Belowdecks the crew had scurried to emergency positions, some to the engine room, some to the bridge, others to the main gangways. Momentarily the three Iranians monitoring the fuel flow in various parts of the ship were left alone. They rushed for the deck.
One of them, Saiid, pretended to stumble and fall near the main tank inlet. When he was sure he was not observed he hastily opened his trousers and brought out the small plastic explosive device that had been missed in the body search when he had come aboard. It had been taped to the inside of a thigh, high up between his legs. Hastily he activated the chemical detonator that would explode in about one hour, stuck the device behind the main valve, and ran for the gangway. When he came on deck he was appalled to find that the men on the barge had not waited and that now the motorboat was almost ashore. The other two Iranians were chattering excitedly, equally enraged to be left aboard. Neither were members of his leftist cell. Onshore the oil spill was blazing out of control but the oil supply had been cut and the break isolated. Three men had been badly burned, one French and two Iranians. The mobile fire-fighting truck poured seawater into the flames, sucking it up from the Gulf. There was no wind and the choking black smoke made fire fighting even more difficult.
“Get some foam onto it,” Legrande, the French manager, shouted. Almost beside himself with rage, he tried to get order, but everyone was still milling about in the floodlights not knowing what to do. “Jacques, round up everyone and let’s count heads. Fast as you can.” Their full complement was seven French and thirty Iranians on the island. The security force of three men hurried off into the darkness, unarmed except for hastily made batons, not knowing what further sabotage to expect or from where. “M’sieur!” The Iranian medic was beckoning Legrande.
He went down toward the shore to the complex of pipes and valves that joined the tanks to the barge. The medic was kneeling beside two of the injured men who lay on a piece of canvas, unconscious and in shock. One of them had had his hair completely singed off and most of his face severely burned; the other had been sprayed with oil in the initial explosion that had instantly conflagrated his clothes, causing first-degree burns over most of the front of his body.
“Madonna,” Legrande muttered and crossed himself, seeing the ugly charred skin, barely recognizing his Iranian foreman.
One of his French engineers sat hunched over and was moaning softly, his hands and arms burned. Mixed with his agony was a constant stream of expletives.
“I’ll get you to the hospital, fast as I can, Paul.”
“Find those fornicators and burn mem,” the engineer snarled, then went back into his pain.
“Of course,” Legrande said helplessly, then to the medic, “Do what you can, I’ll call for a CASEVAC.” He hurried away from the shore for the radio room that was in one of the barracks, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Then he noticed two men on the far side of the tiny airstrip, running up the track on the slight bluff. Over that bluff was a cove with a small wharf used for sailing and swimming. I’ll bet the bastards have a boat there, he thought at once. Then, almost berserk with rage, he shouted after them into the night, “Bastardsssss!”
When the first explosion had occurred de Plessey had rushed for the ship-to- shore radio that was on the bridge. “Have you found that machine gun yet?” he asked the base submanager in French. Behind him, Scragger, Kasigi, and the captain were equally grim. Lights on the bridge were dimmed. Outside, the moon was high and strong.
“No, m’sieur. After the first burst, the attackers vanished.” “What about the damage to the pumping system?”
“I don’t know. I’m waiting for a… ah, just a moment, here’s M’sieur Legrande.” After a moment again in French: “This’s Legrande. Three burned, two Iranians very badly, the other’s Paul Beaulieu, hands and arms - call for a CASEVAC at once. I saw a couple of men heading for the cove - probably the saboteurs, and they’ve probably a boat there. I’m assembling everyone so we can see who’s missing.”
“Yes, at once. What about the damage?”
“Not major. With luck we’ll have that fixed in a week - certainly by the time the next tanker arrives.”
“I’ll come ashore as soon as I can. Wait a moment!” De Plessey looked at the others and told them what Legrande had said.
Scragger said at once, “I’ll take the CASEVAC, no need to call for one.” Kasigi said, “Bring the injured aboard - we’ve a surgery and a doctor. He’s very skilled, particularly with burns.”
“Good on you!” Scragger rushed off.
Into the mike de Plessey said, “We’ll deal with the CASEVAC from here. Get the men onto stretchers. Captain Scragger will bring them aboard at once. There’s a doctor here.”
A young Japanese deck officer came and spoke briefly to the captain who shook his head and replied curtly, then explained in English to de Plessey: “The three Iranians who were left aboard when the others on the barge fled want to be taken ashore at once. I said they could wait.” Then he called down to the engine room preparing to make way.
Kasigi was staring at the island. And at the tanks there. I need that oil, he thought, and I need the island safe. But it’s not safe and nothing I can do to make it safe.
“I’m going ashore,” de Plessey said and left.
Scragger was already at the 206, unhooking the rear doors. “What’re you doing, Scrag?” de Plessey said, hurrying up to him. “I can lay the stretcher on the backseat and lash it safe. Quicker than rigging an outside carry sling.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Hop in!” They glanced around at the noise behind them. The three Iranians had run over and were jabbering at him. It was clear they wanted to go ashore in the helicopter. “Shall we take them, Scrag?”
Scragger was already in the pilot’s seat, his fingers dancing over the switches. “No. You’re an emergency, they’re not. Get in, old sport.” He pointed at the right seat then waved the Iranians away. “Nah, ajaleh daram” - No, I’m in a hurry - he said, using one of the few expressions in Farsi he knew. Two of them backed off obediently. The third, Saiid, slid into the backseat and started to buckle up. Scragger shook his head, motioning him to get out. The man took no notice and spoke rapidly and forced a smile and pointed at the shore.
Impatiently Scragger motioned him out, one finger pressing the Engine Start button switch. The whine began instantly. Again the man refused and, angry now, pointed at the shore, his voice drowned by the cranking engine. For a moment Scragger thought, Okay, why not? Then he noticed the sweat dripping off the man’s face, his sweat-soaked overalls, and seemed to smell his fear. “Out!” he said, studying him very carefully.
Saiid paid no attention to him. Above them the blade was turning slowly, gaining speed.
“Let him stay,” de Plessey called out over. “We’d better hurry.” Abruptly Scragger aborted the engine start, and with very great strength for such a small man, had Saiid’s belt unbuckled and the man out on the deck, half unconscious, before anyone knew what was happening. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted up at the bridge. “Hey there, aloft! Kasigi! This joker’s too bloody anxious to go ashore - wasn’t he belowdecks?” Without waiting for an answer, he jumped back into the cockpit and jabbed Engine Start.
De Plessey watched him silently. “What did you see in that man?” Scragger shrugged. Long before the engine came to full power, seamen had grabbed the man and the other two and were herding them up to the bridge. The 206 went like an arrow for the shore. The two injured men were already on stretchers. Rapidly a spare stretcher was lashed in place across the backseat and the first stretcher lashed to this. Scragger helped the injured Frenchman, arms and hands bandaged, into the front seat alongside him, and trying to close his nostrils to the stench, eased her airborne and flew back, landing like gossamer. Medics and the doctor were waiting, plasma ready, morphine hypodermic ready.