Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  “‘Staff officers,’ sir?”

  “I was assured that other officers that are to be under my command were sent here, with orders that they are to be detained until further notice. They were to report to me as soon as possible. Where are they?”

  “I’m sorry, General, but I’m not familiar with any officers sent here to be detailed to you,” Fattah said. He paused for a moment, then added, “We have several in detention awaiting interrogation or disciplinary action, but I don’t think they would be suitable for any activities such as you are describing.”

  “That’s for me to decide, Master Sergeant,” Buzhazi said. “Have them report to me immediately.”

  “I can bring them here to you, sir,” Fattah said, “but I may not release them to you without written orders from headquarters.”

  “Understood. The passcodes?” Fattah handed Buzhazi a card. The passcodes on the card, which were changed regularly, were combined with each soldier’s own personal code to allow access to the secure worldwide network. “Very well. Carry on.” Fattah snapped to attention and departed.

  As soon as he departed, Buzhazi hurriedly composed several messages on the computer to his staff officers and unit commanders around the country—using coded phrases and “virtual” e-mail addresses so the Pasdaran or their Intelligence Bureau investigators would hopefully find it more difficult to trace and decipher the messages or their intended recipients—advising them on what happened in Orumiyeh and the Supreme Defense Council’s reaction. He knew it was very possible for the Pasdaran to keep him here permanently without anyone else knowing he was here, or for him to just disappear without anyone being able to investigate or question any action. All communications in and out of all headquarters complexes were screened in real time by the Intelligence Bureau, but hopefully at least one message would make it out.

  If none did, he would end up worse than dead—it would be as if he never existed.

  He had barely hit the “SEND” button on the last message when Fattah returned with three men, all secured at the wrists with waist chain restraints. Two of the men wore gray and white striped prison overalls; the third, to Buzhazi’s surprise, wore a battle dress uniform with subdued brigadier-general’s stars on it! Like Buzhazi himself, it appeared he had come in directly from the field, without the opportunity to change uniforms or clean up. “Here are the men you requested to see, sir,” Master Sergeant Fattah said.

  Buzhazi got to his feet and looked the men over. The first officer in prison garb stood at attention but returned the general’s glare. “Your name?”

  “Kazemi, Ali-Reza, flight captain, One-Thirteenth Tactical Airlift Squadron, Birjand, sir.”

  “Why were you brought here, Captain?”

  “I am not aware of any legitimate charges brought against me, sir.”

  Buzhazi glanced at Fattah, who said, “Accused of stealing a transport jet to smuggle goods from Afghanistan and Turkmenistan, and for running a black market operation on government property, sir.”

  “What sort of goods?”

  “Food, medicine, weapons, fuel, clothing.”

  “Is this true, Captain?”

  “I am innocent of all those charges, sir.”

  “Of course you are,” Buzhazi said sarcastically. He turned to the general officer. “I know you, don’t I, General?”

  “I believe we have met, sir. Brigadier-General Kamal Zhoram, Commander, Second Rocket Brigade.”

  “Pasdaran.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The sooner he got rid of this guy, Buzhazi thought, the better. “Why are you here, General?”

  “I am to be questioned about an incident this morning at a field test in Kermān province, sir.”

  “What sort of incident?”

  “An attack, sir.”

  “Someone attacked you—in Kermān province?” Kermān province was completely surrounded by other provinces, shared no boundaries with any foreign countries, and had no cross-border or ethnic problems—it was considered as safe and secure as any Persian province could be. Orumiyeh was much more dangerous and had a long history of clashes with Kurds, Turks, and Turkmen, but this story of another attack really got Buzhazi’s attention. “What sort of attack, General?”

  “An air attack, sir.”

  “An air attack?” Buzhazi was shocked. He had a thrill of spine-numbing fear as he recalled the American B-2 stealth bomber attacks that devastated Iran’s air defenses and naval forces not that many years ago. Were the Americans gearing up for another attack? Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to question Zhoram about it. “I find that highly unlikely, General, but we’ll discuss it later.” He moved to the third prisoner, then immediately stepped back, out of smell range. The man had deeply sunken cheeks and eyes, thin hair, wasted neck muscles, and he trembled slightly. “What the hell is your story, soldier?”

  “Heroin addict, sir,” Fattah said.

  “What is he doing here? Why are you wasting valuable resources on him?”

  “He’s an officer that we suspect is running a drug smuggling operation in Khorāsān province,” Fattah said. “We’re drying him out so we can question him on the others in his network.”

  “How long have you been ‘drying him out,’ Master Sergeant?”

  “Three days, sir.”

  “What do you think the others in his network are doing while he’s in Doshan Tappeh getting ‘dried out,’ Master Sergeant?” Buzhazi asked angrily. “Do you expect them to be sitting around waiting to get caught? They are long gone by now.”

  “We must conduct an investigation nonetheless, sir,” Fattah said, “so we will continue using a rapid-detox protocol which includes high doses of sedatives and naltrexone to alleviate the withdrawal symp…”

  “I’ll show you the proper treatment protocol for a heroin addict, Master Sergeant,” Buzhazi said…and drove his right hand into the man’s throat, splitting his trachea and cracking his vertebrae. The man’s eyes bugged out until they looked as if they’d pop out of his head, then rolled up inside his skull, and he hit the floor like a bag of rotten pomegranates.

  “General, no!” Master Sergeant Fattah shouted. He pushed Buzhazi away and bent down to examine the nearly decapitated body.

  As he was being pushed away, Buzhazi grabbed Zhoram and pulled him close. “Do you expect to get your command back once the Pasdaran completes its investigation of the attack, General?” he whispered urgently.

  Zhoram hesitated, shocked at the sudden flurry of action around him, but the shock lasted only moments. “I’ll be dead or in prison, General,” he said simply. “If I’m lucky, I’ll be simply discharged and returned to my family penniless and disgraced.”

  “As will I,” Buzhazi said. “So. Will you fight or will you submit?” Zhoram hesitated again, looking away, but Buzhazi’s grasp and urgent growl locked his eyes back on Buzhazi’s. “Answer me, Zhoram—fight or submit?”

  “Fight,” Zhoram said. “The Pasdaran doesn’t want answers—they want someone to blame, and the sooner the better. I want the ones that attacked my rocket forces.”

  “I’ll come for you,” Buzhazi said. “Join me and you will get your fight. Cross me, and I’ll cut your guts out with a spoon.”

  “Free me, and I’ll fight with you, General,” Zhoram said. “I swear on the eyes of Allah.”

  Buzhazi grabbed Zhoram’s crotch. “You’ll be swearing to me by these, General—because if you cross me, I’ll make you eat them.”

  “I swear, General. Free me and I’m your man.”

  “Good.” He turned to Kazemi, who was watching the two generals and not paying any attention to the dead officer. “What about you, Kazemi? Are you Pasdaran?”

  “Air Corps, yes, sir.”

  “Are you a smuggler?”

  “Only when my squadron’s supplies are siphoned off by the regional headquarters at Shīrāz, sir,” Kazemi said. “I was tired of losing my men to cold and hunger and flew some helicopters to the border to trade with nomads and
black marketeers. I find it faster and easier to trade with Afghan nomads than confront corrupt Pasdaran supply officers. If you’re getting out of here, sir, take me with you.”

  “I don’t trust thieves, no matter how noble their reasoning.”

  “I stole only for my men and their families, sir, not for myself,” Kazemi said. “I’d do it again if necessary.” Buzhazi hesitated. “If you won’t take me, sir, then do me a favor and shoot me on your way out,” Kazemi added, “because I’d rather die at your hands than be turned into a drooling blubbering vegetable by these Pasdaran goons—and they’ll do it, because I’m not implicating my men or the Afghans that helped me. I’ll bite off my own tongue before I talk.”

  “Brave words, Captain…”

  “You…sir, you have killed him!” Master Sergeant Fattah exclaimed. “He’s dead!”

  “Exactly what he needed to cure his heroin addiction,” Buzhazi said proudly. He looked at Kazemi but said nothing. “Get that piece of human garbage out of my sight, Master Sergeant, and let me get back to…”

  “To what, General Buzhazi?” a voice asked. Buzhazi looked up and saw a Pasdaran three-star general standing in the doorway, hands casually behind his back. “Do you think you’re going somewhere?”

  “General Badi,” Buzhazi said, choking down a shiver of panic, “how good to see you.” Lieutenant-General Muhammad Badi, commander of the Pasdaran-i-Engelab, or Islamic Revolutionary Guards, was about Buzhazi’s height but several kilos heavier, with slick-backed dark hair, a thin moustache, and a thick jowly neck. He wore a black Pasdaran battle dress uniform, high-topped black riding boots, and a web belt with a large Belgian or Austrian-made pistol in its holster. Badi wore an amused smile as he surveyed the scene in the conference room, but Buzhazi knew it was a crocodile’s smile—Badi was as dangerous and unpredictable as they came in the Iranian military forces. “I was expecting you.”

  “And you prepared a gift for me—a prisoner with a broken neck? How touching, Hesarak.” Badi felt comfortable calling Buzhazi by his first name because to him Buzhazi was nothing but a disgraced, incompetent officer that should have been eliminated years ago.

  Back when Buzhazi was chief of staff and nominal commander of the Pasdaran, Badi was the senior Pasdaran officer in charge of deploying Iran’s limited stockpile of reverse-engineered Russian nuclear weapons. Thanks to Buzhazi’s influence with the Supreme Defense Council, Badi convinced them to agree to deploy the weapons aboard a refitted Russian and Chinese nuclear-powered aircraft carrier called the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. Badi was dead-set against such a move—the American naval superiority in the Middle East and Indian Ocean region was unquestioned—but Buzhazi’s plan was put in motion despite his strident objections.

  The ultimate insult: as the senior officer in charge of all of Iran’s nuclear weapons, Badi was assigned as the second in command and chief tactical officer aboard the Khomeini, under Major Admiral Akbar Tufayli. The admiral was the fifth highest ranking Pasdaran officer and the highest ranking Pasdaran naval officer, and he never missed an opportunity to let everyone around him know it. He was an incompetent boob that had no idea what power he commanded. Tufayli was killed by the Americans as he tried to flee the carrier; in the meantime, the American air force decimated Iran’s air defenses.

  The blow to Iran’s military and the mullahs’ plans to dominate the entire Persian Gulf and Arabian Sea region was severe, especially for the defeated and disgraced chief of staff Buzhazi, but for Muhammad Badi the episode was his ticket to the top. The Supreme Defense Council realized that everything Badi had been saying was true: it would take Tehran years, perhaps decades, to match American military power in the Middle East, so why waste the resources to try to do so? Instead, build small tactical nuclear weapons, place them in the hands of Pasdaran special operations forces around the world, and challenge the Americans in the one area they were not prepared to handle—guerrilla warfare.

  That’s exactly what the Supreme Defense Council decided to do, and they placed the program in Muhammad Badi’s hands, along with a fast promotion and almost unlimited money and authority. While Buzhazi was sweating away in the Iranian hinterlands trying to teach young Iranian men and women to fight like Persian soldiers instead of common street thugs, Badi was the master of the Pasdaran…and the nuclear arsenal that was secretly being assembled.

  “I just thought I’d relieve you of some human garbage, Muhammad,” Buzhazi said. “You’re not angry, are you?”

  “If you feel the need to show off your big bad commando skills in front of my men and these other prisoners, Hesarak, be my guest,” Badi said. “Are you quite through now?” He turned to the master sergeant. “Sergeant, what in hell are these prisoners doing out of their cells?”

  “I…er, the general, he ordered them brought here, sir.”

  “The general, eh? General Buzhazi is a prisoner here, Sergeant—perhaps one small step up from that dead officer lying there, but only just.”

  “But I…Sir, I received no orders regarding the general except that he be held here. I received no list of charges, no sentencing order, no…”

  “Are you this stupid every day, Sergeant, or is today something special?” Badi asked. “Buzhazi is an enemy of the republic and is considered a traitor and possibly a spy, assisting terrorists to enter the country and attack military bases. He deserves to be hung naked by his thumbs for the rest of the year, but that decision will be left to the Supreme Defense Council. Until then, he will be placed in isolation and monitored twenty-four-seven. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any more words that the general utters in your’s or your men’s presence is to be recorded and transmitted to me immediately, to be collected and used against him at his court-martial—if he’s still alive when it commences. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now get that piece of diseased meat out of here, put those other prisoners back in their cages, then place yourself on report. I will escort the general to his cell—after we have a little chat. Get moving.” The master sergeant barked orders, restraints were placed on General Buzhazi, and Badi took him by the arm and led him out of the briefing room. As they walked down the corridor, Badi remarked, “I see the old Buzhazi charm is still working. Don’t tell me—it was your superior powers of persuasion that prompted one of the most senior soldiers at Doshan Tappeh to not only let you out of your cell but to let three others out as well.”

  “It’s called ‘leadership’—treating a soldier like a fellow warrior instead of an idiot,” Buzhazi said. “You should try it some time.”

  “Actually, I’m sure it was our fearless leader Yassini’s fault for not leaving specific instructions regarding your arrest and detention,” Badi conjectured.

  “Another example of poor leadership: blaming others for your own failures,” Buzhazi said. “Fattah and Tahmasbi were just following orders.”

  “Who?”

  “Yet another example of poor leadership—you don’t even know the names of your key personnel, not even the master sergeant on duty. And it’s ‘master sergeant,’ Muhammad, not ‘sergeant.’ Calling Fattah a ‘sergeant’ is an insult to his years of service.”

  “I guess I’m getting quite a lesson in leadership from you this morning, aren’t I, Hesarak?” Badi said. They approached the office of the security detachment commander, where another very large guard resembling Tahmasbi, except perhaps bigger and meaner-looking, was standing at attention. Badi told the security commander he needed his office, and he motioned for Buzhazi to step inside after he had departed.

  Buzhazi stepped to the center of the room. “So what brings the chief of the Pasdaran to the dog pens, Muhammad? I would think you’d want to distance yourself from me as much as possible.”

  “I’ve had little trouble doing that since I worked on your headquarters staff, Hesarak,” Badi said as he moved to sit behind the security commander’s desk, leaving Buzhazi standing before him. He started drawing geometri
c shapes on the polished sandalwood desk before him. “My investigators collected sixteen bodies from the disaster at Orumiyeh, Hesarak. Most died in the truck bomb explosion and the gunbattle that followed; several others had burns and other serious injuries but had a single shot to the head, execution-style.”

  “A dead Kurd is a good Kurd.”

  “I didn’t say all were dead, Hesarak,” Badi said. “A few were still alive and even conscious.”

  “Good. Make them talk. We’ll find out where their base or home cities are and launch a punitive attack immediately.” He looked at Badi suspiciously. “You know, Muhammad, I’m very suspicious about the details of that attack.”

  “Oh?”

  “It was almost perfect…too perfect,” Buzhazi said. “My Internal Defense Force personnel at Orumiyeh were the best of the best—the showpieces of my new force.”

  “Looks like they weren’t as good as you thought, eh, Hesarak?”

  “The Border Defense Battalion was specially trained to detect and repel foreign invaders, especially Kurdish terrorists, because of their location so close to Kurdish-controlled territories…”

  “Guess they screwed up—the outcome of your vaunted leadership skills, no doubt.”

  “Security was airtight,” Buzhazi went on. “I’ve encountered some experienced and excellent Kurdish soldiers, but this attack was uncharacteristically precise, fast, and lethal, even for the most highly trained Kurds I’ve ever known.”

  “What are you getting at, Hesarak?”

  Buzhazi looked carefully at Badi, then shrugged. “I don’t know, Muhammad. I have nothing. I might still be in shock—I can’t concentrate on any details. All I can see when I think about it is body parts scattered around me like ripe fruit fallen from trees in an orchard.”

  “Well, concentrate on this for a moment, Hesarak,” Badi said. “The men we are questioning have already given us a great deal of information, almost all of it corroborated with each other and with intelligence information we’ve already received—such as the number in their attack squad.”

  “That could be useful—or it could be a lie,” Buzhazi said. “If it’s a lie, we can use it against them in later interrogations. However, I’d be cautious of exactly-matching responses, Muhammad—they could have been coached as a group to give false or misleading information.”