“As God wants.”
Lochart called out, “Freddy, last load, now!” He took off his peaked cap and the others did likewise as Ayre, Rodrigues, and two mechanics carried the makeshift coffin out of the hangar across the snow and carefully loaded it into JeanLuc’s 212. When it was done, Lochart stepped aside. “Shiraz party board.” He shook hands with Mimmo, Jesper, the roustabout, and Jesper’s assistant as they climbed aboard, settling themselves amid the luggage, spares, and coffin. Uneasily Mimmo Sera and his Italian roustabout crossed themselves, then locked their seat belts.
JeanLuc climbed into the pilot’s seat, Rodrigues beside him. Lochart turned back to the rest of the men. “All aboard!”
Watched carefully by Nitchak Khan and the Green Band, the remainder went aboard, Ayre flying the Alouette, Claus Schwartenegger the 206, all seats full, tanks full, cargo belly full, external skid carriers lashed with spare rotor blades. Lochart’s 212 was crammed and over maximum: “By the time we get to Kowiss we’ll’ve used a lot of fuel so we’ll be legal - anyway it’s downhill all the way,” he had told all pilots when he had briefed them earlier.
Now he stood alone on the snow of Zagros Three, everyone else belted in and doors closed. “Start up!” he ordered, his tension mounting. He had told Nitchak Khan he had decided to act as takeoff master.
Nitchak Khan and the Green Band came up to Lochart. “The young pilot, the one who was wounded, where is he?”
“Who? Oh, Scot? If he’s not here, he’s in Shiraz, Kalandar,” Lochart said and saw anger rush into the old man’s face and the Green Band’s mouth drop open. “Why?”
“That’s not possible!” the Green Band said.
“I didn’t see him board so he must have gone on an earlier flight…” Lochart had to raise his voice over the growing scream of the jets, all engines now up to speed, “… on an earlier flight when we were at Rig Rosa and Maria, Kalandar. Why?”
“That’s not possible, Kalandar,” the Green Band repeated, frightened, as the old man turned on him. “I was watching carefully!”
Lochart ducked under the whirling blades and went to the pilot’s window of JeanLuc’s 212, taking out a thick white envelope. “Here, JeanLuc, bonne chance,” he said and gave it to him. “Take off!” For an instant he saw the glimmer of a smile before he hurried to safety, JeanLuc shoved on maximum power for a quick takeoff, and she lifted and trundled away, the wash from the blades ripping at his clothes and those of the villagers, the jets drowning out what Nitchak Khan was shouting.
Simultaneously - also by prearrangement - Ayre and Schwartenegger gunned their engines, easing away from each other before lumbering in a slow labored climb for the trees. Lochart held on to his hope and then the furious Green Band caught him by the sleeve and pulled him around. “You lied,” the man was shouting, “you lied to the kalandar - the young pilot did not leave earlier! I would have seen him, I watched carefully - tell the kalandar you lied!”
Abruptly Lochart ripped his sleeve away from the young man, knowing that every second meant a few more feet of altitude, a few more yards to safety. “Why should I lie? If the young pilot’s not in Shiraz then he’s still here! Search the camp, search my airplane - come on, first let us search my airplane!” He stalked off toward his 212 and stood at the open door, from the corners of his eyes seeing JeanLuc’s 212 now over the tree line, Ayre so overloaded barely making it, and the 206 still climbing. “In all the Names of God, let’s search,” he said, willing their attention onto him and away from the escaping choppers, willing them not to search his airplane but the camp itself. “How can a man hide here? Impossible. What about the office or the trailers, perhaps he’s hiding…”
The Green Band pulled the gun off his shoulder and aimed at him. “Tell the kalandar you lied or you die!”
With hardly any effort, Nitchak Khan angrily ripped the gun out of the youth’s hands and threw it into the snow. “I’m the law in Zagros - not you! Go back to the village!” Filled with fear, the Green Band obeyed instantly. The villagers waited and watched. Nitchak Khan’s face was graven and his small eyes went from chopper to chopper. They were away now, but not yet out of range of those he had posted around the base - to fire only on his signal, only his. One of the smaller choppers was banking, still climbing as fast as possible, coming around in a big circle. To watch us, Nitchak Khan thought, to watch what happens next. As God wants.
“Dangerous to shoot down the sky machines,” his wife had said. “That will bring wrath down upon us.”
“Terrorists will do that - we will not. The young pilot saw us, and the Farsispeaking kalandar pilot knows. They must not escape. Terrorists have no mercy, they care nothing for law and order, and how can their existence be disproved? Aren’t these mountains ancient havens for brigands? Haven’t we chased these terrorists to the limit of our power? What could we do to prevent the tragedy - nothing.”
And now before him was the last of the Infidels, his main enemy, the one who had cheated him and lied and whisked the other devil away. At least this one will not escape, he thought. The barest tip of the sun was just above the horizon. As he watched, it vanished. “Peace be with you, pilot.” “And with you, Kalandar, God watch you,” Lochart said thinly. “That envelope I gave to my French pilot. You saw me give it to him?”
“Yes, yes, I saw it.”
“That was a letter addressed to the Revolutionary Komiteh in Shiraz, with a copy to the Iranian kalandar in Dubai across the Great Sea, signed by the young pilot, witnessed by me, telling exactly what occurred in the village square, what was done by whom, to whom, who was shot, the number of men bound in the Green Band truck before it went into the Ravine of the Broken Camels, the manner of Nasiri’s murder, your terr - ”
“Lies, all lies! By the Prophet what is this word murder? Murder? That is for bandits. The man died - as God wants,” the old man said sullenly, aware of the villagers gaping at Lochart. “He was a known supporter of the Satanic Shah who surely you will meet in hell soon.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Perhaps my loyal servant who was murdered here by cowardly sons of dogs has already told the One God and the One God knows who is telling the truth!”
“He was not Muslim, he did not serve Islam an - ”
“But he was a Christian and Christians serve the One God and my tribesman was murdered by cowards from ambush, sons of dogs with no courage who shot from ambush - surely eaters of shit and men of the Left Hand and accursed! It’s true he was murdered like the other Christian at the rig. By God and the Prophet of God, their deaths will be avenged!”
Nitchak Khan shrugged. “Terrorists,” he blustered, very afraid, “terrorists did that, of course it was terrorists! As to the letter it’s all lies, lies, the pilot was liar, we all know what happened in the village. It’s all lies what he said.”
“All the more reason that the letter should not be delivered.” Lochart was choosing his words very carefully. “Therefore please protect me from the ‘terrorists’ as I fly away. Only I can prevent the letter being delivered.” His heart was beating heavily as he saw the old man take out a cigarette, weighing the pros and cons, and light the cigarette with Jordon’s lighter and he wondered again how he could have vengeance for Jordon’s murder, still an unresolved part of the plan that so far had worked perfectly: his taking the too vigilant Nitchak Khan away, Scot Gavallan sneaking into the makeshift coffin to be carried aboard JeanLuc’s 212, Jordon’s shrouded body already put into the long crate that once housed tail rotors to be loaded into his 212, then the letter and the three choppers flying off together, all perfectly as planned.