Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (138 page)

“Warning! Helicopters inbound from the north!”
Buzhazi's radio blared.

“Hopefully just scouts, using low-light TV or infrared to take a look as the main force moves in,” Buzhazi said. He and Sattari quickly scanned the skies. “Two Mi-35 attack helicopters,” he announced. “Staying pretty high. Get out the Strelas and let's see if we can…” At that moment he saw two bright flashes of light from one of the helicopters. “Get out! Get out!” he screamed, then jumped through the doorway leading to the spiral staircase that threaded down the inside of the minaret. He never let his boots touch the steps, but half-slid, half-tumbled down the stairs as fast as he could. He was being pushed along by someone cascading down the steps even faster than he…

…and seconds later, the darkness was split open by a thunderous explosion, a wave of searing heat, and the force of a thousand pieces of stone being propelled in all directions. Whoever was above Buzhazi was now on top of him, and they cartwheeled down the stairs together until they reached a landing about seven meters from the top.

The minaret was wobbling and shuddering, threatening to shatter apart at any moment, so as soon as he could, Buzhazi grabbed whoever had fallen on top of him and began hauling him down the steps. The tower somehow held as they emerged into the sanctuary adjacent to the mosque.

“Allah akbar! Allah akbar!”
Mansour Sattari cried as Buzhazi half-carried, half-dragged him outside and away from the teetering minaret. “They fired a damned missile on us!”

“I'm a damned fool—I believed the Pasdaran still only used handheld weapons on their helicopters,” Buzhazi said. “They've obviously upgraded to guided air-to-surface missiles.”

“And I thought they wouldn't dare attack the mosque,” Sattari
said, trying to clear the unbelievably loud ringing in his ears. “I guess we were both wrong.”

Buzhazi raised his walkie-talkie, fighting to get his breathing under control before keying the “TALK” button: “Strela teams one through twenty, prepare to engage, north quadrants, but stay out of sight until they're within range,” Buzhazi ordered. “Repeat, no one fires until we're sure the Mi-35s are within range. Report when secure and ready. All other Strela teams, hold your positions.”

Just then a strange voice came through the walkie-talkie: “‘Teams one through twenty?' How interesting, General.”

Shit, he thought, their frequency was not just being monitored—they were talking on it now as well! “All teams go to Yellow,” Buzhazi ordered.

But he knew that wasn't going to work—after all, they were fighting fellow Iranians, not foreigners. A few moments after he switched to the secondary frequency, he heard: “Sorry, General, but we know that channel, and we know the third one you have available as well, so you might as well stay on Yellow so you don't confuse your fellow traitors. So, did you like the fireworks show up in the minaret? You move pretty fast for an old man.”

“I have plenty of surprises in store for you.”

“I'm sure you do, General,” the caller responded. “May I suggest you stop with the claims you have twenty or more Strela launchers—we inventoried all of the missiles you or the other deserters, traitors, and criminals could have possibly stolen, and subtracting those you have already fired, we think you have perhaps a half-dozen remaining. A good diversionary tactic, though. My congratulations on your quick thinking.”

“This sounds like Ali Zolqadr,” Buzhazi radioed back, trying any way he could think of to regain any sort of advantage in the eyes of those who were listening in. “I thought you were running the Pasdaran interrogation centers, torturing and killing honest soldiers just to prove your loyalty to the mullahs.”

“Another good piece of disinformation on an open channel,
General,” the man said. This time, however, it wasn't a complete lie: Ali Zolqadr had been Muhammad Badi's “wet worker,” supervising the capture—or assassination—of anyone wanted by the state, no matter what nationality or where in the world they might be. He was obviously so good at his job that he had been promoted to deputy commander of the Pasdaran and was now, with Badi's death, in charge of destroying the insurgency. “Let's get down to business, General. As you saw, I have full authority from the Supreme Defense Council to take any and all steps necessary to crush this pitiful insurgency.”

“Like firing a missile at a mosque? Aren't you afraid of burning for eternity in the fires of Hell?”

“This from the man who invaded one of Qom's holiest sites and are holding a number of clerics hostage,” Zolqadr said. “Your fate is sealed, General, and anything I might do pales in comparison to your crimes. Any destruction of the holy sites or deaths of anyone inside the Khomeini Library will of course be blamed on you.

“I simply want you to realize that I have the capability, authority, and temerity to simply level that building if I so desired. I want to avoid any more bloodshed and desecration. The deaths of your followers would be entirely on your head, and I don't think you want to spoil their memories by sentencing them to eternal condemnation in the eyes of their fellow citizens. Your leadership skills are legendary, but I don't think you wished to use your extraordinary skills to lead these men to public and humiliating executions.

“Therefore, my demand is simple: surrender immediately and only you and General Sattari will be held criminally responsible for this uprising. The others will be tried in military courts under jurisdiction of the Ministry of Defense, not the Pasdaran. Only those who have been identified as actually raising a weapon against a fellow Iranian will face capital punishment—all others will face confinement only. All will be dealt with as Iranian soldiers, not as common criminals, with all rights and privileges.”

“Zolqadr, all of my men have been told in no uncertain terms
they have the option at any time to turn over their weapon and leave,” Buzhazi radioed back. “The men that marched into this house of lies and corruption did so willingly, knowing that the Pasdaran, the Ministry of Defense, the Supreme Defense Council, and the Council of Guardians would consider them not just criminals but unclean infidels unworthy of Islamic justice under the Koran. They had every opportunity to leave, remove their uniforms, and disappear into the population. Some did just that. The rest stayed, and we will fight.”

“Brave words, General
,”
Zolqadr said. “Their deaths will be on your head. You have one more chance, General, and then anyone in that place not wearing a Pasdaran uniform will die. I will give you and your men thirty minutes to throw open those gates and come out with your hands on your head, or my men will roll in, slaughter everyone inside, and burn your bodies in a hole in the desert like garbage. To all of General Buzhazi's men listening to this message, I promise you if you surrender now you will not be harmed. Ignore Buzhazi's megalomania and come out peacefully. This war is at an end.”

Buzhazi mashed the mike button: “All units, this is General Buzhazi. Any man who wants to surrender, report to the main astan-e in the Khomeini mosque without your weapons. I order that any man who wishes to surrender to the Pasdaran not be harmed. May Allah preserve you—because I guarantee the Pasdaran won't. You have fifteen minutes to report to the sanctuary. All others, prepare to repel invaders.”

Buzhazi looped the walkie-talkie over his shoulder, and he and Sattari trotted from the mosque across the courtyard to the library. Buzhazi was thankful he didn't see any men heading the other way toward the mosque. Inside the library, he made his way to the roof, the best place to observe the Pasdaran's deployment. His staff officers were down behind the front wall of the roof, drawing diagrams of the approaching armored vehicles. He noticed none of his senior staff had departed, although the roof had fewer guards on them than before—and he noticed none of the officers
or senior enlisted men had weapons in hand. The thought had crossed his mind that they might save their own skins by killing or arresting him—he was glad that option had apparently not been exercised. “I hope I'm worthy of the loyalty you show me this morning, gentlemen,” he said. “Status report.”

“We count three battalions approaching our position,” the operations officer responded, “one from the northwest, one from the west, and one from the southwest. We can't see them yet, but we expect a fourth battalion to position itself east to cut off any escape, and the helicopter attack units to come in from the north with a clear field of fire to the south.”

Buzhazi crawled over to the edge of the wall and peeped over the top, with just his binoculars and the top of his helmet protruding above. “Platoons appear to be motor-rifle units in BTR-60s led by one Zulfiqar main battle tank,” he observed. “One or two mortar platoons breaking off from the echelon to set up. I see the battalion headquarters vehicles—looks like they have BMPs, riding right up front, the cocky bastards. They are still marching in echelon at reduced speed, range approximately four kilometers.”

“I think the mines on the bridges got their attention,” Sattari said, laughing. The laughter was a welcome break to the decidedly funereal mood that had descended on the roof.

“Nine BTRs and one Zulfiqar tank per company, still in echelon formation, command vehicles still in the fore. What are they waiting for?”

“Same formation to the southwest, sir,” Sattari reported. “Command vehicles out front, no flank guards, and just a few scouts. They'll have us surrounded and within a kilometer of the wall in less than thirty minutes.”

“A hundred BTRs, nine tanks, a mortar platoon, and a thousand troops—we have to assume the fourth battalion is waiting to the east,” Buzhazi said.

“It's only a six to one advantage,” Sattari said. “Normally the Pasdaran doesn't engage in any battle unless they're ahead ten to one.” He looked at his commanding general. “I was expecting
more. I'm disappointed.” He returned to his scanning, adding under his breath, “We're still going to get slaughtered, but they could have expended a little more effort to do it.”

“This is a massive operation for the Pasdaran—they're accustomed to sabotage, kidnapping, sneak-and-peek, and kicking down doors of frightened civilians in the dead of night,” Buzhazi observed.

“The radio chatter between those battalion headquarters vehicles must be fierce,” Sattari said. “They're spread out too far to see each other or use light signals. If we could only destroy those command vehicles, we might have a chance to stall this offensive.”

Buzhazi thought for a moment—it was obvious he had been thinking the same thing. “There might be a way,” he said.

Sattari looked at his commanding officer's face and read it immediately. “I thought you said the spirit of the old Basij was dead, sir,” he said.

“Maybe not quite yet, my friend.” He outlined his plan to Sattari, who issued orders right away.

 

Colonel Ali Zolqadr stepped out of his BMP command vehicle, hands on his hips, and observed the battalion spread out behind him with immense glee. He took a deep breath of already-warm, dry desert air. “A nice morning for a bloodbath, eh, Major?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Zolqadr's aide, Major Kazem Jahromi, responded. He nervously looked outside the armored personnel carrier.

“Uh…sir, we're only at three kilometers range to the wall, sir. Perhaps you'd better get back in the vehicle.”

“I'll be up there in the commander's cupola before too long, Major, but I wanted to step out onto the field of battle before we start to roll in,” Zolqadr said. “This is my first armored field assault—in fact, I believe I'm leading the first Pasdaran armored assault since the American attacks against us over eleven years ago.” He took another deep breath. “This is where every commander
belongs, Major—at the head of his forces, leading the charge. This is definitely where I belong.” He looked at his watch. “How long before their deadline to surrender is up?”

“Just a few minutes now, sir.” A few moments later, from well inside the armored vehicle: “Sir, scouts report trucks coming out of the compound with white flags.”

“How many?”

“Six, sir. Covered five-ton delivery trucks. Two approaching each battalion formation.”

“Six! With…what, twenty men per vehicle? Maybe thirty? Looks like a good percentage of Buzhazi's rebel forces are deserting him! Excellent news!”

Soon they could see two trucks moving slowly toward them, a white bedsheet tied to the radio antenna serving as their flag of surrender. For the first time he felt a thrill of panic for being at the head of this column of vehicles as the trucks moved closer. “Don't let the bastards near the battalions!” Zolqadr shouted to his headquarters unit commander. “Stop them well short of the battalions and have them get out of the vehicles one by one. Make sure the men don't rough them up. Let the others still inside see how well they'll be treated, and maybe we'll draw a few more out. Make them all feel welcome—before we execute their traitorous asses.”

“Don't shoot, Zolqadr,” he heard over his radio. “We're waving surrender flags. May Allah condemn you and your descendants to eternal damnation if you violate a flag of surrender.”

“It's Buzhazi!” Zolqadr shouted in glee. He raised his binoculars and, sure enough, saw the general himself driving one of the trucks! “Tell the rest of First Battalion I want Buzhazi alive!” he shouted to his aide. “If he tries anything, disable the truck, but don't kill Buzhazi!” He picked up his portable radio. “Are you surrendering too, General? How surprisingly wise of you.”

“I'm only doing this to be sure my men who wish to surrender will be treated fairly, as you promised, like Iranian soldiers and not criminals,” Buzhazi radioed. “I intend to return to the library
after I drop off these brave men and continue my fight for freedom, and if you try to capture me, the whole world will know what a coward you are.”