silence again.
“For the moment,” Rudi muttered.
“What was all that about, Captain?” Faganwitch asked.
“We’re pegged. It’s barely fifty minutes since we took off and we’re pegged!” There were fighter bases all around them and ahead was the big, very efficient one at Kharg. He had no doubt whatsoever that if they were intercepted they would be shot down like HBC. Correctly, he thought, sickened. And though they were safe enough at the moment down here just above the waves, visibility now less than a quarter of a mile, before long the haze would thin out and then they would be helpless. Again Jahan’s voice, “Tehran, this is Bandar Delam, do you read?” Static. “Kowiss, this is Bandar Delam, do you read?” No reply.
Rudi cursed to himself. Janan was a good radio op, persistent, and would keep calling until Kowiss or Tehran reported in. And then? That’s their problem, not mine. Mine’s to get my four out safely, that’s all I have to worry about. I’ve got to lead my four out safely.
Ten to fifteen feet below were the waves, not yet white-topped but gray and nasty and the wind had not lessened. He looked across at Kelly and waved his hand from left to right, the signal to spread out more and not to try to keep visual contact if visibility got any worse. Kelly acknowledged. He did the same to Dubois who passed the message on to Sandor, on his extreme right, then settled down to squeeze maximum range with minimum fuel, straining his eyes to pierce the whiteout ahead. Soon they would be deep in the real sea lanes.
LENGEH, AT THE AIRFIELD: 8:31 A.M. “Jesus, Scrag, we thought you’d been arrested,” Vossi burst out, Willi with him, intercepting his car, both of them weak with relief, their three mechanics also crowding around. “What happened?”
“I’ve got the passports, so let’s get on with it.”
“We gotta problem.” Vossi was white.
Scragger grimaced, still sweating from the waiting and the ride back. “Now wot?”
“Ali Pash’s here. He’s on the HF. He came in as usual, we tried to send him off but he wouldn’t go an - ”
Impatiently, Willi butted in: “And for the last five minutes, Scrag, for the last five or ten minutes he’s been by God Harry peculiar an - ” “Like he’s got a vibrator up his ass, Scrag, never seen him like th - ” Vossi stopped. Ali Pash came out onto the veranda of the office radio room and beckoned Scragger urgently.
“Be right there, Ali,” Scragger called out. To Benson, their chief mechanic, Scragger whispered, “You and your lads all set?”
“Yessir.” Benson was small, wiry, and nervous. “I got your stuff into the wagon just before Ali Pash came along. We scarper?”
“Wait till I get to the office. Ev - ”
“We got Delta Four, Scrag,” Willi said, “nothing from the others.”
“Bonzer. Everyone wait till I give the signal.” Scragger took a deep breath and walked off, greeting the Green Bands he passed. “Salaam, Ali Pash, g’day,” he said, seeing the nervousness and anxiety. “I thought I gave you the day off.”
“Agha, there someth - ”
“Just a sec, me son!” Scragger turned and with pretended irascibility called out, “Benson, I told you if you and Drew want to go and picnic to go, but you’d better be back by two o’clock or else! And wot the hell’re you two waiting for? Are you ground-checking or aren’t you?”
“Yeah, Scrag, sorry, Scrag!”
He almost laughed seeing them fall over one another, Benson and the American mechanic, Drew, jumping into the old van and driving off, Vossi and Willi heading for their cockpits. Once inside the office he breathed easier, put his briefcase with the passports on his desk. “Now, wot’s the problem?” “You’re leaving us, Agha,” the young man said to Scragger’s shock.
“Well, we, er, we’re not leaving,” Scragger began, “we’re ground-test - ”
“Oh, but you’re leaving, you are! There’s…there’s no crew change tomorrow, there’s no need for suitcases - I saw Agha Benson with suitcases - and why all the spares sent out and all the pilots and mechanics …” The tears began streaming down the young man’s cheeks. “… it’s true.” “Now listen here, me son, you’re upset. Take the day off.” “But you’re leaving like those at Bandar Delam, you’re leaving today and what’s going to happen to us?”
A burst of Farsi from the HF loudspeaker overrode him. The young man wiped away his tears and touched the transmit, replying in Farsi, then added in English, “Standby One,” and said miserably, “That was Agha Janan again repeating what he radioed ten minutes ago. Their four 212s have vanished, Agha. They’ve gone, Agha. They took off at 7:32 A.M. to go to Iran-Toda but didn’t land there, just went inland.”
Scragger groped for his chair, trying to appear calm. Again the HF, in English now: “Tehran, this’s Bandar Delam, do you read?”
“He calls Tehran every few minutes, and Kowiss, but no answer…” More tears welled out of the young man’s eyes. “Have Kowiss already gone too, Agha? Is Tehran empty of your people? What’re we going to do when you’ve gone?” On the ramp the first of the 212s started up noisily, closely followed by the second. “Agha,” Ali Pash said uneasily, “we’re supposed to request engine start from Kish now.”
“No need to bother them on their holiday, it’s hardly a flight, just testing,” Scragger said. He switched on the VHF and wiped his chin, feeling somehow dirty and greatly unsettled. He liked Ali Pash and what the young man had said was true. With them gone there was no job, no business, and for the Ali Pashes there was only Iran, and only God knew what would happen here. Over the VHF came Willi’s voice: “My torque counter’s acting up, Scrag.”
Scragger took the mike. “Take her over to the cabbage patch and test her.” This was an area some five miles inland, well away from the town where they tested engines and could practice emergency procedures. “Stay there, Willi, any problem call me, I can always fetch Benson if you need an adjustment. How you doing, Ed?”
“Dandy, real dandy. Scrag, if it’s okay, I’d like to practice some engine outs, my license renewal’s coming up soon - Willi can bird-dog me, huh?” “Okay. Call me in an hour.” Scragger went to the window, glad to have his back to Ali Pash and away from those sad, accusing eyes. Both choppers took off and headed inland away from the coast. The office seemed to be stuffier than usual. He opened the window. Ali Pash was sitting gloomily by the radio. “Why not take the day off, lad?”
“I have to reply to Bandar Delam. What should I say, Agha?” “Wot did Jahan ask you?”
“He said Agha Numir wanted to know if I’d noticed anything strange, if anything strange had happened here, spares leaving, airplanes leaving, pilots and mechanics.”
Scragger watched him. “Seems to me nothing strange’s happened here. I’m here, mechanics’ve gone picknicking, Ed and Willi are off on routine checks. Routine. Right?” He kept his eyes on him, willing him to come over to their side. He had no way of persuading him, nothing to offer him, no pishkesh, except…
“You approve of wot’s happening here, me son?” he asked carefully. “I mean, what the future holds for you here?”
“Future? My future’s with the company. If… if you leave, then… then 1 have no job, I won’t… I can’t afford to m… I won’t, can’t afford anything. I’m the only son…”
“If you wanted to leave, well, there’d be your job and a future if you wanted it - outside Iran. Guaranteed.”
The youth gaped at him, suddenly understanding what Scragger was offering. “But… but what is guaranteed, Agha? A life in your West, me alone? What of my people, my family, my young bride-to-be?”
“Can’t answer that, Ali Pash,” Scragger said, eyes on the clock, conscious of time slipping by, the lights and the hum of the HF, readying to overpower the young man who was taller than he, bigger built, younger by thirty-five years, and then disable the HF and make a run for it. Sorry, me son, but one way or another you’re going to cooperate. Casually he moved closer, into a better position. “Insha’Allah is your way of putting it,” he said kindly, and readied.
Hearing that come from the mouth of this kind, strange old man he respected so much, Ali Pash felt a flood of warmth pervade him. “This is my home, Agha, my land,” Ali Pash said simply. “The Imam is the Imam and he obeys only God. The future is the future and in God’s hands. The past too is the past.”
Before Scragger could stop him, Ali Pash called Bandar Delam and now was speaking Farsi into the mike. The two operators talked with one another for a moment or two, then abruptly he signed off. And looked up at Scragger. “I don’t blame you for leaving,” he said. “Thank you, Agha, for… for the past.” Then, with great deliberation, he switched the HF off, took out a circuit breaker, and pocketed it. “I told him we… we were closing down for the day.”
