computer ticketing, just slowly handwritten by a few sullen officials - most of whom were openly hostile and non- English-speaking. Quickly the airport became foul and the mood ugly.
In desperation some companies chartered their own airplanes to pull out their own people. United States Air Force transports came to take out the military dependents while all embassies tried to play down the extent of the evacuation, not wanting to further embarrass the Shah, their stalwart ally of twenty years. Adding to the chaos were thousands of Iranians, all hoping to flee while there was still time to flee. The unscrupulous and the wealthy jumped the lines. Many an official became rich and then more greedy and richer still. Then the air traffic controllers struck, shutting down the airport completely.
For two days no flights came in or left. The crowds streamed away or stayed. Then some of the controllers went back to work and it began again. Rumors of incoming flights. Rushing to the airport with the kids and the luggage of years, or with no luggage, for a guaranteed seat that never was, back to Tehran again, half a thousand waiting in the taxi rank ahead of you, most taxis on strike - back to the hotel at length, your hotel room long since sold to another, all banks closed so no money to grease the ever-open hands. 41 At length most foreigners who wanted to leave left. Those who stayed to keep the businesses running, the oil fields serviced, airplanes flying, nuclear plants abuilding, chemical plants working, tankers moving - and to protect their gigantic investments - kept a lower profile, particularly if they were American. Khomeini had said, “If the foreigner wants to leave, let him leave; it is American materialism that is the Great Satan…” McIver held the phone closer to his ear as the volume slipped a fraction, afraid that the connection would vanish. “Yes, George, you were saying?” Talbot continued: “I was just saying, Duncan, we’re quite sure everything’s going to work out eventually. There’s no way in the world the pot will completely blow up. An unofficial source says a deal’s already in place for the Shah to abdicate in favor of his son Reza - the compromise HM Government advocates. The transition to constitutional government may be a bit wobbly but nothing to worry about. Sorry, got to dash - let me know what you decide.”
The phone went dead.
McIver cursed, jiggled the connectors to no avail, and told Genny and Charlie what Talbot had said. Genny smiled sweetly. “Don’t look at me, the answer’s no. I agr - ” “But, Gen, Tal - ”
“I agree the others should go but this one’s staying. Food’s almost ready.” She went back to the kitchen and closed the door, cutting off further argument.
“Well she’s bloody going and that’s it,” McIver said. “My year’s salary says she won’t - until you leave. Why don’t you go for God’s sake? I can look after everything.”
“No. Thanks, but no.” Then McIver beamed in the semidarkness. “Actually it’s like being back in the war, isn’t it? Back in the bloody blackout. Nothing to worry about except get with it and look after the troops and obey orders.” McIver frowned at his glass. “Talbot was right about one thing: we’re bloody lucky to be British. Tough on the Yanks. Not fair.” “Yes, but you’ve covered ours as best you can.” “Hope so.” When the Shah had left and violence everywhere increased, McIver had issued British IDs to all Americans. “They should be all right unless the Green Bands, police, or SAVAK check them against their licenses.” By Iranian law all foreigners had to have a current visa, which had to be canceled before they could leave the country, a current ID card giving their corporate affiliate - and all pilots a current annual Iran pilot’s license. For a further measure of safety McIver had had corporate IDs made and signed by the chief of their Iranian partners in Tehran, General Valik. So far there had been no problems. To the Americans, McIver had said, “Better you have these to show if necessary,” and had issued orders for all personnel to carry photographs of both Khomeini and the Shah. “Make sure you use the right one if you’re stopped!” Pettikin was trying to call Bandar Delam on the HF with no success. “We’ll try later,” McIver said. “All bases’ll be listening out at 0830 - that’ll give us time to decide what to do. Christ, it’s going to be bloody difficult. What do you think? Status quo, except for dependents?” Very concerned, Pettikin got up and took a candle and peered at the operations map pinned to the wall. It showed the status of their bases, crew, ground staff, and aircraft. The bases were scattered over Iran, from air force and army training bases at Tehran and Isfahan, to high-altitude oil-rig support in the Zagros, a logging operation in Tabriz in the northwest, a uranium survey team near the Afghan border, from a pipeline survey on the Caspian, to four oil operations on or near the Gulf, and the last, far to the southeast, another at Lengeh on the Strait of Hormuz. Of these only five were operational now: Lengeh, Kowiss, Bandar Delam, Zagros, and Tabriz. “We’ve fifteen 212s, including two nonoperational on their two-thousand-hour checks, seven 206s, and three Alouettes, all supposed to be working at the moment….”
“And all leased on binding legal contracts, none of which have been rescinded, but none of which we’re being paid for,” McIver said testily. “There’s no way we can base them all at Kowiss - we can’t even legally remove any one of them without the approval of the contractor, or our dear partners’ approval - not unless we could declare force majeure.” “There isn’t any yet. It has to be status quo, as long as we can. Talbot sounded confident. Status quo.”
“I wish it was status quo, Charlie. My God, this time last year we had almost forty 212s working and all the rest.” McIver poured himself another whisky.
“You’d better go easy,” Pettikin said quietly. “Genny‘11 give you hell. You know your blood pressure’s up and you’re not to drink.”
“It’s medicinal, for Christ’s sweet sake.” A candle guttered and went out. McIver got up and lit another and went back to staring at the map. “I think we’d better get Azadeh and the Flying Finn back. His 212’s on its fifteen- hundred-hour so he could be spared for a couple of days.” This was Captain Erikki Yokkonen and his Iranian wife, Azadeh, and their base was near Tabriz in East Azerbaijan Province, to the far northwest, near the Soviet border. “Why not take a 206 and fetch them? That’d save him three hundred and fifty miles of lousy driving and we’ve got to take him some spares.” Pettikin was beaming. “Thanks, I could do an outing. I’ll file a flight plan by HF tonight and leave at dawn, refuel at Bandar-e Pahlavi, and buy us some caviar.”
“Dreamer. But Gen’d like that. You know what I think of the stuff.” McIver turned away from the map. “We’re very exposed, Charlie, if things got dicey.” “Only if it’s in the cards.”
McIver nodded. Absently his eyes fell on the telephone. He picked it up. Now there was a dial tone. Excitedly he began to dial: 00, international; 44, British Isles; 224, Aberdeen in Scotland, 765-8080. He waited and waited, then his face lit up. “Christ, I’m through!”
“S-G Helicopters, hold the line, please,” the operator said before he could interrupt and put him on hold. He waited, fuming. “S-G Helico - ” “This’s McIver in Tehran, give me the Old Man, please.” “He’s on the phone, Mr. McIver.” The girl sniffed. “I’ll give you his secretary.” “Hello, Mac!” Liz Chen said almost at once. “Hang on a tick, I’ll get Himself. You all right? We’ve been trying to get you for days; hang on.” “All right, Liz.”
A moment, then Gavallan said happily, “Mac? Christ, how did you get through? Wonderful to hear from you - I’ve got a laddie permanently dialing you, your office, your apartment, ten hours a day. How’s Genny? How did you get through?”
“Just luck, Andy. I’m at home. I’d better be fast in case we’re cut off.” McIver told him most of what Talbot had said. He had to be circumspect because rumor had it that SAVAK, the Iranian secret police, often tapped telephones, particularly of foreigners. It was standing company procedure for the last two years to presume someone was listening - SAVAK, CIA, MI5, KGB, someone.
There was a moment’s silence. “First, obey the embassy and get all our dependents out at once. Alert the Finnish embassy for Azadeh’s passport. Tell Tom Lochart to expedite Sharazad’s - I got him to apply two weeks ago, just in case. He’s, er, got some mail for you, by the way.” McIver’s heart picked up a beat. “Good, he’ll be in tomorrow.” “I’ll get on to BA and see if I can get them guaranteed seating. As backup, I’ll send our company 125. She’s scheduled for Tehran tomorrow. If you’ve any problem with BA, send all dependents and spare bods out by her, starting tomorrow. Tehran’s still open, isn’t it?”
“It was today,” McIver said carefully.
He heard Gavallan say equally carefully, “The authorities, thank God, have everything under control.”
“Yes.”
“Mac, what do you recommend about our Iranian ops?”
McIver took a deep breath. “Status quo.”
“Good. All indications here, up to the highest levels, say it should be business as usual soon. We’ve got lots of face in Iran. And future. Listen, Mac, that rumor about Guerney was correct.”
McIver brightened perceptibly. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. A few minutes ago I got a telex from IranOil confirming we’ll get all Guerney contracts at Kharg, Kowiss, Zagros, and Lengeh to begin with. Apparently the order to squeeze came from on high, and I did have to make a generous pishkesh contribution to our partners’ slush fund.” A pishkesh was an ancient Iranian custom, a
