“Pilot, you did that to kill Esvandiary. Eh?”
Sandor stared up at him from the snow. “The load shifted, Colonel.” Zataki put his eyes on Ayre who remembered what Doc Nutt had said about the man, his own head aching, his groin, and pain everywhere. “The, er, the operation’s difficult, it was the wind. The load shifted. An Act of God, Excellency…”
Wazari went back a pace as Zataki turned on him. “It’s true, Excellency,” he said at once. “The winds aloft’re gust - ” He cried out as Zataki’s fist rammed into his stomach and he doubled up in agony, then Zataki grabbed him and shoved him against the chopper. “Now tell me the truth, vermin!” “It’s the truth,” Wazari whimpered, barely able to talk through his nausea. “It’s the truth! It was Insha’Allah!” He saw Zataki’s fist ready again and he cried out in a jumble of Farsi and English, “If you hit me I’ll say anything you want, anything, I can’t stand another beating and I’ll swear to anything you want, anything, but the load shifted - by God, the load shifted, I swear by God the load shifted….”
Zataki stared at him. “God will put you into the fiery vats for all eternity if you’ve sworn a lie by His Name,” he said. “You swear it was God’s will alone? That the load shifted? You swear it was an Act of God?” “Yes, yes, I swear it!” Wazari was trembling, helpless in his grasp. He tried to keep his eyes guileless, knowing that his only chance for life lay with Ayre, proving his value to him. “I swear by God and the Prophet it was an accident, an… an Act of God. Insha’Allah…”
“As God wants.” Zataki nodded, absolved, and released him. Wazari slid to the snow, retching, and all the others were thanking God or joss or heaven or karma that, for the moment, this crisis had passed. Zataki jerked a thumb at the wreckage. “Get what remains of Esvandiary out of there.” “Yes … yes, at once,” Ayre said.
“Unless the captain returns, you will fly me and my men to Bandar Delam.” Zataki walked off. His Green Bands went with him.
“Christ!” someone muttered, all of them almost sick with relief. They helped Sandor to stand and Wazari. “You okay, Sergeant?” Ayre asked. “No, goddamnit, no, I’m not!” Wazari spat out some vomit. When he saw the Green Bands had gone with Zataki his face twisted with hatred. “That bastard! I hope he fries!”
Ayre pulled Wazari aside and dropped his voice. “I won’t forget I said I’d try to help you. When Zataki leaves you’ll be okay. I won’t forget.” “Nor me,” Sandor said weakly. “Thanks, Sergeant.” “You owe me your goddamn life,” the younger man said and spat again, his knees weak and chest hurting. “You could’ve killed me too with that goddamn tank!” “Sorry.” Sandor stuck out his hand.
Wazari looked at the hand, then up into his face. “I’ll shake hands with you when I’m safe out of this goddamn country.” He limped off. “Freddy!” Dr. Nutt was at the wreckage with a couple of mechanics, lifting off rafters and mess, beckoning him. Green Bands stood around watching. “Give us a hand here, will you?”
Al of them went to help. None of them wishing to be the first one to see Esvandiary.
They found him crumpled in a pocket under one side of the tank. Dr. Nutt squeezed down beside him, examining him awkwardly. “He’s alive,” he cried out, and Sandor’s stomach turned over. Quickly they all helped get the last of the splintered rafters and the remains of Starke’s desk out of the way and gently eased the man out. “I think he’s all right,” Dr. Nutt said, hoarsely. “Get him over to the infirmary - nasty bonk on the head but limbs seem okay and nothing crushed. Someone get a stretcher.” People rushed to do his bidding, the pall off them now, all of them hating Hotshot but all of them hoping he’d be all right. Unnoticed, Sandor went behind the building, so relieved he could have wept, and was very sick. When he came back only Ayre and Nutt were waiting. “Sandy, you’d better come along too, let me give you the onceover-lightly,” Nutt said. “Bloody casualty ward, that’s what we’ve got now.”
“You’re sure Hotshot’ll be okay?”
“Pretty sure.” The doctor’s eyes were watery and pale blue and a little bloodshot. “What went wrong, Sandy?” he asked quietly.
“Don’t know, Doc. All I wanted was to get that bastard an’ at the time dumping the tank seemed the perfect way to do it.”
“You know that would have been murder?”
Uneasily Ayre said, “Doc, don’t you think it’d be better to leave it?” “No, no, I don’t.” Nutt’s voice hardened. “Sandy, you know that was a deliberate attempt at murder.”
“Yes.” Sandor looked back at him. “Yes, I understand that and I’m sorry.” “You’re sorry he’s not dead?”
“Swear to God, Doc, I thank God he’s alive. I still think he’s become vile and evil and everything I detest and I can’t forgive him for… for ordering Freddy’s beating but that’s no excuse for what I did. Doing what I did was crazy, and no excuse, and I really thank God he’s alive.” “Sandy,” Nutt said, his voice even quieter, “you’d better not fly for a day or two. You were pushed beyond the limit - nothing to worry about, laddie, so long as you understand. Just take it easy for a day or so. You’ll get the shakes tonight but don’t worry. You too, Freddy. Of course this’s all between the three of us and the load shifted. I saw it shift.” He brushed the threads of hair over his bald pate that the wind toyed with. “Life’s strange, very strange, but just between us three, God was with you today, Sandy, if there is such a thing.” He walked off, crumpled like an old sack of potatoes.
Ayre watched him. “Doc’s right, you know, we were bloody lucky, so near to disaster, so n - ”
There was a shout and they looked off. One of the pilots near the main gate shouted again and pointed. Their hearts leaped. Starke was coming down the road from the direction of the town. He was alone. As far as they could see from there, he was unhurt, walking tall. They waved excitedly and he waved back, the word flashed throughout the camp and Ayre was already running to meet him, oblivious of his pain. Maybe there’s a God in heaven after all, he was thinking happily.
Chapter 36
AT LENGEH: 2:15 P.M. Scragger was sunbathing on the big raft that was moored a hundred yards offshore, a small rubber dinghy attached to it. The raft was made with planks lashed to empty oil drums. In the dinghy was fishing equipment and the walkie-talkie, and below it hung a strong wire cage with the dozen fish that he and Willi Neuchtreiter had already caught for dinner - the Gulf being abundant with shrimp, Spanish mackerel, tuna, sea bass, rock cod, and dozens of others species.
Willi, another pilot, was swimming lazily in the warm shallow water nearby. On the shore was their base - half a dozen trailers, cookhouse, dormitories for the Iranian staff, office trailer with attached radio tower and antenna, hangars with space for a dozen 212s and 206s.
The present complement was five pilots, including himself, seven mechanics, fifteen Iranian staff, day laborers, cooks and houseboys, and the IranOil manager Kormani, presently sick. Of the other pilots two were British, the last, Ed Vossi, American.
On base now were three 212s - with just enough work for one at the moment - and two 206 Jet Rangers with hardly any work at all. Apart from the French Consortium with their Siri contracts from Georges de Plessey, all other contracts had been canceled or held up pending the end of the troubles. There were still rumors of bad trouble at the big naval base of Bandar Abbas eastward and of fighting all along the coast. Two days ago trouble had spilled over to the base for the first time. Now they had a permanent komiteh of Green Bands, police, and one mullah: “To protect the base against leftists, Excellency Captain.”