the seats, delivering another of his interminable lectures, this time to the Japanese. Better them’n me, Scragger told himself amused. He had known de Plessey for three years and liked him - for the French food he provided and the quality of his bridge which they both enjoyed, but not for his conversation. Oil men’re all the same, oil’s all they know and all they want to know, and as far as they’re concerned all the rest of us are here on earth to consume the stuff, pay through the bloody nose for it till we’re dead - and even then most crematoriums’re oil fired. Bloody hell! Oil’s skyrocketed to $14.80 a barrel, $4.80 a couple of years ago, and $ 1.80 a few years before that. Bloody highway robbers, the bloody lot, OPEC, the Seven Sisters, and even North Sea oil!
“All these rigs’re on legs that sit on the sea floor,” de Plessey was saying, “all French built and operated, serving one well each…” He wore khakis, and had sparse sandy hair, his face sunburned. The other Frenchmen were chattering and arguing among themselves - and that’s all they do, Scragger thought, except eat and drink wine and romance the pants off any sheila without so much as a by-your-leave. Like that old bugger JeanLuc, king cocksman of them all! Still, they’re all individualists, every one of them - not like those other buggers. The Japanese were all short, lithe, and well groomed, all dressed the same: short-sleeved white shirt and dark tie and dark trousers and dark shoes, same digital watches, dark glasses; the only difference was in their ages. Like sardines in a can, Scragger thought.
“.. .The water here, as in all of the Gulf is very shallow, M’sieur Kasigi,” de Plessey was saying. “Here it’s just about a hundred feet - oil’s easy to reach at about a thousand feet. We’ve six wells in this part of the field we call Siri Three, they’re all on stream, that is connected by pipes and pumping oil into our storage tanks on Siri island - tank capacity is 3 million barrels and all tanks are full now.”
“And the docking on Siri, M’sieur de Plessey?” Kasigi, the graying Japanese spokesman asked, his English clear and careful. “I could not see when we were over the island.”
“We load offshore at the moment. A wharf’s planned for next year. Meanwhile there’ll be no problem to load your medium tankers, M’sieur Kasigi. We guarantee quick service, quick loading. After all, we are French. You’ll see tomorrow. Your Rikomaru hasn’t been delayed?”
“No. She will be there at noon. What’s the final capacity of the field?” “Limitless,” the Frenchman said with a laugh. “We’re only pumping 75,000 barrels a day now but, mon Dieu, under the seabed here is a lake of oil.” “Capit’an Excellency!” At Scragger’s side window was the beaming face of young Abdollah Turik, one of the fire crew. “I very good, ver very good. You?”
“Tip-top, young feller. How’re things?”
“I pleased you to see, Capit’an Excellency.”
About a year ago Scragger’s base at Lengeh had been alerted by radio there was a CASEVAC on this rig. It was in the middle of a duty night and the Iranian manager said perhaps the fireman had a burst appendix and could they get there as quick as possible after dawn - night flying being forbidden in Iran except for emergencies. Scragger had been duty officer and he had gone at once - it was company policy to go immediately, even in minimum conditions, and part of their special service. He had fetched the young man, taken him direct to the Iranian Naval Hospital at Bandar Abbas and talked them into accepting the youth. But for that the youth would have died. Ever since then the young man would be there to welcome him, once a month there was a haunch of fresh goat meat at the base, much as Scragger tried to prevent it, because of the expense. Once he had visited the village in the hinterland of Lengeh where the youth had come from. It was usual: no sanitation, no electricity, no water, dirt floors, mud walls. Iran was very basic outside the cities but, even so, better than most of the Gulf states outside the cities. Abdollah’s family was like all the others, no better no worse. Many children, clouds of flies, a few goats and chickens, a few scrubby acres and soon, his father had said, one day soon we’ll have our own school, Excellency pilot, and our own water supply and one day electricity, and yes it is true we are much better off with work from our oil that foreigners exploit - thanks be to God for giving us oil. Thanks be to God that my son Abdollah lived. It was the Will of God that Abdollah lived, the Will of God that persuaded the Excellency pilot to take so much trouble. Thanks be to God!
“How’re things, Abdollah?” Scragger repeated, liking the youth who was modern, not like his father.
“Good.” Abdollah came closer, put his face almost into the window. “Capit’an,” he said haltingly, no longer smiling, his voice so soft Scragger had to bend forward to hear. “Soon much trouble … Communist Tudeh, mujhadin, perhaps fedayeen. Guns and explosives - perhaps a ship at Siri. Danger. Please please say not anything who says, yes?” Then he put back the smile on his face and called out loudly, “Happy landings and come again soon, Agha.” He waved once and, hiding his nervousness, went back to join the others.
“Sure, sure, Abdollah,” Scragger muttered. There were a number of Iranians watching but that was usual. Pilots were appreciated because they were the only link on a CASEVAC. He saw the landing master give him the thumbs-up. Automatically he turned around and rechecked that all was locked and everyone back in his place. “Shall I take her, Ed?”
“Yeah, sure, Scrag.”
At a thousand feet Scragger leveled off, heading for Siri One where the rest of the passengers were due to disembark. He was very perturbed. Stone the crows, he thought. One bomb could blow Siri island into the Gulf. This was the first time there had been any whisper of trouble. The Siri field had never been subjected to any of the strikes that had closed down all other fields, mostly, expats believed, because the French had given sanctuary to Khomeini.
Sabotage? Didn’t the Jap say he’s got a tanker due tomorrow? Yes, he did. Wot to do? Nothing at the moment, just put Abdollah aside for later - now’s not the time, not when you’re flying.
He glanced at Vossi. Ed did good, very good, better than … better than who? His mind ranged over all the pilots he had helped train over the years. Hundreds. He had been flying since he was fifteen, Royal Australian Air Force at seventeen in ‘33, Spitfires in ‘39 and flight lieutenant, then converting to choppers in ‘45. Korea ‘49, and out after twenty years’ service, still a flight lieutenant, still ornery, and only thirty-seven. He laughed. In the air force he was always on the mat.
“For Christ’s sake, Scragger, why pick on the air vice-marshal? You’ve done it this time… .”
“But, Wingco, the Limey started it, the bastard said all us Aussies were thieves, had chain marks around our wrists, and were descended from convicts!”
“He did? Fucking Limeys’re all the same, Scrag, even though in your case he was probably right as your family’s been Down Under forever, but even so you’re still busted a rank again and if you don’t behave I’ll ground you forever!”
But they never did. How could they? DFC and Bar, APC and Bar, sixteen kills, and three times as many missions, happily, as anyone in the whole RAAF. And today still flying which was all he wanted in the world, still trying to be the best and safest, and still wanting to walk away from a prang, all passengers safe. If you fly choppers you can’t not have equipment failures, he thought, knowing he had been very, very lucky. Not like some, equally good pilots, whose luck ran out. You’ve got to be lucky to be a good pilot. Again he glanced across at Vossi, glad there wasn’t a war on which was a pilot’s great testing ground. I wouldn’t like to lose young Ed, he’s one of the best in S-G. Now who’s better that you’ve flown with? Charlie Pettikin, of course, but then he should be, he’s been a bush pilot and through the wringer too. Tom Lochart the same. Dirty Duncan McIver’s still the best of the lot even though he’s grounded, may he rot with his bleeding three-month medicals - but I’d be just as mean and just as careful with him if I was grounded and he was flying around at sixty-three like a junior birdman. Poor bugger.
Scragger shuddered. If the CAA bring in the new regs about age and enforced retirement, I’ve had it. The day I’m grounded I’m for the pearly gates and no doubt about it.
Siri One was still well ahead. He had landed there three times a week for a year or more. Even so he was planning his approach as though it were the first time. “Safety’s no accident, it has to be prepared.” Today we’ll do a nice gentle low approach an - “Scrag.”
“Yes, me son?”
“You scared the bejesus outta me.”
He chuckled, “You scared the bejesus out’ve yourself, that’s lesson number one. Wot else did you learn?”
“I guess how goddamn easy it is to panic, how lonely you feel, helpless, and to bless your eyes.” Vossi almost burst out, “I guess I learned how mortal I am, goddamnit. Jesus, Scrag, I was scared - shit-scared.” “When it happened t’me I did it in my pants.”
“Huh?”
“I was flying out of Kuwait, a 47G2 in the old days, the sixties.” The 47G2 was the small, three-seat, bubble-
