“I’ll check. I wonder… I wonder if the burks might be positioning Imperial to formally nationalize it, therefore Imp Helicopters, therefore you and all the Norm Sea?”
“God Almighty!” Gavallan’s worry increased. This thought had not occurred to him. “Could they do that if they wanted?”
“Yes. Simple as that.”
Sunday - February 11
Chapter 9
OUTSIDE BANDAR DELAM: 6:55 A.M. It was just after dawn and Rudi had landed away from the culvert and now the four of them were standing on the lip. The early sun was good, and so far no problems. Oil still poured out of the pipe but it was no longer under pressure. “It’s just what’s left in the line,” Kyabi said. “It should stop entirely in an hour.” He was a strong-faced man in his fifties, cleanshaven with glasses, and he wore used khakis and a hard hat. Angrily he looked around. The earth was soaked with oil and the fumes almost overpowering. “This whole area’s lethal.” He led the way to the overturned car. Three bodies were twisted in or near the wreckage and already beginning to smell.
“Amateurs?” Rudi said, waving away the flies. “Premature explosion?” Kyabi did not answer. He went below into the culvert. It was hard to breathe but he searched the area carefully, then climbed back onto the road. “I’d say you were right, Rudi.” He glanced at Hussain, his face set. “Yours?” The mullah took his eyes off the car. “It is not the Imam’s orders to sabotage pipelines. This is the work of enemies of Islam.” “There are many enemies of Islam who claim to be Followers of the Prophet, who have taken his words and twisted them,” Kyabi said bitterly, “betraying him and betraying Islam.”
“I agree, and God will seek them out and punish them. When Iran is ruled according to Islamic law we will seek them out and punish them for Him.” Hussain’s dark eyes were equally hard. “What can you do about the oil spill?”
It had taken them two hours backtracking to find the break. They had circled at a few hundred feet, appalled at the extent of the spill that had inundated the small river and its marshlands and carried by the current was already some miles downstream. A thick black scum covered the surface from bank to bank. So far only one village was in its path. A few miles south there were many others. The river supplied drinking water, washing water, and was the latrine.
“Bum it off. As soon as possible.” Kyabi glanced at his engineer. “Eh?” “Yes, yes, of course. But what about the village, Excellency?” The engineer was a nervous, middle-aged Iranian who watched the mullah uneasily. ‘ “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.