food waste and human waste from the rigs went overboard, sharks would usually be nearby.
“Have you ever seen a big one, Captain?”
“Too right. There’s a hammerhead that lurks off Kharg Island. I was stationed there for a couple of years and I’d spot him, oh, once or twice every few months. He’s maybe twenty-five, maybe thirty feet. I’ve seen plenty of giant stingrays but he’s the only big one.”
De Plessey shuddered. “Merde on all sharks. I was almost caught once on Siri and I was, how do you say it, ah, yes, I was only paddling but the shark came racing at me in the shallows and going so fast it beached itself. It was about eight feet long. We shot it six times but it still thrashed around and tried to get us and took hours to die and even then not one of us wanted to get within range of it. Eh, sharks!” He glanced back at the broken blade. “Me, I am very happy to be on the rig.”
They all agreed. The Frenchmen started chattering among themselves, gesticulating, two went to unload some hampers and another went to help the man who was still being sick. Riggers wandered off. The Japanese waited and watched.
Superstitiously Vossi touched the blade. “Just for luck, huh, Scrag?” “Why not? So long as you and the passengers walk away, it was a good landing.”
“What caused it?” de Plessey asked.
“Don’t know, mate,” Scragger said. “There was a flock of
small seabirds, terns I think, at Siri Three. One of them might have gone into the rotor and caused a stress point - I never felt anything, but then you wouldn’t. I know the rotor was perfect this morning because we both checked her as routine.” He shrugged. “Act of God.”
“Oui. Espcce de con! Me, I don’t like to be that close to an Act of God.” He frowned at the landing pad. “Can a 206 or Alouette get in to take us out by stages?”
“We’ll send for another 212 and park our bird over there.” Scragger pointed to the inside of the landing pad near the tall stack of the working derrick. “We’ve wheels in the baggage compartment, so it’ll be no sweat, and no delay for you.”
“Good. Good, then we’ll leave you to it. Come along the rest of you,” de Plessey said importantly. “I think we all need some coffee and then a glass of iced Chablis.”
“I thought all rigs were dry,” Kasigi said.
De Plessey’s eyebrows soared. “They are, m’sieur. Of course. For Iranians and non-French. Of course. But our rigs are French and subject to the Code Napoleon.” He added grandly, “We should celebrate our safe arrival, and today you are guests of la Belle France so we can be civilized and bend the rules - what are rules for if not to be bent? Of course. Come along, then we’ll begin the tour and have the briefing.”
They all followed him, except Kasigi. “And you, Captain?” he asked. “What will you do?”
“We’ll wait. The chopper’ll bring out spares and mechanics,” Scragger said, ill at ease, not liking to be so near to any Japanese, unable to crush the memory of so many friends lost in the war so young with him still alive, and the constant, nagging question why them and not me? “We’ll wait till she’s repaired, then we’ll go home. Why?”
“When will that be?”
“Before sundown. Why?”
Kasigi glanced back at the blade. “With your permission I would like to fly back with you.”
“That’s … that’s up to Capt’n Vossi. He’s formally captain on this flight.”
Kasigi turned his attention to Vossi. The young pilot knew Scragger’s dislike for Japanese but could not understand it. Just before takeoff he had said, “Hell, Scrag, World War Two was a million years ago. Japan’s our ally now - the only big one we’ve got in Asia.” But Scragger had said, “Just leave it, Ed,” so he had left it.
“You’d, er, best go back with the others, Mr. Kasigi, there’s no telling how long we’ll be.”
“Choppers make me nervous. I’d prefer to fly with you, if you don’t mind.” Kasigi looked back at Scragger, hard eyes in a lived-in face. “It was a bad one. You had almost no time, yet you autorotate at barely three hundred feet to make a perfect setdown on this fly-spot. That was incredible flying. Incredible. One thing I don’t understand: why were you high angle, on a high-angle approach?” He caught Vossi glance at Scragger. Ah, he thought, you’re wondering too. “There’s no reason on a day like today, is there?” Scragger stared at him, even more unsettled. “You fly choppers?” “No, but I’ve been in enough to know when there’s bad trouble. My business is tankers, so oil fields, here in the Gulf, Iraq, Libya, Alaska, everywhere - even Australia.” Kasigi let the hatred pass over him. He was used to it. He knew the reason, for he did a great deal of business now in Australia, a very great deal. Some of the hatred’s merited, he thought. Some. Never mind, Australians will change, they’ll have to. After all, we own a considerable section of her raw materials for years to come and soon we’ll own more. Curious that we can do economically so easily what we failed to do militarily. “Please, why did you choose a high-angle approach today? On a normal approach we’d be under the sea right now, on the bottom. Why?” Scragger shrugged, wanting to end it.
“Skipper,” Vossi said, “why did you?”
“Luck.”
Kasigi half smiled. “If you’ll allow me I would like to fly back with you. A life for a life, Captain. Please keep my card. Perhaps one day I can be of service to you.” He bowed politely and left.
11:56 A.M. “Explosives on Sin, Scrag?” De Plessey was shocked. “There might be,” Scragger replied, equally softly. They were on the far side of the platform, well away from everyone, and he had just told him what Abdollah had whispered.
The second 212 was long since there, waiting for de Plessey to give the word to start up and take him and his party on to Siri where they were due to have lunch. Mechanics had already stripped most of the tail section of Scragger’s 212 and were well into repairs, Vossi watching attentively. The new rotor and gearbox were already in place.
After a moment, de Plessey said helplessly, “Explosives could be anywhere, anywhere. Even a little explosive could wreck our whole pumping system. Madonna, it would be a perfect ploy to further wreck Bakhtiar’s chances - or Khomeini’s - of getting back to normal.”
“Yes. But be careful how you use the info - and for God’s sake keep it to yourself.”
“Of course. This man was on Siri Three?”
“At Lengeh.”
“Eh? Then why didn’t you tell me this morning?”
“There was no time.” Scragger glanced around, making sure they were still not overheard. “Be careful, whatever you do. Those fanatics don’t give a twopenny damn for anything or anyone and if they think there’s been a leak, that someone’s ratted … there’ll be bodies floating from here to Hormuz.” “I agree.” De Plessey was very worried. “Did you tell anyone else?” “No, cobber.”
“Mon Dieu, what can I do? Security is … how can you have security in Iran? Like it or not we’re in their power.” Then he added, “Thank you a second time. I must tell you I’ve been expecting major sabotage on Kharg, and at Abadan, it’s to the leftist advantage to create even more chaos, but I never thought they’d come here.”
Moodily he leaned on the rail and looked down at the sea sluggishly washing the legs of the platform. Sharks were circling and feeding. Now we’ve terrorists threatening us. Siri’s tanks and pumps are a good target for sabotage. And if Siri’s interfered with, we lose years of planning, years of oil that France desperately needs. Oil we may have to buy from the shit-stenched English and their shit-stenched North Sea oil fields - how dare they be so lucky with their 1.3 million barrels a day and rising! Why isn’t there oil off our coasts or off Corse? God-cursed English with their two-faced, two-hearted approach to life! De Gaulle was right to keep them out of Europe, and now that we, out of the goodness of our hearts, have accepted them, even though we all know they’re lying bastards, they care nothing to share their windfall with us, their partner. They only pretend to be with us in the EEC - they’ve always been against us and always will be. The Great Charles was right about them but incredibly wrong about Algeria. If we still had our Algeria, our soil and therefore our oil, we’d be rich, content, with Britain and Germany and all the rest licking the grime from between our toes.
Meanwhile, what to do?
Go to Siri and have lunch. After lunch you will think better. Thank God we can still get supplies from sensible, civilized Dubai, Sharjah, and Al Shargaz: Brie, Camembert, Boursin, fresh garlic and butter from France daily, and real wine without which we might as well be dead. Well, almost, he added cautiously and saw Scragger staring at him. “Yes, mon brave?” “I said, wot’re you going to do?”
