greatly relieved. Lochart became grimmer.
“Lengeh, this is Sierra One, you’re five by five.” Scot’s voice from Al Shargaz was clean and clear. Sierra One was code for the office at Al Shargaz airport, Gavallan not wanting to draw any more attention to the sheikdom than necessary.
McIver clicked on the HF transmit. “Sierra One, this is Kowiss.” “Kowiss, this is Sierra One, you’re four by five.” “Sierra One, this’s Bandar Delam.” Both heard the tremble in Rudi’s voice.
“Bandar Delam, this’s Sierra One, you’re two by five.” Now only, static from the loudspeaker. McIver wiped his palms. “So far so good.” The coffee in his cup was cold and tasted awful but he finished it.
“Rudi sounded uptight, didn’t he?” Lochart said. “I’m sure I did too. So did Scrag.” McIver studied him, concerned for him; Lochart did not meet his eyes, just went over to the electric kettle and plugged it in. On the desk were four phones, two internal and two outside lines. In spite of his resolve, Lochart tried one of the outside phones, then the other. Both still dead. Dead for days now. Dead like me. No way of being in touch with Sharazad, no post.
“There’s a Canadian consul in Al Shargaz,” McIver said gruffly. “They could get through to Tehran for you from there.”
“Sure.” A gust rattled the temporary boarding over the broken window. Lochart paid the outside no attention, wondering about Sharazad, praying she would join him. Join me for what? The kettle Began to sing. He watched it. Since he had walked out of the apartment, he had blocked the future out of his mind. In the night it had surged back, much as he tried to prevent it. From the base came the first call of a muezzin. “Come to prayer, come to progress, prayer is better than sleep…”
*
AT BANDAR DELAM: 6:38 A.M. A sodden dawn, rain slight, wind less than yesterday. At the airfield Rudi Lutz, Sandor Petrofi, and Pop Kelly were in Rudi’s trailer, no lights on, drinking coffee. Outside on the veranda, Marc Dubois was stationed on guard against eavesdroppers. No lights on elsewhere in the base. Rudi glanced at his watch. “Hope to God it’s today,” Rudi said, “It’s today or never.” Kelly was very grim. “Make the call, Rudi.” “A minute yet.”
Through the window Rudi could see the maw of the hangar and their 212s. None of them had long-range tanks. Somewhere in the darkness, Fowler Joines and three mechanics were quietly putting the last of the spare fuel aboard, finishing preparations begun cautiously last night while the pilots diverted the camp guards and Numir. Just before going to bed the four of them had individually made their range calculations. They were all within ten nautical miles of each other.
“If the wind holds at this strength, we’re all in the goddamn sea,” Sandor had said softly, difficult to talk over the music but not safe without it - earlier Fowler Joines had spotted Numir lurking near Rudi’s trailer. “Yes,” Marc Dubois had agreed. “About ten kilometers out.” “Maybe we should blow Bahrain and divert to Kuwait, Rudi?” “No, Sandor, we’ve got to leave Kuwait open for Kowiss. Six Iranian registered choppers all zeroing in there? They’d have a hemorrhage.” “Where the hell’re the new registration numbers we were promised?” Kelly said, his nervousness growing every moment.
“We’re being met. Charlie Pettikin’s going to Kuwait, JeanLuc to Bahrain.” “Mon Dieu, that’s our bad luck,” Dubois had said, disgustedly. “JeanLuc’s always late, always. Those Pieds Noirs, they think like Arabs.” “If JeanLuc screws up this time,” Sandor had said, “he’ll be goddamn burger meat. Listen, about the gas, maybe we can get extra from Iran-Toda. It’s gonna look mighty suspicious to be loaded with all that gas, just to go down there.”
“Rudi, make the call. It’s time.”
“Okay, okay!” Rudi took a deep breath, picked up the mike. “Sierra One, this’s Bandar Delam, do you read? This is …”
AT AL SHARGAZ HQ: 6:40 A.M. “… Bandar Delam, do you read?”
Gavallan was sitting in front of the HF, Scot beside him, Nogger Lane leaning against a desk behind them, Manuela in the only other chair. All were rigid, staring at the loudspeaker, all sure the call meant trouble as the Whirlwind plan called for radio silence before 7:00 A.M. and during the actual escape, except in emergencies. “Bandar Delam, Sierra One,” Scot said throatily. “You’re two by five, go ahead.”
“We don’t know how your day is but we’ve some planned flights this morning and we’d like to bring them forward to now. Do you approve?” “Standby One,” Scot said.
“Damnation,” Gavallan muttered. “It’s essential all bases leave at the same time.” Then again the airwaves crackled into life.
“Sierra One, this’s Lengeh,” Scragger’s voice was much louder and clearer and more sharp. “We’ve flights too but the later the better. How’s your weather?”
“Standby One, Lengeh.” Scot glanced across at Gavallan, waiting. “Call Kowiss,” Gavallan said and everyone relaxed a little. “We’ll check with them first.”
“Kowiss, this’s Sierra One, do you read?” Silence. “Kowiss, this’s Sierra One, do you read?”
“This’s Kowiss, go ahead.” McIver’s voice sounded strained and was intermittent.
“Did you copy?”
“Yes. Prefer firm forecast as planned.”
“That decides it.” Gavallan took the mike. “Sierra One, all bases, our weather’s changeable. We will have your firm forecast at 0700.” “We copy,” Scragger said.
“We copy.” Rudi’s voice was brittle.
“We copy.” McIver sounded relieved.
Again the airwaves were silent. Gavallan said to no one in particular, “Better to stick to the plan. Don’t want to alert APC unnecessarily, or get that bugger Siamaki more difficult than usual. Rudi could have aborted if it was urgent, he still can.” He got up and stretched, then sat down again. Static. They were also listening on the emergency channel, 121.5. The Pan Am jumbo took off rattling the windows.
Manuela shifted in her seat, feeling she was encroaching even though Gavallan had said, “Manuela, you listen with us too, you’re the only Farsi speaker among us.” The time did not weigh so heavily for her. Her man was safe, a little damaged but safe, and her heart was singing with joy for the blessed luck that brought him out of the maelstrom. “Because that’s what it is, honey,” she had told him last night at the hospital.
“Maybe, but without Hussain’s help I’d still be in Kowiss.” If it wasn’t for that mullah you would never’ve been hit, she had thought but did not say it, not wanting to agitate him. “Can I get you anything, darlin’?” “A new head!” “They’re bringing a pill in a minute. Doctor said you’ll be flying in six weeks, that you’ve the constitution of a roan buffalo.”
“I feel like a bent chicken.” She had laughed.
Now she let herself drift comfortably, not having to sweat out the waiting like the others, particularly Genny. Two minutes to go. Static. Gavallan’s fingers drumming. A private jet took off and she could see another airplane on final, a jumbo with Alitalia colors. Wonder if that’ll be Paula’s flight back from Tehran?
The minute hand on the clock touched twelve. At 7:00 A.M. Gavallan took the mike. “Sierra One to all bases: Our forecast’s settled and we expect improving weather but watch out for small whirlwinds. Do you copy?” “Sierra One, this’s Lengeh.” Scragger was breezy. “We copy and will watch for whirlwinds. Out.”
“Sierra One, this’s Bandar Delam, we copy, and will watch for whirlwinds. Out.”
Silence. The seconds ticked by. Unconsciously Gavallan bit his lower lip. Waiting, then he clicked the transmit button. “Kowiss, do you read?”
AT KOWISS: 7:04 A.M. McIver and Lochart were staring at the HF. Almost together they checked their watches. Lochart muttered, “It’s an abort for today,” wet with relief. Another day’s reprieve, he thought. Maybe today the phones’ll come back in, maybe today I can talk to her… “They’d still call, that’s part of the plan, they call either way.” McIver clicked the switch on and off. The lights all checked out. So did the dials. “To hell with it,” he said and clicked on the sender. “Sierra One, this’s Kowiss, do you read?” Silence. Again, even more anxiously, “Sierra One, this’s Kowiss, do you read?” Silence.
“What the hell’s with them?” Lochart said through his teeth. “Lengeh, this’s Kowiss, do you read?” No answer. Abruptly McIver remembered and jumped to his feet and ran to the window. The main cable to the transmitter-receiver aerial was hanging loose, flapping in the wind. Cursing, McIver tore the door to the roof open and went out into the cold. His fingers were strong but the nuts were too rusted to move and he saw that the soldered wire ring was eaten away by rust and had fractured. “Bloody hell…” “Here.” Lochart was beside him and gave him the pliers. “Thanks.” McIver began to scrape the rust away. The rain had almost stopped but neither
