James Clavell - Whirlwind

by Whirlwind(Lit)

  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 of ricers 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 fred 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 flue 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..."

  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 of fines, 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 piece de resistance!" proudly the general had shown mciver the toilet. it was ordinary and not very clean.

  "what's so special about that?" mclver 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 goodnatured 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.

  mclver 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 th
eir 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 akbarrrrrr..."

  now over the loudspeaker: "this is kowiss, captain ayre speaking. i read you loud and clear, captain mclver."

  both men were startled and lochart sat upright. "something's wrong, mac, he can't talk openly someone's listening."

  mclver 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 mclver." ,

  "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 mclver."

  "good, captain ayre," mclver 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."

  mclver 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 mclver. mclver 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 mclver?"

  "it's possible," mclver 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." mclver 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.

  mclver brightened and gratefully leaned over and gave him the mike. "ecoute, 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 mclver.

  "... 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 born 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 jean-luc 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 jean-luc 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? mclver 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 mclver. 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."