Shadow Command

by Dale Brown

  The crowd visibly tensed as Buzhazi and his bodyguards approached, and the small knot of men, women, and even some kids quickly grew. Rahmati was no policeman or expert on crowd psychology, but he noticed as more onlookers came closer to see what was going on, the others would be pressed farther and farther forward, toward the source of danger, causing them to feel trapped and scared for their life. Once panic started to set in, the crowd would quickly and suddenly turn into a mob; and when some soldier or armed individual felt his life was in danger, the shooting would start and the casualties would quickly mount.

  But Buzhazi seemed oblivious to the obvious: he kept on marching forward—not threateningly, but not with any kind of false bravado or friendliness either; all business, but not confrontational like a soldier or glad-handed like a politician. Did he think he was going to drop in on some friends and discuss the issues of the day, or sit down to watch a football match? Or did he think he was invulnerable? Whatever his mental state, he was not reading this crowd correctly. Rahmati began thinking about how he was going to get to his rifle…and at the same time trying to decide which way he could run if this situation completely went to hell.

  “Salam aleikom,” Buzhazi called when about ten paces from the growing crowd, raising his right hand in greeting as well as to show he was unarmed. “Is anyone hurt here?”

  A young man no more than seventeen or eighteen stepped forward and jabbed a finger at the general. “What does a damned soldier care if anyone is—?” And then he stopped, his finger still extended. “You! Hesarak Buzhazi, the new emperor of Persia! The reincarnation of Cyrus and Alexander himself! Are we required to genuflect before you, or is a simple bow sufficient, my lord?”

  “I said, is anyone—?”

  “What do you think of your empire now, General?” the young man asked, motioning to the clouds of acrid smoke swirling not too far away. “Or is it ‘Emperor’ Buzhazi now?”

  “If no one is in need of assistance, I need volunteers to keep others away from the blast site, locate witnesses, and gather evidence until the police arrive,” Buzhazi said, turning his attention away—but not completely away—from the loud firebrand. He sought out the eldest person in the crowd. “You, sir. I need you to ask for volunteers and to secure this crime scene. Then I need—”

  “Why should we help you, lord and master sir?” the first young man shouted. “You were the one who brought this violence upon us! Iran was a peaceful and secure country until you came in, slaughtered everyone who didn’t agree with your totalitarian ideas, and took over. Why should we cooperate with you?”

  “Peaceful and secure, yes—under the heel of the clerics, Islamists, and crazies who killed or imprisoned anyone who didn’t comply with their edicts,” Buzhazi said, unable to avoid being drawn into a debate he knew was not going to be won. “They betrayed the people like they betrayed myself and everyone in the army. They—”

  “That’s what this is about, isn’t it, Mr. Emperor: you?” the man said. “You don’t like the way you were treated by your former friends, the clerics, so you slaughtered them and took over. Why do we care what you say now? You’ll tell us anything to stay in power until you’re done raping the country, and then you’ll fly off right from your very conveniently located new headquarters at Mehrabad Airport.”

  Buzhazi was silent for a few moments, then nodded, which surprised everyone around. “You’re right, young man. I was angry at the deaths of my soldiers, who had worked so hard to get rid of the radicals and nutcases in the Basij and make something of themselves, their unit, and their lives.” After Buzhazi had been dismissed as chief of staff, following the American stealth bomber attacks against their Russian-made aircraft carrier years earlier, he had been demoted to commander of the Basij-i-Mostazefin, or “Mobilization of the Oppressed,” a group of civilian volunteers who informed on neighbors, acted as lookouts and spies, and roamed the streets terrorizing others to conform and cooperate with the Revolutionary Guards Corps.

  Buzhazi purged the Basij of the gangsters and rabble-rousers and transformed the remainder into the Internal Defense Force, a true military reserve force. But their success challenged the domination of the Revolutionary Guards Corps, and they acted to try to discredit—or preferably destroy—Buzhazi’s fledgling national guard force. “When I learned it was the Pasdaran that had staged the attack against my first operational reserve unit, making it look like a Kurdish insurgent action, just to hurt and discredit the Internal Defense Force, I got angry and lashed out.

  “But the Islamists and the terrorists the clerics have brought into our country are the real problem, son, not the Pasdaran,” Buzhazi went on. “They have gutted the minds of this nation, emptied them of all common sense and decency, and filled it with nothing but fear, contempt, and blind obedience.”

  “So what is the difference between you and the clerics, Buzhazi?” another young man shouted. Rahmati could see the crowd was getting bolder, more vocal, and not afraid to get closer every second. “You kill off the clerics and take down the government—our government, the one we elected!—and replace it with your junta. We see your troops breaking down doors, burning buildings, stealing, and raping every day!”

  The crowd noisily voiced its agreement, and Buzhazi had to raise his hands and voice to be heard: “First of all, I promise you, if you bring me evidence of a theft or rape by any soldier under my command, I will personally put a bullet in his head,” he shouted. “No tribunal, no secret trial, no hearing—bring me the evidence, convince me, and I will drag the man responsible before you and execute him myself.

  “Second, I am not forming a government in Persia, and I am not a president or emperor—I am commander of the resistance forces temporarily in place to quell violence and establish order. I will stay in command long enough to root out the insurgents and terrorists and supervise the formation of some form of government that will draft a constitution and enact laws governing the people, and then I will step down. That is why I set up my headquarters at Mehrabad—not for a quick escape, but to show that I’m not going to occupy legitimate government offices and call myself a president.”

  “That’s what Musharraf, Castro, Chávez, and hundreds of other dictators and despots said when they engineered their coups and took over the government,” the young man said. “They said they fought for the people and would leave as soon as order was established, and before you knew it they had installed themselves in office for life, placed their friends and thugs in positions of power, suspended or tossed out the constitution, taken over the banks, nationalized all the businesses, taken away land and wealth from the rich, and closed any media outlets that opposed them. You will do the same in Iran.”

  Buzhazi studied the young man for a moment, then carefully scanned the others around him. Those, he observed, were some very good points—this guy was very intelligent and well read for such an age, and he suspected most of the others were too. He was not among normal street kids here.

  “I judge a man by his actions, not his words—friend as well as enemy,” Buzhazi said. “I could promise you peace, happiness, security, and prosperity, just like any politician, or I could promise you a place in heaven like the clerics, but I won’t. All I can promise is that I will fight as hard as I can to stop the insurgents from tearing our country apart before we’ve had a chance to form a government of the people, whatever that government will be. I will use all my skills, training, and experience to make this country secure until a government by the people stands up.”

  “Those sound like pretty words to me, Mr. Emperor, the kind you just pledged you wouldn’t use.”

  Buzhazi smiled and nodded, looking at those who seemed the angriest or most distrustful directly in the eye. “I see many of you have cell phone cameras, so you have video proof of what I say. If I was the dictator you think I am, I’d confiscate all those phones and have you tossed in prison.”

  “You could do that tonight after you break into our homes and roust us out of bed.
”

  “But I won’t,” Buzhazi said. “You are free to send the videos out to anyone on the planet, post it on YouTube, sell it to the media. The video will be documentation of my promise to you, but my actions will be the final proof.”

  “How do we send out any videos, old man,” a young woman asked, “when power is only on for three hours a day? We are lucky if the phones work for a few minutes each day.”

  “I read the postings, I surf the Internet, and I lurk on the blogs, just like you,” Buzhazi said. “The American satellite global wireless Internet system works well even in Persia—may I remind you that it was jammed by the clerics in order to try to prevent you from receiving contrary news from the outside world—and I know many of you enterprising young people have built pedal-powered generators to recharge your laptops when the power goes out. I may be an old man, young lady, but I’m not completely out of touch.” He was pleased to see a few smiles appear on the faces of those around him—finally, he thought, he was starting to speak their language.

  “But I remind you that the power goes out because of insurgent attacks on our power generators and distribution networks,” he went on. “There’s an enemy out there who doesn’t care about the people of Persia—all they want is to regain power for themselves, and they’ll do it any way they can think of, even if it hurts or kills innocent citizens. I took power away from them and allowed the citizens of this country to communicate with the outside world again. I allowed foreign investment and aid to return to Persia, while the clerics shut out the rest of the world for over thirty years and hoarded the wealth and power of this nation. That’s the action I’m talking about, my friends. I can say absolutely nothing, and those actions would speak louder than a thousand thunderstorms.”

  “So when will the attacks stop, General?” the first man asked. “How long will it take to drive the insurgents out?”

  “Long after I’m dead and buried, I think,” Buzhazi said. “So then it’ll be up to you. How long do you want it to take, son?”

  “Hey, you started this war, not me!” the man thundered, shaking his fist. “Do not lay this at my feet! You say you’ll be dead long before this is over—well, why don’t you just go to hell now and save us all a lot of time!” A few in the crowd blinked at the man’s violent outburst, but said or did nothing. “And I am not your son, old man. My father was killed in the street outside the shop my family has owned for three generations, during a gun battle between your troops and the Pasdaran, right before my eyes, my mother’s, and my baby sister’s.”

  Buzhazi nodded. “I am sorry. Then tell me your name.”

  “I don’t feel like telling you my name, old man,” the young man said bitterly, “because I see you and your forces just as capable of arresting me or shooting me in the head as the Pasdaran reportedly were.”

  “‘Reportedly?’ You doubt that the Pasdaran are killing anyone who opposes the clerics?”

  “I saw plenty of violence and bloodthirstiness on both sides in the gun battle in which my father was killed,” the young man went on, “and I see very little difference between you and the clerics except perhaps the clothes you wear. Are you correct or justified in your actions just because the Americans swooped in and helped you drive the Pasdaran temporarily out of the capital? When you are driven out, will you be the new insurgents then? Will you make war on the innocent because you think you are correct?”

  “If you truly believe that I’m no better or worse than the Islamic Revolutionary Guards, then no amount of words will ever convince you otherwise,” Buzhazi said, “and you will blame your father’s death on any convenient target. I am sorry for your loss.” He turned and scanned the others around him. “I see a lot of angry faces out here in the street, but I hear some extremely intelligent voices as well. My question to you is: If you’re so smart, what are you doing out here just standing around? Your fellow citizens are dying, and you do nothing but shuffle from attack to attack shaking your fists at my soldiers while the insurgents move to the next target.”

  “What are we supposed to do, old man?” another man asked.

  “Follow your head, follow your heart, and take action,” Buzhazi said. “If it’s the clerics you truly believe have the best interests of the nation in mind, join the insurgency and fight to drive me and my men out of the country. If you believe in the monarchists, join them and create your own insurgency in the name of the Qagev, battling both the Islamists and my soldiers, and bring the monarchy back to power. If you think what I say and do makes sense, put on a uniform, pick up a rifle, and join me. If you don’t want to join anyone, at least keep your damn eyes open and when you see an attack against your family or your neighbors, take action…any action. Fight, inform, assist, protect—do something rather than just stand around and complain about it.”

  He scanned their faces once again, letting them look directly into his eyes and he into theirs. Most of them did. He saw some real strength in this bunch, and it gave him hope. They were worth fighting for, he decided. No matter which side they chose, they were the future of this land. “It’s your country, dammit…it’s our country. If it’s not worth fighting for, go somewhere else before you become another casualty.” He fell silent, letting his words sink in; then: “Now I need your help policing this crime scene. My soldiers will set up a perimeter and secure the area, but I need some of you to help the rescuers recover the victims and the police gather evidence and interview witnesses. Who will help?”

  The crowd paused, waiting for someone to move first. Then the first young man stepped forward and said to Buzhazi, “Not for you, Emperor. You think you are any different than the insurgents roaming the streets? You’re worse. You’re nothing but a pretentious old man with a gun. That doesn’t make you right.” And he turned and walked away, followed by the rest.

  “Shit, I thought I had gotten through to them,” Buzhazi said to Colonel Rahmati.

  “They’re just a bunch of losers, sir,” the brigade commander said. “You asked what they’re doing out here on the streets? They’re stirring up trouble, that’s all. For all we know, they are the ones who blew up that gas station. How do we know they’re not insurgents?”

  “They are insurgents, Mostafa,” Buzhazi said.

  Rahmati looked stunned. “They…are? How do you know…I mean, we should arrest all of them right now!”

  “They’re insurgents, but not Islamists,” Buzhazi said. “If I had a choice as to which I’d want out on the streets right now, it’s definitely them. I still think they’ll help, but not the way I might want them to.” He looked in the direction of the still-burning gasoline station to the remnants of a smoldering delivery truck that had been blown several dozen meters across the street. “Stay here and keep your weapons out of sight. Get the perimeter set up. I want no more than two soldiers positioned at any intersection, and they should be stationed on opposite corners, not together.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “Because if there are more, informants will not approach them—and we need information, fast,” Buzhazi said. He started walking toward the smoking truck. Rahmati started to follow, not wanting to appear any more frightened than he was already, but Buzhazi turned and growled, “I said stay here and get that perimeter set up.” Rahmati was only too glad to comply.

  A fire truck had approached the burning hulk and two very young-looking firefighters—probably children of dead or injured real firemen, a common practice in this part of the world—started to fight the fire, using a weak stream of water from the old surplus fire truck. It was going to be a long and smoky job. Buzhazi stepped around the fire truck, just far enough from the smoke so he wouldn’t be choked by it, but was mostly screened from view. Now that the cleanup job had started, the crowds had started to disperse. Another, larger fire crew was attacking the blaze at the gas station itself, which was still very hot and fierce, rapidly driving huge columns of black smoke skyward. It was unbelievable to Buzhazi that the flames seemed to drink in even that h
uge volume of water—the fire was so intense that the fire actually seemed to—

  “Quite a speech back there, General,” he heard a voice say behind him.

  Buzhazi nodded and smiled—he had guessed correctly. He turned and nodded formally to Her Highness Azar Assiyeh Qagev, the heir presumptive of the Peacock Throne of Persia. He glanced behind the young woman and spotted Captain Mara Saidi, one of Azar’s royal bodyguards, standing discreetly near a lamppost, expertly blending in with the chaos around them. Her jacket was open and her hands clasped before her, obviously shielding a weapon from sight. “I thought I saw the captain there in the crowd, and I knew you’d be nearby. I assume the major is nearby with a sniper rifle or RPG, correct?”

  “I believe he’s armed with both weapons today—you know how he likes to come prepared,” Azar said, bowing in return, not bothering to point out her chief of internal security Parviz Najar’s hiding place—just in case Buzhazi’s little rendezvous here was really a trap. She couldn’t afford to trust this man—alliances changed so quickly in Persia. “I have promoted Najar to lieutenant colonel and Saidi to major for their bravery in getting me out of America and back home.”

  Buzhazi nodded approvingly. Azar Assiyeh Qagev, the youngest daughter of the pretender to the Peacock Throne, Mohammed Hassan Qagev—still missing since the beginning of Buzhazi’s coup against the theocratic regime of Iran—had just turned seventeen years old, but she had the self-confidence of an adult twice her age, not to mention the courage, martial skills, and tactical foresight of an infantry company commander. She was also turning into a woman very nicely, Buzhazi couldn’t help but notice, with long shiny black hair, graceful curves starting to bud on her slender figure, and dark, dancing, almost mischievous eyes. Her arms and legs were covered but with a white blouse and “chocolate chip” desert fatigue trousers, not a burka, to protect herself from the sun; her head was covered but with a TeamMelli World Cup Football team “doo-rag,” not a hijab.