The mullah sighed, lack of space pressing him against this Infidel. I wonder how an Infidel prays, he was thinking. What does he say to God - even a person of the Book? How pitiful they are!
AT BANDAR DELAM AIRPORT: 12:32 P.M. The Iranian Air Force car swung past the sleepy guards on the gate, its green Khomeini flag fluttering, and pulled up in a swirl of dust outside Rudi’s office trailer. Two smartly uniformed officers got out. With them were three Green Bands.
Rudi Lutz went out to meet the officers - a major and a captain. When he recognized the captain, his face lit up. “Hello, Hushang. I’ve been wondering how you were do - ”
The older officer interrupted him angrily. “I’m Major Qazani, Air Force Intelligence. What’s an Iranian chopper under your control doing trying to leave Iranian airspace, repeatedly disobeying instructions from an intercept, and totally disregarding orders from ground control?” Rudi stared at them blankly. “There’s only one of my choppers airborne, and she’s on a CASEVAC requested by Abadan radar control.”
“What’s her registration?”
“EP-HXX. What’s this all about?”
“That’s what I want to know.” Major Qazani walked past him into the trailer and sat down. His Green Bands waited. “Come on!” the major said irritably. “Sit down, Captain Lutz.”
Rudi hesitated, then sat at his desk. A few bullet holes in the wall let in light behind him. The Green Bands and the other officer came in and shut the door.
“What’s HXX? A 206 or 212?” the major asked.
“It’s a 206. What’s th - ”
“How many 212s have you here?”
“Two. HXX and HGC. Abadan radar cleared HXX on a CASEVAC yesterday to Kowiss with wounded from the fedayeen attack at dawn yester - ”
“Yes, we heard about that. And that you helped the Guards blow them to the hell they deserve, for which many thanks. Is EP-HBC an S-G 212 registration?”
Rudi hesitated. “I don’t know offhand, Major. I don’t have records here of all our 212s, but I could find out - if I can raise our base in Kowiss. Radio’s been out for a day. Now, please, I’ll help all I can, but what’s this about?”
Major Qazani lit a cigarette, offered one to Rudi who shook his head. “It’s about a 212, EP-HBC, we believe an S-G-operated 212, with an unknown number of persons aboard that went over the Iraqi border just before sunset last night - with no clearances, disregarding, as I’ve said, disregarding explicit radio orders to land.”
“I don’t know anything about it.” Rudi’s mind was racing. Got to be someone making an escape, he thought. “She’s not our bird. We can’t even start engines without Abadan Control’s okay. That’s SOP.”
“How would you explain HBC then?”
“She could be a Guerney aircraft taking some of their personnel away, or Bell, or any one of the other chopper companies. It’s been hard, sometimes impossible, to file a flight plan recently. You know how, er, how fluid radar’s been the last few weeks.”
“Fluid’s not a good word,” Captain Hushang Abbasi said. He was a lithe, very handsome man with a clipped mustache and dark glasses, and wore wings on his uniform. All of last year he had been based at Kharg where he and Rudi had got to know each other. “And if she was an S-G aircraft?” “Then there’ll be a correct explanation.” Rudi was glad that Hushang had weathered the revolution - particularly as he had always been an outspoken critic of mullahs meddling in government. “You’re sure she was illegal?” “I’m sure legal airplanes have clearances, legal airplanes obey air regulations, and legal airplanes don’t take evading action and rush for the border,” Hushang said. “And I’m almost sure I saw the S-G emblem on my first pass, Rudi.”
Rudi’s eyes narrowed. Hushang was a very good pilot. “You were flying the intercept?”
“I led the flight that scrambled.”
The silence grew in the trailer. “Do you mind if I open a window, Major. The smoke - it gives me a headache.”
The major said irritably, “If HBC’s an S-G chopper someone’s going to have more than a headache.”
Rudi opened the window. HBC sounds like one of our registrations. What the hell’s going wrong? We seem to be under a spell the last few days - first it was that psychopath Zataki and the murder of our mechanic, then poor old Kyabi, then the God-cursed leftist fedayeen dawn attack yesterday, damn nearly killing us and wounding Jon Tyrer - Christ, I hope Jon’s all right! - and now more trouble!
He sat down again, feeling very weary. “Best I can do is to ask.” “How far north do you operate?” the major asked.
“Normally? Ahwaz. Dezful’d be about our extreme ra - ” The base phone intercom rang. He picked it up and missed the look between the two officers. “Hello?”
It was Fowler Joines, his chief mechanic. “You okay?”
“Yes. Thanks. No sweat.”
“Shout if you need help, old sport, and we’ll all come arunning.” The phone clicked off.
He turned back to the major, feeling better. Since he had stood up to Zataki, all of his men and pilots had treated him as though he were Laird Gavallan himself. And since yesterday when the fedayeen were beaten off, even the komiteh Green Bands had been deferential - all except Base Manager Yemeni who was still trying to give him a hard time. “Dezful’s extreme range - one way. Once we flew…” He stopped. He had been going to say, Once we flew our area manager to Kermanshah. But then the memory of the brutal and senseless way Boss Kyabi had been murdered welled up and again he was sickened.
He saw the major and Hushang staring at him. “Sorry, I was going to say, Major, once we flew a charter to Kermanshah. With refueling, as you know, we’re mobile.”
“Yes, Captain Lutz, yes, we know.” The major stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. “Prime Minister Bazargan, with of course the prior approval of Ayatollah Khomeini,” he added cautiously, not trusting Abbasi or the Green Bands who also might secretly understand English, “has issued strict orders about all aircraft in Iran, particularly choppers. We’ll call Kowiss now.” They went to the radio room. At once Yemeni protested that he could not approve the call without permission of the local komiteh, of which he had appointed himself a member as the only one who could read or write. One of the Green Bands went to fetch them but the major overrode Yemeni and got his way. Kowiss did not answer their calls.
“As God wants. It’ll be better after dark, Agha,” radio operator Jahan said in Farsi.
“Yes, thank you,” the major said.
“What is it you need, Agha?” Yemeni said rudely, hating the encroachment, the Shah uniforms almost whipping him into a frenzy. “I will get it for you!”
“I don’t need you for anything, son of a dog,” the major shouted angrily, everyone jumped, and Yemeni was paralyzed. “If you give me trouble I’ll haul you in front of our Tribunal for interfering with the work of the prime minister and Khomeini himself! Get out!”