Strike Force

by Dale Brown

  Yassini’s aide came in, bowed politely to Buzhazi, and handed Yassini a memo. Here it comes, Buzhazi said to himself—this whole conversation had been nothing more than a way for Yassini to stall until a decision had been made…“General, the Supreme Defense Council has ordered you to be placed under arrest until the conclusion of its investigation into the attack on Orumiyeh,” Yassini said tonelessly.

  “If you have me put in prison, Hoseyn, the investigation will get bogged down and nothing will ever happen except the obligatory rounding-up of the ‘usual suspects,’” Buzhazi said. “Let me, or the members of my staff, lead a special forces team into Iraq and Turkey. It was Kurdish commandos, I know it. It won’t take long to…”

  “The investigation is already underway, General.”

  “Who is in charge?”

  “I am.”

  “No, Hoseyn—I mean, really in charge.” The commander-in-chief’s face turned stony with anger. “Listen, General, you have some discretion here. Put me under house arrest—that way I can continue to receive reports and coordinate activities with…”

  “That’s not possible right now, Hesarak,” Yassini said. He hit a button on his desk telephone, and his aide entered the office, followed by two security guards with AK-74 rifles at port-arms. “Someone has to pay for what’s happened. There was a major breach of security protocols, and the Supreme Defense Council believes it was a lack of leadership and attention to detail.”

  “Sounds like they’ve already made up their minds,” Buzhazi said. Yassini said nothing in reply. Buzhazi knew he had only one chance left. “Listen to me, Hoseyn,” he said, stepping close to the commander-in-chief so he could lower his voice. “Don’t play along with this. Imprisoning me is just a knee-jerk reaction to a much broader problem. Iran is concentrating too much on foreign affairs and neglecting internal and frontier security—you know this as well as I. They’re masking their inept military policies by blaming it all on me.”

  “No. There will be an investigation. I will…”

  “You know how these so-called ‘investigations’ turn out, Hoseyn—you’ve conducted just as many as I,” Buzhazi said. “The report is dismissed and destroyed as soon as it reaches the Council. The Supreme Defense Council—check that, the mullahs on the Council—have already decided who’s to blame. I’m the scapegoat, nothing more.”

  “I will conduct a thorough investigation,” Yassini insisted, “and if it’s shown that you did all you could to prevent the attack, you’ll be exonerated and restored to duty with all privileges.”

  “Have you ever known an officer to be returned to full active duty status after landing in prison, Hoseyn?”

  “Yes—you.”

  “I wasn’t sent to prison, Hoseyn—I was stripped of my rank and privileges and sent to the hinterlands to be killed by young radical Islamists,” Buzhazi corrected him. “Some of the mullahs thought I defended the republic adequately—all the others wanted to see me dead.”

  “I think you are becoming a bit paranoid, Hesarak,” Yassini said. “I’ll protect you the best I can, my friend, but sometimes I think you are your own worst enemy. Serve your detention in silence, accept responsibility, appoint one of the Council member’s deputies to take your place, beg for forgiveness, and I believe you will be given a short time in a work camp and then a common discharge. You have served this nation well—they won’t punish you severely unless they find true negligence or criminal misconduct.”

  “The deputies serving for the Council are nothing but brainless spoiled rotten sycophants…”

  “Maybe you deserve to spend a little time in prison, General—a little hard labor might improve your attitude.” He shook his head and wrote orders on the message he received from the Supreme Defense Council. “You are to be sent to a Bureau detention facility. I’ll see to it that…”

  “A Bureau facility?” Buzhazi retorted. This bit of news really scared him. The Edarehe Hefazat va Ettelaate Sepah, or Intelligence Bureau, was the Pasdaran military and internal intelligence agency, run by a Pasdaran two-star general. If the Pasdaran itself was fearsome, the Intelligence Bureau was a hundred times worse, because it was from their intensive espionage and monitoring activities that the Pasdaran derived its power. Even though the Pasdaran itself had been officially merged into the unified military command, the Intelligence Bureau still operated quite separately from the military. “I thought you said you were handling the investigation? Why don’t you assign me to your staff investigation directorate? Why aren’t they handling the investigation if you have been assigned the task?”

  “The Pasdaran handles investigations involving possible security breaches inside military units…”

  “No, the Pasdaran handles the ‘wet work’ for the mullahs,” Buzhazi interjected. “You might as well just put a bullet in my brain now, Hoseyn. They’ll come up with whatever verdict the mullahs want.”

  “Be sure not to say any of that at your deposition, General,” Yassini said, nodding to the guards to take him away.

  The Pasdaran headquarters, including their directorates of operations and intelligence, was located at Doshan Tappeh Air Base on the eastern outskirts of Tehran; the heavily fortified installation was also the headquarters of Iran’s air force, air logistics command, and several aircraft maintenance, repair, and modification centers. Buzhazi was taken inside the Pasdaran headquarters compound, a thirty-acre walled fortress on the northwestern side of the air base, and turned over to a very large, burly, bearded jailer who looked as if he lived in the subfloor jails. He was ushered into the central building, down two flights of stairs, and down a long corridor to the detention facility. He was taken past several dozen locked solid steel jail cells to an in-processing room, which had a fingerprint station, desk, computer, stainless-steel examination table, file cabinets—and, Buzhazi noted, sound-deadening tiles on the walls and ceiling.

  “Strip, prisoner,” the big jailer ordered after his handcuffs had been removed.

  “As you were, Corporal,” Buzhazi said. “You’re speaking to a general officer.”

  “I said strip, prisoner,” the jailer growled again.

  “My name is General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi, commander in chief of the Iranian Internal Defense Forces. You will address me as ‘sir’ or ‘general.’” The jailer reached out to grab Buzhazi, but the general deflected the jailer’s hands away. “You dare use physical force against a superior officer?” He was careful not to scream or curse at the jailer—he wanted to sound authoritative, not crazy or threatening. “Before I was chief of the general staff, I was commander of all Iranian Shock Troops.” The jailer was surprised to hear that his prisoner was the former chief of staff. Buzhazi hoped that the corporal would equate the disbanded “Shock Troops” with “Pasdaran” and back off a bit—the Pasdaran had no respect whatsoever for the regular army. “We were taught how to immobilize the biggest man without weapons. I won’t hurt you, but I will not allow you to abuse me like a common criminal.”

  “You will stop resisting and comply, prisoner.” He reached for him again, eyes blazing in fury. Buzhazi let the jailer grasp him by his tunic, then easily broke the jailer’s grip and shoved him away, digging the tip of his thumb into the man’s sternum. Even though the jailer easily had thirty kilos on the general, Buzhazi knew exactly where the vulnerable pressure points on a man were.

  Now the jailer was completely confused. Buzhazi saw him glance at the red alarm button on the wall, and he knew if he reached that button, Buzhazi would be restrained…or, more likely, shot for resisting. “Corporal,” Buzhazi said quickly, in a bit more conciliatory voice, “I am not going to tell you again: I am a general in the Iranian military, and I have not been charged with a crime. You will address me as ‘general’ or ‘sir,’ and you will not attempt to touch me, is that clear? If you extend to me this ordinary sign of respect, I will comply with your instructions.”

  The jailer was obviously now concerned that he couldn’t handle this thin, older man by h
imself; afraid that he would be dismissed from this post, perhaps even punished, for not doing his job. “You must obey my orders…”

  “And so must you, Corporal,” Buzhazi said. “What are your orders?” The jailer blinked and said nothing. “You were not given any orders, so you assumed I was to be treated like any other prisoner and processed in the usual manner, correct?” The jailer was obviously still mentally wrestling with this very nonstandard encounter. “What is your name, Corporal?”

  “Tahmasbi…” Buzhazi let his eyes dig into the jailer’s until he added, “Sir.”

  “Corporal Tahmasbi, as your superior officer,” Buzhazi said in an even, trusting, measured voice, “I instruct you to secure me in a conference room, with access to a telephone and computer if available. Bring in some fresh juice for me from the mess. If there are any other flag grade officers in this facility that have not been charged with a crime, bring them in here as well.” The jailer just stood there, dumbfounded. “Corporal? Do you understand these instructions?”

  “Yes, sir, but…”

  “But what? Do any of my orders violate your general orders or any other orders you have been issued since you have assumed this post?”

  The jailer thought for a moment, and his eyes brightened. “No, sir, they do not.”

  “Then get your ass in gear, now,” Buzhazi said. “If your sergeant major has any questions, have him come see me. Now take me to a conference room.”

  “Yes, sir.” The jailer averted his eyes and opened the door to the processing room.

  “Corporal Tahmasbi.” The jailer stopped as if stuck in concrete. “You can’t just let me walk out of here, can you? I’m supposed to be in your custody.” The jailer meekly nodded and carefully, almost gingerly, took Buzhazi by the arm. “And, Corporal?”

  “Sir?”

  “Just because you work in the jails and generally only see the scum of our proud military does not mean you can go around with an unkempt beard, dirty uniform, and unpolished boots,” Buzhazi said, looking the man directly in the eyes, not raising his voice at all but speaking firmly and authoritatively. “If you want to act like a soldier, look like a soldier. And get yourself into a gym and replace that fat with some muscle. I can teach you how to control a man with the lightest touch, but I need something to work with first. Get yourself into shape and I’ll make a shock trooper out of you in no time.”

  Things went much easier from that moment on. Buzhazi allowed himself to be led by the upper left arm—it would look better to others if the jailer physically held him—through the hallway to a large briefing room where each shift was briefed before beginning their tour of duty. That was where they found a Pasdaran master sergeant at a desk, doing paperwork. As soon as Buzhazi saw the noncommissioned officer in the room, he loosened himself from the jailer’s grasp and strode ahead of him. The master sergeant saw the general enter the room, shot to his feet, and stood at attention. “Room, atten-shun!” he said.

  “As you were, master sergeant,” Buzhazi said. “I am General Buzhazi, commander of the Iranian Internal Defense Forces. I have need of this room.” He turned to the jailer. “Thank you, Corporal. Carry on.” The jailer snapped to attention, then got out of there as fast as he could. Buzhazi turned back to the NCO. “Your name, Master Sergeant?”

  “Fattah, sir.”

  “Do you recognize me, Master Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir. You…are the former chief of staff. I believe you are currently commander of the Basij…”

  “I prefer they be referred to as the Internal Security Forces,” Buzhazi corrected him. The master sergeant nodded, his mind obviously still in a bit of confusion as to what was going on. “You were notified of my arrival here?”

  “The message informed me that you are to be held here until further notice. You will be sent to a separate wing until…”

  “Until my office is ready, this room will suffice.”

  The NCO hesitated. “Office, sir?”

  “I’m here to organize the detail that will be sent out to hunt down the terrorists that perpetrated the attack on my units in Orumiyeh.”

  “But I thought…er, I thought…”

  “We don’t think around here, Master Sergeant—we have orders which must be obeyed until officially countermanded by legitimate orders from a verified higher authority. What are your orders regarding me, Master Sergeant?”

  “I…I was told in the message to hold you and await instructions.”

  “I am issuing additional instructions to you now,” Buzhazi said, “that do not violate any other orders and as such you will obey immediately. You will clear two phone lines for me and give me the passcodes to access the secure high-speed computer network lines. Where are my staff officers?”

  “‘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,” Buzha
zi 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.”