starke said quietly. "these bastardstre too well organized, rudi. we're up shit creek."
rudi could feel the weakness in his legs. "we'd better get ourselves organized, prepare to get to hell out of here."
"we'll do that after food. you okay?"
"i thought i was dead. they're going to kill us all, duke."
"i don't think so. for some reason we're vips to them. they need us and
that's why hussain backs off, your zataki too. they might rough us up to keep us in line but i figure at least for the short haul we're important in some way." again starke tried to ease the tiredness out of his back and shoulders. "i could use one of erikki's saunas." they both looked off at a burst of exuberant gunfire into the air from some green bands. "crazy sonsofbitches. from what i overheard this operation's part of a general uprising to confront the armed forces guns against guns. how's your radio reception? bbc or voice of america?"
"bad to very bad and jammed most days and nights. of course radio free iran's loud and clear as always." this was the soviet station based just over the border at baku on the caspian sea. "and radio moscow's like it was in your back garden, as always."
near tabriz: 6:05 p.m. in the snow-covered mountains far to the north, not far from the soviet border, pettikin's 206 came over the rise fast, continuing to climb up the pass, skimming the trees, following the road.
"tabriz one, hfc from tehran. do you read?" he called again.
still no answer. light was closing in, the late afternoon sun hidden by deep cloud cover that was only a few hundred feet above him, grey and heavy with snow. again he tried to raise the base, very tired now, his face badly bruised and still hurting from the beating he had taken. his gloves and the broken skin over his knuckles made it awkward for him to press the transmit button. "tabriz one. hfc from tehran. do you read?"
again there was no answer but this did not worry him. communication in the mountains was always bad, he was not expected, and there was no reason for erikki yokkonen or the base manager to have arranged a radio watch. as the road climbed, the cloud cover came down but he saw, thankfully, that the crest ahead was still clear, and once over it, the road fell away and there, half a mile farther on, was the base.
this morning it had taken him much longer than expected to drive to the
small military air base at galeg morghi, not far from tehran's international airport, and though he had left the apartment before dawn, he did not arrive there until a bleak sun was well into the polluted, smoke-filled sky. he had had to divert many times. street battles were still going on with many roads blocked some deliberately with barricades but more with burned-out wrecks of cars or buses. many bodies sprawled on the snow-covered sidewalks and roadways, many wounded, and twice, angry police turned him back. but he persevered and took an even more circuitous route. when he arrived, to his surprise the gate to their section of the base where they operated a training school was open and unguarded. normally air force sentries would be there. he drove in and parked his car in the safety of the s-g hangar but found none of the day skeleton crew of mechanics or ground personnel on duty.
it was a cold brisk day and he was bundled in winter flight gear. snow covered the field and most of the runway. while he waited he ground- checked the 206 that he was going to take. everything was fine. the spares that tabriz needed, tail rotor and two hydraulic pumps, were in the baggage compartment. tanks were full which gave it two and a half to three hours' range two to three hundred miles depending on wind, altitude, and power settings. he would still have to refuel enroute. his flight plan called for him to do this at bandar-e pahlavi, a port on the caspian. without effort he wheeled the airplane onto the apron. then all hell let loose and he was on the edge of a battle.
trucks filled with soldiers raced through the gate and headed across the field to be greeted with a hail of bullets from the main part of the base with its hangars, barracks, and administration buildings. other trucks raced down the perimeter road, firing as they went, then a tracked armored bren carrier joined the others, its machine guns blazing. aghast, pettikin recognized the shoulder badges and helmet markings of the immortals. in their wake came armored buses filled with paramilitary police and other men who spread out over his side of the base, securing it. before he knew what was happening, four of them grabbed him and dragged him over to one of the buses, shouting farsi at him.
"for christ's sake, i don't speak farsi," he shouted back, trying to fight out of their grasp. then one of them punched him in the stomach and he retched, tore himself free, and smashed his attacker in the face. at once another man pulled out a pistol and fired. the bullet went into the neck of his parka, ricocheted violently off the bus, speckles of burning cordite in its wake. he froze. someone belted him hard across the mouth and the others started punching and kicking him. at that moment a police officer came over. "american? you american," he said angrily in bad english.
"i'm british," pettikin gasped, the blood in his mouth, trying to free himself
from the men who pinioned him against the hood of the bus. "i'm from s-g helicopters and that's my "
"american! saboteur!" the man stuck his gun in pettikin's face and pettikin saw the man's finger tighten on the trigger. "we savak know you americans cause all our troubles!"
then through the haze of his terror he heard a voice shout in farsi and he felt the iron hands holding him loosen. with disbelief he saw the young british paratroop captain, dressed in a camouflage jumpsuit and red beret, two small, heavily armed soldiers with oriental faces, grenades on their shoulder belts, packs on their backs, standing in front of them. nonchalantly the captain was tossing a grenade up and down in his left hand as though it were an orange, the pin secured. he wore a revolver at his belt and a curiously shaped knife in a holster. abruptly he stopped and pointed at pettikin and then at the 206, angrily shouted at the police in farsi, waved an imperious hand, and saluted pettikin.
"for christ's sake, look important, captain pettikin," he said quickly, his scots accent pleasing, then knocked a policeman's hand away from pettikin's arm. one of the others started to raise his gun but stopped as the captain jerked the pin out of his grenade, still holding the lever tight. at the same time his men cocked their automatic rifles, held them casually but very ready. the older of the two beamed, loosened his knife in its holster. "is your chopper ready to go?"
"yes... yes it is," pettikin mumbled.
"crank her up, fast as you can. leave the doors open and when you're ready to leave, give me the thumbs-up and we'll all pile in. plan to get out low and fast. go on! tenzing, go with him. " the of ricer jerked his thumb at the chopper fifty yards away and turned back, switched to farsi again, cursed the iranians, ordering them away to the other side where the battle had waned a little. the soldier called tenzing went with pettikin who was still dazed.
"please hurry, sahib," tenzing said and leaned against one of the doors, his gun ready. pettikin needed no encouragement.
more armored cars raced past but paid no attention to them, nor did other groups of police and military who were desperately intent on securing the base against the mobs who could now be heard approaching. behind them the police officer was angrily arguing with the paratrooper, the others nervously looking over their shoulders at the advancing sound of
"allah-uuuu akbarrrr!" mixed with it was more gunfire now and a few explosions. two hundred yards away on the perimeter road outside the fence, the vanguard of the mob set fire to a parked car and it exploded.
the helicopter's jet engines came to life and the sound enraged the police
128 names clavell
officer, but a phalanx of armed civilian youths came charging through the gate from the other direction. someone shouted, "mujhadin!" at once everyone this side of the base grouped to intercept them and began firing. covered by the diversion, the captain and the other soldier rushed for the chopper, jumped in, pettikin put on full power and fled a few inches above the grass, swerved to avoid a burning truck, then barreled drunkenly into the sky. the captain lurched, almost dropped his grenade, couldn't put the pin back in because of pettikin's violent evading action. he was in the front seat and hung on for his life, held the door open, tossed the grenade carefully overboard, and watched it curve to the ground.
it exploded harmlessly. "jolly good," he said, locked the door and his seat belt, checked that the two soldiers were okay, and gave a thumbs- up to pettikin.
pettikin hardly noticed. once clear of tehran he put her down in scrubland, well away from any roads or villages, and checked for bullet damage. when he saw there was none, he began to breathe. "christ, i can't thank you enough, captain," he said, putting out his hand, his head aching. "i thought you were a bloody mirage at first. captain...?"
"ross. this's sergeant tenzing and corporal gueng."
pettikin shook hands and thanked both of them. they were short, happy men, yet hard and lithe. tenzing was older, in his early fifties. "you're heaven sent, all of you."
ross smiled, his teeth very white in his sunburned face. "i didn't quite know how we were going to get out of that one. wouldn't have been very good form to knock off police, anyone for that matter even savak."
"i agree." pettikin had never seen such blue eyes in a man, judging him to be in his late twenties. "what the hell was going on back there?"
"some air force servicemen had mutinied, and some officers, and loyalists were there to put a stop to it. we heard khomeini supporters and leftists were coming to the help of the mutineers."
"what a mess! can't thank you enough. how'd you know my name?"
"we'd, er, got wind of your approved flight plan to tabriz via bandar-e pahlavi and wanted to hitch a ride. we were very late and thought we'd missed you we were diverted to hell and gone. however, here we are."
"thank god for that. you're gurkhas?"
"luster, odd boas, so to speak."
pettikin nodded thoughtfully. he had noticed that none of them had shoulder patches or insignias except for ross's captain's pips and their red berets. "how do 'odd boas' get wind of flight plans?"
"i really don't know," ross said airily. "i just obey orders." he glanced around. the land was flat and stony and open, and cold with snow on the ground. "don't you think we should move on? we're a bit exposed here."
pettikin got back into the cockpit. "what's on in tabriz?"
"actually, we'd like to be dropped off just this side of bandar-e pahlavi, if you don't mind."
"sure." automatically pettikin had begun start-up procedures. "what's going on there?"
"let's say we have to see a man about a dog."
pettikin laughed, liking him. "there're lots of dogs all over! bandar-e pahlavi it is, then, and i'll stop asking questions."
"sorry, but you know how it is. i'd also appreciate it if you'd forget my name and that we were aboard."
"and if i'm asked by authority? our departure was a little public."
"i didn't give any name just ordered you," ross grinned, "with vile threats!"
"all right. but i won't forget your name."
pettikin set down a few miles outside the port of bandar-e pahlavi. ross had picked the landing from a map that he carried. it was a duned beach, well away from any village, the blue waters of the caspian sea placid. fishing boats dotted the sea, great cumulus clouds in the sunny sky. here the land was tropical and the air humid with many insects and no sign of snow though the elburz mountains behind tehran were heavily covered. it was highly irregular to land without permission, but twice pettikin had called bandar-e pahlavi airport where he was to refuel and had got no answer so he thought that he would be safe enough he could always plead an emergency.
"good luck, and thanks again," he said and shook all their hands. "if you ever need a favor anything you've got it." they got out quickly, shouldered their packs, heading up the dunes. that was the last he had seen of them.
"tabriz one, do you read?"
he was circling uneasily at the regulation seven hundred feet, then came lower. no sign of life nor were any lights on. strangely disquieted he landed close to the hangar. there he waited, ready for instant takeoff, not knowing what to expect the news of servicemen mutinying in tehran, particularly the supposedly elite air force, had disturbed him very much. but no one came. nothing happened. reluctantly, he locked the controls with great care and got out, leaving the engines running. it was very dangerous and against regulations very dangerous because if the locks slipped it was possible for the chopper to ground- loop and get out of control.
but i don't want to get caught short, he thought grimly, rechecked the locks and quickly headed for the office through the snow. it was empty, the hangars empty except for the disemboweled 212, trailers empty, with no sign of anyone or any form of a battle. a little more reassured, he went through the camp as quickly as he could. on the table in erikki yokkonen's cabin was an
