thousand throats. Ahead an impatient car lurched, bumped into some pedestrians who bumped into others who brought down others amid curses and laughter. Sharazad and Lochart among them, no one hurt. He had caught her safely and, laughing together, they rested on the ground a moment, the grenade still tight in his hand. They did not hear its warning hiss - without knowing it, in falling he had slackened the lever an instant, but just enough. For an infinity of time he smiled at her and she at him. “God is Great,” she said and he echoed her just as confidently. And, the same instant, they died.
Saturday - March 3
Chapter 70
AL SHARGAZ: 6:34 P.M. The tip of the sun crested the horizon and turned black desert into a crimson sea, staining the old port city and dhows in the Gulf beyond. From the minaret loudspeakers muezzins began but the music in their voices did not please Gavallan or any of the other S-G personnel on the veranda of the Oasis Hotel, finishing a hurried breakfast. “It gets to you, Scrag, doesn’t it?” Gavallan said.
“Right you are, sport,” Scragger said. He, Rudi Lutz, and Pettikin shared Gavallan’s table, all of them tired and dispirited. Whirlwind’s almost complete success was turning into a disaster. Dubois and Fowler still missing - in Bahrain, McIver not yet out of danger. Tom Lochart back in Tehran, God knows where. No news of Erikki and Azadeh. No sleep for most of them last night. And sunset today still their deadline.
From the moment yesterday when the 212s had started landing, they had all helped to strip them, removing rotors and tail booms for storing on the jumbo freighters when they arrived, if they arrived. Last night Roger Newbury had returned from the Al Shargaz palace meeting with the foreign minister in a foul humor: “Not a bloody thing I can do, Andy. The minister said he and the Sheik had been asked to make a personal inspection of the airport by the new Iranian representative or ambassador who had seen eight or nine strange 212s at the airport, claiming them to be their ‘hijacked’ Iran registereds. The minister said that of course His Highness, the Sheik, had agreed - how could he refuse? The inspection’s at sunset with the ambassador, I’m ‘cordially invited’ as the British rep for a thorough check of IDs, and if any’re found to be suspect, old boy, tough titty!” Gavallan had been up all night trying to bring the arrival of the freighters forward, or to get substitutions from every international source he could conjure up. None were available. The best his present charterers could do was “perhaps” to bring forward the ETA to noon tomorrow, Sunday. “Bloody people,” he muttered and poured some more coffee. “When you’ve got to have a couple of 747s there’re none - and usually with a single phone call you can get fifty.”
Pettikin was equally worried, also about McIver in Bahrain hospital. No news was expected until noon today about the seriousness of McIver’s heart attack. “Pas problcme,” JeanLuc had said last night. “They’ve let Genny stay in the next room at the hospital, the doctor’s the best in Bahrain, and I’m here. I’ve canceled my early flight home and I’ll wait, but send me some money tomorrow to pay the bills.”
Pettikin toyed with his coffee cup, his breakfast untouched. All yesterday and last night helping to get the helicopters ready so no chance to see Paula and she was off again to Tehran this morning, still evacuating Italian nationals, and would not be back for at least two days. Gavallan had ordered an immediate retreat of all Whirlwind participants out of the Gulf area, pending review. “We can’t be too careful,” he had told them all. “Everyone’s got to go for the time being.”
Later Pettikin had said, “You’re right, Andy, but what about Tom and Erikki? We should leave someone here - I’d be glad to volun - ”
“For Christ’s sake, Charlie, give over,” Gavallan had flared. “You think I’m not worried sick about them? And Fowler and Dubois? We have to do it one step at a time. Everyone who’s not necessary is out before sunset and you’re one of them!” That had been about 1:00 A.M. this morning in the office when Pettikin had come to relieve Scot who was still Wearily manning the HF. The rest of the night he had sat there. No calls. At 5:00 A.M. Nogger Lane had relieved him and he had come here for breakfast, Gavallan, Rudi, and Scragger already seated. “Any luck with the freighters, Andy?” “No, Charlie, it’s still tomorrow noon at the earliest,” Gavallan had said. “Sit down, have some coffee.” Then had come the dawn and the muezzins. Now their singsong ceased. Some of the violence left the veranda. Scragger poured himself another cup of tea, his stomach still upset. Another sudden chill zapped up from his bowels and he hurried to the bathroom. The spasm passed quickly with very little to show for it, but there was no blood therein, and Doc Nutt had said he didn’t think it was dysentery: “Just take it easy for a few days, Scrag. I’ll have the result of all the tests tomorrow.” He had told Doc Nutt about the blood in his urine and the pain in his stomach over the last few days. To hide it would have been an unforgivable added danger, both to his passengers and to his chopper. “Scrag, best you stay here in hospital for a few days,” Doc Nun had said.
“Get stuffed, old cock! There’s things to do and mountains to conquer.” Going back to the table he saw the brooding gloom upon everyone and hated it, but had no solution. Nothing to do except wait. No way to transit out because they would have to go through Saudi, Emirate, or Oman airspace and no possibility of a clearance for a few days. He had suggested, jokingly, they reassemble the helicopters, find out when the next British supertanker was outbound through Hormuz and then take off and land on her: “… and we just sail off into the Wild Blue and get off in Mombasa, or sail on around Africa to Nigeria.”
“Hey, Scrag,” Vossi had said in admiration, “that’s wild-assed. I could use a cruise. How about it, Andy?”
“We’d be arrested and in the brig before the rotors had begun.” Scragger sat down and waved a fly away. The sun’s birth color was less red now and all of them were wearing dark glasses against the glare.
Gavallan finished his coffee. “Well, I’m off to the office in case I can do something. If you want me I’m there. How soon’ll you be finished, Rudi?” Rudi was in charge of getting the choppers ready for transshipment. “Your target was noon today. It’ll be noon.” He swallowed the last of his coffee and got up. “Time to leave, meine Kinder!” Groans and catcalls from the others but mostly good-natured through their fatigue. A general exodus to transport waiting outside.
“Andy,” Scragger said, “I’ll come along with you if it’s okay.” “Good idea, Scrag. Charlie, no need for you to be on Rudi’s team as we’re ahead of schedule. Why don’t you come over to the office later?”
Pettikin smiled at him. “Thanks.” Paula was not due to leave her hotel until 10:00 A.M. Now he would have plenty of time to see her. To say what? he asked himself, waving them good-bye.
Gavallan drove out of the gates. The airport was still partially in shadow. Already a few jets with their navigation lights on, engines winding up. The Iran evacuation was still priority. He glanced at Scragger, saw the grimace. “You all right?”
“Sure, Andy. Just a touch of gippy tummy. Had it bad in New Guinea - so I’ve always been careful. If I could get some of old Dr. Collis Brown’s Elixir I’d be raring to go!” This was a marvelous and highly effective tincture invented by Dr. Collis Brown, an English army surgeon, to combat the dysentery that tens of thousands of soldiers were dying of during the Crimean War. “Six drops of the old magic and Bob’s your unbloody uncle!” “You’re right, Scrag,” Gavallan said absently, wondering if Pan Am Freighting had had any cancellations. “I never travel without Collis… wait a minute!” He suddenly beamed. “My survival kit! There’s some there. Liz always sticks it into my briefcase. Collis Brown’s, Tiger Balm, aspirins, a golden sovereign, and a can of sardines.”
“Eh? Sardines?”
“In case I get hungry.” Gavallan was glad to talk to take his mind off the looming disaster. “Liz and I have a mutual friend we met years ago in Hong Kong, fellow called Marlowe, a writer. He always carried a can with him, iron rations in case of famine - and Liz and I, we always laughed about it. It became kind of a symbol to remind ourselves how lucky we really are.” “Peter Marlowe? The one who wrote Changi - about the POW camp in Singapore?” “Yes. Do you know him?”
“No. But I read that book, not the others, but I read that one.” Scragger was suddenly reminded about his own war against the Japanese and then about Kasigi and Iran-Toda. Last night he had called other hotels to track Kasigi down and eventually had found him registered at the International and had left a message but as yet had not heard back. Probably he’s chocker I let him down, he told himself, because we can’t help him at Iran-Toda. Stone the crows! Bandar Delam and Iran-Toda seem a couple of years ago instead of just a couple of days. Even so, if it weren’t for him, I’d still be handcuffed to that bleeding bed.
“Pity we don’t all have our can of sardines, Andy,” he said. “We really do forget our luck, don’t we? Look how lucky we were to get out of Lengeh in one piece. Wot about old Duke? Soon he’ll be fit as a fiddle. A fraction of an inch and he’d be dead but he isn’t. Scot the same. Wot about Whirlwind! All the lads’re out and so’re our birds. Erikki’s safe. Mac‘11 be all right, you wait and see! Dubois and Fowler? It’s got to happen sometime, but it hasn’t yet, so far as we know, so we can still hope. Tom? Well, he chose that and he’ll get out.”
* NEAR THE IRAN-TURKISH BORDER: 7:59 P.M. Some seven hundred miles northward, Azadeh shielded her
