Escape Read online

  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 en route. His flight plan called for him to do this at Bandar-e Pahlavi, a port on the Caspian. Without effort he wheeled the airplane on to 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 armoured Bren carrier joined the others, its machine guns blazing. Aghast, Pettikin recognised the shoulder badges and helmet markings of the Immortals. In their wake came armoured 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 officer 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 armoured 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 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 barrelled 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, 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?’

  ‘Just, er, odd bods, 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 bods” 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’s 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 ask
ed—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 favour—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 disembowelled 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’s cabin was an empty vodka bottle. A full one was in the refrigerator—he would dearly have loved a drink but flying and alcohol never mix. There was also bottled water, some Iranian bread, and dried ham. He drank the water gratefully. I’ll eat only after I’ve gone over the whole place, he thought.

  In the bedroom the bed was made but there was a shoe here and another there. Gradually his eyes found more signs of a hasty departure. The other trailers showed other clues. There was no transport on the base and Erikki’s red Range Rover was gone too. Clearly the base had been abandoned somewhat hastily. But why?

  His eyes gauged the sky. The wind had picked up and he heard it whine through the snow-laden forest over the muted growl of the idling jet engines. He felt the chill through his flying jacket and heavy pants and flying boots. His body ached for a hot shower—even better, one of Erikki’s saunas—and food and bed and hot grog and eight hours’ sleep. The wind’s no problem yet, he thought, but I’ve got an hour of light at the most to refuel and get back through the pass and down into the plains. Or do I stay here tonight?

  Pettikin was not a forest man, not a mountain man. He knew desert and bush, jungle, veld, and the Dead Country of Saudi. The vast reaches on the flat never fazed him. But cold did. And snow. First refuel, he thought.

  But there was no fuel in the dump. None. Many forty-gallon drums but they were all empty. Never mind, he told himself, burying his panic, I’ve enough in my tanks for the hundred and fifty miles back to Bandar-e Pahlavi. I could go on to Tabriz Airport, or try to scrounge some from the ExTex depot at Ardabil, but that’s too bloody near the Soviet border.

  Again he measured the sky. Bloody hell! I can park here or somewhere en route. What’s it to be?

  Here. Safer.

  He shut down and put the 206 into the hangar, locking the door. Now the silence was deafening. He hesitated, then went out, closing the hangar door after him. His feet crunched on the snow. The wind tugged at him as he walked to Erikki’s trailer. Halfway there he stopped, his stomach twisting. He sensed someone watching him. He looked around, his eyes and ears searching the forest and the base. The wind sock danced in the eddies that trembled the treetops, creaking them, whining through the forest, and abruptly he remembered Tom Lochart, one of their chief pilots, sitting around a campfire in the Zagros on a skiing trip, telling the Canadian legend of the Wendigo, the evil demon of the forest, borne on the wild wind, that waits in the treetops, whining, waiting to catch you unawares, then suddenly swoops down and you’re terrified and begin to run but you can’t get away and you feel the icy breath behind you and you run and run with bigger and ever bigger steps until your feet are bloody stumps and then the Wendigo catches you up on to the treetops and you die.

  He shuddered, hating to be alone here. Curious, I’ve never thought about it before but I’m almost never alone. There’s always someone around, mechanic or pilot or friend or Genny or Mac or Claire in the old days.

  He was still watching the forest intently. Somewhere in the distance dogs began to bark. The feeling that there was someone out there was still very strong. With an effort he dismissed his unease, went back to the chopper, and found the Verey Light pistol. He carried the huge-calibre, snub-nosed weapon openly as he went back to Erikki’s cabin and felt happier having it with him. And even happier when he had bolted the door and closed the curtains.

  Night came quickly. With darkness animals began to hunt.

  Tehran: 7:05 P.M. McIver was walking along the deserted, tree-lined residential boulevard, tired and hungry. All streetlights were out and he picked his way carefully in the semi-darkness, snow banked against the walls of fine houses on both sides of the roadway. Sound of distant guns and, carried on the cold wind, ‘Allahhh-u Akbarrr.’ He turned the corner and almost stumbled into the Centurion tank that was parked half on the sidewalk. A flashlight momentarily blinded him. Soldiers moved out of ambush.

  ‘Who’re you, agha?’ a young officer said in good English. ‘What’re you doing here?’

  ‘I’m Captain. . . I’m Captain McIver, Duncan. . . Duncan McIver, I’m walking home from my office, and. . . and my flat’s the other side of the park, around the next corner.’

  ‘ID please.’

  Gingerly McIver reached into his inner pocket. He felt the two small photos beside his ID, one of the Shah, the other of Khomeini, but with all the day’s rumours of mutinies, he could not decide which would be correct so produced neither. The officer examined the ID under the flashlight. Now that McIver’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he noticed the man’s tiredness and stubble beard and crumpled uniform. Other soldiers watched silently. None were smoking which McIver found curious. The Centurion towered over them, malevolent, almost as though waiting to pounce.

  ‘Thank you.’ The officer handed the well-used card back to him. More firing, nearer this time. The soldiers waited, watching the night. ‘Better not to be out after dark, agha. Good night.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Good night.’ Thankfully McIver walked off, wondering if they were loyalist or mutineers—Christ, if some units mutiny and some don’t there’s going to be hell to pay. Another corner, this road and the park also dark and empty that, not so long ago, was always busy and brightly lit with more light streaming from windows, servants and people and children, all happy and lots of laughter among themselves, hurrying this way and that. That’s what I miss most of all, he thought. The laughter. Wonder if we’ll ever get those times back again.

  His day had been frustrating, no phones, radio contact bad, and he had not been able to raise any of his bases. Once again none of his office staff had arrived which further irritated him. ‘Tomorrow’ll be better,’ he said, then quickened his pace, the emptiness of the streets unpleasant.

  Their apartment block was five storeys and they had one of the penthouses. The staircase was dimly lit, electricity down to half power again, the lift out of action for
months. He went up the stairs wearily, the paucity of light making the climb more gloomy. But inside his apartment, candles were already lit and his spirits rose. ‘Hi, Genny!’ he called out, relocked the door, and hung up his old British warm. ‘Whisky time!’

  ‘Duncan! I’m in the dining room, come here for a minute.’

  He strode down the corridor, stopped at the doorway, and gaped. The dining table was laden with a dozen Iranian dishes and bowls of fruit, candles everywhere. Genny beamed at him. And so did Sharazad. She was one of the pilot’s wives, Tom Lochart. ‘Bless my soul! Sharazad, this’s your doing? How nice to see you wh—’

  ‘Oh, it’s nice to see you too, Mac, you get younger every day, both of you are, so sorry to intrude,’ Sharazad said in a rush, her voice bubbling and joyous, ‘but I remember that yesterday was your wedding anniversary because it’s five days before my birthday, and I know how you like lamb horisht and polo and the other things, so we brought them, Hassan, Dewa and I, and candles.’ She was barely five foot three, the kind of Persian beauty that Omar Khayyam had immortalised. ‘Now that you’re back, I’m off.’

  ‘But wait a second, why don’t you stay and eat with us an—’

  ‘Oh but I can’t, much as I’d like to, Father’s having a party tonight and I have to attend. This is just a little gift and I’ve left Hassan to serve and to clean up and oh I do hope you have a lovely time! Hassan! Dewa!’ she called out, then hugged Genny and hugged McIver and ran down to the door where her two servants were now waiting. One held her fur coat for her. She put it on, then wrapped the dark shroud of her chador around her, blew Genny another kiss, and, with the other servant, hurried away. Hassan, a tall man of thirty, wearing a white tunic and black trousers and a big smile, relocked the door. ‘Shall I serve dinner, madam?’ he asked Genny in Farsi.