And now it was time to finish. Ayre in the Alouette circled overhead in station, well out of range. “Salaam, Kalandar, God’s justice be with you,” he said and headed for his cockpit.
“I have no control over terrorists!” And when Lochart did not stop, Nitchak Khan shouted louder, “Why would you stop delivery of the lies, eh?” Lochart got into the cockpit, wanting to be away, hating this place now and the old man. “Because, before God, I deplore lies.” “Before God, you would stop the delivery of these lies?”
“Before God I will see that letter burned. God’s justice be with you, Kalandar, and with Yazdek.” He pressed the starter. The first jet fired up. Above him the blades began to turn. More switches. Now the second engine caught and all the time he was watching the old man. Rot in hell, old man, he thought, Jordon’s blood’s on your head, and Gianni’s, I’m sure of it though I’ll never prove it. Perhaps mine too.
Waiting. Now all needles in the Green. Liftoff.
Nitchak Khan watched the chopper shudder into the air, hesitate, then turn slowly and begin to leave. So easy to raise my hand, he thought, and so soon the Infidel and that howling monster become a funeral pyre falling out of the sky, and as to the letter, lies, all lies.
Two men dead? All know that it’s their own fault they’re dead. Did we invite them here? No, they came to exploit our land. If they had not come here they would still be alive and waiting for the hell that inevitably is their due. His eyes never left the air machine. There was plenty of time yet. He smoked slowly, enjoying the cigarette greatly, enjoying the knowledge that he could terminate such a great machine just by raising his hand. But he did not. He remembered the advice of the kalandaran and lit another cigarette from the stub and smoked that, waiting patiently. Soon the hateful sound of the engines was distant, fading quickly, and then, overhead, he saw the smaller air machine break off circling and also head south and west. When all Infidel sound had quite gone he judged that peace had once more come to his Zagros. “Fire the base,” he said to the others. Soon the flames were high. Without regret he cast the lighter into the flames and, contentedly, he strolled home.
Monday - February 26
Chapter 50
NEAR BANDAR DELAM AIR BASE: 9:16 A.M. In torrential rain the Subaru station wagon with the Iran-Toda insignia on the doors hurried along the road, windshield wipers full speed, the road potholed and waterlogged in parts, the driver Iranian. Scragger sat uneasily beside him, his seat belt tight, and in the back a Japanese radio mechanic hung on as best he could. Ahead through the heavy rain splats, Scragger saw an old bus hogging most of the road and, not far away, oncoming traffic.
“Minoru, tell him to slow down. Again,” he said. “He’s witless.” The young Japanese leaned forward and spoke sharply in Farsi, and the driver nodded benignly and paid no attention, jabbed his palm on the horn, and kept it there as he swerved out almost onto the other shoulder, overtaking the bus, accelerated when he should have braked, skidded, recovered, and just made the narrowing gap between the bus and the oncoming car, all three vehicles with their horns shrieking.
Scragger muttered another curse. Beaming, the driver, a young bearded man, took his attention off the road and said something in Farsi, bouncing through a large pothole in a shower of water. Minoru interpreted: “He says with the Help of God we’ll be at the airfield in a few minutes, Captain Scragger.”
“With the Help of God we’ll be there in one piece and not fifty.” Scragger would have preferred to drive but it had not been allowed, nor were any Iran-Toda personnel allowed to drive themselves. “We’ve found it to be good policy, Captain Scragger, the roads and the rules and Iranians being what they are,” Watanabe, the engineer in charge, had said. “But Mohammed is one of our best drivers and very reliable. See you this evening.” To Scragger’s relief he saw the airfield ahead. Green Bands guarded the gate. The driver paid them no attention, just barreled through and pulled up in a shower of water outside the two-story office building. “Allah-u Akbar,” he said proudly.
Scragger exhaled. “Allah-u Akbar it is,” he said, unlocked his seat belt, readying his umbrella as he looked around, his first time here. Big apron and small tower, some windows smashed, others boarded up, the two-story office building derelict with more broken windows, S-G company trailers, good hangars now closed against the storm, with bullet holes all over and in the walls of the trailers. He whistled, remembering being told about the fight here between the Green Bands and the mujhadin. Must’ve been a lot worse than Duke let on, he thought.
Two Royal Iran Air twin jet passenger airplanes were parked haphazardly - the “Royal” now crudely slashed out with black paint - tires flat, cockpit windows smashed, and left to rot. “Bloody sacrilege,” he muttered, seeing the rain pouring into the cockpits.
“Minoru, me son, tell Mohammed here not to move a muscle till we’re ready to leave, okay?”
Minoru did as he was asked, then followed Scragger out into the rain. Scragger stood beside the car, not knowing where to go. Then one of the trailer doors opened.
“Mein Gott, Scrag! I thought it was you - what the hell’re you doing here?” It was Rudi Lutz, beaming. Then he saw Starke join Rudi and his heart picked up.
“Hi, me sons!” He shook hands warmly with both of them, all three talking together for a moment. “Well, Duke, this’s a pleasant surprise!” “What the hell’re you doing here, Scrag?”
“First things first, me son. This’s Minoru Fuyama, radio mec with Iran-Toda. My UHF was acting up on the way in - I’m on a beaut charter from Lengeh. Minoru’s pulled the box and it’s in the car, can you replace her?”
“No problem. Come along, Mr. Fuyama.” Rudi went next door to find Fowler Joines to make the arrangements.
“I’m damn glad to see you, Scrag - lots to talk about,” Starke said. “Like weather problems and whirlwinds?”
“Yes, yes, I’d say the weather’s been on my mind a lot.” Starke seemed older, his eyes ranging the base, the downpour even heavier than before, the day warm and tacky.
“I saw Manuela at Al Shargaz, she’s same as usual, pretty as a picture - anxious, but okay.”
Rudi rejoined them, splashing through the rain, and led the way back into his office trailer. “You won’t be flying in this mess, Scrag. Would you like a beer?”
“No thanks, mate, but I’d love a cuppa.” Scragger said it automatically though his thirst for a cool beer was monumental. But ever since his first medical with Dr. Nutt just after he had sold Sheik Aviation to Gavallan, and Dr. Nutt had said, “Scrag, unless you quit smoking and cut down on the beer you’ll be grounded in a couple of years,” he had been extra careful. Too bloody right, he thought. No fags, no booze, no food, and plenty of sheilas. “You still have supplies, Rudi? At Lengeh it’s getting rough ‘cept for de Plessey and his wine.”
“I got some off a tanker that’s tied up down at the port,” Rudi called back from the small kitchen, putting on the kettle. “CASEVAC, seaman with his head and face smashed up. The captain said he’d had a fall but it looked more like a bad fight. Not surprisingly really, the ship’s been stuck at anchor for three months. Mein Gott, Scrag, did you see the pileup in the port when you came in? Must be a hundred ships waiting to unload, or to take on oil.”
“Same at Kharg and all along the coast, Rudi, everywhere’s clogged. Wharfs sky-high with crates, bales, an’ Gawd knows what, all left rotting in the sun or rain. Enough of that, wot’re you doing here, Duke?” “I ferried a 212 from Kowiss yesterday. But for the weather I’d’ve left at dawn - glad I didn’t now.”