the colonel's voice hardened even more: "the monday clearance is subject to confirmation by iran air force hq. iran air force hq. this is an iran air force base, you are subject to iran air force regulation and discipline and will abide by iran air force regulations and discipline. do you understand?"
after a pause, gavallan said, "yes, sir, i understand, but we're a civilian oper "
"you're in iran, on an iran air force base and therefore subject to iran air force regulations and discipline." the channel went dead. nervously wazari tidied his already meticulous desk.
sunday february 25
zagros rig bellissima: 11:05 a.m. in the biting cold tom lochart watched jesper almqvist, the down-hole expert, handle the big plug that now was suspended by a wire over the exposed drilling hole. all around was the burned-out wreckage of the rig and trailers from the terrorist firebomb attack, already half buried in new snow.
"lower away," the young swede shouted. at once his assistant in the small, self-contained cabin started the winch. awkwardly fighting the wind, jesper guided the plug down into the well's metal casing. the plug consisted of an explosive charge over two metal half cups fixed around a rubber sealing ring. lochart could see how tired both men were. this was the fourteenth well they had capped over the last three days, still five more to go, the sunset deadline only seven hours away, each well a two- to three-hour job in good conditions once they were on site.
"sonofabitching conditions," lochart muttered, equally weary. too many flying hours since the green band of the komiteh had decreed the deadline, too many problems: scrambling to close down the whole field with its eleven sites, rushing to shiraz to fetch vesper, airlifting crews to shiraz from dawn
to dusk, spares to kowiss deciding what to take and what to leave, impossible to do everything at such short notice. then the death of cordon and scot being clipped.
"that's it, hold her there!" jesper shouted, then hurried back through the snow to the cabin. lochart watched him check the depth gauge, then stab a button. there was a muffled explosion. a puff of smoke came out of the drill hole. at once his assistant winched in the remains of the wire as jesper went back, fought the pipe rams closed over the drill hole, and it was done
"the explosive charge blows the two cups together," jesper had explained earlier; "this forces the rubber seal against the steel casing and she's capped, the seal good for a couple of years. when you want to open her, we come back and with another special tool drill out the plug and she's as good as new. maybe."
he wiped his face with his sleeve. "let's get the hell out, tom!" he trudged back to the cabin, turned the main electric switch off, stuffed all the computer printouts into a briefcase, closed and locked the door.
"what about all the gear?"
"it stays. the cabin's okay. let's get aboard, i'm frozen to hell." vesper headed for the 206 that was parked on the helipad. "soon as i get back to shiraz i'll see iranoil and get 'em to get us permission to come back and pick the cabin up, along with the others. eleven cabins're one hell of an investment to leave lying around and not working. weatherwise they're good for a year, locked up. they're designed to take a lot of weather beating, though not vandalising." he motioned to the wreckage around them. "stupid!"
"yes."
"stupid! tom, you shouldtve seen the iranoil execs when i told them you'd been ordered out and mr. sera was closing down the field." lesper grinned, fair hair, blue eyes. "they screamed like slitted pigs and swore there were no komiteh orders to stop production."
"i still don't see why they didn't come back with you and overrule the bastards here."
"i invited them and they said next week. this's iran, they'll never come." he looked back at the site. "that well alone's worth sixteen thousand barrels a day." he got into the left seat beside lochart, his assistant, a taciturn breton, clambered into the back and pulled the door closed. lochart started up, heat to maximum.
"next, rig maria, okay?"
lesper thought a moment. "better leave her till last. rig rosa's more important." he stifled another yawn. "we've two producers to cap there and the one still drilling. poor bastards haven't had time to tip out about seven thousand feet of pipe so we'll have to plug her with it all in. sonofabeetching waste." he clipped his seat belt on and huddled closer to the heat fan.
"what happens then?"
"routine." the young man laughed. "when you want to open her up, we core the plug, then start fishing the pipe out piece by piece. slow, tedious, and expensive." another huge yawn. he closed his eyes and was almost instant y asleep.
mimmo sera met the 206 at rig rosa. a 212 was also on the pad, engine idling, jean-luc at the controls, men loading luggage and getting aboard. "buon giorno, tom."
"hi, mimmo. how'd it go?" lochart waved a greeting to jean-luc.
"these are the last of my men except for a roustabout to help jesper." mimmo sera was bleary with fatigue. "there was no time to tip pipe out of three."
"no problem we'll cap her as is."
"si." a tired smile. "think of all the money you'll make tipping it out."
jesper laughed. "seven thousand, eight hundred and sixty feet at maybe we'll make you a special price."
good-naturedly the older man made an expressive italian gesture.
lochart said, "i'll leave you two to it. when do you want me to come back for you?"
jesper looked at his watch. it was near noon. "come for us at four- thirty. okay?"
"four-thirty on the dot. sunset's at six-thirty-seven." lochart went over to the 212.
jean-luc was muffled against the cold but still managed to look elegant. "i'll take this batch direct shiraz they're the last except for mimmo and your crew."
"good. how's it below?"
"chaos." jean-luc swore with great passion. "i smell disaster, more disaster."
"you expect disaster all the time except when you're bedding. not to worry, jean-luc."
"of course to worry." jean-luc watched the loading for a moment almost completed now, suitcases, knapsacks, two dogs, two cats, with a full load of men waiting impatiently then turned back, lowered his voice, and said seriously, "tom, the sooner we're out of iran the better."
"no. zagros's just an isolated case. anyway, i'm still hoping iran works out." hbc swirled up into the front of lochart's brain, and sharazad, and whirlwind. he had told no one here about whirlwind and his talk with starke: "i'll leave that to you, duke," he had said just before he left. "you can put the case better than me i'm totally against it."
"sure. that's your privilege. mac approved your trip to tehran monday."
"thanks. has he seen sharazad yet?"
"no, tom, not yet."
where the hell is she? he thought, another twinge going through him. "i'll see you at the base, jean-luc. have a safe trip."
"make sure scot and rodrigues are ready when i get back. i'll have to do a quick turnaround if i'm to get to al shargaz tonight." the cabin door slammed shut, jean-luc glanced around, and got the thumbs-up. he acknowledged, then turned back again. "i'm off make sure scot slips aboard quietly, eh? i don't want to get shot out of the skies i still say scot was their target, no one else."
lochart nodded bleakly, headed for his 206.
he had been enroute back from kowiss when the dawn disaster had happened yesterday. jean-luc was getting up at the time and, by chance, had been looking out of his window. "the two of them, jordon and scot, were very close together, carrying spares between them, loading hiw," he had told lochart as soon as he had landed. "i didn't see the first shots, just heard them, but i saw cordon stagger and cry out, hit in the head, and scot look off toward the trees at the back of the hangar. then scot bent down and tried to help jordon i've seen enough men shot to know poor effer was dead before he touched the snow. then there were more shots, three or four, but it wasn't a machine gun, more like an m16 on automatic. this time scot got one in the shoulder and it spun him around and he fell into the snow beside cordon, half covered by him jordon
between him and the trees. then the bullets started pumping again... at scot, tom, i'm sure of it."
"how can you be sure, lean-luc?"
"i'm certain. effer was directly in the line of fire, directly, and took them all the attackers weren't spraying the base, just aiming at scot. i grabbed my very pistol and charged out, saw no one, but fired anyway in the general direction of the trees. when i got to scot, he had the shakes and jordon was a mess, hit perhaps eight times. we got scot to the medic he's all right, tom, shoulder wound, i watched him patched myself, wound's clean and the bullet went right through."
lochart had gone at once to see scot in the trailer room they called the infirmary. kevin o'sweeney, the medic, said, "he's okay, captain."
"yes," scot echoed, his face white and still in shock. "really okay, tom."
"let me talk to scot a moment, kevin." when they were alone he said quietly, "what happened while i was away, scot, you see nitchak khan? anyone from the village?"
"no. no one."
"and you told no one about what happened in the square?"
"no, no, not at all. why, what's all this about, tom?"
"jean-luc thinks you were the target, not jordon or the base, just you."
"oh, christ! old effer bought it because of me?"
lochart remembered how distraught scot had been. the base had been filled with gloom, everyone still working frantically, boxing spares, loading the two 212s, the 206, and the alouette for today, last day at zagros. the only bright spot yesterday was dinner a barbecued haunch of fresh wild goat that jeanluc had cooked with plenty of delicious iranian rice and horisht.
"great barbecue, lean-luc," he had said.
"without french garlic and my skill this would taste like old english mutton, ugh!"
"the cook buy it in the village?"
"no, it was a gift. young darius the one who speaks english he brought us the whole carcass on friday as a gift from nitchak's wife."
abruptly the meat in lochart's mouth tasted foul. "his wife?"
"out. young darius said she'd shot it that morning. mon dieu, i didn't know she was a hunter, did you? what's the matter, tom?"
"it was a gift to whom?"
lean-luc frowned. "to me and to the base... actually darius said, 'this is from the kalandaran for the base and to give thanks for france's help to the imam, may god protect him.' why?"
"nothing," lochart had said but later he had taken scot aside. "were you there when darius delivered the goat?"
"yes, yes, i was. i happened to be in the office and just thanked him an " the color had left scot's face. "now that i think of it, darius said as he was leaving, 'it's fortunate that the kalandaran is a great shot, isn't it?' i think i said, 'yes, fantastic.' that'd be a dead giveaway, wouldn't it?"
"yes if you add it to my slip which now, now i think's got to be a deliberate trap. i was trapped too, so now nitchak's got to know there're two of us who could be witnesses against the village."
last night and all today lochart had been wondering what to do, how to get scot and himself out, and he still had no solution.
absently he climbed into the 206, waited until lean-luc was clear, and took off. now he was flying over the ravine of the broken camels. the road that led to the village was still buried under tons of snow the avalanche had brought. they'll never dig that out, he thought. on the rolling plateau he could see herds of goats and sheep with their shepherds. ahead was yazdek village. he skirted it. the schoolhouse was a scar in the earth, black amid the whiteness. some villagers were in the square and they looked up briefly then went about their business. i won't be sorry to leave, he thought. not with lordon murdered here. zagros three'll never be the same.
the base was in chaos, men milling about the last of those brought from other rigs and due to go to shiraz, thence out of iran. cursing, exhausted
mechanics were still packing spares, piling boxes and luggage for transshipment to kowiss. before he could get out of the cockpit, the refueling tender arrived with freddy ayre jauntily sitting on the hood. yesterday, at starke's suggestion, lochart had brought ayre and another pilot, claus schwartenegger, to substitute for scot. "i'll take her now, tom," ayre said. "you go and eat."
"thanks, freddy. how'd it go?"
"ropy. claus's taken another load of spares to kowiss and he'll be back in good time for the last one. come sunset i'll take the alouette, she's loaded to the gills and a bit more. what d'you want to fly out?"
"the 212 i'll have jordon aboard. claus can take the 206. you're off to shiraz?"
"yes. we've still got ten boas to get there i was, er, thinking of taking five passengers instead of four for two trips. eh?"
"if they're small enough no luggage and so long as i don't see you. okay?"
ayre laughed, the cold making his bruises more livid. "they're all so anxious i don't think they care much about luggage one of the guys from rig maria said they heard shooting nearby."
"one of the villagers hunting, probably." the specter of the huntress with her high-powered rifle or for that matter any of the kash'kai all expert marksmen filled him with dread. we're so goddamn helpless, he thought, but kept it off his face. "have a safe trip, freddy." he went to the cookhouse and got some hot horisht.
"agha," the cook said nervously, the other four helpers crowding around. "we're due two months' pay what's going to happen to our pay and to us?"
"i've already told you, ali. we'll take you back to shiraz where you came from. this afternoon. we pay you off there and as soon as i can i'll send you the month's severance pay we owe you. you keep in touch through iranoil as usual. when we come back you get your jobs back."
"thank you, agha." the cook had been with them for a year. he was a thin, pale man with stomach ulcers. "i don't want to stay among these barbarians," he said nervously. "when this afternoon?"
"before sunset. at four o'clock you start cleaning up and get everything neat and tidy."
"but, agha, what's the point of that? the moment we leave, the lice- covered yazdeks will come and steal everything."
"i know," lochart said wearily. "but you will leave everything neat and tidy and i will lock the door and maybe they won't."
"as god wants, agha. but they will."
lochart finished his meal and went to the office. scot gavallan was there, face drawn, arm painfully in a sling. the door opened. rod rodrigues came
in, dark rings around his eyes, his face pasty. "hi, tom, you haven't forgotten, huh?" he asked anxiously. "i'm not on the manifest."
"no problem. scot, rod's going with hjx. he's going with you and jeanluc to al shargaz."
"great, but i'm fine, tom. i think i'd rather go to kowiss."
"for christ's sake, you're out to al shargaz and that's the end of it!"
scot flushed at the anger. "yes. all right, tom." he walked out.
rodrigues broke the silence. "tom, what you want we send with hjx?"
"how the hell do i know, for ch " lochart stopped. "sorry, i'm getting tired. sorry."
"no sweat, tom, so're we all. maybe we send her empty, huh?"
with an effort lochart put away his fatigue. "no, put the spare engine aboard and any other 212 spares to make up the load."
"sure. that'd be good. maybe y " the door opened and scot came back in quickly. "nitchak khan! look out the window!"
twenty or more men were coming up the track from the village. all were armed. others were already spreading out over the base, nitchak khan heading for the office trailer. lochart went to the back window, jerked it open. "scot, go to my hut, keep away from the windows, don't let 'em see you and don't move until i come get you. hurry!"
awkwardly scot climbed out and rushed off. lochart pulled the window closed.
the door opened. lochart got up. "salaam, kalandar."
"salaam. strangers have been seen in the forests nearby. the terrorists must be back so i have come to protect you." nitchak khan's eyes were hard. "as god wants, but i would regret it if there were mor
e deaths before you leave. we will be here until sunset." he left.
"what'd he say?" rodrigues asked, not understanding farsi.
lochart told him and saw him tremble. "no problem, rod," he said, covering his own fear. there was no way they could take off or land without being over forest, low, slow, and in sitting-duck range. terrorists? bullshit! nitchak knows about scot, knows about me, and i'll bet my life he's got marksmen planted all around, and if he's here till sunset there's no way to sneak off, he'll know which chopper we're on. insha'allah. insha'allah, but meanwhile what the hell're you going to do?
"nitchak khan knows the countryside," he said easily, not wanting to panic rod, enough fear on the base already without adding to it. "he'll protect us, rod if they're there. is the spare engine crated?"
James Clavell - Whirlwind Page 99