He brushed the tears away. Making no sound, he slid over to the desk and quietly switched on the radio, keeping the volume to an absolute minimum. All seemed fine. Dials checked out. Lots of static from an electrical storm but no traffic. Unusual that there should be no traffic on the company frequency, someone somewhere should be sending. Not daring to turn the volume up, he reached into a drawer for a pair of headphones and plugged them in, bypassing the loudspeaker. Now he could have the signal as loud as he pleased. Curious. Still nothing. Carefully he switched out of the company channel to others. Nothing. Over to the VHF. Nothing, anywhere. Back to HF. He could not even pick up a routine, recorded weather report that still came out of Tehran.
He was a good radio operator and well trained and it took him no time to zero in on the fault. A look through the crack in the roof door confirmed the wire hanging free. Sonofabitch, he thought. Why the hell didn’t I notice it when I was out there?
Carefully he switched off and crawled out again and when he was at the foot of the mast and saw that the wire had been sheared off but the rust at the end had been newly cleaned off, anger possessed him. Then excitement. Those bastards, he thought. Those hypocritical bastards, McIver and Lochart. They musta been listening and transmitting when I arrived. What the hell’re they up to?
The connection was quickly repaired. HF on and instantly Farsi filled his ears on the company frequency: HQ at Tehran talking to Bandar Delam, then calling Al Shargaz and Lengeh and him at Kowiss, something about four choppers not going where they were supposed to go. Iran-Toda? Not one of our bases.
“Kowiss, this Bandar Delam, do you read?”
He recognized Janan’s voice from Bandar Delam. Automatically his finger went to the transmit switch, then stopped. No need to call back yet, he thought. The company airwaves were full now, Numir and Jahan from Bandar Delam and Gelani at Tehran, and Siamaki ranting and raving. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered after a few minutes, everything falling into place.
IN THE HELICOPTERS OFF SIRI: 10:05 A.M. Siri Island itself was a mile ahead, but before Scragger and his team could turn southeast for the international boundary, there were three more rigs to bypass. Like a bleeding minefield, Scragger thought. So far safe and no more shocks. All needles in the Green and the engines sounding sweet. His mechanic Benson, beside him, was staring at the waves rushing past just below them. Static in their earphones. From time to time, overflying international flights would report their positions to Kish radar, a checkpoint in their area, to he answered at once. Into the intercom Benson said, “Kish’re spot on, Scrag.”
“We’re under their radar. No sweat.”
“I’m sweating. Are you?”
Scragger nodded. Kish was abeam of them, fifteen-odd miles to his right. He looked left and right. Vossi and Willi were alongside and he gave them a thumbs-up and they returned it - Vossi enthusiastically.
“Another twenty minutes and we’re over the border,” Scragger said. “Soon as we are, we’ll go up to seven hundred.”
“Good. Weather’s improving, Scrag,” Benson said. The cloud cover above had thinned appreciably, visibility about the same. In plenty of time they both saw the outward-bound, heavily laden tanker ahead. With Willi, Scragger banked astern of her with plenty to spare but Vossi exuberantly pulled up high over her, then leisurely came down into station alongside him. At once in their headphones: “This is Kish Control, low-flying helicopter on a course 225, report height and destination!”
Scragger weaved from side to side to attract Willi and Vossi and pointed southwest and waved them off, commanding them to stay low and to leave him. He saw their reluctance, but he jabbed his finger southeast, waved a farewell, and pulled up in a climb, leaving them on the surface of the sea. “Hold on to your balls, Benson,” he said, a weight in his stomach, then began transmitting, moving his boom mike back and forth from his mouth, simulating a bad signaclass="underline" “Kish, this is chopper HVX out of Lengeh, inbound Ski Nine with spares, course 225. Thought I saw a capsized dhow but it was negative.” Siri Nine was the farthest rig they normally serviced, just this side of the Iran-Emirate boundary, still under construction and not yet equipped with their own VHF. “Climbing back to seven hundred.” “Chopper HVX, you’re two by five, your transmission intermittent. Maintain course and report seven hundred feet. Confirm you were informed of mandatory new regulations for start engines request at Lengeh.” The operator’s American-accented voice was five by five, crisp and professional. “Sorry, Kish, this is the first day I’ve been back on duty.” Scragger saw Willi and Vossi vanish into the haze. “Do I need to request engine start from Siri Nine after I’ve landed? I’ll be there at least an hour.” Scragger wiped a bead of sweat off. Kish would be within their rights to order him to land at Kish first to give him a roasting for breaking regulations. “Affirmative. Standby One.”
In the intercom, Benson said uneasily, “Now what, Scrag?” “They’ll be having a little conference.”
“What’re we going to do?”
Scragger beamed. “Depends on what they do.” He clicked the sender: “Kish, HVX at seven hundred.”
“Kish. Maintain course and altitude. Standby One.”
“HVX.” More silence. Scragger was sifting alternates, enjoying the danger. “This’s better than flying a milk run, now isn’t it, me son?” “To be honest, it isn’t. If I could get hold of Vossi, I’d strangle him.”
Scragger shrugged. “It’s done. We could’ve been in and out of radar ever since we left. Maybe Qeshemi reported us.” He began whistling tonelessly. They were well past Siri Island now with rig Siri Nine five kilometers ahead. “Kish, this’s HVX,” Scragger said, still working the mike. “Leaving seven hundred on approach for Siri Nine.”
“Negative HVX, maintain seven hundred and hold. Your transmission is intermittent and two by five.”
“HVX - Kish, please say again, your transmission is garbled. I say again, am leaving seven hundred on approach for Siri Nine,” Scragger repeated slowly, continuing to simulate bad transmission. Again he beamed at Benson. “Trick I learned in the RAF, me son.”
“HVX, Kish. I say again maintain seven hundred and hold.” “Kish, it’s bumpy and the haze’s thickening. Going through six hundred. I will report on landing and call requesting engine start. Thanks and g’day!” he added with a prayer.
“HVX, your transmission is intermittent. Abort landing at Siri Nine. Turn 310 degrees, maintain seven hundred, and report direct to Kish.” Benson went white. Scragger belched. “Say again, Kish, you’re one by five.” “I say again, abort landing at Siri Nine, turn to 310 degrees, and report direct Kish.” The operator’s voice was unhurried.
“Roger, Kish, understand we’re to land Siri Nine and report Kish next. Going through four hundred for low-level approach, thank you and g’day.” “Kish, this is JAL Flight 664 from Delhi,” broke in. “Overhead at thirty-eight thousand inbound Kuwait on 300. Do you read?”
“JAL 664, Kish. Maintain course and altitude. Call Kuwait on 118.8, good day.”
Scragger peered through the haze. He could see the half-constructed rig, a work barge moored to one of its legs. Instrument needles all in the Green and - hey, wait a moment, temperature’s up, oil pressure’s down on number one engine. Benson had seen it too. He tapped the dial, bent closer. The oil pressure needle went up slightly then fell back again, temperature a few degrees above normal - no time to worry about that now, get ready! The deck crew had heard and seen them and stopped working, clearing away from the well-marked helipad. When he was fifty feet off the rig, Scragger said: “Kish, HVX landing now. G’day.”