still in shock, the sergeant fell into step beside his commander who went forward toward the gate. scattered in front of the gates were thirty or forty who had been trampled on. the mass of rioters had stopped a hundred yards away and was beginning to re-form. some of the more zealous began to charge. tension soared.
"stop! everyone stand still!"
this time the commander was obeyed. at once. he could feel the sweat on his back, his heart pumping in his chest. he glanced briefly at the corpse impaled on the barbs, glad for him hadn't the youth been martyred with the name of god on his lips, and wasn't he therefore already in paradise9. then spoke harshly into the mouthpiece. "you three... yes, you three, help the mullah. now!" instantly, the men outside the fence he had pointed at rushed to do his bidding. he jerked an angry thumb at some soldiers. "you! open the gate! you, take the body away!"
again he was obeyed instantly. behind him, some groups of men began to move, and he roared, "i said, stand still! the next man who moves without my order's a dead man!" everyone froze. everyone.
peshadi waited a moment, almost daring someone to move. no one did. then he glanced back at hussain whom he knew well. "mullah," peshadi said quietly, "are you all right?" he was standing beside him now. the gate was open. a few yards away the three villagers waited, petrified.
there was a monstrous ache in hussain's head and his ears hurt terribly. but he could hear and he could see and though his hands were bloody from the barbs, he knew he was undamaged and not yet the martyr he had expected and had prayed to be. "i demand..." he said weakly, "i demand this... this base in the name of khomeini."
"you will come to my office at once," the colonel interrupted, his voice and face grim. "so will you three, as witnesses. we will talk, mullah. i will listen and then you will listen." he turned on the loudspeaker again and explained what was going to happen, his voice even grimmer, the words echoing, cutting the night apart. "he and i will talk. we will talk peacefully and then the mullah will return to the mosque and you will all go to your homes to pray. the gate will remain open. the gate will be guarded by my soldiers and my tanks, and, by god and the prophet on whose name be praised, if one of you sets foot inside the gate or comes over the fence uninvited, my soldiers will kill him. if twenty or more of you charge into my base i will lead my tanks into your villages and i will burn your villages with you in them! long live the shah!" he turned on his heel and strode off, the mullah and the three frightened villagers following slowly. no one else moved.
and on the veranda of the officers' mess, captain conroe starke, leader of the s-g contingent, sighed. "good sweet jesus," he muttered with vast admiration to no one in particular, "what cojones!"
5:21 a.m. starke stood at the window of the officers' mess, watching peshadi's hq building across the street. the mullah had not yet come out. here
in the main lounge of the of ricers' mess it was very cold. freddy ayre hunched deeper into his easy chair, pulling his flight jacket closer around him, and looked up at the tall texan who rocked gently on his heels. "what do you think?" he asked wearily, stifling a yawn.
"i think it'll be dawn in an hour odd, old buddy," starke said absently. he also wore a flight jacket and warm flying boots. the two pilots were in a corner window of the second-floor room overlooking most of the base. scattered around the room were a dozen of the senior iranian of ricers who had also been told to stand by. most were asleep in easy chairs, bundled in their flight jackets or army greatcoats heating throughout the base had been off for weeks to conserve fuel. a few weary orderlies, also in overcoats, were clearing up the last of the debris from the party that the mob had interrupted.
"i feel wrung out. you?"
"not yet, but how come i always seem to draw duty on high days and holidays, freddy?"
"it's the fearless leader's privilege, old chum," ayre said. he was secondin-command of the s-g contingent, ex-raf, a good-looking man of twenty-eight, with sloe-blue eyes, his accent oxford english. "sets a good example to the troops."
starke glanced toward the open main gate. no change: it was still well guarded. outside, half a thousand of the villagers still waited, huddled together for warmth. he went back to staring at the hq building. no change there either. lights were on in the upper floor where peshadi had his offices. "i'd give a month's pay to be kibitzing on that one, freddy."
"what? what's that mean?"
"to be listening to peshadi and the mullah."
"oh!" ayre looked across the street at the offices. "you know, i thought we'd had it when those miserable buggers started climbing the wire. bloody hell! i was all set to hare off to old nellie, crank her up, and say farewell to kublai khan and his mongol hordes!" he chuckled to himself as he imagined himself running for his 212. "of course," he added dryly, "i'd have waited for you, duke." he used their nickname for starke who was texan like john wayne and built like john wayne and just as handsome.
starke laughed."thanks, old buddy. come to think of it, if they'd bust in i'd've been ahead of you." his blue eyes crinkled with the depth of his smile, his accent slight. then he turned back to the window, hiding his concern. this was the base's third confrontation with a mob, always led by the mullah, each more serious than the last. and now the first deliberate death. now what? that deathtll lead to another and to another. if it hadn't been for colonel peshadi someone else would have gone for the gate and been shot and now there'd be bodies all over. oh, peshadi would've won this time. but soon he won't,
not unless he breaks the mullah. to break hussain he'll have to kill him can't jail him, the mob'll bust a gut, and if he kills him, they'll bust a gut, if he exiles him, they'll bust a gut, so he's onto a no-win play. what would i do?
i don't know.
he looked around the room. the iranian officers didn't seem concerned. he knew most of them by sight, not one of them intimately. though s-g had shared the base since it was built some eight years before, they had had little to do with the military or air force personnel. since starke had taken over as chief pilot last year, he had tried to expand s-g's contacts with the rest of the base but without success. the iranians preferred their own company.
that's okay too, he thought. it's their country. but they're tearing it apart and we're in the middle and now manuela's here. he had been overjoyed to see his wife when she had arrived by helicopter five days ago mciver not trusting her to the roads though a little angry that she had talked her way onto a lone incoming ba flight that had slipped back into tehran. "damnit, manuela, you're in danger here!"
"no more than in tehran, conroe darling'. insha'allah," she had said with a beam.
"but how'd you talk mac into letting you come down here?"
"i just smiled at him, honey, and promised to go on the first available flight back to england. meanwhile, darling', let's go to bed."
he smiled to himself and let his mind drift. this was his third two-year tour in iran and his eleventh year with s-g. eleven good years, he thought. first aberdeen and the north sea, then iran, dubai, and al shargaz just across the gulf, then iran again where he'd planned to stay. the best years here, he thought. but not anymore. iran's changed since '73 when the shah quadrupled the price of oil from $1 to $4 or thereabouts. it was like b.c. and a.d. for iran. before, they were friendly and helpful, good to live among and to work with. after? increasingly arrogant, more and more puffed up by the shah's constant overriding message about the "inherent superiority of iranians" because of their three thousand years of civilisation and how within twenty years iran would be a world leader as was her divine right would be the fifth industrial power on earth, sole guardian of the crossroads between east and west, with the best army, the best navy, the best air force, with more tanks, helicopters, refrigerators, factories, telephones, roads, schools, banks, businesses than anyone else here in the center of the world. and based on all of this, with the rest of the world listening attentively, iran under his leadership would be the real arbiter of east and west, and real fountain of all wisdom his wisdom.
starke sighed. he had come to understand the message, loud and clear over the years, but he blessed manuela for agreeing to hurl themselves into the
iranian way of life, learning farsi, going everywhere and seeing everything new sights and tastes and smells, learning about persian carpets and caviar, wines and legends and making friends and not living their life out like many of the expat pilots and engineers who elected to leave their families at home, to work two months on and one off and sat on their bases on days off, saving money, and waiting for their leaves home wherever home was.
"home's here from now on," she had said. "this's where we'll be, me and the kids," she had added with the toss of her head he admired so much, and the darkness of her hair, the passion of her spanish heritage.
"what kids? we haven't got any kids and we can't afford them yet on what i make."
starke smiled. that had been just after they were married, ten years ago. he had gone back to texas to marry her as soon as his place with s-g was firmed. now they had three children, two boys and a girl, and he could afford them all, just. now? now what's going to happen? my job here's threatened, most of our iranian friends've gone, there're empty shops where there was plenty and fear where there'd only been laughter.
goddamn khomeini and these goddamn mullahs, he thought. he's certainly messed up a great way of life and a great place. i wish manuela'd take the kids and leave london and fly home to lubbock until iran stabilizes. lubbock was near the panhandle of texas where his father still ran the family ranch. eight thousand acres, a few cattle, some horses, some farming, enough for the family to live comfortably. i wish she was there already, but then there'd be no mail for weeks and the phonestre sure to be out. goddamn khomeini for frightening her with his speeches wonder what he'll say to god and god'll say to him when they meet, as they will.
he stretched and sat back in the easy chair. he saw ayre watching him, his eyes bleary. "you really hung one on."
"it was my day off, my two days in fact, and i hadn't planned on the hordes. actually i had intended to drink to oblivion, i miss my better half, bless her, and anyway hogmanay's important to us scots an "
"hogmanay was new year's eve and today's february tenth and you're no more scots than i am."
"duke, i'll have you know the ayres are an ancient clan and i can play the bagpipes, old boy." ayre yawned mightily. "christ, i'm tired." he burrowed deeper into the chair, trying to settle himself more comfortably, then glanced out of the window. at once his tiredness dropped away. an iranian officer was hurrying out of the hq entrance, heading across the street toward them. it was major changiz, the base adjutant.
when he came in, his face was taut. "all officers will report to the commandant at seven o'clock," he said in farsi. "all officers. there will be a full
parade of all military and air force personnel at eight o'clock in the square. anyone absent anyone," he added darkly, "except for medical reasons approved by me in advance can expect immediate and severe punishment." his eyes searched the room until he found starke. "please follow me, captain."
starke's heart skipped a beat. "why, major?" he asked in farsi.
"the commandant wants you."
"what for?"
the major shrugged and walked out.
starke said quietly to ayre, "better alert all our guys. and manuela. huh?"
"got it," ayre said, then muttered, "christ."
as starke walked across the street and up the stairs, he felt the eyes on him as a physical weight. thank god i'm a civilian and work for a british company and not in the u.s. army anymore, he thought fervently. "goddamn," he muttered, remembering his year's stint in vietnam in the very early days when there were no u.s. forces in vietnam, "only a few advisers." shit! and that sonofabitching spit-and- polish meathead captain ritman who ordered all our base's helicopters in our jungle base a million miles from anywhere, for crissake to be painted with bright red, white, and blue stars and stripes: "yes, god damnit, all over! let the gooks know who we are and they'll rush their asses all the way to goddamn russia." the viet cong could see us coming from fifty miles and i got peppered to hell and back and we lost three hueys with full crews before the sonofabitch was posted to saigon, promoted and posted. no wonder we lost the goddamn war.
he went into the office building and up the stairs, past the three petrified villagers who had been banished to the outer of lice, into the camp commandant's lair. "morning, colonel," he said cautiously in english.
"morning, captain starke." peshadi switched to farsi. "i'd like you to meet the mullah, hussain kowissi."
"peace be upon you," starke said in farsi, very conscious of the speckles of blood from the dead youth that still marred the man's white turban and black robe.
"peace be upon you."
starke put out his hand to shake hands as was correct custom. just in time he noticed the coagulated rips in the man's palms that the barbed wire had caused. he made his grip gentle. even so he saw a shaft of pain go across the mullah's face. "sorry," he said in english.
