Whirlwind

  “No,” Scragger said. “I figure it this way, sport: if Andy doesn’t call for Whirlwind in the morning I’ve all day to get our passports. If he calls for Whirlwind, it’ll be exactly at seven. That gives me plenty of time to get to the station at seven-thirty and back by eight. While I’m away you start the plan rolling.”

  “Jesus, Scrag, we been thr—”

  “Ed, will you listen? We leave anyway but bypass Al Shargaz where we know we’d have trouble and duck into Bahrain—I know the port officer there. We throw ourselves on his mercy—maybe even have an ‘emergency’ on the beach. Meanwhile we radio Al Shargaz the moment we’re clear of Iran skies for someone to meet us and bail us out. It’s the best I can think of and at least we’ve covered, either way.”

  And it’s still the best I can think of, he told himself watching Willi at the stove, the butter in the frying pan beginning to sizzle. “I thought we were having scrambled?”

  “This’s the way to scramble.” Willi’s voice edged.

  “Bloody isn’t, you know,” Scragger said sharply. “You have to use water or milk an—”

  “By God Harry,” Willi snapped, “if you don’t want the… Scheiss! Sorry, didn’t mean to bite your head, Scrag. Sorry.”

  “I’m touchy too, sport. No problem.”

  “The, er, this way’s the way my mother does them. You put the eggs in without beating them, the whites cook white and then, quick as a wink you put in a little milk and you mix her, then the white’s white and the yolk’s yellow…” Willi found himself not able to stop. He had had a bad night, bad dreams, and bad feelings and now with the dawn he felt no better.

  Over in the corner the Green Band stirred, his nose filled with the smell of cooking butter and he yawned, nodded to them sleepily, then settled more comfortably and dozed off again. When the kettle boiled Scragger made himself some tea, glanced at his watch: 5:56 A.M. Behind him the door opened and Vossi wandered in, shook the rain off the umbrella.

  “Hi, Scrag! Hey, Willi, coffee and two over easy with a side order of crisp bacon and hash brown for me.”

  “Get stuffed!”

  They all laughed, their anxiety making them light-headed. Scragger glanced at his watch again. Stop it! Stop it, he ordered himself. You’ve got to keep calm, then they’ll be calm. Easy to see they’re both ready to blow.

  AT KOWISS: 6:24 A.M. McIver and Lochart were in the tower looking out at the rain and overcast. Both were dressed in flight gear, McIver seated in front of the HF, Lochart standing at the window. No lights on—just the reds and greens of the functioning equipment. No sound but the pleasing hum and the not so pleasing whine of the wind that came in the broken windows, rattling the aerial stanchions.

  Lochart glanced at the wind counter. Twenty-five knots, gusting thirty from the south-southeast. Over by the hangar two mechanics were washing down the already clean two 212s, and the 206 McIver had brought from Tehran. Lights on in the cookhouse. Except for a skeleton cookhouse staff, McIver had told the office staff and laborers to take Friday off. After the shock of Esvandiary’s summary execution for “corruption” they had needed no encouragement to leave.

  Lochart glanced at the clock. The second hand seemed interminably slow. A truck went by below. Another. Now it was exactly 6:30 A.M. “Sierra One, this is Lengeh.” It was Scragger reporting in as planned. McIver was greatly relieved. Lochart became grimmer.

  “Lengeh, this is Sierra One, you’re five by five.” Scot’s voice from Al Shargaz was clean and clear. Sierra One was code for the office at Al Shargaz airport, Gavallan not wanting to draw any more attention to the sheikdom than necessary.

  McIver clicked on the HF transmit. “Sierra One, this is Kowiss.”

  “Kowiss, this is Sierra One, you’re four by five.”

  “Sierra One, this’s Bandar Delam.” Both heard the tremble in Rudi’s voice.

  “Bandar Delam, this’s Sierra One, you’re two by five.”

  Now only static from the loudspeaker. McIver wiped his palms. “So far so good.” The coffee in his cup was cold and tasted awful but he finished it.

  “Rudi sounded uptight, didn’t he?” Lochart said.

  “I’m sure I did too. So did Scrag.” McIver studied him, concerned for him; Lochart did not meet his eyes, just went over to the electric kettle and plugged it in. On the desk were four phones, two internal and two outside lines. In spite of his resolve, Lochart tried one of the outside phones, then the other. Both still dead. Dead for days now. Dead like me. No way of being in touch with Sharazad, no post.

  “There’s a Canadian consul in Al Shargaz,” McIver said gruffly. “They could get through to Tehran for you from there.”

  “Sure.” A gust rattled the temporary boarding over the broken window. Lochart paid the outside no attention, wondering about Sharazad, praying she would join him. Join me for what? The kettle began to sing. He watched it. Since he had walked out of the apartment, he had blocked the future out of his mind. In the night it had surged back, much as he tried to prevent it.

  From the base came the first call of a muezzin. “Come to prayer, come to progress, prayer is better than sleep…”

  AT BANDAR DELAM: 6:38 A.M. A sodden dawn, rain slight, wind less than yesterday. At the airfield Rudi Lutz, Sandor Petrofi, and Pop Kelly were in Rudi’s trailer, no lights on, drinking coffee. Outside on the veranda, Marc Dubois was stationed on guard against eavesdroppers. No lights on elsewhere in the base. Rudi glanced at his watch. “Hope to God it’s today,” Rudi said.

  “It’s today or never.” Kelly was very grim. “Make the call, Rudi.”

  “A minute yet.”

  Through the window Rudi could see the maw of the hangar and their 212s. None of them had long-range tanks. Somewhere in the darkness, Fowler Joines and three mechanics were quietly putting the last of the spare fuel aboard, finishing preparations begun cautiously last night while the pilots diverted the camp guards and Numir. Just before going to bed the four of them had individually made their range calculations. They were all within ten nautical miles of each other.

  “If the wind holds at this strength, we’re all in the goddamn sea,” Sandor had said softly, difficult to talk over the music but not safe without it—earlier Fowler Joines had spotted Numir lurking near Rudi’s trailer.

  “Yes,” Marc Dubois had agreed. “About ten kilometers out.”

  “Maybe we should blow Bahrain and divert to Kuwait, Rudi?”

  “No, Sandor, we’ve got to leave Kuwait open for Kowiss. Six Iranian registered choppers all zeroing in there? They’d have a hemorrhage.”

  “Where the hell’re the new registration numbers we were promised?” Kelly said, his nervousness growing every moment.

  “We’re being met. Charlie Pettikin’s going to Kuwait, Jean-Luc to Bahrain.” “Mon Dieu, that’s our bad luck,” Dubois had said, disgustedly. “Jean-Luc’s always late, always. Those Pieds Noirs, they think like Arabs.”

  “If Jean-Luc screws up this time,” Sandor had said, “he’ll be goddamn burger meat. Listen, about the gas, maybe we can get extra from Iran-Toda. It’s gonna look mighty suspicious to be loaded with all that gas, just to go down there.”

  “Rudi, make the call. It’s time.”

  “Okay, okay!” Rudi took a deep breath, picked up the mike. “Sierra One, this’s Bandar Delam, do you read? This is…”

  AT AL SHARGAZ HQ: 6:40 A.M. “…Bandar Delam, do you read?”

  Gavallan was sitting in front of the HF, Scot beside him, Nogger Lane leaning against a desk behind them, Manuela in the only other chair. All were rigid, staring at the loudspeaker, all sure the call meant trouble as the Whirlwind plan called for radio silence before 7:00 A.M. and during the actual escape, except in emergencies. “Bandar Delam, Sierra One,” Scot said throatily. “You’re two by five, go ahead.”

  “We don’t know how your day is but we’ve some planned flights this morning and we’d like to bring them forward to now. Do you approve?”

  “Standby One,” Sco
t said.

  “Damnation,” Gavallan muttered. “It’s essential all bases leave at the same time.” Then again the airwaves crackled into life.

  “Sierra One, this’s Lengeh,” Scragger’s voice was much louder and clearer and more sharp. “We’ve flights too but the later the better. How’s your weather?”

  “Standby One, Lengeh.” Scot glanced across at Gavallan, waiting.

  “Call Kowiss,” Gavallan said and everyone relaxed a little. “We’ll check with them first.”

  “Kowiss, this’s Sierra One, do you read?” Silence. “Kowiss, this’s Sierra One, do you read?”

  “This’s Kowiss, go ahead.” McIver’s voice sounded strained and was intermittent.

  “Did you copy?”

  “Yes. Prefer firm forecast as planned.”

  “That decides it.” Gavallan took the mike. “Sierra One, all bases, our weather’s changeable. We will have your firm forecast at 0700.”

  “We copy,” Scragger said.

  “We copy.” Rudi’s voice was brittle.

  “We copy.” McIver sounded relieved.

  Again the airwaves were silent. Gavallan said to no one in particular, “Better to stick to the plan. Don’t want to alert ATC unnecessarily, or get that bugger Siamaki more difficult than usual. Rudi could have aborted if it was urgent, he still can.” He got up and stretched, then sat down again. Static. They were also listening on the emergency channel, 121.5. The Pan Am jumbo took off rattling the windows.

  Manuela shifted in her seat, feeling she was encroaching even though Gavallan had said, “Manuela, you listen with us too, you’re the only Farsi speaker among us.” The time did not weigh so heavily for her. Her man was safe, a little damaged but safe, and her heart was singing with joy for the blessed luck that brought him out of the maelstrom. “Because that’s what it is, honey,” she had told him last night at the hospital.

  “Maybe, but without Hussain’s help I’d still be in Kowiss.”

  If it wasn’t for that mullah you would never’ve been hit, she had thought but did not say it, not wanting to agitate him. “Can I get you anything, darlin’?”

  “A new head!”

  “They’re bringing a pill in a minute. Doctor said you’ll be flying in six weeks, that you’ve the constitution of a roan buffalo.”

  “I feel like a bent chicken.”

  She had laughed.

  Now she let herself drift comfortably, not having to sweat out the waiting like the others, particularly Genny. Two minutes to go. Static. Gavallan’s fingers drumming. A private jet took off and she could see another airplane on final, a jumbo with Alitalia colors. Wonder if that’ll be Paula’s flight back from Tehran?

  The minute hand on the clock touched twelve. At 7:00 A.M. Gavallan took the mike. “Sierra One to all bases: Our forecast’s settled and we expect improving weather but watch out for small whirlwinds. Do you copy?”

  “Sierra One, this’s Lengeh.” Scragger was breezy, “We copy and will watch for whirlwinds. Out.”

  “Sierra One, this’s Bandar Delam, we copy, and will watch for whirlwinds. Out.”

  Silence. The seconds ticked by. Unconsciously Gavallan bit his lower lip. Waiting, then he clicked the transmit button. “Kowiss, do you read?”

  AT KOWISS: 7:04 A.M. McIver and Lochart were staring at the HF. Almost together they checked their watches. Lochart muttered, “It’s an abort for today,” wet with relief. Another day’s reprieve, he thought. Maybe today the phones’ll come back in, maybe today I can talk to her…

  “They’d still call, that’s part of the plan, they call either way.” McIver clicked the switch on and off. The lights all checked out. So did the dials. “To hell with it,” he said and clicked on the sender. “Sierra One, this’s Kowiss, do you read?” Silence. Again, even more anxiously, “Sierra One, this’s Kowiss, do you read?” Silence.

  “What the hell’s with them?” Lochart said through his teeth.

  “Lengeh, this’s Kowiss, do you read?” No answer. Abruptly McIver remembered and jumped to his feet and ran to the window. The main cable to the transmitter-receiver aerial was hanging loose, flapping in the wind. Cursing, McIver tore the door to the roof open and went out into the cold. His fingers were strong but the nuts were too rusted to move and he saw that the soldered wire ring was eaten away by rust and had fractured. “Bloody hell…”

  “Here.” Lochart was beside him and gave him the pliers.

  “Thanks.” McIver began to scrape the rust away. The rain had almost stopped but neither noticed it. A rumble of thunder. Sheet lightning flickered in the Zagros, most of the mountains clouded. As he worked hurriedly, he told Lochart how Wazari had spent so much time on the roof yesterday fixing the cable. “When I came on this morning I made a routine call so I knew she was working and we were loud and clear at 6:30 and again at 6:40. The wind must’ve pulled the wire between then and now…” The pliers slipped and he ripped a finger and cursed more.

  “Let me do it?”

  “No, it’s fine. Couple of seconds.”

  Lochart went back into the tower cabin: 7:07. The base still quiet. Over at the air base some trucks were moving around but no airplanes. Down by the hangar their two mechanics still fiddled with the 212s, according to plan, Freddy Ayre with them. Then he saw Wazari cycling along the inside perimeter road. His heart flipped. “Mac, there’s Wazari, coming from the base.”

  “Stop him, tell him anything but stop him.” Lochart rushed off down the stairs. McIver’s heart was thundering. “Come on, for God’s sake,” he said and cursed himself again for not checking. Check check and recheck, safety is no accident it has to be planned!

  Again the pliers slipped. Again he applied them and now the nuts were moving down the bolt. Now one side was tight. For a second he was tempted to risk it, but his caution overcame his anxiety and he tightened the other side. A tentative pull on the cable. Tight. He hurried back, sweat pouring off him: 7:16.

  For a moment he could not catch his breath. “Come on, McIver, for the love of God!” He took a deep breath and that helped. “Sierra One, this is Kowiss, do you read?”

  Scot’s anxious voice came back at once. “Kowiss, Sierra One, go ahead.”

  “Do you have any information on any weather for us?”

  At once Gavallan’s voice, even more anxious: “Kowiss, we sent out the following at exactly 0700: our forecast’s settled and we expect improving weather but watch out for small whirlwinds. Do you copy?”

  McIver exhaled. “We copy, and will watch for small whirlwinds. Did, did the others copy?”

  “Affirmative…”

  AT AL SHARGAZ HQ: “…I say again, affirmative.” Gavallan repeated into the mike. “What happened?”

  “No problem,” McIver’s voice came back, his signal weak. “See you soon, out.” Now the airwaves were silent. A sudden cheer erupted in the room, Scot embraced his father and gasped as pain ripped up from his shoulder but no one noticed in the pandemonium. Manuela was hugging Gavallan, and she said, “I’m going to phone the hospital, Andy, I’ll be back in a second,” and ran off. Nogger was jumping up and down with glee and Gavallan said happily, “I think all nonpilots deserve a large bottle of beer!”

  AT KOWISS: McIver switched off the set and slumped back in the chair, collecting himself, feeling strange—light-headed and heavy-handed. “Never mind that, it’s a go!” he said. It was quiet in the tower except for the wind that creaked the door he had left open in his haste. He closed it and saw the rain had stopped, the clouds still gloomy. Then he noticed his finger was still bleeding. Beside the HF was a paper towel and he tore a piece off and wrapped it crudely around the wound. His hands were trembling. On a sudden impulse, he went outside and knelt beside the connecting wire. It took all his strength to pull it loose. Then he double checked the tower, wiped the sweat off his brow, and went down the stairs.

  Lochart and Wazari were in Esvandiary’s office, Wazari unshaven and grubby, a curious electricity in the air. No time to wor
ry about that, McIver thought, Scrag and Rudi’re already airborne. “Morning, Sergeant,” McIver said curtly, aware of Lochart’s scrutiny. “I thought I gave you the day off—we’ve no traffic of any importance.”

  “Yeah, Captain, you did but I, er, I couldn’t sleep and… I don’t feel safe over in the base.” Wazari noticed McIver’s flushed face and the crude paper bandage. “You okay?”

  “Yes, I’m all right, just cut my finger on the broken window.” McIver glanced at Lochart who was sweating as much as he was. “We’d better be going, Tom. Sergeant, we’re ground-testing the 212s.” He saw Lochart glance at him abruptly.

  “Yes sir. I’ll inform base,” Wazari said.

  “No need for that.” Momentarily McIver was at a loss, then the answer came to him. “For your own sake, if you’re going to hang around here, you’d better get ready for Minister Kia.”

  The color went out of the man’s face. “What?”

  “He’s due shortly for the return flight to Tehran. Weren’t you the only witness against him and poor bloody Hotshot?”

  “Sure, but I heard them,” Wazari flared, needing to justify himself. “Kia’s a bastard and a liar and so’s Hotshot and they had this deal cooking. Have you forgotten Hotshot was the one who ordered Ayre beaten up? They would have killed him, have you forgotten that? Esvandiary and Kia, everything I said was true, it was true.”

  “I’m sure it was. I believe you. But he’s bound to be plenty bloody aggravated if he sees you, isn’t he? So will the office staff, they were all very angry. They’ll certainly give you away. Perhaps I can divert Kia,” McIver said as a sop, hoping to keep him on their side, “perhaps not. If I were you I’d make myself scarce, don’t hang around here. Come on, Tom.” McIver turned to go but Wazari stood in his way.

  “Don’t forget I’m the one who stopped a massacre by saying Sandor’s load shifted, but for me he’d be dead, but for me you’d all be up before a komiteh…you’ve got to help me…” Tears were streaming down his face now, “you gotta help me…”

  “I’ll do what I can,” McIver said, sorry for him, and walked out. Outside he had to stop himself from running over to the others, seeing their anxiety, then Lochart caught up with him.