He slithered forward on his belly for the kill. Everything quiet, wind, birds, enemy. Everything waiting. In the ditch now. Progress slow. Getting near. Voices and a door creaking. Silence again. Another yard. Another. Now! He got his knees ready, dug his toes into the snow, eased the lever off the grenade, counted three, lurched to his feet, slipped but just managed to keep his balance, and hurled the grenade through the broken window, past the man standing there, gun pointing at him, and hit the snow again. The explosion stopped the burst of gunfire, almost blew out his own eardrums, and once again he was on his feet charging the trailer, firing as he went. He jumped over a corpse and went on in still firing. Suddenly his gun stopped and his stomach turned over, until he could jerk out the empty mag and slam in the new. He killed the machine gunner again and stopped. Silence. Then a scream nearby. Cautiously he kicked the broken door away and went on to the veranda. The screamer was legless, demented, but still alive. Around his waist was the leather belt and the kookri that had been Gueng’s. Fury blinded Ross, and he tore it out of the scabbard. “You got that at the roadblock?” he shouted in Farsi.
“Help me help me help me…” A paroxysm of some foreign language then, “… whoareyou who… help meeee…” The man continued screaming and mixed with it was, “… helpmehelp-meee yes I killed the saboteur… helpme…” With a bloodcurdling scream Ross hacked downward and when his eyes cleared he was staring into the face of the head that he held up in his left hand. Revolted, he dropped it and turned away. For a moment he did not know where he was, then his mind cleared, his nostrils were filled with the stench of blood and cordite, he found himself in the remains of the trailer and looked around.
The base was frozen, but men were running toward it from the roadblock. Near the chopper Lane and the mechanic were still motionless in the snow. He rushed for them, hugging cover.
Nogger Lane and the mechanic Arberry saw him coming and were panic-stricken - the stubble-bearded, matted-haired, wild-eyed maniac tribesman mujhadin or fedayeen who spoke perfect English, whose hands and sleeves were bloodstained from the head that only moments ago they had seen him hack off with a single stroke and a crazed scream, the bloody short sword-knife still in his hand, another in a scabbard, carbine in the other. They scrambled to their knees, hands up. “Don’t kill us - we’re friends, civilians, don’t kill u - ”
“Shut up! Get ready to take off. Quick!”
Nogger Lane was dumbfounded. “What?”
“For Christ’s sake, hurry,” Ross said angrily, infuriated by the look on their faces, completely oblivious of what he looked like. You,” he pointed at the mechanic with Gueng’s kookri. “You, see that rise there?” “Yes … yes, sir,” Arberry croaked.
“Go up there fast as you can, there’s a lady there, bring her down …” He stopped, seeing Azadeh come out of the forest edge and start running down the little hill toward them. “Forget that, go and get the other mechanic, hurry for Christ’s sake, the bastards from the roadblock’ll be here any minute. Go on, hurry!” Arberry ran off, petrified but more petrified of the men he could see coming down the road. Ross whirled on Nogger Lane. “I told you to get started.”
“Yes … yessir… that… that woman… that’s not Azadeh, Erikki’s Azadeh, is it?”
“Yes - I told you to start up!”
Nogger Lane never got a 206 into takeoff mode quicker, nor did the mechanics ever move faster. Azadeh still had a hundred yards to go and already the hostiles were too close. So Ross ducked under the whirling blades and got between her and them and emptied the magazine at them. Their heads went down and they scattered, and he threw the empty in their direction with a screaming curse. A few heads came up. Another burst and another, conserving ammunition, kept them down, Azadeh close now but slowing. Somehow she made a last effort and passed him, reeling drunkenly for the backseat to be half pulled in by the mechanics. Ross fired another short burst retreating, groped into the front seat, and they were airborne and away.
Chapter 44
KOWISS AIR BASE: 5:20 P.M. Starke picked up the card he had been dealt and looked at it. The ace of spades. He grunted, Superstitious like most pilots, but just slid it importantly into his hand. The five of them were in his bungalow playing draw poker: Freddy Ayre, Doc Nutt, Pop Kelly, and Tom Lochart who had arrived late yesterday from Zagros Three with another load of spares, continuing the evacuation but too late to fly back. Because of the order forbidding flying today, Holy Day, he was grounded here until dawn tomorrow. There was a wood fire in the grate, the afternoon cold. In front of all of them were piles of rials, the biggest in front of Kelly, the smallest Doc Nutt’s.
“How many cards, Pop?” Ayre asked.
“One,” Kelly said without hesitation, discarded, and put the four he was keeping face downward on the table in front of him. He was a tall, thinnish man with a crumpled face, thin fair hair, ex-RAF, and in his early forties. “Pop” was his nickname because he had seven children and another en route. Ayre dealt the one card with a flourish. Kelly just stared at it for a moment, then, without looking at it, slowly mixed it with the others, then very carefully and elaborately picked up the hand, sneaked a look at the merest sliver of the top right comer, card by card, and sighed happily. “Bullshit!” Ayre said and they all laughed. Except Lochart who stared moodily at his cards. Starke frowned, worried about him but very glad that he was here today. There was Gavallan’s secret letter that John Hogg had brought on the 125 to discuss.
“1,000 rials for openers,” Doc Nutt said and everyone looked at him. Normally he would bet 100 rials at the most.
Absently Lochart studied his hand, not interested in the game, his mind on Zagros - and Sharazad. The BBC last night had reported major clashes during the Women’s Protest marches in Tehran, Isfahan, and Meshed with more marches scheduled for today and tomorrow. ‘Too rich for me,” he said and threw in his cards.
“See you, Doc, and up a couple of thousand,” Starke said and Doc Nutt’s confidence vanished. Nutt had drawn two cards, Starke one, Ayre three. Kelly looked at his straight, 4-5-6-7-8. “Your 2,000, Duke, and up 3,000!” “Fold,” Ayre said instantly, throwing away two pairs, kings and tens. “Fold,” Doc Nutt said with a sigh of relief, shocked with himself for being so rash initially and threw in the three queens he had been dealt, sure that Starke had filled a straight, flush or full house.
“Your 3,000, Pop, and up 30 - thousand,” Starke said sweetly, feeling very good inside. He had split a pair of sixes to keep four hearts, going for a flush. The ace of spades had made it a very busted flush but a winning hand if he could bluff Kelly to back off.
All eyes were on Kelly. The room was silent. Even Lochart was suddenly interested.
Starke waited patiently, guarding his face and hands, uneasy about the air of confidence surrounding Kelly and wondering what he would do if Kelly raised him again, knowing what Manuela’ d say if she found out he was preparing to put a week’s pay on a busted flush.
She’d bust a girdle for starters, he thought and smiled.
Kelly was sweating. He had seen Starke’s sudden smile. He had caught him bluffing once but that was weeks ago and not for 30 thousand, only 4. I can’t afford to lose a week’s pay, still, the bugger could be bluffing. Something tells me old Duke’s bluffing, and I could use an extra week’s wages. Kelly rechecked his cards to make sure that his straight was a straight - of course it’s a bloody straight for God’s sake and Duke’s bluffing! He felt his mouth begin to say, “I’ll see your 30,000,” but he stopped it and said instead, “Up yours, Duke,” threw his cards in and everyone laughed. Except Starke. He picked up the pot, slid his cards into the deck, and shuffled them to make sure they could not be seen. “I’ll bet you were bluffing, Duke,” Lochart said and grinned. “Me? Me with a straight flush?” Starke said innocently amid jeers. He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to do the rounds. Let’s quit, continue after dinner, huh? Tom, you wanta come along?” “Sure.” Lochart put on his parka and followed Starke outside. This was the best time of day for them in normal times - just before sundown, flying done, all the choppers washed and refueled ready for tomorrow, a drink to look forward to, time to read a little, write a few letters, listen to some music, eat, call home, then bed.
The base checked out fine. “Let’s stroll, Tom,” Starke said. “When’re you going back to Tehran?” “How about tonight?” “Bad, huh?”
“Worse. I know Sharazad was on the Women’s March even though I told her not to, then there’s all the rest.”
Last night Lochart had told him about her father, and all about the loss of HBC. Starke had been appalled, still was, and once more blessed his luck that he had not known when he had been taken by Hussain and his Green Bands for questioning.
“Mac’ll have got hold of Sharazad by now, Tom. He’ll make sure she’s okay.” When Lochart had arrived, they had got on to McIver on the HF, reception good for a change, and had asked him to see that she was safe. In a few
