“I’m certain. Effer was directly in the line of fire, directly, and took them all - the attackers weren’t spraying the base, just aiming at Scot. I grabbed my Very pistol and charged out, saw no one, but fired anyway in the general direction of the trees. When I got to Scot, he had the shakes and Jordon was a mess, hit perhaps eight times. We got Scot to the medic - he’s all right, Tom, shoulder wound, I watched him patched myself, wound’s clean and the bullet went right through.”
Lochart had gone at once to see Scot in the trailer room they called the infirmary. Kevin O’Sweeney, the medic, said, “He’s okay, Captain.” “Yes,” Scot echoed, his face white and still in shock. “Really okay, Tom.” “Let me talk to Scot a moment, Kevin.” When they were alone he said quietly, “What happened while I was away, Scot, you see Nitchak Khan? Anyone from the village?”
“No. No one.”
“And you told no one about what happened in the square?”
“No, no, not at all. Why, what’s all this about, Tom?”
“JeanLuc thinks you were the target, not Jordon or the base, just you.” “Oh, Christ! Old Effer bought it because of me?”
Lochart remembered how distraught Scot had been. The base had been filled with gloom, everyone still working frantically, boxing spares, loading the two 212s, the 206, and the Alouette for today, last day at Zagros. The only bright spot yesterday was dinner - a barbecued haunch of fresh wild goat that JeanLuc had cooked with plenty of delicious Iranian rice and horisht. “Great barbecue, JeanLuc,” he had said.
“Without French garlic and my skill this would taste like old English mutton, ugh!”
“The cook buy it in the village?”
“No, it was a gift. Young Darius - the one who speaks English - he brought us the whole carcass on Friday as a gift from Nitchak’s wife.” Abruptly the meat in Lochart’s mouth tasted foul. “His wife?” “Oui. Young Darius said she’d shot it that morning. Mon Dieu, I didn’t know she was a hunter, did you? What’s the matter, Tom?”
“It was a gift to whom?”
JeanLuc frowned. “To me and to the base… actually Darius said, ‘This is from the kalandaran for the base and to give thanks for France’s help to the Imam, may God protect him.’ Why?”
“Nothing,” Lochart had said but later he had taken Scot aside. “Were you there when Darius delivered the goat?”
“Yes, yes, I was. I happened to be in the office and just thanked him an - ” The color had left Scot’s face. “Now that I think of it, Darius said as he was leaving, ‘It’s fortunate that the kalandaran is a great shot, isn’t it?’ I think I said, ‘Yes, fantastic.’ That’d be a dead giveaway, wouldn’t it?” “Yes - if you add it to my slip which now, now I mink’s got to be a deliberate trap. I was trapped too, so now Nitchak’s got to know there’re two of us who could be witnesses against the village.”
Last night and all today Lochart had been wondering what to do, how to get Scot and himself out, and he still had no solution.
Absently he climbed into the 206, waited until JeanLuc was clear, and took off. Now he was flying over the Ravine of the Broken Camels. The road that led to the village was still buried under tons of snow the avalanche had brought. They’ll never dig that out, he thought. On the rolling plateau he could see herds of goats and sheep with their shepherds. Ahead was Yazdek village. He skirted it. The schoolhouse was a scar in the earth, black amid the whiteness. Some villagers were in the square and they looked up briefly then went about their business. I won’t be sorry to leave, he thought. Not with Jordon murdered here. Zagros Three‘11 never be the same. The base was in chaos, men milling about - the last of those brought from other rigs and due to go to Shiraz, thence out of Iran. Cursing, exhausted mechanics were still packing spares, piling boxes and luggage for transshipment to Kowiss. Before he could get out of the cockpit, the refueling tender arrived with Freddy Ayre jauntily sitting on the hood. Yesterday, at Starke’s suggestion, Lochart had brought Ayre and another pilot, Claus Schwartenegger, to substitute for Scot. “I’ll take her now, Tom,” Ayre said. “You go and eat.”
“Thanks, Freddy. How’d it go?”
“Ropy. Claus’s taken another load of spares to Kowiss and he’ll be back in good time for the last one. Come sunset I’ll take the Alouette, she’s loaded to the gills and a bit more. What d’you want to fly out?” “The 212 - I’ll have Jordon aboard. Claus can take the 206. You’re off to Shiraz?”
“Yes. We’ve still got ten bods to get there - I was, er, thinking of taking five passengers instead of four for two trips. Eh?”
“If they’re small enough - no luggage - and so long as I don’t see you. Okay?”
Ayre laughed, the cold making his bruises more livid. “They’re all so anxious I don’t think they care much about luggage - one of the guys from Rig Maria said they heard shooting nearby.”
“One of the villagers hunting, probably.” The specter of the huntress with her high-powered rifle or for that matter any of the Kash’kai - all expert marksmen - filled him with dread. We’re so goddamn helpless, he thought, but kept it off his face. “Have a safe trip, Freddy.” He went to the cookhouse and got some hot horisht.
“Agha,” the cook said nervously, the other four helpers crowding around. “We’re due two months’ pay - what’s going to happen to our pay and to us?” “I’ve already told you, Ali. We’ll take you back to Shiraz where you came from. This afternoon. We pay you off there and as soon as I can I’ll send you the month’s severance pay we owe you. You keep in touch through IranOil as usual. When we come back you get your jobs back.”
“Thank you, Agha.” The cook had been with them for a year. He was a thin, pale man with stomach ulcers. “I don’t want to stay among these barbarians,” he said nervously. “When this afternoon?”
“Before sunset. At four o’clock you start cleaning up and get everything neat and tidy.”
“But, Agha, what’s the point of that? The moment we leave, the lice-covered Yazdeks will come and steal everything.”
“I know,” Lochart said wearily. “But you will leave everything neat and tidy and I will lock the door and maybe they won’t.”
“As God wants, Agha. But they will.”
Lochart finished his meal and went to the office. Scot Gavallan was there, face drawn, arm painfully in a sling. The door opened. Rod Rodrigues came in, dark rings around his eyes, his face pasty. “Hi, Tom, you haven’t forgotten, huh?” he asked anxiously. “I’m not on the manifest.” “No problem. Scot, Rod’s going with HJX. He’s going with you and JeanLuc to Al Shargaz.”
“Great, but I’m fine, Tom. I think I’d rather go to Kowiss.” “For Christ’s sake, you’re out to Al Shargaz and that’s the end of it!” Scot flushed at the anger. “Yes. All right, Tom.” He walked out. Rodrigues broke the silence. “Tom, what you want we send with HJX?” “How the hell do I know, for Ch - ” Lochart stopped. “Sorry, I’m getting tired. Sorry.”