“But, Excellency Mullah, old sport, we don’t need protection.” “As God wants, but our vital Siri island oil installations were attacked and hurt by those sons of dogs. Our helicopters are vital to us and will not be hurt. But don’t be concerned, nothing will be changed by us - we understand your nervousness about flying with guns so none of us will be armed though one of us will fly with you every time - for your protection.” Scragger and the others had been reassured by the presence on the komiteh of their local police sergeant, Qeshemi, with whom they had always had good relations. The troubles of Tehran, Qom and Abadan had hardly touched them here on the Strait of Hormuz. Strikes had been minimal and orderly. De Plessey was paying EPF’s bills, so everything had been fine, except for the lack of work.
Idly Scragger glanced shoreward. The base was tidy and he could see men about their tasks, cleaning, repairing, a few of the komiteh idly sitting around in the shade. Ed Vossi was near the duty 206 doing his ground check. “Just not enough work,” Scragger muttered. It had been the same for months and he knew only too well how costly and disastrous that could be. It was the lack of steady charters and the need to get modern equipment that had persuaded him to sell his Sheik Aviation to Andrew Gavallan so many years ago.
But I’ve no regrets, he thought. Andy’s a beaut, he’s been straight with me, I’ve a little piece of the company, and I can fly so long’s I’m fit. But Iran’s terrible for Andy now - not even getting paid for work done or for current work, excepting here, and that’s a pittance. It must be four or five months the banks’ve been closed, so he’s been carrying Iran ops out of his own swag bag. Something’s got to go. With only Siri working, that’s not enough to half pay our way.
Three days ago, when Scragger had brought Kasigi back from the Iran-Toda plant near Bandar Delam, Kasigi had asked de Plessey if he could charter a 206 to go to Al Shargaz or Dubai. “I need to be in immediate telephone-telex touch with my head office in Japan to confirm arrangements I’ve made with you for your spot price, and about uplifting future supplies.” De Plessey had agreed immediately. Scragger had decided to do the charter himself and was glad he had. While he was in Al Shargaz he had met up with Johnny Hogg and Manuela. And Genny.
In private she had brought him up to date, particularly about Lochart. “Gawd Almighty!” he had said, shocked how rapidly their ops were falling apart and the revolution was embroiling them personally. “Poor old Tom.” “Tom was due from Bandar Delam the day before I left but he never arrived so we still don’t know what really happened - at least I don’t,” she said. “Scrag, God knows when we can talk privately again but there’s something else: just between us?” “Cross my heart and cut my throat!” “I don’t think the government’s ever going to get back to normal. I wanted to ask you: even if it does, could the partners - with or without official help - or IranOil force us out and keep our planes and equipment?” “Why should they do that? They’ve got to have choppers… but, if they wanted to, sure, too right they could,” he had said and whistled, for that possibility had never occurred to him before. “Bloody hell, if they decided they didn’t need us, Genny, that’d be dead easy, dead easy. They could get other pilots, Iranian or mercenaries - isn’t that what we are? Sure they could order us out and keep our equipment. And if we lost everything here, that’d gut S-G.”
“That’s what Duncan thought. Could we leave with our planes and spares - if they tried to do that?”
He had laughed. “It’d be a bonzer heist and that’s wot it’d be. But it couldn’t be done, Genny. If we tried and they caught us, they’d throw the book at us. There’s no way we could do it - not without Iran CAA approval.” “Say this was Sheik Aviation?” “It’d make no difference, Genny.” “You’d just let them steal your life’s work, Scrag? Scrag Scragger, DFC and Bar, AFC and Bar? I don’t believe it.”
“Nor do I,” he said at once, “though wot I’d do God only knows.” He saw the nice face looking at him, dark glasses perched on her head, anxiety behind the eyes, knowing her concern was not only for McIver and all that he had built, not only for their own stock and pension that, like his, was tied to S-G - but also for Andy Gavallan and all the others. “Wot’d I do?” he said slowly. “Well, we’ve almost as much in spares in Iran as birds. We’d have to start getting them out, though how to do it without making the locals suspicious I don’t know. We couldn’t get ‘em all out, but we could dent the amount. Then we’d all have to leave at the same time - everyone, all choppers - from Tehran, Kowiss, Zagros, Bandar Delam, and here. We’d…” He thought a moment. “We’d have to make for here, Al Shargaz… But, Genny, we’d all have different distances to go and some’d have to refuel once, maybe twice, and even if we got to Al Shargaz they’d still impound us without proper clearances.” He studied her. “Andy believes that’s wot the partners’re going to do?”
“No, no, he doesn’t, not yet, nor does Duncan, not for certain. But it is a possibility and Iran’s getting worse every day - that’s why I’m here, to ask Andy. You… you can’t put that in a letter or telex.”
“You phoned Andy?”
“Yes, and said as much as I dared - Duncan said to be careful - and Andy told me he’d try to check in London and when he arrived in a couple of days he’d decide what we should plan to do.” She pushed her glasses back on her nose. “We should be prepared, shouldn’t we, Scrag?”
“I wondered why you’d left the Dunc. He sent you?” “Of course. Andy‘11 be here in a couple of days.” Scragger’s mind was buzzing. If we do a bunk, someone’s bound to get hurt. What’d I do about Kish, Lavan, and Lengeh radar who could scramble twenty fighters in minutes to catch us before we were into friendly skies if we took off without clearance? “Dunc thinks they’re going to do us proper?” “No,” she had said. “He doesn’t - but I do.” “In that case, Genny, just between us, we’d better make a plan.” He remembered how her face had lit up, and thought again what a lucky man Duncan McIver was even though he was as ornery and opinionated as a man could be.
His eyes were watching the sea when he heard the 206 wind up and saw it neatly airborne. Ed’s a bonzer pilot, he thought.
“Hey, Scrag!”
“Yes, Willi?”
“You swim and I’ll watch.” Willi climbed onto the raft. “Good on you, mate.” Along with abundant edible fish there were also predators, sharks and stingrays, and others - with occasional poisonous jellyfish - but few here in these shallows, and provided you kept your eyes open you could see their shadows a long way off with plenty of time to make the raft. Scragger touched wood, as always, before he dived into the six feet of water that was lukewarm.
Willi Neuchtreiter was also naked. He was a short stocky man of forty-eight with brown hair and more than five thousand hours in helicopters, ten years with the German Army and eight with S-G - working Nigeria, the North Sea, Uganda, and here. His peaked cap was on the raft and he put it on and his sunglasses, squinted at the 206 that was heading out into the Gulf, then watched Scragger. In moments the sun had dried him. He enjoyed the sun and swimming and being at Lengeh.
So different from home, he thought. Home was in Kiel in northern Germany on the Baltic where the climate was harsh and mostly cold. His wife and three children had gone home last year because of his children’s educational needs, and he had elected to do two months here and one in Kiel, and had got a transfer back to the North Sea to be closer. Next month, after his leave, he would not return to Lengeh.