"not with us." esvandiary was totally confident. "it won't be that way with
us. ours was a real people's revolution of all the people. everyone wanted the shah out and his foreign masters."
"i hope you're right." you poor bastard, ayre thought, once having liked him. if your leaders can judge, condemn, and shoot four top generals all good men except for nassiri in less than twenty-four hours, can arrest and abuse fine patriots like peshadi and his wife, god help you. "are you finished with me for the present?"
"almost." a shaft of anger went through esvandiary. through the windows he noticed manuela walking back to the bungalow with some of the pilots, and his lust increased his rage. "it would be good to learn manners and that iran is an asian, an oriental country, a world power and never, never again to be exploited by british, americans, or even soviets. never again." he slouched in his chair and put his feet on the desk as he had seen starke and ayre do a hundred times, the soles of his feet toward ayre, always an insult in this part of the world. "british were worse than the americans. they've caused us national shame for a hundred and fifty years, treating our ancient peacock throne and country as their private fief, using the defense of india as an excuse. they've dictated to our rulers, occupied us three times, forced unequal treaties on us, bribed our leaders to grant them concessions. for a hundred and fifty years british and russians have partitioned my country, the british helped those other hyenas to steal our northern provinces, our caucasus, and helped put reza khan on the throne. they occupied us, with the soviets, in your world war and only our own supreme efforts broke the chain and threw them out." abruptly the man's face contorted and he screamed, "didn't they?"
ayre had not moved, nor had his eyes flickered. "hotshot, and i'll never call you that again," he said quietly, "i don't want lectures, just to do the job. if we can't work out a satisfactory method, then that's something else. we'll have to see. if you want this office, jolly good. if you want to act up a storm, jolly good within reason you've a right to celebrate. you've won, you've the guns, you've the power, and now you're responsible. and you're right, it is your country. so let's leave it at that. eh?"
esvandiary stared at him, his head aching with the suppressed hatred of years that need never be suppressed again. and though he knew it was not ayre's fault, he was equally certain that a moment ago he would have sprayed him and them with bullets if they had not obeyed and flown the mullah and the traitor peshadi to the judgment and the hell he deserves. i've not forgotten the soldier peshadi had murdered the one who wanted to open the gate to us or the others murdered two days ago when peshadi beat us off and hundreds died, my brother and two of my best friends among them. and all the other hundreds, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands who've died all over iran... i've not forgotten them, not one.
a dribble of saliva was running down his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand and got his control back, remembering the importance of his mission. "all right, freddy." he said
"freddy" involuntarily. "all right, and that's... that's the last time i'll call you that. all right, we'll leave it at that."
he got up, very tired now but proud of the way he had dominated them and very confident he could make these foreigners work and behave until they were expelled. very soon now, he thought. i'll have no difficulty putting the partners' long-term plan into effect here. i agree with valik. we've plenty of iranian pilots and we need no foreigners here. i can run this operation as a partner praise god that valik was always a secret khomeini supporter! soon i'll have a big house in tehran and my two sons will go to university there, so will my darling little fatmeh, though perhaps she should also go to the sorbonne for a year or two.
"i'll return at 9:00 a.m." he did not close the door behind him.
"bloody hell," ayre muttered. a fly began battering itself against a windowpane. he did not notice it or the noise it made. at a sudden thought he went into the outer of rice. pavoud and the others were at the windows, watching the aliens leave. "pavoud!"
"yes... yes, excellency?"
ayre noticed the man's face had a greyish tinge and he looked much older than usual. "did you know about the generals, that they've given in?" he asked, feeling sorry for him.
"no, excellency," pavoud lied easily, used to lying. he was locked in his own mind, trying to remember, petrified that he might have slipped up in the past three years and given himself away to esvandiary, never for a moment dreaming that the man could have been a secret islamic guard. "we'd... we'd heard rumors about their capitulation but you know how rumors circulate."
"yes yes, i suppose you're right."
"i... do you mind if i sit down, please?" pavoud groped for a chair, feeling very old. he had been sleeping badly this last week and the two- mile bicycle ride here this morning from the little four-room house in kowiss he shared with his brother's family five adults and six children had been more tiring than usual. of course he and all the people of kowiss had heard about the generals meekly giving up the first news coming from the mosque, spread by the mullah hussain who said he had got it by secret radio from khomeini headquarters in tehran so it must be true.
at once their tudeh leader had called a meeting, all of them astounded at the generals' cowardice: "it just shows how foul the influence of the americans who betrayed them and so bewitched them that they've castrated themselves
and committed suicide, for of course they've all got to die whether we do it or that madman khomeini!"
everyone filled with resolve, at the same time frightened of the coming battle against the zealots and the mullahs, the opiate of the people, and pavoud himself was wet with relief when the leader said they were ordered not to take to the streets yet but to stay hidden and wait, wait until the order came for the general uprising. "comrade pavoud, it's vital you keep on the best of terms with the foreign pilots at the air base. we will need them and their helicopters or will need to inhibit their use to the enemies of the people. our orders are to lie low and wait, to have patience. when we finally get the order to take to the streets against khomeini, our comrades to the north will come over the border in legions..."
he saw ayre watching him. "i'm all right, captain, just worried by all this, and the... the new era."
"just do what esvandiary asks." ayre thought a moment. "i'm going to the tower to let hq know what's happened. are you sure you're all right?"
"yes, yes, thank you."
ayre frowned, then went along the corridor and up the stairs. the astonishing change in esvandiary who for years had been affable, friendly, with never a glimmer of anti-british had rocked him. for the first time in iran he felt their future was doomed.
to his surprise the tower room was empty. since sunday's mutiny there had been a permanent guard major changiz had shrugged, blood on his uniform, "i'm sure you'll understand, 'national emergency.' we had many loyal men killed here today and we haven't found all traitors yet. until further orders you will transmit only during daylight hours, then absolute minimum. all flights are canceled until further notice."
"all right, major. by the way, where's our radio op. massil?"
"ah, yes, the palestinian. he's being interrogated."
"may i ask what for?"
"plo affiliation and terrorist activities."
yesterday he had been informed that massil had confessed and been shot without a chance to hear the evidence or question it or to see him. poor bastard, ayre thought, closing the tower door now and switching on the equipment. massil was always loyal to us and grateful for the job, so overqualified radio engineering degree from cairo university, top of the class but nowhere to practice and stateless. bloody hell! we take our passports for granted what'd it be like to be without one and to be, say, palestinian? must be hairy not to know what's going to happen at every border, with every immigration man, policeman, bureaucrat, or employer a potential inquisitor.
thank god in heaven i'm born british and that not even the queen of england can take that aw
ay though the bloody labour government's changing our overseas heritage. well the pox on them for every aussie, canuck, kiwi, springbok, kenyan, china hand, and a hundred other britishers who will soon have to have a bloody visa to go home! "arseholes," he muttered. "don't they realize those're sons and daughters of men who made the empire and died for it in many cases?"
he waited for the hf and other radios to warm up. the hum pleased him, red and green lights flickering, and he no longer felt locked off from the world. hope angela and young fredrick are okay. bloody, having no mail or phones and a dead telex. well, maybe soon everything will be working again.
he reached for the sending switch, hoping that mclver or someone would be listening out. then he noticed that, by habit, along with the uhf, hf, he had switched on their radar. he leaned over to turn it off. at that moment a small blip appeared on the outer rim the twenty-mile line to the northwest, almost obscured among the heavy scatter of the mountains. startled, he studied it. experience told him quickly that it was a helicopter. he made sure that he was tuned into all receiving frequencies and when he looked back he saw the blip vanish. he waited. it did not reappear. either she's down, shot down, or sneaking under the radar net, he thought. which?
the seconds ticked by. no change, just the revolving, heavy white line of the sweep, in its wake a bird's-eye view of the surrounding terrain. still no sign of the blip.
his fingers snapped on the uhf sending switch, and he brought the mike closer, hesitated, then changed his mind and switched it off. no need to alert the operators in the base tower, if there're any on duty there, he thought. he frowned at the screen. with a soft, red grease pencil he marked the possible track inbound at eighty knots. minutes passed. he could have switched to a closer range scan but he did not in case the blip was not inbound but, highly irregularly, sneaking across their area.
now she should be five or six miles out, he thought. he picked up the binoculars and started to scan the sky, north through west to south. his ears heard light footsteps on the last few stairs. his heart quickening, he snapped the radar off. the screen began dying as the door opened.
"captain ayre?" the airman asked, uniform neat, strong good persian face, clean-shaven, in his late twenties, a standard u.s. army carbine in his hands.
"yes, yes, that's me."
"i'm sergeant wazari, your new air traffic controller." the man leaned his carbine against a wall, put out his hand, and ayre shook it. "hi, i'm usaaf trained, three years, and a military controller. i even did six months at van nuys airport." his eyes had taken in all the equipment. "nice setup."
"yes, er, yes, thank you." ayre fumbled with the binoculars and set them down. "what, er, happens at van nuys airport?"
"it's a nothing little airstrip in the san fernando valley in los angeles but the third busiest airport in the states and a mother to end all mothers!" wazari beamed. "the traffic's amateur, most of the jokerstre learners who still don't know their ass from a propeller, you've maybe twenty in the system at any one time, eight on final, all wanting to make like richthofen." he laughed. "great place to learn traffic controlling but after six months you're ape."
ayre forced a smile, willing himself not to search the sky. "this place's pretty quiet. even normally. we'veer, we've no flights out as you know you've nothing to do here, i'm afraid."
"sure. i just wanted to take a quick look as we begin bright and early tomorrow." he reached into his uniform pocket and took out a list and gave it to ayre. "you've three flights scheduled for the local rigs starting 8:00 a.m., okay?" without thinking he picked up a rag and wiped the inbound track off the radar screen, tidying the desk alongside. the red grease pencil went into its holder with the others.
ayre looked back at the list. "are these authorized by esvandiary?"
"who's he?"
ayre told him.
the sergeant laughed. "well, captain, major changiz personally ordered these so you can bet your ass they're confirmed."
"he's... he wasn't arrested with the colonel?"
"hell, no, captain. the mullah, hussain kowissi, appointed major changiz temp base commander, pending confirm from tehran." unerringly his fingers switched channels to the mainbase frequency. "hello, mainbase, this's wazari at s-g. do we need tomorrow's flights countersigned by iranoil's esvandiary?"
"negative," came back over the loudspeaker, again american-accented. "everything okay over there?"
"yep. the outbound went off without incident. i'm with captain ayre now." the sergeant scanned the sky as he talked.
"good. captain ayre, this's the senior traffic controller. any flights authorized by major changiz are automatically approved by iranoil."
"can i have that in writing please?"
"sergeant wazari'll have it for you in duplicate at 8:00 a.m., okay?"
"thanks thank you."
"thanks, mainbase," wazari said, beginning to sign off, then his eyes fixed. "hold it, mainbase, we've got a bird inbound! chopper, 270 degrees..."
"where? where... i see him! how the hell did he get in under the radar? you switched on?"
"negative. the sergeant trained the binoculars. "bell 212, registration...
can't see it she's head-on to us." he clicked on the uhf. "this is kowiss military control! inbound chopper, what is your registration, where are you bound, and what was your point of departure?"
silence but for the crackle of static. the same call repeated by mainbase. no reply.
"that sonofabitch's in dead trouble," wazari muttered. again he trained the binoculars.
ayre had the second set and his heart was thumping. as the chopper joined the landing pattern, he read the registration: ep-hbx.
"echo peter hotel boston x-ray!" the sergeant said simultaneously.
"hbx," mainbase agreed. again they tried radio contact. no reply. "he's in your regular landing pattern. is he a local? captain ayre, is he one of yours?"
"no, sir, not one of mine, not based here." ayre added carefully, "hbx could be an s-g registration, however."
"based where?"
"i don't know."
"sergeant, as soon as that joker lands, arrest him and all passengers, send them over here to hq under guard, then give me a quick report who why and where from."
"yessing"
thoughtfully wazari selected a red grease pencil and traced the same line on the radar screen that ayre had drawn and he had wiped out. he stared at it a moment, knowing ayre was watching him intently. but he said nothing, just wiped the glass clean again and put his attention back to the 212.
in silence the two men in the tower watched her make a normal circuit then break off correctly and head for them. but she made no attempt to land, just stayed at the correct height and made a much smaller circuit, waggling from side to side.
"radio's out he wants a green," ayre said, and reached for a signal light. "okay?"
"sure, give him one but his ass's still in a wringer."
ayre checked that the powerful, narrow-beamed signal light was set for green, permission to land. he aimed it at the chopper and switched on. the chopper acknowledged by waggling from side to side and started the approach. wazari picked up his carbine and went out. again ayre trained his binoculars but still could not recognize the pilot or the man beside him, both muffled in winter gear and goggles. then he rushed down the stairs.
other s-g personnel, pilots and mechanics, had gathered to watch. from the direction of the main base, a car was speeding their way along the boundary road. manuela stood in the doorway of the bungalow. the landing pads were in front of the office building. crouched in the lee were the four green bands
who had stayed behind, wazari now with them. ayre noticed that one was very young, barely a teenager, fiddling with his machine gun. in his excitement, cocking it, the youth dropped it on the tarmac, the gun pointing directly at ayre. but it did not go off. as he watched, the youth picked it up by the barrel, banged the butt down to knock the snow off, carelessly shoved more snow away from t
he trigger guard. some grenades hung from his belt by the pins. hastily ayre joined some of the mechanics taking cover.
"bloody nit!" one of them said queasily. "he'll blow himself to hell and us along with him. you all right, cap'n? we heard hotshot's got his knickers in a twist."
"yes, yes, he has. hbx, where's she from, benson?"
"bander delam," benson replied. he was a ruddy-faced, rotund englishman. "fifty quid it's duke."
as the 212 put her skids down and cut her engines, wazari led the rush, some of the guards shouting, "allah-u akbarrr!" they surrounded her, all guns levered.
"bloody twits," ayre said nervously, "they're like keystone kops."
he still couldn't see the pilot clearly, so he walked out of cover, praying that it was starke. the cabin doors slid back. armed men jumped down, careless of the rotors that still circled, shouting greetings, telling the others to put down their guns. in the pandemonium, someone excitedly fired a welcoming burst into the air. momentarily everyone began to scatter, then with more shouts, regrouped around the doors as the car arrived and more men rushed to join the others. hands helped a mullah down. he was badly wounded. then a stretcher. then more wounded and ayre saw wazari running for him.
James Clavell - Whirlwind Page 43