of Farsi. Rudi picked out “Siamaki” several times but little else as the two radio ops spoke back and forth and then he recognized Siamaki’s voice, irritable, arrogant, and now very angry. “Standby One, Bandar Delam! Al Shargaz, this is Tehran, do you read?” Now even more angrily: “Al Shargaz, this is Director Siamaki, do you read?” No answer. The call repeated more angrily, then another spate of Farsi, then Faganwitch cried out, “AHEAD! Look out!”
The supertanker, almost a quarter of a mile long, was hurtling at them broadside through the haze, towering over them, dwarfing them, easing her way carefully upstream toward her Iraqi terminal, foghorn droning. Rudi knew he was trapped, no time to climb, no space to break left or right or he would collide with the others so he went into emergency stop procedure. Kelly on his left, banking perilously left, just made it past the stern, Sandor, extreme right, safe around the bow - Dubois not safe but instantly onto max power, stick right and back into a too steep climbing turn, tighter tighter tighter 50 - 60 - 70 - 80 degrees, bow rushing at him, not going to make it, “Espcce de con…” not going to make it, stick back, g force sucking him and Fowler down into their seats, the ship’s gunwale racing at them, then they roared over the foredeck with millimeters to spare, the appalled deck crew scattering. Once safe, Dubois hauled her around into a 180 to go back for Rudi in the slight hope Rudi had managed to cushion the impact and had escaped into the sea.
Rudi had the stick back, nose up, power off, watching the airspeed tumble, nose a little higher, no time to pray, nose higher, side of the tanker closer and closer, nose higher still, stall warning howling, not going to make it, stall warning shrieking, any moment she’ll fall out of the sky, tanker only yards away, seeing rivets, portholes, rust, paint peeling, closing on them but slowing, slowing, but too late, too late but maybe enough to soften the crash, now plummeting, stick forward, full power on momentarily to cushion the dreadful impact and fall and suddenly she was locked in hover five feet above the waves, the mushing blades barely inches from the side of the tanker that slid past gently. Somehow Rudi backed away a yard, then another, and hovered.
When his eyes could focus he looked up. On the bridge of the vessel so far above them he could see the officers staring down at them, most of them shaking their fists in rage. A purple-faced man had a loudspeaker now, and he was shouting at them, “Bloody idiot!” but they could not hear him. The stern passed them by, wake churning, the spray speckling them. The way ahead was clear.
“I’m… I’m going to hav’ta take a shit.” Weakly Faganwitch began to crawl back into the cabin.
You can take one for me, Rudi was thinking, but he had no energy to say it. His knees were trembling and teeth chattering. “Careful,” he muttered, then eased the throttle open, gained height and forward speed and soon he was quite safe. No sign of the others. Then he spotted Kelly coming round, looking for him. When Kelly saw him he waggled from side to side so happily, came into station alongside, gave him a thumbs-up. To save the others vital fuel coming back to search for the pieces, Rudi put his lips very close to the boom mike and hissed through his teeth, “Dot-dot-dot-dash, dot-dot-dot-dash, dot-dot-dot-dash,” their privately agreed code for each to head for Bahrain independently, and to let them know he was safe. He heard Sandor acknowledge in the same simulated Morse, then Dubois who swooped alongside out of the haze, adding some self-generated static, and accelerated away. But Pop Kelly was shaking his head, motioning that he would prefer to stay alongside. He pointed ahead.
Once more in their headsets: “Al Shargaz, this is Agha Siamaki in Tehran, do you read?” Then more Farsi. “Al Shargaz…”
AT AL SHARGAZ HQ: “… This is Agha Siamaki…” Then another splurge of Farsi. Gavallan’s fingers drummed on the desktop, outwardly calm, inwardly not. He had not been able to reach Pettikin before he left for the hospital and there was nothing he could do to choke Siamaki and Numir off the air. Scot adjusted the volume slightly, lessening the harangue, pretending with Nogger to be nonchalant. Manuela said throatily, “He’s plenty mad, Andy.”
AT LENGEH: 9:26 A.M. Scragger had the nozzle gushing gasoline into the police car. It frothed, overflowing, staining nun. Muttering a curse he let the lever go, hung the nozzle back on the pump. Two Green Bands were nearby, watching closely. The corporal screwed the tank cap back into place. Qeshemi spoke to Ali Pash a moment. “His Excellency asks if you could spare him some five-gallon cans, Captain. Of course full ones.” “Sure, why not? How many does he want?”
“He says he could take three in the trunk and two inside. Five.” “Five it is.”
Scragger found the cans and filled them and together they loaded the police car. She’s a bloody Molotov cocktail, he thought. Storm clouds were building quickly. A flash of lightning in the mountains. “Tell him best not to smoke in the car.”
“His Excellency thanks you.”
“Anytime.” Thunder came down from the mountains. More lightning. Scragger watched Qeshemi leisurely look around the camp. The two Green Bands were waiting. A few others were squatting in the lee of the wind, watching idly. Now he could stand it no longer. “Well, Agha, I better be off,” he said, pointing at the 212 then into the sky. “Okay?”
Qeshemi looked at him strangely. “Okay? What okay, Agha?” “I go now.” Scragger motioned with his hand, pantomiming flying away, and kept his glazed smile. “Mamnoon am, khoda haefez.” Thank you, good-bye. He held out his hand to him.
The sergeant stared at the hand then looked up at him, the shrewd hard eyes boring into him. Then the sergeant said, “Okay. Good-bye, Agha,” and firmly shook hands.
The sweat was running down Scragger’s face, and he forced himself not to wipe it away. “Mamnoon am. Khoda haefez, Agha.” He nodded at Ali Pash, wanting to make it a good farewell, wanting to shake hands too but not daring to stretch their luck, so he just clapped him on the back in passing. “See you, me son. Happy days.”
“Good landings, Agha.” Ali Pash watched Scragger climb into the cockpit and get airborne and wave as he flew away. He waved back, then saw Qeshemi looking at him. “If I may be permitted, if you will excuse me, Excellency Sergeant, I will lock up and then go to the mosque.”
Qeshemi nodded and turned back to the departing 212. How obvious they are, he was thinking, the old pilot and this young fool. So easy to read the minds of men if you’re patient and watch for clues. Very dangerous to fly off illegally. Even more dangerous to help foreigners fly off illegally and stay behind. Madness! Men are very strange. As God wants. One of the Green Bands, a barely bearded youth with an AK47, wandered closer, pointedly looked at the cans of gasoline in the back of the car. Qeshemi said nothing, just nodded to him. The youth nodded back, eyes hard, strolled off insolently to join the others.
The sergeant got into the driver’s seat. Leprous sons of dogs, he thought sardonically, you’re not the law in Lengeh yet - thanks be to God. “Time to go, Achmed, time to go.” As the corporal climbed in beside him Qeshemi saw the helicopter go over the rise and vanish. Still so easy to catch you, old man, he told himself, bemused. So easy to alert the net, our phones are working and we’ve a direct link with Kish fighter base. Are a few gallons pishkesh enough for your freedom? I haven’t decided yet.
“I’ll drop you at the station, Achmed, then I’m off duty till tomorrow. I’ll keep the car for the day.”
Qeshemi let in the clutch. Perhaps we should have gone with the foreigners - easy to force them to take us, my family and I, but then that would have meant living on the wrong side of our Persian Gulf, living among Arabs. I’ve never liked Arabs, never trusted them. No, my plan’s better. Quietly down the old coast road all today and all tonight, then my cousin’s dhow to Pakistan with plenty of spare gasoline for pishkesh. Many of our people are there already. I’ll make a good life for my wife and my son and little Sousan until, with the help of God, we can come home again. Too much hatred here now, too many years serving the Shah. Good years. As shahs go he was fine for us. We were always paid.
NORTH OF LENGEH: 9:23 A.M. The cabbage patch was ten kilometers northeast of the base, a desolate, barren rocky area in the foothills of mountains, and the two helicopters were parked, side by side, engines ticking over. Ed Vossi was standing at Willi’s cockpit window. “I feel like throwing up, Willi.”
“Me too.” Willi shifted his headset slightly, the VHF on but, according to plan, not to be used unless in emergency, only listened to. “You got something, Willi?” Vossi asked.
“No, just static.”
“Shit. He must be in dead trouble. Another minute then I go look, Willi.” “We go look together.” Willi watched the lightning in the hills, visibility about a mile with the clouds black and closing in. “No day for joy riding, Ed.”
“No.”
Then Willi’s face lit up like a rocket and he pointed, “There he is!” Scragger’s 212 was approaching at about seven hundred feet, dawdling along. Vossi took to his heels for his cockpit and got in. Now in their headphones:
