Strike Force

by Dale Brown

  Azar smiled, nodded, and sat back in her seat. She looked out the window at the flat lake-strewn landscape of northern Minnesota. It was the only place she ever remembered, the only home she ever knew—and now she was leaving it, perhaps forever.

  “Are you sad to leave here, Shahdokht?” Saidi asked gently. “It is truly a beautiful land.”

  “You have grown strong and wise here, Princess,” Najar added. “There will always be a part of this land in you.”

  Azar took one last look, then resolutely closed the window shade and shook her head. “As soon as we can,” she said by way of response, removing her fatigue cap, touching her hair, and holding it out for them to see, “I want some hair coloring so I can get back to my natural-born hair color. I enjoyed being a redhead, Lieutenant, but I’m ready to be a dark-haired Persian again—now, and forever.”

  CHAPTER 5

  ARĀN, IRAN

  THE NEXT EVENING

  As the old line went: It was quiet…too quiet.

  General Mansour Sattari and his task force had captured or eliminated almost three full platoons of guards on their way to the Pasdaran warehouses outside Arān. So far the operation was going precisely as planned…

  …which made the general very, very nervous indeed. Even though the objective was in sight and so far they had suffered no casualties and met numerous but weak resistance, Sattari couldn’t suppress the feeling that something bad was going to happen.

  “I don’t like it, Babak,” Sattari said to his aide, Master Sergeant Babak Khordad, as they received the final report from the scouts. Khordad was an old crusty veteran when Sattari picked him over fifteen years ago to run his staff, and he hadn’t changed much—which was exactly the way the general preferred it. Even his name, which meant “little father” in Farsi, still accurately described him. “The reports were completely accurate: the warehouses are virtually unguarded. That has me worried—rumors and unverified reports from the field are never that accurate, unless they’re planted by the enemy.”

  “They have a large number of guards, sir,” Khordad said, “but they look to me like children. It’s as if they emptied out the conscripts’ training centers before they barely began, gave them a weapon and uniform, and put them to work guarding these warehouses.”

  “I agree,” Sattari said. “Where are the front-line Pasdaran forces, Babak?”

  “We do have reports stating that the Pasdaran is concentrating forces in the capital,” Khordad said. “Maybe the new government is pulling in all the well-trained troops to protect them at home.”

  “Maybe,” Sattari mused.

  “If you don’t feel right about this one, sir, let’s pull everyone out,” Khordad said. “If it smells like a trap, it probably is.”

  “But we’ve got two hundred men surrounding this area checking in every three minutes, and no one has spotted any sign of the front-line Pasdaran forces,” Sattari said. “Not even one helicopter in the past hour. From where we are now, we could completely empty three warehouses and be on the rail line heading into the system before the outer perimeter scouts spotted anything.”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Khordad said. “I still say, let’s withdraw and continue monitoring.”

  “Our intel says the Pasdaran is going to start emptying these warehouses in the next two days,” Sattari said. “They have the trucks and locomotives waiting—it’s going to happen soon. So far our intel has been spot-on. Besides, we’re running low on everything back at the base. We’ve got to do this tonight or it’ll be too late.”

  “That’s when it’s the worst time to do something, sir,” Khordad said.

  Sattari peered through his low-light binoculars again, scanning for any sign of a trap, but he saw and heard absolutely nothing. He had to press on. With a dozen heavy cargo trucks filled, they had enough supplies to keep their insurgency going for another month. That could spell the difference between success and failure.

  But the “little father” was worried—there was danger here. Why couldn’t he see it? “Maybe the Pasdaran has suffered so many losses, captures, and defections that soft targets like these warehouses were being lightly guarded?” he suggested. “Maybe they really are afraid of lingering chemical weapons effects…”

  “They know as well as we do what the persistence time of those chemical agents are, sir,” Khordad said. “And their detection equipment is better than ours. If it was safe, they’d be here. Something’s happening that we don’t know about.”

  “Could the warehouses be booby-trapped?”

  “Very likely, sir, although we saw a lot of those guards going in and out rather freely,” Khordad said. “It’s usually dangerous to turn initiators on and off whenever someone walks in and out like that—you’ll soon forget if you shut it off or not.”

  Sattari swore to himself, then picked up his radio. “Spider to Wolf.”

  “Go,” General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi responded.

  “We’ve arrived at point ‘Kangaroo.’ ‘Bedroom’ in sight, but I’m recommending we head back to the ‘nursery.’ Our ‘album’ is incomplete. Over.”

  “Understood. Bring it on back. We’ll take better pictures later. Wolf out.”

  “Okay, Master Sergeant,” Sattari said, putting away his command radio, “let’s set up the patrols and position for exfiltration before…”

  “Shit, what is he doing?” Khordad swore. Sattari lifted his night-vision binoculars. A squad of men had broken from cover and had bolted for their assigned warehouse, while another squad was commandeering trucks.

  “Call them back, damnit!”

  Khordad was already raising his radio to his lips: “Shark, Shark, this is Spider, get back! We’re heading back to ‘nursery.’ Acknowledge right now.”

  “Spider, we’re in, we’re in!” came the reply. “It’s all here, Spider, lined up and ready to load. We can have a truck loaded in two minutes.”

  “I said get out of there!” Khordad growled through clenched teeth, trying to communicate the urgency without raising his voice. “Acknowledge!”

  “Spider, this is Bear,” another squad leader radioed. “We’re in too. We’ve started loading two carriages already and the others are moving inside. We’ve already filled our baby bottles all the way. Recommend we proceed. Over.”

  “Sir?” Khordad asked.

  “Let’s get out of here, Babak,” Sattari said. “There will be other targets. This one looks poisonous. Bring them out now.”

  “Negative! Negative! Withdraw!” Khordad radioed. “Spider’s orders. All squads, acknowledge!”

  “Spider, this is Pony, we’re in too,” yet another squad leader radioed. “Let us play for just a few minutes more. This is the real party, and we want to stay for the cake.”

  Sattari grabbed Khordad’s radio and mashed the mike button: “All squads, this is Spider, I ordered you to withdraw, and that means right now! Get your asses moving and report at point Parlor. Do not acknowledge, just move out!” He tossed the radio back to Khordad and began scrambling out of their hiding place toward the perimeter fence. “Damn them! What a time for a discipline breakdown! I know they’re hungry and running low on everything, but they should know better than to…”

  “Sir, wait!” Khordad interrupted, holding his radio close to his ear. “I thought I heard another call.”

  Sattari raised his own radio to his ear and listened intently. “Another squad?”

  “I think it was one of the scouts, sir…”

  And at that moment they heard over their radios: “Spider, Spider, this is Sparrow, reporting in the blind, I say again, warning, warning, lightning storm, lightning storm, call the children in, repeat, call the children in!”

  “Ridan!” Sattari cursed. On his radio, he and Khordad both frantically called, “All Spider units, all Spider units, lightning storm, lightning storm, take cover!” Sattari then leaped to his feet, pulling Khordad and their security guard up onto their feet and pushing them toward the hole in the outer perimet
er fence about fifty meters away. “Move it, move it!” he shouted. “Shoot anyone that gets in your…!”

  Sattari didn’t hear the rest…because the entire warehouse complex erupted in a brilliant tidal wave of fire seconds later.

  From a dozen launch sites—some as far as fifteen kilometers away—multiple volleys of artillery, rockets, and guided missiles bombarded the warehouse complex all at once. Not only was every warehouse building individually targeted and completely obliterated, but the entire complex—parking lots, storage bins, loading ramps, fences, barracks, offices, and service buildings—were bracketed. Within two minutes, every square centimeter of the entire twenty-acre complex was hit multiple times.

  In moments, it was over—and not one thing was left standing in or around the complex.

  IMAM ALI MILITARY ACADEMY,

  TEHRAN, IRAN

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER

  After checking in with his supervisors by telephone, commander-in-chief of the Iranian armed forces General Hoseyn Yassini emerged from his quarters on the campus of the Imam Ali Military Academy in Tehran and began his early evening stroll across the grounds. He immediately identified at least one shadow, a young man dressed as a first-year cadet. He was far too young to be Pasdaran. More likely he was a komiteh officer, a religious-political functionary whose job it was to observe and report on any activities that might be considered a threat to the clerical regime. Like the zampolit political officers in the old Soviet Union, komiteh officers pervaded every level of Iranian life, watching and reporting on everyone from ordinary citizens on the streets to the highest levels of government. They were an abomination in a place like this military academy, but under the theocratic regime their presence was as demoralizing as it was pervasive.

  Yassini’s usual evening stroll while on restriction was down the wide sidewalks of the main cluster of buildings to the parade grounds, a couple kilometers of mostly well-lit, open areas. Formerly known as the Shah Reza Pahlavi Military Academy when Yassini attended here, it was changed to the Imam Ali Academy after the revolution. A few cadets were still on the streets. Yassini enjoyed stopping them and, after the initial shock of meeting the chief of staff wore off, speaking with them and learning about their studies and training while attending the school. For the most part, the cadets were eager, respectful, proud to be wearing the uniform, and determined to spend the next twenty to thirty years in service to the Faqih and their country. Thankfully, none of them seemed to know that he was here on house arrest or why, or if they did they didn’t show any signs of displeasure.

  After passing the main cluster of classroom buildings, Yassini came upon a large square courtyard, surrounded by the cadets’ barracks buildings. This was the Esplanade, or brigade assembly area, where the cadet units would gather and form up before marching off to class, functions, drills, or parades. At other times, the assembly area was used in that age-old custom familiar to cadets from all over the world for eons—marching off demerit points. Before any cadet could graduate from the Academy, he had to spend one hour marching back and forth in the assembly area for every point he had accumulated, dressed in full uniform and carrying an assault rifle. While marching, he could be grilled by any upperclassman on the Koran, any knowledge item, or critiqued on the condition of his uniform, and additional demerit points could be awarded. Cadets marched off points at any time of the day or night, in any weather, sometimes for an entire weekend if necessary to clear away demerits before graduation.

  Hoseyn Yassini was a good student and leader, but he was a terrible cadet, and he spent many, many hours on this dark marble square, either marching the demerits off or scrubbing it clean, which was another acceptable way of working off demerits. Being out here as a young officer gave him a clearer sense of duty and honor, and also sharpened his mind in preparation for the grilling he knew he would get.

  But he was not out here because of some nostalgic wish to visit, or coming here restored his soul of any lost humility or discipline.

  The assembly area had a small booth where a cadet officer was assigned to take down the name and unit of any cadet who arrived to march off demerits and to make sure the cadets performed properly while out here, and Yassini strolled over to the booth to chat with the cadet officer on duty. The cadet snapped to his feet and saluted as soon as he saw the general approach. “Cadet Sergeant Beheshi, Company Joqd, sir.”

  Yassini returned his salute. “Good evening, Cadet Sergeant,” he said. “How are you this evening?”

  “Very well, sir, thank you,” the cadet responded. “I hope you are well tonight, sir.”

  “I am, thank you.”

  “May I serve you in any way, General?”

  “I was wondering, Cadet Sergeant: are you happy here at the Academy?”

  The question took the cadet by surprise, but as expected he recovered very quickly: “I am proud and honored to serve the Supreme Leader and the people of the Islamic Republic, sir,” he replied, reciting the typical Academy mantra taught to every cadet from the moment they stepped foot on campus.

  “I can see you are, Cadet Sergeant, but I’m asking you: are you happy here?”

  Obviously the cadet didn’t like the question or its implications, because he uncharacteristically stammered: “I…I…yes, sir, I am very happy here.”

  “What field do you wish to serve in upon graduation?”

  “I will serve at the pleasure of the Supreme Leader and the people…”

  “No, Cadet, I mean, what service do you want? Surely you have a particular desire? A specific specialty?”

  The cadet still looked flustered, but he smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir. I wish to be a Special Forces commando, possibly even a Revolutionary Guards Corps brigade commander.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Because I believe it is vital to pursue the enemy beyond our own borders,” the cadet responded. “I do not wish to wait for the enemy to be upon us before we fight back—I want to destroy the enemy before he even leaves his base. Even better, destroy him before he leaves his home—destroy him while he’s in his home!”

  Yassini was taken aback by this show of utter ruthlessness. “So you wish to kill noncombatants even if no war is declared?”

  The cadet’s eyes looked a little panic-stricken. “I hope I haven’t offended you, sir,” he said.

  “No, not at all. Anything we say here is between us soldiers.” He could see the relief in the cadet’s eyes even in the dim light. “So, killing the enemy’s family in their homes is how you wish to fight?”

  “Yes, sir. I wish to see the terror in their faces as I dispatch them. I wish to see the faces of their neighbors, families, and friends when they find their slashed corpses lying in their beds. The horror of such an attack multiplies the power of the state a thousandfold.”

  “Is that what they teach you here, Cadet?”

  “Absolutely, sir. Concepts of asymmetric warfare, commando operations, guerrilla warfare, psychological combat…it is my favorite area of study. We take lessons from all of the guerrilla armies around the world throughout recent history—Hizb’ Allah, Islamic Jihad, Fatah, Hamas, Mehdi Army, al-Qaeda, the Viet Cong, the Tamil Tigers—study them, and adapt them to modern-day scenarios and equipment.”

  “Interesting. But what about areas such as air defense, border security, the submarine service, or land warfare?”

  “Those are fine areas of study, sir—for women,” the cadet responded. “Fear is the great multiplier, sir. You can detect and pursue a submarine, tank, or aircraft—but no one has yet developed a sensor or defense against fear. Create fear in the mind and heart of the enemy, and you almost don’t need a bullet or bomb to kill him.”

  “But attacking noncombatants…?”

  “All the better, sir. A soldier will not think about his unit or duty if he feels his family is in danger. That gives us the advantage.”

  My God, Yassini thought, is this really what the Academy is teaching its students these days? In his day, the Acade
my taught leadership, history, and tactics, not murder.

  “I must do my rounds and report to my superior officer, sir,” the cadet said. “Please stay here if you wish. I will have some tea brought from the mess.”

  “Thank you, Cadet. I think I will stay awhile longer. It was a pleasure speaking with you, Cadet Sergeant.”

  “The pleasure was mine, sir. Good evening.” He saluted and departed.

  A few minutes later, just as Yassini was thinking about heading back to his quarters for the evening, an orderly arrived with a large copper pot of tea and a basket of cups, sugar, and cinnamon sticks. “Thank you, sir,” Yassini said as the orderly poured.

  “So, you old fart, the new generation has you a little bewildered and flustered, eh?” the orderly asked. Yassini looked at him in surprise…and saw none other than General Hesarak Buzhazi smiling back at him. He was dressed in servants’ robes and pants, but he could see his combat boots under his robe and perhaps the bulge of a weapon underneath. “Disappointed no one wants to fly helicopters or go up against stealth bombers and smart missiles anymore?”

  “What in hell are you doing here, you crazy idiot? The entire country is out looking for you.”

  “The Academy is the last place they’d look, Hoseyn,” Buzhazi said. He looked at Yassini seriously. “I told you they were going to retaliate against you, Hoseyn, and now here you are, on house arrest. Why are you just standing around like some pea-brained sheep waiting for the slaughter? You should get out of here now, before you have more than just one brainless snot-nosed komiteh goon on your ass.”

  “Did you kill him too?”

  “I didn’t have to. He is gone beating off or something—he thought you were just going out on your evening constitutional and left. That’s the kind of idiots Zolqadr has working for him. Why the hell don’t you get away from here, Hoseyn? They think you’re just a scared tottering old man. Save yourself while you can.”