Strike Force

CHAPTER 7

“So, you got your wanker slammed in the drawer, eh, McLanahan?” Secretary of Defense Joseph Gardner said as he took his seat in the White House Situation Room. Patrick McLanahan was on a secure videoconference connection from the Battle Management Room at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base, Nevada. “I guess your Tin Men aren’t as tough as we all thought if a bunch of ragheads with RPGs can take them down.”

“Sergeant Dolan took on four squads of mechanized infantry and destroyed three of them before they finally got him, sir,” Patrick said. “He died saving two of our crewmen.”

“Of course, of course — no disrespect to the sergeant or to the copilot that perished,” Gardner said quickly. “What I was trying to say, McLanahan, is that you should have known that your Tin Men aren’t supermen. You should have realized that leaving just one to guard a three-billion-dollar jet wasn’t going to hack it, and you should have called on more special ops forces to assist.”

“There wasn’t time, sir.”

“That’s getting to be a very tired old album, McLanahan,” Gardner sighed wearily, “and I for one am starting to get tired of listening to it. There’s never enough time when it comes to you and your operations, is there?”

At that moment a staffer in the room noticed a flurry of movement outside the room. National Security Adviser Sparks entered the Situation Room, followed by Chief of Staff Minden, Vice President Hershel, and then by President Martindale. The staffer called the room to attention. “Seats,” the President said immediately. He turned to the videoconference screen. “Sorry to hear about your loss, Patrick. What do you think the Iranians got?”

“They got Sergeant Dolan, one Tin Man battle armor system with the exoskeleton probably mostly intact, plus plenty of photographs, maybe a few composite material samples, and some electronic gear and computer modules, sir,” Patrick responded. “The communications, transponders, and computers are programmed to auto-erase whenever the emergency shutdown order is given or initiated by the computer in case of an accident or attack, but it’s not foolproof.”

“Is there any kind of self-destruct mechanism?”

“No, sir — that’s too dangerous in a spacecraft normally subject to very high heat and stresses. Master Sergeant Wohl destroyed any electronic components by hand that he could find or that were pointed out to him by Captain Noble; wearing the Tin Man suit, that would have been done very quickly and effectively. But the Iranians may still be able to recover any data or programming stored in the components they seized.”

“What about Sergeant Dolan and the suit he was wearing?”

Patrick looked uncomfortable, almost pained, but he kept his head and shoulders straight as he replied, “We’re hoping that the RPG rounds and the 105-millimeter tank round that killed Sergeant Dolan destroyed most of the armor and electronics in the suit. But the Iranians have taken a very valuable piece of hardware along with the body of a U.S. soldier. They need to give all of it back immediately or face the most severe consequences.”

“That’s not your call, McLanahan!” Jonas Sparks retorted loudly. “We’re in this mess because you didn’t plan properly, and you’re not going to even think about doing anything to recover what was taken without full presidential authority!” He rubbed his eyes wearily. “Jesus, this could be the worst compromise of highly classified technology since John Walker or Robert Hanssen.”

“Those guys were spies and traitors — the Black Stallion was attacked by Iranians inside Turkmenistan,” Vice President Maureen Hershel said. “There’s a big difference.”

“What I meant was, the damage done due to the loss of our most sensitive and cutting-edge technology is much worse, Miss Vice President,” Sparks said. Maureen scowled at the national security adviser but said nothing.

“Sir, I wanted to update you and the national security staff on developments in Iran,” Patrick said. “We’ll have to deal with the loss of the Black Stallion and Tin Man technology later.” The President looked perturbed and grim, but nodded.

“First, we’ve located about a dozen forward-deployed launch sites or hiding spots for as many as a hundred medium- and long-range Iranian missiles,” Patrick said. “The Iranians have deployed a large number of decoys but we’ve been able to separate most of them out. We believe they might have another six to ten more launch sites in other locations. We discover at least one new site per day so I feel confident we can find the rest soon.

“The Air Battle Force has the capability of neutralizing the Iranian missiles in three ways: by destroying as many launchers as possible with air and ground strikes; by hitting missiles in the boost phase with our AL-52 Dragon airborne laser; and by hitting more in the cruise phase of flight with air-launch anti-ballistic missiles,” Patrick went on. “Although we can have the ground units in place quickly, it’ll take two days at least for the full force to get set up over Iran and ready to strike.”

“How many of the dozen sites do you think you can take out, McLanahan?” National Security Adviser Sparks asked.

“Conservatively, with our full force in place: fifty percent,” Patrick replied. “We coordinate the spaceborne, air-breathing, and ground attacks, and make sure our anti-ballistic missile aircraft are over the likely launch and target areas when the attacks begin.”

“Fifty percent? I don’t think that’s good enough to risk a larger-scale war in the Persian Gulf, Patrick,” Vice President Hershel said.

“We’d limit our attacks to the heaviest missiles we can find, the ones that can threaten our forces or our allies in Iraq, the Middle East, or Central Asia,” McLanahan said. “Thanks to Colonel Raydon in Armstrong Space Station and the NIRTSat constellation we launched in support of our ground operations, we’ve located a half-dozen possible missile launch sites in the western and southern sections of the country, containing approximately a hundred medium- and long-range rockets and missiles, including the Shahab-2, Shahab-3, and possibly the Shahab-4 and -5 long-range missiles.

“However, although the recon data is updated regularly, we might not know in time if a mobile launcher missile has been moved,” Patrick went on, “so we would need to place some eyes in the sky to keep constant watch on the known or suspected launch sites. We would use the Black Stallion spaceplanes and the Megafortress bombers to launch small unmanned aerial vehicles over the launcher sites. These drones can stay aloft for almost two days and send back real-time videos of the launch sites. If they move, we’ll know about it. Once the Black Stallions and Megafortresses are on station, they can destroy any Iranian missiles within minutes.”

“So now we’re sending manned and unmanned aircraft and armed spaceplanes over Iran,” Maureen Hershel summarized, “and attacking Iranian missiles, all without a declaration of war or even a certain threat to any American or allied forces? Are we sure we want to be doing this?”

“Miss Vice President, that’s a decision for the national security staff,” Patrick said, his eyes narrowing a bit at Maureen’s question. “But all the intel and information we’re receiving tells me that the Iranian leadership will order the Revolutionary Guards to use their missiles again if Buzhazi stages another attack, which if he survived the attack on Arān he will most certainly do…”

“That’s my point, Patrick: should we attack the Revolutionary Guards, or even have strike aircraft over Iran in the first place, if we think Tehran will just attack insurgent forces inside its own borders?” Maureen asked. “My opinion is, we should not. Iranians killing Iranians is tragic and despicable, but it’s not a reason for us to go to war. Theirs is not an act of war…ours most certainly would be.”

“Maureen…er, ma’am, I’m informing the national security staff that I have forces in place that I think have a very good chance of taking out Iran’s long-range missile force,” Patrick said, painfully aware that he was speaking much more sharply at Maureen than he liked. “I’m not guaranteeing that I can neutralize Iran’s Revolutionary Guards or even neutralize all their missiles — all I’m saying is, I can send my forces into action in hours and reduce Iran’s ability to threaten its neighbors or attack its own people. All I need is a decision from this group whether or not to send me in and do it.”

President Martindale looked at his vice president, then over at Patrick quizzically. “I thought you two would have a closer meeting of the minds,” he said in a quiet voice. He turned to the Secretary of State. “Mary, get in contact with someone in charge in Tehran. I want to impress on them the seriousness of the situation here. And prepare a statement for the allies, informing them of the capture of one of our commandos and that we are contemplating a military response.”

“Yes, sir,” Secretary of State Mary Carson said. She picked up her phone on the conference table, gave instructions to the Signals officer and then to her staff at the State Department, then hung up to wait for a callback. “The U.S. affairs office in the Swiss embassy in Tehran informed us that they have been dealing with an Ayatollah Hassan Mohtaz, who is the chief military adviser to President Ahmadad, similar to our national security adviser — he’s apparently the senior leader in the government, or the one picked to stay in public view. I asked to speak with him directly. My staff is drafting an urgent flash e-mail to NATO and the Gulf Cooperative Council states.”

“Who do you have inside Iran right now, Patrick?” Maureen asked.

“Master Sergeant Wohl is still in Iran, traveling with the Qagev princess,” Patrick said. “Captain Noble and the body of Captain Lefferts are somewhere in Khorāsān province with Qagev partisans, awaiting exfiltration.”

“What? You left Noble with a bunch of unknown Iranian revolutionaries?” Gardner retorted. “Why didn’t the master sergeant go with him?”

“It was Master Sergeant Wohl’s decision, and I reluctantly authorized it,” Patrick said. “Wohl’s mission was to rescue the Qagev leadership from the Iranians, return them to their underground network, stay with them, and report back on their capabilities, organization, and progress. Captain Hunter is needed back at Dreamland to fly the Black Stallion spaceplanes — they’re headed in opposite directions. We decided the best course of action was to trust Boomer with the partisans.”

“You trust the Qagevs so much that you’d risk Noble’s life with those Iranians?” Maureen asked. “Noble would fetch a hefty bounty if they decided to turn him over to Ahmodod.”

“It was a risk we had to take, ma’am,” Patrick explained. “We’re in constant communications with Captain Noble, and we know exactly where he is through his hypodermal transceiver. An Air Force Special Operations team is en route from Afghanistan to meet up with them — they should rendezvous in less than two hours from now. He’ll be flown from Herat, Afghanistan back to the United States aboard a Black Stallion spaceplane. He’ll be home about six hours from now.” The President and most of his advisers in the Oval Office shook their heads at that news, hardly believing that someone could be taken from the middle of nowhere in western Asia back to the United States so quickly.

Secretary of Defense Gardner, however, was not impressed. “Any more forces in Iran?” he asked accusingly. “What about in the region? Who else have you sent out that way, other than a ten-billion-dollar space station and several dozen mini-satellites?”

“I deployed exactly what I briefed the national security staff earlier, Mr. Secretary,” Patrick said. “I ordered two EB-1C Vampire flying battleships deployed to Diego Garcia. They should arrive in about fourteen hours. They are carrying Condor special ops transport aircraft, each with a force of two Tin Man and CID ground units. They can be armed for suppression of enemy air defense, ground attack, or anti-air missions after they deploy the Condor transports. I have one AL-52 Dragon anti-missile laser aircraft deployed to Diego Garcia as well.”

“So you propose to locate and destroy all of the Iranian ballistic missile sites with four commandos, three bombers, and two spaceplanes?” Gardner asked incredulously. “It’s not possible. And do you expect to do all this without the Iranians finding out about it and screaming bloody murder? What if they discover your guys or your stealth bombers, fear we’re executing an all-out attack, panic, and decide to launch every biochem and nuke they have at Israel, Bahrain, Qatar, the United Arab Emirates, Saudi Arabia, or Kuwait? Will your toys stop them? If one nuke gets through and hits just one city like Tel Aviv or Doha, an entire nation ceases to exist. A dozen supertankers pass within Iranian anti-ship missile range every day. Are you going to take all those missile sites out as well too?”

“My concern is with Iran’s ballistic missiles…”

“Why are they more important than Iran’s anti-ship missiles or weapons of mass destruction, General?” Gardner retorted. “You’ve lost perspective here, General.” He turned to the President and went on, “Mr. President, McLanahan’s plan is impressive and very high-tech, and we’ve all seen his weapons’ effectiveness over the years, but unless we take the time to mobilize follow-on and defensive forces, we’re leaving ourselves wide open to disaster. An Iranian counterattack could be devastating.”

“But if we do nothing, and the Iranian Revolutionary Guards strike…”

“Then they’ll have the blood of their own people on their hands,” Maureen said. “But if we strike, and the Iranians retaliate, we could possibly lose millions of friendly forces and allies. It’s too big of a gamble, Patrick.”

“But if we do nothing, we may be passing up our best chance of assisting a people’s revolution in Iran,” Patrick said. “Master Sergeant Wohl is traveling with the Qagev princess, and according to his reports the Qagev have a sizable political, civil, and military infrastructure in place…”

“Enough to defeat the Revolutionary Guards? I don’t think so,” Director of Central Intelligence Gerald Vista said.

“It’s another important factor in the array of forces opposing the Pasdaran and the theocratic regime…” McLanahan said.

“And it could be another complicating factor too, McLanahan,” Vista pointed out. “There’s absolutely no indication whatsoever that the military would accept another monarchy — especially a Qagev, a dynasty that was bloodlessly overthrown almost eighty years ago. Recent surveys indicate that only 30 percent of the population might accept another monarchy.”

“I’m familiar with those polls — they were taken either in secret during the current regime, or the respondents were Iranian expatriates,” Patrick said. “It’s not representative…”

“We’re not going to base our foreign policy or military response on surveys and polls, Patrick,” Maureen commented.

“I agree, ma’am,” Patrick said. “Nevertheless, the monarchists are viable, organized, well-funded, and on the move, and the regular army still hasn’t supported the Pasdaran’s efforts to shut down Buzhazi’s insurgency. We should make every attempt to support any uprisings in Iran.”

“Now you want to support this Azar Qagev instead of Buzhazi?” the President asked. “Which is it, Patrick?”

“Both, sir,” Patrick said. “We support both insurgencies and we try to steer the outcome in our favor.”

“Which is what?” Gardner interjected. “A military junta led by Buzhazi, who at one time was one of the biggest Islamist enforcers of them all? Another monarchy that lavishes itself with palaces and gold while repressing their people?”

“Neither, Mr. Secretary,” Patrick said. “As flawed as we believe it is, Iran is a democracy, and an overwhelming majority of the people want a democracy. Frankly, I don’t think it matters if the people rally behind a general that uses his power to destroy the Pasdaran and strip the theocrats from their grip on the government, or a historical monarchy that brought that country into the twentieth century and made it an important Western ally. What we care about is that Iran becomes a stable, open, representative society, able to defend itself and its government against hostile and repressive forces.” He looked at each one of the presidential advisers, then said, “Or we can just pull our guys out, then sit back and simply watch what happens next.”

Most of the advisers and Cabinet officials shook their heads at Patrick’s speech-making but fell silent and looked at the President, not offering any more arguments. The President looked at them knowingly. He knew that McLanahan’s arguments made sense to them — they were just miffed that McLanahan was making them.

Secretary of State Carson’s computer terminal beeped, and she scrolled through the messages. “Response from the Iranian government through the Swiss embassy, sir,” she said as she read. “Looks like it might be going out over the news wires and Middle East news outlets soon too.”

The President could see the consternation growing on her face. “What did they say, Mary?”

“They say, ‘The Iranian Revolutionary Guards have captured a spy that killed several of their embassy staff just outside Ashkhabad, Turkmenistan, who were out on cooperative security maneuver exercises with their Turkmeni counterparts,” Carson read. “‘The Americans have claimed responsibility for the attacks, making President Martindale completely and personally liable for the murders. The captured spy and other evidence recovered at the scene of the murders is being held and analyzed for the upcoming trial.”

“Bastards,” the President muttered.

“The message further states, ‘The Iranian government believes that the American military spy was assisting anti-Iranian terrorist and insurgent forces to illegally infiltrate into Iran, recruit and train anti-government rebel forces, attack Iranian military, civilian, and government targets, work with the insurgents to disrupt or destroy the democratically elected government, and attack Muslim holy sites and supply centers that help the poor and underprivileged, such as what occurred in Qom and Arān,’” Carson went on. “‘The Iranian government condemns this irrational and unprovoked hostile action, and it calls upon the peaceful law-abiding nations of the world to join the Islamic Republic in indicting the United States and President Martindale for committing these atrocious acts.

“‘If the United States continues its illegal covert war, sends military forces within striking range of Iran, sends spy planes, spacecraft, space weapons, military space platforms, and satellites over our territory to pick targets to strike, or continues to foment and support terrorist and separatist actions, the Islamic Republic of Iran has no choice but to retaliate massively and with all means available at a time and place of our choosing against the United States and all of its allies, supporters, client states, and interests around the world.’ There is a bunch of religious citations and the usual call for all devout and loyal Muslims to holy war against America, Israel, and anyone aligned with us. End of message.”

“Carl, get General Lewars in here and let’s draft up a statement for immediate release to the press,” the President said. Chief of staff Minden was already on the phone to the rest of his people. “Let’s schedule a meeting with the leadership and we’ll get them briefed up too. Mary and I will field the calls from overseas that I expect will start coming in…”

The computer on the President’s desk beeped, and he glanced at the display. “First up, President Zevitin of Russia,” he said resignedly. Since the American Holocaust, President Martindale had a policy of always taking calls that came directly from a handful of world leaders, and President Leonid Zevitin of Russia was one of them. Martindale got along with Zevitin and usually had productive and open talks with him, but he was dreading this call.

Zevitin, one of the youngest presidents of Russia at age forty-nine, was the second president of Russia since the American Holocaust just four years ago. He didn’t come from the Party apparatus, government, or the military, but from Russia’s rapidly growing oil, gas, and nuclear energy industry. He was educated in America and Britain and headed several large multinational energy companies in postings around the world before being chosen to head Russia’s energy ministry. His wealth, good looks, charm, and international presence made him popular in Russia as well as around the world, and when the interim military president of Russia suddenly died at the surprisingly young age of sixty-one, Zevitin was elected president in a landslide.

President Martindale scanned his computer display briefly. Every phone call prompted an automatic page on the computer that offered interesting and sometimes extremely useful and insightful information pertinent to the caller: as well as verifying the caller’s identity and origin, it gave the local time, weather, some headlines, facts on the caller’s family’s names — Zevitin had never been married — recent decisions and legislation supported or rejected by the caller, recent decisions made by the President regarding the caller, and names of the caller’s key advisers and their recent activities. He picked up the phone, and the other advisers in the room picked up theirs so they could listen in. “Mr. President, this is President Martindale, how are you today, sir?”

“Very well, very well, Mr. President,” Zevitin replied in very good English with a curious mix of Russian, American, and English accents. “Thank you for taking my call.”

“Not at all, Leonid,” Martindale responded, hoping that using the Russian president’s first name would signal an end to their use of titles. “My national security advisers are listening in as well; I hope that’s all right with you.”

“It is, sir, and thank you for so advising me,” Zevitin said. “Unfortunately for me, there is only my dog Sashi with me tonight.”

That was contrary to the usual rumors concerning the playboy antics of the Russian president, but Martindale didn’t feel like calling him on it. “How can I be of service today?”

“I’m calling about the incident in Ashkhabad, Mr. President,” Zevitin said. Damn, the President thought, he’s keeping with the titles — this was not a good sign. “I was advised of it through our embassy there. First of all, I want to say I’m sorry for the loss of your men.”

“Thank you, Leonid. Which embassy told you of this incident — the Turkmeni or the Iranian embassy?”

There was a very slight pause; then: “Both, actually,” he replied. “We also received the general notice from Iran a short time ago. I expect the Iranians to release your man right away, and if you go to the United Nations about it, Russia will join you in calling for the body to be released immediately. The incident happened on Turkmeni soil, not Iranian. They have no right to do what they did.”

“We’ll go to the United Nations as a matter of routine and diplomatic protocol, Leonid,” the President said, “but we’ll send a message directly to the Iranian government through the Swiss embassy informing them that they have created a serious and dangerous international incident, bordering on an act of war, and that we demand the immediate return of our man and all his equipment and supplies taken in Turkmenistan. If we don’t receive them within twenty-four hours of notification, we’ll take all steps necessary to recover them.”

“Mr. President, I strongly urge you to play this one carefully and quietly,” Zevitin said. “There is a major societal upheaval going on right now in Iran. Most of the government has been wiped out — murdered — by this nutcase Buzhazi. The Revolutionary Guards are being spurred on by the surviving ultraconservative theocrats that must crack down on the insurgency or find themselves either blown up by insurgents, crushed by the army, or rejected by the people. They’ll toss law, civil rights, and basic human decency out the window to save their own hides.”

“Leonid, I wouldn’t be sad to see the end of the theocracy if it meant a more moderate Iran,” the President said. “What they do to their own people is none of my concern. If they cooperate with us and give us the property they stole while in Turkmenistan, we’d be happy to step aside and let events in Iran take their course.”

“Then you would not interfere with further events in Iran if you got your man and your property back?”

“Leonid, I’m not going to tie future events in with the current crisis. Iran has to return our man they murdered and the property they stole…period. I have no other quarrels with Iran presently.”

“Then why the attack on Iran’s missiles recently, Mr. President?” Zevitin asked. “We know you have sent your secret Dreamland spaceplanes over Iran at least twice and perhaps more than that; we detected an object being launched by the first spaceplane that could have easily been an orbital or suborbital weapon that could have struck inside Iran. The second spaceplane you flew right over Russia without asking permission or even notifying us ahead of time.”

“That was an error, Leonid, and we acknowledged that and apologized…”

“I know, I know, Mr. President, and I’m not going to dwell on it,” Zevitin said in a surprisingly conciliatory tone. “I would like you to punish the officer that sent that craft over our country…General Patrick McLanahan, no doubt.” The President said nothing, only glanced at Patrick. “But that can wait for another day.

“We also know that you have sent several micro-satellites into orbits to cover Iran and have even moved your Armstrong Space Station into a sun-synchronous orbit in order to carefully surveille Iran at specific times of day,” Zevitin went on. “And we have recently received reports that several of your stealth warplanes have been moved to Diego Garcia, just a few hours’ flying time from Iran. It looks like preparation for an invasion to me, Mr. President.”

“We have to forward-deploy many of our strategic air assets because our numbers have been almost eliminated,” Martindale pointed out.

“It pains me that you bring that up, Kevin,” Zevitin said, and he really sounded as if he meant it too. Five years earlier, General Anatoliy Gryzlov, the former chief of staff of the Russian military, successfully overthrew the elected Russian government and began a large-scale buildup of the Russian military. When Patrick McLanahan and the Air Battle Force preempted a Russian invasion of Turkmenistan’s vast oil and natural gas fields, Gryzlov responded by attacking American air and ground-launched intercontinental ballistic missile sites and bomber bases with nuclear cruise missiles. Over thirty thousand Americans died and another seventy thousand injured in what became known as the “American Holocaust.”

“President Gryzlov acted irresponsibly and foolishly, and I have denounced and condemned his actions in each and every venue that opportunity affords,” Zevitin went on. “But you can well understand our concern as we watch these moves, sir: they appear to be directed toward an invasion of Iran to support a takeover of the legitimately elected government by force of arms.

“And we also know that most of your remaining stealth warplanes are commanded by General McLanahan,” Zevitin continued. “Frankly, Mr. President, Russia considers McLanahan to be quite dangerous, and any time we think he may be involved in some conflict or action, we expect and must prepare for the worst. We’re surprised he is still an integral part of your pool of military advisers, and he is considered a highly destabilizing element — on a par with Gryzlov himself.”

“Let’s get back to the issue of Iran, Leonid,” Martindale said. “I’ll acknowledge to you that the United States is keeping a careful watch over events in Iran, not because we want or support a violent overthrow of the government, but because Buzhazi’s actions or the reactions of the Revolutionary Guards could cause a ripple effect of violence throughout the entire region. We certainly retain the right to set up surveillance of any nation we fear could harm America’s interests and to forward-deploy all necessary assets to try to halt any spread of violence.”

“That’s fair, Mr. President,” Zevitin said. “But I know you understand that Russia has interests in the region as well, and American military actions directed against Iran may interfere with Russia’s interests. That’s why I urge restraint and caution, Mr. President: your forces may harm Russia just as easily as McLanahan’s spaceplanes violated Russian airspace.”

“I pledge to you that America will not intentionally do anything that violates Russia’s sovereignty or national interests,” Martindale went on. “But America considers Iran’s actions in Turkmenistan a serious violation of international law and of America’s sovereign right to operate in non-aligned territories. We respect and appreciate Russia’s call for restraint and caution, but we won’t sit back patiently while Iran kills and captures Americans and steals our property. Russia is cautioned that if they are in harm’s way when America responds, we are not responsible for what happens.”

“Kevin, that sounds like a prepared message — I thought we could talk to each other man to man,” Zevitin said.

“It’s not a prepared speech, Leonid. That’s how I feel, and that’s my position. Our problem right now is with Iran. We know you have economic and military ties with Iran. We know…”

“Our only ties to Iran are economic, Kevin, as well as diplomatic,” Zevitin said. “But Iran is a friend and a recognized strategic partner of Russia. Any military action against Iran would be of very great concern to us.”

“Leonid, Russia has sold over five billion dollars’ worth of advanced military hardware to Iran in just the past few years,” Martindale said. “We know you have advisers and instructors on the ground throughout Iran. You may consider that purely economic, but the United States considers that military support. Russia has in the past tried to assert the 1987 Russo-Iranian Mutual Defense Treaty…”

“That treaty was signed only because of American support for Iraq during the Iran-Iraq War,” Zevitin said. “Russia does not station any troops in Iran, as you do in Iraq. We have occasionally conducted joint exercises and participated in training and officer exchange programs, as does the United States with many of their friends and allies.” He paused for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice was considerably lighter. “Come come, Kevin, we can argue like this to the end of time. Why bother? Let’s let the diplomats with their rose-colored language squabble over this and that. We can deal with this issue like leaders.

“I called to offer Russia’s sympathy and assistance in getting your man and your property back,” Zevitin went on. “As I said, Kevin, if you go to the Security Council, file a protest, and draft a resolution condemning Iran and demanding immediate return of all American property, Russia will stand with you. We will use all of our influence to see to it that the resolution is unanimously passed, and we will support any actions, short of war, to enforce the resolution. But if you decide not to take that path, Russia will not support you, and will vigorously protect and defend our own interests in the region.”

“Now who sounds like he’s reading from a prepared statement, Leonid?” Martindale asked, trying to keep his own tone light.

“As you know, Kevin, we Russians do not like to have breakfast each morning unless it has been planned five years ahead of time,” Zevitin said in an equally light tone, “but this time it is not from a prepared statement — it is from me.” His tone darkened considerably, and his Russian accent abruptly overshadowed the Western ones. “Step lightly in Iran, Mr. President. Use the United Nations, your allies, and Russia, and have patience. America has been wronged here, but America is not an innocent party in Iran either — we both know this to be true. Ask for support and you will get it, especially from Russia. Ask for trouble and violence, and you will get that as well.”

“Especially from Russia, Leonid?” Martindale asked.

There was a long, ominous pause on the line; then: “Good-bye, Mr. President,” Zevitin said. “May you be well. Good night to all your advisers listening in as well.”

“Good-bye, Mr. President. Take care.” He hung up the phone, and the others did as well. “That went better than I expected,” he said sarcastically.

“I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, Mr. President,” National Security Adviser Sparks said.

“He’s telling us what he knows, sir,” Secretary of State Mary Carson offered, “and he knows a lot. The Iranians must be feeding the Russians all their intel.”

“We’ve known the Russians have had military advisers in Iran for years, as the President told Zevitin,” Patrick McLanahan said. “But this level of cooperation is a serious development. Zevitin was issuing us a warning.”

“A warning? What warning?”

“I think Russia will intervene if we go into Iran,” Patrick replied. “He’s giving us a way to save face by going to the United Nations; by doing that, he can also give the Iranians more time to deal with the insurgency without resorting to more heavy-handed tactics. Whatever the reason, there’s no doubt that Russia and Iran are assisting each other now.”

“Why would Russia help Iran?” Vice President Hershel asked. “Just to sell them more military hardware?”

“Not only that, ma’am, but a powerful Iran that distracts attention and commits resources toward the Middle East takes attention and pressure away from Russia, which allows it to continue its own military buildup and reassert itself in Europe and Asia,” Patrick said. “Iran will take bolder steps toward regional hegemony if they know Russia is behind them. And even a few Russian so-called ‘advisers’ and ‘instructors’ in Iran is a good tripwire in case we do act. If we kill Russians, it’ll be seen as an overt act of aggression.”

“Which is precisely why we can’t escalate this crisis by planning any more actions in Iran, Mr. President,” Carson said pointedly. “How would we even know if Russians were on the ground if we struck an Iranian target? We’d have to assume every Iranian missile site had a Russian nearby. They might even put a Russian uniform on one of theirs and call it an act of war.”

“Enough already,” the President said, exasperation in his voice. “You all heard what I told Zevitin: I’ll be relieved and happy to start de-escalating tensions with Iran, but only after our man and our equipment are returned to us. Until then, Iran stays in the crosshairs. I think Zevitin will communicate that plainly enough to the Iranians, but in case he doesn’t, I want to start moving toward direct action.”

He rose, and his advisers got to their feet as well. Martindale clasped Patrick on the shoulder as he departed. “Patrick, as usual, you’re the tip of the spear — again. Keep me and General Sparks posted on your team’s progress, and be prepared to move as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mary, when we talk to the allies, we’ll have to notify them that we’ve already begun plans for direct action against Iran.”

“They’re not going to like it, sir,” Carson said. “Should I give them details?”

“Of course not…and I don’t give a damn if they don’t like it,” the President said. “If they want to talk to me about it, fine, but I’ll tell them the same thing.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Joe, I need you to build a plan that protects all the assets you mentioned that Iran could strike — shipping in the Persian Gulf, allied nations, and our forces stationed in the region. Let’s notify the theater commanders and MAJCOMs of what’s going on and what we intend to do about it.”

“But those plans can’t work together with McLanahan’s, sir, if he’s already got bombers, spaceplanes, and those armored commando gizmos already there,” Gardner protested. “It’ll take us days, perhaps weeks, to surge enough assets to the Gulf region to protect our allies who might be in danger from an Iranian retaliatory strike. The Iranians have a big head start. McLanahan’s guys will have to pull back.”

“No one’s pulling back,” the President insisted. “Maybe if the Iranians see more American ships and planes deploying to the area, they’ll back off.”

“Or they might move faster and more aggressively, sir,” Gardner warned.

“Then they’ll be on the defensive and have to decide if they want to start a shooting war or pull back,” the President said. “Up until now, they’ve been calling the shots, and I want that to stop. Push all the forces you can into the Persian Gulf, Gulf of Oman, and Iraq. Have everyone keep their fingers off the triggers unless the Iranians fire first, but have them ready to fight if they’re needed.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Gardner said. He shook his head at Patrick as the commander-in-chief departed. “I hope your guys do better this time, McLanahan. Thank God I don’t know what in hell you’re doing.”

Maureen Hershel came over to Patrick after everyone had left. “Don’t listen to Gardner,” she said softly. “All he’s been doing around here lately is railing against you. I haven’t seen any plans from his office on how to deal with the insurgency or what the Iranian Revolutionary Guards might do. I don’t even think he believes it’s real or of any concern for the United States. Now that Iran has got your guys, he thinks everyone will be coming to him for answers. Watch out for him — he still has the President’s ear, even more than you or I.”

“Allah akbar, allah akbar!” the loudspeaker announcement began. “There is no God but God, blessed be his name, and Mohammed is his prophet! May God keep the faithful safe and protected, and may he bring unspeakable wrath upon all infidels and the unfaithful! All true believers gather before me and heed the commands of the Faqih, the voice of God on Earth.”

A large crowd of about a thousand men, mostly older men and teenagers, began to move toward the loudspeakers, carrying simple construction tools, tool boxes, and bags of food and water. “Upon the command of the Faqih, may he stand at the right hand of God, to all the faithful, the Jihad-e Sazandegi Ministry of Construction Crusades announces a construction jihad this day on behalf of the Islamic Republic of Iran’s Revolutionary Guards Corps. Our mission is to rebuild the gates and outer walls of this installation. The rewards for the faithful and hard-working citizens who help will be the thanks of Allah, your government, and the Revolutionary Guards Corps for whom you will serve.

“Along with the blessings of the Almighty, any man who serves with the Jihad-e Sazandegi will receive relief from tithe for one year for himself, as well as relief for himself, one son, or one grandson from compulsory military service once the project is complete. Step forward, sign your name to the register, swear your oath to work diligently on behalf of the Faqih and the state, and let us begin, under the watchful eyes of God the generous.”

As commanded, the men stepped forward in several lines to sign up for work. The construction jihad was a popular way to get workers for a project. Although there was no pay, the workers were fed and housed at least as well as a soldier, were generally treated well, and received not only the benefits mentioned but consideration for other transgressions or wishes: a student wishing to get into a good college or madrasa might get a second look after he or his father participated in a construction jihad, or a man falling behind in his rent or utility payments might get part of his debts erased by volunteering.

The workers’ belongings were checked as they filed through the entryway to the base, and their persons were subjected to pat-down searches, but it was soon obvious that it was more important to get workers busy than it was to do thorough searches. Each worker signed his name and filled out a short form detailing where he was from, his skills, and his training. The names were cross-checked on a computer to scan for convicted criminals or wanted men. But a construction jihad was a way for convicted men to reduce their parole or probation period, so the computer usually turned up many hits on convicts. Those men were typically assigned to duties outside the base, on the wall or close by.

“These are all old men and children — we’ll never get this project done,” the commanding officer of the work detail, Pasdaran Major Abdul Kamail, said to his noncommissioned officer in charge. “I need workers, Sergeant, not drunks, kids, and handicap cases.”

“Best we could get, sir,” the NCOIC, Sergeant Qolam Loshato, said. “Putting out the word for a work detail without pre-screening individuals usually results in this type of turnout. Besides, they’re working in a Pasdaran facility — who in their right mind wants to voluntarily step within grasping distance of the Pasdaran?”

“If the people are innocent, they have nothing to worry about from the Pasdaran,” Kamail said dismissively. Loshato suppressed a chuckle — he knew no one ever wanted to cross the Pasdaran, innocent or guilty. “Anyway, I don’t care about the people’s paranoia — the priority is still to get that outer fence up. That shouldn’t take more than one or two days. Work them through the night if you need to, but I want that outer fence up.”

“Sir, may I suggest bringing some of the jihadis that do not have criminal records in to begin work on the training center and repairs on the security building?” Loshato said. “If we’re going to be asked to bring the Pasdaran force up to two hundred thousand in six months, we’re going to need those buildings repaired, wired, and ready for recruits and cadre.”

“I’m not worried about offices for cadre or barracks for training more recruits, Sergeant — I’m worried about insurgents getting into this base,” Kamail said.

“Our orders were to get the base ready at all costs…”

“And what about security while we repair and outfit this base, Sergeant?” Kamail asked. “Reports are that over two hundred insurgents were killed at Arān. Two hundred! They could have caused a lot of havoc if they attacked here instead.”

“Buzhazi’s total force is estimated at less than two thousand, sir,” Loshato said. “If the reports are true, we killed over ten percent of their entire force in one strike. Not only that, but their objective to steal supplies to keep themselves going failed. They sustained heavy losses and have fewer resources than they did. It was a great victory.”

“Sergeant, we still lost several dozen men and we blew up our own warehouses, which were filled with real supplies,” Kamail said. “What kind of asinine plan was that? Why didn’t we lay a trap for them outside Arān instead of right inside the damned warehouse complex itself?” He shook his head. “No. I want the perimeter secure before we bring in any more men and supplies. And I want as many of those jihadis checked as possible, especially any assigned inside the base itself. I don’t want any of Buzhazi’s men waltzing in to my base free and clear.”

“Buzhazi wouldn’t dare attack Doshan Tappeh again,” Loshato said. “There are over five thousand men here. He’d be crazy to commit the rest of his troops to the strongest Pasdaran base in the country.”

“If the man was smart, he’d be high-tailing it to Turkmenistan or Turkey right now,” Kamail said. He thought for a moment; then: “Very well, Sergeant. Pick the best of the ones not convicted of any felonies and assign them to work inside the base on the barracks and headquarters building. All others remain on the perimeter work details. Notify the security officer on duty that I’m bringing men into the base. Tell him to call me if he has any questions.”

“Yes, sir,” Loshato said. He saluted, then turned to his radio to issue the new orders.

Shortly thereafter the clerks in charge of doing background checks on volunteers pulled up a list of about thirty men who had no felony convictions, were between the ages of sixteen and fifty, and who were not infirmed, and Loshato had these men marched over to the foreman in charge of rebuilding the headquarters building that was assaulted by Sattari when he and a hundred other armed insurgents rescued Buzhazi from custody.

“These are the best of this group, Sergeant?” the foreman asked when the men were assembled before him. Loshato had to agree that they were a grungy-looking crew — filthy louse-ridden clothes, decrepit shoes, and most with some kind of injury and many with missing ears and bandaged limbs.

“They were all able to get here under their own steam,” Sergeant Loshato said, “and they all appear to be free of felony convictions as far as we can tell after a cursory check. What you see is what you get.”

“And who takes the blame for shoddy work, stolen equipment and tools, or inoperable systems? I do, that’s who! How am I expected to work under conditions like this?”

“You’re under contract to the Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps to complete rebuilding the base on time and on budget,” Loshato reminded him sternly. “It’s not our fault that you didn’t hire enough skilled laborers for the job. The IRGC is reimbursing the government for the cost of issuing a jihad to help your company — if it’s not done on time and on budget, you might find yourself liable for that cost as well as any penalties in the contract and whatever else the commander-in-chief wants to hit you with. So stop complaining and get busy.”

The foreman muttered a curse word after the NCO departed, then turned to the men assembled before him, suppressing a disgusted sneer. “All right you men, listen up,” he said, speaking slowly and deliberately in case they had trouble understanding him. “Our task is simplicity itself. We are fishing fiber-optic, telephone, audio-visual, electrical, and Category-5 network cable through the new walls. This is not brain surgery, but you must pay attention and do as ordered or else we’ll waste valuable time and even more valuable equipment. The fiber-optic cable is especially delicate — it cannot be bent like ordinary cable, and it has to be placed just so in its conduit. Do you understand?” There was a murmur of assent from the men — it was impossible to tell if they understood a word he had said. “Very well. If you remember nothing else, remember this: do not touch anything unless I tell you, and if you’re unsure of any of our instructions, stop what you’re doing and ask. Let’s get to work.”

It was going to be slow going. After the security guards performed another search of the men and their belongings and issued them ID badges, the men shuffled toward the new headquarters building as if in a fog. The foreman knew he was going to be in big trouble if he didn’t find some way to get these guys organized. He spotted an older man who seemed to be the erstwhile leader of this group. “You. Over here.” The old man came over to him. He had several cuts and bruises on his face, head, and neck as if he had been beat up — probably on the street or in jail. “What is your name?”

“Orum, sir,” the old man said. He straightened painfully, then added, “Orum, Abdul, Volunteer Group Leader, reporting as ordered, sir.”

“Volunt…?” And then the foreman realized who he was: a former Basij volunteer from the Iran-Iraq War in the early 1980s, one of the hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children used as “human shields” to waste Iraqi ammunition before sending in the main fighting forces. “You were a Basij…?”

“I was a group leader of the Muhammad Corps, sir, and proud of it,” the man named Orum said, a hint of steel rising in his voice. “I had the best volunteer group in the entire Fish Lake front.”

“Muhamm…you were in the battle of Fish Lake?” The campaign known as Operation Karbala-5, the operation to try to take the Iraqi port city of Basrah which began in January of 1987, was one of the bloodiest in the Iran-Iraq War — over sixty-five thousand Iranians, mostly Basij volunteers, were slaughtered in six weeks of intense fighting and artillery and rocket battles. The worst battle of Karbala-5 was known as Fish Lake, referring to the artificial river over thirty kilometers long and two kilometers wide which the Iraqis had constructed to keep Iranian forces from sweeping into Baghdad. The Iranians outnumbered the Iraqis ten to one. Most of the Iranian fighters were conscripts and Basij volunteers like this old man — ordinary citizens who had received little or no military training. Fish Lake was protected by mine fields, barbed wire, trenches, and interlocking fields of machine gun and artillery fire — some even thought that Saddam had electrified the water itself.

When artillery barrages failed to break down the defenses around Fish Lake, the Pasdaran decided to send in the Basij. Over a quarter-million men, women, and children were marched forward against Fish Lake’s defenses with little more than a rifle and one clip of ammunition, and the Iraqis ruthlessly cut them down. The casualties were so staggeringly high that it was believed that the sheer mass of corpses in Fish Lake would allow the Iranian Revolutionary Guards to simply walk across without getting their feet wet.

The Battle of Fish Lake was still re-enacted every year in Iran and the participants celebrated as heroes, but the foreman could never understand what could drive a man to march against machine guns, artillery, and barbed-wire fences like that. “Yes, sir, and I fought proudly and may I say, sir, like a lion,” the old man said. “I firmly believe that the apostate Saddam was assisted by the Americans and the Zionists to destroy the Islamic republic, and it was completely necessary to send in the citizens of Iran en masse to win a great victory.” In fact, Operation Karbala-5 was a tremendous failure — Iran withdrew from Iraq and sued for peace just a few months later. “So you may place your complete trust in me and call upon me any time for any purpose whatsoever, sir.”

“I see that some of the men follow you,” the foreman said. “Are you their leader?”

“I suppose I am, sir,” the old man said, “since I appear to be the senior officer of this particular group of proud and able veterans, but I assure you, sir, that I had no intention of taking command or control of these men from yourself, sir.”

“Of course not — I assumed you all might be veterans or served together, and it is quite natural for old ties to hold,” the foreman said. He winced at the word “able” to describe them — none of them looked capable of carrying anything heavier than a hammer. “You can be a great help to me by organizing your men into three groups for the three sections of wall where we must install the cables, then further dividing them into threes for each segment of the wall. Do you understand?”

The old man looked as if the foreman had just told him that he was about to meet his seventy virgins promised to him in Heaven. “Why, I…I am honored, sir!” the old man squealed. “I will do as you wish immediately, sir! To whom should the details report when they are formed, sir?” The foreman pointed out the team chiefs, who were supervising as large spools of cable were being unloaded and brought to the site, and the old man hobbled off on battered thin legs, croaking orders in a battle- and cigarette-scarred voice. The others, some in even worse shape than he, at first did not appear to believe that the old man was their new supervisor, but after pointing and gesturing at the foreman and snapping orders, he quickly made the others get in a ragged line and started splitting them up.

To the foreman’s surprise, the three little details of old and battered-looking men were in a rough but presentable formation in short order, and the old man had them marching off to report to their team leaders. They then began hauling the big spools of wiring and cables into the headquarters building. Not bad, the foreman thought. They looked like they might work out well after all. He might even consider hiring the old guy for…

“Excuse me, sir.” The foreman jumped. The old man was beside him, standing almost at attention on unsteady legs.

“What is it?” the foreman asked impatiently. God, he thought, the old man moved like a cat despite his rickety appearance.

“There appears to be a problem with the detail’s security clearance. The guards are not allowing the men to enter the security center of the building without your authorization.”

“They have all been properly cleared,” the foreman groused. “Are you all wearing your new badges? I’ll straighten this out.” The foreman strode into the temporary doorway to the headquarters building. Even though the security center was the most secretive room being rebuilt, sometimes the guards got a little too…

…and then the foreman realized that the old man was right beside him, matching his gait step for step. At first he didn’t think anything of it…until he wondered how the old man knew that they were working on the new security center? The guards would not have told him which room they were working in — they just would have prohibited them from going inside. And why was the old man walking right behind him like…?

Suddenly the foreman was pushed inside the room, and his site radio was taken away from him. “What is going on h—?” He was pushed against several men sitting on the floor, gagged, their hands and feet secured — and only then did he realize that they were the building’s Pasdaran security guards. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

“Beefing up your construction jihad,” the old man, Orum, said. His entire demeanor had completely changed — he didn’t appear to be disabled or confused at all, and neither did any of the jihadis in the room. “Believe me, the repairs to the outer wall will go a lot faster now.”

“Who are you?” the foreman asked. Orum ignored the question, but the foreman soon realized who it was: he was all the Pasdaran soldiers could talk about. “General Buzhazi? Here? What in hell do you think you’re doing? This is a Pasdaran assignment! You’ll be beheaded for interfering with…!”

“I suggest you make that the last comment about my future you say aloud if you like to keep your tongue attached to your throat, friend,” General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi said. “I need you to round up as many trucks as possible and have them driven over to the Pasdaran supply warehouses near the flight line. My men will be waiting to load them up.”

“I can’t cooperate with you — I’ll be executed the minute they find out…”

“Cooperate with me and at least you’ll have a chance to live,” Buzhazi said. “If you help us, I promise you won’t be harmed by my men or myself. Otherwise I’ll kill you and find another way to get supplies without starting a firefight.”

“I’m just a simple worker doing my job. I have no argument with you…”

“Your owners picked the wrong time to contract out to the Pasdaran, friend — like it or not, you have an argument with me,” Buzhazi said. “At least now you have a chance to do something for the right side for a change. What do you say?” The foreman had no choice but to comply, and he got on the phone and ordered trucks moved to the warehouses. “Next, I want you to cut power, natural gas, and communications to the entire base when I give you the word. You can tell the Pasdaran battalion duty officers that workers accidentally cut the lines and everything will be restored right away, and no you don’t need any assistance.”

“Their backup generators will automatically kick on…”

“Most of the backup generators run on natural gas, so if you cut off the gas the generators won’t stay on,” Buzhazi said. “For the generators that run on their own diesel supplies, it’ll take several minutes for their surveillance equipment to reboot, and by then we’ll be set up and waiting for their response.

“Finally, you will move every piece of heavy equipment you have to locations General Zhoram will direct — most on the perimeter, but a few in some key intersections and battalion entrances. Once they’re in place, have the drivers cut the battery cables to disable them. After that’s done, you and your men can get out.”

Brigadier-General Kamal Zhoram, the former Pasdaran rocket brigade commander who escaped from prison at the same time as Buzhazi, gave the foreman back his portable radio and directed him on exactly what to say and where to move his heavy equipment, then found Buzhazi watching the deployment of his men on the perimeter wall. The contractors were nowhere to be seen; some of his men were now dressed like the contractors, ordering Buzhazi’s soldiers into key defensive positions on the wall but making them appear as if they were still working. “Fifteen minutes and we should be ready to cut power, sir,” Zhoram reported. “The trucks are in position and ready to assault the warehouses.”

“Very well, Kamal. Get them moving, and make sure they work fast.”

“Yes, sir.” Zhoram issued the orders, and almost five hundred men began opening up Pasdaran supply warehouses and loading up stolen vehicles with ammunition, food, and other supplies. “No opposition yet,” Zhoram said a few minutes later, “but this was a very risky move, sir, assaulting the headquarters of the Pasdaran in broad daylight.”

“I suppose so.”

“You have spoken many times of the fact that every insurgency has their moment of greatest desperation,” Zhoram said. “Is this yours, General?”

Buzhazi took a deep breath, then replied, “I think it was the moment I learned Mansour and every man in his detail was dead at Arān. I knew then that we couldn’t run, and that the fight would take us back to this place.” He looked at the former Rocket Brigade commander. “But I’m not here to have my final pitched battle to the death with the Pasdaran — I’m here to gather supplies so we can fight another day. If this turns out to be our Tet Offensive or our Al-Fallujah, then so be it. Maybe today will be the beginning of the end of the Pasdaran…”

“Even if it’s the end of us?”

“Even so,” Buzhazi said.

Zhoram swallowed hard, then raised his radio when he felt it vibrate, silently alerting him of a call. He listened for a moment, then reported, “Problem, sir. A Pasdaran officer was behind one of the earthmoving vehicles when it stopped in an intersection. When the officer approached, the driver ran off. The Pasdaran brigade headquarters has probably been alerted.”

“Have the power and natural gas cut immediately, redeploy the warehouse teams as planned, and order all units to prepare to repel attackers,” Buzhazi ordered. “Looks like we’ve run out of time already.”

Buzhazi and several of his men hurried through the security center, heading down two flights of stairs to the stockade. His men had already captured the guards and staff and were surrounding the security center’s most important prisoner, former chief of staff General Hoseyn Yassini. The general was standing, dressed in a simple white and black prisoner’s shirt, trousers, and sandals. Amazingly, the lights were already off, and the corridors lit only with battery emergency lamps. “Well, well, sir, looks like your new office is not quite as luxurious as your old one,” he said.

“Hesarak! I should have known this was your doing!” Yassini remarked when he saw Buzhazi before him. Buzhazi motioned to the guard, who opened the cell door. “What in hell is going on here?”

“Shut up and listen for a moment, will you, Hoseyn?” Buzhazi said. “Any minute now the entire Revolutionary Guards Corps will be swarming in on us. We’re taking as many supplies as we can and getting out, but I came here to release you so…”

“Release me? On whose orders?”

“That’s a funny way to say ‘thank-you,’ Hoseyn,” Buzhazi snorted. He tossed Yassini a radio. “I want only one thing from you in return, General: order the army to deploy into the cities and confront the Pasdaran.”

“You mean, start a war between Iranian armies in the capital?” Yassini asked incredulously. “Why in the hell would I even consider that? The Revolutionary Guards Corps are committed to the defense of the nation just as the regular army. Why would I order the army to do battle with the Pasdaran? We are all Iranians…”

“Damn your eyes, Hoseyn, I’m telling you, the clerics and the Pasdaran will destroy the army — starting with you — because they represent a threat to their regime and to their goal of a regional theocratic Islamist state,” Buzhazi said. “After that, they’ll round up and execute any man, woman, or child who is even suspected of opposing the regime. If they need to launch a full-scale attack with their missiles, bombers, bio-chem weapons, or even nuclear weapons, they’ll do it. And when they’re done with the opposition here in Iran, they’ll go after any opponents anywhere else in the region. They don’t care if that means a world war — they’ll use an Israeli or Western counterattack as proof that the rest of the world just wants to kill Muslims, and they’ll emerge stronger than ever. They won’t care that hundreds of thousands of citizens will die in the process. Can’t you see all that?”

Yassini looked at the radio in his hands as if it was a serpent ready to strike — but he did not give it back. “You want me to start a civil war just to save your own hide,” Yassini said. “You’re desperate, out of supplies, and you’re stuck in a corner facing total annihilation. Your best way to escape is to hope the regular army engages the Pasdaran. Why should I listen to you, Hesarak? You’ve been condemned by the leadership for high crimes and treason against the faith, the state, and the people of Iran. You face death by public hanging. You’ll do or say anything to save yourself.”

At that moment there was a huge explosion somewhere above them, and Buzhazi’s own radio squawked. He shook his head at the chief of staff. “Glad to see you’re alive, Hoseyn,” he said acidly. “Now you can go to hell. I’m sure I’ll see you there soon.” He motioned to his soldiers, and they followed him down the hall and upstairs, leaving a confused and frightened general officer alone in the dark cell behind them.

Buzhazi and his men drove over to the flight line and climbed up to the top of the largest aircraft hangar, which was the spot they chose for their observation position. He found Kamal Zhoram waiting for him. “I was afraid I’d have to take charge of our Tet Offensive here, sir,” he said with a weak smile. “Glad to see you’re still alive. Where’s Yassini?”

“Crawling down a sewer pipe to save himself — or informing Zolqadr of our presence,” Buzhazi said. “Forget him — he’s on his own. Situation?”

“Pasdaran guards came across one warehouse team and set off a booby trap, sir,” Zhoram said. “Survivors are being suppressed by our forces, but we’ve picked up general alerts on the base emergency frequency. The scouts report perhaps one battalion still in their barracks.” He motioned behind them toward the flight line. “Aviation units are still quiet — no patrol or attack helicopters spinning up. Surely they issued the alert already. What are they waiting for?”

“Maybe Zolqadr doesn’t want to blast his own base to smithereens with his rockets — at least not yet,” Buzhazi said. “Let’s not wait to find out. What about our scroungers?”

“They’re still loading up trucks as fast as they can,” Zhoram said. “I told them to get ready to move out at any moment.”

“The moment is now,” Buzhazi said. “Everyone out. If the men have to drop them to escape, so be it.”

“Yes, sir.” As he issued the evacuation orders, they heard sounds of turbine engines spooling up. They turned toward the flight line and saw pilots and crew chiefs running toward the attack helicopters parked below. “Fire in the hole!” Zhoram said, and he activated the remote-control detonators for the explosives they had planted on the choppers. But only two of the six detonators activated. After a few moments of confusion, the Pasdaran crewmembers started heading back to the undamaged helicopters, with security forces frantically scanning the area with assault rifles, looking for the source of the attack.

“Damn it, four detonators didn’t go off,” Zhoram swore. “My men picked the wrong time to screw up.” Buzhazi wondered about that: his saboteurs had been nothing short of miraculous up until now, planting devices in the most unreachable yet vital spots with very little apparent difficulty. Now with this, their most important mission, four crucial explosives fail to operate…? “You’d better get out of here, sir.” Zhoram signaled to his security man, who lifted a grenade launcher, loaded a 30-millimeter anti-personnel round, and fired one at the closest helicopter. He managed to scatter the crewmembers for that chopper only, but the other three helicopters still made preparations for takeoff.

“Don’t stay up here too long, Kamal,” Buzhazi said, scrambling for the ladder.

“Don’t worry, Hesarak — I’ll be right behind you,” Zhoram said.

Security forces on the flight line were already returning fire, forcing Zhoram’s guard to scramble for cover. Zhoram picked up his own grenade launcher and fired a round at the Pasdaran guards, but more defenders were on the way and returning fire, and the helicopters were almost ready for takeoff. He adjusted the grenade launcher’s sight for maximum range, aiming for the helicopter that seemed the most ready for takeoff, and fired. But he was a missileer, not an infantryman. It had been years — no, decades — since he had fired a grenade launcher, and he had never fired one like this, and his round flew far from the mark. Moments later the helicopter, a Russian-made Mil Mi-24 attack helicopter, lifted off.

Damn, he swore at himself, they were too late. Zhoram could see the quad 12.7-millimeter machine gun in its remote-controlled chin turret turning back and forth, active and looking for targets — namely, whoever had been lobbing grenades onto the flight line. Zhoram couldn’t tell what kind of weapons were on its stubby weapon pod wings, but he assumed they were even nastier than that machine gun. Time to get off this roof and out of this area. He shouted, “Get going! Get off the roof! Now!” His guard wasted absolutely no time — he was across the roof and sliding down the ladder in the blink of an eye. Zhoram slung his grenade launcher over one shoulder, looped the bandolier of grenades over the other, and ran as fast as he could toward the…

From less than a kilometer away, the machine gun’s bullets arrived before the sound did, and with an extremely accurate eye-pointing telescopic sight slaved to the pilot’s helmet, he could not miss. Over four dozen rounds pierced Zhoram’s body in less than half a second, killing him before his body fell to the hangar roof. A bullet then hit one of the grenades Zhoram was carrying, obliterating whatever was left of his body.

Buzhazi knew that he had probably lost Zhoram the second he heard the smooth, deep-throated “BRRRRRR!” sound of that attack helicopter’s cannon behind him and the blast that followed. He turned and saw the big attack helicopter hovering over the hangar, pedal-turning and looking for more targets, then lining up directly on him. There was no time to run, no place to hide…

But seconds later a grenade round came out of nowhere, exploding right on the helicopter’s tail rotor. Smoke started pouring from the chopper’s transmission, and it turned, wobbling back toward the flight line for an emergency landing. Buzhazi turned and saw Zhoram’s security officer running toward the flight line, his smoking grenade launcher in his hands. They waved at each other, and the security officer took cover behind a concrete guard shack and motioned to the general that there was no sign of pursuit.

Buzhazi nodded and put his radio up to his lips: “Rat units, report.”

The voice on the channel made a cold chill zip up and down Buzhazi’s spine: “R…Rat One, Rat One…sir, they’re gone, they’re all gone…sir,” someone from the first warehouse raiding team radioed frantically, “sir, help me, help me, I’ve lost my right leg, it’s gone, sir, help me…”

“Hold on, son, hold on,” Buzhazi said. “Help is on the way. Rat Two, report.” No response. “Rat Three.”

“Three is almost out, heading to rendezvous point Beta,” someone responded. Buzhazi heard the sounds of gunfire and men screaming in the background.

“Acknowledged, Rat Three,” Buzhazi responded. “Sing out if you need any help. Protect yourselves at all costs. Dump the supplies and fight your way to safety if you have to.” No response. He received reports from just one more of the seven scrounger teams he had sent in. Just two teams out of seven were on their way; he didn’t recognize any of the voices that responded, meaning the team leaders were dead or captured; and no one said how many in each team were left. He probably wouldn’t find out until they all met at the rendezvous point…if then.

Buzhazi was about to head back to the security building, but stopped and dropped to the ground when he heard a shot ring out. Following the direction of the gunshot, he turned and saw one of his company commanders, Flight Captain Ali-Reza Kazemi, dragging the body of one of the security officers — he realized it was the security officer that had just saved him from getting mowed down by that same attack chopper! — to the side of a small concrete block guard shack outside the flight line fence. He quickly scanned the area, looking for any sign of attack. The security officer had just signaled that the area was clear — where had that shot come from?

He was sorry to see Zhoram’s officer dead, but relieved that Kazemi was still functioning. Kazemi — the former Revolutionary Guards Corps transport pilot he had taken with him from this very facility when Mansour Sattari rescued him, what seemed like decades ago but was only a few days — had proved to be a very valuable individual. He could fly anything with wings, rotary or fixed-wing, and no situation was too much for him — he was just as comfortable flying an overweight helicopter over the mountains at night and in a sandstorm as he was in perfect daylight conditions. Kazemi had managed to fly in supplies and fly out wounded even in disastrous situations where the Pasdaran seemed to have them pinned down. “Kazemi…!”

“Get down, sir, get down!” Kazemi shouted, waving frantically. “There’s a sniper around here somewhere!”

Buzhazi crouched low and dashed off toward Kazemi, flattening himself against the concrete guard shack. “Any idea where he is?”

“No, sir.” Kazemi drew his pistol. “Somewhere inside the flight line fence, firing out, but I couldn’t see him.” There were several large towed power carts and fire extinguishers on the flight line — plenty of places for snipers to hide — and much of the parking ramp was still obscured by smoke from the two burning helicopters. “Is General Zhoram with you?” Kazemi asked.

“I think he’s dead.” Buzhazi motioned to the dead security officer. He had been shot in the back of the head, a remarkably accurate shot — the sniper must have incredible skills. “Zhoram ordered this man off the roof just before the Mi-24 opened up on him. He shot down that attack helicopter just before it got a bead on me.” He looked at Kazemi. “Can you give me a report on the situation, Ali?” he asked.

“There’s a lot of confusion on the radio, sir, but I think I put together a reasonable picture,” Kazemi replied. He pulled out a fairly detailed handmade map of Doshan Tappeh Air Base with the positions of their insurgent forces and their current manpower and ammunition situation marked on it. “It looks like we’re facing three concentrations of Pasdaran soldiers right now: the barracks to the west, the main gate area to the southwest, and the northeast aviation command headquarters. We count two helicopters airborne and two more ready to go on the airfield. The good news, sir, is that our scrounger security teams have engaged the units sent to the warehouse area to the north, and although we took some heavy losses it appears the Pasdaran concentration there has been broken up.”

“Your recommendation?”

Kazemi looked at Buzhazi carefully. “Two of our scrounger teams made it out, sir — we lost the rest, except for a few stragglers,” he replied. “You made contact with General Yassini, and he’s not helping us. Two of the three mission objectives have been completed. The third objective is to get out safely and withdraw. That is what we should do.”

Buzhazi nodded. “Well thought out, Ali.”

“I recommend we disengage and get out before the Pasdaran organize and flood in,” Kazemi continued. He pointed toward the warehouse area. “The defenders have disengaged and fled the warehouse area, but I think they’ll send in counterattack forces shortly, so the north and northwest escape routes will soon be cut off. The only other alternative is to the southeast, between the main part of the base and the flight operations area. Once outside the base, we have just two kilometers to go until we’re outside the capital province, and then we’re in open terrain and can move out quicker. We’ll be traveling in the opposite direction of the scrounger units, which will give them a better chance of escaping, and we’ll be heading away from the residential areas north of the base, so there’ll be less danger of having civilians caught in the crossfire.”

“But we’ll have to cross the runway and taxiways,” Buzhazi said. “We could be caught in the open.”

“It’s a risk, sir,” Kazemi said honestly. “But they won’t expect us to go in that direction.” He indicated two dashed lines than ran across the runway complex approximately mid-field. “Men on foot and in smaller vehicles can cross via this tunnel that goes under the runway; the rest have to go across the runway. But we’ll be heading away from the counterattack vector. We can have a platoon set up booby traps and ambush sites to make it appear that’s where we’re headed and to slow down the Pasdaran advance, while the rest of the force heads south.”

Buzhazi thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well, Ali. I agree with your plan.” He put a hand on his shoulder. “I hate to do this, Ali, but you’re the most senior officer surviving, so I’m going to have you organize and lead the diversion team.” He pointed to Kazemi’s map. “I’ll have you set up ambushes here, at the security center entrance gate. You set up booby-traps along the main road that will funnel responders toward your ambush zone. Will you do that, Ali?”

Kazemi’s eyes widened, but after a moment he lowered his head and nodded solemnly. “Of course, General. Who should I take with me?”

“General Zhoram’s company is scattered across the northern warehouse area in overwatch positions,” Buzhazi said. “You’ll have to find them and get them organized.” He handed Kazemi the radio from the dead security officer’s belt. “They should be monitoring Zhoram’s channel. I’ll check on you before we depart.”

“I’ll get as many as I can, but I won’t waste time — I can set up booby-traps as well as the next guy.”

“Good,” Buzhazi said. “Remember, you’re just a diversion, not a suicide squad. Once the attackers pull back from the ambush zone to regroup and re-evaluate, your job is complete. Head out immediately and we’ll meet up at rendezvous point Delta to the south. No heroics, understand?”

“Yes, sir. You know me: I’m no hero.”

“If you aren’t one today, Ali, I don’t know what else to call you.” The two men shook hands. “Thank you, Ali. You’ve done well.”

“Thank you, General. I won’t let them past me, don’t worry.” He hurried off.

The radios were very quiet in the next fifteen minutes, and only sporatic gunshots were reported around the base. Buzhazi found Kazemi in the second floor of an administration building, just a few dozen meters from the security center entrance. “Are you all right, Ali?” he asked.

“I’m fine, sir,” Kazemi said. He looked over Buzhazi’s shoulder — the general was alone. “Shouldn’t you be leading the battalion off the base, sir?”

“I wanted to check on you first. The rest of the battalion is ready to move. Report.”

“I could only locate a couple of General Zhoram’s men — the rest have been captured, killed, or fled,” Kazemi said. “But we have set up roadside bombs in several places along the road.” He motioned outside. “We’ve got two machine gun squads set up either side of the gate, and two men with a grenade ‘blooper’ that can suppress counterfire out to about a hundred meters. Best I could do on short notice. What’s our situation, sir? I haven’t heard anything on the radios.”

“We’ve been beaten up pretty badly,” Buzhazi said plainly. “We’re going to try to move out along three routes.” He motioned to them on Kazemi’s map, which had already been extensively updated in a very short time. “I want to thank you again for all you’ve done, Ali.”

“It was my duty as well as my pleasure, sir. I’ll be ready for them if they try to rush us, and then we’ll be hightailing it right after you.” He looked at the map. “How many do you think you can take through the tunnel under the runway, sir? I would think most of the battalion can get on the other side that way before the Pasdaran would even be alerted.”

“Ah yes, the tunnel,” Buzhazi said. “We decided not to take the tunnel, Ali.”

“Why, sir?”

“Because frankly we didn’t know it existed,” Buzhazi said. He quickly drew his sidearm and pointed it at Kazemi’s face. “We found it, of course — and we found the Pasdaran ambush platoons covering it too.”

Kazemi’s eyes widened in surprise. “What are you doing, sir…?”

“As soon as I saw the size of the bullet hole in Zhoram’s man’s head, Ali, I knew it wasn’t from a sniper rifle — it had to be from your sidearm,” Buzhazi said, taking Kazemi’s rifle away from him. Two infantrymen came in and pulled Kazemi to his feet. “And I couldn’t figure out why you were drawing such a detailed map of our deployment and cataloging our supply situation so carefully…unless I considered that you were passing all that information along to the Pasdaran. And when you didn’t seem to have any trepidation about guarding the north part of the base, I knew that the Pasdaran had to be waiting for us on the south — the direction you urged us to go.” Kazemi made no attempt to rebuff any of those arguments. “Why, Kazemi?”

“Because this revolution of yours is doomed, Buzhazi,” Kazemi said. “You can’t stop the Revolutionary Guards from crushing you — you can’t even stop Zolqadr’s men from infiltrating your ranks at will and inciting defections and sabotage. General Zolqadr promised that all charges against me would be erased forever and I would be promoted if I set you up.”

“And you believed him? That’s the last and biggest mistake you’ll ever make.” Buzhazi pressed his pistol into Kazemi’s abdomen, feeling for any body armor under his clothing with the muzzle, then pulled the trigger three times. The guards let the corpse fall forward in a pool of blood. He pulled his radio from its pounch on his web belt. “All Lion units, jangal, jangal.”

As Buzhazi and his guards left the building they heard several explosions behind them as the insurgents launched grenades and fired on vehicles, fuel trucks, aircraft, and anything else that might catch on fire, and several bigger explosions that destroyed remaining vital parts of the security building. When they exited the administration building, Buzhazi could see several columns of smoke rising from the south. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

From a half-dozen spots along the northern wall surrounding the base, Buzhazi’s men emerged from the base and onto Setam-Gari Avenue. Much of the traffic on this busy thoroughfare had stopped or slowed to see what the smoke on the base was about, and Buzhazi’s men used that opportunity to their advantage. They picked out several large trucks, motioned with upraised weapons for the driver to get out, then blasted it with grenade and rifle fire. Soon the boulevard was a mass of confusion, blocked off in both directions, clogged with fleeing drivers escaping the smoke and gunfire.

But the smoke and explosions caught the attention of two Mi-24 attack helicopter crews orbiting over the runway and the southern part of the base, waiting for the insurgents to flee in that direction. They immediately swooped in over the avenue and began firing at anyone with a gun in his or her hands — and when there was a larger concentration of individuals, the helicopter weapons officers opened fire with fifty millimeter rocket launchers, spraying high-explosive, fragmentary, and flechette-tipped projectiles into the terrified crowds.

The carnage was unimaginable, and the completely indiscriminate slaughter enraged Hesarak Buzhazi. But he knew he could not stand out here in the open and fight. He hated the idea of rushing across the avenue into the dense shops and homes north of the airbase, but he had no choice — soon the troops set to ambush them from the south part of the base would be rushing north to engage. The attack helicopters had set up a slow orbit over the avenue, their slower rate of fire showing that they finally decided they had better start conserving their ammunition until the rest of the Revolutionary Guards entered the battle. If he was going to make an escape, now was the time.

“All units, take cover inside the strongest looking buildings you can find!” Buzhazi radioed. “Tell anyone you find inside to get out as fast as they can! Once they’re away, get away from the area and rendezvous at point Gazelle as planned. Out.” He turned to the dozen men surrounding him. “This way. Keep down and keep your weapons out of sight — those helicopter gunners are firing at anyone who looks like they’re carrying weapons.” He then dashed off into the most modern-looking building he saw in front of him, a branch of the Bank Sepah.

It was a good defensible spot — unfortunately it was also a good place to get trapped in, since access was limited in any other direction except out the front door. Buzhazi immediately radioed for other platoons to spread out around the bank building to help defend it from different directions and to provide cover fire in case they needed to escape. Setam-Gari Avenue was choked with cars and obscured with smoke, with people running in all directions trying to cover their mouths with belongings, scarves, or hankerchiefs. Every few moments he would see another horrifying sight of a woman carrying a bag of groceries or a child holding a soccer ball get gunned down by the attack helicopter’s cannons. He swore loudly, trying desperately to squeeze the images out of his consciousness. He lifted his radio: “All Lion units, Lion One, report! Lion…”

Suddenly the entire front of the bank office was blasted apart by rocket fire, sending clouds of brick, stone, and glass inside. One soldier standing beside Buzhazi caught the full brunt of the explosion, his lifeless body plowing into the Iranian general. Buzhazi’s vision was gone — the only thing that told him he was still alive was the terrible ringing in his ears from the blast and the feel of the young soldier’s blood and tissue covering his face. Someone lifted him free of the wreckage and body parts. The soldier asked something, but Buzhazi couldn’t hear him, so he just nodded and patted his arm to tell him he was okay.

A few minutes later, with the volume on the radio turned up all the way, Buzhazi was able to hear the reports coming in from his battalion: “Lion Two is about a half-block away. Are you all right, One? Anyone there?”

“I’m okay, Two,” Buzhazi radioed. “One casualty so far. Lion Three, report.”

“Lion Three doesn’t have you in sight, but…stand by…” There was another loud explosion not far away, with more screaming and panicked citizens running in every direction.

“Lion Three, what’s your status?” No reply.

“This is Two. Looks like Three got hit pretty bad.”

“Copy. Lion Four.” No reply. “Lion Four, report.” Still no reply. “Lion Five.” Again, no response. “Lion Four and Five, key your mikes if you can hear me.” Buzhazi thought he heard the coded clicks on his radio, but he wasn’t sure if it was real or just wishful thinking.

“One, this is Two, armored personnel carriers advancing from the west,” the leader of Second Company reported. “I see one…no, two, two of them. Traffic is slowing them now…One, I see dismounts! Six…eight…ten dismounts, approaching each side of the street.”

“Copy, Two.” Buzhazi turned to the men behind him. “Listen up, men. Who do I have behind me?”

“Lieutenant al-Tabas, sir,” a terrified, high-pitched voice responded. “I’ve got Sergeant Ardakan and most of the members of Kush platoon with me.”

“Weapon status, Lieutenant? Anyone with a grenade launcher and some HE rounds?”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence; then, Tabas and Ardakan moved beside him, crouching low. The sergeant was carrying an AK-47 assault rifle along with a “blooper,” a thirty-millimeter grenade launcher, and he wore a bandolier of grenades. The lieutenant carried an AK-74 assault rifle. “What do you need, sir?” Tabas asked.

“I need that launcher and your grenades, Sergeant,” Buzhazi said. Ardakan looked confused, but gave the general his “blooper” and grenades. Buzhazi loaded a smoke round into the launcher.

“Sergeant, I need some cover fire.”

“Are you all right, sir?”

Buzhazi’s vision was still a bit blurry but there was no time to wait any longer. “I’m fine, Sergeant. Lieutenant, there are two armored personnel carriers off to the right down the street, with dismounts heading our way on the sidewalk on both sides of the street. I’m going to lay down some smoke, and then you and I are going to head down the street in between the cars and trucks and see if we can get close to those armored vehicles. They may be our way out of here.”

“I’ll go, General,” Ardakan said. “When was the last time you led such an assault?”

“Negative, Sergeant, I’m doing this,” Buzhazi insisted. “When we pop the smoke, I need you and your men to engage the dismounts and get them before they get us, then follow us down the street so we can take those vehicles. If we don’t make it, I need you to link up with Lion Two — I think he’s a half-block to the east.” He handed the sergeant his radio. “After that, try to link up with as many of the battalion as you can and get out. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Lieutenant, stay down and under cover in between the disabled cars as much as you can. I’ll be firing the grenade launcher, so you cover me the best you can. When we get to the armored vehicles, keep an eye out for security gunners in the turret or on the passenger side. I’ll pop smoke and frags on them, and then we’ll try to take them. Ready?” The lieutenant gurgled something that vaguely sounded like a “yes.”

There were a hundred other things to think about, a thousand other things to consider, and he hadn’t asked anyone for their advice — there was simply no time. The lieutenant looked young enough to be his grandson. He knew he shouldn’t think about that, but he still said, “Let’s go, son,” as he raised his grenade launcher and headed off toward the exit.

He almost instantly regretted not getting more advice on a plan. The second Buzhazi stuck his head out to look for the Pasdaran dismounts, he was met with a hail of gunfire that made him cry out in surprise and nearly fall over backward into the bank lobby, thankful he wasn’t hit. They were a lot closer than he anticipated! He heard more gunfire and saw a few of his men, probably from Second Company, advancing across the avenue, trying to distract the Pasdaran infantrymen.

Buzhazi motioned to Ardakan, and the sergeant stuck his AK-74 out the doorway without aiming it and fired down the street at the approaching Revolutionary Guards. The return gunfire abruptly stopped. “Now!” Buzhazi yelled, and he and Tabas scurried out of the bank building and into the street, hiding behind disabled and abandoned cars. Buzhazi took aim and fired at the first squad he saw, nearly hitting the squad leader in the forehead with the smoke grenade. The exploding grenade burst right in the midst of the Pasdaran infantrymen, knocking one unconscious and scattering the others. Buzhazi quickly loaded another smoke round, tracked the direction Tabas was shooting, and found the second squad. His second grenade round sailed over their heads and exploded behind them, but it frightened and confused them long enough for Tabas, Ardakan, and the soldiers from Second Company to dispatch them.

Buzhazi loaded a high-explosive grenade into his “blooper” and fired at the first armored vehicle he saw, a Russian-made BMP infantry combat vehicle — with the driver and vehicle commander sitting up in their seats, heads poking out of their hatches, watching the gunfight like a couple of spectators! Buzhazi fired his grenade launcher. The round struck the steeply angled front deck of the APC, deflected upward off the engine compartment exhaust louvers, and exploded on the 73-millimeter smooth-bore cannon barrel, killing the crew instantly and starting a small fire atop the engine compartment. Moments later, hatches opened up on the second APC, and the crew jumped out and ran off.

Allah be praised, Buzhazi rejoiced to himself as he loaded another HE round in his grenade launcher, the damn plan might actually work! “First Company, move out and take those BMPs!” Buzhazi shouted over his shoulder to his men in the bank. “Let’s go, let’s…!”

He heard a roar of rotor blades behind him and turned, raising the blooper…but it was too late. Before he could fire, an Mi-24 attack helicopter raced in from the south, stopped just south of the avenue a few hundred meters away, then unleashed its entire load of one hundred and twenty-eight 57-millimeter rockets point-blank on the bank building before any of his men could get out. The entire building and both buildings on either side of it disappeared in a terrific cloud of fire, smoke, and debris. Buzhazi ducked behind the cars clogging the avenue just before the shock wave, searing heat, and hurricane-force blast of flying stone, steel, and glass plowed into him.

“Don’t move!” he heard above him. A Revolutionary Guards soldier was aiming his rifle at him. The air was thick with dust, debris, and smoke, and Buzhazi found it difficult to catch his breath. He could hardly hear because the roar of the Mi-24 hovering less than a hundred meters away was deafening. Buzhazi raised his left hand, trying to hide the “blooper” in his right hand, and another soldier yanked him up by it, nearly breaking his fingers in the process. “Allah akbar, it is him! It’s Buzhazi!” the first soldier shouted gleefully. “The old man himself led this raid! The general will be very pleased.” His sidearm, ammo, and grenade launcher were stripped away from him. “Take him to…”

The soldier was interrupted by the crash of some small object against the windshield of a nearby car. Buzhazi hardly noticed it in all the other confusion of sounds and smells around them, but the Pasdaran soldiers were suddenly distracted. When Buzhazi could see clearly, he saw a very loud crowd of citizens marching up Setam-Gari Avenue toward them, less than a block away now. He couldn’t hear what they were shouting, but they didn’t look one bit happy.

“Take him!” the first Pasdaran soldier shouted, and the second soldier pinned Buzhazi’s arms behind him. The first soldier lifted his AK-74 rifle and fired two shots over the crowd’s head, waving at them to get back. No dice — the crowd, at least a couple hundred people and growing larger by the second, kept coming. More rocks, bottles, and pieces of blown-apart buildings started to rain down on them. Fear filling his eyes, the first soldier fumbled for his portable radio. “Susmar air unit, Susmar air unit, this is Gavasn Seven-One, I am at your ten o’clock position, approximately one hundred meters. I have General Buzhazi in custody. Requesting fire support on that mob heading toward me! We are outnumbered! Acknowledge!”

“Acknowledged, Gavasn,” the reply came. “We have you in sight. Stay where you are.” The big helicopter gunship pedal-turned to the left, hovering just a few dozen meters in the air near the air base boundary fence across the avenue. The 12.7-millimeter cannon slewed downward, zeroing in on the advancing crowd, and then…

…a laser-straight streak of orange-yellow fire zipped across the sky directly on, then directly through the gunship’s engine compartment. Buzhazi at first thought he had imagined it, because the gunship didn’t seem to be affected at all, even though he thought the fire had hit the helicopter. But seconds later the entire engine compartment ripped apart like an overfilled balloon and exploded in a cloud of fire, and the stricken helicopter — minus its entire engine compartment, main rotor, and most of the top of its fuselage — simply dropped straight down out of the sky and exploded in a brilliant burst of flames, showering them with still more smoke and burning debris.

Buzhazi remembered seeing those exact same streaks of light at Qom and knew who his unseen benefactors were. “The angel of death has come to Doshan Tappeh, my friends,” he told the horrified Pasdaran soldiers holding him. “Better get out while you still can.” He found he didn’t have to break the Pasdaran soldier’s grip — he and his comrade were already running off toward Doshan Tappeh Air Base as fast as they could negotiate the stranded cars and burning debris all around them. The crowd cheered as the soldiers ran off.

About a hundred eager hands steadied him as the crowd surrounded him, thumping his back happily. “Who are you people?” Buzhazi shouted. “Where did you come from?” But he couldn’t make himself understood from the cheering and celebrating. “Everyone, get out of here, now!” he yelled. “There are more Pasdaran troops on the way! They’ll mow everyone down if you don’t get away now!”

And just as he shouted that warning, he looked south toward the airbase and saw exactly what he feared — all of the Revolutionary Guards that had been waiting for his battalion to try to escape to the south were now streaming north across the double runways of Doshan Tappeh Air Base right toward them! There were at least four companies of infantry heading his way, probably less than two kilometers away now, along with scores of armored vehicles. Farther to the east, he could see three more Mi-24 helicopter gunships flying in echelon formation, slowly advancing toward them as well. They were sending over a thousand troops out to mop up what was left of Buzhazi’s insurgents, and they would undoubtedly cut down these protesters too because they had helped him. There was going to be another bloodbath…

…or worse. As he scanned the area farther east, he could see three tiny fast-moving dots on the horizon, rolling in and lining up right down the middle of Setam-Gari Avenue — Pasdaran attack jets! They looked like Russian-made Sukhoi-24 close air-support bombers, laden with bombs on both wings. The bastard Zolqadr was actually going to bomb the city from fast-movers! There would be nothing left of this entire avenue for the Pasdaran infantry to clean up after this attack was over! He looked to the west and saw another attack formation, this time of two more Su-24 bombers. “Run!” Buzhazi shouted. “Get out! Get away from here! The Pasdaran will attack any moment…!”

Seconds later, the jets attacked…but not on Setam-Gari Avenue. At the last second the jets peeled away, banking hard…and lining up on the advancing Pasdaran forces.

The jets to the east attacked first, launching radar-guided air-to-air missiles on the helicopters and shooting them down nearly simultaneously before peeling away. In a precisely coordinated attack which left almost no time for the men on the ground to react, seconds later the jets to the west swept over the Pasdaran infantry formations, dropping anti-personnel clusterbomb canisters. It appeared the entire air base lit up with thousands of flashbulbs, but Buzhazi knew that each “flashbulb” was a half-kilogram explosive charge that sent metal fragments out in all directions, killing or maiming anyone within ten meters.

“Hoseyn, you bastard,” Buzhazi said aloud as he watched in relieved fascination at the scene of destruction right before him, “you finally got off your ass and decided to do something.”

Just as quickly as it began, it was over. The airbase was obscured with thick smoke from the clusterbomb explosions, exploding vehicles, and from the burning wreckage of the attack choppers. Soon the terrifying sounds of injured and dying soldiers reached the crowd’s ears, and they turned away and started to quickly leave the area.

“Who are you people?” Buzhazi asked anyone within earshot. “Where did you come from?” But the jubilant masses said little that he could understand.

Buzhazi returned to the Bank Sepah building to look for survivors, where he found members of Second Company already searching the rubble. “Not much left, sir,” the sergeant in charge of Lion Two reported. “I guess the air force decided to get into the fight after all, sir?”

“Looks that way,” Buzhazi said. “General Yassini finally came to his senses — or his service commanders did. I think they’ll have the Pasdaran on the run. I hope they took out the Pasdaran’s missiles, though, or we could be attacked again at any moment.”

“Those people that marched down the street? They said they were organized by a member of the Qagev royal family, a girl no less, to rise up and throw out the Pasdaran. Do you believe that, sir?”

“Qagev? I haven’t heard that name since history class in grade school — ancient history. I didn’t know there were any still around.” Buzhazi shook his head in disbelief. “Now we have to contend with a damned monarchy? Well, it can’t be any worse than the theocrats and Islamists. If they are, we’ll be picking up guns and fighting all over again.”

“What hit the first gunship, sir? It didn’t look like a missile.”

“Just call it a lightning bolt from heaven,” Buzhazi said, scanning around to look for his unseen but very powerful armored savior. “Let’s finish searching this area for survivors, then let’s head off to the rendezvous point to join up with the rest of the battalion. Then we’ll find out what in hell is going on around here.”