James Clavell - Whirlwind

by Whirlwind(Lit)

  "huh? sure, tom, sure, she's crated."

  "you take care of the loading. i'll see you later. no sweat."

  for a long time lochart stared at the wall. when it was time to return to

  rig rosa, lochart went to find nitchak khan. "you will want to see that rig rosa's been closed down properly, kalandar, isn't it on your land?" he said, and though the old man was reluctant, to his great relief he managed to persuade him with flattery to accompany him. with the khan aboard, lochart knew he would be safe for the time being.

  so far so good, he thought. i'll have to be the last away. until we're well away, scot and i, i have to be very clever. too much to lose now: scot, the lads, sharazad, everything.

  at rig rosa: 5:00 p.m. iesper was driving their unit truck fast along the path through the pines that led to the last well to be capped. beside him was mimmo sera, the roustabout and his assistant were in the back, and he was humming to himself, mostly to keep awake. the plateau was large, almost half a mile between wells, the countryside beautiful and wild.

  "we're overdue," mimmo said wearily, looking at the lowering sun. "stronzo!"

  "we'll give it a go," jesper said. in the side pocket was the last of the energygiving chocolate bars. the two men shared it. "this looks a lot like sweden," jesper said, skidding a bend, the speed exhilarating him.

  "never been to sweden. there she is," mimmo said. the well was in a clearing, already on stream and producing about 12,000 barrels daily, the whole field immensely rich. over the well was a giant column of valves and pipes, called the christmas tree, that connected it to the main pipeline. "this was the first we drilled here," he said absently. "before your time."

  when jesper switched the engine off, the silence was eerie, no pumps needed here to bring the oil to the surface abundant gas pressure trapped in the oil dome thousands of feet below did that for them and would do so for years yet. "we've no time to cap it properly, mr. sera unless you want to overstay our welcome."

  the older man shook his head, pulled his woolen cap down over his ears. "how long will the valves hold?"

  jesper shrugged. "should be as long as you want but unattended or inspected from time to time? don't know. indefinitely unless we get a gas surge or one of the valves or sealstre faulty."

  "stronzo!"

  "stronzo, " jesper said agreeably, motioned to his assistant and the roustabout and went forward. "we'll just shut it down, no capping." the snow crunched underfoot. wind rustled the treetops and then they heard the incoming engine of the chopper back from the base. "let's get with it."

  they were hidden from the helipad and main buildings of rosa, half a mile away. irritably, mimmo lit a cigarette and leaned against the hood and watched

  the three men work diligently, fighting the valves, some stuck, then fetching the huge wrench to unglue them, then the bullet ricocheted off the christmas tree and the following crackkkkkkkkk echoed through the forest. all of them froze. they waited. nothing.

  "you see where it came from?" lesper muttered. no one answered him. again they waited. nothing. "let's finish," he said and again put his weight onto the wrench. the others came forward to help. at once there was another shot and the bullet went through the windshield of the truck, tore a hole in the cabin wall, and ripped a computer screen and some electrical gear apart before going out the other side. silence.

  no movement anywhere. just wind and a little snow falling, disturbed by the wind. sound of the chopper jets shrieking now in the landing flare.

  mimmo sera shouted out in farsi, "we just shut down the well, excellencies, to make it safe. we shut it down and then we leave." again they waited. no answer. again, "we only make the well safe! safe for iran not for us! for iran and the imam it's your oil not ours!"

  waiting again and never a sound but the sounds of the forest. branches crackling. somewhere far off an animal cried. "mamma mia," mimmo said, his voice hoarse from shouting, then walked over and picked up the wrench and the bullet sang past his face so close he felt its wake. his shock was sudden and vast. the wrench slipped from his gloves. "everyone in the truck. we leave."

  he backed away and got into the front seat. the others followed. except jesper. he retrieved the wrench and when he saw the havoc the errant bullet had caused in his cabin, to his equipment, his face closed, his anger exploded, and he hurled the wrench impotently at the forest with a curse and stood there a moment, feet slightly apart, knowing he was an easy target but suddenly not caring. "forbannades shitdjavlarrrrrrr!"

  "get in the car," mimmo called out.

  "forbannades shitdjavlar," jesper muttered, the swedish obscenity pleasing him, then got into the driver's seat. the truck went back the way it had come and when it was out of sight a fusillade of bullets from both sides of the forest slammed into the christmas tree, denting parts of the metal, screaming away into the snow or sky. then silence. then someone laughed and called out, "allahhhh-u akbarrr..."

  the cry echoed. then died away.

  at zagros three: 6:38 p.m. the sun touched the horizon. last of the spares and luggage being put aboard. all four choppers were lined up, two 212s, the 206, and the alouette, pilots ready, jean-luc stomping up and down

  departures delayed by nitchak khan who had, earlier, arbitrarily ordered all aircraft to leave together which had made it impossible for jean-luc to make al shargaz, only shiraz, there to overnight as night flying was forbidden in iranian skies.

  "explain to him again, tom," jean-luc said angrily.

  "he's already told you no, told me no, so it's no and it's too goddamn late anyway! you all set, freddy?"

  "yes," ayre called out irritably. "we've been waiting an hour or more!"

  grimly lochart headed for nitchak khan who had heard the anger and irritation and saw with secret delight the discomfiture of the strangers. standing beside nitchak khan was the green band lochart presumed was from the komiteh, and a few villagers. the rest had drifted away during the afternoon. into the forest, he thought, his mouth dry. "kalandar, we are almost ready."

  "as god wants."

  lochart called out, "freddy, last load, now!" he took off his peaked cap and the others did likewise as ayre, rodrigues, and two mechanics carried the makeshift coffin out of the hangar across the snow and carefully loaded it into jean-luc's 212. when it was done, lochart stepped aside. "shiraz party board." he shook hands with mimmo, jesper, the roustabout, and jesper's assistant as they climbed aboard, settling themselves amid the luggage, spares, and coffin. uneasily mimmo sera and his italian roustabout crossed themselves, then locked their seat belts.

  jean-luc climbed into the pilot's seat, rodrigues beside him. lochart turned back to the rest of the men. "all aboard!"

  watched carefully by nitchak khan and the green band, the remainder went aboard, ayre flying the alouette, claus schwartenegger the 206, all seats full, tanks full, cargo belly full, external skid carriers lashed with spare rotor blades. lochart's 212 was crammed and over maximum: "by the time we get to kowiss we'll've used a lot of fuel so we'll be legal anyway it's downhill all the way," he had told all pilots when he had briefed them earlier.

  now he stood alone on the snow of zagros three, everyone else belted in and doors closed. "start up!" he ordered, his tension mounting. he had told nitchak khan he had decided to act as takeoff master.

  nitchak khan and the green band came up to lochart. "the young pilot, the one who was wounded, where is he?"

  "who? oh, scot? if he's not here, he's in shiraz, kalandar," lochart said and saw anger rush into the old man's face and the green band's mouth drop open. "why?"

  "that's not possible!" the green band said.

  "i didn't see him board so he must have gone on an earlier flight..." lochart

  had to raise his voice over the growing scream of the jets, all engines now up to speed, "... on an earlier flight when we were at rig rosa and maria, kalandar. why?"

  "that's not possible, kalandar," the green band repeated, frightened, as the old man turned
on him. "i was watching carefully!"

  lochart ducked under the whirling blades and went to the pilot's window of jean-luc's 212, taking out a thick white envelope. "here, jean- luc, bonne chance," he said and gave it to him. "take off!" for an instant he saw the glimmer of a smile before he hurried to safety, jean- luc shoved on maximum power for a quick takeoff, and she lifted and trundled away, the wash from the blades ripping at his clothes and those of the villagers, the jets drowning out what nitchak khan was shouting.

  simultaneously also by prearrangement ayre and schwartenegger gunned their engines, easing away from each other before lumbering in a slow labored climb for the trees. lochart held on to his hope and then the furious green band caught him by the sleeve and pulled him around.

  "you lied," the man was shouting, "you lied to the kalandar the young pilot did not leave earlier! i would have seen him, i watched carefully tell the kalandar you lied!"

  abruptly lochart ripped his sleeve away from the young man, knowing that every second meant a few more feet of altitude, a few more yards to safety. "why should i lie? if the young pilot's not in shiraz then he's still here! search the camp, search my airplane come on, first let us search my airplane!" he stalked off toward his 212 and stood at the open door, from the corners of his eyes seeing jean-luc's 212 now over the tree line, ayre so overloaded barely making it, and the 206 still climbing. "in all the names of god, let's search," he said, willing their attention onto him and away from the escaping choppers, willing them not to search his airplane but the camp itself. "how can a man hide here? impossible. what about the office or the trailers, perhaps he's hiding..."

  the green band pulled the gun off his shoulder and aimed at him. "tell the kalandar you lied or you die!"

  with hardly any effort, nitchak khan angrily ripped the gun out of the youth's hands and threw it into the snow. "i'm the law in zagros not you! go back to the village!" filled with fear, the green band obeyed instantly.

  the villagers waited and watched. nitchak khan's face was graven and his small eyes went from chopper to chopper. they were away now, but not yet out of range of those he had posted around the base to fire only on his signal, only his. one of the smaller choppers was banking, still climbing as fast as possible, coming around in a big circle. to watch us, nitchak khan thought, to watch what happens next. as god wants.

  "dangerous to shoot down the sky machines," his wife had said. "that will bring wrath down upon us."

  "terrorists will do that we will not. the young pilot saw us, and the farsispeaking kalandar pilot knows. they must not escape. terrorists have no mercy, they care nothing for law and order, and how can their existence be disproved? aren't these mountains ancient havens for brigands? haven't we chased these terrorists to the limit of our power? what could we do to prevent the tragedy nothing."

  and now before him was the last of the infidels, his main enemy, the one who had cheated him and lied and whisked the other devil away. at least this one will not escape, he thought. the barest tip of the sun was just above the horizon. as he watched, it vanished. "peace be with you, pilot."

  "and with you, kalandar, god watch you," lochart said thinly. "that envelope i gave to my french pilot. you saw me give it to him?"

  "yes, yes, i saw it."

  "that was a letter addressed to the revolutionary komiteh in shiraz, with a copy to the iranian kalandar in dubai across the great sea, signed by the young pilot, witnessed by me, telling exactly what occurred in the village square, what was done by whom, to whom, who was shot, the number of men bound in the green band truck before it went into the ravine of the broken camels, the manner of nasiri's murder, your tell "

  "lies, all lies! by the prophet what is this word murder? murder? that is for bandits. the man died as god wants," the old man said sullenly, aware of the villagers gaping at lochart. "he was a known supporter of the satanic shah who surely you will meet in hell soon."

  "perhaps, perhaps not. perhaps my loyal servant who was murdered here by cowardly sons of dogs has already told the one god and the one god knows who is telling the truth!"

  "he was not muslim, he did not serve islam an "

  "but he was a christian and christians serve the one god and my tribesman was murdered by cowards from ambush, sons of dogs with no courage who shot from ambush surely eaters of shit and men of the left hand and accursed! it's true he was murdered like the other christian at the rig. by god and the prophet of god, their deaths will be avenged!"

  nitchak khan shrugged. "terrorists," he blustered, very afraid, "terrorists did that, of course it was terrorists! as to the letter it's all lies, lies, the pilot was liar, we all know what happened in the village. it's all lies what he said."

  "all the more reason that the letter should not be delivered." lochart was choosing his words very carefully. "therefore please protect me from the 'terrorists' as i fly away. only i can prevent the letter being delivered." his heart was beating heavily as he saw the old man take out a cigarette, weighing

  the pros and cons, and light the cigarette with jordon's lighter and he wondered again how he could have vengeance for jordon's murder, still an unresolved part of the plan that so far had worked perfectly: his taking the too vigilant nitchak khan away, scot gavallan sneaking into the makeshift coffin to be carried aboard jean-luc's 212, jordon's shrouded body already put into the long crate that once housed tail rotors to be loaded into his 212, then the letter and the three choppers flying off together, all perfectly as planned.

  and now it was time to finish. ayre in the alouette circled overhead in station, well out of range. "salaam, kalandar, god's justice be with you," he said and headed for his cockpit.

  "i have no control over terrorists!" and when lochart did not stop, nitchak khan shouted louder, "why would you stop delivery of the lies, eh?"

  lochart got into the cockpit, wanting to be away, hating this place now and the old man. "because, before god, i deplore lies."

  "before god, you would stop the delivery of these lies?"

  "before god i will see that letter burned. god's justice be with you, kalandar, and with yazdek." he pressed the starter. the first jet fired up. above him the blades began to turn. more switches. now the second engine caught and all the time he was watching the old man. rot in hell, old man, he thought, jordon's blood's on your head, and gianni's, i'm sure of it though i'll never prove it. perhaps mine too.

  waiting. now all needles in the green. lift-off.

  nitchak khan watched the chopper shudder into the air, hesitate, then turn slowly and begin to leave. so easy to raise my hand, he thought, and so soon the infidel and that howling monster become a funeral pyre falling out of the sky, and as to the letter, lies, all lies.

  two men dead? all know that it's their own fault they're dead. did we invite them here? no, they came to exploit our land. if they had not come here they would still be alive and waiting for the hell that inevitably is their due.

  his eyes never left the air machine. there was plenty of time yet. he smoked slowly, enjoying the cigarette greatly, enjoying the knowledge that he could terminate such a great machine just by raising his hand. but he did not. he remembered the advice of the kalandaran and lit another cigarette from the stub and smoked that, waiting patiently. soon the hateful sound of the engines was distant, fading quickly, and then, overhead, he saw the smaller air machine break off circling and also head south and west.

  when all infidel sound had quite gone he judged that peace had once more come to his zagros. "fire the base," he said to the others. soon the flames were high. without regret he cast the lighter into the flames and, contentedly, he strolled home.

  mondly february 26

  ~m :t sabalan~ iraq ~ qazvin * teh ran j baghdad; ~ i r a n ~ ~ z dam who is~

  l shatt- ~abadan

  1~

  near bandar delam air base: 9:16 a.m. in torrential rain the subaru station wagon with the iran-toda insignia on the doors hurried along the road, windshield wipers full speed, the
road potholed and waterlogged in parts, the driver iranian. scragger sat uneasily beside him, his seat belt tight, and in the back a japanese radio mechanic hung on as best he could. ahead through the heavy rain splats, scragger saw an old bus hogging most of the road and, not far away, oncoming traffic.

  "minoru, tell him to slow down. again," he said. "he's witless."

  the young japanese leaned forward and spoke sharply in farsi, and the driver nodded benignly and paid no attention, jabbed his palm on the horn, and kept it there as he swerved out almost onto the other shoulder, overtaking the bus, accelerated when he should have braked, skidded, recovered, and just made the narrowing gap between the bus and the oncoming car, all three vehicles with their horns shrieking.

  scragger muttered another curse. beaming, the driver, a young bearded man, took his attention off the road and said something in farsi, bouncing through a large pothole in a shower of water. minoru interpreted: "he says with the