Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  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. Espèce 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 flyspot. 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 Siri, 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 illusion
s 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.”