Nitchak Khan sat up and wiped the snow out of his face and beard. “Praise be to God,” he muttered, astonished that no limbs were broken, and he looked around at the others. They were also picking themselves up, Scot helpless with laughter at JeanLuc who was also unhurt but still lying on his back letting out a paroxysm of French invective. Nasiri had ended up almost headfirst into a snowdrift and Scot, still laughing, went to help him. He, too, was just a little battered but no damage.
“Hey, you lot up there,” someone was shouting from the crowd below. It was Effer Jordon. “What about the bleeding race? It’s not over yet!” “Come on, Scot - come on, JeanLuc, for crissake!”
Scot forgot Nasiri and started to run for the winning post fifty yards away but he slipped and fell in the heavy snow, lurched up and slipped again, feet leaden. JeanLuc reeled up and charged in pursuit, closely followed by Nasiri and Nitchak Khan. The cheers of the crowd redoubled as the men fought through the snow, falling, scrambling, getting up and falling again, the going very rough, aches forgotten. Scot was still slightly in the lead, now Nitkchak Khan, now JeanLuc, now Nasiri - mechanic Fowler Joines, red in the face, urging them on, the villagers as excited.
Ten yards to go. The old Khan was three feet in the lead when he tripped and sprawled face forward. Scot took the lead, Nasiri almost beside him, JeanLuc just inches behind. They were all at a laboring, faltering, stumbling walk, dragging their boots up out of the heavy snow, then there was a mighty cheer as Nitchak Khan began to scuttle forward on all fours the last few yards, JeanLuc and Scot made one last desperate headlong dive for the line, and they all collapsed in a heap amid cheers and counter-cheers. “Scot won…”
“No, it was JeanLuc …”
“No, it was old Nitchak …”
When he had collected his breath, JeanLuc said, “As there is no clear opinion and even our revered mullah is not sure, I, JeanLuc, declare Nitchak Khan the winner by a nostril.” There were cheers and even more as he added, “And as the losers lost so
bravely, I award them with another of Tom’s bottles of whisky which I will commandeer to be shared by all expats at sundown!”
Everyone shook hands with everyone. Nitchak Khan agreed to another challenge match next month and, as he honored the law and did not drink, he haggled voraciously but sold the whisky he had won to JeanLuc at half its value. Everyone cheered again, then someone shouted a warning.
Northward, far up in the mountains, a red signal flare was falling into the valley. The silence was sudden. The flare vanished. Then another arced up and outward to fall again: SOS Urgent.
“CASEVAC,” JeanLuc said, squinting into the distance. “Must be Rig Rosa or Rig Bellissima.”
“I’m on my way.” Scot Gavallan hurried off.
“I’ll come with you,” JeanLuc said. “We’ll take a 212 and make it a check ride for you.”
In minutes they were airborne. Rig Rosa was one of the rigs they had acquired from the old Guerney contract, Bellissima one of their regulars. All eleven rigs in this area had been developed by an Italian company for IranOil, and though all were radio linked with Zagros Three, the connection was not always solid because of the mountains and scatter effect. Flares were a substitute.
The 212 climbed steadily, passing through ten thousand feet, snow-locked valleys sparkled in the sunshine, their operational ceiling seventeen thousand, depending on their load. Now Rig Rosa was ahead in a clearing on a small plateau at eleven thousand four hundred seventy. Just a few trailers for housing, and sheds scattered haphazardly around the tall derrick. And a helipad.
“Rig Rosa, this is JeanLuc. Do you read?” He waited patiently. “Loud and clear, JeanLuc!” It was the happy voice of Mimmo Sera, the “company man” - the highest rank on the site, an engineer in charge of all operations. “What you got for us, eh?”
“Niente, Mimmo! We saw a red flare and we’re just checking.” “Madonna, CASEVAC? It wasn’t us.” At once Scot broke off his approach, banked, and went on to the new heading, climbing farther into the mountain range. “Bellissima?”
“We’re going to check.”
“Let us know, eh? We haven’t been in contact since the storm came. What’s the latest news?”
“The last we heard was two days ago: the BBC said the Immortals at Doshan Tappeh had put down a rebellion of air force cadets and civilians. We haven’t heard from our Tehran HQ or anyone. If we do I’ll radio you.” “Eh, radio! JeanLuc, we’ll need another dozen loads of six-inch pipe and the usual of cement starting tomorrow. Okay?”
“Bien sur!” JeanLuc was delighted with the extra business and the opportunity to prove they were better than Guerney. “How’s it going?” “We’ve drilled to eight thousand feet and everything looks like another bonanza. I want to run the well next Monday, if possible. Can you order up Schlumberger for me?” Schlumberger was the worldwide firm that manufactured and supplied down-hole tools that sampled and electronically measured, with vast accuracy, oil-bearing capabilities and qualities of the various strata, tools to guide the drilling bits, tools to fish up broken bits, tools to perforate, by explosion, the steel casings of the hole to allow oil to flow into the pipe - along with the experts to work them. Very expensive but totally necessary. “To run a well” was the last job before cementing the steel casing in place and bringing the well on stream.
“Wherever they are, Mimmo, we’ll bring them Monday - Khomeini willing!” “Mamma mia, tell Nasiri we have to have them.” Reception was fading rapidly. “No problem. I’ll call you on the way back.” JeanLuc glanced out of the cockpit. They were passing over a ridge, still climbing, the engines beginning to labor. “Merde, I’m hungry,” he said, and stretched in his seat. “I feel like I’ve been massaged with a pneumatic drill - but that was a great race!”
“You know, JeanLuc, you were at the line a second before Nitchak Khan. Easily.”
“Of course, but we French are magnanimous, diplomatique, and very practical. I knew he’d sell us back our whisky for half price; if he’d been declared the loser, it would have cost us a fortune.” JeanLuc beamed. “But if it hadn’t been for that mogul, I would not have hesitated - I would have won easily.”
Scot smiled and said nothing, breathing easily, but conscious of his breathing. Above twelve thousand, according to regulations, pilots should be on oxygen if they were to stay up for more than half an hour. They carried none and never, yet, had any of the pilots felt any discomfort other than a headache or two, though it took a week or so to get acclimatized to living at seventy-five hundred feet. It was harder for the riggers at Bellissima.
Their own stopovers at Bellissima were usually very short. Just lumber up with maximum payload, inside or out, of 4,000 pounds. Pipes, pumps, diesel, winches, generators, chemicals, food, trailers, tanks, men, mud - the all-purpose name for the liquid that was pumped into the drill hole to remove waste, to keep the bit lubricated, in due course to tame the oil or gas, and without which deep drilling was impossible. Then lumber out, light, or with a full load of men or equipment for repair or, replacement. We’re just a jumped-up delivery van, Scot thought, his eyes scanning the skies, instruments, and all around. Yes, but how grand to be flying and not driving. Below, the crags were quite close, the tree line long since passed. They mounted the last ridge. Now they could see the rig.