“His Excellency asks, What do you plan for the rest of the day?” “That’s a bloody good question,” Scragger muttered. Then the 1 family motto came into his mind: “You hang for a lamb, you hang for a sheep, so you might as well take the whole bleeding flock” - the motto that had been handed down by his ancestor who had been transported for life to Australia in the early 1800s. “Please tell him as soon as he’s finished, I’m going to the cabbage patch as Ed Vossi needs checking out. His license’s due for renewal.”
He watched and waited and Qeshemi asked a question that Ali Pash answered and all the time he was wondering what to do if Qeshemi said, Fine, I’m coming along.
“His Excellency asks if you would be so kind as to lend the police some gasoline?”
“Wot?”
“He wants some gasoline, Captain. Wants to borrow some gasoline.”
“Oh. Oh, certainly, certainly, Agha.” For a moment Scragger was filled with hope. Hold it, me son, he thought. The cabbage patch’s not so far away and Qeshemi could want the gas to send the car there and still fly with me. “Come on, Ali Pash, you can give me a hand,” he said, not wanting to leave him alone with Qeshemi, and led the way to the pump, beckoning the police car. The wind sock was dancing. He saw that the clouds aloft were building up, nimbus among them, traveling fast, shoved along by a contrary wind. Here below it was still southeasterly though it had veered even more southerly. Good for us but more of a bloody headwind for the others, he thought grimly.
IN THE HELICOPTERS, NEARING KISH ISLAND: 9:07 A.M. Rudi’s four choppers were in sight of each other, closer than before, cruising calmly just over the waves. Visibility varied between two hundred yards to half a mile. All pilots were conserving fuel, seeking maximum range, and again Rudi bent forward to tap his gas gauge. The needle moved slightly, still registering just under half full. “No problem, Rudi, she’s working fine,” Faganwitch said through the intercom. “We’ve plenty of time to refuel, right? We’re on time and on schedule, right?”
“Oh, yes.” Even so Rudi recalculated their range, always coming up with the same answer: enough to reach Bahrain but not enough for the legal amount of fuel in reserve. “Tehran, this is Bandar Delam, do you read?” Jahan’s voice came in his headphones again, irritating him with its persistence. For a moment he was tempted to turn off but dismissed that as too danger - “Bandar Delam, this is Tehran. We read you four by five, go ahead!” Now a flood of Farsi. Rudi picked out “Siamaki” several times but little else as the two radio ops spoke back and forth and then he recognized Siamaki’s voice, irritable, arrogant, and now very angry. “Standby One, Bandar Delam! Al Shargaz, this is Tehran, do you read?” Now even more angrily: “Al Shargaz, this is Director Siamaki, do you read?” No answer. The call repeated more angrily, then another spate of Farsi, then Faganwitch cried out, “AHEAD! Look out!”
The supertanker, almost a quarter of a mile long, was hurtling at them broadside through the haze, towering over them, dwarfing them, easing her way carefully upstream toward her Iraqi terminal, foghorn droning. Rudi knew he was trapped, no time to climb, no space to break left or right or he would collide with the others so he went into emergency stop procedure. Kelly on his left, banking perilously left, just made it past the stern, Sandor, extreme right, safe around the bow - Dubois not safe but instantly onto max power, stick right and back into a too steep climbing turn, tighter tighter tighter 50 - 60 - 70 - 80 degrees, bow rushing at him, not going to make it, “Espčce de con…” not going to make it, stick back, g force sucking him and Fowler down into their seats, the ship’s gunwale racing at them, then they roared over the foredeck with millimeters to spare, the appalled deck crew scattering. Once safe, Dubois hauled her around into a 180 to go back for Rudi in the slight hope Rudi had managed to cushion the impact and had escaped into the sea.
Rudi had the stick back, nose up, power off, watching the airspeed tumble, nose a little higher, no time to pray, nose higher, side of the tanker closer and closer, nose higher still, stall warning howling, not going to make it, stall warning shrieking, any moment she’ll fall out of the sky, tanker only yards away, seeing rivets, portholes, rust, paint peeling, closing on them but slowing, slowing, but too late, too late but maybe enough to soften the crash, now plummeting, stick forward, full power on momentarily to cushion the dreadful impact and fall and suddenly she was locked in hover five feet above the waves, the mushing blades barely inches from the side of the tanker that slid past gently. Somehow Rudi backed away a yard, then another, and hovered.
When his eyes could focus he looked up. On the bridge of the vessel so far above them he could see the officers staring down at them, most of them shaking their fists in rage. A purple-faced man had a loudspeaker now, and he was shouting at them, “Bloody idiot!” but they could not hear him. The stern passed them by, wake churning, the spray speckling them. The way ahead was clear.
“I’m… I’m going to hav’ta take a shit.” Weakly Faganwitch began to crawl back into the cabin.
You can take one for me, Rudi was thinking, but he had no energy to say it. His knees were trembling and teeth chattering. “Careful,” he muttered, then eased the throttle open, gained height and forward speed and soon he was quite safe. No sign of the others. Then he spotted Kelly coming round, looking for him. When Kelly saw him he waggled from side to side so happily, came into station alongside, gave him a thumbs-up. To save the others vital fuel coming back to search for the pieces, Rudi put his lips very close to the boom mike and hissed through his teeth, “Dot-dot-dot-dash, dot-dot-dot-dash, dot-dot-dot-dash,” their privately agreed code for each to head for Bahrain independently, and to let them know he was safe. He heard Sandor acknowledge in the same simulated Morse, then Dubois who swooped alongside out of the haze, adding some self-generated static, and accelerated away. But Pop Kelly was shaking his head, motioning that he would prefer to stay alongside. He pointed ahead.
Once more in their headsets: “Al Shargaz, this is Agha Siamaki in Tehran, do you read?” Then more Farsi. “Al Shargaz…”
AT AL SHARGAZ HQ: “… This is Agha Siamaki…” Then another splurge of Farsi. Gavallan’s fingers drummed on the desktop, outwardly calm, inwardly not. He had not been able to reach Pettikin before he left for the hospital and there was nothing he could do to choke Siamaki and Numir off the air. Scot adjusted the volume slightly, lessening the harangue, pretending with Nogger to be nonchalant. Manuela said throatily, “He’s plenty mad, Andy.”
AT LENGEH: 9:26 A.M. Scragger had the nozzle gushing gasoline into the police car. It frothed, overflowing, staining nun. Muttering a curse he let the lever go, hung the nozzle back on the pump. Two Green Bands were nearby, watching closely. The corporal screwed the tank cap back into place. Qeshemi spoke to Ali Pash a moment. “His Excellency asks if you could spare him some five-gallon cans, Captain. Of course full ones.” “Sure, why not? How many does he want?”
“He says he could take three in the trunk and two inside. Five.” “Five it is.”
Scragger found the cans and filled them and together they loaded the police car. She’s a bloody Molotov cocktail, he thought. Storm clouds were building quickly. A flash of lightning in the mountains. “Tell him best not to smoke in the car.”