“I see them. Sierra One, HTXX, we’re almost at the coast now…” Again one of Rudi’s engines coughed, worse than before, but picked up, the rev counter needles spinning drunkenly. Then through the haze he saw the coast, a point of land and some sandbanks and now the beach and knew exactly where he was. “Pop, you deal with the tower. Sierra One, tell JeanLuc I’m…”
AT AL SHARGAZ HQ: Gavallan was already dialing Bahrain and over the loudspeaker Rudi continued urgently, “…I’m at the northwest point at Abu Sabh beach, to the east…” a burst of static, then silence. Gavallan said into the phone, “Gulf Air de France? JeanLuc, please. JeanLuc, Andy. Rudi and Pop’re… Standby One…” Kelly’s voice came in loudly: “Sierra One, I’m following Delta One down, he’s engined out…” “This is Tehran, who is engined out and where? Who’s calling on this channel? This is Tehran who is call - ”
AT THE BAHRAIN SHORE: The beach had good white sand, but was almost empty of people right here, many sailing boats and other pleasure craft out to sea, flocks of windsurfers in the fine breeze, the day balmy. Up the shore was the Hotel Starbreak, brilliant white, with palm trees and gardens and multicolored sunshades dotting the terraces and beaches. Rudi’s 212 came out of the haze fast, rotors windmilling, jets coughing and no longer useful. His line of descent gave him little choice, but he was thankful that it would be a hard landing and not a sea landing. The beach was rushing toward them and he chose the exact point of landing just past a lonely sunshade slightly up the beach toward the road. He was into wind now and very close, steadied, then pulled the collective, altering the pitch of the blades to give momentary lift enough to cushion the fall and he skidded forward a few yards on the uneven surface, tipped a fraction but not enough to do any damage and they were safe.
“Bloody hell…” Faganwitch said, breathing again, heart working again, sphincter locked.
Rudi began the shutdown, the silence eerie, his hands and knees trembling now. On the beach ahead sunbathers and people on the terraces had got up and were looking at them. Then Faganwitch gasped, frightening him. He turned around and gasped too. She wore dark glasses and little else under the lonely sunshade, topless, as good as bottomless, blond and beautiful and propped on one elbow watching them. Without hurrying she got up and slipped on the excuse of a bikini top.
“Christalmighty…” Faganwitch was speechless. Rudi waved and called out throatily, “Sorry, I ran out of fuel.” She laughed, then Kelly came out of the sky and spoiled it all and they both cursed him, as the wash of his rotors tugged at the sunshade and her long hair, blowing her towel away and scattering sand. Now Kelly saw her too, politely backed downwind nearer the road and, as distracted as the others, promptly landed a foot high.
AT BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: 11:13 A.M.
JeanLuc and the mechanic Rod Rodrigues came out of the building at a run and headed across the tarmac toward a small tanker truck marked GAdeF - Gulf Air de France - that he had arranged to borrow. The airfield was busy, the modern terminal and allied buildings grand and gleaming white. Many jets of many nations loading or unloading, a JAL jumbo just landing. “On y va, let’s go,” JeanLuc said.
“Of course, Sayyid.” The driver turned up the volume of the intercom, and with one smooth movement started the engine, got into gear,” and was in motion. He was a slim, young Palestinian Christian wearing dark glasses and company overalls. “Where should we go?”
“You know Abu Sabh beach?”
“Oh, yes, Sayyid.”
“Two of our choppers’ve landed there out of fuel. Let’s go!” “We are almost there!” The driver did a racing change and increased speed. Over his intercom loudspeaker came: “Alpha Four?” He picked up the hand mike and continued to drive flamboyantly one-handed. “This is Alpha Four.” “Give me Captain Sessonne.”
JeanLuc recognized the voice of Mathias Delarne, the Gulf Air de France manager for Bahrain - an old friend from French Air Force days and Algeria. “This’s JeanLuc, old friend,” he said in French.
In French, Delarne said quickly, “The tower called me to say another chopper’s just come into the system on your expected heading, Dubois or Petrofi, eh? Tower keeps calling her but cannot make contact yet.” “Just one?” JeanLuc was abruptly concerned.
“Yes. She’s on a correct VFR approach for helipad 16. The problem we discussed, eh?”
“Yes.” JeanLuc had told his friend what was really happening and the problem of the registrations. “Mathias, tell the tower for me she’s G-HTTE in transit,” he said, giving the third of his four allocated call signs. “Then phone Andy and tell him I’ll send Rodrigues to deal with Rudi and Kelly. We’ll deal with Dubois or Sandor - you and me - bring the second batch of stuff. Where do we meet?”
“My God, JeanLuc, after this lot we’ll have to join the Foreign Legion. Meet me in front of the office.”
JeanLuc acknowledged, hung the mike back on its hook. “Stop here!” The truck stopped instantly. Rodrigues and JeanLuc almost went through the windshield. “Rod, you know what to do.” He jumped out. “Off you go!” “Listen I’d rather walk an - ” The rest of it was lost as JeanLuc ran back and the truck rushed off again with a screech of tires, out through the gate and onto the road that led to the sea.
AT KOWISS, IN THE TOWER: 11:17 A.M. Lochart and Wazari were watching McIver’s distant 206 climbing up into the Zagros Mountains. “Kowiss, this is HCC,” McIver was saying over the VHF, “leaving your system now. Good day.” “HCC, Kowiss. Good day,” Wazari said.
Over the HF loudspeaker, in Farsi: “Bandar Delam, this is Tehran, have you heard from Kowiss yet?”
“Negative. Al Shargaz, this is Bandar Delam, do you read?” Static, then the call repeated, now silence again.
Wazari wiped his face. “You think Cap Ayre’d be at your rendezvous yet?” he asked, desperately anxious to please. It was not hard to sense Lochart’s dislike of him, or his distrust. “Huh?”
Lochart just shrugged, thinking about Tehran and what to do. He had told McIver to send both mechanics with Ayre: “Just in case I get caught, Mac, or Wazari’s discovered or betrays us.”
“Don’t do anything stupid, Tom, like going to Tehran in the 212, with or without Wazari.”
“There’s no way I could sneak back to Tehran without alerting the whole system and screwing Whirlwind. I’d have to refuel and they’d stop me.” Is there a way? he asked himself, then saw Wazari watching him. “What?”
“Is Cap McIver gonna give you a sign or call when he’s dumped Kia?” When Lochart just looked back at him, Wazari said bleakly, “Goddamnit, don’t you see you’re my only hope to get out…”
Both men whirled, feeling eyes. Pavoud was peering at them through the stair banisters.
“So!” he said softly. “As God wants. You’re both caught in your betrayals.” Lochart took a step toward him. “I don’t know what’s bothering you,” he began, throat parched. “There’s noth - ”
“You’re caught. You and the Judas! You’re all escaping, running off with our helicopters!”
Wazari’s face contorted and he hissed, “Judas, eh? You get your Commie ass up here! I know all about you and your Tudeh comrades!”
Pavoud had gone white. “You’re talking nonsense! You’re the one who’s caught, you’re th - ”
“You’re the Judas, you lousy Commie bastard! Corporal Ali Fedagi’s my roommate and he’s commissar on the base and he’s your boss. I know all about you - he tried to get me to join the Party months ago. Get your ass up here!” And when Pavoud hesitated, Wazari warned, “If you don’t I’m calling the komiteh and blowing you, Fedagi, along with Mohammed Berani and a dozen others an’ I don’t give a shit…” His fingers went to the VHF send switch but Pavoud gasped out, “No,” and came onto the landing and stood there shakily. For a moment nothing happened, then Wazari grabbed the whimpering, petrified man and shoved him down into a corner, picked up a spanner to smash his head in. Lochart caught the blow just in time.