only when he was well away did the blood clear from his eyes. aghast, he remembered the howl of the bullets spraying the car, and that azadeh was with him. in panic he looked across at her. but she was all right though paralyzed with fear and hunched down in the seat, hanging on with both hands to the side, bullet holes in the glass and roof nearby, but all right though he did not recognize her for a moment, saw just an iranian face made ugly by the chador like any one of the tens of thousands they had all seen in the mobs.
"oh, azadeh," he gasped, then reached over and pulled her to him, driving with one hand. in a moment he slowed and pulled over to the side and held her to him as the sobs tore her. he did not notice that the fuel gauge read near empty, or that the traffic was building up, or the hostile looks of the passersby, or that many cars contained revolutionaries fleeing their roadblock for tehran.
at zagros three: 3:18 p.m. the four men were lying on toboggans, racing down the slope behind the base, scot gavallan slightly in the lead of jean-luc sessonne who was neck and neck with nasiri, their base manager, with nitchak khan trailing some twenty yards. this was a challenge match arranged by jean-luc, iran against the world, and all four men were excitedly trying to maximize their speed. the snow was virgin powder very light snow on top of hard pack and trackless. they had all climbed to the crest behind the base with rodrigues and a villager as starting marshals. the winner's prize was 5,000 rials about $60 and one of lochart's bottles of whisky: "tom won't mind," jean-luc had said grandly. "he's having extra leave, enjoying the fleshpots of tehran while we have to stay on base! me, am i not in command? of course. this commander is commandeering the bottle for the glory of france, the good of my troops, and our glorious overlords, the yazdek k~sh'kai," he had added to general cheers.
it was a wonderful, sunny afternoon, here at seventy-five hundred feet, the sky cloudless and deep blue, air crisp. in the night the snow had stopped. ever since lochart had left to go to tehran three days before, it had been snowing.
now the base and the bowl of mountains were a fairyland of pine and snow and crests soaring to thirteen thousand feet with about twenty- four inches of fresh powder.
as the racers came lower, the slope steepened even more, a few unseen moguls bouncing them from time to time. they picked up speed, sometimes almost disappearing under the spray of snowflakes, all exhilarated, flat-out, and determined to win.
ahead now were clumps of pine trees. scot braked neatly with the toes of his ski boots, his mittened hands gripping the curved front supports, and arced gracefully around the trees, banked again, and began to swoop down the last great slope toward the finish line far below where the rest of the base and villagers were cheering them on. nasiri and jean-luc braked a fraction later, came around the trees just a fraction faster, banked in a cascade of snow and gained on him, now only inches between the three of them.
nitchak khan did not brake at all, or make the diversion. he commended himself to god for the hundredth time, closed his eyes and went barreling into the pines. "insha'allahhhh!"
he passed the first tree safely by a foot, the next by half a foot, opened his eyes just in time to avoid a head-on collision by an inch, flowed through a dozen saplings gaining speed, abruptly soared into the air over a bump to clear miraculously a fallen tree, and slam back to earth once more in a chest-aching thump that almost crushed the air out of him. but he hung on, rearing up, heeled over on one runner for a second, got his balance back and now he burst out of the forest faster than the others, straighter than the others, ten yards ahead of the others to a roar from all the villagers.
the four racers were converging now, hugging their toboggans for just that extra little speed, scot, nasiri, and jean-luc gaining on nitchak khan, closer and closer. here the snow was not so good and some small moguls bounced them, making them hold on tighter. two hundred yards to go, one hundred the men from the base and the villagers cheering and begging god for victory now eighty, seventy, sixty, fifty, and then...
the great mogul was well hidden. in the lead nitchak khan was the first to sail up out of control and come down broadside, the wind knocked out of him, then scot and jean-luc both whirled into the air to sprawl equally helpless, their toboggans upended in clouds of spray. nasiri desperately tried to avoid them and the mogul and wrenched his craft into a violent skidding turn but lost it and went tumbling down the mountainside to end up a little ahead of the others, gasping for breath.
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 jean-luc 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, jean-luc, 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. jean-luc 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 jean-luc, 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 countercheers.
"scot won..."
"no, it was jean-luc..."
"no, it was old nitchak..."
when he had collected his breath, jean-luc said, "as there is no clear opinion and even our revered mullah is not sure, i, jean-luc, 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 jean- luc 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," jean-luc 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," jean-luc 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 jean-luc. do you read?" he waited patiently.
"loud and clear, jean-luc!" 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! jean-luc, we'll need another dozen loads of six-inch pipe and the usual of cement starting tomorrow. okay?"
"bier sur!" jean-luc 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." jean-luc 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, jean-luc, you were at the line a second before nitchak khan. easily."
"of course, but we french are magnanimous, diplom~tique, 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." jean-luc 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 acclimatised 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.
"bellissima, this is jean-luc. do you read?"
rig bellissima was the highest of the chain, exactly at twelve thousand four hundred fifty feet above sea level. the base was perched on a ledge just below the crest. the other side of the ledge the mountain fell away seven thousand feet, almost sheer, into a valley ten miles wide and thirty miles long, a vast gash in the surface of the earth.
"bellissima, this is jean-luc. do you read?"
again no answer. jean-luc switched channels. "zagros three, do you read?"
"loud and clear, captain," came the immediate answer of their iranian base radio op aliwari. "excellency nasiri's beside me."
"stand by on this frequency. the casevac's at bellissima, but we've no radio contact. we're going in to land."
"roger. standing by."
as always at bellissima, scot was awed at the vastness of the earth's convulsion that had caused the valley. and, like all who visited this rig, again he wondered at the enormity of the gamble, labor, and wealth necessary to find the oil field, select the site, erect the rig, then to drill the thousands of feet to make the wells profitable. but they were, immensely so, as was this whole area with its huge oil and gas deposits trapped in limestone cones between seventy-five hundred and eleven thousand feet below the surface. and then the further huge investment and more gambling to connect this field to the pipeline that straddled the zagros mountains, joining the refineries at isfahan in the center of iran to those at abadan on the gulf another extraordinary engineering feat of the old anglo-iranian oil company, now nationalised and renamed iranoil. "stolen, scot, laddie, stolen's the correct word," his father had told him many times.
