I just obey orders.” He glanced around. The land was flat and stony and open, and cold with snow on the ground. “Don’t you think we should move on? We’re a bit exposed here.” Pettikin got back into the cockpit. “What’s on in Tabriz?” “Actually, we’d like to be dropped off just this side of Bandar-e Pahlavi, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure.” Automatically Pettikin had begun start-up procedures. “What’s going on there?”

“Let’s say we have to see a man about a dog.”

Pettikin laughed, liking him. “There’re lots of dogs all over! Bandar-e Pahlavi it is, then, and I’ll stop asking questions.”

“Sorry, but you know how it is. I’d also appreciate it if you’d forget my name and that we were aboard.”

“And if I’m asked - by authority? Our departure was a little public.” “I didn’t give any name - just ordered you,” Ross grinned, “with vile threats!”

“All right. But I won’t forget your name.”

Pettikin set down a few miles outside the port of Bandar-e Pahlavi. Ross had picked the landing from a map that he carried. It was a duned beach, well away from any village, the blue waters of the Caspian Sea placid. Fishing boats dotted the sea, great cumulus clouds in the sunny sky. Here the land was tropical and the air humid with many insects and no sign of snow though the Elburz Mountains behind Tehran were heavily covered. It was highly irregular to land without permission, but twice Pettikin had called Bandar-e Pahlavi Airport where he was to refuel and had got no answer so he thought that he would be safe enough - he could always plead an emergency. “Good luck, and thanks again,” he said and shook all their hands. “If you ever need a favor - anything - you’ve got it.” They got out quickly, shouldered their packs, heading up the dunes. That was the last he had seen of them.

“Tabriz One, do you read?”

He was circling uneasily at the regulation seven hundred feet, then came lower. No sign of life - nor were any lights on. Strangely disquieted he landed close to the hangar. There he waited, ready for instant takeoff, not knowing what to expect - the news of servicemen mutinying in Tehran, particularly the supposedly elite air force, had disturbed him very much. But no one came. Nothing happened. Reluctantly, he locked the controls with great care and got out, leaving the engines running. It was very dangerous and against regulations - very dangerous because if the locks slipped it was possible for the chopper to ground-loop and get out of control. But I don’t want to get caught short, he thought grimly, rechecked the locks and quickly headed for the office through the snow. It was empty, the hangars empty except for the disemboweled 212, trailers empty, with no sign of anyone - or any form of a battle. A little more reassured, he went through the camp as quickly as he could. On the table in Erikki Yokkonen’s cabin was an empty vodka bottle. A full one was in the refrigerator - he would dearly have loved a drink but flying and alcohol never mix. There was also bottled water, some Iranian bread, and dried ham. He drank the water gratefully. I’ll eat only after I’ve gone over the whole place, he thought. In the bedroom the bed was made but there was a shoe here and another there. Gradually his eyes found more signs of a hasty departure. The other trailers showed other clues. There was no transport on the base and Erikki’s red Range Rover was gone too. Clearly the base had been abandoned somewhat hastily. But why?

His eyes gauged the sky. The wind had picked up and he heard it whine through the snow-laden forest over the muted growl of the idling jet engines. He felt the chill through his flying jacket and heavy pants and flying boots. His body ached for a hot shower - even better, one of Erikki’s saunas - and food and bed and hot grog and eight hours’ sleep. The wind’s no problem yet, he thought, but I’ve got an hour of light at the most to refuel and get back through the pass and down into the plains. Or do I stay here tonight?

Pettikin was not a forest man, not a mountain man. He knew desert and bush, jungle, veld, and the Dead Country of Saudi. The vast reaches on the flat never fazed him. But cold did. And snow. First refuel, he thought. But there was no fuel in the dump. None. Many forty-gallon drums but they were all empty. Never mind, he told himself, burying his panic. I’ve enough in my tanks for the hundred and fifty miles back to Bandar-e Pahlavi. I could go on to Tabriz Airport, or try and scrounge some from the ExTex depot at Ardabil, but that’s too bloody near the Soviet border. Again he measured the sky. Bloody hell! I can park here or somewhere en route. What’s it to be?

Here. Safer.

He shut down and put the 206 into the hangar, locking the door. Now the silence was deafening. He hesitated, then went out, closing the hangar door after him. His feet crunched on the snow. The wind tugged at him as he walked to Erikki’s trailer. Halfway there he stopped, his stomach twisting. He sensed someone watching him. He looked around, his eyes and ears searching the forest and the base. The wind sock danced in the eddies that trembled the treetops, creaking them, whining through the forest, and abruptly he remembered Tom Lochart sitting around a campfire in the Zagros on one of their skiing trips, telling the Canadian legend of the Wendigo, the evil demon of the forest, born on the wild wind, that waits in the treetops, whining, waiting to catch you unawares, then suddenly swoops down and you’re terrified and begin to run but you can’t get away and you feel the icy breath behind you and you run and run with bigger and ever bigger steps until your feet are bloody stumps and then the Wendigo catches you up into the treetops and you die.

He shuddered, hating to be alone here. Curious, I’ve never thought about it before but I’m almost never alone. There’s always someone around, mechanic or pilot or friend or Genny or Mac or Claire in the old days. He was still watching the forest intently. Somewhere in the distance dogs began to bark. The feeling that there was someone out there was still very strong. With an effort he dismissed his unease, went back to the chopper, and found the Very light pistol. He carried the huge-caliber, snub-nosed weapon openly as he went back to Erikki’s cabin and felt happier having it with him.

And even happier when he had bolted the door and closed the curtains. Night came quickly. With darkness animals began to hunt.

TEHRAN: 7:05 P.M. McIver was walking along the deserted, tree-lined residential boulevard, tired and hungry. All streetlights were out and he picked his way carefully in the semidarkness, snow banked against the walls of fine houses on both sides of the roadway. Sound of distant guns and, carried on the cold wind, “Allahhh-u Akbarrr.” He turned the corner and almost stumbled into the Centurion tank that was parked half on the sidewalk. A flashlight momentarily blinded him. Soldiers moved out of ambush.

“Who’re you, Agha?” a young officer said in good English. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m Captain… I’m Captain McIver, Duncan… Duncan McIver, I’m walking home from my office, and… and my flat’s the other side of the park, around the next corner.”

“ID please.”

Gingerly McIver reached into his inner pocket. He felt the two small photos beside his ID, one of the Shah, the other of Khomeini, but with all the day’s rumors of mutinies, he could not decide which would be correct so produced neither. The officer examined the ID under the flashlight. Now that McIver’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he noticed the man’s tiredness and stubble beard and crumpled uniform. Other soldiers watched silently. None were smoking which McIver found curious. The Centurion towered over them, malevolent, almost as though waiting to pounce.

“Thank you.” The officer handed the well-used card back to him. More firing, nearer this time. The soldiers waited, watching the night. “Better not be out after dark, Agha. Good night.”

“Yes, thank you. Good night.” Thankfully McIver walked off, wondering if they were loyalist or mutineers - Christ, if some units mutiny and some don’t there’s going to be hell to pay. Another corner, this road and the park also dark and empty that, not so long ago, were always busy and brightly lit with more light streaming from windows, servants and people and children, all happy and lots of laughter among themselves, hurrying this way and that. That’s what I miss most of all, he thought. The laughter. Wonder if we’ll ever get those times back again.

His day had been frustrating, no phones, radio contact with Kowiss bad, and he had not been able to raise any of his other bases. Once again none of his office staff had arrived which further irritated him. Several times he had tried to telex Gavallan but could not get a connection. “Tomorrow‘11 be better,” he said, then quickened his pace, the emptiness of the streets unpleasant.

Their apartment block was five stories and they had one of the penthouses. The staircase was dimly lit, electricity down to half power again, the elevator out of action for months. He went up the stairs wearily, the paucity of light making the climb more gloomy. But inside his apartment, candles were already lit and his spirits rose. “Hi, Genny!” he called out, relocked the door, and hung up his old British warm. “Whisky time!” “Duncan! I’m in the dining room, come here for a minute.” He strode down the corridor, stopped at the doorway, and gaped. The dining table was laden with a dozen Iranian dishes and bowls of fruit, candles everywhere. Genny beamed at him. And so did Sharazad. “Bless my soul! Sharazad, this’s your doing? How nice to see you wh - ”

“Oh, it’s nice to see you too, Mac, you get younger every day, both of you are, so sorry to intrude,” Sharazad said in a rush, her voice bubbling and joyous, “but I remembered that yesterday was your wedding anniversary because it’s five days before my birthday, and I know how you like lamb horisht and polo and the other things, so we brought them, Hassan, Dewa, and I, and candles.” She was barely five foot three, the kind of Persian beauty that Omar Khayyam had immortalized. She got up. “Now that you’re back, I’m off.”

“But wait a second, why don’t you stay and eat with us an - ” “Oh but I can’t, much as I’d like to, Father’s having a party tonight and I have to attend. This is just a little gift and I’ve left Hassan to serve and to clean up and oh I do hope you have a lovely time! Hassan! Dewa!” she called out, then hugged Genny and hugged McIver and ran down to the door where her two servants were now waiting. One held her fur coat for her. She put it on, then wrapped the dark shroud of her chador around her, blew Genny another kiss, and, with the other servant, hurried away. Hassan, a tall man of thirty, wearing a white tunic and black trousers and a big smile, relocked the door. “Shall I serve dinner, madam?” he asked Genny in Farsi. “Yes, please, in ten minutes,” she replied happily. “But first the master will have a whisky.” At once Hassan went to the sideboard and poured the drink and brought the water, bowed, and left them.

“By God, Gen, it’s just like the old days,” McIver said with a beam. “Yes. Silly, isn’t it, that that’s only a few months ago?” Up to then they had had a delightful live-in couple, the wife an exemplary cook of European and Iranian food who made up for the lighthearted malingering of her husband whom McIver had dubbed Ali Baba. Both had suddenly vanished, as had almost all expat servants. No explanation, no notice. “Wonder if they’re all right, Duncan?”

“Sure to be. Ali Baba was a grafter and had to have enough stashed away to keep them for a month of Sundays. Did Paula get off?”

“No, she’s staying the night again - Nogger isn’t. They went to dinner with some of her Alitalia crew.” Her eyebrows arched. “Our Nogger’s sure she’s ripe for nogging, but I hope he’s wrong. I like Paula.” They could hear Hassan in the kitchen. “That’s the sweetest sound in the world.” McIver grinned back at her and raised his glass. “Thank God for Sharazad and no washing up!”

“That’s the best part.” Genny sighed. “Such a nice girl, so thoughtful. Tom’s so lucky. Sharazad says he’s due tomorrow.”

“Hope so, he’ll have mail for us.”

“Did you get hold of Andy?”

“No, no, not yet.” McIver decided not to mention the tank. “Do you think you could borrow Hassan or one of her other servants for a couple of days a week? It’d help you tremendously.”

“I wouldn’t ask - you know how it is.”

“I suppose you’re right, bloody annoying.” Now it was almost impossible for any expats to find help, whatever you were prepared to pay. Up to a few months ago it had been easy to get fine, caring servants and then, with a few words of Farsi and their help, running a happy home, shopping was usually a breeze.

“That was one of the best things about Iran,” she said. “Made such a difference - took all the agony out of living in such an alien country.” “You still think of it as alien - after all this time?”

“More than ever. All the kindness, politeness, of the few Iranians we’d meet, I’ve always felt it was only on the surface - that their real feelings are the ones out in the open now - I don’t mean everyone, of course, not our friends: Annoush, for instance, now she’s one of the nicest, kindest people in the world.” Annoush was the wife of General Valik, the senior of the Iranian partners. “Most of the wives felt that, Duncan,” she added, lost in her musing. “Perhaps that’s why expats flock together, all the tennis parties and skiing parties, boating, weekends on the Caspian - and servants to carry the picnic baskets and clean up. I think we had the life of Riley, but not anymore.”

“It’ll come back - hope to God it does, for them as well as us. Walking home I suddenly realized what I missed most. It was all the laughter. No one seems to laugh anymore, I mean on the streets, even the kids.” McIver was drinking his whisky sparingly.

“Yes, I miss the laughter very much. I miss the Shah too. Sorry he had to go - everything was well ordered, as far as we were concerned, up to such a short time ago. Poor man, what a rotten deal we’ve given him now, him and that lovely wife of his - after all the friendship he gave our side. I feel quite ashamed - he certainly did his best for his people.” “Unfortunately, Genny, for most of them it seems it wasn’t good enough!” “I know. Sad. Life is very sad sometimes. Well, no point in crying over spilt milk. Hungry?”

“I’ll say.”

Candles made the dining room warm and friendly and took the chill off the apartment. Curtains were drawn against the night. At once Hassan brought the steaming bowls of various horisht - literally meaning soup but more like a thick stew of lamb or chicken and vegetables, raisins and spices of all kinds - and polo, the delicious Iranian rice that is parboiled, then baked in a buttered dish until the crust is firm and golden brown, a favorite of both of them. “Bless Sharazad, she’s a sight for sore eyes.” Genny smiled back at him. “Yes, she is, so’s Paula.”

“You’re not so bad either, Gen.”

“Get on with you, but for that you can have a nightcap. As JeanLuc would say, Bon appétit!” They ate hungrily, the food exquisite, reminding both of them of meals they had had in the houses of their friends. “Gen, I ran into young Christian Tollonen at lunch, you remember Erikki’s friend from the Finnish embassy? He told me Azadeh’s passport was all ready. That’s good, but the thing that shook me was he said, in passing, about eight out of every ten of his Iranian friends or acquaintances are no longer in Iran and if it kept up in the new exodus, pretty soon there’d only be mullahs and their flocks left. Then I started counting and came up with about the same proportion - those in what we’d call the middle and upper class.”

“I don’t blame them leaving. I’d do the same.” Then she added involuntarily, “Don’t think Sharazad will.”

McIver had heard an undercurrent and he studied her. “Oh?” Genny toyed with a little piece of the golden crust and changed her mind about not telling him. “For the love of God don’t say anything to Tom who’d have a fit - and I don’t know how much is fact and how much a young girl’s idealistic make-believe - but she happily whispered she’d spent most of the day at Doshan Tappeh where, she says, there’s been a real insurrection, guns, grenades, the lot…”

“Christ!”

“… militantly on the side of what she called ‘our Glorious Freedom Fighters’ who turn out to be mutinying air force servicemen, some officers, Green Bands supported by thousands of civilians - against police, loyalist troops, and the Immortals….”

Chapter 8

AT BANDAR DELAM AIRPORT: 7:50 P.M. With the going down of the sun, more armed revolutionaries had arrived and now there were guards on all hangars and approaches to the airport. Rudi Lutz had been told by Zataki that no S-G personnel could leave the field without permission and they were to continue as usual and one or more of his men would accompany every flight. “Nothing will happen providing you all obey orders,” Zataki had said. “This is a temporary situation during the change from the Shah’s illegal government to the new government of the people.” But his nervousness and that of all his ill-disciplined rabble belied his attempt at confidence.

Starke had heard mutterings among them and told Rudi they expected troops loyal to the Shah to arrive any moment and the counterattack to begin. By the time he, Rudi, and the other American pilot, Jon Tyrer, had managed to get to the radio in Rudi’s trailer, most of the news was over. The little they heard of it was all bad.

“… and the Saudi, Kuwait, and Iraqi governments fear that the political turmoil in Iran will destabilize the entire Persian Gulf, with the Sultan of Oman reported as saying the problem is more than just a contagion, it’s another convenient umbrella for Soviet Russia to use its string of client states to create nothing less than a colonial empire in the Gulf with the end goal of possessing the Strait of Hormuz…”

“In Iran it is reported that there was heavy fighting during the night between mutinying, pro-Khomeini air cadets at the Tehran air base of Doshan Tappeh - supported by thousands of armed civilians - against police, loyalist troops, and units of the Immortals, the Shah’s elite Imperial Guard. Joining the insurgents later were over five thousand leftists of the Saihkal Marxist Group, some of whom broke into the base’s armory and carried away its weapons …

“Jesus!” Starke said.

“… Meanwhile Ayatollah Khomeini again demanded total resignation of the whole government and called on the people to support his choice of prime minister, Mehdi Bazargan, exhorting all soldiers, airmen, and navy personnel to support him. Prime Minister Bakhtiar discounted rumors of an imminent military coup, but confirmed a big buildup of Soviet forces on the border….

“Gold went to an all-time high of $254 per ounce and the dollar slumped sharply against all currencies. That is the end of the news from London.” Rudi switched the set off. They were in the sitting room of his trailer. In one of the cabinets was a spare HF that, like the radio, he had built in himself. On the sideboard was a telephone that was hooked up to the base system. The telephone was not working.

“If Khomeini wins at Doshan Tappeh, then the armed forces will have to choose,” Starke said with finality. “Coup, civil war, or concede.” “They won’t concede, that’d be suicide, why the hell should they?” Tyrer said. He was a loose-limbed American from New Jersey. “And don’t forget the air force elite, the ones we’ve met, for crissake. The mutiny’s just a bunch of local meathead discontents. The real kicker’s about the Marxists joining in, five thousand of them! Jesus! If they’re out in the open now with guns! We’re goddamn crazy to be here right now, huh?”

Starke said, “Except we’re here by choice; the company says no one loses seniority if they want out. We’ve got it in writing. You want out?” “No, no, not yet,” Tyrer said irritably. “But what we gonna do?” “Stay out of the way of Zataki for one thing,” Rudi said. “That bastard’s psycho.”

“Sure,” Tyrer said, “but we’ve gotta make a plan.”

There was an abrupt knock and the door opened. It was Mohammed Yemeni, their IranOil base manager - a good looking, cleanshaven man in his forties who had been in their area for a year. With him were two guards. “Agha Kyabi is on the HF. He wants to speak to you at once,” he said with an untoward imperiousness. Kyabi was IranOil’s senior area manager and most important official in southern Iran.

At once Rudi switched on the HF which interlinked them with Kyabi’s HQ near Ahwaz, north of Bandar Delam. To his astonishment the set did not activate. He jiggled the switch a few times, then Yemeni said with an open sneer, “Colonel Zataki ordered the current cut off and the set disconnected. You will use the main office set. At once.”

None of them liked the tone of voice. “I’ll be there in a minute,” Rudi said.

Yemeni scowled and said to the guards in coarse Farsi, “Hurry the dog of a foreigner!”

Starke snapped in Farsi, “This is our ruler’s tent. There are very particular laws in the Holy Koran about defending the leader of your tribe in his tent against armed men.” The two guards stopped, nonplussed. Yemeni gaped at Starke, not expecting Farsi, then backed a pace as Starke got up to his full height and continued: “The Prophet, whose Name be praised, laid down rules of manners amongst friends, and also amongst enemies, and also that dogs are vermin. We are People of the Book and not vermin.” Yemeni flushed, turned on his heel, and left. Starke wiped the sweat from his hands on his trousers. “Rudi, let’s see what’s with Kyabi.” They followed Yemeni across the tarmac, the guards with them. The night was clean and the air tasted good to Starke after the closeness of the little office.

“What was all that about?” Rudi asked.

Starke explained, his mind elsewhere, wishing he was back at Kowiss. He had hated leaving Manuela but thought she was safer there than in Tehran. “Honey,” he had said, just before he had left, “I’ll get you out the soonest.”

“I’m safe here, darlin’, safe as Texas. I’ve got lots of time, the kids are safe in Lubbock - I didn’t leave England till I knew they were home - and you know Granddaddy Starke won’t let them come to harm.”

“Sure. The kids’ll be fine, but I want you out of Iran as soon as possible.” He heard Rudi saying, “Who’re ‘People of the Book’?”

“Christians and Jews,” he replied, wondering how he could get the 125 into Kowiss. “Mohammed considered our Bible and the Torah as Holy Books too - a lot of what’s in them’s also in the Koran. Many scholars, our scholars, think he just copied them, though Muslim legend says that Mohammed couldn’t read or write. He recited the Koran, all of it, can you imagine that?” he said, still awed by the accomplishment. “Others wrote it all down - years after he was dead. In Arabic it’s fantastically beautiful, his poetry, so they say.”

Ahead now was the office trailer, guards outside smoking, and Starke felt good within himself and pleased that he had dealt satisfactorily with Yemeni and all day with the mullah Hussain - fifteen landings, all perfect, waiting at the rigs while the mullah harangued the workers for Khomeini with never a soldier or policeman or SAVAK in sight, expecting them any second and always at the next setdown. Yemeni’s chicken shit compared to Hussain, he thought. Zataki and both mullahs were waiting in the office trailer. Jahan, the radio op, was on the HF. Zataki sat behind Rudi’s desk. The office had been very neat. Now it was a mess, with files open and papers spilled everywhere, dirty cups, cigarette stubs in the cups and on the floor, half-eaten food on the desk - rice and goat meat. And the air stank of cigarette smoke. “Mein Gott! Rudi said, enraged. “It’s a verrückte pigsty and y - ”

“SHUT UP!” Zataki exploded. “This is a war situation, we need to search,” then added, more quietly, “You … you can send one of your men to clean up. You will not tell Kyabi about us. You will act normally and take my instructions, you will watch me. Do you understand, Captain?” Rudi nodded, his face set. Zataki motioned to the radio op who said into the mike, “Excellency Kyabi, here is Captain Lutz.”

Rudi took the mike. “Yes, Boss?” he said, using their nickname for him. Both he and Starke had known Yusuf Kyabi for a number of years. Kyabi had been trained at Texas A&M, then by ExTex before taking over the southern sector, and they were on good terms with him.

“Evening, Rudi,” the voice said in American English. “We’ve a break in one of our pipelines, somewhere north of you. It’s a bad one - it’s only just shown up in our pumping stations. God knows how many barrels have been pumped out already, or how much is left in the pipe. I’m not calling for a CASEVAC but want a helicopter at dawn to find it. Can you pick me up early?” Zataki nodded in agreement so Rudi said, “Okay, Boss. We’ll be there as soon after dawn as possible. Would you want a 206 or 212?”

“A 206, there’ll be me and my chief engineer. Come yourself, will you? It may be sabotage - may be a break. You had any problems at Bandar Delam?” Rudi and Starke were very conscious of the guns in the room. “No, no more than usual. See you tomorrow,” Rudi said, wanting to cut him off because Kyabi was usually very outspoken about revolutionaries. He did not approve of insurrection or Khomeini’s fanaticism, and hated the interference with their oil complex.

“Hold on a moment, Rudi. We heard there’re more riots in Abadan, and we could hear shooting in Ahwaz. Did you know that an American oilman and one of our own people were ambushed and killed near Ahwaz, yesterday?” “Yes, Tommy Stanson. Lousy.”

“Very. God curse all murderers! Tudeh, mujhadin, fedayeen, or whom the hell ever!”

“Sorry, Boss, got to go, see you tomorrow.”

“Yes. Good, we can talk tomorrow. Insha’Allah, Rudi. Insha’ Allah!” The transmission went dead. Rudi breathed a sigh of relief. He did not think that Kyabi had said anything that could harm him. Unless these men were secretly Tudeh - or one of the other extremists - and not Khomeini supporters as they claimed. “All our extremists use mullahs as a cover, or try to use them,” Kyabi had told him. “Sadly most mullahs are impoverished, dull-witted peasants, and easy prey for trained insurgents. God curse Khomeini….”

Rudi felt the sweat on his back.

“One of my men will go with you, and this time you will not remove his magazine,” Zataki said.

Rudi’s jaw came out and tension in the room soared. “I will not fly armed men. It is against all company rules, air rules, and particularly Iranian CAA orders. Disobeying ICAA rules invalidates our licenses,” he said, loathing them.

“Perhaps I will shoot one of your men unless you obey.” Furiously Zataki slammed a cup off his desk and it skittered across the room. Starke came forward, as angry. Zataki’s gun covered him.

“Are the followers of Ayatollah Khomeini murderers? Is this the law of Islam?”

For a moment Starke thought Zataki was going to pull the trigger, then the mullah Hussain got up. “I will go in the airplane.” Then to Rudi, “You swear you will play no tricks and return here without tricks?”

After a pause Rudi said shakily, “Yes.”

“You are Christian?”

“Yes.”

“Swear by God you will not cheat us.”

Again Rudi paused. “All right. I swear by God I won’t cheat you.” “How can you trust him?” Zataki asked.

“I don’t,” Hussain said simply. “But if he cheats God, God will punish him. And his companions. If we don’t return or if he brings back trouble …” He shrugged.

ABERDEEN - GAVALLAN’S MANSION: 7:23 P.M. They were in the TV room watching on a big screen a replay of today’s rescheduled Scotland versus France rugby match - Gavallan, his wife Maureen, John Hogg who normally flew the company 125 jet, and some other pilots. The score was 17-11 in France’s favor deep in the second half. All the men groaned as a Scot fumbled, a French forward recovered and gained forty yards. “Ten pounds that Scotland still wins!” Gavallan said.

“I’ll take that,” his wife said and laughed at his look. She was tall and red-haired and wore elegant green that matched her eyes. “After all I’m half French.”

“A quarter - your grandmother was Norman, quelle horreur, and sh - ” An enormous cheer that was echoed in the room drowned his pleasantry as the Scottish scrum half grabbed the ball from the scrimmage, threw it to a wing half who threw it to another who broke loose of the pack, smashed two enemy out of his way, and hurtled for the goal line fifty yards away, weaving, brilliantly changing direction to rush onward again, then stumble but somehow stay upright, then charge in a last, chest-heaving glorious run to dive over the line - to be buried at once by bodies and thunderous applause. Touchdown! 17 to 15 now. A successful goal kick will make it 17 all. “Scotland foreverrrr…”

The door opened and a manservant stood there. At once Gavallan got up, achingly watched the kick that was good and breathed again. “Double or nothing, Maureen?” he asked over the pandemonium, grinning at her as he hurried off.

“Taken!” she called out after him.

She’s down twenty quid, he thought, very pleased with himself, and crossed the corridor of the big, rambling old house that was well furnished with old leather and good paintings and fine antiques, many of them from Asia, and went into his study opposite. In it, his chauffeur, also gun bearer and trusty, who had been dialing McIver in Tehran for three hours and monitoring his incoming calls, held up one of the two phones. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, th - ”

“You got him, Williams? Great - score’s seventeen all.”

“No, sir, sorry, circuits’re still busy - but I thought this one was important enough - Sir Ian Dunross.”

Gavallan’s disappointment vanished. He took the phone. Williams went out and closed the door. “Ian, how wonderful to hear from you - this is a pleasant surprise.”

“Hello, Andy, can you speak up, I’m phoning from Shanghai?” “I thought you were in Japan; I can hear you very well. How’s it going?” “Grand. Better than I expected. Listen, have to be quick but I heard a buzz, two in fact, the first that the taipan needs some financial success to get himself and Struan’s out of the hole this year. What about Iran?” “Everyone advises that it will cool down, Ian. Mac’s got things under control, as much as possible; we’ve been promised all of Guerney’s contracts so we should be able to more than keep our end up, even double our profits, presuming there’s no Act of God.”

“Perhaps you should presume there might be.”

Gavallan’s bonhomie vanished. Time and again his old friend had privately given him a warning or information that had later proved to be astonishingly correct - he never knew where Dunross obtained the information, or from whom, but he was rarely wrong. “I’ll do that right away.” “Next, I’ve just heard that a secret, very high-level - even perhaps cabinet level - shuffle has been ordered, financial as well as management, for Imperial Air. Will that affect you?”

Gavallan hesitated. Imperial Air owned Imperial Helicopters, his main competition in the North Sea. “I don’t know, Ian. In my opinion they squander taxpayers’ money; they could certainly use reorganization - we beat them hands down in every area I can think of, safety, tenders, equipment - I’ve ordered six X63s by the way.”

“Does the taipan know?”

“The news almost broke his sphincter.” Gavallan heard the laugh, and for a moment he was back in Hong Kong in the old days when Dunross was taipan and life was hairy but wildly exciting, when Kathy was Kathy and not sick. Joss, he thought, and again concentrated. “Anything to do with Imperial’s important - I’ll check at once. Other business news from here is very good - new contracts with ExTex - I was going to announce them at the next board meeting. Struan’s isn’t in danger, is it?”

Again the laugh. “The Noble House is always in danger, laddie! Just wanted to advise you - got to go - give my love to Maureen.”

“And to Penelope. When do I see you?”

“Soon. I’ll call when I can; give my best to Mac when you see him, bye.” Lost in thought, Gavallan sat on the edge of his fine desk. His friend always said “soon” and that could mean a month or a year, even two years. It’s over two years since I last caught up with him, he thought. Pity he’s not taipan still - damn shame he retired, but then we all have to move on and move over sometime. “I’ve had it, Andy,” Dunross had said, “Struan’s is in cracking good shape, the “70s promise to be a fantastic era for expansion and… well, now there’s no excitement anymore.” That was in ‘70, just after his hated main rival, Quillan Gornt, taipan of Rothwell-Gornt, had drowned in a boating accident off Sha Tin in Hong Kong’s New Territories. Imperial Air? Gavallan glanced at his watch, reached for the phone, but stopped at the discreet knock. Maureen stuck her head in, beamed when she saw he wasn’t on the phone. “I won - twenty-one to seventeen - busy?” “No, come in, darling.”

“Can’t, have to check dinner’s ready. In ten minutes? You can pay me now if you like!”

He laughed, caught her in his arms, and gave her a hug. “After dinner! You’re a smashing bird, Mrs. Gavallan.”

“Good, don’t forget.” She was comfortable in his arms. “Everything all right with Mac?”

“It was Ian - he just called to say hello. From Shanghai.” “Now there’s a lovely man too. When do we see him?”

“Soon.”

Again she laughed with him, dancing eyes and creamy skin. They had first met seven years ago at Castle Avisyard where the then taipan, David MacStruan, was giving a Hogmanay Ball. She was twenty-eight, just divorced, and childless. Her smile had blown the cobwebs from his head and Scot had whispered, “Dad, if you don’t drag that one off to the altar, you’re crazy.” His daughter Melinda had said the same. And so, somehow, three years ago it had happened, and every day since then a happy day.

“Ten minutes, Andy? You’re sure?”

“Yes, just have to make one call.” Gavallan saw her frown and added quickly, “Promise. Just one and then Williams can monitor the calls.” She gave him a quick kiss and left. He dialed. “Good evening, is Sir Percy free - this is Andrew Gavallan.” Sir Percy Smedley-Taylor, director of Struan’s Holdings, an MP, and slated as the probable minister for defence if the Conservatives won the next election.

“Hello, Andy, nice to hear from you - if it’s about the shoot next Saturday, I’m on. Sorry not to have told you before but things have been rather busy with the so-called government shoving the country up the creek, and the poor bloody unions as well, if they only knew it.”

“I quite agree. Am I disturbing you?”

“No, you just caught me - I’m off to the House for another late-night vote. The stupid twits want us out of NATO, amongst other things. How did the X63 test out?”

“Wonderful! Better than they claimed. She’s the best in the world!” “I’d love a ride in her if you could fix it. What can I do for you?” “I heard a buzz that there’s a secret, high-level reorganization of Imperial Air going on. Have you heard anything?”

“My God, old man, your contacts are bloody good - I only heard the rumor myself this afternoon, whispered in absolute secrecy by an unimpeachable Opposition source. Damn curious! Didn’t mean much to me at the time - wonder what they’re up to. Have you anything concrete to go on?” “No. Just the rumor.”

“I’ll check. I wonder… I wonder if the burks might be positioning Imperial to formally nationalize it, therefore Imp Helicopters, therefore you and all the Norm Sea?”

“God Almighty!” Gavallan’s worry increased. This thought had not occurred to him. “Could they do that if they wanted?”

“Yes. Simple as that.”

Sunday - February 11

Chapter 9

OUTSIDE BANDAR DELAM: 6:55 A.M. It was just after dawn and Rudi had landed away from the culvert and now the four of them were standing on the lip. The early sun was good, and so far no problems. Oil still poured out of the pipe but it was no longer under pressure. “It’s just what’s left in the line,” Kyabi said. “It should stop entirely in an hour.” He was a strong-faced man in his fifties, cleanshaven with glasses, and he wore used khakis and a hard hat. Angrily he looked around. The earth was soaked with oil and the fumes almost overpowering. “This whole area’s lethal.” He led the way to the overturned car. Three bodies were twisted in or near the wreckage and already beginning to smell.

“Amateurs?” Rudi said, waving away the flies. “Premature explosion?” Kyabi did not answer. He went below into the culvert. It was hard to breathe but he searched the area carefully, then climbed back onto the road. “I’d say you were right, Rudi.” He glanced at Hussain, his face set. “Yours?” The mullah took his eyes off the car. “It is not the Imam’s orders to sabotage pipelines. This is the work of enemies of Islam.” “There are many enemies of Islam who claim to be Followers of the Prophet, who have taken his words and twisted them,” Kyabi said bitterly, “betraying him and betraying Islam.”

“I agree, and God will seek them out and punish them. When Iran is ruled according to Islamic law we will seek them out and punish them for Him.” Hussain’s dark eyes were equally hard. “What can you do about the oil spill?”

It had taken them two hours backtracking to find the break. They had circled at a few hundred feet, appalled at the extent of the spill that had inundated the small river and its marshlands and carried by the current was already some miles downstream. A thick black scum covered the surface from bank to bank. So far only one village was in its path. A few miles south there were many others. The river supplied drinking water, washing water, and was the latrine.

“Bum it off. As soon as possible.” Kyabi glanced at his engineer. “Eh?” “Yes, yes, of course. But what about the village, Excellency?” The engineer was a nervous, middle-aged Iranian who watched the mullah uneasily. ‘ “Evacuate the villagers - tell them to leave until it’s safe.” “And if the village catches fire?” Rudi asked. “It catches fire. The Will of God.” “Yes,” Hussain said. “How will you burn it off?” “One match would do most of it. Of course you’d burn up too.” Kyabi thought a moment. “Rudi, you’ve your Very pistol aboard?”

“Yes.” Rudi had insisted on taking the pistol, saying it was essential equipment in case of an emergency. All the pilots had backed him though all knew it was not essential. “With four signal flares. Do yo - ” They all looked into the sky at the scream of approaching jets. Two fighters, low and very fast, slashed over the terrain heading out into the Gulf. Rudi judged their path as leading directly to Kharg. They were attack fighters and he had seen the air-to-ground missiles in their racks. Are the missiles for Kharg Island? he asked himself, a new tightness in his throat. Has the revolution hit there too? Or is it just a routine flight? “What do you think, Rudi? Kharg?” Kyabi asked.

“Kharg’s that way, Boss,” Rudi said, not wanting to be involved. “If so it’d be a routine flight. We’d have dozens of takeoffs and landings a day when we were there. You want to use flares to set the fire?”

Kyabi hardly heard him. His clothes were stained with sweat, his desert boots black with the oil ooze. He was thinking about the air force revolt at Doshan Tappeh. If those two pilots are also in revolt and attack Kharg and sabotage our facilities there, he thought, almost choked with rage and frustration, Iran will go back twenty years.

When Rudi had come to collect him early this morning, Kyabi had been astonished to see the mullah. He had demanded an explanation. When the mullah angrily said that Kyabi should close down all facilities and declare for Khomeini at once, he was almost speechless. “But that’s revolution. That means civil war!”

Hussain had said, “It is the Will of God. You’re Iranian, not a foreign lackey. The Imam has ordered confrontation with the armed forces to subdue them. With God’s help, the first true Islamic republic on earth since the days of the Prophet, the Blessings of God be upon him, begins in a few days.”

Kyabi had wanted to say what he had said privately many times: “It’s a madman’s dream, and your Khomeini’s an evil, senile old man, driven by a personal vendetta against the Pahlavis - Reza Shah whose police he believes murdered his father, and Mohammed Shah whose SAVAK he believes murdered his son in Iraq a few years ago; he’s nothing but a narrow-minded fanatic who wants to put us, the people, and particularly women, back into the Dark Ages….”

But he had said none of this today to this mullah. Instead, he put his mind back onto the problem of the village. “If the village catches fire, they can easily rebuild it. Their possessions are the important things.” He hid his hatred. “You can help, if you want, Excellency. I would appreciate your help. You can talk to them.”

The villagers refused to go. For the third time Kyabi explained that fire was the only way to save their water and to save the other villages. Then Hussain talked to them, but still they would not go. By now it was time for the midday prayer and the mullah led them in prayer and again told them to leave the banks of the river. The elders consulted with one another and said, “It is the Will of God. We will not leave.”

“It is the Will of God,” Hussain agreed. He turned on his heel and led the way back to the helicopter.

Once more they landed near the culvert. Now oil just seeped out of the pipe, no more than a trickle. “Rudi,” Kyabi said, “go upwind, far as you can, and put a flare into the culvert. Then put one smack in the middle of the stream. Can you do that?”

“I can try. I’ve never fired a Very pistol before.” Rudi plodded out into the scrub desert. The others went back to the chopper which he had parked safely away. When he was in position he put the large cartridge into the pistol, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The gun kicked, more than he expected. The burning phosphorus signal flare arced low over the ground, bounced as it came down short, then skipped into the air again and fell into the culvert. For a moment nothing happened, then the earth exploded and fire gushed upward and outward, making the overturned car into a funeral pyre. The superheated shock wave enveloped him but passed by safely. Acrid black smoke billowed skyward. Fire began spreading, racing toward the stream. The second red flare arced high and then went into the river. The river caught fire. They knew it more from the sound than sight, but when they were airborne once more, skirting the river upwind, they saw the fire spreading rapidly downstream. Vast clouds of black smoke marked its path. Near the village they circled. Men, women, and children were fleeing with what they could carry. As they watched, the village was consumed.

The four men flew home.

Home for Kyabi was the area HQ of IranOil just outside Ahwaz, a neat complex of white concrete buildings with well-watered lawns and a helipad, enclosed by a tall fence.

“Thanks, Rudi,” he said, sick at heart. Around the chopper was a ring of armed men who had rushed out of hiding the moment they had landed, shouting and pointing their guns. Behind Kyabi the mullah toyed with his string of prayer beads.

Kyabi unbuckled his seat belt. The Will of God, he thought. I’ve done what I could, prayed correctly, and know that there is no other God but God and Mohammed is the Prophet of God. When I die I will die cursing the enemies of God, chief among them, Khomeini, False Prophet, murderer, and all those who follow him.

He turned around. His engineer was gray-faced and rigid in his seat beside Hussain. “Mullah, I commend you to God’s vengeance.” Kyabi got out. They shot Kyabi and dragged the engineer away. Then, because the mullah asked it, they allowed the chopper to leave.

Chapter 10

AT KOWISS AIR BASE: 5:09 P.M. Manuela was hurrying across the S-G compound toward the one-story office building that was tidy under the afternoon sun, the radio tower jutting above as a second floor. She wore flight overalls with the S-G emblem on the back and her auburn hair was bundled into a long peaked flight cap, but her walk shouted her femininity.

In the outer office were three of their Iranian staff. Politely they got up and smiled, watching her under heavy-lidded eyes.

“Good afternoon, Excellency Pavoud,” she said in Farsi with a smile. “Captain Ayre wanted to see me?”

“Yes, Madam Lady. His Excellency’s in the tower,” the chief clerk replied. “May I have the honor of escorting you?” She declined with thanks, and when she had gone along the corridor and up the spiral staircase, Pavoud said contemptuously, “Scandalous the way she flaunts herself at us - she does it just to taunt us.”

“Worse than a public woman from the Old Quarter, Excellency,” another said, equally disgusted. “By God, of all Infidels, Americans are the worst and their women the worst. And that one, that one’s asking, that one’s begging for trouble….”

“She’s begging for a good Iranian cock,” a small man said, scratching himself.

Pavoud said, “She should wear a chador and cover herself and walk modestly. We are all men here. We’ve all sired children. Does she think we’re eunuchs?”

“She should be whipped for taunting us.”

Pavoud picked his nose delicately. “With God’s help, soon she will be - publicly. Everyone will be subject to Islamic law, and punishments.” “They say that American women have no pubics.”

“No, it’s just that they shave those parts.”

“Pubics or no, Excellency Chief Clerk, I’d like to thrust it into her, until she squealed - with joy,” the small man said, and they laughed together. “That great oaf of her husband has every night since she’s been here.” The chief clerk’s eyes glittered. “I’ve heard them moaning in the night.” He lit a cigarette from the butt of the last, then got up and looked out of the window. He wore glasses and peered into the sky until he saw the distant chopper turn on to final. Death to all foreigners, he thought, then added in his most secret heart: And death to Khomeini and his parasites! Long live the Tudeh and the revolution of the Masses!

The tower was small with glass windows on all sides and well equipped. This had been their permanent base for many years, so S-G had had time to fit it out with some modern air safety and all-weather landing aids. Freddy Ayre, senior pilot in Starke’s absence, was waiting for Manuela. “HXB’s on final,” he said as she came up the stairs. “He - ” “Oh, wonderful,” she interrupted happily. They had been trying to contact Starke all day without success: “Not to worry,” Ayre had told her, “their HF often goes out, same’s ours.” Since last night, just after dark, the only communication had been Starke’s terse report that he was overnighting at Bandar Delam and would contact them today.

“Sorry, Manuela, but Duke’s not aboard. Marc Dubois’s flying her.” “There’s been an accident?” she burst out, her world tumbling. “He’s hurt?” “Oh, no, nothing like that. When Marc reported in a few minutes ago, he said Duke had stayed behind at Bandar Delam and he’d been told to fly the mullah and his team on the return trip.”

“Is that all? You’re sure?”

“Yes. Look,” Ayre said, pointing out of the window, “there she is.” The 206 was coming out of the sun nicely. Behind her the Zagros Mountains reached skyward. Below were the chimney stacks of the vast refinery, plumes of fire from waste gases perpetually burning off. She touched down in the exact center of Landing Pad One. “HXB shutting down,” Marc Dubois said over the radio.

“Roger, HXB,” S-G’s duty tower operator, Massil Tugul, a Palestinian and longtime employee, replied. He switched to the main base frequency. “Base, we have no birds in the system now. I confirm HVU and HCF will return before sunset.”

“Okay, S-G.” There was a moment of quiet, then over the main base channel, they heard a voice cut in harshly in Farsi, transmitting from the 206. It went on for half a minute, then ceased.

Massil muttered, “Insha’Allah!”

“Who the hell was that?” Ayre said.

“The mullah Hussain, Agha.”

“What the hell did he say?” Ayre asked him, forgetting Manuela could speak Farsi.

Massil hesitated. Manuela answered for him, her face white. “The mullah said, ‘In the Name of God and in the Name of the Whirlwind of God, strike!’ over and over, just ov - ” She stopped.

From the other side of the airfield came the muted sound of gunfire. At once Ayre took the mike. “Marc, a la tour, vite, immédiatement,” he ordered, his accent excellent, then squinted at the base, half a mile away. Men were running from their barracks now. Some carried guns. Several fell as other men opposed them. Ayre opened one of the windows to hear better. Faint shouts of “Allah-u Akbarr” mixed with the coarse thrangg-thrangg-thrangg of automatic rifles.

“What’s that? Near the gate, the main gate?” Manuela said, Massil on his feet beside her, equally shocked and not a little frightened. Ayre reached for the binoculars and focused them. “Christ Almighty, soldiers’re firing into the base and… and trucks’re storming the gate… half a dozen of them… Green Bands and mullahs and soldiers jumping out of them …”

Over the base channel came an excited voice shouting in Farsi that was abruptly cut off. Again Manuela translated: ‘“In the Name of God, kill all officers who oppose Imam Khomeini and take possession - ‘ It’s revolution!” Below they saw the mullah Hussain and his two Green Bands pile out of the 206, guns unslung. The mullah motioned Dubois out of the cockpit, but the pilot just shook his head and pointed at the whirling blades, continued shutdown procedure. Hussain hesitated.

All over the S-G compound work had stopped. People were leaning out of windows or had come out onto the tarmac and were standing there in silent little groups, looking across the field. Sounds of gunfire increased. Nearby, the jeep and fuel truck that were to service the 206 had skidded to a halt the moment the guns had started. Hussain had hailed the jeep, left one man to guard the chopper. The driver saw him coming, jumped out, and took to his heels. The mullah cursed him and, with a Green Band, got into the driving seat, gunned the engine, and tore off down the boundary road, heading for the far barracks.

Dubois came up the steps, three at a time. He was thirty-six, tall and skinny, with dark hair and a roguish smile. At once he stuck out his hand and shook with Ayre. “Madonna, what a day, Freddy! I… Manuela!” He kissed her fondly on both cheeks. “The Duke is fine, chérie. He just had a row with the mullah who told him that he would no longer fly with him. Bandar Delam’s not…” He stopped, very conscious now of Massil, not trusting him. “I need a drink, eh? Let’s go to the mess, eh?”

They did not go to the mess. Marc led them out onto the tarmac and into the lee of a building where they could watch with safety and not be overheard. “There’s no way of telling which side Massil’s on, eh, or even most of our staff - if they even know themselves, poor people.”

On the other side of the field there was a loud explosion. Fire gushed from one of the sheds and smoke billowed. Mon Dieu, is that the fuel dump?” “No, just near it.” Ayre was filled with disquiet. Another explosion distracted him, then mixed with sporadic gunfire came the heavy, deep-throated detonation of a tank’s big gun.

The jeep with the mullah in it had disappeared behind the barracks. Near the main gate, the army trucks had stopped haphazardly; their attacking soldiers and Green Bands vanished into hangars and barracks. A few bodies lay in the dust. Tank soldiers guarding Camp Commandant Peshadi’s office block crouched near the doorway, their guns ready. Others waited at the second-floor windows. One of the men there let off a burst of automatic fire as half a dozen screaming soldiers and airmen charged in attack across the square. Another burst of fire and they were all dead or dying or badly wounded. One of the wounded half crawled, half scrambled for safety. The tank guards let him get almost to safety. Then they filled him with bullets. Manuela moaned and they both took her deeper into the lee of their building. “I’m all right,” she said. “Marc, when’s Duke coming back?” “Rudi or Duke will call tonight or tomorrow, guarantee it. Pas problčme! Le Grand Duke is fine. Mon Dieu, now I am ready for a drink!” They waited a moment, the firing lessening. “Come on,” Ayre said, “we’ll be safer in the bungalows.”

They scurried across the compound into one of the fine bungalows surrounded by whitewashed fences and tidy gardens. There were no married quarters at Kowiss. Usually two pilots shared the two-bedroom bungalows. Manuela left them to get the drinks. “Now, what really happened?” Ayre asked softly.

Rapidly the Frenchman told him about the attack and Zataki and Rudi’s bravery. “That old Kraut really deserves a medal,” he said admiringly. “But listen, last night the revs shot one of our day laborers. They tried him and shot him in four minutes for being fedayeen. This morning other bastards shot Kyabi.”

Ayre was appalled. “But why?”

Dubois told him about the pipeline sabotage, then added, “When Rudi and the mullah got back, Zataki paraded us all and said it was correct Kyabi had been shot as ‘a supporter of the Shah, a supporter of satanic Americans and British who had despoiled Iran for years and was therefore an enemy of God.’”

“Poor old Boss. Christ, I liked him a lot, he was a good fellow!” “Yes. And openly anti-Khomeini, and now those bastards have guns - never seen so many guns and they’re all stupides, crazy.” Dubois tightened. “Old Duke began raving in Farsi at them all; he’d already had a confrontation with Zataki and the mullah last night. We don’t know what he said but it all became ugly, the bastards fell on him, started to kick and scream at him. Of course we all began to charge, then there was an explosion of automatic fire and we froze. Them too, because it was Rudi. Somehow he’d taken a gun from one of them and let another short burst into the air. He shouted, ‘Leave him alone or I’ll kill you all,’ keeping the gun trained on Zataki and the group near Duke. They left him. After cursing them - ma foi, quel homme - he made a deal; they leave us alone, we leave them to their revolution, I was to fly the mullah here and Duke was to stay, and Rudi keeps the gun. He made Zataki and the mullah swear by Allah not to break the contract, but I still wouldn’t trust them. Merde, they’re all merde, mon ami. But Rudi, Rudi was fantastic. He should be French, that one. I tried to call them all day but no answer….”

The other side of the field, a Centurion tank came charging out of one of the streets in the far barracks complex, whirled across the open, and went into the main street opposite base HQ and the officers’ mess. It stopped there, engines growling, fat, squat, and deadly. The long gun swiveled, seeking a target. Then suddenly the tracks spun, the tank twirled on its axis and fired and the shell decimated the second floor where Colonel Peshadi had his offices. The defenders reeled from the sudden treachery. Again the tank fired. Great slabs of masonry tore off and half the roof collapsed. The building began to burn.

Then from the ground floor and part of the second story a fusillade of bullets surrounded the tank. At once two of the loyalists charged, out of the main door with grenades, tossed them through the tank slits, and fled for cover. Both men crumpled under a hail of automatic fire from across the roadway, but there was a terrible explosion inside the tank and flames and smoke gushed forth. The metal top flipped open and a burning man tried to clamber out. His body was almost ripped out of the tank by the hail of automatic fire from the broken building. On the wind that blew from across the base there was the smell of cordite and fire and meat burning. The battle continued for more than an hour, then ended. The lowering sun cast a bloody hue and there were dead and dying throughout the base, but the insurrection had failed because they had not killed Colonel Peshadi or his chief officers in the first sneak attack, because not enough of the airmen and soldiers went over to their side - and only one of three tank crews. Peshadi had been in the lead tank, and he held the tower and all radio communications. He had gathered loyal forces and led the ruthless drive that gouged the revolutionaries out of the hangars and out of the barracks. And once the cautious majority, the fence-sitting, unsure - in this case airmen and troops - perceived that the revolt was lost, they hesitated no longer. Immediately and zealously they declared their undying and historic loyalty to Peshadi and the Shah, picked up discarded weapons, and, equally zealously, in the Name of God, began firing at the “enemy.” But few fired to kill and though Peshadi knew it, he left an escape route open and allowed a few of the attackers to escape. His only secret order to his most trusted men was, Kill the mullah Hussain.

But, somehow, Hussain escaped.

“This is Colonel Peshadi,” came over the main base frequency and all loudspeakers. “Thanks be to God the enemy is dead, dying, or captured. I thank all loyal troops. All officers and men will collect our glorious dead who died doing God’s work and report numbers, and also numbers of enemy killed. Doctors and medics! Attend to all wounded without favor. God is Great… God is Great! It is almost the time for evening prayer. Tonight I am mullah and I will lead it. All will attend to give thanks to God.” In Starke’s bungalow, Ayre, Manuela, and Dubois were listening on the base intercom. She finished translating Peshadi’s Farsi. Now there was just static. Smoke hung over the base and the air was heavy with the smell. The two men were sipping vodka and canned orange juice, she mineral water. A portable butane gas fire warmed the room pleasantly.

“That’s curious,” she said thoughtfully, steeling herself not to think of all the killing or about Starke at Bandar Delam. “Curious that Peshadi didn’t end: Long live the Shah. Surely it’s a victory for him? He must be scared out of his wits.”

“I would be too,” Ayre said. “He’s g - ” They all jumped as the base intercom telephone jangled. He picked it up. “Hello?”

“This is Major Changiz. Ah, Captain Ayre, did they come your side of the base? What happened with you?”

“Nothing. No insurgents came over here.”

“Praise be to God. We were all worried for your safety. You’re sure there are no dead or wounded?”

“None - to my knowledge.”

“Thanks be to God. We’ve plenty. Fortunately there’re no enemy wounded.” “None?”

“None. You won’t mind if I mention that you will not report or relate this incident to anyone on the radio - to no one, Captain. Top security. Do you understand?”

“Loud and clear, Major.”

“Good. Please listen out on our base frequency - as for safety we will monitor yours. Please do not use your HF radio until first clearing it with us during the emergency.” Ayre felt the blood in his face but he said nothing. “Please stand by for a briefing by Colonel Peshadi at eight o’clock, and now send Esvandiary and all your Faithful to evening prayers - at once.”

“Certainly, but Hotshot - Esvandiary’s on leave for a week.” Esvandiary was their IranOil station manager.

“Very well. Send the rest with Pavoud in charge.”

“Right away.” The phone went dead. He told them what had been said, then went to pass the word.

In the tower Massil was very uneasy. “But, Captain, Excellency. I’m on duty till sunset. We’ve our two 212s to come home yet and the - ” “He said all Faithful. At once. Your papers are in order, you’ve been in Iran for years. He knows you’re here so you’d better go - unless you’ve something to fear?”

“No. No, not at all.”

Ayre saw the sweat on the man’s forehead. “Don’t worry, Massil,” he said, “I’ll see the lads in. No sweat. And I’ll stay here until you get back. It won’t take you long.”

He saw his two 212s to bed, waiting with growing impatience, Massil long overdue now. To pass the time he had tried to do some paperwork but gave up, his mind in turmoil. The only thought that cheered him was that his wife and infant son were safe in England - even with the lousy weather there, the gales and blizzards and rains and lousy cold and lousy strikes and lousy government.

The HF came to life. It was just after dark. “Hello, Kowiss, this is McIver in Tehran…”

Chapter 11

TEHRAN - AT THE S-G OFFICE: 6:50 P.M. McIver said again, “Hello, Kowiss, this is McIver in Tehran, do you read?”

“Tehran, this is Kowiss, Standby One” - one minute - vernacular for “Please wait a moment.”

“All right, Freddy,” McIver said and put the HF mike back on the desk. He and Tom Lochart, who had arrived from Zagros that afternoon, were in his office on the top floor of the building that had been HQ for S-G ever since it had opened operations in Iran almost ten years before. The building had five stories with a flat roof where Genny had made a delightful, screened roof garden with chairs and tables and barbecue. General Beni-Hassan, Andrew Gavallan’s friend, had recommended the building highly: “Nothing but the best for Andy Gavallan’s company. There’s space for half a dozen offices, the price’s reasonable, you’ve space on the roof for your own generator and radio antenna, you’re near the main highway that goes to the airport, bazaar’s convenient, my HQ’s around the corner, parking’s convenient, projected hotels convenient, and here’s the pičce de résistance!” Proudly the general had shown McIver the toilet. It was ordinary and not very clean. “What’s so special about that?” McIver had asked, nonplussed. “It’s the only one in the building, the rest are squatters - just a hole in the floor over a sewer - and if you’re not used to squatting it’s a tricky operation - in fact it’s a pain in the ass, particularly for the ladies, who’ve been known to slip into the hole with messy results,” the general had said jovially. He was a fine-looking man, very strong, very fit. “Squatters are everywhere?”

“Even in the best houses, everywhere outside of modern hotels. When you think about it, Mac, squatting’s more hygienic, nothing sensitive touches anything alien. Then there’s this.” The general had pointed to a small hose attached to the toilet spigot. “We use water to clean ourselves - always use the left hand, that’s the shit hand, the right’s for eating, which is why you never offer anything with your left hand. Very bad manners, Mac. Never eat or drink with your left hand in the Islamic world, and don’t forget most toilets and squatters don’t have hoses so you have to use water from a bucket, if there happens to be one. As I said it’s a tricky op, but a way of life. By the way we’ve no lefthanded people in Islam.” Again the good-natured chuckle. “Most Muslims can’t perform comfortably unless they squat - it’s the muscles - so a lot will squat on the Western seat when they relieve themselves. Strange, isn’t it, but then outside of most cities, even in them, throughout most of Asia, the Middle East, China, India, Africa, South America, there’s not even running water….”

“A penny for your thoughts, Mac?” Lochart said. The tall Canadian sat opposite him, both of them in old easy chairs. Their electric light and fire were at full power from their own generator.

McIver grunted. “I was thinking about squatters. Hate squatters and bloody water. Just can’t get used to them.”

“Doesn’t bother me now, hardly notice it. We’ve squatters in our apartment - Sharazad said she’d have a ‘Western’ toilet put in if I wanted it as a wedding present, but I said I could deal with it.” Lochart smiled wryly. “Doesn’t bother me now but, my God, that was the one thing that sent Deirdre around the bend.”

“Same for all the wives. That’s their biggest bitch, all of them, Genny too. Not my bloody fault most of the world does it that way. Thank God we’ve a real loo in the flat. Gen’d mutiny otherwise.” McIver fiddled with the volume on the receiver. “Come on, Freddy,” he muttered. There were many charts on the walls, no pictures, though there was the heavy dust mark of one taken down recently - the obligatory photograph of the Shah. Outside, the night sky was lit with fires that dotted the skyline of the darkened city, no lights or streetlamps anywhere except here. Gunfire, rifle and automatic, mixed with the ever-present sound of the city - mobs roaring “Allahhh-u Akbarrmr…”

Now over the loudspeaker: “This is Kowiss, Captain Ayre speaking. I read you loud and clear, Captain McIver.”

Both men were startled and Lochart sat upright. “Something’s wrong, Mac, he can’t talk openly - someone’s listening.”

McIver clicked on the send switch. “You’re doing your own radio, Freddy,” he said deliberately to make sure there was no mistake, “as well as putting in the hours?”

“Just happened to be here, Captain McIver.”

“Everything five by five?” This meant maximum radio signal strength, or in the vernacular of pilots, Everything okay?

After a deliberate pause that told them no, “Yes, Captain McIver.” “Good, Captain Ayre,” McIver said, to tell him at once that he understood. “Put Captain Starke on, will you?”

“Sorry, sir, I can’t. Captain Starke’s still at Bandar Delam.” McIver said sharply, “What’s he doing there?”

“Captain Lutz ordered him to stop over and ordered Captain Dubois to complete the VIP journey requested by IranOil - and approved by you.” Starke had managed to get through to Tehran before taking off to explain the problem of the mullah Hussain to McIver. McIver had approved the trip as long as Colonel Peshadi okayed it, and told him to keep him advised. “Is the 125 due in Kowiss tomorrow, Captain McIver?”

“It’s possible,” McIver replied, “but you never know.” The 125 had been scheduled for Tehran yesterday, but because of the insurrection surrounding the airport, all inbound traffic had been provisionally canceled until tomorrow, Monday. “We’re working on getting clearances for a direct into Kowiss. It’s dicey because military air traffic control are… are undermanned. The airport at Tehran is, er, jammed so we can’t get any of our dependents out. Tell Manuela to stand by in case we can get a clearance.” McIver grimaced, trying to decide how much he should say over the open airwaves, then saw Lochart motioning to him.

“Let me, Mac. Freddy can speak French,” Lochart said softly. projected hotels convenient, and here’s the pičce de résistance!” Proudly the general had shown McIver the toilet. It was ordinary and not very clean. “What’s so special about that?” McIver had asked, nonplussed. “It’s the only one in the building, the rest are squatters - just a hole in the floor over a sewer - and if you’re not used to squatting it’s a tricky operation - in fact it’s a pain in the ass, particularly for the ladies, who’ve been known to slip into the hole with messy results,” the general had said jovially. He was a fine-looking man, very strong, very fit. “Squatters are everywhere?”

“Even in the best houses, everywhere outside of modern hotels. When you think about it, Mac, squatting’s more hygienic, nothing sensitive touches anything alien. Then there’s this.” The general had pointed to a small hose attached to the toilet spigot. “We use water to clean ourselves - always use the left hand, that’s the shit hand, the right’s for eating, which is why you never offer anything with your left hand. Very bad manners, Mac. Never eat or drink with your left hand in the Islamic world, and don’t forget most toilets and squatters don’t have hoses so you have to use water from a bucket, if there happens to be one. As I said it’s a tricky op, but a way of life. By the way we’ve no lefthanded people in Islam.” Again the good-natured chuckle. “Most Muslims can’t perform comfortably unless they squat - it’s the muscles - so a lot will squat on the Western seat when they relieve themselves. Strange, isn’t it, but then outside of most cities, even in them, throughout most of Asia, the Middle East, China, India, Africa, South America, there’s not even running water….”

“A penny for your thoughts, Mac?” Lochart said. The tall Canadian sat opposite him, both of them in old easy chairs. Their electric light and fire were at full power from their own generator.

McIver grunted. “I was thinking about squatters. Hate squatters and bloody water. Just can’t get used to them.”

“Doesn’t bother me now, hardly notice it. We’ve squatters in our apartment - Sharazad said she’d have a ‘Western’ toilet put in if I wanted it as a wedding present, but I said I could deal with it.” Lochart smiled wryly. “Doesn’t bother me now but, my God, that was the one thing that sent Deirdre around the bend.”

“Same for all the wives. That’s their biggest bitch, all of them, Genny too. Not my bloody fault most of the world does it that way. Thank God we’ve a real loo in the flat. Gen’d mutiny otherwise.” McIver fiddled with the volume on the receiver. “Come on, Freddy,” he muttered. There were many charts on the walls, no pictures, though there was the heavy dust mark of one taken down recently - the obligatory photograph of the Shah. Outside, the night sky was lit with fires that dotted the skyline of the darkened city, no lights or streetlamps anywhere except here. Gunfire, rifle and automatic, mixed with the ever-present sound of the city - mobs roaring “Allahhh-u Akbarrmr…”

Now over the loudspeaker: “This is Kowiss, Captain Ayre speaking. I read you loud and clear, Captain McIver.”

Both men were startled and Lochart sat upright. “Something’s wrong, Mac, he can’t talk openly - someone’s listening.”

McIver clicked on the send switch. “You’re doing your own radio, Freddy,” he said deliberately to make sure there was no mistake, “as well as putting in the hours?”

“Just happened to be here, Captain McIver.”

“Everything five by five?” This meant maximum radio signal strength, or in the vernacular of pilots, Everything okay?

After a deliberate pause that told them no, “Yes, Captain McIver.” “Good, Captain Ayre,” McIver said, to tell him at once that he understood. “Put Captain Starke on, will you?”

“Sorry, sir, I can’t. Captain Starke’s still at Bandar Delam.” McIver said sharply, “What’s he doing there?”

“Captain Lutz ordered him to stop over and ordered Captain Dubois to complete the VIP journey requested by IranOil - and approved by you.” Starke had managed to get through to Tehran before taking off to explain the problem of the mullah Hussain to McIver. McIver had approved the trip as long as Colonel Peshadi okayed it, and told him to keep him advised. “Is the 125 due in Kowiss tomorrow, Captain McIver?”

“It’s possible,” McIver replied, “but you never know.” The 125 had been scheduled for Tehran yesterday, but because of the insurrection surrounding the airport, all inbound traffic had been provisionally canceled until tomorrow, Monday. “We’re working on getting clearances for a direct into Kowiss. It’s dicey because military air traffic control are… are undermanned. The airport at Tehran is, er, jammed so we can’t get any of our dependents out. Tell Manuela to stand by in case we can get a clearance.” McIver grimaced, trying to decide how much he should say over the open airwaves, then saw Lochart motioning to him.

“Let me, Mac. Freddy can speak French,” Lochart said softly. McIver brightened and gratefully leaned over and gave him the mike. “Écoute, Freddy,” Lochart began in Canadian French that he knew even Ayre, whose French was excellent, had difficulty in understanding. “Marxists still hold the International Airport, helped by Khomeini insurgents, supposedly with some PLO, and still hold the tower. Tonight’s major rumor is that there’s going to be a coup, that the prime minister’s approved it, that troops are finally on the move all over Tehran with orders to quell the riots and shoot to kill. What’s your problem down there? Are you all right?” “Yes, no sweat,” they heard him reply in gutter French and innuendo; “I’m under orders to say nothing, but no real problems here, bet on it, but they’re listening. At Smelly” - their nickname for Bandar Delam where the air stank constantly of gasoline - “lots of problems and Boss was sent upward before his allotted span…”

Lochart’s eyes widened. “Kyabi’s been shot,” he muttered to McIver. “… but old Rudi’s got everything under control and the Duke’s okay. We’d better stop this, old one. They’re listening.”

“Understand. Sit tight and tell the others if you can; also that we’re okay,” adding in English without missing a beat, “and I repeat we’ll be sending down cash for your people tomorrow.”

Ayre’s voice brightened. “No shit, old chap?”

Involuntarily Lochart laughed. “No shit. Keep a duty radio op on and we’ll call back progress. Here’s Captain McIver again. Insha’Allah!” He handed the mike back.

“Captain, have you heard from Lengeh, yesterday or today?” “No, we tried them but couldn’t raise them. Might be the sunspots. I’ll try again now.”

“Thanks. Give my regards to Captain Scragger and remind him his medical’s due next week.” McIver smiled grimly, then added, “Make sure Captain Starke calls the moment he returns.” He signed off. Lochart told him what Ayre had said. He poured himself another whisky.

“What about me, for God’s sake?” McIver said irritably.

“But, Mac, you kn - ”

“Don’t you start. Make it a light one.” As Lochart poured, McIver got up, went to the window, and stared out, seeing nothing. “Poor old Kyabi. Now there was a good man if ever there was one, good for Iran and fair to us. What’d they murder him for? Madmen! Rudi ‘ordering’ Duke and ‘ordering’ Marc - what the hell does that mean?”

“Only that there was trouble but Rudi’s got it in control. Freddy would have told me if Rudi hadn’t - he’s very sharp and his French’s good so he could’ve found a way. There was plenty of time, even though ‘they’ were listening, whoever the hell ‘they’ were,” Lochart said. “Maybe it was like at Zagros.”

At Zagros the villagers from Yazdek had come at dawn the day after Lochart had arrived back from leave. Their village mullah had received Khomeini’s orders to begin the insurrection against “the illegal government of the Shah,” and to take control of his area. The mullah had been bom in the village and was wise in the ways of the mountains that were snow-locked in winter and only accessible with great difficulty the rest of the year. And, too, the chief of police against whom he should lead the revolt was his nephew, and Nasiri, the base manager who was also a target, was married to his wife’s sister’s daughter who now lived in Shiraz. Even more important, they were all Galezan, a minor tribe of the nomad Kash’kai who had settled protectively - centuries ago - athwart this tiny crossroads, and the chief of police whose name was Nitchak Khan was also their kalandar, their elected tribal leader.

So, correctly, he had consulted Nitchak Khan and the Khan had agreed that a revolt should take place against their hereditary enemy the Pahlavi Shah, that to celebrate the revolution any who cared to could fire their arms at the stars and that, at dawn, he would lead the necessary investiture of the foreigners’ airfield.

They had arrived at dawn. Armed. Every man in the village. Nitchak Khan no longer wore his police uniform but tribal clothes. He was much shorter than Lochart, a hard-bodied man, spare, with hands of iron and legs of steel, a cartridge belt over his chest and rifle in his hands. By prearrangement, Lochart, accompanied by JeanLuc Sessonne - at the Khan’s request - met them at two hastily erected columns of stones that symbolized the gate to the base. Lochart saluted and agreed that Nitchak Khan had jurisdiction over the base, the two tiers of stones were formally knocked down, there were loud cheers from all sides and many guns were fired into the air. Then Nitchak Khan presented bouquets of flowers to JeanLuc Sessonne as a representative of France, thanking him on behalf of all the Galezan-Kash’kai for succoring and helping Khomeini who had rid them of their enemy, the Pahlavi Shah. “Thanks be to God that this self-dubbed Great King of Kings who dared sacrilege to try to connect his line back to Kings Cyrus and Darius the Great, men of courage and pride - this Light of the Aryans, this lackey of foreign devils - fled like a painted paramour from his Iraqi pasha!” Then there were brave speeches from both sides and the feast began and Nitchak Khan, the mullah beside him, had asked Tom Lochart, tribal chief of the foreigners at Zagros Three, to continue as before under the new regime. Lochart had gravely agreed.

“Let’s hope Rudi and his lads’re as lucky as you at Zagros, Tom.” McIver turned back to the windows, knowing there was nothing he could do to help them. “Things get worse and worse,” he muttered. Kyabi’s murder’s terrible, and a very bad sign for us, he thought. How the hell can I get Genny out of Tehran and where the hell’s Charlie?

They had not heard from Pettikin since he had left yesterday morning for Tabriz. From their ground staff at Galeg Morghi they had had garbled reports - that Pettikin had been kidnapped and forced to fly off with “three unknown persons,” or that “three Iranian Air Force pilots hijacked the 206 and fled for the border,” or that “the three passengers were high-ranking officers fleeing the country.” Why three passengers in every story? McIver had asked himself. He knew Pettikin must have got to the airfield safely because his car was still there, though the tanks were dry, the radio torn out, and the car vandalized. Bandar-e Pahlavi, where he was to have refueled, was silent - Tabriz was hardly ever in range. He cursed silently. It had been a bad day for McIver.

All day irate creditors had arrived to harass him, the phones weren’t working, the telex got jammed and took hours to clear, and his meeting at noon with General Valik who Gavallan had promised would supply cash weekly, was a disaster.

“As soon as the banks open we’ll pay what is owed.”

“For God’s sake, you’ve been saying that for weeks,” McIver said coldly, “I need money now.”

“So do we all,” the general had hissed back, shaking with rage, but very conscious of the Iranian employees in the outer office who would be sure to be listening. “There’s civil war going on and I can’t open the banks. You’ll have to wait.” He was a rotund man, balding, with darkish skin, an ex-army general, his clothes expensive, his watch expensive. He dropped his voice even lower. “If it wasn’t for stupid Americans who betrayed the Shah and persuaded him to curb our glorious armed forces, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

“I’m British as you well know and you brought the mess on yourself.” “British, American, what’s the difference? It’s all your fault. You both betrayed our Shah and Iran and now you’re going to pay for it!” “With what?” McIver asked sourly. “You’ve got all our money.” “If it wasn’t for your Iranian partners - me particularly - you wouldn’t have any money. Andy’s not complaining. I had a telex from my revered colleague, General Javadah, that Andy was signing the new Guerney contracts this week.”

“Andy said he had a telex from you confirming that you promised him you’d provide us with cash.”

“I promised I’d try.” The general curbed his rage with an effort, for he needed McIver’s cooperation. He mopped his forehead and opened his briefcase. It was stuffed with high-denomination rials but he held the top carefully so it was impossible for McIver to see inside, then brought out a small sheaf of notes, closing the briefcase. With great deliberation he counted out 500,000 rials - about $6,000. “There,” he said with a great flourish, putting the rials on the table and the rest away again. “Next week I or one of my colleagues will bring some more. A receipt, please.” “Thank you.” McIver signed the receipt. “When can we exp - ” “Next week. If the banks open we can settle everything. We’re always good as our word. Always. Haven’t we arranged the Guerney contracts?” Valik leaned forward and dropped his voice even more. “Now, I have a special charter. Tomorrow I want a 212, to leave sometime in the morning.” “To go where?”

“I need to inspect some facilities at Abadan,” Valik said and McIver noticed the sweat.

“And how will I get the necessary permissions, General? With all your airspace controlled by the military and w - ”

“Don’t bother with permission, just hav - ”

“Unless we’ve a flight plan, approved by the military in advance, it’s an illegal flight.”

“You can always say you asked for permission and it was given verbally. What’s so difficult about that?”

“First it’s against Iranian law, General, your law, second even if cleared verbally and the aircraft got out of Tehran airspace, you’ve still got to give the next military air traffic controller your recorded number - all flight plans are recorded at your air force HQ and they’re even more twitchy about helicopters than civilians - and if you don’t have one the controller will say get your tail down at the next military base and report to the tower. And when you land, they’ll meet you very irritably - and correctly - in force, my aircraft will be impounded, and the passengers and crew put in jail.”

“Then find a way. It’s a very important charter. The, er, the Guerney contracts depend on it. Just have the 212 ready at nine o’clock, say at Galeg Morghi.”

“Why there? Why not at the International Airport?”

“It’s more convenient… and quiet now.”

McIver frowned. It was well within Valik’s authority to ask for and authorize such a flight. “Very well, I’ll try.” He pulled out the pad of blank flight plan forms, noticed that the last copy referred to Pettikin’s flight to Tabriz and again his anxiety mounted - where the devil is he? Under “passengers” he put General Valik, chairman of IHC, and handed it to him. “Please sign under authority.”

Valik shoved the form back imperiously. “There’s no need for my name to be put on it - just put four passengers - my wife and two children will be with me, and some luggage. We will be staying in Abadan for a week, then returning. Just have the 212 ready at 9:00 A.M. at Galeg Morghi.” “Sorry, General, the names have to be on the clearance or the air force won’t even accept the flight plan. All passengers have to be named. I’ll apply for clearance but I don’t hold out much hope for you.” McIver began to add the other names.

“No, stop! No need to give our names. Just put down the trip’s to send some spares to Abadan. Surely there are some spares you need to send there.” The sweat was beading him.

“All right, but first please sign the authority, with the name of all passengers and your final destination.”

The general’s face reddened. “Just arrange it without involving me. At once!”

“I can’t.” McIver was becoming equally impatient. “I repeat, the military will want to know all the ‘who’ and the ‘where’ - they’re as sticky now as flypaper. We’ll get even more searching enquiries than usual because we haven’t had any traffic in weeks going that way. Tehran’s not like in the south where we’re flying all day.”

“This is a special flight for spares. Simple.”

“It isn’t simple at all. Sentries at Galeg Morghi wouldn’t let you aboard without papers, nor would the tower. They’d see you going aboard, for God’s sake.” McIver stared at him exasperated. “Why don’t you arrange the clearance yourself, General? You’ve the best connections in Iran. You’ve certainly made that clear. For you it should be simple.”

“They’re all our planes. We own them - own them!”

“Yes, you do,” McIver said as grimly. “When you’ve paid for them - you owe us almost 4 million U.S. in back payments. If you want to go to Abadan that’s your business, but if they catch you doing it in an S-G chopper with false papers which I must countersign, you’ll land in jail, your family’ll be in jail along with me and the pilot, and they’ll impound our aircraft and close us down forever.” Just the thought of jail made him feel bilious. If a tenth of the stories about SAVAK and Iranian jails were true, they were no places to be.

Valik choked back his rage. He sat down and put a sickly smile on his face. “There’s no need for us to quarrel, Mac, we’ve been through too much together. I, I will make it very worthwhile, eh? Both to you and the pilot.” He opened the briefcase. “Eh? 12 million rials - between you.” McIver looked at the money blankly. 12 million was about $150,000 - over 100,000 pounds sterling. Numbly, he shook his head.

At once Valik said, “All right, 12 million each - and expenses - half now and half when we’re safe at Kuwait Airport, eh?”

McIver was in shock, not only because of the money but because Valik had openly said “Kuwait” which McIver had suspected but had not wished to think about. This was a complete 180-degree turn from everything that Valik had been saying for months: for months he had been bullish about the Shah crushing the opposition, then Khomeini. And even after the Shah’s unbelievable departure and Khomeini’s astonishing return to Tehran - my God, was that only ten days ago? - Valik had said a dozen times that there was nothing to worry about, for Bakhtiar and the generals of the Imperial Staff held the complete balance of power and would never permit “this Khomeini - covert Communist revolution to succeed.” Nor would the United States permit it. Never. At the right time the services would seize power and take over. Only yesterday Valik had confidently repeated it and said he’d heard that any hour the army was going to move in force and that the Immortals at Doshan Tappeh, putting down the small air force mutiny, was the first sign. McIver tore his gaze off the money and looked at the eyes of the man opposite. “What do you know that we don’t know?”

“What’re you talking about?” Valik began to bluster. “I don’t know an - ” “Something’s happened, what is it?”

“I’ve got to get out, with my family,” Valik said, on the edge of desperation now. “Rumors are terrible - coup or civil war, Khomeini or not, I’m, we’re, we’re marked. Do you understand? It’s my family, Mac, I’ve got to get out, until things quiet down. 12 million each, eh?” “What rumors?”

“Rumors!” Valik almost spat at him. “Get the clearance any way you can. I pay in advance.”

“However much money you offer I won’t do it. It has to be straight.” “You stupid hypocrite! Straight? How have you been operating all these years in Iran? Pishkesh! How much have you yourself paid under the counter - or to customs men? Pishkesh! How do you think we get contracts, eh? The Guerney contracts? Pishkesh! By putting cash, quietly, into the right hands. Are you so stupid you still don’t know Iranian ways?”

McIver said as grimly, “I know pishkesh, I’m not stupid, and I know Iran has its own ways. Oh, yes, Iran has its own ways. The answer’s no.” “Then the blood of my children and my wife are on your head. And mine.” “What’re you talking about?”

“Are you afraid of the truth?”

McIver stared at him. Valik’s wife and two children were favorites of Genny’s and his. “What makes you so sure?”

“I’ve… I’ve a cousin in the police. He saw a… a secret SAVAK list. I am to be arrested the day after tomorrow along with many other prominent persons as a sop to the… the opposition. And my family. And you know how they treat… how they can treat women and children in front of the…” Valik’s words trailed off.

McIver’s defenses crumbled. They had all heard horrendous stories of wives and children being tortured in front of the arrested man to force his compliance with whatever they wanted, or just for devilment. “All right,” he said helplessly, feeling rotten, knowing he was trapped. “I’ll try, but don’t expect to get a clearance, and you shouldn’t go south to Abadan. Your best bet would be Turkey. Perhaps we could chopper you to Tabriz, then you could buy your way over the border in a truck. You must have friends there. And you can’t make the pickup Galeg Morghi - there’s no way you could sneak aboard with Annoush and the children or even get into that military field without being stopped. You’d… you’d have to be picked up outside of Tehran. Somewhere off the roads and out of sight of radar.”

“All right, but it has to be Abadan.”

“Why? You lessen your chances by half.”

“Has to be. My family … my father and mother got there by road. Of course you’re right about Galeg Morghi. We could be picked up outside Tehran at…” Valik thought for a moment, then rushed on: “at the junction of the pipeline south and the river Zehsan… it’s away from the road and safe. We’ll be there in the morning at eleven o’clock. God will thank you, Mac. If… if you apply for a clearance for spares, I… I will arrange that it’s approved. Please, I beg you.”

“But what about refueling? When you land for refueling, the landing officer’s bound to spot you and you’ll be arrested in seconds.” “Request refueling at the air force base at Isfahan. I… I will arrange Isfahan.” Valik wiped the sweat off his face.

“And if anything goes wrong?”

“Insha’Allah! You’ll apply for clearance for spares - no names on the clearance or I’m dead or worse and so are Annoush, Jalal, and Setarem. Please?”

McIver knew it was madness. “I’ll apply for clearance: spares only for Bandar Delam. I should know by midnight if it’s approved - I’ll send someone to wait for it and bring it to me at the apartment. Phones are out so you’ll have to come to me for confirmation. That’ll give me time to think this out and decide yes or no.”

“But y - ”

“Midnight.”

“Yes, very well, I shall be there.”

“What about the other partners?”

“They - they know nothing of this. Emir Paknouri or one of the others will act for me.”

“What about weekly monies?”

“They will provide it.” Again Valik wiped his forehead. “The Blessings of God on you.” He put on his overcoat and walked for the door! The briefcase stayed on the desk.

“Take that with you.”

Valik turned back. “Ah, you want me to pay in Kuwait? Or Switzerland? In what currency?”

“There’s no payment. You can authorize a charter. Maybe we can get you to Bandar Delam - then you’re on your own.”

Valik stared at him with disbelief. “But… but even so, you’ll need expense money to pay for the, er, pilot or whatever.”

“No, but you can give me an advance of 5 million rials against the money the partnership owes which we desperately need.” McIver scrawled out a receipt and handed it to him. “If you’re not here, the Emir or the others may not be so generous.”

“The banks will open next week, we’re sure of it. Oh, yes, quite sure.” “Well, let’s hope so and we can be paid what’s owing.” He saw Valik’s expression, saw him count out the money, knowing that Valik thought him mad not to have accepted the pishkesh, knowing also that inevitably the man would try to bribe the pilot, whoever the pilot was, to take them the last stretch if the chopper ever got out of Tehran airspace - and that would be a disaster.

And now, in his office, staring blankly out of the window at the night, not hearing the gunfire or seeing the occasional flare light the darkened city, he thought, My God, SAVAK? I have to try to help him, have to. Those poor bloody kids and poor woman. I have to! And when Valik offers the pilot a bribe, even though I’ll warn the pilot in advance, will he resist? If Valik offered twelve million now, at Abadan it would be doubled. Tom could use that money, Nogger Lane, so could I, anyone. Just for a short trip across the Gulf - short but one way and no return. Where the hell did Valik get all that cash anyway? Of course from a bank.

For weeks there had been rumors that for a fee certain well-connected people could get monies out of Tehran even though the banks - formally - were closed. Or for an even larger fee get monies transferred to a numbered account in Switzerland, and that now Swiss banks were groaning under the weight of money fleeing the country. Billions. A few million in the right palm and anything’s possible. Isn’t that the same over the whole of Asia? Be honest, why just Asia? Isn’t it true over the whole world? “Tom,” he said wearily, “try military air traffic control and see if the 212’s cleared, will you?” As far as Lochart was concerned, this was just a routine delivery - McIver had told him only that he had seen Valik today and that the general had given him some cash, but nothing else. He still had to decide the pilot he would send, wishing he could do it himself and so put no one else at risk. God cursed medical! God cursed rules!

Lochart went to the HF. At that moment there was a scuffle in the outer office, and the door swung open. Standing there was a youth with an automatic rifle over his shoulder and a green band on his arm. Half a dozen other youths were with him. The Iranian staff waited, paralyzed. The young man stared at McIver and Lochart then consulted a list. “Salaam, Agha. Capta’n McIver?” he asked Lochart, his English hesitant and heavily accented.

“Salaam, Agha. No, I am Captain McIver,” McIver said uneasily, his first thought, Are these more of the same group who murdered poor Kyabi? His second thought, Gen should have left with the others, I should have insisted, his third about the stacks of rials in his open attaché case on the floor beside the hatstand.

“Ah, good,” the young man said politely. There were dark rings under his eyes, his face strong, and though McIver judged him to be twenty-five at the most, he had an old man’s look about him. “Danger here. For you here. Now. Please to go. We are komiteh for this block. Please you to go. Now.” “All right. Certainly, er, thank you.” Twice before, McIver had thought it prudent to evacuate the offices because of riots and mobs in the streets around them even though, astonishingly, considering their vast numbers, the mobs had been very disciplined with little damage tg property or to Europeans - except for cars parked on the streets. This was the first time anyone had come here to warn him personally. Obediently McIver and Lochart put on their overcoats, McIver closed his attaché case, and, with the others, began to leave. He switched off the lights.

“How lights when no one else?” the leader asked.

“We’ve our own generator. On the roof.”

The youth smiled strangely, his teeth very white. “Foreigners have generators and warm, Iranians not.”

McIver was going to answer but thought better of it.

“You got message? Message about leaving? Message today?”

“Yes,” McIver said. One message in the office, one at the apartment that Genny had found in their letter box. They just said, “On December 1 you were warned to leave: Why are you still here if not as an enemy? You have little time left, [signed] The university supporters for Islamic Republic in Iran.” “You, er, you are representatives of the university?”

“We are your komiteh. Please to leave now. Enemies better not come back ever. No?”

McIver and Lochart walked out. The revolutionaries followed them down the stairs. For weeks the elevator had not worked.

The street was still clear, no mobs, or fires, and all gunfire distant. “Not come back. Three days.”

McIver stared at them. “That’s not possible. I’ve got many th - ” “Danger.” The young man and the others, equally young, waited silently and watched. Not all were armed with guns. Two had clubs. Two were holding hands. “Not come back. Very bad. Three days, komiteh says. Understand?” “Yes, but one of us has to refuel the generator or the telex will stop and then we’ll be out of touch an - ”

“Telex unimportant. Not come back. Three days.” The youth patiently motioned them to leave. “Danger here. Not forget, please. Good night.” McIver and Lochart got into their cars that were locked in the garage below the building, very conscious of the envious stares. McIver was driving his ‘65 four-seat Rover coupe that he called Lulu and kept in mint condition. Lochart had borrowed Scot Gavallan’s car, a small battered old Citroen that was deliberately low key though the engine was souped up, the brakes perfect, and if need be, she was very fast. They drove off, and around the second comer stopped alongside one another.

“Those buggers really meant it,” McIver said angrily. “Three days? I can’t stay out of the office three days!”

“Yes. What now?” Lochart glanced into his rearview mirror. The young men had rounded the far corner and stood watching them. “We better get going. I’ll meet you at your apartment,” he said hurriedly.