"very much sweat."
"anything on the others?"
"not yet..."
not yet, he thought again and a twinge went through him.
"who's delta four?" it was willi asking.
"our french friend and fowler," gavallan said matter-of-factly, not knowing who might be listening. "a full report when you land."
"understand." static, then, "ed, how you doing?"
"fine and dandy, willi. climbing to one thousand and doing fine. hey, scrag, what's your heading and altitude?"
"142, at seven hundred, and if you'd open your eyes and look two o'clock you'd see me 'cause i can see you."
silence for a moment. "scrag, you done it again!"
gavallan got up to stretch and saw manuela, "hello, m'dear."
she smiled, a little tentatively. "here," she said, offering a bottle, "you're entitled to a beer, and a 'sorry."'
"no lorries, none. you were right." he gave her a hug and drank gratefully. "oh, that's good, thank you, manuela."
"how about me, darling'?" starke said.
"all you'll get from me, conroe starke, is water and a thick ear if you weren't plain muscle between the ears." she opened the bottle of mineral water and gave it to him, but her eyes were smiling and she rested her hand lightly on him, loving him.
"thank you, honey," he said, so relieved that she was here and safe and others were safe, though dubois and fowler were question marks and many others still to go. his shoulder and chest were aching badly and he was becoming increasingly nauseated, his head throbbing. doc nutt had given him a painkiller and told him it was good for a couple of hours: "it'll hold you till noon, duke, not much longer and perhaps less. you'd better be a noontime cinderella or you'll be very bloody uncomfortable indeed... i mean bloody as in hemorrhage." he glanced past manuela at the clock: 12:04 rm.
"conroe, darling', won't you please come back to bed, please?"
his eyes changed. "how about in four minutes?" he said softly.
she reddened at his look, then laughed and dug her nails lightly into his neck as a cat would when purring. "seriously, darling', don't you think "
"i'm serious."
the door opened and doc nutt came in. "beady-bye, duke! say good night like a good boy!"
"hi, doc." obediently starke started to get up, failed the first time, just managed to cover his lapse, and stood erect, cursing inside. "scot, we got a walkie-talkie or a radio with the tower frequencies?"
"sure, sure we have." scot reached into a side drawer and gave him the
small portable. "we'll keep in touch you've a phone by the bed?"
"yes. see you later honey, no i'm fine, you stay in case of the farsi. thanks," then his eyes focused out of the window. "hey, look at that!"
for a moment all their cares were forgotten. the london-bahrain concorde was taxiing out, needle-sharp, peerless, her nose dropped for takeoff. cruising speed, fifteen hundred miles per hour at sixty-five thousand feet, the fortythree-hundred-mile flight three hours sixteen minutes. "she's gotta be the most beautiful bird alive," starke said as he left.
manuela sighed, "i'd just love to go in her once, just once."
"the only way to travel," scot said dryly. "i heard they're stopping this run next year, aren't they?" most of his attention monitoring willi and scragger and vossi talking back and forth, no problem there yet. from his position he could see the truck with nogger, mechanics, paint and stencils speeding for the helipad near the far end of the runway, a fire truck already standing by.
"they're bloody idiots," gavallan said, talking to hide his grinding anxiety his eyes seeking the incomers. "bloody government doesn't know its arse from a hole in the ground, french the same. they should just write off research and development costs they're written off already in actuality then she's a perfectly viable business proposition for certain runs and priceless. la to japan's a natural, to australia, buenos aires too... anyone see our birds yet?"
"tower's in a better position, dad." scot eased up the tower frequency. "concorde 001 you're next for takeoff. bon voyage," the controller was saying. "when airborne call baghdad on 119.9."
"'thank you, 119.9." concorde was moving proudly, supremely confident that all eyes were on her.
"by god, she's worth looking at."
"tower, this is concorde 001. what's the fire truck for?"
"we've three choppers inbound for the north helipad, one on one engine..."
in the control tower: "... would you like us to divert them until you're off?" the controller asked. his name was sinclair and he was english, an ex-raf officer like many of the controllers employed in the gulf.
"no, no thanks, just curious."
sinclair was a short, stocky, bald man, and he sat in a swivel chair at a low desk with a panoramic view. around his neck hung a pair of high- powered binoculars. he put them to his eyes and focused. now he could see the three choppers in v formation. earlier he had positioned the one with the failed engine at the head of the v he knew it was scragger but pretended not to know. around him in the tower was an abundance of first-class radar and communication equipment, telexes, with three shargazi trainees and a shargazi
controller. the controller was concentrating on his radar screen, positioning the other six airplanes presently in the system.
without losing the choppers in his binoculars, sinclair clicked on his sender: "hsvt, this is the tower, how are you doing?"
"tower, hsvt." scragger's voice was clear and precise. "no problem. everything in the green. i see concorde approaching for takeoff would you like me to hold or hurry up?"
"hsvt, continue your direct approach at safety maximum. concorde, go into position and hold." sinclair called out to one of the trainees on the ground control, "mohammed, soon as the chopper lands i turn him over to you, all right?"
"yes, sayyid."
"are you in contact with the fire truck?"
"no, sayyid."
"then do it quickly! that's your responsibility." the youth started to apologize. "don't worry, you made a mistake, that's over, get on with it!"
sinclair adjusted the focus a hair. scragger was fifty feet off, approach perfect. "mohammed, tell the fire truck to get with it come on for god's sake, those buggers should be ready with the foam hoses." he heard the young controller cursing the fire fighters again, then saw them piling out, readying their hoses. again he moved the glasses over to the concorde waiting patiently, lined up in the center of the runway, ready for takeoff, nowhere near any danger even if all three choppers blew up. holding the concorde for thirty seconds against a million-to- one chance her wake turbulence could cause a freak whirlwind for the wounded chopper was a small price. whirlwind. godalmighty!
the rumor that s-g was going to stage an illegal pullout of iran had been all over the field for two days now. his binoculars went from the concorde back to scragger's chopper. her skids touched down. the fire fighters closed in. no fire. "concorde 001, you're cleared for takeoff," he said calmly, "hfee and hyyr land when convenient, pan am 116 you're cleared to land, runway 32, wind twenty knots at 160."
behind him a telex chattered. he paused a moment watching the concorde take off, marveling at her power and angle of climb, then again centered on scragger, deliberately not noticing the tiny figures ducking under the rotors with stencils and paint. another man, nogger lane, who on gavallan's instructions had privately given him advance notice of what was going on though long after he already knew was waving the fire truck away. scragger was to one side retching, and the other man, he assumed the second pilot, was urinating monstrously. the other two choppers settled into their landings. painters swarmed over to them. now what on earth are they doing?
"good," he murmured, "no fire, no fuss, no farting about."
"sayyid sinclair, you should read this telex perhaps."
"uh?" absently he glanced at the youth who was awkwardly trying to use the spare binoculars on the choppers. one look at the telex was enough. "mohammed, have you ever used binoculars backward?" he asked.
"sayyid?" the youth was perplexed.
sinclair took the glasses from him, unfocused them, and gave them back reversed. "train them on the choppers and tell me what you see?"
it took the youth a few moments to get the image cantered. "they're so far away i can hardly make the three of them out."
"interesting. here, sit in my chair a moment." puffed with pride the youth obeyed. "now, call concorde and ask for a position report."
the other trainees were filled with envy, all else forgotten. mohammed's fingers trembled with excitement holding down the transmit. "concorde, this... this is bahrain tower, please, your position report, please."
"tower, oo1, going through thirty-four thousand for sixty-two thousand, mach 1.3 for mach 2" fifteen hundred miles per hour "heading 29o, leaving your area now."
"thank you, concorde, good day... oh, call baghdad 119.9, good day!" he said beaming and when the time was correct sinclair pointedly picked up the telex and frowned.
"iranian choppers?" he gave the youth the spare glasses. "do you see any iranian choppers here?"
after examining the three incoming strangers very carefully, the youth shook his head. "no, sayyid, those are british, the only others here we know are shargazi."
"quite right." sinclair was frowning. he had noticed that scragger was still slumped on the ground, lane and some of the others standing around him. not like scragger, he thought. "mohammed, send a medic and ambulance over to those british choppers on the double." then he picked up the phone, dialed. "mr. gavallan, your birds are down safe and sound. when you have a moment could you drop by the tower?" he said it in the peculiarly casual, understated english way that only another englishman would detect at once meant "urgently."
in the s-g office: gavallan said into the phone, "i'll be there right away, mr. sinclair. thanks."
scot saw his face. "more trouble, dad?"
"i don't know. call me if anything happens." at the door, gavallan stopped. "damn, i forgot about newbury. call him and see if he's available this afternoon. i'll go to his house, anywhere fix whatever you can. if he wants to
know what's going on, just say, 'six out of seven so far, one on standby and two to go."' he hurried away with, "'bye, 'bye, manuela. scot, try charlie again and find out where the devil he is."
"okay." now they were alone, scot and manuela. his shoulder was aching and intruding more and more. he had noticed her depression. "dubois'll turn up, you'll see," he said, wanting to sound very confident and mask his own fear they were lost. "and nothing could kill old fowler."
"oh, i do hope so," she said, her tears near. she had seen her husband stumble and was achingly aware of the extent of his pain. soon i'm going to have to leave for the hospital and the hell with farsi. "it's the waiting."
"only a few more hours, manuela, two more birds and five boas. then we can celebrate," scot added, hoping against hope, and thinking: then the weight'll be off the old man too, he'll smile again and live a thousand years.
my god, give up flying? i love flying and don't want a desk job. hong kong for part of the year'd be fine but linbar? i can't deal with linbar! the old mantll have to deal with him i'd be lost...
the old, nagging question leaped into his mind: what'd i do if the old man wasn't around? a chill went through him. not if, when, it's going to happen someday... it could happen any day. look at jordon, talbot or duke or me. a fraction of an inch and you're dead or you're alive. the will of god? karma? joss? i don't know and it doesn't matter! all i'm sure of is since i was hit i'm different, my whole life's different, my certainty that nothing would ever touch me has vanished forever and all that's left is a god-cursed, icy, stench-ridden certainty of being very mortal. christ almighty! does that always happen? wonder if duke feels the same?
he looked at manuela. she was staring at him. "sorry, i wasn't listening," he said and began to dial newbury.
"i just said, 'isn't it three birds and eight boas? you forgot erikki and azadeh nine if you count sharazad."
tehran, at the bakravan house: 1:14 p.m. sharazad stood in front of the long mirror in her bathroom, naked, examining the profile of her stomach, seeing if there was an added roundness yet. this morning she had noticed that her nipples seemed more sensitive and her breasts appeared tight. "no need to worry," zarah, meshang's wife, had laughed. "soon you'll be like a balloon and in tears, you'll be wailing that you'll never be able to get into your clothes again and oh how ugly you look! don't worry, you will get into your clothes and you won't look ugly."
sharazad was very happy today, dawdling, and she frowned at herself and peered closer to see if she had any wrinkles, looking at herself this way and
