into the sky but no other flights which was strange as this was a training base and usually very busy. Nothing seemed to move. Just a few trucks, no tanks or parades - or visitors this side. In the night some firing and shouting that had soon died down again.
Critically she peered at herself in the mirror that hung on a hook over the sink that was filled with dirty pans and dishes and measuring spoons and cups. She moved her face this way and that and studied her figure, what she could see of it. “You’re fine now, honey,” she said to her reflection, “but you better haul ass and go ajogging and quit with the bread and the chili and wine and tostadas, burritos, tacos, and retried beans and Ma’s pancakes dripping with homegrown honey, fried eggs, crisp bacon, and pan fries…” The brew began to spit, distracting her. She turned the flame down a fraction, tasted the thickening reddish stew, still fiery from not enough cooking. “Man alive,” she said with relish, “that’s going to make Conroe happier’n a pig in wallah…” Her face changed. It would, she thought, if he was here. Never mind, the boys will like it just fine.
She began the washing up, but she could not divert her thoughts from Bandar Delam. She felt the tears welling. “Oh, shit! Get hold of yourself!” “CASEVAC!” The faint shout outside startled her and she looked out of the window. The football had stopped. All the men were staring at Ayre who was running down the outside stairs of the tower, calling to them. She saw them crowd around him, then scatter. Ayre headed for her bungalow. Hastily she took off her apron, tidying her hair, brushed away her tears, and met him at the doorway.
“What is it, Freddy?”
He beamed. “Just thought I’d tell you their tower just got me on the blower and told me to ready a 212 for an immediate CASEVAC to Isfahan - they’ve got approval from IranOil.” “Isn’t that kinda-far?”
“Oh, no. It’s just two hundred miles, a couple of hours - there’s plenty of light. Marc‘11 overnight there and come back tomorrow.” Again Ayre smiled. “Good to have something to do. Curiously, they asked for Marc to do it.” “Why him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because he’s French and they’re the ones who helped Khomeini. Well, got to go. Your chili smells great. Marc’s peed off he’s missing it.” He walked off, heading for the office, tall and handsome. She stood at the doorway. Mechanics were wheeling out a 212 from the hangar and Marc Dubois, zipping up his winter flight overalls, waved gaily as he hurried over to watch the flight check. Then she saw the procession of four cars approaching along the boundary road. So did Freddy Ayre. He frowned and went into the office. “Have you got the clearance ready, Mr, Pavoud?” “Yes, Excellency.” Pavoud handed it to him. Ayre did not notice the tension in the man, nor that his hands were shaking. “Thanks. You’d better come too in case it’s all in Farsi.”
“But, Excell - ”
“Come on!” Buttoning his flight jacket against the breeze, Ayre hurried out. Pavoud wiped his sweating palms. The other Iranians watched him, equally anxious.
“As God wants,” one of them said, blessing God it was Pavoud, not him. At the 212 the ground check continued. Ayre arrived as the cars arrived. His smile vanished. The cars were crammed with armed men, Green Bands, and they fanned out around the chopper, a few uniformed airmen among them. The mullah Hussain Kowissi got out of the front seat of the lead car, his turban very white and his dark robes new, his boots old and well used. Over his shoulder was his AK47. Clearly he was in command. Other men opened the back doors of the first car and half pulled Colonel Peshadi out, then his wife. Peshadi shouted at them, cursing them, and they backed off a little. He straightened his uniform greatcoat and braided, peaked cap. His wife wore a heavy winter coat and gloves and a little hat and shoulder bag. Her face was white and drawn but, like her husband, she held her head high and proudly. She reached back into 341 the car for a small tote bag but one of the Green Bands grabbed it, and after a slight hesitation handed it to her.
Ayre tried to keep the shock off his face. “What’s going on, sir?” “We’re… we’re being sent to Isfahan under guard! Under guard! My base… my base was betrayed and is in the hands of mutineers!” The colonel did not keep the fury off his face as he whirled on Hussain, in Farsi: “I say again, what has my wife to do with this? EH?” he added with a roar. One of the nervous Green Bands nearby shoved a rifle into his back. Without looking around the colonel smashed the rifle away. “Son of a whore dog!” “Stop!” Hussain said in Farsi. “It is orders from Isfahan. I’ve shown you the orders that you and your wife are to be sent at once t - ”
“Orders? A dung filthy piece of paper scrawled in an illegible illiterate handwriting and signed by an ayatollah I’ve never heard of?” Hussain walked over to him. “Get aboard, both of you,” he warned, “or I’ll have you dragged there!”
“When the aircraft is ready!” Contemptuously the colonel took out a cigarette. “Give me a light,” he ordered the man nearest to him, and when the man hesitated, he snarled, “Are you deaf? A light!”
The man smiled wryly and found some matches, and all those around nodded approval, even the mullah, admiring courage in the face of death - courage in the face of hell, for surely this man was a Shah man and headed for hell. Of course hell! Didn’t you hear him shout, “Long live the Shah,” only hours ago when, in the night, we invaded and took possession of the camp and his fine house, helped by all the base’s soldiers and airmen and some of the officers, the rest of the officers now in cells? God is Great! It was the Will of God, God’s miracle that the generals caved in like the walls of shit the mullahs told us they were. The Imam was right again, God protect him. Hussain went over to Ayre who was rigid, appalled by what was going on, trying to understand, Marc Dubois beside him, equally shocked, the ground check stopped. “Salaam,” the mullah said trying to be polite. “You have nothing to fear. The Imam has ordered everything back to normal.” “Normal?” Ayre echoed angrily. “That’s Colonel Peshadi, tank commander, hero of your expeditionary force sent to Oman to help put down a Marxist-supported rebellion and invasion from South Yemen!” That had been in ‘73 when the Shah was asked for help by Oman’s sultan. “Hasn’t Colonel Peshadi got the Zolfaghar, your highest medal given only for gallantry in battle?” “Yes. But now Colonel Peshadi is needed to answer questions concerning crimes against the Iranian people and against the laws of God! Salaam, Captain Dubois, I’m glad that you’re going to fly us.”
“I was asked to fly a CASEVAC. This isn’t a CASEVAC,” Dubois said. “It’s a casualty evacuation - the colonel and his wife are to be evacuated to Command Headquarters in Isfahan.” Hussain added with a sardonic smile, “Perhaps they are casualties.”
Ayre said, “Sorry, our aircraft are under license to IranOil. We can’t do what you ask.”
The mullah turned and shouted, “Excellency Esvandiary!”
Kuram Esvandiary, or “Hotshot” as he was nicknamed, was in his early thirties, popular with the expats, very efficient, and S-G trained - he had had two years of training at S-G HQ at Aberdeen on a Shah grant. He came from the back and, for a moment, not one of the S-G men recognized their station manager. Normally he was a meticulous dresser and cleanshaven, but now he had three or four days’ growth of heavy beard, and wore rough clothes with a green armband, slouch hat, an M16 slung over his shoulder. “The trip’s sanctioned, here,” he said, giving Ayre the usual forms, “I’ve signed them and they’re stamped.”
“But, Hotshot, surely you realize this isn’t a legitimate CASEVAC?” “My name’s Esvandiary - Mr. Esvandiary,” he said without a smile and Ayre flushed. “And it’s a legitimate order from IranOil who employ you under contract here in Iran.” His face hardened. “If you refuse a legitimate order in good flying conditions, you’re breaking your contract. If you do that without cause then we’ve the right to seize all assets, aircraft, hangars, spares, houses, equipment, and order you out of Iran at once.” “You can’t do that.”
“I’m IranOil’s chief representative here now,” Esvandiary said curtly. “IranOil’s owned by the government. The Revolutionary Komiteh under the leadership of the Imam Khomeini, peace be upon him, is the government. Read your IranOil contract - also the contract between S-G and Iran Helicopters. Are you flying the charter or refusing to?”
Ayre held on to his temper. “What about… what about Prime Minister Bakhtiar and the gov - ”
“Bakhtiar?” Esvandiary and the mullah stared at him. “Haven’t you heard yet? He’s resigned and fled, the generals capitulated yesterday morning, the Imam and the Revolutionary Komiteh are Iran’s government now.”
Ayre and Dubois and those expats nearby gaped at him. The mullah said something in Farsi they did not understand. His men laughed. “Capitulated?” was all Ayre could say.
“It was the Will of God the generals came to their senses,” Hussain said, his eyes glittering. “They were arrested, the whole General Staff. All of them. As all enemies of Islam will be arrested now. We got Nassiri too - you’ve heard of him?” the mullah asked witheringly. Nassiri was the hated head of SAVAK whom the Shah had arrested a few weeks ago and who was in jail awaiting trial. “Nassiri was found guilty of crimes against humanity and shot - along with three other generals, Rahimi, martial law governor of Tehran, Naji, governor general of Isfahan, Paratrooper Commander Khosrowdad. You’re wasting time. Are you flying or not?”
