“Keep in touch with them and with us. What happened to your radio op this morning? I tried calling for a couple of hours but no joy.” There had been a long pause. “He’s been detained.”
“What the hell for?”
“I don’t know, Mac - Captain McIver. As soon as I know I’ll report it. Also, as soon as I can I’ll get Marc Dubois back to Bandar Delam, but, well, it’s a bit off here. We’ve all been confined to base, there’s… there’s a charming and friendly armed guard here in the tower, all flights are grounded except for CASEVACs and even then we’ve been ordered to take guards along - and no flights’re authorized out of our area.”
“What’s it all about?”
“I don’t know. Our revered base commander, Colonel Peshadi, assured me it was temporary, just for today, perhaps tomorrow. By the way, at 1516 hours we had a brief call from Captain Scragger in Charlie Echo Zulu Zulu en route with a special charter for Bandar Delam.”
“What the hell’s he going there for?”
“I don’t know, sir. Old Scr - Captain Scragger said it’s been requested by de Plessey at Siri. I, er, I don’t think I’ve much more time. Our friendly guard’s getting nervous but if you can get the 125 here Peshadi said he’d clear her to land. I’ll try to send Manuela off but don’t expect much, she’s as nervous as a rabbit in a kennel full of beagles without real news of Starke.”
“I can imagine. Tell her I’m sending Gen. I’ll sign off now, God knows how long it’ll take me to get to the airport.” He had turned his attention to Genny. “Gen, pack a b - ”
“What do you want to take with you, Duncan?” she had asked sweetly. “I’m not going, you are!”
“Don’t be silly, dear. If you’re going to meet the 125 you’d better hurry, but do be careful and don’t forget the photos! Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you that while you were trying to get into your office, Sharazad sent one of her servants over asking us to dinner.”
“Gen, you are leaving with the 125 and that’s that!”
The argument had lasted no time at all. He had left and had used back roads, most of the main intersections clogged with milling crowds. Every time he was stopped he would hold up the Khomeini photograph with LONG LIVE THE AYATOLLAH in Farsi on the bottom and he would be waved through. He saw no troops, gendarmes, or police so he did not need the photo of the Shah with LONG LIVE GLORIOUS IRAN on the bottom. It still took two and a half hours for a journey that would normally take an hour, his anxiety about being late growing minute by minute.
But the 125 wasn’t on either of the parallel runways, or the freight area apron, or near the terminal building across the field. Again he glanced at his watch: 5:17 P.M. Another hour of light. She’s cutting it fine, he told himself, if she arrives at all. God knows, they may have already turned her back.
Near the terminal building several civilian jets were still grounded. One of them, a Royal Iranian Air 747, was a twisted wreck, gutted by fire. The others seemed all right - he was too far away to see all their markings but among them would be the still-grounded Alitalia flight. Paula Giancani was still staying with them, Nogger Lane very much in attendance. She’s a nice girl that one, he thought absently.
Ahead now was the gate of the freight area and depot. The depot had been closed since last Wednesday - automatically on Thursday and Friday (the Muslim Holy Day) being the Iranian weekend - and there had been no way he or any of his staff could have got there Saturday or Sunday. The gate was open and unguarded. He swung through it into the forecourt. In front of him was the customs freight shed and barriers, signs everywhere in English and Farsi: NO ADMITTANCE, INBOUND, OUTBOUND, KEEP OUT, and company signs of the various international carriers and helicopter companies that had permanent offices here. Normally it was almost impossible to drive into the forecourt. There was work around the clock for half a thousand men, handling the enormous quantity of goods, military and civilian, that poured into Iran in exchange for part of the $90 million daily oil revenue. But now the area was deserted. Hundreds of crates and cartons of all sizes were scattered in the snow - many broken open and looted, most sodden. A few abandoned cars and trucks, some derelict, and one truck burned out. Bullet holes in the sheds. The customs gate that barred the way to the apron was closed, held only by a bolt. The sign, in English and Farsi, read: NO ENTRY WITHOUT CUSTOMS APPROVAL. He waited, then honked and waited again. No one answered him so he got out, opened the gate wide, and got back into his car. A few yards the other side he stopped, rebelled the gate, then drove down the tarmac to the S-G stores and office shed and allied hangars and repair shop with space for four 212s and five 206s now containing three 206s, and one 212. To his relief the main doors were still closed and locked. He had been afraid the stores and hangar might have been broken into and looted or wrecked. This was their main depot for repairs and spares in Iran. Over $2 million worth of spares and specialized tools were on the inventory, along with their own refueling pumps and underground tanks containing a highly secret cache of 50,000 gallons of helicopter fuel that McIver had “lost” when the troubles began in earnest.
He scanned the sky. The wind told him the 125 would land from the west on runway 29 left but there was no sign of it. He unlocked the door, closed it after him, and hurried through the chilly foyer to the main office to the telex. It was switched off. “Bloody idiots,” he muttered out loud. Standing orders were for it to be on at all times. When he turned it on, nothing happened. He tried the lights but they didn’t work either. “Bloody country.” Irritably he went over to the HF and UHF receiver-transmitters and switched them on. Both were battery-operated for emergencies. Their hum comforted him.
“Echo Tango Lima Lima,” he said crisply into the mike, giving the 125’s registration letters: ETLL. “This is McIver, do you read?” “Echo Tango Lima Lima - we certainly do, old boy,” the laconic answer came back at once. “It’s rather lonely up here - we’ve been calling for half an hour. Where are you?”
“At the freight office. Sorry, Johnny,” he said, recognizing the voice of their senior fixed-wing captain. “Had a hell of a time getting here - I’ve just arrived. Where are you?”
“Seventeen miles due south - in the soup - passing through nine thousand on standard approach, expecting final on runway 29 left. What’s going on, Mac? We can’t raise Tehran Tower - in fact we haven’t had a single callback ever since we came into Iran airspace.”
“Good God! Not even from Kish radar?” “Not even from them, old boy. What’s amiss?” “I don’t know. The tower was operating yesterday - up to midnight last night. The military gave us a clearance for a flight south.” McIver was astonished, knowing Kish radar was punctilious about all traffic inbound or outbound, particularly trans-Gulf. “The whole airfield’s deserted which is pretty hairy. Coming here there were crowds all over town, a few roadblocks, but nothing out of the ordinary, no riots or anything.” “Any problem for a landing?”
“I doubt if any landing aids are functional but cloud cover is about four thousand, visibility ten miles. Runway looks all right.” “What do you think?”
McIver weighed the pros and cons of a landing - without tower assistance or approval. “You’ve enough fuel for the return trip?”
“Oh, yes. You’ve a no-fuel capability?” “Unless an emergency - for the moment.”
“I’m through the cloud cover at forty-seven hundred and have you in sight.” “Okay, Echo Tango Lima Lima. Wind’s from the east at about ten knots. Normally you’d land on 29 left. The military base seems closed down and deserted so there should be no other traffic - all civilian flights in-and outbound have been canceled. Suggest you make a pass and if it looks okay to you, come straight in - don’t hang around in the sky, there’re too many trigger-happy jokers about. Once you’ve landed, turn around for a quick takeoff just in case. I’ll drive out to meet you.”