“‘Fraid so, Duke.” Gavallan unzipped his parka and put his hat on the hall stand. “Wanted to tell you myself - sorry, but there it is.” The two men were in Starke’s bungalow, and he had stationed Freddy Ayre outside to make sure they were not overheard. “I heard this morning all our birds are going to be grounded, pending nationalization. We’ve six safe days to plan and execute Whirlwind - if we do it. That makes it next Friday. On Saturday we’re on borrowed time.”
“Jesus.” Absently Starke unzipped his flight jacket and clomped over to the sideboard, his flying boots leaving a little trail of snow and water droplets on the carpet. At the back of the bottom drawer was his last bottle of beer. He nipped the top off, poured half into a glass and gave it to Gavallan. “Health,” he said, drinking from the bottle, and sat on the sofa. “Health.”
“Who’s in, Andy?”
“Scrag. Don’t know yet about the rest of his lads but I’ll know tomorrow. Mac’s come up with a schedule and an overall three-phase plan that’s full of holes but possible. Let’s say it’s possible. What about you and your lads?” “What’s Mac’s plan?”
Gavallan told him.
“You’re right, Andy. It’s full of holes.”
“If you were to do a bunk, how’d you plan it from here - you’ve got the longest distances and the most difficulty.”
Starke went over to the flight map on the wall and pointed at a line that went from Kowiss to a cross a few miles out in the Gulf, indicating a rig. “This rig’s called Flotsam, one of our regulars,” he said, and Gavallan noticed how tight his voice had become. “It takes us about twenty minutes to reach the coast and another ten to get to the rig. I’d cache fuel on the shore near that bearing. I think it could be done without causing too much suspicion; it’s just sand dunes and no huts within miles and a lot of us used to picnic there. An ‘emergency’ landing to safety-check flotation gear before going out to sea shouldn’t get radar too itchy though they get worse every day. We’d have to cache two forty-gallon drums per chopper to get us across the Gulf and we’d have to refuel in flight by hand.” It was almost dusk. Windows looked out on the runway and beyond it to the air force base. The 125, with priority clearance onward to Al Shargaz, was parked on the apron, waiting for the fuel truck to arrive. Officious, nervous Green Bands surrounded her. Refueling was not really necessary but Gavallan had told John Hogg to request it anyway to give him more time with Starke. The other two passengers, Arberry and Dibble, being sent on leave after their escape from Tabriz - and crammed between a full load of crates of spares hastily packed and marked in English and Farsi: FOR IMMEDIATE REPAIR AND RETURN TO TEHRAN - were not allowed to land, even to stretch their legs. Nor the pilots, except to ground-check and to supervise the fueling when the truck arrived.
“You’d head for Kuwait?” Gavallan asked, breaking the silence. “Sure. Kuwait’d be our best bet, Andy. We’d have to refuel in Kuwait, then work our way down the coast to Al Shargaz. If it was up to me I guess I’d park more fuel against an emergency.” Starke pinpointed a tiny speck of an island off Saudi. “Here’d be good - best to stay offshore Saudi, no telling what they’d do.” Queasily he stared at all the distances. “The island’s called Jellet, the Toad, which’s what it looks like. No huts, no nothing, but great fishing. Manuela and I went out there once or twice when I was stationed at Bahrain. I’d park fuel there.”
He took off his flight cap and wiped the droplets off his forehead then put his cap back on again, his face more etched and tired than usual, all flights more harassed than usual, canceled then reordered, and canceled again, Esvandiary more foul than usual, everyone edgy and irritable, no mail or contact with home for weeks, most of his people, including himself, overdue leave and replacement. Then there’s the added problems of the incoming Zagros Three personnel and airplanes and what to do with old Effer Jordon’s body when it arrives tomorrow. That had been Starke’s first question when he had met Gavallan at the 125 steps. “I’ve got that in hand, Duke,” Gavallan had said heavily, the wind ten knots and chill. “I’ve got ATC’s permission for the 125 to come back tomorrow afternoon to pick up the coffin. I’ll ship it back to England on the first available flight. Terrible. I’ll see his wife as soon as I get back and do what I can.” “Lousy luck - thank God young Scot’s okay, huh?” “Yes, but lousy that anyone got hurt, lousy.” What if it was Scot’s corpse and Scot’s coffin? Gavallan was thinking again, the question never ending. What if it had been Scot, could you still compartmentalize the murder so easily? No, of course not. All you can do is bless your joss this time and do the best you can - just do the best you can. “Curiously, Tehran ATC and the airport komiteh were as shocked as we were, and very helpful. Let’s go and chat - I’ve not much time. Here’s mail for some of the lads and one from Manuela. She’s fine, Duke. She said not to worry. Kids’re fine and want to stay in Texas. Your folks’re fine too - she asked me to tell you first thing when I caught up with you…”
Then Gavallan had delivered the bombshell of six days and now Starke’s mind was in a fog. “With Zagros’s birds here, I’ll have three 212s, one Alouette, and three 206s plus a load of spares. Nine pilots, including Tom Lochart and JeanLuc, and twelve mechanics. That’s way too many for a caper like Whirlwind, Andy.”
“I know.” Gavallan looked out the window. The fueling truck was lumbering alongside the 125 and he saw Johnny Hogg come down the steps. “How long will she take to refuel?”
“If Johnny doesn’t hurry them up, three quarters of an hour, easy.”
“Not much time to make a plan,” Gavallan said. He looked back at the map. “But then there’d never be enough. Is there a rig near that bearing that’s empty - still closed down?”
“Dozens. There’re dozens that’re still as the strikers left them months ago - doors welded closed, crazy, huh? Why?”
“Scrag said one of them might be an ideal spot to park gasoline and refuel.” Starke frowned. “Not in our area, Andy. He’s got some big platforms - ours’re little bitty ones mostly. We’ve none that could take more than one chopper at a time, and we sure as hell wouldn’t want to wait around. What’d old Scrag say?”
Gavallan told him.
“You think he’ll get to go see Rudi?”
“He said in the next few days. I can’t wait that long now. Could you find an excuse to get down to Bandar Delam?”
Starke’s eyes narrowed. “Sure. Maybe we could send a couple of our birds there an’ say we’re redeploying them - even better, tell Hotshot we’re putting ‘em on loan for a week. We can still get occasional clearances - so long as that sonofabitch’s out of the way.”
Gavallan sipped the beer, making it last. “We can’t operate any longer in Iran. Poor old Jordon should never have happened, and I’m damned sorry I didn’t order an evacuation weeks ago. Damned sorry.”
“He wasn’t your fault, Andy.”
“In a way he was. In any event we have to pull out. With or without our planes. We have to try to salvage what we can - without risking personnel.” “Any caper’s going to be goddamn risky, Andy.” Starke’s voice was gentle. “I know. I’d like you to ask your lads if they’d be part of Whirlwind.” “There’s no way we could get out all our choppers. No way.” “I know, so I propose we concentrate on our 212s only.” Gavallan saw Starke look at him with more interest. “Mac agreed. Could you fly your three out?” Starke thought a moment. “Two’s max that I could handle - we’d need two pilots, with say one mechanic per chopper for emergencies and some extra hands to handle the spare drums or inflight refuel - that’d be minimum. It’d be tricky but if we got lucky…” He whistled tonelessly, “Maybe we could send the other 212 to Rudi at Bandar Delam? Sure, why the hell not? I’d tell Hotshot she’s on loan for ten days. You could send me a confirm telex asking for the transfer. But hell, Andy, we’d still have three pilots here an - ”