James Clavell - Whirlwind

by Whirlwind(Lit)

  "christ!" someone muttered, all of them almost sick with relief. they helped sandor to stand and wazari. "you okay, sergeant?" ayre asked.

  "no, god damnit, no, i'm not!" wazari spat out some vomit. when he saw the green bands had gone with zataki his face twisted with hatred. "that bastard! i hope he fries!"

  ayre pulled wazari aside and dropped his voice. "i won't forget i said i'd try to help you. when zataki leaves you'll be okay. i won't forget."

  "nor me," sandor said weakly. "thanks, sergeant."

  "you owe me your goddamn life," the younger man said and spat again, his knees weak and chest hurting. "you could've killed me too with that goddamn tank!"

  "sorry." sandor stuck out his hand.

  wazari looked at the hand, then up into his face. "i'll shake hands with you when i'm safe out of this god~iamn country." he limped off.

  "freddy!" dr. nutt was at the wreckage with a couple of mechanics, lifting

  off rafters and mess, beckoning him. green bands stood around watching. "give us a hand here, will you?"

  all of them went to help. none of them wishing to be the first one to see esvandiary.

  they found him crumpled in a pocket under one side of the tank. dr. nutt squeezed down beside him, examining him awkwardly. "he's alive," he cried out, and sandor's stomach turned over. quickly they all helped get the last of the splintered rafters and the remains of starke's desk out of the way and gently eased the man out. "i think he's all right," dr. nutt said, hoarsely. "get him over to the infirmary nasty hank on the head but limbs seem okay and nothing crushed. someone get a stretcher." people rushed to do his bidding, the pall off them now, all of them hating hotshot but all of them hoping he'd be all right. unnoticed, sandor went behind the building, so relieved he could have wept, and was very sick.

  when he came back only ayre and nutt were waiting. "sandy, you'd better come along too, let me give you the once-over-lightly," nutt said. "bloody casualty ward, that's what we've got now."

  "you're sure hotshot'll be okay?"

  "pretty sure." the doctor's eyes were watery and pale blue and a little bloodshot. "what went wrong, sandy?" he asked quietly.

  "don't know, doc. all i wanted was to get that bastard an' at the time dumping the tank seemed the perfect way to do it."

  "you know that would have been murder?"

  uneasily ayre said, "doe, don't you think it'd be better to leave it?"

  "no, no, i don't." nutt's voice hardened. "sandy, you know that was a deliberate attempt at murder."

  "yes." sandor looked back at him. "yes, i understand that and i'm sorry."

  "you're sorry he's not dead?"

  "swear to god, doc, i thank god he's alive. i still think he's become vile and evil and everything i detest and i can't forgive him for... for ordering freddy's beating but that's no excuse for what i did. doing what i did was crazy, and no excuse, and i really thank god he's alive."

  "sandy," nutt said, his voice even quieter, "you'd better not fly for a day or two. you were pushed beyond the limit nothing to worry about, laddie, so long as you understand. just take it easy for a day or so. you'll get the shakes tonight but don't worry. you too, freddy. of course this's all between the three of us and the load shifted. i saw it shift." he brushed the threads of hair over his bald pate that the wind toyed with. "life's strange, very strange, but just between us three, god was with you today, sandy, if there is such a thing." he walked off, crumpled like an old sack of potatoes.

  ayre watched him. "doe's right, you know, we were bloody lucky, so near to disaster, son "

  there was a shout and they looked off. one of the pilots near the main gate shouted again and pointed. their hearts leaped. starke was coming down the road from the direction of the town. he was alone. as far as they could see from there, he was unhurt, walking tall. they waved excitedly and he waved back, the word flashed throughout the camp and ayre was already running to meet him, oblivious of his pain. maybe there's a god in heaven after all, he was thinking happily.

  at lengeh: 2:15 p.m. scragger was sunbathing on the big raft that was moored a hundred yards offshore, a small rubber dinghy attached to it. the raft was made with planks lashed to empty oil drums. in the dinghy was fishing equipment and the walkie-talkie, and below it hung a strong wire cage with the dozen fish that he and willi neuchtreiter had already caught for dinner the gulf being abundant with shrimp, spanish mackerel, tuna, sea bass, rock cod, and dozens of others species.

  willi, another pilot, was swimming lazily in the warm shallow water nearby. on the shore was their base half a dozen trailers, cookhouse, dormitories for the iranian staff, office trailer with attached radio tower and antenna, hangars with space for a dozen 212s and 206s.

  the present complement was five pilots, including himself, seven mechanics, fifteen iranian staff, day laborers, cooks and houseboys, and the iranoil manager kormani, presently sick. of the other pilots two were british, the last, ed vossi, american.

  on base now were three 212s with just enough work for one at the moment and two 206 jet rangers with hardly any work at all. apart from the

  french consortium with their siri contracts from georges de plessey, all other contracts had been canceled or held up pending the end of the troubles. there were still rumors of bad trouble at the big naval base of bandar abbas eastward and of fighting all along the coast. two days ago trouble had spilled over to the base for the first time. now they had a permanent komiteh of green bands, police, and one mullah: "to protect the base against leftists, excellency captain."

  "but, excellency mullah, old sport, we don't need protection."

  "as god wants, but our vital siri island oil installations were attacked and hurt by those sons of dogs. our helicopters are vital to us and will not be hurt. but don't be concerned, nothing will be changed by us we understand your nervousness about flying with guns so none of us will be armed though one of us will fly with you every time for your protection."

  scragger and the others had been reassured by the presence on the komiteh of their local police sergeant, qeshemi, with whom they had always had good relations. the troubles of tehran, qom and abadan had hardly touched them here on the strait of hormuz. strikes had been minimal and orderly. de plessey was paying epf's bills, so everything had been fine, except for the lack of work.

  idly scragger glanced shoreward. the base was tidy and he could see men about their tasks, cleaning, repairing, a few of the komiteh idly sitting around in the shade. ed vossi was near the duty 206 doing his ground check.

  "just not enough work," scragger muttered. it had been the same for months and he knew only too well how costly and disastrous that could be. it was the lack of steady charters and the need to get modern equipment that had persuaded him to sell his sheik aviation to andrew gavallan so many years ago.

  but i've no regrets, he thought. andy's a beaus, he's been straight with me, i've a little piece of the company, and i can fly so long's i'm fit. but iran's terrible for andy now not even getting paid for work done or for current work, excepting here, and that's a pittance. it must be four or five months the banks've been closed, so he's been carrying iran ops out of his own swag bag. something's got to go. with only siri working, that's not enough to half pay our way.

  three days ago, when scragger had brought kasigi back from the iran- toda plant near bandar delam, kasigi had asked de plessey if he could charter a 206 to go to al shargaz or dubai. "i need to be in immediate telephone-telex touch with my head office in japan to confirm arrangements i've made with you for your spot price, and about uplifting future supplies." de plessey had agreed immediately. scragger had decided to do the charter himself and was glad he had. while he was in al shargaz he had met up with johnny hogg and manuela. and genny.

  in private she had brought him up to date, particularly about lochart.

  "gawd almighty!" he had said, shocked how rapidly their ops were falling apart and the revolution was embroiling them personally. "poor old tom."


  "tom was due from bandar delam the day before i left but he never arrived so we still don't know what really happened at least i don't," she said. "scrag, god knows when we can talk privately again but there's something else: just between us?"

  "cross my heart and cut my throat!"

  "i don't think the government's ever going to get back to normal. i wanted to ask you: even if it does, could the partners with or without official help or iranoil force us out and keep our planes and equipment?"

  "why should they do that? they've got to have choppers... but, if they wanted to, sure, too right they could," he had said and whistled, for that possibility had never occurred to him before. "bloody hell, if they decided they didn't need us, genny, that'd be dead easy, dead easy. they could get other pilots, iranian or mercenaries isn't that what we are? sure they could order us out and keep our equipment. and if we lost everything here, that'd gut s-g."

  "that's what duncan thought. could we leave with our planes and spares if they tried to do that?"

  he had laughed. "it'd be a bonzer heist and that's wot it'd be. but it couldn't be done, genny. if we tried and they caught us, they'd throw the book at us. there's no way we could do it not without iran caa approval."

  "say this was sheik aviation?"

  "it'd make no difference, genny."

  "you'd just let them steal your life's work, scrag? scrag scragger, dfc and bar, afc and bar? i don't believe it."

  "nor do 1," he said at once, "though wot i'd do god only knows."

  he saw the nice face looking at him, dark glasses perched on her head, anxiety behind the eyes, knowing her concern was not only for mclver and all that he had built, not only for their own stock and pension that, like his, was tied to s-g but also for andy gavallan and all the others. "wot'd i do?" he said slowly. "well, we've almost as much in spares in iran as birds. we'd have to start getting them out, though how to do it without making the locals suspicious i don't know. we couldn't get 'em all out, but we could dent the amount. then we'd all have to leave at the same time everyone, all choppers from tehran, kowiss, zagros, bandar delam, and here. we'd..." he thought a moment. "we'd have to make for here, al shargaz... but, genny, we'd all have different distances to go and some'd have to refuel once, maybe twice, and even if we got to al shargaz they'd still impound us without proper clearances." he studied her. "andy believes that's wot the partners're going to do?"

  "no, no, he doesn't, not yet, nor does duncan, not for certain. but it is a possibility and iran's getting worse every day that's why i'm here, to ask andy. you... you can't put that in a letter or telex."

  "you phoned andy?"

  "yes, and said as much as i dared duncan said to be careful and andy told me he'd try to check in london and when he arrived in a couple of days he'd decide what we should plan to do." she pushed her glasses back on her nose. "we should be prepared, shouldn't we, scrag?"

  "i wondered why you'd left the dunc. he sent you?"

  "of course. andy'll be here in a couple of days."

  scragger's mind was buzzing. if we do a bunk, someone's bound to get hurt. what'd i do about kish, lavan, and lengeh radar who could scramble twenty fighters in minutes to catch us before we were into friendly skies if we took off without clearance? "dune thinks they're going to do us proper?"

  "no," she had said. "he doesn't but i do."

  "in that case, genny, just between us, we'd better make a plan."

  he remembered how her face had lit up, and thought again what a lucky man duncan mciver was even though he was as ornery and opinionated as a man could be.

  his eyes were watching the sea when he heard the 206 wind up and saw it neatly airborne. ed's a bonzer pilot, he thought.

  "hey, scrag!"

  "yes, willi?"

  "you swim and i'll watch." willi climbed onto the raft.

  "good on you, mate." along with abundant edible fish there were also predators, sharks and stingrays, and others with occasional poisonous jellyfish but few here in these shallows, and provided you kept your eyes open you could see their shadows a long way off with plenty of time to make the raft. scragger touched wood, as always, before he dived into the six feet of water that was lukewarm.

  willi neuchtreiter was also naked. he was a short stocky man of forty- eight with brown hair and more than five thousand hours in helicopters, ten years with the german army and eight with s-g working nigeria, the north sea, uganda, and here. his peaked cap was on the raft and he put it on and his sunglasses, squinted at the 206 that was heading out into the gulf, then watched scragger. in moments the sun had dried him. he enjoyed the sun and swimming and being at lengeh.

  so different from home, he thought. home was in kiel in northern germany on the baltic where the climate was harsh and mostly cold. his wife and three children had gone home last year because of his children's educational needs,

  and he had elected to do two months here and one in kiel, and had got a transfer back to the north sea to be closer. next month, after his leave, he would not return to lengeh.

  shit on the north sea with its foul moods and constant danger, on the crummy quarters and the vast boredom of two weeks flying off a rig a hundred miles offshore to earn one week at home in kiel and barely enough money to pay the mortgage and schooling and stay ahead with a little to spare for holidays. but you'll be near the kids and hilda and ma and pa, your homeland is always your homeland. yes, it is, and with any luck, some day soon, all germans will mix freely with all germans, ma can visit her family in schwerin whenever she wants and schwerin and all our other schwerins won't be occupied anymore. oh, god, let me live to see that day.

  "scrag, a shadow's coming in."

  scragger had seen it almost at the same time, and he swam back to the raft and got aboard. the shadow came in fast. it was a shark. "stone the crows," he gasped. "look at her size!"

  the shark slowed, then leisurely began to circle, its large dorsal fin cutting the calm surface. dull gray, lethal and unhurried. both men watched silently, awed. then scragger chuckled. "how about it, willi?"

  "yes, by god harry, he's not jaws but he's the biggest beetch i've ever seen so i think we get him, by god!" gleefully, he got the fishing tackle that was in the dinghy. "what about bait? what you think for bait?"

  "the sea bass, the big one!"

  laughing, willi reached down into the cage and pulled out the squirming fish and baited the steel shark hook. there was blood on his hands now and he washed them off in the water, watching the prey. then he got up, checked the short length of chain attached to the hook, knotted it carefully to the heavy nylon fishing line that was on the reel of the rod. "here you are, scrag."

  "no, cobber. you spotted her first!"

  excitedly willi wiped the sea salt off his forehead with the back of his hand, settled his cap jauntily, and looked at the shark that still circled twenty yards away. with great care he threw the bait directly into its path, gently tightened the line. the shark passed the bait and continued circling. both men cursed. willi reeled in. the sea bass danced and kicked spasmodically, dying fast. a thin trail of blood was in its wake. again willi cast perfectly. again nothing happened.

  "goddamn," willi said. this time he left the bait where it was, watching it settle lower and lower until it lay on the bottom, keeping just enough tension on the line. the shark came around, passed over it, almost touching it with its belly, and continued circling.

  "maybe he's not hungry."

  "those sonsofbeetches're always hungry. maybe he knows we're waiting for him or he's going to trick us. scrag, get a smaller fish and throw it just where the bait is as he comes around."

  scragger chose a rock cod. he threw it deftly. the fish fell into the water ten yards ahead of the shark, sensed the danger, and fled for the sandy bottom. the shark paid no attention to it, or to the sea bass so close by, just flicked its tail and circled. "let the bait stay where it is," scragger said. "that bugger can't've not got its scent."

  now they could see the yel
low eyes and the three small pilot fish hovering over its head, the thin line of the vast mouth under the blunt nose, the sleek skin and power of the great tail. another circuit. a little closer this time. "betcha he's nearer eight feet than six, willi."

  "that sonofabeetch's watching us, scrag," willi said uneasily, his excitement gone now, a hollowness in its place.

  scragger frowned, having the same feeling. he looked away from the eyes to the dinghy. no weapons there of any value, just a small sheath knife, a light aluminum three-pronged fishing spear and some oars. even so, he tugged on the painter to bring the dinghy closer, knelt down, and reached for the knife and fishing spear. wish i had a gun, he thought.

  a sudden warning cry from willi made him jump back and he just had time to see the shark coming straight for him at full speed. it smashed against the side of the rubber dinghy, its ugly head now out of the water, jaws gaping as it lunged at him, crashing against the oil drums, making the bow of the dinghy rear up out of the water. then it was gone, both men aghast.