Whirlwind

  “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 I,” 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 McIver 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? “Dunc 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 yellow 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 sp
ear. 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.

  “By God Harry…” Willi shouted and pointed. The shark was charging toward the bait. They saw it take it and the hook into its mouth and swim away, the line singing off the reel. Willi held his breath, tightened the line, then with both hands on the rod, he struck hard. “Gotttt heemmm!” he shouted, taking the strain, the reel shrieking as the line rushed out, the hook deeply embedded now.

  “Bloody bastard near did me,” Scragger said, his heart racing, watching the taut line. “Don’t let the bugger cheat you.”

  Willi put more strain on the line and began to fight him, the line taut.

  “Watch him, Willi, he’ll turn and come back fast…” But the shark did not, just slowed and fought the line and hook in a frenzy, boiling the water around it, half in and out of the water, rolling over and turning. But the hook held and the line was strong enough and Willi gave the fish just enough leeway, allowing it to swim off a way, then once more began to reel in. Minutes passed. The strain of fighting such a fish without a harness or chair, unable to use his legs to help him, was overwhelming. But Willi held on. Abruptly the shark stopped fighting, beginning to circle again. Slower.

  “Good on you, Willi, you got him, Willi.”

  “Scrag, if he comes in fast see if you can keep the line from fouling, and when I get him near enough, jab him with the harpoon.” Willi felt the pain in his back and hands but now he was exhilarated, waiting for the next move. It came quickly.

  The shark swirled and headed for them. Frantically Willi reeled in to take up the slack lest the shark turn again and snap the line, but it kept barreling in and went directly under the raft. Miraculously the line did not foul and when the shark came out on the other side to charge off toward deeper water, Willi let him take line with him and gradually got the tension back. Once more the shark tried to shake off the hook in a paroxysm of rage, churning the water white, and once more Willi held him. But his muscles were weakening, he knew he would not be able to hold him alone and swore silently. “Give me a hand, Scrag.”

  “Okay, mate.”

  Together the two men held the rod now, Willi working the reel, pulling the shark in, playing him, closer and closer. The shark was slowing. “He’s tiring, Willi.” Inch by inch they pulled him in. Now the shark was thirty yards out from the raft just making headway, its great tail waving slowly back and forth, almost wallowing in the water. To breathe, a shark must have forward motion. If it stops it drowns.

  Patiently they fought it, its huge weight hurting them. Now they could see its great size, the yellow eyes, jaws tight shut, the pilot fish. Twenty-five yards, twenty, eighteen, seventeen…

  Then it happened. The shark came to life and tore away from them for fifty yards at incredible speed, line screeching off the reel, then turned ninety degrees at full speed and was going away but Willi somehow got tension back on the line, forcing the fish to circle, but he could not bring it nearer. Another circuit, Willi using all his strength on the reel to no avail. On the next circuit he gained a little. Another inch. Another, then both men lurched and nearly fell overboard as the line came free. “Lost heem by God Harry…”

  Both were panting and aching and bitterly disappointed. There was no sign of the shark now. “God cursed line,” Willi said, reeling in, swearing in two languages. But it wasn’t the line. It was the chain. The links nearest the hook were mashed. “That bugger must’ve just chewed through it!” Scragger said, awed.

  “He was playing with us, Scrag,” Willi said disgustedly. “He could have bust it any time he wanted. He was giving us the finger.” They searched the water all around but there was no sign of it. “He could be on the bottom, waiting,” he said thoughtfully.

  “More likely he’s two miles away, mad as a rabid dingo.”

  “I betcha he’s mad, Scrag. That hook’ll do him no good at all.” Both men searched the sea. Nothing. Then they noticed the rubber dinghy was listing by the bow and half submerged. Scragger bent down and carefully examined it, his eyes on the sea and under the raft.

  “Look,” he said. There was a great rip in one of the air chambers. “The bugger must’ve done it when he came charging in.” The air was escaping fast. “No problem. We can make the shore in time. Let’s go.”

  Willi looked at the raft, then at the sea. “You go, Scrag. Me I wait for the wood dinghy with someone up front with a machine gun.”

  “There’s no problem, for God’s sake. C’me on.”

  “Scrag,” Willi said sweetly, “I love you like a brother but I’m not moving. That beetch frightened me to death.” He sat down in the center of the raft and put his arms around his knees. “That motherless beetch’s lurking somewhere, bottoming. You want to go, okay, but me, I know the Book says when in doubt, duck. Order up the other boat on the walkie-talkie.”

  “I’ll bring her myself.” The dinghy squelched as Scragger stepped carefully into it, nearly capsized, and he scrambled back on the raft cursing, quicker than he wanted to. “Wot the hell’re you laughing about?”

  “You got out of there like you got jellyfish on your bum.” Willi was still laughing. “Scrag, why don’t you swim home?”

  “Get stuffed.” Scragger looked at the shore, heart pounding. Today it seemed far away when most days it was so close.

  “You swim and you’re crazy,” Willi said, seriously now. “Don’t do it.”

  Scragger paid no attention to him. You know something? he was thinking. You’re scared fartless. That bugger was a small one and you hooked him and he got away and now he’s miles out in the Gulf. Yes, but where?

  He put a tentative toe in the water. Something below caught his eye. He knelt on the side of the raft and pulled up the cage. It was empty. The whole side was torn off. “Stone the crows!”

  “I’ll call up the boat,” Willi said, reaching for the walkie-talkie. “With a machine gun.”

  “No need for that, Willi,” Scragger said with a show of bravado. “Race you to the shore.”

  “Not on your Nelly! Scrag, for God’s sake don’t…” Willi was appalled as Scragger dived over the side. He saw him surface and strike out strongly, then all at once turn back and scramble back onto the raft, spluttering and choking with laughter.

  “Fooled you, huh? You’re right, me son, anyone who swims ashore’s crazy! Call up the boat, I’m fishing for more dinner.”

  When the boat came, one of the mechanics was on the tiller with two excited Green Bands in the bow, others watching from the beach. They were halfway back to shore when the shark appeared out of nowhere and began circling. The Green Bands started firing and, in their excitement, one fell overboard. Scragger managed to grab his gun and opened up on the shark that raced for the petrified man now standing in the shallow water. The bullets went into the shark’s head and into the eyes and though the shark was dead it did not believe it, just rolled over thrashing, its jaws working and tail working, then went driving ahead for its prey. But without the guidance of scent or eyesight it missed the man and went on up the sloping bottom until it beached itself and thrashed around, half in and half out of the water.

  “Scrag,” Willi said, when he could talk, “you’ve the luck of the devil. If you’d swum in he’d’ve got you. You’ve the luck of the devil.”

  AT RIG ROSA—ZAGROS: 3:05 P.M. Tom Lochart got out of the 206 stiffly and shook hands with Mimmo Sera, the “company man” who greeted him warmly. With Lochart was the Schlumberger expert, Jesper Almqvist, a tall young Swede in his late twenties. He carried his special case with the necessary down-hole tools—all his other equipment already here, on site. “Buon giorno, Jesper, good to see you. She’s waiting for you.”


  “Okay, Mr. Sera, I’ll go to work.” The young man walked off toward the rig. He had logged most of the wells in the field.

  “Come inside for a moment, Tom.” Sera led the way through the snow to the office trailer. Inside it was warm and a pot of coffee was on the big-bellied, iron, wood-burning furnace near the far wall. “Coffee?”

  “Thanks, I’m bushed, the trip from Tehran was boring.”

  Sera handed him a cup. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Thanks. I don’t know exactly—I just dropped off Jean-Luc at the base, had a brief word with Scot, then thought it best to bring Jesper at once and come see you myself. Haven’t seen Nitchak Khan yet; I’ll do that soon as I get back but Scot was quite clear: Nitchak Khan told him the komiteh had given us forty-eight hours to leave. McI—”

  “But why? Mamma mia, if you leave we’ll have to close down the whole field completely.”

  “I know. My God, the coffee’s good! Nitchak’s always been reasonable in the past—you heard this komiteh shot Nasiri and burned the schoolhouse?”

  “Yes, terrible. He was a fine fellow, though pro-Shah.”

  “So were we all—when the Shah was in power,” Lochart said, thinking of Sharazad and Jared Bakravan and Emir Paknouri and HBC—always back to HBC, and Sharazad. At dawn he had left her, hating to leave her. She was still deep in sleep. He had thought about waking her but there was little to say. Zagros was his responsibility—and she looked so exhausted, the bruise on her face vivid. His note said: “Back in a couple of days. Any problem see Mac or Charlie. All my love.” He looked back at Sera. “McIver’s got an appointment this morning with a top official in the government, so with any luck he can straighten everything out. He said he’d get a message to us soon as he got back. Your radio’s working?”

  Sera shrugged. “As usual: from time to time.”

  “If I hear anything I’ll get word to you, either tonight or first thing. I hope it’s all a storm in a bucket of shit. But if we have to clear out, McIver told me temporarily to base out of Kowiss. There’s no way in hell we can service you from there. What do you think?”