“Tabriz One, do you read?”
He was circling uneasily at the regulation seven hundred feet, then came lower. No sign of life - nor were any lights on. Strangely disquieted he landed close to the hangar. There he waited, ready for instant takeoff, not knowing what to expect - the news of servicemen mutinying in Tehran, particularly the supposedly elite air force, had disturbed him very much. But no one came. Nothing happened. Reluctantly, he locked the controls with great care and got out, leaving the engines running. It was very dangerous and against regulations - very dangerous because if the locks slipped it was possible for the chopper to ground-loop and get out of control. But I don’t want to get caught short, he thought grimly, rechecked the locks and quickly headed for the office through the snow. It was empty, the hangars empty except for the disemboweled 212, trailers empty, with no sign of anyone - or any form of a battle. A little more reassured, he went through the camp as quickly as he could. On the table in Erikki Yokkonen’s cabin was an empty vodka bottle. A full one was in the refrigerator - he would dearly have loved a drink but flying and alcohol never mix. There was also bottled water, some Iranian bread, and dried ham. He drank the water gratefully. I’ll eat only after I’ve gone over the whole place, he thought. In the bedroom the bed was made but there was a shoe here and another there. Gradually his eyes found more signs of a hasty departure. The other trailers showed other clues. There was no transport on the base and Erikki’s red Range Rover was gone too. Clearly the base had been abandoned somewhat hastily. But why?
His eyes gauged the sky. The wind had picked up and he heard it whine through the snow-laden forest over the muted growl of the idling jet engines. He felt the chill through his flying jacket and heavy pants and flying boots. His body ached for a hot shower - even better, one of Erikki’s saunas - and food and bed and hot grog and eight hours’ sleep. The wind’s no problem yet, he thought, but I’ve got an hour of light at the most to refuel and get back through the pass and down into the plains. Or do I stay here tonight?
Pettikin was not a forest man, not a mountain man. He knew desert and bush, jungle, veld, and the Dead Country of Saudi. The vast reaches on the flat never fazed him. But cold did. And snow. First refuel, he thought. But there was no fuel in the dump. None. Many forty-gallon drums but they were all empty. Never mind, he told himself, burying his panic. I’ve enough in my tanks for the hundred and fifty miles back to Bandar-e Pahlavi. I could go on to Tabriz Airport, or try and scrounge some from the ExTex depot at Ardabil, but that’s too bloody near the Soviet border. Again he measured the sky. Bloody hell! I can park here or somewhere en route. What’s it to be?
Here. Safer.
He shut down and put the 206 into the hangar, locking the door. Now the silence was deafening. He hesitated, then went out, closing the hangar door after him. His feet crunched on the snow. The wind tugged at him as he walked to Erikki’s trailer. Halfway there he stopped, his stomach twisting. He sensed someone watching him. He looked around, his eyes and ears searching the forest and the base. The wind sock danced in the eddies that trembled the treetops, creaking them, whining through the forest, and abruptly he remembered Tom Lochart sitting around a campfire in the Zagros on one of their skiing trips, telling the Canadian legend of the Wendigo, the evil demon of the forest, born on the wild wind, that waits in the treetops, whining, waiting to catch you unawares, then suddenly swoops down and you’re terrified and begin to run but you can’t get away and you feel the icy breath behind you and you run and run with bigger and ever bigger steps until your feet are bloody stumps and then the Wendigo catches you up into the treetops and you die.
He shuddered, hating to be alone here. Curious, I’ve never thought about it before but I’m almost never alone. There’s always someone around, mechanic or pilot or friend or Genny or Mac or Claire in the old days. He was still watching the forest intently. Somewhere in the distance dogs began to bark. The feeling that there was someone out there was still very strong. With an effort he dismissed his unease, went back to the chopper, and found the Very light pistol. He carried the huge-caliber, snub-nosed weapon openly as he went back to Erikki’s cabin and felt happier having it with him.
And even happier when he had bolted the door and closed the curtains. Night came quickly. With darkness animals began to hunt.
TEHRAN: 7:05 P.M. McIver was walking along the deserted, tree-lined residential boulevard, tired and hungry. All streetlights were out and he picked his way carefully in the semidarkness, snow banked against the walls of fine houses on both sides of the roadway. Sound of distant guns and, carried on the cold wind, “Allahhh-u Akbarrr.” He turned the corner and almost stumbled into the Centurion tank that was parked half on the sidewalk. A flashlight momentarily blinded him. Soldiers moved out of ambush.
“Who’re you, Agha?” a young officer said in good English. “What’re you doing here?”
“I’m Captain… I’m Captain McIver, Duncan… Duncan McIver, I’m walking home from my office, and… and my flat’s the other side of the park, around the next corner.”
“ID please.”
Gingerly McIver reached into his inner pocket. He felt the two small photos beside his ID, one of the Shah, the other of Khomeini, but with all the day’s rumors of mutinies, he could not decide which would be correct so produced neither. The officer examined the ID under the flashlight. Now that McIver’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he noticed the man’s tiredness and stubble beard and crumpled uniform. Other soldiers watched silently. None were smoking which McIver found curious. The Centurion towered over them, malevolent, almost as though waiting to pounce.
“Thank you.” The officer handed the well-used card back to him. More firing, nearer this time. The soldiers waited, watching the night. “Better not be out after dark, Agha. Good night.”
“Yes, thank you. Good night.” Thankfully McIver walked off, wondering if they were loyalist or mutineers - Christ, if some units mutiny and some don’t there’s going to be hell to pay. Another corner, this road and the park also dark and empty that, not so long ago, were always busy and brightly lit with more light streaming from windows, servants and people and children, all happy and lots of laughter among themselves, hurrying this way and that. That’s what I miss most of all, he thought. The laughter. Wonder if we’ll ever get those times back again.
His day had been frustrating, no phones, radio contact with Kowiss bad, and he had not been able to raise any of his other bases. Once again none of his office staff had arrived which further irritated him. Several times he had tried to telex Gavallan but could not get a connection. “Tomorrow‘11 be better,” he said, then quickened his pace, the emptiness of the streets unpleasant.
Their apartment block was five stories and they had one of the penthouses. The staircase was dimly lit, electricity down to half power again, the elevator out of action for months. He went up the stairs wearily, the paucity of light making the climb more gloomy. But inside his apartment, candles were already lit and his spirits rose. “Hi, Genny!” he called out, relocked the door, and hung up his old British warm. “Whisky time!” “Duncan! I’m in the dining room, come here for a minute.” He strode down the corridor, stopped at the doorway, and gaped. The dining table was laden with a dozen Iranian dishes and bowls of fruit, candles everywhere. Genny beamed at him. And so did Sharazad. “Bless my soul! Sharazad, this’s your doing? How nice to see you wh - ”
“Oh, it’s nice to see you too, Mac, you get younger every day, both of you are, so sorry to intrude,” Sharazad said in a rush, her voice bubbling and joyous, “but I remembered that yesterday was your wedding anniversary because it’s five days before my birthday, and I know how you like lamb horisht and polo and the other things, so we brought them, Hassan, Dewa, and I, and candles.” She was barely five foot three, the kind of Persian beauty that Omar Khayyam had immortalized. She got up. “Now that you’re back, I’m off.”
“But wait a second, why don’t you stay and eat with us an - ” “Oh but I can’t, much as I’d like to, Father’s having a party tonight and I have to attend. This is just a little gift and I’ve left Hassan to serve and to clean up and oh I do hope you have a lovely time! Hassan! Dewa!” she called out, then hugged Genny and hugged McIver and ran down to the door where her two servants were now waiting. One held her fur coat for her. She put it on, then wrapped the dark shroud of her chador around her, blew Genny another kiss, and, with the other servant, hurried away. Hassan, a tall man of thirty, wearing a white tunic and black trousers and a big smile, relocked the door. “Shall I serve dinner, madam?” he asked Genny in Farsi. “Yes, please, in ten minutes,” she replied happily. “But first the master will have a whisky.” At once Hassan went to the sideboard and poured the drink and brought the water, bowed, and left them.
“By God, Gen, it’s just like the old days,” McIver said with a beam. “Yes. Silly, isn’t it, that that’s only a few months ago?” Up to then they had had a delightful live-in couple, the wife an exemplary cook of European and Iranian food who made up for the lighthearted malingering of her husband whom McIver had dubbed Ali Baba. Both had suddenly vanished, as had almost all expat servants. No explanation, no notice. “Wonder if they’re all right, Duncan?”
“Sure to be. Ali Baba was a grafter and had to have enough stashed away to keep them for a month of
