and took his arm, gentling him, and thought, You and your running dogs still have a value, a temporary value. Perhaps as hostages, perhaps as bait - who knows? None are family except you and you betrayed us. “Calm yourself, my revered uncle, with the Help of God the pilot will get what he deserves.”
Yes. Lochart should not have panicked. He should have waited for my order. Disgusting to panic.
Valik closed his eyes and slept, very satisfied with himself.
Chapter 23
AT THE IRAN-TODA REFINERY, BANDAR DELAM: 12:04 P.M. Scragger was whistling tonelessly, hand- pumping fuel into his main tanks from big barrels that were lined up in a small Japanese semi beside the freshly washed 206, sparkling in the sun. Nearby was a young Green Band who squatted in the shade, leaning on his M16, half asleep.
The noonday sun was warm and the light breeze made the day pleasant and took away the constant humidity, here on the coast. Scragger was dressed lightly, white shirt with captain’s epaulets, summer-weight black trousers and shoes, the inevitable dark glasses and peaked cap.
Now the tanks were brimming. “That’s it, me son,” he said to the Japanese assigned to assist him.
“Hai, Anjin-san” - Yes, Mr. Pilot - the man said. Like all employees at the refinery he wore white, spotless overalls and gloves, with Iran-Toda Industries emblazoned on the back, then the same thing in Farsi politely above, with equivalent in Japanese characters beneath it. “Hai, it is,” Scragger said, using one of the words that he had picked up from Kasigi en route from Lengeh yesterday. He pointed. “Next our long-range tanks, and then we’ll fill the spares.” For the journey that de Plessey had grandly authorized Sunday night - to celebrate their victory over the saboteurs - Scragger had taken out the backseat and lashed in place two 40-gallon drums, “just in case, Mr. Kasigi. I’ve connected them to the main tanks. We can use a hand pump and can even refuel in the air, if we have to - if you do the pumping. Now we won’t have to land for fuel. You can never tell with weather in the Gulf, there’s always sudden storms or squalls, fog, winds can play tricks. Our best bet’s to stay a little out to sea.” “And Jaws?”
Scragger had laughed with him. “The old hammerhead of Kharg? With any luck we might see him - if we get that far and don’t get diverted.” “Still no callback from Kish radar?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter. They’ve cleared us to Bandar Delam. You’re sure you can refuel me at your plant?”
“Yes, we’ve storage tanks, Captain. Helipads, hangar, and repair shop. Those were the first things we built - we had a contract with Guerney.” “Yes, yes, I knew about that, but they’ve quit, haven’t they?” “Yes, they did, a week or so ago. Perhaps your company would take over the contract? Perhaps you could be put in charge - there’s work for three 2i2s and perhaps two 206s constantly, while we’re building.”
Scragger had chuckled. “That’d make old Andy and Gav happy as a cat in a barrel of fish sticks and Dirty Dune fart dust!” “Please?” Scragger tried to explain the joke about McIver. But when he was through Kasigi had not laughed, just said, Oh, now I understand.
They’re a rum lot, Scragger thought.
When he finished refueling he did another ground check - engine, rotors, airframe - though he did not expect to leave today. De Plessey had asked him to wait for Kasigi, to fly him where he needed to go, and to bring him back to Lengeh on Thursday. The 206 checked out perfectly. Satisfied he glanced at his watch, then he pointed at his stomach and rubbed it. “Grub time, hai?”
324 “Hai!” His helper smiled and motioned to the small truck nearby, then pointed at the main, four-story office building two-hundred-odd yards away where the executive offices were.
Scragger shook his head. “I’ll walk,” he said and waggled his two fingers to parody walking so the young man half bowed and got into the truck and drove off. He stood there for a moment, watching and being watched by the guard. Now that the truck had left and the tanks were closed, he could smell the sea and the rotting debris of the nearby shore. It was near low tide - there was only one tide a day in the Gulf, as in the Red Sea, because it was shallow and landlocked but for the narrow Strait of Hormuz. He liked the sea smell. He had grown up in Sydney, always within sight of the sea. After the war he had settled there again. At least, he reminded himself, I was there between jobs and the Missus and the kids stayed there and still stay there, more or less. His son and two daughters were married now with children of their own. Whenever he was on home leave, perhaps once a year, he saw them. They had a friendly, distant relationship. In the early years his wife and children had come to the Gulf to settle. Within a month they had gone home to Sydney. “We’ll be at Bondi, Scrag,” she had said. “No more foreign places for us, lad.” During one of his two-year stints in Kuwait she had met another man. When Scragger had returned the next time, she said, “I think we’ll divorce, lad. It’s best for the kids - and thee and me,” and so they did. Her new husband lived a few years, then died. Scragger and she drifted back into their pattern of friendliness - not that we ever left off, he thought. She’s a good sort and the kids’re happy and I’m flying. He still sent her money monthly. She always said she didn’t need it. “Then put it into savings against a rainy day, Nell,” he always told her. So far, touch wood, they’ve not had rainy days, she and the kids and their kids.
The nearest wood was the butt of the rifle the revolutionary had in his lap. The man was staring at him malevolently from the shade. Shitty bastard, you’re not going to spoil my day. He beamed at him, then turned his back, stretched, and looked around.
This’s a great site for a refinery, he told himself, close enough to Abadan, to the main pipelines joining the north and south oil fields - great idea to try to save all that gas being burned off, billions of tons of it all over the world. Criminal waste, when you think of it.
The refinery was on a promontory, with its own dredged wharfing setup that stretched out into the Gulf for four hundred yards, that Kasigi had told him would eventually be able to handle two supertankers at the same time of whatever size could be built. Around the helipads were acres of complex cracking plants and buildings, all seemingly interconnected with miles of steel and plastic pipes of all sizes, mazes of them, with huge cocks and valves, pumping stations, and everywhere cranes and earth-movers and vast piles of all manner of construction materials, mountains of concrete and sand, reinforcing steel mesh scattered around - along with neat dumps the size of football fields, of crates and containers protected with plastic tarpaulins - and half-finished roads, foundations, wharves, and excavations. But almost nothing moving, neither men nor machines. When they had landed, a welcoming committee of twenty or thirty Japanese had been at the helipad, hastily assembled, along with a hundred-odd Iranian strikers and armed Islamic Guards, some wearing IPLO armbands, the first Scragger had ever seen. After much shouting and threatening and examining their papers and the inbound Kish radar clearance, the spokesman had said the two of them could stay but no one could leave or the chopper take off without the komiteh’s permission.
En route to the office building, Chief Engineer Watanabe, who could speak English, had explained that the strike komiteh had been, for all intents and purposes, in possession for almost two months. In that time almost no progress had been made and all work had ceased. “They won’t even allow us to maintain our equipment.” He was a hard-faced, tough, grizzle-haired man in his sixties with very strong working hands. He lit another cigarette from his half smoked one. “And your radio?”
“Six days ago they locked the radio room, forbidding its use and took away the key. Phones of course have been out for weeks and the telex for a week or more. We’ve still about a thousand Japanese personnel here - dependents of course were never permitted - food supplies are very short, we’ve had no mail for six weeks. We can’t move out, we can’t work. We’re almost prisoners and can do nothing without very great troubles indeed. However, at least we are alive to protect what we have done and wait patiently to be allowed to continue. We are very indeed honored to see you, Kasigi-san, and you, Captain.”
Scragger had left them to their business, feeling the tension between the two men, however much they tried to hide it. In the evening he had eaten lightly, as always, allowed himself one ice
cold Japanese beer, “Bugger me, it’s not as good as Foster’s,” then had done his eleven minutes of Canadian Air Force exercises and had gone to bed. Just before midnight while he was still reading, there had been a soft knock. Kasigi had come in excitedly, apologizing for disturbing him but he felt Scragger should know at once that they had just heard a broadcast from a Khomeini spokesman in Tehran saying that all the armed services had declared for him, Prime Minister Bakhtiar had resigned, that now Iran was totally free of the Shah’s yoke, that by Khomeini’s personal order, all fighting should cease, all strikes should stop, oil production should commence again, all bazaars and shops should open, all men should hand in their weapons and return to work, and above everything, all should give thanks to God for granting them victory.
Kasigi had beamed. “Now we can start again. Thank all gods, eh? Now things will be normal again.”
