Whirlwind

  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 Jean-Luc had cooked with plenty of delicious Iranian rice and horisht.

  “Great barbecue, Jean-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?”

  “Oui. 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?”

  Jean-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 Jean-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 Jordon 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 bods 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 Jean-Luc 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 coining 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 more 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?”

  “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. Jesper 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 energy-giving 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 seals’re 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?” Jesper 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. “Förbannades shitdjävlarrrrrrr!”

  “Get in the car,” Mimmo called out.

  “Förbannades shitdjävlar,” 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 N
itchak 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 comers 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…”