Hussain flushed. “Your time is very short, American,” he said in Farsi. “You and all your imperialist parasites.”
“If it is the Will of God, mullah, if it’s the Will of God. I’ll be ready to leave after first prayer. Then I leave, with or without you.” “You will take me to Abadan and wait and then return to Kowiss as I wish and as Colonel Peshadi ordered!”
Starke snapped in English, “If you’re ready to leave after first prayer! But Peshadi didn’t order it - I’m not under his orders, or yours - IranOil asked me to fly you on this charter. I’ll have to refuel on the way back.” Hussain said irritably, “Very well, we will leave at dawn. As to refueling…” He thought a moment. “We will do that at Kharg.” Both Starke and Rudi were startled. “How we going to get cleared into Kharg? Kharg’s loyal, er, still air force controlled. You’d have your heads blown off.”
Hussain just looked at them. “You will wait here until the komiteh has decided. In one hour I want to talk to Kowiss on the HF.” He stormed off. Starke said quietly. “These bastards’re too well organized, Rudi. We’re up shit creek.”
Rudi could feel the weakness in his legs. “We’d better get ourselves organized, prepare to get to hell out of here.”
“We’ll do that after food. You okay?”
“I thought I was dead. They’re going to kill us all, Duke.” “I don’t think so. For some reason we’re VIPs to them. They need us and that’s why Hussain backs off, your Zataki too. They might rough us up to keep us in line but I figure at least for the short haul we’re important in some way.” Again Starke tried to ease the tiredness out of his back and shoulders. “I could use one of Erikki’s saunas.” They both looked off at a burst of exuberant gunfire into the air from some Green Bands. “Crazy sonsofbitches. From what I overheard this operation’s part of a general uprising to confront the armed forces - guns against guns. How’s your radio reception? BBC or Voice of America?”
“Bad to very bad and jammed most days and nights. Of course Radio Free Iran’s loud and clear as always.” This was the Soviet station based just over the border at Baku on the Caspian Sea. “And Radio Moscow’s like it was in your back garden, as always.”
Chapter 7
NEAR TABRIZ: 6:05 P.M. In the snow-covered mountains far to the north, not far from the Soviet border, Pettikin’s 206 came over the rise fast, continuing to climb up the pass, skimming the trees, following the road. “Tabriz One, HFC from Tehran. Do you read?” he called again. Still no answer. Light was closing in, the late afternoon sun hidden by deep cloud cover that was only a few hundred feet above him, gray and heavy with snow. Again he tried to raise the base, very tired now, his face badly bruised and still hurting from the beating he had taken. His gloves and the broken skin over his knuckles made it awkward for him to press the transmit button. “Tabriz One. HFC from Tehran. Do you read?”
Again there was no answer but this did not worry him. Communication in the mountains was always bad, he was not expected, and there was no reason for Erikki Yokkonen or the base manager to have arranged a radio watch. As the road climbed, the cloud cover came down but he saw, thankfully, that the crest ahead was still clear, and once over it, the road fell away and there, half a mile farther on, was the base.
This morning it had taken him much longer than expected to drive to the small military air base at Galeg Morghi, not far from Tehran’s international airport, and though he had left the apartment before dawn, he did not arrive there until a bleak sun was well into the polluted, smoke-filled sky. He had had to divert many times. Street battles were still going on with many roads blocked - some deliberately with barricades but more with burned-out wrecks of cars or buses. Many bodies sprawled on the snow-covered sidewalks and roadways, many wounded, and twice, angry police turned him back. But he persevered and took an even more circuitous route. When he arrived, to his surprise the gate to their section of the base where they operated a training school was open and unguarded. Normally air force sentries would be there. He drove in and parked his car in the safety of the S-G hangar but found none of the day skeleton crew of mechanics or ground personnel on duty.
It was a cold brisk day and he was bundled in winter flight gear. Snow covered the field and most of the runway. While he waited he ground-checked the 206 that he was going to take. Everything was fine. The spares that Tabriz needed, tail rotor and two hydraulic pumps, were in the baggage compartment. Tanks were full which gave it two and a half to three hours’ range - two to three hundred miles depending on wind, altitude, and power settings. He would still have to refuel en route. His flight plan called for him to do this at Bandar-e Pahlavi, a port on the Caspian. Without effort he wheeled the airplane onto the apron. Then all hell let loose and he was on the edge of a battle.
Trucks filled with soldiers raced through the gate and headed across the field to be greeted with a hail of bullets from the main part of the base with its hangars, barracks, and administration buildings. Other trucks raced down the perimeter road, firing as they went, then a tracked armored Bren carrier joined the others, its machine guns blazing. Aghast, Pettikin recognized the shoulder badges and helmet markings of the Immortals. In their wake came armored buses filled with paramilitary police and other men who spread out over his side of the base, securing it. Before he knew what was happening, four of them grabbed him and dragged him over to one of the buses, shouting Farsi at him.
“For Christ’s sake, I don’t speak Farsi,” he shouted back, trying to fight out of their grasp. Then one of them punched him in the stomach and he retched, tore himself free, and smashed his attacker in the face. At once another man pulled out a pistol and fired. The bullet went into the neck of his parka, ricocheted violently off the bus, speckles of burning cordite in its wake. He froze. Someone belted him hard across the mouth and the others started punching and kicking him. At that moment a police officer came over. “American? You American,” he said angrily in bad English. “I’m British,” Pettikin gasped, the blood in his mouth, trying to free himself from the men who pinioned him against the hood of the bus. “I’m from S-G Helicopters and that’s my - ”
“American! Saboteur!” The man stuck his gun in Pettikin’s face and Pettikin saw the man’s finger tighten on the trigger. “We SAVAK know you Americans cause all our troubles!”
Then through the haze of his terror he heard a voice shout in Farsi and he felt the iron hands holding him loosen. With disbelief he saw the young British paratroop captain, dressed in a camouflage jumpsuit and red beret, two small, heavily armed soldiers with Oriental faces, grenades on their shoulder belts, packs on their backs, standing in front of them. Nonchalantly the captain was tossing a grenade up and down in his left hand as though it were an orange, the pin secured. He wore a revolver at his belt and a curiously shaped knife in a holster. Abruptly he stopped and pointed at Pettikin and then at the 206, angrily shouted at the police in Farsi, waved an imperious hand, and saluted Pettikin.
“For Christ’s sake, look important, Captain Pettikin,” he said quickly, his Scots accent pleasing, then knocked a policeman’s hand away from Pettikin’s arm. One of the others started to raise his gun but stopped as the captain jerked the pin out of his grenade, still holding the lever tight. At the same time his men cocked their automatic rifles, held them casually but very ready. The older of the two beamed, loosened his knife in its holster. “Is your chopper ready to go?”
“Yes … yes it is,” Pettikin mumbled.