Whirlwind

by James Clavell

  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.

  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 win
d 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.”

  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.