by Ed Baldwin
The Supreme Leader slinks into the regional headquarters of the Ansar-Ul-Mehdi Corps, beard shorn, traveling in the company of a blond woman not his wife. It looks bad. It is worse.
They’d been loading into a Dassault Falcon 900, a new three-engine executive jet capable of intercontinental travel, when the Saudi Air Force bombed the runway at Imam Khomeini International Airport.
“You will tell the authorities in Switzerland that our entire group is under the protection and immunity of the United States of America,” Shirazi had told her. The air raid sirens interrupted him, and they were whisked into a nearby bunker.
Emerging to chaos, smoke and a cratered runway, Dabney stood by while Shirazi and the Supreme Leader’s bodyguard argued with the pilots of the Falcon. The ostentatious, shiny new aircraft, painted with official insignia and parked at the Supreme Leader’s reserved ramp, was the center of attraction as hundreds watched from the glass windows of the main terminal.
“They are idiots!” Shirazi had said angrily, returning to the limo.
The pilots had refused to take off from the undamaged taxiway next to the runway.
“The Supreme Leader could have them shot,” he said, slamming the door.
Apparently the threat of a firing squad didn’t seem that credible, coming as it did from two little men traveling in the company of a blond infidel woman with just a driver and a single bodyguard. They had left the airport, rejoined with their Revolutionary Guard convoy and headed south. The Revolutionary Guard commander in Tehran had told them the airport at Dezful was still operational and they could commandeer an aircraft there. But when they arrived, the airfield was in control of insurgents, and the runways were cratered. They barely escaped capture.
“Our brothers at Sulaymaniyah, Iraq, will welcome us,” Shirazi says as they leave the Anser-Ul-Mehdi Corps headquarters, somewhat augmented with a new truckload of local paramilitary militia. “The border here is not well guarded, and a convoy has already left from Baghdad to meet us.
“It has been a difficult day, and I apologize. I have brought some brandy for you,” Shirazi says sweetly. He has been her jailor for three days, she is bound with cable ties and suddenly he is offering her a drink. Odd.
“Thoughtful, Farhad. Are you planning to shoot me?”
“Certainly not, Dabney. We are friends, are we not? I have tried to shield you during this whole difficult time. I had no idea a nuclear war would erupt during your stay in our country. We have had nothing but concern for your safety. Here, some brandy.”
He thrusts a small flask in her direction.
Well, perhaps. It has been difficult. She is sure now that they are planning to use her diplomatic passport as their ticket out of a collapsing nation. She takes a tentative sip and begins to work through the possibilities. Iraq is not the best place to use American credentials; Switzerland would have been very accommodating. Still, there are possibilities.
They return to the limousine after the Muslims have their noon prayer. The paramilitary guards of the Revolutionary Guard close off the side streets and they leave, driving to the southwest. Two hours later, they are working up the steep valley to the border crossing, placed in a saddle between two rocky hillsides.
Chapter 50: Mount Damavand
“
It is written that the Mahdi, or Messiah, will return at the end of days to lead the faithful in a war against the Evil One, who is ruling a blasphemous world empire,” Ayatollah Mashadi says, huddled in a new arctic parka while sitting on an air mattress and eating a halal MRE(Meal, Ready to Eat; military rations) . It is dark outside, and the wind howls around the broken carcass of the old C-130, stuck in the snow at 12,000 feet on Mount Damavand. Inside, it is bright with lights running off of a 10 kilowatt generator, and portable heaters blowing hot air into the cargo bay. The back of the aircraft has been secured with the tarps that wrapped the two pallets. There are five four-man alpine tents now set up in the cargo bay, cross-country skis, water, long underwear, sleeping bags, antibiotics for the wounded, a better radio and a small portable satellite dish. Spirits are high.
“You keep referring to the current Ayatollah as blasphemous. How so?” Emmet asks, eating with a spoon out of a packet of chili heated up in an MRE heater and doused liberally with Tobasco sauce. He has sprinkled a package of broken soda crackers over the top. Intrigued by this inter-Muslim conflict, he has maintained an ongoing discussion with Mashadi whenever time permits. Several Marines have gathered and are listening. Boyd and Ekaterina sit on the other side of the cargo bay, wrapped in blankets.
“The ruling government of Iran and the religious leaders try to show that everything is in accordance with the Will of God, and the Divine Law, while they plunder the economy, divert money from mosques, schools, trusts and charities for their own use. The Ayatollah has taken the name ‘Imam,’ which is reserved for the Holy One, the Mahdi. That is blasphemy.”
“So, if the resistance takes over the government, and you’re the Grand Ayatollah of Iran, how will you be any different?”
“Islam seeks justice for all and strives to serve the oppressed. The Holy Quran says government must not be by an earthly religious scholar, for his opinions are earthly and last only as long as he lives. Government of earthly things should be secular and allow for orderly transfer of power according to the will of the people. No monarchies, no military dictatorships, no absolute rule by clerics who call themselves ‘Imam.’ ”
“Are we seeing the end of days?”
“It seems so, but I am a mere mortal. Allah has not communicated with me. It is written that the Mahdi will be a direct descendent of Mohammad and will be anointed by Allah to lead.”
Ekaterina sits passively in front of Boyd on the other side of the cargo bay, listening to Mashadi and Emmet discuss Islamic economic theory. Beneath the blankets, Boyd’s hands have parted layers of clothing and are now exploring her naked breasts.
“Are you a direct descendent of Mohammad?” Emmet asks.
“I don’t know.”
“So, Allah could appear right here and announce that you are a direct descendent of the Prophet and anoint you Mahdi?”
Mashadi shrugs.
Ekaterina stretches her legs out further and leans back onto Boyd’s chest. His right hand snakes down into her pants.
“You mentioned justice and the rights of the oppressed. All governments claim to do that, but there is still injustice and oppression.”
“People are imperfect. But, they are less imperfect if they follow the rules of Islam.
There are three rules of Muslim economics: standards of right and wrong behavior as written in the Holy Quran; a tax on wealth, called Zakat, to be used to help the poor and the old and the sick; and a prohibition on charging interest.”
“No banks, then?”
“The state collects wealth through the Zakat and makes it available to the general public for approved uses. It is a collective bank. The wealthy give generously to it, the poor take from it as needed.”
“That sounds like Karl Marx – ‘from each according to his ability, to each according to his need.’ ”
“Yes.”
“Are you a Marxist?”
“I am a Muslim.”
“Will your nation be a friend to the United States?”
“Our nation will be a friend to all,” Mashadi says. “That is our responsibility to our neighbors on this Earth. We wish to return to the world stage as an equal partner and continue to be the trading nation we have always been.”
“But, Marxist.”
“You Americans have a problem with Marxism, we don’t. Your political progressives seek to undermine any standards for behavior. We can’t accept that. A nation without standards of behavior cannot be just. Your economic system is based on finance capitalism, which allows the assumption of risk for a price. That is forbidden by the Quran, as Allah determines success or failure of a venture and therefore the consequences of failu
re should fall on all equally. Thus, no interest, no insurance, no stocks, no bonds, no rent and no wealthy bankers drawing the lifeblood from the oppressed.”
“Strong words about bankers,” Emmet says. “You were saved by bankers getting word to our country to spring you from that prison. Ekaterina is a banker.”
Ekaterina stops the slight rhythmic movement of her hips and smiles wanly at the group, face flushed, breathing heavily. She hopes it looks like she blushed from the attention.
“Thank you,” Mashadi says, smiling at Ekaterina.
“So you see a government more like that of Russia.”
“Russia is a dictatorship of the Communist Party, so we don’t accept that. But, they have standards of behavior, wealth redistribution, a state-run banking system, and a commitment to provide employment, housing, health care and food to all. Your nation is the antithesis of that. So, yes, we admire the Russian government. We admire many features of your government, most notably your ability to hand over power in a predictable fashion. We would strive to build the world’s first truly Islamic nation, with justice for all.”
“Uggh!” Ekaterina lets out a low guttural grunt as her legs stiffen with her climax.
“You have a noble view of government, sir,” one of the Marines chimes in. He’d been sitting fascinated by this discussion.
“We have the goal of the perfect Islamic government, but Allah will decide how it is to be implemented.”
None of the group around the Ayatollah seems to notice Ekaterina’s outburst. But sitting above them at the top of the ladder to the cockpit is Rick Shands, and he’s been watching them. He saw Boyd’s hands find her breasts; saw her flush with excitement; saw Boyd’s hand in her pants, and her attempt to control her movements as excitement built.
Voyeurism is a shameful pleasure, but a pleasure nonetheless. He pretends not to notice, but his erection stretches the confines of his battle dress pants.
*****
“Congratulations, major! The major’s promotion list was released this week, and your name is on it. One year below the zone. You were frocked(selected to pin on the higher rank early) this afternoon. Better find some oak leaves.”
Boyd is seated Indian-style on the wing of the crashed C-130 wearing a headset and speaking with Maj. Gen. Ferguson over the satellite link provided in the rescue pallet. The small satellite dish is pointed skyward and is plugged into a laptop, also from the pallet. The screen of the laptop is shielded from blinding sunlight by a tarp held by Ekaterina and Emmet.
“How did I get frocked?”
Emmet laughs. He knows what frocked means, and how it sounds to Ekaterina.
“The SecDef signed the order. You’re a popular guy here.”
“Do I get any more money?” Boyd laughs, unaware of Ekaterina’s questioning look about the frocking.
“No money, just oak leaves and all customs and courtesies that field grade(majors, lieutenant colonels, and colonels are field grade officers) has to offer.”
“I’ll take it. So, when are we getting off this mountain?”
“The National Reconnaissance Office has been scouring that mountain since you set down there, trying to find a flat spot. They’ve created a contour map of the whole thing using two satellite views at a time, and they think they have one. It’s about two miles northwest of your location, and there’s snow the whole way. You can ski to it with the cross-country skis in the rescue pack.”
“We’ve got a Marine with shrapnel in his leg, an insurgent with a gunshot wound to the shoulder, and an old man.”
“OK, let my staff work that one. The Air Force has two CV-22 Ospreys(a tilt-rotor aircraft that can take off like a helicopter then rotate wings horizontal and fly like an airplane) flying into Kandahar, Afghanistan, now. They can stage out of there and refuel if necessary to get to you, and they can land on that mountain.”
“How’s the war going?” Boyd asks, then remembers security. “Is this link secure?”
“The link’s secure. It’s encrypted coming and going. The shooting is still going on. We haven’t had a nuke since that first night you were on the mountain, two days. Israel had a lot of damage from a huge detonation. Our experts estimate it at 50 kilotons. They blocked the rest. There wouldn’t be an Israel if they hadn’t. Their main cities are intact. The fallout is not as bad as expected, but it’s still the biggest problem. The actual detonation was in no-man’s land bordering Syria, so there weren’t that many people around.”
“How about Iran?”
“Iran got off light. The Israelis used small, carefully targeted weapons and air bursts. They took out Bandar Abbas, Khorasan and double-tapped Parchin with a penetrator, but the cities weren’t affected that much, and fallout has been minimal. The Revolutionary Guard picked up the fight when the Iranian air force and navy quit and began launching whatever missiles they could get their hands on. Israel nuked their headquarters in two sectors, and we and the Saudis sent in a bunch of cruise missiles.”
“Half of Tehran was without power.”
“Being without power is not the same as being blown up, or showered with big chunks of radioactive fallout from a ground burst, like Israel.”
“True.”
“And, Iran took out the Saudi royal family.”
“Really! I’ll have to ask the Ayatollah about that. He’s been filling us in on the Muslim side of this thing.”
“A lot of people have been asking about him,” Ferguson says. “They’re not saying anything publicly, but the National Council of Resistance, the government in exile, will appoint him, or anoint, whatever the proper term is, as the new Grand Ayatollah of Iran.”
“They better not count this chicken until someone gets him down from this mountain.”
“Believe me, Boyd, everyone here is working as fast as we can to do that.”
“Good.”
“The real fighting going on now is between the Revolutionary Guards and the People’s Mujahedin of Iran. They’re killing each other by the thousands in all parts of Iran. This is the big one for them. Israel is forgotten all of a sudden.”
“Things sure change fast.”
“OK. Hold on.” Ferguson breaks away for a few moments. Boyd winks at Ekaterina, still holding the tarp with Emmet.
“OK, an update,” Ferguson says. “We could drop some Air Force PJs(pararescue jumpers) into your location with snowmobiles to get your wounded and the Ayatollah out, but there aren’t any snowmobiles in Afghanistan. The Mountain Division has pulled out with the drawdown, and they took their equipment with them. It’ll take two days to get snowmobiles.”
“Two miles, you say,” Boyd looks down the mountain to the northwest. “I think I can see that flat spot from here. Let me see what we can find to get this done. Keep working the snowmobiles, though.”
Chapter 51: Penjwin,Iraq
I
raqi border guards bristle when two truckloads of paramilitary Revolutionary Guards, some vans of government officials, and a shiny black limousine approach the border from Iran. Their officer stands in the roadway behind the barrier, which is closed. He motions for his guards to deploy to their tactical positions, and they scurry into bunkers and along the sides of the road. The border is in a saddle between two hillsides, and a few dozen stone steps lead up from the road on both sides to redoubts, each containing a single old American 105 mm howitzer, pointed off in the distance.
Dabney St. Clair is seated in the back seat of the limousine, her coat folded neatly in her lap. Cable ties bind her wrists tightly together. Her ankles are bound. A cable tie is fixed around her waist, and another cable tie is attached to it behind her and runs down between her buttocks to meet the wrist and ankle cable ties from the front. This is hidden beneath the coat. She has consumed the contents of Farhad Shirazi’s flask and is near stupor from alcohol.
Farhad Shirazi leaves the limousine and approaches the officer at the gate.
“Good afternoon, sir,”
he says in Farsi.
There is no response.
He repeats it in English, and Russian.
There is no response.
He calls to the bodyguard, who speaks Arabic. He translates.
“Good afternoon, sir. The American diplomat, Mrs. St. Clair, requests to enter Iraq with her companions, who are under the protection of the government of the United States of America.”
“What documentation do you have?”
Shirazi produces the passports. “It is a routine matter,” he says nonchalantly and looks off in the distance as if bored with these formalities.
The officer takes the passports and looks at them, then turns and walks back to the guardhouse.
Behind the gatehouse stands the senior noncommissioned officer border guard, a paunchy 50-ish Kurd named Sirwan who has worked here since he was a young man. He knows this is the Supreme Leader of Iran making a run for it. He knows that his young officer, an Arab, was sent to this remote border crossing as punishment for some infraction involving politics in Baghdad. Counting the days until he can return to Baghdad, the young officer will take no chances in confronting an armed column of paramilitary militia outnumbering his border guards 5-to-1.
“Sir, there are two truckloads of Revolutionary Guard soldiers from Iran and a black limousine. They say they are American diplomats,” the young officer is speaking into a telephone.
Sirwan walks away from the guardhouse; his counsel will not be wanted here. He lights a cigarette and walks up the stone steps.
This is Kurdistan, the man thinks, puffing his cigarette and taking the steps slowly. Kurds are Sunni Muslims; Iranians are Shiites. These Persians care nothing for Kurds, nor do the Arabs in Baghdad. As proof of that, he recalls the Iran/Iraq war in 1979, when the Iranian army counterattacked through this border crossing and his father and uncle were killed defending their homeland. The war went on for a decade with both sides drafting young Kurds from both sides of the border to fight further south on the plain near the oil fields of Basrah. Most never returned.
