awake but motionless. In great pain but without complaining.
A doctor and orderlies were at the helipad seconds after touchdown. The doctor wore a white coat with a large red cross on the sleeve over heavy sweaters, and he was in his thirties, American, dark rings around bloodshot eyes. He knelt beside the stretcher as the others waited in silence. She groaned a little when he touched her abdomen even though his hands were healing hands. In a moment he spoke to her gently in halting Turkish. A small smile went over her and she nodded and thanked him. He motioned to the orderlies and they lifted the stretcher out of the cabin and carried her away. At Bayazid’s order, two of his men went with her.
The doctor said to Bayazid in halting dialect, “Excellency, I need name and age and…” He searched for the word. “History, medical history.” “Speak English.”
“Good, thank you, Agha. I’m Doctor Newbegg. I’m afraid she’s near the end, Agha, her pulse is almost zero. She’s old and I’d say she was hemorrhaging - bleeding - internally. Did she have a fall recently?”
“Speak slower, please. Fall? Yes, yes, two days ago.” Bayazid stopped at the sound of gunfire not far away, then went on: “Yes, two days ago. She slip in snows and fell against a rock, on her side against a rock.” “I think she’s bleeding inside. I’ll do what we can but… sorry, I can’t promise good news.”
“Insha’Allah.”
“You’re Kurds?”
“Kurds.” More firing, closer now. They all looked off to where the sound came from. “Who?”
“I don’t know, just more of the same, I’m afraid,” the doctor said uneasily. “Green Bands against leftists, leftists against Green Bands, against Kurds - many factions - and all’re armed.” He rubbed his eyes. “I’ll do what I can for the old lady - perhaps you’d better come with me, Agha, you can give me the details as we go.” He hurried off.
“Doc, do you still have fuel here?” Erikki called after him. The doctor stopped and looked at him blankly. “Fuel? Oh, chopper fuel? I don’t know. Gas tank’s in back.” He went up the stairs to the main entrance, his white coattail flapping.
“Captain,” Bayazid said, “you will wait till I return. Here.” “But the fuel? I ca - ”
“Wait here. Here.” Bayazid rushed after the doctor. Two of his men went with him. Two stayed with Erikki.
While Erikki waited, he checked everything. Tanks almost empty. From time to time cars and trucks arrived with wounded to be met by doctors and medics. Many eyed the chopper curiously but none approached. The guards made sure of that.
During the flight here Bayazid had said: “For centuries we Kurds try for independent. We a separate people, separate language, separate customs. Now perhaps six million Kurds in Azerbaijan, Kurdistan, over Soviet border, this side of Iraq, and Turkey.” He had almost spat the word. “For centuries we fight them all, together or singly. We hold the mountains. We are good fighters. Salah-al-din - he was Kurd. You know of him?” Salah-al-din - Saladin - was the chivalrous Muslim opponent of Richard the Lion-Hearted during the Crusades of the twelfth century, who made himself Sultan of Egypt and Syria and captured the Kingdom of Jerusalem in A.D. 1187 after smashing the allied might of the Crusaders.
“Yes, I know of him.”
“Today other Salah-al-dins among us. One day we recapture again all the holy places - after Khomeini, betrayer of Islam, is stamped into joub.” Erikki had asked, “You ambushed Cimtarga and the others and wiped them out just for the CASEVAC?”
“Of course. They enemy. Yours and ours.” Bayazid had smiled his twisted smile. “Nothing happens in our mountains without us knowing. Our chieftain sick - you nearby. We see the Americans leave, see scavengers arrive, and you were recognized.”
“Oh? How?”
“Redhead of the Knife? The Infidel who kills assassins like lice, then given a Gorgon whelp as reward! CASEVAC pilot?” The dark, almost sloe eyes were amused. “Oh, yes, Captain, know you well. Many of us work timber as well as oil - a man must work. Even so, it’s good you not Soviet or Iranian.” “After the CASEVAC will you and your men help me against Gorgon Khan?” Bayazid had laughed. “Your blood feud is your blood feud, not ours. Abdollah Khan is for us, at moment. We not go against him. What you do is up to God.” It was cold in the hospital forecourt, a slight wind increasing the chill factor. Erikki was walking up and down to keep his circulation going. I’ve got to get back to Tabriz. I’ve got to get back and then somehow I’ll take Azadeh and we’ll leave forever.
Firing nearby startled him and the guards. Outside the hospital gates, the traffic slowed, horns sounding irritably, then quickly snarled. People began running past. More firing and those trapped in their vehicles got out and took cover or fled. Inside the gates the expanse was wide, the 212 parked on the helipad to one side. Wild firing now, much closer. Some glass windows on the top floor of the hospital blew out. The two guards were hugging the snow behind the plane’s undercarriage, Erikki fuming that his airplane was so exposed and not knowing where to run or what to do, no time to take off, and not enough fuel to go anywhere. A few ricochets, and he ducked down as the small battle built outside the walls. Then it died as quickly as it had begun. People picked themselves up out of cover, horns began sounding, and soon the traffic was as normal and as spiteful as ever.
“Insha” Allah,” one of the tribesmen said, then cocked his rifle and came on guard. A small gasoline truck was approaching from behind the hospital, driven by a young Iranian with a broad smile. Erikki went to meet it. “Hi, Cap,” the driver said happily, his accent heavily New York. “I’m to gas you up. Your fearless leader, Sheik Bayazid, fixed it.” He greeted the tribesmen in Turkish dialect. At once they relaxed and greeted him back. “Cap, we’ll fill her brimming. You got any temp tanks, or special tanks?” “No. Just the regular. I’m Erikki Yokkonen.”
“Sure. Red the Knife.” The youth grinned. “You’re kinda a legend in these parts. I gassed you once, maybe a year ago.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m ‘Gasoline’ Ali - Ali Reza mat is.”
They shook hands and, while they talked, the youth began the refuel. “You went to American school?” Erikki asked.
“Hell, no. I was sort of adopted by the hospital, years ago, long before this one was built, when I was a kid. In the old days the hospital worked out of one of the Golden Ghettos on the east side of town - you know, Cap, U.S. Personnel Only, an ExTex depot.” The youth smiled, screwed the tank cap back carefully, and started to fill the next. “The first doc who took me in was Abe Weiss. Great guy, just great. He put me on the payroll, taught me about soap and socks and spoons and toilets - hell, all sorts of gizmos un-Iranian for street rats like me, with no folks, no home, no name, and no nothing. He used to call me his hobby. He even gave me my name. Then, one day, he left.”
Erikki saw the pain in the youth’s eyes, quickly hidden. “He passed me on to Doc Templeton, and he did the same. At times it’s kinda hard to figure where I’m at. Kurd but not, Yank but not - Iranian but not, Jew but not, Muslim but not Muslim.” He shrugged. “Kinda mixed up, Cap. The world, everything. Huh?”
“Yes.” Erikki glanced toward the hospital. Bayazid was coming down the steps with his two fighters beside orderlies carrying a stretcher. The old woman was covered now, head to foot.
“We leave soon as fuel,” Bayazid said shortly.
“Sorry,” Erikki said.
“Insha’Allah.” They watched the orderlies put the stretcher into the cabin. Bayazid thanked them and they left. Soon the refuel was complete. “Thanks, Mr. Reza.” Erikki stuck out his hand. “Thanks.”
The youth stared at him. “No one’s ever called me mister before, Cap, never.” He pummeled Erikki’s hand. “Thanks - any time you want gas, you got it.”
Bayazid climbed in beside Erikki, fastened his belt, and put on the headset, the engines building. “Now we go to village from whence we came.” “What then?” Erikki asked.
“I consult new chieftain,” Bayazid said, but he was thinking, this man and the helicopter will bring a big ransom, perhaps from the Khan, perhaps from the Soviets, or even from his own people. My people need every rial we can get.
NEAR TABRIZ ONE - IN THE VILLAGE OF ABU MARD: 6:16 P.M. Azadeh picked up the bowl of rice and the bowl of horisht, thanked the headman’s wife, and walked across the duty, refuse-fouled snow to the hut that was set a little apart. Her face was pinched, her cough not good. She knocked, then went through the low doorway. “Hello, Johnny. How do you feel? Any better?” “I’m fine,” he said. But he wasn’t.
The first, night they had spent in a cave not far away, huddled together, shivering from the cold. “We can’t stay here, Azadeh,” he had said in the dawn. “We’ll freeze to death. We’ll have to try the base.” They had gone through the snows and watched from hiding. They saw the two mechanics and even Nogger Lane from time to time
