On the other side of the field there was a loud explosion. Fire gushed from one of the sheds and smoke billowed. Mon Dieu, is that the fuel dump?” “No, just near it.” Ayre was filled with disquiet. Another explosion distracted him, then mixed with sporadic gunfire came the heavy, deep-throated detonation of a tank’s big gun.
The jeep with the mullah in it had disappeared behind the barracks. Near the main gate, the army trucks had stopped haphazardly; their attacking soldiers and Green Bands vanished into hangars and barracks. A few bodies lay in the dust. Tank soldiers guarding Camp Commandant Peshadi’s office block crouched near the doorway, their guns ready. Others waited at the second-floor windows. One of the men there let off a burst of automatic fire as half a dozen screaming soldiers and airmen charged in attack across the square. Another burst of fire and they were all dead or dying or badly wounded. One of the wounded half crawled, half scrambled for safety. The tank guards let him get almost to safety. Then they filled him with bullets. Manuela moaned and they both took her deeper into the lee of their building. “I’m all right,” she said. “Marc, when’s Duke coming back?” “Rudi or Duke will call tonight or tomorrow, guarantee it. Pas problčme! Le Grand Duke is fine. Mon Dieu, now I am ready for a drink!” They waited a moment, the firing lessening. “Come on,” Ayre said, “we’ll be safer in the bungalows.”
They scurried across the compound into one of the fine bungalows surrounded by whitewashed fences and tidy gardens. There were no married quarters at Kowiss. Usually two pilots shared the two-bedroom bungalows. Manuela left them to get the drinks. “Now, what really happened?” Ayre asked softly.
Rapidly the Frenchman told him about the attack and Zataki and Rudi’s bravery. “That old Kraut really deserves a medal,” he said admiringly. “But listen, last night the revs shot one of our day laborers. They tried him and shot him in four minutes for being fedayeen. This morning other bastards shot Kyabi.”
Ayre was appalled. “But why?”
Dubois told him about the pipeline sabotage, then added, “When Rudi and the mullah got back, Zataki paraded us all and said it was correct Kyabi had been shot as ‘a supporter of the Shah, a supporter of satanic Americans and British who had despoiled Iran for years and was therefore an enemy of God.’”
“Poor old Boss. Christ, I liked him a lot, he was a good fellow!” “Yes. And openly anti-Khomeini, and now those bastards have guns - never seen so many guns and they’re all stupides, crazy.” Dubois tightened. “Old Duke began raving in Farsi at them all; he’d already had a confrontation with Zataki and the mullah last night. We don’t know what he said but it all became ugly, the bastards fell on him, started to kick and scream at him. Of course we all began to charge, then there was an explosion of automatic fire and we froze. Them too, because it was Rudi. Somehow he’d taken a gun from one of them and let another short burst into the air. He shouted, ‘Leave him alone or I’ll kill you all,’ keeping the gun trained on Zataki and the group near Duke. They left him. After cursing them - ma foi, quel homme - he made a deal; they leave us alone, we leave them to their revolution, I was to fly the mullah here and Duke was to stay, and Rudi keeps the gun. He made Zataki and the mullah swear by Allah not to break the contract, but I still wouldn’t trust them. Merde, they’re all merde, mon ami. But Rudi, Rudi was fantastic. He should be French, that one. I tried to call them all day but no answer….”
The other side of the field, a Centurion tank came charging out of one of the streets in the far barracks complex, whirled across the open, and went into the main street opposite base HQ and the officers’ mess. It stopped there, engines growling, fat, squat, and deadly. The long gun swiveled, seeking a target. Then suddenly the tracks spun, the tank twirled on its axis and fired and the shell decimated the second floor where Colonel Peshadi had his offices. The defenders reeled from the sudden treachery. Again the tank fired. Great slabs of masonry tore off and half the roof collapsed. The building began to burn.
Then from the ground floor and part of the second story a fusillade of bullets surrounded the tank. At once two of the loyalists charged, out of the main door with grenades, tossed them through the tank slits, and fled for cover. Both men crumpled under a hail of automatic fire from across the roadway, but there was a terrible explosion inside the tank and flames and smoke gushed forth. The metal top flipped open and a burning man tried to clamber out. His body was almost ripped out of the tank by the hail of automatic fire from the broken building. On the wind that blew from across the base there was the smell of cordite and fire and meat burning. The battle continued for more than an hour, then ended. The lowering sun cast a bloody hue and there were dead and dying throughout the base, but the insurrection had failed because they had not killed Colonel Peshadi or his chief officers in the first sneak attack, because not enough of the airmen and soldiers went over to their side - and only one of three tank crews. Peshadi had been in the lead tank, and he held the tower and all radio communications. He had gathered loyal forces and led the ruthless drive that gouged the revolutionaries out of the hangars and out of the barracks. And once the cautious majority, the fence-sitting, unsure - in this case airmen and troops - perceived that the revolt was lost, they hesitated no longer. Immediately and zealously they declared their undying and historic loyalty to Peshadi and the Shah, picked up discarded weapons, and, equally zealously, in the Name of God, began firing at the “enemy.” But few fired to kill and though Peshadi knew it, he left an escape route open and allowed a few of the attackers to escape. His only secret order to his most trusted men was, Kill the mullah Hussain.
But, somehow, Hussain escaped.
“This is Colonel Peshadi,” came over the main base frequency and all loudspeakers. “Thanks be to God the enemy is dead, dying, or captured. I thank all loyal troops. All officers and men will collect our glorious dead who died doing God’s work and report numbers, and also numbers of enemy killed. Doctors and medics! Attend to all wounded without favor. God is Great… God is Great! It is almost the time for evening prayer. Tonight I am mullah and I will lead it. All will attend to give thanks to God.” In Starke’s bungalow, Ayre, Manuela, and Dubois were listening on the base intercom. She finished translating Peshadi’s Farsi. Now there was just static. Smoke hung over the base and the air was heavy with the smell. The two men were sipping vodka and canned orange juice, she mineral water. A portable butane gas fire warmed the room pleasantly.
“That’s curious,” she said thoughtfully, steeling herself not to think of all the killing or about Starke at Bandar Delam. “Curious that Peshadi didn’t end: Long live the Shah. Surely it’s a victory for him? He must be scared out of his wits.”
“I would be too,” Ayre said. “He’s g - ” They all jumped as the base intercom telephone jangled. He picked it up. “Hello?”
“This is Major Changiz. Ah, Captain Ayre, did they come your side of the base? What happened with you?”
“Nothing. No insurgents came over here.”
“Praise be to God. We were all worried for your safety. You’re sure there are no dead or wounded?”
“None - to my knowledge.”
“Thanks be to God. We’ve plenty. Fortunately there’re no enemy wounded.” “None?”
“None. You won’t mind if I mention that you will not report or relate this incident to anyone on the radio - to no one, Captain. Top security. Do you understand?”
“Loud and clear, Major.”
“Good. Please listen out on our base frequency - as for safety we will monitor yours. Please do not use your HF radio until first clearing it with us during the emergency.” Ayre felt the blood in his face but he said nothing. “Please stand by for a briefing by Colonel Peshadi at eight o’clock, and now send Esvandiary and all your Faithful to evening prayers - at once.”