“Crank her up, fast as you can. Leave the doors open and when you’re ready to leave, give me the thumbs-up and we’ll all pile in. Plan to get out low and fast. Go on! Tenzing, go with him.” The officer jerked his thumb at the chopper fifty yards away and turned back, switched to Farsi again, cursed the Iranians, ordering them away to the other side where the battle had waned a little. The soldier called Tenzing went with Pettikin who was still dazed.
“Please hurry, sahib,” Tenzing said and leaned against one of the doors, his gun ready. Pettikin needed no encouragement.
More armored cars raced past but paid no attention to them, nor did other groups of police and military who were desperately intent on securing the base against the mobs who could now be heard approaching. Behind them the police officer was angrily arguing with the paratrooper, the others nervously looking over their shoulders at the advancing sound of “Allah-uuuu Akbarrrr!” Mixed with it was more gunfire now and a few explosions. Two hundred yards away on the perimeter road outside the fence, the vanguard of the mob set fire to a parked car and it exploded.
The helicopter’s jet engines came to life and the sound enraged the police officer, but a phalanx of armed civilian youths came charging through the gate from the other direction. Someone shouted, “Mujhadin!” At once everyone this side of the base grouped to intercept them and began firing. Covered by the diversion, the captain and the other soldier rushed for the chopper, jumped in, Pettikin put on full power and fled a few inches above the grass, swerved to avoid a burning truck, then barreled drunkenly into the sky. The captain lurched, almost dropped his grenade, couldn’t put the pin back in because of Pettikin’s violent evading action. He was in the front seat and hung on for his life, held the door open, tossed the grenade carefully overboard, and watched it curve to the ground.
It exploded harmlessly. “Jolly good,” he said, locked the door and his seat belt, checked that the two soldiers were okay, and gave a thumbs-up to Pettikin.
Pettikin hardly noticed. Once clear of Tehran he put her down in scrubland, well away from any roads or villages, and checked for bullet damage. When he saw there was none, he began to breathe. “Christ, I can’t thank you enough, Captain,” he said, putting out his hand, his head aching. “I thought you were a bloody mirage at first. Captain …?”
“Ross. This’s Sergeant Tenzing and Corporal Gueng.”
Pettikin shook hands and thanked both of them. They were short, happy men, yet hard and lithe. Tenzing was older, in his early fifties. “You’re heaven sent, all of you.”
Ross smiled, his teeth very white in his sunburned face. “I didn’t quite know how we were going to get out of that one. Wouldn’t have been very good form to knock off police, anyone for that matter - even SAVAK.” “I agree.” Pettikin had never seen such blue eyes in a man, judging him to be in his late twenties. “What the hell was going on back there?” “Some air force servicemen had mutinied, and some officers, and loyalists were there to put a stop to it. We heard Khomeini supporters and leftists were coming to the help of the mutineers.”
“What a mess! Can’t thank you enough. How’d you know my name?” “We’d, er, got wind of your approved flight plan to Tabriz via Bandar-e Pahlavi and wanted to hitch a ride. We were very late and thought we’d missed you - we were diverted to hell and gone. However, here we are.” “Thank God for that. You’re Gurkhas?”
“Just, er, odd bods, so to speak.”
Pettikin nodded thoughtfully. He had noticed that none of them had shoulder patches or insignias - except for Ross’s captain’s pips and their red berets. “How do ‘odd bods’ get wind of flight plans?”
“I really don’t know,” Ross said airily. “I just obey orders.” He glanced around. The land was flat and stony and open, and cold with snow on the ground. “Don’t you think we should move on? We’re a bit exposed here.” Pettikin got back into the cockpit. “What’s on in Tabriz?” “Actually, we’d like to be dropped off just this side of Bandar-e Pahlavi, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure.” Automatically Pettikin had begun start-up procedures. “What’s going on there?”
“Let’s say we have to see a man about a dog.”
Pettikin laughed, liking him. “There’re lots of dogs all over! Bandar-e Pahlavi it is, then, and I’ll stop asking questions.”
“Sorry, but you know how it is. I’d also appreciate it if you’d forget my name and that we were aboard.”
“And if I’m asked - by authority? Our departure was a little public.” “I didn’t give any name - just ordered you,” Ross grinned, “with vile threats!”
“All right. But I won’t forget your name.”
Pettikin set down a few miles outside the port of Bandar-e Pahlavi. Ross had picked the landing from a map that he carried. It was a duned beach, well away from any village, the blue waters of the Caspian Sea placid. Fishing boats dotted the sea, great cumulus clouds in the sunny sky. Here the land was tropical and the air humid with many insects and no sign of snow though the Elburz Mountains behind Tehran were heavily covered. It was highly irregular to land without permission, but twice Pettikin had called Bandar-e Pahlavi Airport where he was to refuel and had got no answer so he thought that he would be safe enough - he could always plead an emergency. “Good luck, and thanks again,” he said and shook all their hands. “If you ever need a favor - anything - you’ve got it.” They got out quickly, shouldered their packs, heading up the dunes. That was the last he had seen of them.
“Tabriz One, do you read?”
He was circling uneasily at the regulation seven hundred feet, then came lower. No sign of life - nor were any lights on. Strangely disquieted he landed close to the hangar. There he waited, ready for instant takeoff, not knowing what to expect - the news of servicemen mutinying in Tehran, particularly the supposedly elite air force, had disturbed him very much. But no one came. Nothing happened. Reluctantly, he locked the controls with great care and got out, leaving the engines running. It was very dangerous and against regulations - very dangerous because if the locks slipped it was possible for the chopper to ground-loop and get out of control. But I don’t want to get caught short, he thought grimly, rechecked the locks and quickly headed for the office through the snow. It was empty, the hangars empty except for the disemboweled 212, trailers empty, with no sign of anyone - or any form of a battle. A little more reassured, he went through the camp as quickly as he could. On the table in Erikki Yokkonen’s cabin was an empty vodka bottle. A full one was in the refrigerator - he would dearly have loved a drink but flying and alcohol never mix. There was also bottled water, some Iranian bread, and dried ham. He drank the water gratefully. I’ll eat only after I’ve gone over the whole place, he thought. In the bedroom the bed was made but there was a shoe here and another there. Gradually his eyes found more signs of a hasty departure. The other trailers showed other clues. There was no transport on the base and Erikki’s red Range Rover was gone too. Clearly the base had been abandoned somewhat hastily. But why?
His eyes gauged the sky. The wind had picked up and he heard it whine through the snow-laden forest over the muted growl of the idling jet engines. He felt the chill through his flying jacket and heavy pants and flying boots. His body ached for a hot shower - even better, one of Erikki’s saunas - and food and bed and hot grog and eight hours’ sleep. The wind’s no problem yet, he thought, but I’ve got an hour of light at the most to refuel and get back through the pass and down into the plains. Or do I stay here tonight?
Pettikin was not a forest man, not a mountain man. He knew desert and bush, jungle, veld, and the Dead Country of Saudi. The vast reaches on the flat never fazed him. But cold did. And snow. First refuel, he thought. But there was no fuel in the dump. None. Many forty-gallon drums but they were all empty. Never mind, he told himself, burying his panic. I’ve enough in my tanks for the hundred and fifty miles back to Bandar-e Pahlavi. I could go on to Tabriz Airport, or try and scrounge some from the ExTex depot at Ardabil, but that’s too bloody near the Soviet border. Again he measured the sky. Bloody hell! I can park here or somewhere en route. What’s it to be?