by R G Ainslee
"We'll be fully prepared. Don't worry." He took the weapon back and stuffed it into the custom-made weapons bag. I noticed an extra Uzi and several boxes of ammo.
"You guys checked lately on the situation in Iran."
Amadeo looked at Jack and nodded. "Yes, we have." He racked the slide on the Browning Hi-Power. "Does that answer your question?"
Jack shook his head. "Don't look pretty. Today, several hundred Americans and other foreigners left the country after Iranian soldiers re-opened the airports, seems the control tower operators had been on strike."
He examined a teletype print out on his desk. "It says here, the Air Force flew about 300 military dependents out today. The State Department says about 4,000 more Americans want to leave ASAP. Pan Am, British Airways, and Lufthansa are all working overtime."
"Sounds like déjà view all over again. — Say, what's Farsi for get me outta here."
Wednesday, 3 January: Roadrunner Apartments, Albuquerque
New Mexico style enchiladas, flat not rolled, for some reason always taste a whole lot hotter than the rolled kind. Sarah and Lisette teamed up to fix another delicious meal. Jim and I finished off our drinks, non-alcoholic of course because we would be flying out early.
Raven the cat jumped up, sniffed the bottle of Sprite, wrinkled his nose, and jumped down. Barker chuckled. "Cats don't like citrus. If you want to keep him away from something, give him a shot of lemon spray."
Raven flicked his tail and strutted into the kitchen. Jim asked, "Think he understood?"
"Don't know, thought he only spoke French."
"I heard you," hollered Lisette from the kitchen. "He is smart cat. He do one thing you do not do."
"What?"
"He stay at home, he does not leave me."
I laid my head back. Here we go again.
Sarah chimed in, "No Lisette, I think both of them have a lot in common with Raven."
"Comment?"
"They're all tomcats. They always go prowling around and then come home and want to be fed."
"Lisette laughed. "Oui, exactement."
* * *
Lisette and Sarah finished off the last dregs of our leftover new year's champagne. Barker and I sipped on our second Sprites. The ten o'clock news featured a report on riots in Tehran.
Sarah said, "I am so scared about you going to Iran. The news is bad. Riots, mutinies, it appears the Shah's days are numbered. What do you think?"
"I've been out of the loop for a few weeks, so I'm not up to date on the details, but it don't look good."
"Aren't you worried?"
"Nah, I'm going with Jack and Amadeo, they can take care of themselves." I couldn't tell just how I knew, but in any case, I lied. I was worried.
"They will protect you, is not so?" pleaded Lisette.
"Lisette, don't you worry one bit. He's in good hands. Besides he is no slouch when it comes to self-defense," offered Jim.
"He is no slo... I not understand." She looked to Sarah for a translation.
"Une personne incapable."
"Oh, he is très capable."
"Ross, isn't this a bad time to go to Iran?" Sarah insisted.
"Sometimes you can't pick your fights."
"Fight — you will fight?" gasped Lisette.
"No. — No, it's only a figure of speech. We go in peace." I held up my hands, pleading.
"I do not understand," again, she eyed Sarah.
"Une expression familière."
The expression on Lisette's face showed she didn't buy the explanation completely. I needed to watch my words. It was too easy to get into trouble.
Barker finally broke up the party. "We've got to go. It's going to be a long day tomorrow. Remember Sergeant George will pick you up at 0500."
As they were leaving, Sarah placed a tender kiss on my cheek. "Be careful and take care. You have responsibilities now. Lisette needs you more than ever." She peeked over my shoulder at Lisette. Her attitude seemed different. I wondered what it meant.
The door closed and locked. I asked, "Is everything all right. Are you sure you're going to be okay?"
Lisette grasped my hand and led me into the bedroom. Raven the cat lay fast asleep on the bed. She shooed him off with a sharp French exclamation and then gazed up into my eyes with a devilish smile — the one I can't resist. Anticipation wound like a tightly coiled spring. I found it hard to believe she once trained to be a nun.
"We sleep now, you go early." She dropped my hand, sashayed into the bathroom, and left me wondering — what's going on.
13 ~ Iran
Friday, 5 January: Rhein-Main Airbase, Germany
The KC-135 aircraft landed at Rein Main air base in Frankfurt. The co-pilot said refueling and loading supplies for IBEX would take about an hour and a half. The flight was scheduled to take out non-essential personnel from Tehran. We headed to the snack bar.
On our return, the pilot, an Air Force captain, met us at the front hatch. "Afraid we got bad news for you."
I wisecracked, "Flight canceled?"
"Something like that … we can't fly you into Iran. Permission to land has been denied."
I breathed a hopeful sigh of relief. "What now?"
"We're going to overnight here and await orders, but…" he sensed my reluctance and grinned, "the base travel office has you booked on a Lufthansa flight to Tehran leaving in forty-five minutes. Better get your gear, a car is being sent to take you over to the civilian terminal."
Jack, clearly disgusted, responded, "Captain, we have a bag of gear we can't take it with us on a civilian flight."
"No problem, we'll get you a lockable crate and return it back to your unit. That okay?"
"Guess we have no choice, thanks."
The captain returned to the cockpit and I asked Jack, "Think we need to notify Wilson?"
"Dunno, your call, you're in charge."
"Don't have enough time if we're going to catch our flight. Wilson would only tell us to forge ahead anyway." I knew exactly how he operated: the mission came first. "Aren't you concerned about leaving the weapons?"
Amadeo answered, "Look, weapons are only a last resort when all else fails. We'll just have to play it smart. We would anyway."
"How are we going to handle our personal security without weapons?" Iran was falling apart, anything could happen, it usually does. That old helplessness feeling started to creep in again.
Jack responded, "Look, leaving the weapons behind only costs us one layer of security. The inner layer is to mentally prepare for danger. It's critical to be alert and aware of the situation and assess where threats may come from. If you're not alert to a threat, you'll be helpless when it turns up."
His answer sounded a little too pat, like something from a manual. "What if they try to grab us or whatever?"
"We have to place ourselves in the potential kidnapper's shoes. They watch for an identifiable behavior pattern, set up surveillance, and look for choke points, a good place to set up an ambush. We need to be aware of potential choke points and be on our toes. That's the basic rules in a nutshell."
"Fine and good, but what if we meet up with a mob?" I watched the news during our layover at McGuire. It all looked unplanned to me, or at least out of control.
"Then all bets are off."
"What do we do? You guys got some Special Forces ninja tricks up your sleeves?"
"No, we run like hell."
Saturday, 6 January: Tehran, Iran
The cruel reality of traveling the streets under martial law struck for the third time since leaving the airport: a roadblock manned by soldiers. A green-clad private in full combat gear stuck his H&K G3 automatic rifle into the taxi and motioned for us to get out. We exited expeditiously and without argument. A sergeant snapped the passport from my hand. A young lieutenant dressed in combat fatigues marched over and examined our papers.
"Where are you going?" He spoke with only a slight accent, his voice icy, and face cold with all the emotion of a shark.
<
br /> "The Persepolis Hotel, we just arrived," answered Jack in Farsi.
The lieutenant handed the passports back, strode over to the driver’s window, and delivered a stinging tongue-lashing. The driver hesitated for a moment. The officer pulled out a knife and held it to his throat. The driver squealed in Farsi. The officer glared back at us and ordered him to say it again in English.
"Long Live Shah — Long Live Shah."
The officer told us, "It is not good you are arriving at this time. You are no longer welcome here." I believed him.
We hopped back into the cab. The driver had it in gear and rolling before we closed the doors.
Jack said, "We're lucky. The lieutenant was nervous. Don't think he knew what to do."
"What's the deal with the knife?"
"I spoke with a German on the plane. He told me two days ago a crowd tore down a statue of the Shah causing a major crackdown by the army. They ordered all cars to display the Shah's picture."
I asked Jack, "It's almost total chaos. Do you understand any of this?"
"Yeah, the army is trying to crack down big time, but I'm not sure it's going to work. Think they've already reached the tipping point."
"From what I've seen, this place looks like a modern city. Even more advanced than Turkey. Don't they like progress? Don't look too bad to me."
"I was here three years ago. My impression was, the cities are okay, but the villages are closer to the Middle Ages. The Shah—"
Amadeo poked me, "Look that guy with a beard has an AK-47." The driver goosed the pedal and sped on down the street.
"Don't look back," warned Jack. "You can appear to be too curious."
"You think it's all going to collapse."
"Afraid so, the fanatics will most likely destroy in a matter of months what took the Shah and his regime years to build. They're content with poverty and happy to die for Allah. In the end, progress was just superficial."
Amadeo spoke up, "Yeah, notice the people. Like something out of the dark ages: sullen faces, a silent brooding dread. It wasn't even this bad in Ethiopia."
"What started it?" I asked.
"Hate-filled mullahs whip mobs into frenzy, and then you have rioting. Heard reports of them attacking westerners no matter where they're from. It's a nasty business."
"Yeah, and we're right in the middle of it."
"Relax. It’s a fact of life, nobody gets out alive. When it's your time, it's your time."
Didn't want it to be my time, I wanted to spend my time with Lisette. We had spent too little time together. I wanted more time. My life had been empty before and now I had someone, the woman I loved, the woman I waited for my entire life. I wanted to turn around and go home, but couldn't, had a job to do, my duty. I couldn't live with myself if I turned back. I felt trapped, again.
At least she’s safe at home, not forced to share the danger this time. Gotta steel my nerves … done it before … gotta do it again. I’ll make it through this … have too.
Six blocks later, we slowed for another crowd, one composed of men with beards.
Amadeo nudged me. "Check out at these guys. Keep your eyes on their hands, watch for weapons."
The driver pulled down the picture of the Shah from the windshield and replaced it with Khomeini's. He carried two sets, one for each faction.
"Look at him, that's the third time he's switched photos. He slows down to gauge what group is ahead and pulls the correct photo out of the glove compartment."
Jack spoke to the driver in Farsi and received a reluctant acknowledgment. "He says he has to guess each time he meets a crowd. It depends on their dress or uniforms. He's got to get it correct or get beat up or worse."
"Think we'll run into any more problems?" I asked.
Jack spoke to the driver again. "He says the curfew will take effect in an hour. Most troops are busy putting down a major riot near the city center. Most of the guys we'll likely encounter are Khomeini supporters."
"How much longer?"
Amadeo spoke to the driver. "We're almost there."
A few blocks from the hotel, we met a crowd marching at gunpoint, chanting Long Live the Shah. The nervous driver switched photos one more time, he guessed correctly, and we made it to the hotel without incident.
Sunday, 7 January: Tehran
We spent the night listening to a riot close to our hotel. People yelling, horns honking, and the rumble of army tanks. Shots fired, moments later more shots from automatic weapons, and sirens, ambulances most likely. It tapered off, but shooting continued off in the distance all night. I managed a few hours' sleep.
Jack and Amadeo knocked on my door at 0800. We spoke only in general terms, greetings, small talk about breakfast, and finding a cab. Jack warned us on the way up the stairs to be careful, the rooms may be bugged. SAVAK, the Shah's secret police might be listening. We needed to be careful.
The dingy hotel dining room wasn't open. No one showed up for work. The day clerk, even more sullen than the night clerk, offered no help or sympathy. I asked if we had any messages. He ignored me. I silently vowed to write a letter to Arthur Frommer.
I gave up and joined Jack and Amadeo by the front entrance. "Looks like we're on our own, let's go to the embassy first and check in, maybe they can give us a heads-up on the situation."
Amadeo grimaced. "Yeah, it's not what I expected. Got a feeling the colonel may've underestimated the situation here."
Jack seemed unconcerned. "I'll get us a cab. You guys hang back. I may have a better chance on my own."
* * *
We sped down the street in a taxi. Debris clogged the streets, downed trees and dark red stains appeared almost every block.
The driver refused to let us out at the embassy and dropped us off two blocks away. We threaded our way through a throng of bearded young protesters to the front gate. They chanted, "American Satan — American Satan." I wasn't sure if Satan was American, but he seemed busy on the streets of Tehran.
Safe inside, we met a military attaché, an Army captain. After telling him our needs, he suggested we hit the snack bar for a quick breakfast.
I pointed towards the street. "How long's this been going on?"
"Off and on for a few weeks, there's little to worry about right now. The army still has control … at least for the time being."
"Do you think the military will step in and take over?" asked Jack.
"General Huyser, deputy commander of European Command, will be here tomorrow. He's coming to prevent any attempt at a coup by the generals. I'm afraid that's not what they want to hear."
"What are they expecting?" I asked.
"They want the U.S. to look the other way if they decide to overthrow the government. They're afraid the Russian's will invade if they do take over and want us to step in and prevent it. No way that's going to happen though. Afraid his visit will just make things worse, but that's way above my pay grade."
"I need to go to the comm center and let our CO know we've arrived. We're supposed to go out to Doshan Tapeh Air Base and check in. No one met us at the airport or the hotel. Need to find out what's going on."
"The unofficial word is no one knows what's going on. It gets worse every day."
* * *
After exchanging teletype messages with Colonel Wilson, we decided to head back to the Hotel and await further orders. He said someone would pick us up later, or tomorrow morning.
We repeated the gauntlet through the demonstrators. After a half-dozen tries, Jack hailed a willing taxi driver three blocks from the embassy. Jack implored him in Farsi and we jumped in. A picture of the Shah sat on the dashboard.
Half way to the hotel, a group surged onto the street chasing a woman dressed in a blue pantsuit. The raucous pack followed her yelling obscenities. One guy had his pants open.
"Looks like she needs help."
The driver halted and switched pictures on the dash. Jack questioned him in Farsi. "He says she's dressed like a prostitute. Those guys are fundame
ntalists who believe women should only appear in public wearing the Chador, the black robe that covers them from head to toe. They believe women fall into two categories: submissive wives, or prostitutes."
"Can we do anything to help?"
"Not unless you want to get us all killed — Uh oh, here they come." The crowd, not big enough to be a mob, but dangerous enough, spotted us, left the woman to a bearded hard case, and surged our way.
The driver stuck his head out the window and yelled to the ringleader. Not satisfied, the large bearded man leaned over, stared into the car, and screamed.
Jack shouted back but didn't satisfy the man. The fanatic chanted in English, "Death to American Satan." The crowd joined in and surrounded the taxi. "Death to American Satan"
We sat surrounded. Fists pounded the taxi. I pondered our options, we didn't aim to get involved, but we were. A young man with a scraggly beard placed his hand through the open window, pointed at me, and shouted in heavily accented English, "You spy." I wasn't sure if it was a question or an accusation. He screamed, louder, "You spy."
I brushed his hand away. "No." Half-true, I wasn't here to spy on him, but it probably made no difference. He yelled something to the crowd that sent them into frenzy. He leaned in again and screamed, "What you do here?" Before I could answer, a volley of shots brought the tirade to a halt.
Soldiers with fixed bayonets double-timed down the street and descended on the crowd. The protestors dispersed in a flash, a violent ballet that would soon become familiar. The woman lay bleeding, ignored by the soldiers. The driver quickly switched pictures, dropped it into gear, and burned rubber, shooting straight through the soldiers.
The experience left me shaken. I wondered: How in hell did I get involved in this? Are we going to make it out alive? Jack and Amadeo seemed unruffled, just another day at the office for them.
14 ~ Tehran
Monday, 8 January: Doshan Tapeh Air Base
The next morning, we made our way without major incident to Doshan Tapeh Air Base, the main headquarters for the Iranian Air Force. Surrounded by a perimeter road, barbed wire topped fence, and guarded by jittery Iranian Air Force security troops, the installation contained the IBEX operations center. We reported in to the American liaison officer, a retired U.S. Air Force lieutenant colonel. He seemed less than happy to see us.
