arms or drugs or ammunition.” He hesitated. “I would guarantee it too, if it was of value.”
“Your presence is always of value, Sayyid Mathias,” Yusuf said. It was hot on the tarmac and dusty and he sneezed, pulled out a handkerchief, and blew his nose, then went up to Bin Ahmed - still with Johnson’s passport in his hand. “I suppose for a British plane in transit, it would be all right, even for the other two on the beach. Eh?”
The tower man turned his back on the chopper. “Why not? When those two arrive we’ll set them down here, Sayyid Captain Sessonne. You meet them with the fuel truck and we’ll clear them for Al Shargaz as soon as they’re refueled.” Again he looked out to sea and his dark eyes showed his concern. “And the fourth, when she arrives? What about her - I presume she’s also British registered?”
“Yes, yes, she is,” JeanLuc heard himself say, giving him the new registration. “With… with your permission, the three will backtrack for half an hour, then go on to Al Shargaz.” It’s worth a try, he thought, saluting the two men with Gallic charm as they left, hardly able to grasp the miracle of the reprieve.
Is it because their eyes were blind or because they did not wish to see? I don’t know, I don’t know, but blessed be the Madonna for looking after us again.
“JeanLuc, you’d better phone Gavallan about the telex,” Mathias said.
OFFSHORE AL SHARGAZ: Scragger and Benson were staring at the oil and pressure gauges on number one engine. Warning lights were on, the needle of the temperature gauge at maximum, top of the red, oil pressure needle falling, almost at zero. Now they were flying at seven hundred feet, in good but hazy weather, past the international boundary with Siri and Abu Musa just behind them, and Al Shargaz directly ahead. The tower was three by five in their headsets, guiding traffic.
“I’m going to shut her down, Benson.”
“Yes, don’t want her seizing up.”
Sound lessened and the chopper sank a hundred feet but when Scragger had increased power on number two and made adjustments she held her altitude. Still, both men were uneasy without the backup.
“No reason for her to go like that, Scrag, none at all. I did her check myself a few days ago. How we doing?”
“Just fine. Home’s not too far ahead.”
Benson was very uneasy. “Is there anywhere we could land in an emergency? Sandbanks? A rig?”
“Sure, sure there are. Lots,” Scragger lied, eyes and ears seeking danger but finding none. “You hear something?”
“No… no, nothing. Bloody hell, I can hear every bloody parched cog.” Scragger laughed. “So can I.”
“Shouldn’t we call Al Shargaz?”
“Plenty of time, me son, I’m waiting for Vossi or Willi.” They flew onward and every flicker of turbulence, decibel of pitch change from the engine, or tremble of a needle made the sweat greater. “How far we got to go, Scrag?” Benson loved engines but hated flying, particularly in choppers. His shirt was clammy and chilled. Then, in their headsets was Willi’s voice: “Al Shargaz, this’s EP-HBB inbound with EP-HGF at seven hundred, course 140 degrees. ETA twelve minutes,” and Scragger groaned and held his breath, for Willi had automatically given their full Iranian call signs when they all had agreed to see if they could get away with the last three letters only. The very English voice of the controller came back loud and brittle: “Chopper calling Al Shargaz, we understand you’re in transit, inbound on 140 and, er, your transmission was garbled. Please confirm you are, er, G-HYYR and G-HFEE? I say again. GOLF HOTEL YANKEE YANKEE ROMEO and GOLF HOTEL FOXTROT ECHO ECHO?” Bursting with excitement, Scragger let out a cheer. “They’re expecting us!” Willi’s voice was hesitant and Scragger’s temperature went up twenty points: “Al Shargaz, this… this is G-HY… YR…” then Vossi excitedly cut in over him: “Al Shargaz, this is GolfHotelFoxtrotEchoEcho and GolfHotelYankeeYankeeRomeo reading you loud and clear; we’ll be with you in ten minutes and request landing at the north helipad, please inform S-G.” “Certainly, G-HFEE,” the controller said and Scragger could almost see the man’s relief, “you’re cleared for the north helipad and please call S-G on 117.7. Welcome! Welcome to Al Shargaz, maintain course and altitude.” “Yes, sir! Yessir indeedeee, 117.7,” Vossi said. At once Scragger switched to the same channel and again Vossi: “Sierra One, this is HFEE and HYYR do you read?”
“Loud and wonderfully clear. Welcome all - but where’s GolfHotelSierra VictorTango?”
AT AL SHARGAZ OFFICE: “He’s in back of us, Sierra One,” Vossi was saying. Gavallan, Scot, Nogger, and Starke were listening on the VHF loudspeaker on their company frequency, the tower frequency also being monitored, everyone very conscious that any transmission could be overheard, particularly their HF by Siamaki in Tehran and Numir at Bandar Delam. “He’s in back of us a few minutes, he, er, he ordered us to go on independently.” Vossi was being pointedly careful. “We don’t, er, we don’t know what happened.” Then Scragger cut in and they all heard the beam in his voice, “This is G-HSVT on your tails, so clear the decks…”
The room erupted in a sudden cheer, Gavallan mopped his brow, and muttered “Thank God,” sick with relief, then jerked his thumb at Nogger, “Get going, Nogger!”
Gleefully the young man left and almost knocked over Manuela who, set-faced, was approaching from the corridor with a tray of cold drinks. “Scrag, Willi, and Ed are about to land,” he called out on the run, by now at the far end. “Oh, how wonderful!” she said and hurried into the room. “Isn’t that…” She stopped. Scragger was saying, “… am on one engine, so I’ll request a straight in, best get a fire truck ready just in case.”
Willi’s voice at once: “Ed, do a 180 and join up with Scrag, bring him in. How’re you on gas?”
“Plenty. I’m on my way.”
“Scrag, this’s Willi. I’ll take care of the landing request and straight in. How’re you for gas?”
“Plenty. HSVT, eh? That’s a lot better than HASVD!” They heard his laugh and Manuela felt better.
For her the strain of this morning, trying to contain her fears, had been awful, hearing the disembodied voices so far away and yet so near, all of them related to persons that she liked or loved, or hated - those of the enemy: “That’s what they are,” she had said fiercely a few minutes ago, near tears because their wonderful friend Marc Dubois and old Fowler were missing missing missing and oh God it could have been Conroe and there may be others: “Janan’s enemy! Siamaki, Numir, they all are, all of them.” Then Gavallan had said gently, “No, they’re not, Manuela, not really, they’re just doing their job…” But the gentleness had only goaded her, infuriated her, adding to her worry that Starke was here and not in bed at the hospital, the operation only last night, and she had flared: “It’s a game, that’s all Whirlwind is to all of you, just a goddamn game! You’re a bunch a gung-ho glory boys and you… and you…” Then she had run out and gone to the ladies’ room and wept. When the storm had passed she gave herself a good talking to for losing her control, reminding herself that men were stupid and infantile and would never change. Then she blew her nose and redid her makeup and fixed her hair and went to get the drinks.
Quietly Manuela put down the tray now. No one noticed her. Starke was on the phone to Ground Control explaining what was necessary, Scot on the VHF. “We’ll take care of everything, Scrag,” Scot said.
“Sierra One. How’s tricks?” Scragger asked. “Your Deltas and Kilos?” Scot looked at Gavallan. Gavallan leaned forward and said dully, “Delta-Three are fine, Kilo Two… Kilo Two are still in place, more or less.” Silence on the loudspeakers. On the tower frequency they heard the English controller clearing some inbounds. A bristle of static. Scragger’s voice was different now. “Confirm Delta Three”
“Confirm Delta Three,” Gavallan said, still in shock at the news about Dubois and the Bahrain telex that JeanLuc had phoned in a few minutes ago, expecting an imminent explosion from their own tower, and from Kuwait. To JeanLuc he had said, “Air-sea rescue? We’d better call a Mayday.” “We’re the air-sea rescue, Andy. There isn’t any other. Sandor’s already taken off to search. As soon as Rudi and Pop are refueled they’ll go too - I’ve worked out a block search for them - then they’ll head direct Al Shargaz like Sandor. We can’t hang around here, mon Dieu, you can’t imagine how close we were to disaster. If he’s afloat, they’ll find him - there’re dozens of sandbanks to land on.”
“Won’t that stretch their range, JeanLuc?”
“They’ll be okay, Andy. Marc didn’t put out a Mayday so it must’ve been sudden or perhaps his radio failed or more probably he put down somewhere. There’re a dozen good possibilities - he could have put down on a rig for fuel, if he went into the sea, he could’ve been picked up - any of a dozen things - don’t forget radio silence was one of the primes. No sweat, mon cher ami.”
“Very much sweat.”
“Anything on the others?”
“Not yet…”
Not yet, he thought again and a twinge went through him.
