On Wings Of Eagles (1990)

departure another twenty-four hours.

At the same time, Coburn left in the second Range Rover to meet with Gholam. He gave Gholam cash to cover the next payday at Bucharest, and said nothing about using Gholam to pass messages to Dallas. The object of the exercise was a pretense of normality, so that it would be a few days before the remaining Iranian employees began to suspect that their American bosses had left town.

When he got back to the Dvoranchik place, the team discussed who should go in which car. Rashid should drive the lead car, obviously. His passengers would be Simons, Bill, and Keane Taylor. In the second car would be Coburn, Paul, and Gayden.

Simons said: 'Coburn, you're not to let Paul out of your sight until you're in Dallas. Taylor, the same goes for you and Bill.'

Rashid came back and said the streets were remarkably quiet.

'All right,' said Simons. 'Let's get this show on the road.'

Keane Taylor and Bill went out to fill the gas tanks of the Range Rovers from the fifty-five-gallon drum. The fuel had to be siphoned into the cars, and the only way to start the flow was to suck the fuel through: Taylor swallowed so much gasoline that he went back into the house and vomited, and for once nobody laughed at him.

Coburn had some pep pills that he had bought, on Simons's instructions, at a Tehran drugstore. He and Simons had had no sleep for twenty-four hours straight, and now they each took a pill to keep them awake.

Paul emptied the kitchen of every kind of food that would keep: crackers, cupcakes, canned puddings, and cheese. It was not very nutritious, but it would fill them.

Coburn whispered to Paul: 'Make sure we get the cassette tapes, so we can have some music in our car.'

Bill loaded the cars with blankets, flashlights, and can openers.

They were ready.

They all went outside.

As they were getting into the cars, Rashid said: 'Paul, you drive the second car, please. You are dark enough to pass for Iranian if you don't speak.'

Paul glanced at Simons. Simons gave a slight nod. Paul got behind the wheel.

They drove out of the courtyard and into the street.

Eleven

1____

As the Dirty Team drove out of the Dvoranchik place, Ralph Boulware was at Istanbul Airport, waiting for Ross Perot.

Boulware had mixed feelings about Perot. Boulware had been a technician when he joined EDS. Now he was a manager. He had a fine big house in a white Dallas suburb, and an income few black Americans could ever hope for. He owed it all to EDS, and to Perot's policy of promoting talent. They didn't give you all this stuff for nothing, of course: they gave it for brains and hard work and good business judgment. But what they did give you for nothing was the chance to show your stuff.

On the other hand, Boulware suspected Perot wanted to own his men body and soul. That was why ex- military people got on well at EDS: they were comfortable with discipline and used to a twenty-four-hour-a-day job. Boulware was afraid that one day he might have to decide whether he was his own man or Perot's.

He admired Perot for going to Iran. For a man as rich and comfortable and protected as that to put his ass on the line the way he had ... that took some balls. There was probably not one other chairman of the board of an American corporation who would conceive the rescue plan, let alone participate in it.

And then again, Boulware wondered--all his life he would wonder--whether he could ever really trust a white man.

Perot's leased 707 touched down at six A.M. Boulware went on board. He took in the lush decor at a glance and then forgot about it: he was in a hurry.

He sat down with Perot. 'I'm catching a plane at six-thirty so I got to make this fast,' he said. 'You can't buy a helicopter and you can't buy a light plane.'

'Why not?'

'It's against the law. You can charter a plane, but it won't take you just anywhere you want to go--you charter for a specified trip.'

'Who says?'

'The law. Also, chartering is so unusual that you'll have the government all over you asking questions, and you might not want that. Now--'

'Just a minute, Ralph, not so fast,' said Perot. He had that I'm-the-boss look in his eye. 'What if we get a helicopter from another country and bring it in?'

'I have been here a month and I have looked into all this thoroughly, and you can't rent a helicopter and you can't rent a plane, and I have to leave now to meet Simons at the border.'

Perot backed off. 'Okay. How are you going to get there?'

'Mr. Fish got us a bus to go to the border. It's on its way already--I was going with it; then I had to stay behind to brief you. I'm going to fly to Adana--that's about halfway--and catch up with the bus there. I got Ilsman with me, he's the secret service guy, and another guy to translate. What time do the fellows expect to reach the border?'

'Two o'clock tomorrow afternoon,' said Perot.

'It's going to be tight. I'll see you guys later.'

He ran back to the terminal building and just made his flight.

Ilsman, the fat secret policeman, and the interpreter--Boulware did not know his name so he called him Charlie Brown--were on board. They took off at six-thirty.

They flew east to Ankara, where they waited several hours for their connection. At midday they reached Adana, near the biblical city of Tarsus in south central Turkey.

The bus was not there.

They waited an hour.

Boulware decided the bus was not going to come.

With Ilsman and Charlie Brown, he went to the information desk and asked about flights from Adana to Van, a town about a hundred miles from the border crossing.

There were no flights to Van from anywhere.

'Ask where we can charter a plane,' Boulware told Charlie. Charlie asked.

'There are no planes for charter here.'

'Can we buy a car?'

'Cars are very scarce in this part of the country.'

'Are there no car dealers in town?'

'If there are, they won't have any cars to sell.'

'Is there any way to get to Van from here?'

'No.'

It was like the joke about the tourist who asks a farmer for directions to London, and the farmer replies: 'If I was going to London, I wouldn't start from here.'

They wandered out of the terminal and stood beside the dusty road. There was no sidewalk: this was really the sticks. Boulware was frustrated. So far he had had it easier than most of the rescue team--he had not even been to Tehran. Now that it was his turn to achieve something, it looked as though he would fail. Boulware hated to fail.

He saw a car approaching with some kind of markings in Turkish on its side. 'Hey,' he said, 'is that a cab?'

'Yes,' said Charlie.

'Hell, let's get a cab!'