“No sweat, Tom, so’re we all. Maybe we send her empty, huh?” With an effort Lochart put away his fatigue. “No, put the spare engine aboard - and any other 212 spares to make up the load.”
“Sure. That’d be good. Maybe y - ” The door opened and Scot came back in quickly. “Nitchak Khan! Look out the window!”
Twenty or more men were coming up the track from the village. All were armed. Others were already spreading out over the base, Nitchak Khan heading for the office trailer. Lochart went to the back window, jerked it open. “Scot, go to my hut, keep away from the windows, don’t let ‘em see you and don’t move until I come get you. Hurry!”
Awkwardly Scot climbed out and rushed off. Lochart pulled the window closed. The door opened. Lochart got up. “Salaam, Kalandar.”
“Salaam. Strangers have been seen in the forests nearby. The terrorists must be back so I have come to protect you.” Nitchak Khan’s eyes were hard. “As God wants, but I would regret it if there were more deaths before you leave. We will be here until sunset.” He left.
“What’d he say?” Rodrigues asked, not understanding Farsi. Lochart told him and saw him tremble. “No problem, Rod,” he said, covering his own fear. There was no way they could take off or land without being over forest, low, slow, and in sitting-duck range. Terrorists? Bullshit! Nitchak knows about Scot, knows about me, and I’ll bet my life he’s got marksmen planted all around, and if he’s here till sunset there’s no way to sneak off, he’ll know which chopper we’re on. Insha’Allah. Insha’Allah, but meanwhile what the hell’re you going to do?
“Nitchak Khan knows the countryside,” he said easily, not wanting to panic Rod, enough fear on the base already without adding to it. “He’ll protect us, Rod - if they’re there. Is the spare engine crated?”
“Huh? Sure, Tom, sure, she’s crated.”
“You take care of the loading. I’ll see you later. No sweat.” For a long time Lochart stared at the wall. When it was time to return to Rig Rosa, Lochart went to find Nitchak Khan. “You will Want to see that Rig Rosa’s been closed down properly, Kalandar, isn’t it on your land?” he said, and though the old man was reluctant, to his great relief he managed to persuade him with flattery to accompany him. With the Khan aboard, Lochart knew he would be safe for the time being.
So far so good, he thought. I’ll have to be the last away. Until we’re well away, Scot and I, I have to be very clever. Too much to lose now: Scot, the lads, Sharazad, everything.
AT RIG ROSA: 5:00 P.M. Jesper was driving their unit truck fast along the path through the pines that led to the last well to be capped. Beside him was Mimmo Sera, the roustabout and his assistant were in the back, and he was humming to himself, mostly to keep awake. The plateau was large, almost half a mile between wells, the countryside beautiful and wild. “We’re overdue,” Mimmo said wearily, looking at the lowering sun. “Stronzo!” “We’ll give it a go,” Jesper said. In the side pocket was the last of the energy-giving chocolate bars. The two men shared it. “This looks a lot like Sweden,” Jesper said, skidding a bend, the speed exhilarating him. “Never been to Sweden. There she is,” Mimmo said. The well was in a clearing, already on stream and producing about 12,000 barrels daily, the whole field immensely rich. Over the well was a giant column of valves and pipes, called the Christmas Tree, that connected it to the main pipeline. “This was the first we drilled here,” he said absently. “Before your time.” When Jesper switched the engine off, the silence was eerie, no pumps needed here to bring the oil to the surface - abundant gas pressure trapped in the oil dome thousands of feet below did that for them and would do so for years yet. “We’ve no time to cap it properly, Mr. Sera - unless you want to overstay our welcome.”
The older man shook his head, pulled his woolen cap down over his ears. “How long will the valves hold?”
Jesper shrugged. “Should be as long as you want - but unattended or inspected from time to time? Don’t know. Indefinitely - unless we get a gas surge - or one of the valves or seals’re faulty.”
“Stronzo!”
“Stronzo,” Jesper said agreeably, motioned to his assistant and the roustabout and went forward. “We’ll just shut it down, no capping.” The snow crunched underfoot. Wind rustled the treetops and then they heard the incoming engine of the chopper back from the base. “Let’s get with it.” They were hidden from the helipad and main buildings of Rosa, half a mile away. Irritably, Mimmo lit a cigarette and leaned against the hood and watched the three men work diligently, fighting the valves, some stuck, then fetching the huge wrench to unglue them, then the bullet ricocheted off the Christmas Tree and the following crackkkkkkkkk echoed through the forest. All of them froze. They waited. Nothing.
“You see where it came from?” Jesper muttered. No one answered him. Again they waited. Nothing. “Let’s finish,” he said and again put his weight onto the wrench. The others came forward to help. At once mere was another shot and the bullet went through the windshield of the truck, tore a hole in the cabin wall, and ripped a computer screen and some electrical gear apart before going out the other side. Silence.
No movement anywhere. Just wind and a little snow falling, disturbed by the wind. Sound of the chopper jets shrieking now in the landing flare. Mimmo Sera shouted out in Farsi, “We just shut down the well, Excellencies, to make it safe. We shut it down and then we leave.” Again they waited. No answer. Again, “We only make the well safe! Safe for Iran - not for us! For Iran and the Imam - it’s your oil not ours!”
Waiting again and never a sound but the sounds of the forest. Branches crackling. Somewhere far off an animal cried. “Mamma mia,” Mimmo said, his voice hoarse from shouting, then walked over and picked up the wrench and the bullet sang past his face so close he felt its wake. His shock was sudden and vast. The wrench slipped from his gloves. “Everyone in the truck. We leave.”
He backed away and got into the front seat. The others followed. Except Jesper. He retrieved the wrench and when he saw the havoc the errant bullet had caused in his cabin, to his equipment, his face closed, his anger exploded, and he hurled the wrench impotently at the forest with a curse and stood there a moment, feet slightly apart, knowing he was an easy target but suddenly not caring. “Forbannades shitdjävlarrrrrrr!”
“Get in the car,” Mimmo called out.
“Förbannades shitdjävlar,” Jesper muttered, the Swedish obscenity pleasing him, then got into the driver’s seat. The truck went back the way it had come and when it was out of sight a fusillade of bullets from both sides of the forest slammed into the Christmas Tree, denting parts of the metal, screaming away into the snow or sky. Then silence. Then someone laughed and called out, “Allahhhh-u Akbarrr…” The cry echoed. Then died away.
AT ZAGROS THREE: 6:38 P.M. The sun touched the horizon. Last of the spares and luggage being put aboard. All four choppers were lined up, two 212s, the 206, and the Alouette, pilots ready, JeanLuc stomping up and down - departures delayed by Nitchak Khan who had, earlier, arbitrarily ordered all aircraft to leave together which had made it impossible for JeanLuc to make Al Shargaz, only Shiraz, there to overnight as night flying was forbidden in Iranian skies.
“Explain to him again, Tom,” JeanLuc said angrily.
“He’s already told you no, told me no, so it’s no and it’s too goddamn late anyway! You all set, Freddy?”
“Yes,” Ayre called out irritably. “We’ve been waiting an hour or more!” Grimly Lochart headed for Nitchak Khan who had heard the anger and irritation and saw with secret delight the discomfiture of the strangers. Standing beside Nitchak Khan was the Green Band Lochart presumed was from the komiteh, and a few villagers. The rest had drifted away during the afternoon. Into the forest, he thought, his mouth dry. “Kalandar, we are almost ready.”