“It was just a lone crazy.”
“I think we’re going to have to deal with a lot of crazies, Tom. Ever since I left France I’ve had a bad feeling. It’s worse since I got back. We’ve been to war, you and I, most of the others haven’t. We’ve a nose, you and I, and we’re hi for bad trouble.”
“No, you’re just tired.”
“Yes, that’s true. Andy was really bullish?”
“Very. He sends his best and said to keep it up!”
JeanLuc laughed and stifled a yawn. “Madonna, I’m starving. What’s Scot planned for our homecoming?”
“He’s got a WELCOME HOME sign up over the hangar.”
“For dinner, mon vieux. Dinner.”
“Scot said he and some villagers went hunting so he’s got a haunch of venison and a couple of hares ready for your tender mercies - and the barbecue’ll be all set to go.”
JeanLuc’s eyes lit up. “Good. Listen, I’ve brought Brie, garlic, a whole kilo, smoked ham, anchovies, onions, also a few kilos of pasta, cans of tomato puree, and my wife gave me a new amatriciana recipe from Gianni of St. Jean that is merely incredible. And the wine.”
Lochart felt his juices quicken. JeanLuc’s hobby was cooking and he was inspired when he wanted to be. “I brought cans of everything I could think of from Fortnums and some whisky. Hey, I’ve missed your cooking.” And your company, he thought. When they had met at Dubai they had shaken hands and he had asked, “How was leave?”
“I was in France,” JeanLuc had said grandly.
Lochart had envied him his simplicity. England had not been good, the weather, food, leave, the kids, her, Christmas - much as he had tried. Never mind. I’m back and soon I’ll be in Tehran. “You’ll cook tonight, JeanLuc?” “Of course. How can I live without proper food?”
Lochart laughed. “Like the rest of the world.” They watched Rodrigues still working hard. The sound of the jets was muted, the rotors whipping him. Lochart gave a thumbs-up to Scot Gavallan waiting patiently in the cockpit. Scot returned the signal, then pointed at the sky. Lochart nodded, shrugged, then put his attention back on Rodrigues, knowing there was nothing he could do to help but wait stoically.
“When do you go to Tehran?” JeanLuc asked.
Lochart’s heart quickened. “Sunday, if it doesn’t snow. I’ve a report for McIver and mail for them there. I’ll take a 206; it’ll take all tomorrow to check everything. Scot said we’re to stand by to start up full operations.” JeanLuc stared at him. “Nasiri said full ops?”
“Yes.” Nasiri was their Iranian liaison and base manager, an employee of IranOil - the government monopoly that owned all oil above and below the ground - that channeled and authorized all their flights. S-G worked under contract to this company, surveying, supplying personnel, supplies, and equipment to the oil rigs that were scattered over the mountain range, and dealing with the inevitable CASEVACs - casualty evacuations - accidents and emergencies. “I doubt if we’ll be doing much flying over the next week because of the weather, but I should be able to get out in the 206.” “Yes. You will need a guide. I will come too.”
Lochart laughed. “No way, old friend. You’re next in command and on duty for the next two weeks.”
“But I will not be needed. For three days, eh? Look at the sky, Tom. I must see that our apartment is all right.” In normal times Tehran was where all pilots with families would be based, who would fly two weeks on, one week off. Many pilots opted for two months on and one month off on leave at home, particularly the English. “It’s very important I get to Tehran.” “I’ll check out your apartment if you like, and if you promise to cook three nights a week, I’ll sneak you two days when I get back. You’ve just had a month’s leave.”
“Ah, but that was at home. Now I must think of mon amie. Of course she is desolate without me in Tehran, it’s been a whole month for her without me. Of course.” JeanLuc was watching Rodrigues. Then again he looked at the sky. “We can wait ten minutes more, Tom, then we should prepare a camp while there is light.”
“Yes.”
“But back to more important things. Tom, w - ”
“No.”
“Madonna, be French and not Anglo-Saxon. A whole month, consider her feelings!”
Rodrigues clipped the panel back in place and wiped his hands. “Let’s get the hell outta here,” he called out and climbed aboard. They followed quickly. He was still fastening his seat belt, his back and head and neck aching, when they were airborne and scudding for their base over the next range. Then he saw Jordon staring at him. “What’s with you, Effer?” “How’d you fix that effing pipe, sport? She was effing holed to bust.” “Gum.”
“Wot?”
“Chewing gum. Sure, goddamnit. It worked in goddamn Vietnam, so it’ll goddamn work here. Maybe. Because it was only a goddamn little bit but it was all I got so start goddamn praying. Can’t you stop cursing for crissake?”
They landed safely at their base, snow just beginning. The ground staff had switched on the landing lights, just in case.
Their base consisted of four trailer huts, a cookhouse, hangar for the 212 - a fourteen-place passenger transport, or freight helicopter - and two 206s and landing pads. Storage sheds for oil-drilling spares, sacks of cement, pumps, generators, and all manner of support equipment for the rigs, along with drilling pipe. It was on a small plateau at seventy-five hundred feet, wooded and very picturesque, in a bowl half surrounded by snowcapped peaks that soared to twelve thousand feet and more. Half a mile away was the village of Yazdek. The villagers were from a minor tribe of nomad Kash’kai who had settled here a century ago around this crossroads of two of the minor caravan routes that had crisscrossed Iran for three, perhaps four thousand years.
S-G had had a base here for seven years under contract to IranOil, first to survey a pipeline and make topographical maps of the area, then to help build and service the rigs of the rich oil fields nearby. It was a lonely, wild, and beautiful place, the flying interesting and good, the hours easy - throughout Iran only daylight flying allowed by Iranian regulations. Summers were wonderful. Most of the winter they were snowed in. Close by were crystal lakes with good fishing, and in the forests game was plentiful. Their relations with the villagers of Yazdek were excellent. Apart from mail they were well supplied, usually, and wanted for nothing. And, important for all of them, they were well away from HQ in Tehran, out of radio contact most of the time, and left happily to their own devices.
The moment the rotors had stopped and the airplane shut down, Rodrigues and Jordon undipped the panel again. They were aghast. The floor of the compartment was awash with oil. With it was the heavy smell of gasoline. Shakily Rodrigues searched, then pointed the flash. In one of the seams at the edge of a gasoline tank was a tiny rupture they could not possibly have detected on the mountainside. A thin stream of fuel came out to mix with the oil below.
“Jesus, Effer! Lookit, she’s a goddamn time bomb,” he croaked. Behind him, Jordon almost fainted. “One spark and… Effer, get me a hose for crissake, I’ll flood her out now before we go sky-high….”
“I’ll get it,” Scot said, then added queasily. “Well, I guess that’s one of our lives gone. Eight more to go.”
“You musta been born lucky, Captain,” Rodrigues said, feeling very sick. “Yeah, you must’ve been born lucky. This baby…” He stopped abruptly, listening. So did everyone nearby - Lochart and JeanLuc, near the HQ hut with Nasiri, the half-dozen Iranian ground staff, cooks, and laborers. It was very quiet. Then again came a burst of machine-gun fire from the direction of the village.