The seconds ticked by. No change, just the revolving, heavy white line of the sweep, in its wake a bird’s-eye view of the surrounding terrain. Still no sign of the blip.
His fingers snapped on the UHF sending switch, and he brought the mike closer, hesitated, then changed his mind and switched it off. No need to alert the operators in the base tower, if there’re any on duty there, he thought. He frowned at the screen. With a soft, red grease pencil he marked the possible track inbound at eighty knots. Minutes passed. He could have switched to a closer range scan but he did not in case the blip was not inbound but, highly irregularly, sneaking across their area. Now she should be five or six miles out, he thought. He picked up the binoculars and started to scan the sky, north through west to south. His ears heard light footsteps on the last few stairs. His heart quickening, he snapped the radar off. The screen began dying as the door opened. “Captain Ayre?” the airman asked, uniform neat, strong good Persian face, cleanshaven, in his late twenties, a standard U.S. Army carbine in his hands.
“Yes, yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Sergeant Wazari, your new air traffic controller.” The man leaned his carbine against a wall, put out his hand, and Ayre shook it. “Hi, I’m USAAF trained, three years, and a military controller. I even did six months at Van Nuys Airport.” His eyes had taken in all the equipment. “Nice setup.” “Yes, er, yes, thank you.” Ayre fumbled with the binoculars and set them down. “What, er, happens at Van Nuys Airport?”
“It’s a nothing little airstrip in the San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles but the third busiest airport in the States and a mother to end all mothers!” Wazari beamed. “The traffic’s amateur, most of the jokers’re learners who still don’t know their ass from a propeller, you’ve maybe twenty in the system at any one time, eight on final, all wanting to make like Richthofen.” He laughed. “Great place to learn traffic controlling but after six months you’re ape.”
Ayre forced a smile, willing himself not to search the sky. “This place’s pretty quiet. Even normally. We’ve, er, we’ve no flights out as you know - you’ve nothing to do here, I’m afraid.”
“Sure. I just wanted to take a quick look as we begin bright and early tomorrow.” He reached into his uniform pocket and took out a list and gave it to Ayre. “You’ve three flights scheduled for the local rigs starting 8:00 A.M., okay?” Without thinking he picked up a rag and wiped the inbound track off the radar screen, tidying the desk alongside. The red grease pencil went into its holder with the others.
Ayre looked back at the list. “Are these authorized by Esvandiary?” “Who’s he?”
Ayre told him.
The sergeant laughed. “Well, Captain, Major Changiz personally ordered these so you can bet your ass they’re confirmed.”
“He’s… he wasn’t arrested with the colonel?”
“Hell, no, Captain. The mullah, Hussain Kowissi, appointed Major Changiz temp base commander, pending confirm from Tehran.” Unerringly his fingers switched channels to the MainBase Frequency. “Hello, MainBase, this’s Wazari at S-G. Do we need tomorrow’s flights countersigned by IranOil’s Esvandiary?”
“Negative,” came back over the loudspeaker, again American-accented. “Everything okay over there?”
“Yep. The outbound went off without incident. I’m with Captain Ayre now.” The sergeant scanned the sky as he talked.
“Good. Captain Ayre, this’s the senior traffic controller. Any flights authorized by Major Changiz are automatically approved by IranOil.” “Can I have that in writing please?”
“Sergeant Wazari’ll have it for you in duplicate at 8:00 A.M., okay?” “Thanks - thank you.”
“Thanks, MainBase,” Wazari said, beginning to sign off, then his eyes fixed. “Hold it, MainBase, we’ve got a bird inbound! Chopper, 270 degrees. …” “Where? Where… I see him! How the hell did he get in under the radar? You switched on?”
“Negative. The sergeant trained the binoculars. “Bell 212, registration… can’t see it - she’s head-on to us.” He clicked on the UHF. “This is Kowiss Military Control! Inbound chopper, what is your registration, where are you bound, and what was your point of departure?”
Silence but for the crackle of static. The same call repeated by MainBase. No reply.
“That sonofabitch’s in dead trouble,” Wazari muttered. Again he trained the binoculars.
Ayre had the second set and his heart was thumping. As the chopper joined the landing pattern, he read the registration: EP-HBX. “Echo Peter Hotel Boston X-ray!” the sergeant said simultaneously. “HBX,” MainBase agreed. Again they tried radio contact. No reply. “He’s in your regular landing pattern. Is he a local? Captain Ayre, is he one of yours?”
“No, sir, not one of mine, not based here.” Ayre added carefully, “HBX could be an S-G registration, however.” “Based where?” “I don’t know.” “Sergeant, as soon as that joker lands, arrest him and all passengers, send them over here to HQ under guard, then give me a quick report who why and where from.” “Yessir.”
Thoughtfully Wazari selected a red grease pencil and traced the same line on the radar screen that Ayre had drawn and he had wiped out. He stared at it a moment, knowing Ayre was watching him intently. But he said nothing, just wiped the glass clean again and put his attention back to the 212. In silence the two men in the tower watched her make a normal circuit then break off correctly and head for them. But she made no attempt to land, just stayed at the correct height and made a much smaller circuit, waggling from side to side.
“Radio’s out - he wants a Green,” Ayre said, and reached for a signal light. “Okay?”
“Sure, give him one - but his ass’s still in a wringer.” Ayre checked that the powerful, narrow-beamed signal light was set for Green, permission to land. He aimed it at the chopper and switched on. The chopper acknowledged by waggling from side to side and started the approach. Wazari picked up his carbine and went out. Again Ayre trained his binoculars but still could not recognize the pilot or the man beside him, both muffled in winter gear and goggles. Then he rushed down the stairs.
Other S-G personnel, pilots and mechanics, had gathered to watch. From the direction of the main base, a car was speeding their way along the boundary road. Manuela stood in the doorway of the bungalow. The landing pads were in front of the office building. Crouched in the lee were the four Green Bands who had stayed behind, Wazari now with them. Ayre noticed that one was very young, barely a teenager, fiddling with his machine gun. In his excitement, cocking it, the youth dropped it on the tarmac, the gun pointing directly at Ayre. But it did not go off. As he watched, the youth picked it up by the barrel, banged the butt down to knock the snow off, carelessly shoved more snow away from the trigger guard. Some grenades hung from his belt - by the pins. Hastily Ayre joined some of the mechanics taking cover. “Bloody nit!” one of them said queasily. “He’ll blow himself to hell and us along with him. You all right, Cap’n? We heard Hotshot’s got his knickers in a twist.”
“Yes, yes, he has. HBX, where’s she from, Benson?”