Without warning rough hands grabbed Ayre, and the beating began. One of the pilots, Sandor Petrofl, rushed forward to intervene but he was shoved back, slipped, and was kicked back to the others who were helpless under the guns. “Stop it!” Pop Kelly, the tall captain, shouted out, his face chalky. “Leave Ayre alone, we’ll fly the missions!”
“Good.” Esvandiary told his men to stop. They dragged Ayre to his feet. “Get all flights under way. At once!”
When the flights were airborne he dismissed the expats roughly. “There’ll be no more mutinies against the Islamic state. By God, all orders of IranOil will - will - be obeyed instantly.” Very satisfied with himself that he had put down the mutiny as he had promised the camp commandant, he strode into the main office, down the corridor into Starke’s office that he had commandeered, and stood at the window surveying his domain. He saw two choppers well away now, the third was hovering twenty feet over the mud tank a hundred yards away, waiting for the ground crew to link its skyhook into the big steel ring that topped the hawsers. In front of the office Ayre, surrounded by other expats, was being succored by Doc Nutt. Rotten bastard to give me so much trouble, Esvandiary thought, and glanced at his watch, admiring it. It was a gold Rolex that he had bought on the black market this morning as befitted his increased stature, the money pishkesh from a bazaari who wanted his son to join IranOil. “Do you need anything, Excellency?” Pavoud asked unctuously from the doorway. “May I add my congratulations for the way that you handled the foreigners. For years they’ve all needed a good beating to put them in their places, how wise you were.”
“Yes. From now on the base will run smoothly. The moment there’s a problem, whoever’s in charge will be made an example of. Praise God that son of a dog Zataki leaves in an hour with his thugs for Abadan.”
“That’s one flight that will leave on time, Excellency.” Both men laughed. “Yes. Bring me some tea, Pavoud.” Deliberately Esvandiary left out the normal politeness and noted the man’s humility in-585 crease. He stared out of the window again. Doc Nutt was dabbing a cut over Ayre’s eye. I enjoyed watching Freddy being beaten, he thought. Yes, yes, I did.
In the chill wind Doc Nutt had wrapped a spare parka around Ayre. “You’d better come over to the surgery, laddie,” he said.
“I’m all right,” Ayre said, hurting all over. “Don’t think… don’t think anything’s damaged.”
“Bastards,” someone said. “Freddy, we’d better figure how we’re going to get to hell out of here.”
“It’s me on the first plane out…. I’m not going to risk an - ” They all looked off as the jet engines of the chopper hovering over the mud tank picked up tempo. Getting such a heavy load airborne was tricky - particularly in this wind - but no problem for a professional like Sandor. The hook went in first time and the moment the ground crew had their hands clear, he increased power, the engines screamed at a higher pitch, taking the strain, then chopper and load eased into the sky. The guard in the front seat beside Sandor waved excitedly - as did the one in the cabin. “You’re doing fine, Captain… no sweat,” came into Sander’s headphones from Wazari in their tower, Sandor estimating the distance, gaining height, his hands and feet perfectly coordinated - seeing only Esvandiary at the office window, still maddened by Ayre’s savage beating by many armed men at the orders of a coward. It took him back in time to his childhood in Budapest during the Hungarian Revolution. He had been helpless then - but not now. “You’re okay, HFD, but kinda close.” Wazari’s voice cautioned him. “You’re kinda close, ease south…”
Sandor increased power, moving toward the tower that topped the office building. “Is the load okay?” he asked. “Feels strange.”
“Looks fine, no sweat, but ease south as you climb. Everything five by five… ease south, do you read me?”
“You sure, for crissake? She feels sluggish as all hell….” The needle climbed through a hundred feet. Sander’s face closed and his hand snapped the stick right, at the same time he gave her hard right rudder. At once the chopper reeled sickeningly, the guard in the seat beside him was thrown off balance; he bashed against the door, then grabbed Sandor, trying to steady himself, and tangled with the controls. Again Sandor overcorrected, cursing the guard as though the petrified man was a real hazard.
For a moment it seemed that the gathering swing would take the chopper out of the sky, then Sandor shoved the frantic guard away. “Mayday - load’s shifted,” he shouted, his ears shut to 586 Wazari, eyes concentrating below, oblivious of everything except the need for revenge. “Load’s shifted!”
His hand pulled the Emergency Load Release, the hook freed, the steel tank plummeted out of the sky directly onto the office. The ton and a half of steel smashed through the roof, pulverizing rafters and walls and glass and metal and desks, obliterating the whole corner, and came to rest upended against the remains of the inner wall.
A moment of appalled silence took the whole camp, then the screaming engines filled the sky as, released suddenly from its load, the chopper had careened upward out of control. Sander’s reflexes fought the controls, his mind not caring whether he dominated them or not, whether he landed or not, just knowing that he had had vengeance on one brute. Beside him the guard was vomiting and his earphones were filled with, “Jesuschrist… Jesuschrist…” from the tower.
“Christ, look outttttt!” someone shouted as the chopper whirled down at them. Everyone scattered but Sandor’s reflexes cut engines and went for the impossible emergency landing. The skids hacked into the snow of the grass verge, did not buckle, and the chopper skeetered forward to come to rest unharmed forty yards away.
Ayre was the first at the cockpit. He jerked the door open. Sandor was sheet white, numb, staring ahead. “Load shifted…” he croaked. “Yes,” was all Ayre could say, knowing it to be a lie, then others joined them and they helped Sandor, his limbs momentarily uncontrollable, out of the cockpit. Behind him, near the building, Ayre saw Green Bands gaping at the wreckage, then Pavoud and the other clerk totter out of the front door in shock, the window and corner where Esvandiary had been standing was rubble. Doc Nutt pushed through the crowd and hurried toward the ruins as Wazari came down the emergency steps outside the tower that were twisted precariously, half off the side of the building. Christ, Ayre thought, Wazari must’ve seen everything. He knelt beside his friend. “You all right, Sandy?”
“No,” Sandor said shakily. “I think I went crazy. I couldn’t stop.”
Wazari was shoving through the people toward the cockpit, still panicked from seeing the tank hurtling down on him, knowing the pilot had deliberately disregarded his instructions. “You crazy, goddamnit?” he exploded at Sandor over the wind-down scream of the engines. Ayre’s temper snapped. “Goddamnit, the load shifted! We all saw it and so did you!”
“You’re goddamn right I saw it and so did you.” Wazari’s eyes were frantically darting this way and that, watching for Green Bands, but none were near - then he saw Zataki approaching from one of the bungalows. His dread escalated. He was still badly bruised from the beating Zataki had given him, his nose mashed, his mouth still aching where three teeth had been knocked out, and he knew he would admit anything to prevent another beating. He knelt beside Sandor, half pulling Ayre with him. “Listen,” he whispered desperately, “you swear by God you’ll help me? You promise, huh?” “I said I’d do what I could!” Angrily Ayre jerked his arm away, the pain of bending very bad. He stood upright and found he was looking into Zataki’s face. The suddenness chilled him - and the eyes. Everyone else had backed away from them.