Read Whirlwind for Free Online Page B

with enormous relief, "it would look very strange if a british aircraft ferried your revered leader into town. surely it would be better if he was in an iranian air force plane, flown by an iranian. i'll certainly have one of ours standing by, two in fact, in case of accidents. with our best pilots. just call us on the radio, call for a casevac and we'll respond at once..."
     
     
and now he was here, waiting, praying that there was no casevac to which they would have to respond.
     
     
the air france 747 jumbo jet appeared out of the pink haze. for twenty minutes she circled, waiting for clearance to land.
     
     
mclver was listening to the tower on the 212's radio. "still some problem about security," he told the other two. "wait a minute... she's cleared!"
     
     
"here we go," pettikin muttered.
     
     
they watched her come on to final. the 747 was gleaming white, the french colors sparkling. she inched her way earthward on a perfect approach, then, at the last moment, the pilot put on full power, aborting the landing. "what the hell's he playing at?" genny said, her heart fluttering.
     
     
"pilot says he wanted to take a closer look," mclver told her. "i think i would too just to make sure." he looked at pettikin who would fly any casevac call from the komiteh. "i hope to christ the air force don't do anything crazy."
     
     
"look!" genny said.
     
     
the jet came on to final and touched down, smoke belched from the tires, her massive engines roaring into reverse thrust to slow her. at once a mercedes rushed to intercept her, and as the news spread to those in the terminal, thence to the barricades, thence to the streets, the multitudes went berserk with joy. the chant began: "allah-u akbar... agha uhmad," god is great... the master has returned...
     
     
it seemed to take forever for the steps to arrive and the doors to open and the stern-faced, black-turbaned, heavily bearded old man to come down the steps, helped by one of the french stewards. he walked through the hastily assembled honor guard of a few mullahs and the iran air france crew, to be surrounded by his top aides and the nervous officials and quickly bundled into the car which headed for the terminal. there he was greeted by bedlam as the cheering, screaming, frenzied guests fought with one another to get near him, to touch him, newspapermen from all the world fighting each other for the best position with their barrage of flash cameras, tv cameras everyone shouting, green bands and police trying to protect him from the crush. genny could just see him for a moment, a graven statue among the frenzy, then he was swallowed up.
     
     
genny sipped her martini, remembering, her eyes fixed on the radio, trying to will the broadcast to continue, to blot out the memory of that day and khomeini's speech at behesht-zahra cemetery, chosen because so many of those massacred on bloody friday martyrs he called them were buried there.
     
     
to blot out the tv pictures they had all seen later of the raging sea of bodies surrounding the motorcade as it inched along all ideas of security gone tens of thousands of men, women, and young people shouting, struggling, shoving to get closer to him, scrambling all over the chevy van that he was in, trying to reach him, to touch him, the ayatollah sitting in the front seat in seeming serenity, occasionally raising his hands at the adulation. people clambering on the hood and on the roof, weeping and shouting, calling to him, fighting to keep others off impossible for the driver to see, he at times braking hard to shake people off, at others simply accelerating blindly. to blot out the memory of a youth in a rough brown suit who had scrambled onto the hood but could not get a proper grip and slowly rolled off and under the wheels.
     
     
dozens like the youth. eventually green bands had fought their way around and onto the van and called down the helicopter and she remembered the way the helicopter carelessly plummeted