James Clavell - Whirlwind Read online

  "evacuate the villagers tell them to leave until it's safe."

  "and if the village catches fire?" rudi asked.

  "it catches fire. the will of god."

  "yes," hussain said. "how will you burn it off?"

  "one match would do most of it. of course you'd burn up too." kyabi thought a moment. "rudi, you've your very pistol aboard?"

  "yes." rudi had insisted on taking the pistol, saying it was essential equipment in case of an emergency. all the pilots had backed him though all knew it was not essential. "with four signal flares. do yo "

  they all looked into the sky at the scream of approaching jets. two fighters, low and very fast, slashed over the terrain heading out into the gulf. rudi judged their path as leading directly to kharg. they were attack fighters and he had seen the air-to-ground missiles in their racks. are the missiles for kharg island? he asked himself, a new tightness in his throat. has the revolution hit there too? or is it just a routine flight?

  "what do you think, rudi? kharg?" kyabi asked.

  "kharg's that way, boss," rudi said, not wanting to be involved. "if so it'd be a routine flight. we'd have dozens of takeoffs and landings a day when we were there. you want to use flares to set the fire?"

  kyabi hardly heard him. his clothes were stained with sweat, his desert boots black with the oil ooze. he was thinking about the air force revolt at doshan tappeh. if those two pilots are also in revolt and attack kharg and sabotage our facilities there, he thought, almost choked with rage and frustration, iran will go back twenty years.

  when rudi had come to collect him early this morning, kyabi had been astonished to see the mullah. he had demanded an explanation. when the mullah angrily said that kyabi should close down all facilities and declare for

  khomeini at once, he was almost speechless. "but that's revolution. that means civil war!"

  hussain had said, "it is the will of god. you're iranian, not a foreign lackey. the imam has ordered confrontation with the armed forces to subdue them. with god's help, the first true islamic republic on earth since the days of the prophet, the blessings of god be upon him, begins in a few days."

  kyabi had wanted to say what he had said privately many times: "it's a madman's dream, and your khomeini's an evil, senile old man, driven by a personal vendetta against the pahlavis reza shah whose police he believes murdered his father, and mohammed shah whose savak he believes murdered his son in iraq a few years ago; he's nothing but a narrow-minded fanatic who wants to put us, the people, and particularly women, back into the dark ages..."

  but he had said none of this today to this mullah. instead, he put his mind back onto the problem of the village. "if the village catches fire, they can easily rebuild it. their possessions are the important things." he hid his hatred. "you can help, if you want, excellency. i would appreciate your help. you can talk to them."

  the villagers refused to go. for the third time kyabi explained that fire was the only way to save their water and to save the other villages. then hussain talked to them, but still they would not go. by now it was time for the midday prayer and the mullah led them in prayer and again told them to leave the banks of the river. the elders consulted with one another and said, "it is the will of god. we will not leave."

  "it is the will of god," hussain agreed. he turned on his heel and led the way back to the helicopter.

  once more they landed near the culvert. now oil just seeped out of the pipe, no more than a trickle. "rudi," kyabi said, "go upwind, far as you can, and put a flare into the culvert. then put one smack in the middle of the stream. can you do that?"

  "i can try. i've never fired a very pistol before." rudi plodded out into the scrub desert. the others went back to the chopper which he had parked safely away. when he was in position he put the large cartridge into the pistol, aimed, and pulled the trigger. the gun kicked, more than he expected. the burning phosphorus signal flare arced low over the ground, bounced as it came down short, then skipped into the air again and fell into the culvert. for a moment nothing happened, then the earth exploded and fire gushed upward and outward, making the overturned car into a funeral pyre. the superheated shock wave enveloped him but passed by safely. acrid black smoke billowed skyward. fire began spreading, racing toward the stream.

  the second red flare arced high and then went into the river. the river caught

  fire. they knew it more from the sound than sight, but when they were airborne once more, skirting the river upwind, they saw the fire spreading rapidly downstream. vast clouds of black smoke marked its path. near the village they circled. men, women, and children were fleeing with what they could carry. as they watched, the village was consumed.

  the four men flew home.

  home for kyabi was the area hq of iranoil just outside ahwaz, a neat complex of white concrete buildings with well-watered lawns and a helipad, enclosed by a tall fence.

  "thanks, rudi," he said, sick at heart. around the chopper was a ring of armed men who had rushed out of hiding the moment they had landed, shouting and pointing their guns. behind kyabi the mullah toyed with his string of prayer beads.

  kyabi unbuckled his seat belt. the will of god, he thought. i've done what i could, prayed correctly, and know that there is no other god but god and mohammed is the prophet of god. when i die i will die cursing the enemies of god, chief among them, khomeini, false prophet, murderer, and all those who follow him.

  he turned around. his engineer was gray-faced and rigid in his seat beside hussain. "mullah, i commend you to god's vengeance." kyabi got out.

  they shot kyabi and dragged the engineer away. then, because the mullah asked it, they allowed the chopper to leave.

  at kowiss air base: 5:09 p.m. manuela was hurrying across the s-g compound toward the one-story of rice building that was tidy under the afternoon sun, the radio tower jutting above as a second floor. she wore flight overalls with the s-g emblem on the back and her auburn hair was bundled into a long peaked flight cap, but her walk shouted her femininity.

  in the outer office were three of their iranian staff. politely they got up and smiled, watching her under heavy-ridded eyes.

  "good afternoon, excellency pavoud," she said in farsi with a smile. "captain ayre wanted to see me?"

  "yes, madam lady. his excellency's in the tower," the chief clerk replied. "may i have the honor of escorting you?" she declined with thanks, and when she had gone along the corridor and up the spiral staircase, pavoud said contemptuously, "scandalous the way she flaunts herself at us she does it just to taunt us."

  "worse than a public woman from the old quarter, excellency," another said, equally disgusted. "by god, of all infidels, americans are the worst and

  their women the worst. and that one, that one's asking, that one's begging for trouble..."

  "she's begging for a good iranian cock," a small man said, scratching himself.

  pavoud said, "she should wear a chador and cover herself and walk modestly. we are all men here. we've all sired children. does she think we're eunuchs?"

  "she should be whipped for taunting us."

  pavoud picked his nose delicately. "with god's help, soon she will be publicly. everyone will be subject to islamic law, and punishments."

  "they say that american women have no pubics."

  "no, it's just that they shave those parts."

  "pubics or no, excellency chief clerk, i'd like to thrust it into her, until she squealed with joy," the small man said, and they laughed together.

  "that great oaf of her husband has every night since she's been here." the chief clerk's eyes glittered. "i've heard them moaning in the night." he lit a cigarette from the butt of the last, then got up and looked out of the window. he wore glasses and peered into the sky until he saw the distant chopper turn on to final. death to all foreigners, he thought, then added in his most secret heart: and death to khomeini and his parasites! long live the tudeh and the revolution of the masses!

  the tower was small wi
th glass windows on all sides and well equipped. this had been their permanent base for many years, so s-g had had time to fit it out with some modern air safety and all-weather landing aids. freddy ayre, senior pilot in starke's absence, was waiting for manuela.

  "hxb's on final," he said as she came up the stairs. "he "

  "oh, wonderful," she interrupted happily. they had been trying to contact starke all day without success: "not to worry," ayre had told her, "their hf often goes out, same's ours." since last night, just after dark, the only communication had been starke's terse report that he was overnighting at bandar delam and would contact them today.

  "sorry, manuela, but duke's not aboard. marc dubois's flying her."

  "there's been an accident?" she burst out, her world tumbling. "he's hurt?"

  "oh, no, nothing like that. when marc reported in a few minutes ago, he said duke had stayed behind at bandar delam and he'd been told to fly the mullah and his team on the return trip."

  "is that all? you're sure?"

  "yes. look," ayre said, pointing out of the window, "there she is."

  the 206 was coming out of the sun nicely. behind her the zagros mountains reached skyward. below were the chimney stacks of the vast refinery, plumes of fire from waste gases perpetually burning off. she touched down in the exact

  center of landing pad one. "hxb shutting down," marc dubois said over the radio.

  "roger, hxb," s-g's duty tower operator, massil tugul, a palestinian and longtime employee, replied. he switched to the main base frequency. "base, we have no birds in the system now. i confirm hvu and hcf will return before sunset."

  "okay, s-g." there was a moment of quiet, then over the main base channel, they heard a voice cut in harshly in farsi, transmitting from the 206. it went on for half a minute, then ceased.

  massil muttered, "insha'allah!"

  "who the hell was that?" ayre said.

  "the mullah hussain, agha."

  "what the hell did he say?" ayre asked him, forgetting manuela could speak farsi.

  massil hesitated. manuela answered for him, her face white. "the mullah said, 'in the name of god and in the name of the whirlwind of god, strike!' over and over, just ov " she stopped.

  from the other side of the airfield came the muted sound of gunfire. at once ayre took the mike. "marc, a la tour, vise, imme'diatement," he ordered, his accent excellent, then squinted at the base, half a mile away. men were running from their barracks now. some carried guns. several fell as other men opposed them. ayre opened one of the windows to hear better. faint shouts of

  "allah-u akbatrr" mixed with the coarse thrangg-thrangg-thrangg of automatic rifles.

  "what's that? near the gate, the main gate?" manuela said, massil on his feet beside her, equally shocked and not a little frightened.

  ayre reached for the binoculars and focused them. "christ almighty, soldiers're firing into the base and... and truckstre storming the gate... half a dozen of them... green bands and mullahs and soldiers jumping out of them..."

  over the base channel came an excited voice shouting in farsi that was abruptly cut off. again manuela translated: "'in the name of god, kill all officers who oppose imam khomeini and take possession ' it's revolution!"

  below they saw the mullah hussain and his two green bands pile out of the 206, guns unslung. the mullah motioned dubois out of the cockpit, but the pilot just shook his head and pointed at the whirling blades, continued shutdown procedure. hussain hesitated.

  all over the s-g compound work had stopped. people were leaning out of windows or had come out onto the tarmac and were standing there in silent little groups, looking across the field. sounds of gunfire increased. nearby, the jeep and fuel truck that were to service the 206 had skidded to a halt the

  moment the guns had started. hussain had hailed the jeep, left one man to guard the chopper. the driver saw him coming, jumped out, and took to his heels. the mullah cursed him and, with a green band, got into the driving seat, gunned the engine, and tore off down the boundary road, heading for the far barracks.

  dubois came up the steps, three at a time. he was thirty-six, tall and skinny, with dark hair and a roguish smile. at once he stuck out his hand and shook with ayre. "madonna, what a day, freddy! i... manuela!" he kissed her fondly on both cheeks. "the duke is fine, che'rie. he just had a row with the mullah who told him that he would no longer fly with him. bandar delam's not..." he stopped, very conscious now of massil, not trusting him. "i need a drink, eh? let's go to the mess, eh?"

  they did not go to the mess. marc led them out onto the tarmac and into the lee of a building where they could watch with safety and not be overheard. "there's no way of telling which side massil's on, oh, or even most of our staff if they even know themselves, poor people."

  on the other side of the field there was a loud explosion. fire gushed from one of the sheds and smoke billowed. "mon dieu, is that the fuel dump?"

  "no, just near it." ayre was filled with disquiet. another explosion distracted him, then mixed with sporadic gunfire came the heavy, deep- throated detonation of a tank's big gun.

  the jeep with the mullah in it had disappeared behind the barracks. near the main gate, the army trucks had stopped haphazardly; their attacking soldiers and green bands vanished into hangars and barracks. a few bodies lay in the dust. tank soldiers guarding camp commandant peshadi's office block crouched near the doorway, their guns ready. others waited at the second-floor windows. one of the men there let off a burst of automatic fire as half a dozen screaming soldiers and airmen charged in attack across the square. another burst of fire and they were all dead or dying or badly wounded. one of the wounded half crawled, half scrambled for safety. the tank guards let him get almost to safety. then they filled him with bullets.

  manuela moaned and they both took her deeper into the lee of their building. "i'm all right," she said. "marc, when's duke coming back?"

  "rudi or duke will call tonight or tomorrow, guarantee it. pas probleme! le grand duke is fine. mon dieu, now i am ready for a drink!"

  they waited a moment, the firing lessening. "come on," ayre said, "we'll be safer in the bungalows."

  they scurried across the compound into one of the fine bungalows surrounded by whitewashed fences and tidy gardens. there were no married quarters at kowiss. usually two pilots shared the two-bedroom bungalows.

  manuela left them to get the drinks. "now, what really happened?" ayre asked softly.

  rapidly the frenchman told him about the attack and zataki and rudi's bravery. "that old kraut really deserves a medal," he said admiringly. "but listen, last night the revs shot one of our day laborers. they tried him and shot him in four minutes for being fedayeen. this morning other bastards shot kyabi."

  ayre was appalled. "but why?"

  dubois told him about the pipeline sabotage, then added, "when rudi and the mullah got back, zataki paraded us all and said it was correct kyabi had been shot as'a supporter of the shah, a supporter of satanic americans and british who had despoiled iran for years and was therefore an enemy of god.'"

  "poor old boss. christ, i liked him a lot, he was a good fellow!"

  "yes. and openly anti-khomeini, and now those bastards have guns never seen so many guns and they're all stupides, crazy." dubois tightened. "old duke began raving in farsi at them all; he'd already had a confrontation with zataki and the mullah last night. we don't know what he said but it all became ugly, the bastards fell on him, started to kick and scream at him. of course we all began to charge, then there was an explosion of automatic fire and we froze. them too, because it was rudi. somehow he'd taken a gun from one of them and let another short burst into the air. he shouted, 'leave him alone or i'll kill you all,' keeping the gun trained on zataki and the group near duke. they left him. after cursing them ma for, quel homme he made a deal; they leave us alone, we leave them to their revolution, i was to fly the mullah here and duke was to stay, and rudi keeps the gun. he made zataki and the mullah swear by allah no
t to break the contract, but i still wouldn't trust them. merde, they're all merde, mon ami. but rudi, rudi was fantastic. he should be french, that one. i tried to call them all day but no answer..."

  the other side of the field, a centurion tank came charging out of one of the streets in the far barracks complex, whirled across the open, and went into the main street opposite base hq and the officers' mess. it stopped there, engines growling, fat, squat, and deadly. the long gun swiveled, seeking a target. then suddenly the tracks spun, the tank twirled on its axis and fired and the shell decimated the second floor where colonel peshadi had his offices. the defenders reeled from the sudden treachery. again the tank fired. great slabs of masonry tore off and half the roof collapsed. the building began to burn.

  then from the ground floor and part of the second story a fusillade of bullets surrounded the tank. at once two of the loyalists charged out of the main door with grenades, tossed them through the tank slits, and fled for cover. both men