The others watched, appalled. Vossi blanched. Ghafari, bigger and heavier than Scragger, hesitated then shook his fist in Scragger’s face, cursing him in Farsi, then shouted in English, wanting to provoke him: “Foreign pig! How dare you swear at me, threaten me? I’ll have you grounded for dangerous flying and thrown out of Iran. You dogs think you own our skies …” Scragger lunged forward but Vossi was suddenly between them and he blocked the lunge with his great chest. “Well, what you know, old buddy?Hey, sorry, Scrag, “he said easily, “but we’d better look at the tail rotor. Scrag, Scrag, old buddy, the tail rotor, huh?”
It took a few seconds for Scragger’s eyes to clear. His heart was pumping and he saw them all staring at him. With a great effort he fought down his rage. “You’re… you’re right, Ed. Yes.” Then he turned on Ghafari. “We had a… we had an emergency.” Ghafari began to scoff and Scragger’s rage soared but this time he controlled it.
They went aft. Many of the oil riggers, European and Iranian, were crowding around. The tail rotor stopped. About four inches were missing from one blade, the break jagged. When Vossi tried the main bearing, it was completely loose - the enormous torque caused by the imbalance of the blades had wrecked it. Behind him one of the passengers went to the side of the rig and was violently sick.
“Jesus,” Vossi muttered, “I could break it off with two fingers.” Ghafari broke the silence with his bluster. “Clearly bad servicing, endangering the li - ”
“Shut up, Ghafari,” de Plessey said angrily. “Merde, we are all alive and we owe our lives to Captain Scragger. No one could forecast this, S-G’s standards are the highest in Iran.”
“It will be reported, Mr. de Plessey, an - ”
“Yes, please do that and remember that I will be commending him for his airmanship.” De Plessey was imposing in his rage. He loathed Ghafari, considering him a rabble-rouser, openly pro-Khomeini one moment, inciting the workers to strike - provided there were no pro-Shah military or police nearby - the next fawningly pro-Shah and punishing the riggers for a minor infraction. Foreign pig, eh? “Remember, too, this is a French-Iranian coventure and France is not, how shall I put it, France has not been unfriendly to Iran in her hour of need.”
“Then you should insist Siri be serviced only by Frenchmen and not by old men! I will report this incident at once.” Ghafari walked off. Before Scragger could say or do anything, de Plessey put his hands on his shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks and shook his hand with equal warmth. “Thank you, mon cher ami!” There were loud cheers from the French as they congratulated themselves and crowded Scragger, formally embracing him. Then Kasigi stepped forward. “Domo,” he said formally, and to Scragger’s further acute embarrassment, the four Japanese bowed to him in unison to more French cheers and much backslapping.
“Thank you, Captain,” Kasigi said formally. “Yes, we understand and thank you.” He smiled and offered his card with both hands and another little bow. “Yoshi Kasigi, Toda Shipping Industries. Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a bad one, Mr. er, Mr. Kasigee,” Scragger said, trying to get over his embarrassment - over his rage now and back in control though he promised himself that one day soon he’d get Ghafari alone ashore. “We’ve, er, we’ve flotation gear, we’d plenty of space and we could have put her down in the water. It’s our job, our job to get her down safely. Ed here.” He beamed at Vossi genially, knowing that by getting in the way the young man had saved him from a matting he would not have won. “Captain Vossi would’ve done the same. Easy. It wasn’t a bad one - I just wanted to save you getting wet though the water’s nice and warm but you never know about Jaws….”
The tension broke and they all laughed, albeit a little nervously, for most of the Gulf and the mouths of the rivers that fed it were shark-infested. The warm waters and the abundance of food waste and untreated sewage that the Gulf nations poured into it for millennia encouraged fish of all kinds. Particularly sharks. And because all food waste and human waste from the rigs went overboard, sharks would usually be nearby.
“Have you ever seen a big one, Captain?”
“Too right. There’s a hammerhead that lurks off Kharg Island. I was stationed there for a couple of years and I’d spot him, oh, once or twice every few months. He’s maybe twenty-five, maybe thirty feet. I’ve seen plenty of giant stingrays but he’s the only big one.”
De Plessey shuddered. “Merde on all sharks. I was almost caught once on Siri and I was, how do you say it, ah, yes, I was only paddling but the shark came racing at me in the shallows and going so fast it beached itself. It was about eight feet long. We shot it six times but it still thrashed around and tried to get us and took hours to die and even then not one of us wanted to get within range of it. Eh, sharks!” He glanced back at the broken blade. “Me, I am very happy to be on the rig.”
They all agreed. The Frenchmen started chattering among themselves, gesticulating, two went to unload some hampers and another went to help the man who was still being sick. Riggers wandered off. The Japanese waited and watched.
Superstitiously Vossi touched the blade. “Just for luck, huh, Scrag?” “Why not? So long as you and the passengers walk away, it was a good landing.”
“What caused it?” de Plessey asked.
“Don’t know, mate,” Scragger said. “There was a flock of
small seabirds, terns I think, at Siri Three. One of them might have gone into the rotor and caused a stress point - I never felt anything, but then you wouldn’t. I know the rotor was perfect this morning because we both checked her as routine.” He shrugged. “Act of God.”
“Oui. Espčce de con! Me, I don’t like to be that close to an Act of God.” He frowned at the landing pad. “Can a 206 or Alouette get in to take us out by stages?”
“We’ll send for another 212 and park our bird over there.” Scragger pointed to the inside of the landing pad near the tall stack of the working derrick. “We’ve wheels in the baggage compartment, so it’ll be no sweat, and no delay for you.”
“Good. Good, then we’ll leave you to it. Come along the rest of you,” de Plessey said importantly. “I think we all need some coffee and then a glass of iced Chablis.”
“I thought all rigs were dry,” Kasigi said.
De Plessey’s eyebrows soared. “They are, m’sieur. Of course. For Iranians and non-French. Of course. But our rigs are French and subject to the Code Napoleon.” He added grandly, “We should celebrate our safe arrival, and today you are guests of la Belle France so we can be civilized and bend the rules - what are rules for if not to be bent? Of course. Come along, then we’ll begin the tour and have the briefing.”
They all followed him, except Kasigi. “And you, Captain?” he asked. “What will you do?”
“We’ll wait. The chopper’ll bring out spares and mechanics,” Scragger said, ill at ease, not liking to be so near to any Japanese, unable to crush the memory of so many friends lost in the war so young with him still alive, and the constant, nagging question why them and not me? “We’ll wait till she’s repaired, then we’ll go home. Why?”
“When will that be?”
“Before sundown. Why?”
Kasigi glanced back at the blade. “With your permission I would like to fly back with you.”
“That’s … that’s up to Capt’n Vossi. He’s formally captain on this flight.”
Kasigi turned his attention to Vossi. The young pilot knew Scragger’s dislike for Japanese but could not understand it. Just before takeoff he had said, “Hell, Scrag, World War Two was a million years ago. Japan’s our ally now - the only big one we’ve got in Asia.” But Scragger had said, “Just leave it, Ed,” so he had left it.