too. And tell him to be very obedient, for though the Imam wants oil production started quickly, all persons in Iran are subject to Islamic law if they’re Iranian or not. We don’t need foreigners here.” The man glanced at Nitchak Khan. “Now we will return to our village,” he said and strode out. Nitchak Khan flushed. He and the mullah followed.
“Captain, we are to go with him,” Nasiri said, “to the village.” “What for?” “Well, you’re the only pilot here and you know the countryside,” Nasiri said readily, wondering what the real reason was. He was very afraid. There had been no warning of any impending changes, nor were they even aware in the village that the road was open from the last snowfall. But this morning the truck with twelve Green Bands had arrived in the village. At once the leader of the “komiteh” had produced the piece of paper signed by the Sharpur Revolutionary Komiteh giving them jurisdiction over Yazdek and “all IranOil production and facilities and helicopters in that area.” When, at Nitchak Khan’s request, Nasiri had said he would radio IranOil to protest, one of the men had started beating him. The leader had stopped the man but had not apologized, nor had he shown Nitchak Khan the respect due to him as kalandar of this branch of the Kash’kai. More fear rushed through Nasiri and he wished he was back in Sharpur with his wife and family. God curse all komitehs and fanatics and foreigners and the Great American Satan who caused all our problems. “We’d… we’d better go,” he said.
They went outside. The others were already well down the track that led to the village. As Scot passed the hangar, he saw his six mechanics collected under the watchful gaze of an armed guard. The guard was smoking and a twinge went through him. Signs in Farsi and English were everywhere: NO SMOKING - DANGER! To one side their second 212 was in its final stages of the fifteen-hundred-hour check, but without the two 206s that made up their present complement of airplanes the hangar seemed empty and forlorn. “Agha,” he said to Nasiri, nodding back at their own guards, “tell them I’ve got to make arrangements about the chopper, and order that bugger not to smoke in the hangar.”
Nasiri did as he was asked. “They said all right, but to hurry up.” The guard who was smoking lazily flicked his cigarette onto the concrete. One of the mechanics hastily ground it out. Nasiri would have stayed but the guards motioned him onward. Reluctantly he left.
“Tank up FBC and ground-check her,” Scot said carefully, not sure if any of the guards understood English. “In an hour I’m to take our komiteh for a state visit to the sites. It seems we’ve a new komiteh from Sharpur now.” “Oh, shit,” someone muttered.
“What about the gear for Rig Rosa?” Effer Jordon asked. Beside him was Rod Rodrigues. Scot could see his anxiety.
“That’ll have to wait. Just tank FBC, Effer, and everyone check her out. Rod,” he said to encourage the older man, “now that we’re getting back to normal, you’ll soon get your home leave in London, capito?” “Sure, thanks, Scot.”
The guard beside Scot motioned him to go on. “Baleh, Agha - yes, all right, Excellency,” Scot said, then added to Rodrigues, “Rod, do a careful ground check for me.”
“Sure.”
Scot walked off, his guards following. Jordon called out anxiously, “What’s going on, and where’re you going?”
“I’m going for a stroll,” he said sarcastically. “How the hell would I know? I’ve been flying all morning.” He trudged off feeling tired and helpless and inadequate, wishing that Lochart or JeanLuc were there in his place. Bloody komiteh bastards! Bunch of bloody thugs.
Nasiri was a hundred yards ahead, walking quickly, the others already vanished around the bend in the track that meandered through the trees. It was just below freezing and the snow crunched underfoot, and though Scot felt warm in his flight gear, walking was awkward in his flying boots and he clomped along moodily, wanting to catch Nasiri but unable to. Snow was banked beside the path and heavy on the trees, clear skies above. Half a mile ahead, down the curling pathway was the village.
Yazdek was on a small plateau, nicely protected from the high winds. The huts and houses were made of wood, stone, and mud bricks and grouped around the square in front of the small mosque. Unlike most villages it was prosperous, plenty of wood for warmth in winter, plenty of game nearby, with communal flocks of sheep and goats, a few camels, and thirty horses and brood mares mat were their pride. Nitchak Khan’s home was a two- story, tile-roofed dwelling of four rooms, beside the mosque and bigger than all the others.
Next door was the schoolhouse, the most modem building. Tom Lochart had designed the simple structure and had persuaded McIver to finance it last year. Up to a few months ago the school had been run by a young man in the Shah’s Teaching Corps - the village was almost totally illiterate. When the Shah left, the young man had vanished. From time to time Tom Lochart and others from the base had given talks there - more question-and- answer sessions - partially for good relations and partially for something to do when there was no flying. The sessions were well attended by adults as well as by children, encouraged to do so by Nitchak Khan and his wife. As he came down the rise, Scot saw the others go into the schoolhouse. The truck that had brought the Green Bands was parked outside. Villagers were collected in groups, silently watching. Men, women, and children, none of them armed. Kash’kai women wore neither veils nor chador but multicolored robes.
Scot went up the stairs into the school. The last time he was here, just a few weeks ago, he had given a talk on the Hong Kong he knew when his father still worked there and he would visit from English boarding school during the holidays. It had been hard to explain what Hong Kong was like, with its teeming streets, typhoons, chopsticks and character writing, and foods and freebooting capitalism, the immensity of China overall. I’m glad we came back to Scotland, he thought. Glad the Old Man started S-G that I’m going to run one day.
“You are to sit down, Captain,” Nasiri said. “There.” He indicated a chair at the back of a low-ceilinged, crowded room. Ali-sadr and four other Green Bands were seated at the table where the teacher would normally sit. Nitchak Khan and the mullah sat in front of them. Villagers stood around. “What’s going on?” “It’s a… ameeting.”
Scot saw the fear pervading Nasiri and wondered what he would do if the Green Bands started to beat him. I should’ve been a black belt or boxer, he thought wearily, trying to understand the Farsi that poured out of the leader.
“What’s he saying, Agha?” he whispered to Nasiri.
“I… he’s … he’s saying… he’s telling Nitchak Khan how the village will be run in future. Please, I will explain later.” Nasiri moved away. In time the tirade stopped. Everyone looked at Nitchak Khan. He got up slowly. His face was grave and his words few. Even Scot understood. “Yazdek is Kash’kai. Yazdek will remain Kash’kai.” He turned his back on the table and began to leave, the mullah following.
At an angry command of the leader, two Green Bands barred his way. Contemptuously, Nitchak Khan brushed them aside, then others grabbed him, tension in the room soared, and Scot saw one villager slip out of the room unnoticed. Those Green Bands holding Nitchak Khan turned him around to face Ali-sadr and the other four who were on their feet, enraged, and shouting. No one had touched the old man who was the mullah. He held up his hand and began to speak, but the leader shouted him down and a sigh went through the villagers. Nitchak Khan did not struggle against the men pinioning him, just looked back at Ali-sadr, and Scot felt the hatred like a physical blow. The leader harangued all the villagers, then pointed an accusing finger at Nitchak Khan and once more ordered him to obey and once more Nitchak Khan said quietly, “Yazdek is Kash’kai. Yazdek will remain Kash’kai.” Ali-sadr sat down. So did the four others. Again Ali-sadr pointed and said a few words. A gasp went through the villagers. The four men beside him nodded their agreement. Ali-sadr said one word. It cut through the silence like a scythe. “Death!” He got up and walked out, villagers and Green Bands frog-marching Nitchak Khan after him, Scot forgotten. Scot ducked down to one side, trying to make himself scarce. Soon he was alone.
Outside, the Green Bands dragged Nitchak Khan to the wall of the mosque and stood him there. The square was empty now of villagers. As the other villagers came out of the schoolhouse into the square, they too hurried off. Except the mullah. Slowly he walked over to Nitchak Khan and stood beside him, facing the Green Bands who, twenty yards away, readied their guns. On Ali-sadr’s orders, two of them pulled the old man away. Nitchak Khan waited by the wall silently, proudly, then he spat in the dirt. The single rifle shot came out of nowhere. Ali-sadr was dead before he slumped to the ground. The silence was sudden and vast, and the Green Bands whirled in panic, then froze as a voice shouted, “Allah-u Akbarr, put down your guns!” No one moved, then one of the firing squad jerked his gun around at Nitchak Khan but died before he could pull the trigger. “God is Great, put down your guns!”
One of the Green Bands let his gun clatter to the ground. Another followed suit, another rushed for the truck
