“Ed, will you listen? We leave anyway but bypass Al Shargaz where we know we’d have trouble and duck into Bahrain - I know the port officer there. We throw ourselves on his mercy - maybe even have an ‘emergency’ on the beach. Meanwhile we radio Al Shargaz the moment we’re clear of Iran skies for someone to meet us and bail us out. It’s the best I can think of and at least we’ve covered, either way.”
And it’s still the best I can think of, he told himself watching Willi at the stove, the butter in the frying pan beginning to sizzle. “I thought we were having scrambled?”
“This’s the way to scramble.” Willi’s voice edged.
“Bloody isn’t, you know,” Scragger said sharply. “You have to use water or milk an - ”
“By God Harry,” Willi snapped, “if you don’t want the… Scheiss! Sorry, didn’t mean to bite your head, Scrag. Sorry.”
“I’m touchy too, sport. No problem.”
“The, er, this way’s the way my mother does them. You put the eggs in without beating them, the whites cook white and then, quick as a wink you put in a little milk and you mix her, then the white’s white and the yolk’s yellow…” Willi found himself not able to stop. He had had a bad night, bad dreams, and bad feelings and now with the dawn he felt no better. Over in the corner the Green Band stirred, his nose filled with the smell of cooking butter and he yawned, nodded to them sleepily, then settled more comfortably and dozed off again. When the kettle boiled Scragger made himself some tea, glanced at his watch: 5:56 A.M. Behind him the door opened and Vossi wandered in, shook the rain off the umbrella.
“Hi, Scrag! Hey, Willi, coffee and two over easy with a side order of crisp bacon and hash brown for me.”
“Get stuffed!”
They all laughed, their anxiety making them light-headed. Scragger glanced at his watch again. Stop it! Stop it, he ordered himself. You’ve got to keep calm, then they’ll be calm. Easy to see they’re both ready to blow.
AT KOWISS: 6:24 A.M. McIver and Lochart were in the tower looking out at the rain and overcast. Both were dressed in flight gear, McIver seated in front of the HF, Lochart standing at the window. No lights on - just the reds and greens of the functioning equipment. No sound but the pleasing hum and the not so pleasing whine of the wind that came in the broken windows, rattling the aerial stanchions.
Lochart glanced at the wind counter. Twenty-five knots, gusting thirty from the south-southeast. Over by the hangar two mechanics were washing down the already clean two 212s, and the 206 McIver had brought from Tehran. Lights on in the cookhouse. Except for a skeleton cookhouse staff, McIver had told the office staff and laborers to take Friday off. After the shock of Esvandiary’s summary execution for “corruption” they had needed no encouragement to leave.
Lochart glanced at the clock. The second hand seemed interminably slow. A truck went by below. Another. Now it was exactly 6:30 A.M. “Sierra One, this is Lengeh.” It was Scragger reporting in as planned. McIver was greatly relieved. Lochart became grimmer.
“Lengeh, this is Sierra One, you’re five by five.” Scot’s voice from Al Shargaz was clean and clear. Sierra One was code for the office at Al Shargaz airport, Gavallan not wanting to draw any more attention to the sheikdom than necessary.
McIver clicked on the HF transmit. “Sierra One, this is Kowiss.” “Kowiss, this is Sierra One, you’re four by five.” “Sierra One, this’s Bandar Delam.” Both heard the tremble in Rudi’s voice.
“Bandar Delam, this’s Sierra One, you’re two by five.” Now only, static from the loudspeaker. McIver wiped his palms. “So far so good.” The coffee in his cup was cold and tasted awful but he finished it.
“Rudi sounded uptight, didn’t he?” Lochart said. “I’m sure I did too. So did Scrag.” McIver studied him, concerned for him; Lochart did not meet his eyes, just went over to the electric kettle and plugged it in. On the desk were four phones, two internal and two outside lines. In spite of his resolve, Lochart tried one of the outside phones, then the other. Both still dead. Dead for days now. Dead like me. No way of being in touch with Sharazad, no post.
“There’s a Canadian consul in Al Shargaz,” McIver said gruffly. “They could get through to Tehran for you from there.”
“Sure.” A gust rattled the temporary boarding over the broken window. Lochart paid the outside no attention, wondering about Sharazad, praying she would join him. Join me for what? The kettle Began to sing. He watched it. Since he had walked out of the apartment, he had blocked the future out of his mind. In the night it had surged back, much as he tried to prevent it. From the base came the first call of a muezzin. “Come to prayer, come to progress, prayer is better than sleep…”
*
AT BANDAR DELAM: 6:38 A.M. A sodden dawn, rain slight, wind less than yesterday. At the airfield Rudi Lutz, Sandor Petrofi, and Pop Kelly were in Rudi’s trailer, no lights on, drinking coffee. Outside on the veranda, Marc Dubois was stationed on guard against eavesdroppers. No lights on elsewhere in the base. Rudi glanced at his watch. “Hope to God it’s today,” Rudi said, “It’s today or never.” Kelly was very grim. “Make the call, Rudi.” “A minute yet.”
Through the window Rudi could see the maw of the hangar and their 212s. None of them had long-range tanks. Somewhere in the darkness, Fowler Joines and three mechanics were quietly putting the last of the spare fuel aboard, finishing preparations begun cautiously last night while the pilots diverted the camp guards and Numir. Just before going to bed the four of them had individually made their range calculations. They were all within ten nautical miles of each other.
“If the wind holds at this strength, we’re all in the goddamn sea,” Sandor had said softly, difficult to talk over the music but not safe without it - earlier Fowler Joines had spotted Numir lurking near Rudi’s trailer. “Yes,” Marc Dubois had agreed. “About ten kilometers out.” “Maybe we should blow Bahrain and divert to Kuwait, Rudi?” “No, Sandor, we’ve got to leave Kuwait open for Kowiss. Six Iranian registered choppers all zeroing in there? They’d have a hemorrhage.” “Where the hell’re the new registration numbers we were promised?” Kelly said, his nervousness growing every moment.
“We’re being met. Charlie Pettikin’s going to Kuwait, JeanLuc to Bahrain.” “Mon Dieu, that’s our bad luck,” Dubois had said, disgustedly. “JeanLuc’s always late, always. Those Pieds Noirs, they think like Arabs.” “If JeanLuc screws up this time,” Sandor had said, “he’ll be goddamn burger meat. Listen, about the gas, maybe we can get extra from Iran-Toda. It’s gonna look mighty suspicious to be loaded with all that gas, just to go down there.”
“Rudi, make the call. It’s time.”
“Okay, okay!” Rudi took a deep breath, picked up the mike. “Sierra One, this’s Bandar Delam, do you read? This is …”
AT AL SHARGAZ HQ: 6:40 A.M. “… Bandar Delam, do you read?”
Gavallan was sitting in front of the HF, Scot beside him, Nogger Lane leaning against a desk behind them, Manuela in the only other chair. All were rigid, staring at the loudspeaker, all sure the call meant trouble as the Whirlwind plan called for radio silence before 7:00 A.M. and during the actual escape, except in emergencies. “Bandar Delam, Sierra One,” Scot said throatily. “You’re two by five, go ahead.”
“We don’t know how your day is but we’ve some planned flights this morning and we’d like to bring them forward to now. Do you approve?” “Standby One,” Scot said.
“Damnation,” Gavallan muttered. “It’s essential all bases leave at the same time.” Then again the airwaves crackled into life.
“Sierra One, this’s Lengeh,” Scragger’s voice was much louder and clearer and more sharp. “We’ve flights too but the later the better. How’s your weather?”