“Yessir. You’re right.” Starke was very deferential. “Of course you can close the base. We can redeploy the choppers or mothball them. Bandar Delam needs an immediate 212 for… for the Iran-Toda contract. Perhaps we could send ‘em one of ours, and close down the rest.”
Esvandiary said quickly, “Mr. Gavallan, work is getting more normal every day. The revolution is successful and over, the Imam in charge. The komitehs… the komitehs’ll soon disappear. There’ll be all the Guerney contracts to service, double the number of 212s needed. As to overdue license renewals - Insha’Allah! We will wait thirty days. No need to close operations. No need to be hasty, Mr. Gavallan, you’ve been on this base a long time, you’ve a big investment here an - ”
“I know what our investment is,” Gavallan snapped with real anger, hating the unctuous undercurrent. “Very well, Captain Starke, I’ll take your advice and by God you’d better be right. Put two men on the 125 tonight, their replacements will be back next week. Send the 212 to Bandar Delam tomorrow - how long is she to be on loan?”
“Six days, sir, back next Sunday.”
Gavallan said to Esvandiary, “She’ll come back, pending an improved situation here.”
“The 212 is ours… the 212 is the base’s equipment, Mr. Gavallan,” Esvandiary corrected himself quickly. “We carry it on our manifests. It will have to come back. As to personnel, the rule is that incoming pilots and mechanics arrive first to replace those going on leave an - ” “Then we’re going to bend the rules - Mister Esvandiary - or I close the base now,” Gavallan said curdy and held on to his hope. “Starke, put two men on the plane tonight, all but a skeleton staff on the Thursday flight, and we’ll send her back with full replacements on Friday, pending the situation coming back to normal.”
Starke saw Esvandiary’s rage returning so he said quickly, “We’re not allowed to fly on Holy Day, sir. The full crew should come first thing Saturday morning.” He glanced at Esvandiary. “Don’t you agree?” For a moment Esvandiary thought he was going to explode, his pent-up rage almost overcoming his resolve. “If you… if you apologize - for the foul names and your foul manners.”
There was a big silence, the door still open, the room chill, but Starke felt the sweat on his back as he weighed his answer. They had achieved so much - if Whirlwind was to come to pass - but Esvandiary was no fool and a quick acquiescence would make him suspicious, as a refusal might jeopardize their gains. “I apologize for nothing - but I will call you Mr. Esvandiary in future,” he said.
Without a word Esvandiary turned on his heel and stormed off. Starke closed the door, his shirt under his sweater sticking to him.
“What the hell was all that about, Duke?” Ayre said angrily. “Are you bonkers?”
“Just a moment, Freddy,” Gavallan said. “Duke, will Hotshot go along with it?”
“I… I don’t know.” Starke sat down, his knees trembling. “Jesus.”
“If he does… if he does… Duke, you were brilliant! It was a brilliant idea, brilliant.”
“You caught the ball, Andy, you made the touchdown.”
“If it is a touchdown.” Gavallan wiped the sweat off his own brow. He began to explain to Ayre, stopped as the phone rang.
“Hello? This’s Starke… Sure, hang on… Andy, it’s the tower. McIver’s on the HF for you. Wazari asks if you want to go over right away or call him back - McIver says to tell you he’s gotten a message from a guy called Avisyard.”
In the control room, Gavallan touched the send switch, almost sick with worry, Wazari watching him, another English-speaking Green Band as attentive. “Yes, Captain McIver?”
“Evening, Mr. Gavallan, glad I caught you.” McIver’s voice was heavy with static and noncommittal. “How do you read?”
“Three by five, Captain McIver, go ahead.”
“I’ve just got a telex from Liz Chen. It says: ‘Please forward to Mr. Gavallan the following telex, dated 25 Feb., just arrived: “Your request is approved, [signed] Masson Avisyard.” A copy has gone to Al Shargaz.’ Message ends.”
For a moment Gavallan did not believe his ears. “Approved?” “Yes. I repeat: ‘Your request is approved.’ Telex’s signed Masson Avisyard. What should I reply?”
Gavallan was hard put to keep the glow off his face. Masson was the name of his friend in the Aviation Registration Office in London and the “request” was to put all their Iranian-based helicopters temporarily back onto British registry. “Just acknowledge it, Captain McIver.”
“We can proceed with planning.”
“Yes. I agree. I’m off in a couple of minutes, is there anything else?”
“Not for the moment - just routine. I’ll bring Captain Starke up to date tonight at our regular time. Very glad about Masson, happy landings.” “Thanks, Mac, and you.” Gavallan clicked off the switch and handed the mike back to young Sergeant Wazari. He had noticed the bad bruising, broken nose, and that some of his teeth were missing. But he said nothing. What was there to say, “Thank you, Sergeant?” Wazari motioned out of the windows at the apron below where the refueling crew had started winding in the long hoses. “She’s all gassed, s - ” He just stopped the automatic “sir.” “We’ve, er, we’ve no runway lights operating so you’d best be aboard soon as possible.”
“Thank you.” Gavallan felt almost light-headed as he walked for the stairs. The interbase HF crackled into life. “This’s the base commander. Put Mr. Gavallan on.”
At once Wazari clicked the send switch. “Yessir.” Nervously he handed the mike to Gavallan whose caution had soared. “He’s Maj - sorry, he’s now Colonel Changiz.”
“Yes, Colonel? Andrew Gavallan.”
“Aliens are forbidden to use the HF for code messages - who is Masson Avisyard?”
“A design engineer,” Gavallan said. It was the first thought that came into his head. Watch yourself, this bastard’s clever. “I certainly wasn’t tr - ” “What was your ‘request’ and who is…” There was a slight pause and muffled voices. “… who is Liz Chen?”
“Liz Chen is my secretary, Colonel. My request was to…” To what? he wanted to shout, then all at once the answer came to him. “… to confine seating to a configuration six rows of two seats either side of a gangway of a new chopper, the X63. The manufacturers wanted a different configuration but our engineers believe that this six by four would enhance safety and make for speedy exit in case of emergency. It would also save money and m - ” “Yes, very well,” the colonel interrupted him testily. “I repeat, the HF is not to be used except with prior approval until the emergency is over, and certainly not for code. Your refueling is completed, you’re cleared for immediate takeoff. Tomorrow’s landing to pick up the body of the Zagros casualty is not approved. EchoTangoLimaLima may land Monday between 1100 and 1200, subject to confirm by HQ that will be sent to Kish radar. Good night.” “But we already have Tehran’s formal approval, sir. My pilot gave it to your landing chief the moment he arrived.”
The colonel’s voice hardened even more: “The Monday clearance is subject to confirmation by Iran Air Force HQ. Iran Air Force HQ. This is an Iran Air Force base, you are subject to Iran Air Force regulation and discipline and will abide by Iran Air Force regulations and discipline. Do you understand?” After a pause, Gavallan said, “Yes, sir, I understand, but we’re a civilian oper - ”
“You’re in Iran, on an Iran Air Force base and therefore subject to Iran Air Force regulations and discipline.” The channel went dead. Nervously Wazari tidied his already meticulous desk.
Sunday - February 25
Chapter 49
ZAGROS - RIG BELLISSIMA: 11:05 A.M. In the biting cold Tom Lochart watched Jesper Almqvist, the down- hole expert, handle the big plug that now was suspended by a wire over the exposed drilling hole. All around was the burned-out wreckage of the rig and trailers from the terrorist firebomb attack, already half buried in new snow.
“Lower away,” the young Swede shouted. At once his assistant in the small, self-contained cabin started the winch. Awkwardly fighting the wind, Jesper guided the plug down into the well’s metal casing. The plug consisted of an explosive charge over two metal half cups fixed around a rubber sealing ring. Lochart could see how tired both men were. This was the fourteenth well they had capped over the last three days, still five more to go, the sunset deadline only seven hours away, each well a two-to three-hour job in good conditions - once they were on site.
“Sonofabitching conditions,” Lochart muttered, equally weary. Too many flying hours since the Green Band of the komiteh had decreed the deadline, too many problems: scrambling to close down the whole field with its eleven
