“But if he gets caught, won’t that screw Whirlwind?” Ayre asked. “No. Tom’s on his own. You heard what he said. We’re leaving for Kuwait as planned. Everyone into Freddy’s 212, I’ll take Lochart’s. Off you all go and we’ll stay low and close. Radio silence until we’re well across the line.” McIver went for the other 212. Uneasily they looked at one another. They had all noticed his pallor and all knew about his lack of a medical. Kyle, the short, lithe mechanic went after him. “Mac, no point in going alone, I’ll fly with you.”
“Thanks, but no. Everyone in Freddy’s machine! Come on, get with it!” Ayre said, “Mac, I’ll go and talk to Tom. He must be crazy, I’ll persuade him to come to Kuw - ”
“You won’t. If it was Gen, I’d be just as crazy. Everyone get aboard!” At that moment, the sound of two jet fighters at low level going through the sound barrier drowned the beach. The silence they left behind was vast. “Jesus.” Wazari shivered. “Captain, if you’ll have me along, I’ll fly with you?”
“No, everyone with Freddy, I’d prefer to fly alone.” “Your nortlicense makes no odds to me.” Wazari shrugged. “Insha’Allah! I’ll monitor the radio.” He jerked his thumb skyward: “Those bastards won’t speak English.” He turned for the 212 and got into the left seat.
Ayre said, “It’s a good idea, Mac.”
“All right. We’ll stay close and low as planned. Freddy, if one of us runs into trouble the other goes on.” At Ayre’s look, “I mean any trouble.” A last look at Lochart, McIver waved again and went aboard. He was very glad not to be alone. “Thanks,” he said to Wazari. “I don’t know what’ll happen at Kuwait, Sergeant, but I’ll help all I can.” He locked his seat belt and pressed Engine Start on Number One.
“Sure. Thanks. Hell, I got nothing to lose; my head’s busting, I’ve had every aspirin outta the medical packs… What happened with Kia?” McIver adjusted the volume of his headset, pressed Engine Start on Number Two, checking fuel tanks and instruments as he spoke. “I had to do the emergency a little later than I planned - landed about a mile from a village - but it went fine, too fine, the bugger fainted and then I couldn’t get him out of the cockpit. Somehow he’d entwined himself in his seat and shoulder belts and I couldn’t get him free. Didn’t have a bloody knife to cut him loose. I tried every way, pushing and pulling, but the catch had stuck so I gave up and waited for him to come around. While I waited I got his luggage out and put it nearer to the road where he’d find it. When he came to, I had the hell’s own job getting him to leave the cockpit.” McIver’s fingers went accurately from switch to switch. “Eventually I pretended we had a fire and jumped out, leaving him. That did it and he somehow got the catch undone and left in a hurry. I’d kept the engines running, bloody dangerous but had to chance it, and once he was clear, I rushed back and took off. Scraped a rock or two but no sweat…”
His heart had been pounding, his throat dry at the frantic takeoff, Kia clawing at the door handle, raving at him, hanging on, one foot on the skid, McIver afraid he would have to land again. Fortunately Kia’s nerve failed and he let go and dropped back the few feet they were off the ground, and now McIver was free and away. He had circled once to make sure Kia was all right. The last he saw of Kia, he was shaking his fist and red with rage. Then he had set course for the coast, hugging the undulating trees and rocks. And though he was safe, the pounding in his chest did not lessen. Waves of nausea and heat began to sweep through him.
It’s just the strain of the last week or so catching up, he had told himself grimly. Just strain and trying to haul that bugger out of the cockpit, along with worries over Whirlwind, and being scared fartless by the mullah’s questioning.
For a few more minutes after leaving Kia, he had flown onward. Difficult to concentrate. Pain increasing. Controls unfamiliar. A spasm of nausea and he almost lost control so decided to land and rest a moment. He was still in the mountain foothills, rocks and clumps of trees and snow, the ceiling low and fairly thin. Through a haze of sickness he chose the first possible plateau and landed. The landing was not good and that, more than anything, frightened him very much. Nearby was a stream, partially frozen, the water frothing as it tumbled down the rocks. The water beckoned him. In bad pain he shut down, stumbled over to it, lay on the snow and drank deeply. The shock of the cold made him retch and when the spasm had passed he cleansed his mouth and drank sparingly. This and the cold of the air helped him. A handful of snow rubbed into the back of his neck and temples made him feel even better. Gradually the pain lessened, the tingling in his left arm went away. When it had almost gone he groped to his feet and, stumbling a little, made the cockpit, sank back in his seat.
His cockpit was warm and cozy and familiar - enclosing. Automatically he snapped his seat belt. Silence filled his ears and his head. Only the sound of the wind, and the water, no engines or traffic or static, nothing but the softness of the wind and water. Peacefulness. His eyelids were heavier than they had ever been. He closed them. And slept.
His sleep was deep and barely half an hour and very good. When he awoke he was revitalized - no pain, no discomfort, just a little light-headed as though he had dreamed the pain. He stretched gloriously. Tiny sound of metal clinking against metal. He looked around. Seated on a small mountain pony, watching him silently, was a youth, a tribesman. In a saddle sheath was a rifle and another was across his back with a bandolier of cartridges. The two of them stared at each other, then the youth smiled and the plateau seemed to light up. “Salaam, Agha.”
“Salaam; Agha.” McIver smiled back, surprised that he was completely unafraid, somehow put at his ease by the wild beauty of the youth. “Loftan befarma’ id shoma ki hastid?” He used one of his few stock phrases: May I ask who you are?
“Agha Mohammed Rud Kahani,” and then some words McIver did not understand and he finished with another smile and, “Kash’kai.”
“Ah, Kash’kai.” McIver nodded, understanding that the youth was one of the nomadic tribes that spread across the Zagros. He pointed at himself. “Agha McIver,” and added another stock phrase, “Mota assef an, man zaban-e shoma ra khoob nami danam.” Sorry, I don’t speak your language. “Insha’Allah. America?”
“English. Englishman.” He was watching himself and the other man. Helicopter and horse, pilot and tribesman, gulfs between them but no threat, one to the other. “Sorry, I must go now,” he said in English, then parodied, flying away with his hands. “Khoda hoe-fez,” good-bye, “Agha Mohammed Kash’kai.” The youth nodded and raised his hand in salute. “Khoda hoe-fez, Agha,” then moved his horse to safety and stood there watching him. When the engines were up to power, McIver waved once and left. All the way to the rendezvous he had thought about the youth. No reason for that youth not to shoot me, or perhaps no reason to shoot me. Did I dream him, dream the pain? No, I didn’t dream the pain. Did I have a heart attack?
Now, ready to leave for Kuwait, for the first time he faced the question. Disquiet returned and he glanced at Wazari who was staring disconsolately out the side window at the sea. How dangerous am I now? he asked himself. If I had one attack, even a mild one, I could have another, so am I risking his life as well as my own? I don’t think so. I’ve only high blood pressure and that’s under control, I take the two pills a day and no problem. I can’t leave a 212 just because Tom’s gone mad. I’m tired, but okay, and Kuwait’s only a couple of hours. I’d be happier not to be flying. My God, I never thought I’d ever feel that. Old Scrag can have the flying, I’m done with it forever.
His ears were listening to the pitch of the engines. Ready for takeoff now, no real need to check the instruments. Through the rain speckles on his windshield he saw Ayre give him a thumbs-up, also ready. Down the beach he could see Lochart in the 206. Poor old Tom. Bet he’s cursing us to hurry, anxious to refuel and rush north to a new destiny. Hope he succeeds - at least he’ll have a following wind.
“Okay to switch on the VHF?” Wazari asked, distracting him. “I’ll tune into military frequencies.”
“Good.” McIver smiled at Wazari, pleased to have him for company. Lots of static in his headphones, then Farsi voices. Wazari listened awhile then said throatily, “It’s the fighters talking to Kowiss. One of them said, ‘In all the Names of God, how’re we going to find two choppers in this pool of dog shit?”
“They won’t, not if I have anything to do with it.” McIver tried to sound confident over a sudden tide of foreboding. He got Ayre’s attention, pointed upward, indicating the fighters and motioned across his throat. Then he pointed a last time out into the Gulf and gave a thumbs-up. A glance at his watch: 2:21 P.M.
“Here we go, Sergeant,” he said and twisted the throttles full open, “next stop Kuwait. ETA 4:40 P.M., or thereabouts.”
AT KUWAIT AIRPORT: 2:56 P.M. Genny and Charlie Pettikin were sitting in the open-air restaurant on the upper level of the sparkling, newly opened terminal. It was a grand, sunny day, sheltered from the wind. Bright yellow tablecloths and umbrellas, everyone eating and drinking with enjoyment and gusto. Except for them. Genny had hardly touched her salad, Pettikin had picked at his rice and curry.
“Charlie,” Genny said abruptly, “I think I’ll have a vodka martini after all.”
“Good idea,” Pettikin waved for a waiter and ordered for her. He would have liked to join her but he was
