“Bandar Delam,” Benson replied. He was a ruddy-faced, rotund Englishman. “Fifty quid it’s Duke.”
As the 212 put her skids down and cut her engines, Wazari led the rush, some of the guards shouting, “Allah-u Akbarrr!” They surrounded her, all guns leveled.
“Bloody twits,” Ayre said nervously, “they’re like Keystone Kops.”
He still couldn’t see the pilot clearly, so he walked out of cover, praying that it was Starke. The cabin doors slid back. Armed men jumped down, careless of the rotors that still circled, shouting greetings, telling the others to put down their guns. In the pandemonium, someone excitedly fired a welcoming burst into the air. Momentarily everyone began to scatter, then with more shouts, regrouped around the doors as the car arrived and more men rushed to join the others. Hands helped a mullah down. He was badly wounded. Then a stretcher. Then more wounded and Ayre saw Wazari running for him. “You got medics here?” he said urgently.
“Yes.” Ayre turned and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Benson, get Doc and the medic on the double,” then to the sergeant, hurrying back with him, “What the hell’s going on?”
“They’re from Bandar Delam - there was a counterrevolution there, goddamn fedayeen…”
Ayre saw the pilot’s door open and Starke get out, and he didn’t hear the rest of what Wazari said and hurried forward. “Hello, Duke, old chap.” Deliberately he kept his face set and his voice flat, though so happy and excited inside that he felt he would burst. “Where’ve you been?” Starke grinned, used to the English understatement. “Fishing, old chap,” he said. All at once Manuela came charging through the crowd and was in his arms, hugging him. He lifted her easily and whirled her. “Why, honey,” he drawled. “Ah guess ya like me after all!”
She was half crying and half laughing and she hung on. “Oh, Conroe, when I saw you I liked to die…”
“We damn near did, honey,” Starke said involuntarily, but she had not heard him and he hugged her once for luck and put her down. “Just set there for a bitty while I get things organized. Come on, Freddy.”
He led the way through the crush. The wounded mullah was on the ground, leaning against a skid, semiconscious. The man on the stretcher was already dead. “Put the mullah on his stretcher,” Starke ordered in Farsi. The Green Bands he had brought in the 212 obeyed at once. Wazari, the only one in uniform here, and the others from the base were astonished - none of them aware of Zataki, the Sunni revolutionary leader who had taken command of Bandar Delam, who now leaned against the helicopter, watching carefully, camouflaged by the S-G flight jacket he wore.
“Let me have a look, Duke,” the doctor said, out of breath from hurrying, a stethoscope around his neck, “so happy to have you back.” Dr. Nutt was in his fifties, too heavy, with sparse hair and a drinker’s nose. He knelt beside the mullah and began examining his chest that was wet with blood. “We’d better get him to the infirmary, quick as poss. And the rest.” Starke told two of those nearby to pick up the stretcher and follow the doctor. Again he was obeyed without question by men he had brought with him - the other Green Bands stared at him. Now there were nine of them, including Wazari and the four who had stayed.
“You’re under arrest,” Wazari said.
Starke looked at him. “What for?”
Wazari hesitated. “Orders from the brass, Captain, I just work here.” “So do I. I’ll be here if they want to talk to me, Sergeant.” Starke smiled reassuringly at Manuela who had gone white. “You go back to the house, honey. Nothing to worry about.” He turned away and went closer to the side door to look inside.
“Sorry, Captain, but you’re under arrest. Get in the car. You’re to go to the base pronto.”
When Starke turned he was looking into the nozzle of the gun. Two Green Bands jumped him from behind, grabbed his arms, pinioning him. Ayre lunged forward but one of the Green Bands shoved a gun in his stomach, stopping him. The two men started dragging Starke toward the car. Others came to help as he struggled, cursing them. Manuela watched panic-stricken. Then there was a bellow of rage and Zataki burst through the cordon, dragged the carbine from Sergeant Wazari, and swung it at his head, butt first. Only Wazari’s great reflexes, boxing trained, moved his head away just in time and backed him out of reach. Before he could say anything Zataki shouted, “What’s this dog doing with a gun? Haven’t you fools heard that the Imam ordered all servicemen disarmed?”
Wazari began hotly, “Listen, I’m authorized t - ” He stopped in panic. Now there was a pistol at his throat.
“You’re not even authorized to shit till the local komiteh clears you,” Zataki said. He was neater than before, cleanshaven now, his features well-made. “Have you been cleared by the komiteh?”
“No… no bu - ”
“Then by God and the Prophet you’re suspect!” Zataki kept the gun hard against Wazari’s throat, then waved his other hand. “Let the pilot go and put your arms down, or by God and the Prophet I’ll kill you all!” The moment he had grabbed Wazari’s gun, his men had circled the others and now had them covered from behind. Nervously, the two men pinioning Starke let him go. “Why should we obey you?” one of them said sullenly. “Eh? Who are you to give us orders?”
“I’m Colonel Zataki, member of the Revolutionary Komiteh of Bandar Delam, thanks be to God. The American helped save us from a fedayeen counterattack and brought the mullah and others who need medical help here.” Suddenly his rage broke. He shoved Wazari and the sergeant sprawled helplessly on the ground. “Leave the pilot alone! Didn’t you hear?” He aimed and pulled the trigger and the bullet tore through the neck of the sheepskin vest of one of the men beside Starke. Manuela almost fainted and they all scattered. “Next time I’ll put it between your eyes! You,” he snarled at Wazari, “you’re under arrest. I think you’re a traitor so we’ll find out. The rest of you go with God, tell your komiteh I would be pleased to see them - here.” He waved them away. The men started muttering among themselves, and in the lull Ayre slipped over to Manuela and put his arm around her. “Hang in there,” he whispered. “It’s all right now.” He saw Starke motion them away. He nodded. “Come on, Duke says to leave.”
“No… please, Freddy, I’m… I’m okay, promise.” She forced a smile and continued praying that the man with the pistol would dominate the others and all this would end. Please God, let it end.
They all watched in silence while Zataki waited, the pistol loose in his hand, the sergeant on the ground near his feet, those opposing him glaring at him, Starke standing in the middle of WHIRLWIND 355 them, not at all sure that Zataki would win. Zataki checked the magazine. “Go with God, all of you,” he said again, harder this time, getting angrier. “Are you all still deaffff?”
Reluctantly they left. The sergeant got up, pasty-faced, and straightened his uniform. Ayre watched Wazari bravely trying to hide his terror. “You stand there and stay there till I say to move.” Zataki glanced at Starke who was watching Manuela. “Pilot, we should finish the unloading. Then my men must eat.” “Yes. And thank you.”
“Nothing. These people did not know - they are not to be blamed.” Again he looked at Manuela, dark eyes piercing. “Your woman, pilot?” he asked. “My wife,” Starke replied.
“My wife is dead, killed in the Abadan fire with my two sons. It was the Will of God.”
“Sometimes the Will of God is unendurable.” “The Will of God is the Will of God. We should finish the unloading.”
“Yes.” Starke climbed into the cabin, the danger only over for the moment as Zataki was as volatile as nitroglycerin. Two more wounded were still strapped in their seats as were two stretcher cases. He knelt beside one of them. “How you doing, old buddy?” he said softly in English. Jon Tyrer opened his eyes and winced, a bloody bandage around his head. “Okay… yeah, okay. What… what happened?”