by Dale Brown
“Maybe Zolqadr doesn’t want to blast his own base to smithereens with his rockets—at least not yet,” Buzhazi said. “Let’s not wait to find out. What about our scroungers?”
“They’re still loading up trucks as fast as they can,” Zhoram said. “I told them to get ready to move out at any moment.”
“The moment is now,” Buzhazi said. “Everyone out. If the men have to drop them to escape, so be it.”
“Yes, sir.” As he issued the evacuation orders, they heard sounds of turbine engines spooling up. They turned toward the flight line and saw pilots and crew chiefs running toward the attack helicopters parked below. “Fire in the hole!” Zhoram said, and he activated the remote-control detonators for the explosives they had planted on the choppers. But only two of the six detonators activated. After a few moments of confusion, the Pasdaran crewmembers started heading back to the undamaged helicopters, with security forces frantically scanning the area with assault rifles, looking for the source of the attack.
“Damn it, four detonators didn’t go off,” Zhoram swore. “My men picked the wrong time to screw up.” Buzhazi wondered about that: his saboteurs had been nothing short of miraculous up until now, planting devices in the most unreachable yet vital spots with very little apparent difficulty. Now with this, their most important mission, four crucial explosives fail to operate…? “You’d better get out of here, sir.” Zhoram signaled to his security man, who lifted a grenade launcher, loaded a 30-millimeter anti-personnel round, and fired one at the closest helicopter. He managed to scatter the crewmembers for that chopper only, but the other three helicopters still made preparations for takeoff.
“Don’t stay up here too long, Kamal,” Buzhazi said, scrambling for the ladder.
“Don’t worry, Hesarak—I’ll be right behind you,” Zhoram said.
Security forces on the flight line were already returning fire, forcing Zhoram’s guard to scramble for cover. Zhoram picked up his own grenade launcher and fired a round at the Pasdaran guards, but more defenders were on the way and returning fire, and the helicopters were almost ready for takeoff. He adjusted the grenade launcher’s sight for maximum range, aiming for the helicopter that seemed the most ready for takeoff, and fired. But he was a missileer, not an infantryman. It had been years—no, decades—since he had fired a grenade launcher, and he had never fired one like this, and his round flew far from the mark. Moments later the helicopter, a Russian-made Mil Mi-24 attack helicopter, lifted off.
Damn, he swore at himself, they were too late. Zhoram could see the quad 12.7-millimeter machine gun in its remote-controlled chin turret turning back and forth, active and looking for targets—namely, whoever had been lobbing grenades onto the flight line. Zhoram couldn’t tell what kind of weapons were on its stubby weapon pod wings, but he assumed they were even nastier than that machine gun. Time to get off this roof and out of this area. He shouted, “Get going! Get off the roof! Now!” His guard wasted absolutely no time—he was across the roof and sliding down the ladder in the blink of an eye. Zhoram slung his grenade launcher over one shoulder, looped the bandolier of grenades over the other, and ran as fast as he could toward the…
From less than a kilometer away, the machine gun’s bullets arrived before the sound did, and with an extremely accurate eye-pointing telescopic sight slaved to the pilot’s helmet, he could not miss. Over four dozen rounds pierced Zhoram’s body in less than half a second, killing him before his body fell to the hangar roof. A bullet then hit one of the grenades Zhoram was carrying, obliterating whatever was left of his body.
Buzhazi knew that he had probably lost Zhoram the second he heard the smooth, deep-throated “BRRRRRR!” sound of that attack helicopter’s cannon behind him and the blast that followed. He turned and saw the big attack helicopter hovering over the hangar, pedal-turning and looking for more targets, then lining up directly on him. There was no time to run, no place to hide…
But seconds later a grenade round came out of nowhere, exploding right on the helicopter’s tail rotor. Smoke started pouring from the chopper’s transmission, and it turned, wobbling back toward the flight line for an emergency landing. Buzhazi turned and saw Zhoram’s security officer running toward the flight line, his smoking grenade launcher in his hands. They waved at each other, and the security officer took cover behind a concrete guard shack and motioned to the general that there was no sign of pursuit.
Buzhazi nodded and put his radio up to his lips: “Rat units, report.”
The voice on the channel made a cold chill zip up and down Buzhazi’s spine: “R…Rat One, Rat One…sir, they’re gone, they’re all gone…sir,” someone from the first warehouse raiding team radioed frantically, “sir, help me, help me, I’ve lost my right leg, it’s gone, sir, help me…”
“Hold on, son, hold on,” Buzhazi said. “Help is on the way. Rat Two, report.” No response. “Rat Three.”
“Three is almost out, heading to rendezvous point Beta,” someone responded. Buzhazi heard the sounds of gunfire and men screaming in the background.
“Acknowledged, Rat Three,” Buzhazi responded. “Sing out if you need any help. Protect yourselves at all costs. Dump the supplies and fight your way to safety if you have to.” No response. He received reports from just one more of the seven scrounger teams he had sent in. Just two teams out of seven were on their way; he didn’t recognize any of the voices that responded, meaning the team leaders were dead or captured; and no one said how many in each team were left. He probably wouldn’t find out until they all met at the rendezvous point…if then.
Buzhazi was about to head back to the security building, but stopped and dropped to the ground when he heard a shot ring out. Following the direction of the gunshot, he turned and saw one of his company commanders, Flight Captain Ali-Reza Kazemi, dragging the body of one of the security officers—he realized it was the security officer that had just saved him from getting mowed down by that same attack chopper!—to the side of a small concrete block guard shack outside the flight line fence. He quickly scanned the area, looking for any sign of attack. The security officer had just signaled that the area was clear—where had that shot come from?
He was sorry to see Zhoram’s officer dead, but relieved that Kazemi was still functioning. Kazemi—the former Revolutionary Guards Corps transport pilot he had taken with him from this very facility when Mansour Sattari rescued him, what seemed like decades ago but was only a few days—had proved to be a very valuable individual. He could fly anything with wings, rotary or fixed-wing, and no situation was too much for him—he was just as comfortable flying an overweight helicopter over the mountains at night and in a sandstorm as he was in perfect daylight conditions. Kazemi had managed to fly in supplies and fly out wounded even in disastrous situations where the Pasdaran seemed to have them pinned down. “Kazemi…!”
“Get down, sir, get down!” Kazemi shouted, waving frantically. “There’s a sniper around here somewhere!”
Buzhazi crouched low and dashed off toward Kazemi, flattening himself against the concrete guard shack. “Any idea where he is?”
“No, sir.” Kazemi drew his pistol. “Somewhere inside the flight line fence, firing out, but I couldn’t see him.” There were several large towed power carts and fire extinguishers on the flight line—plenty of places for snipers to hide—and much of the parking ramp was still obscured by smoke from the two burning helicopters. “Is General Zhoram with you?” Kazemi asked.
“I think he’s dead.” Buzhazi motioned to the dead security officer. He had been shot in the back of the head, a remarkably accurate shot—the sniper must have incredible skills. “Zhoram ordered this man off the roof just before the Mi-24 opened up on him. He shot down that attack helicopter just before it got a bead on me.” He looked at Kazemi. “Can you give me a report on the situation, Ali?” he asked.
“There’s a lot of confusion on the radio, sir, but I think I put together a reasonable picture,” Kazemi replied. He pulled out a fairly
detailed handmade map of Doshan Tappeh Air Base with the positions of their insurgent forces and their current manpower and ammunition situation marked on it. “It looks like we’re facing three concentrations of Pasdaran soldiers right now: the barracks to the west, the main gate area to the southwest, and the northeast aviation command headquarters. We count two helicopters airborne and two more ready to go on the airfield. The good news, sir, is that our scrounger security teams have engaged the units sent to the warehouse area to the north, and although we took some heavy losses it appears the Pasdaran concentration there has been broken up.”
“Your recommendation?”
Kazemi looked at Buzhazi carefully. “Two of our scrounger teams made it out, sir—we lost the rest, except for a few stragglers,” he replied. “You made contact with General Yassini, and he’s not helping us. Two of the three mission objectives have been completed. The third objective is to get out safely and withdraw. That is what we should do.”
Buzhazi nodded. “Well thought out, Ali.”
“I recommend we disengage and get out before the Pasdaran organize and flood in,” Kazemi continued. He pointed toward the warehouse area. “The defenders have disengaged and fled the warehouse area, but I think they’ll send in counterattack forces shortly, so the north and northwest escape routes will soon be cut off. The only other alternative is to the southeast, between the main part of the base and the flight operations area. Once outside the base, we have just two kilometers to go until we’re outside the capital province, and then we’re in open terrain and can move out quicker. We’ll be traveling in the opposite direction of the scrounger units, which will give them a better chance of escaping, and we’ll be heading away from the residential areas north of the base, so there’ll be less danger of having civilians caught in the crossfire.”
“But we’ll have to cross the runway and taxiways,” Buzhazi said. “We could be caught in the open.”
“It’s a risk, sir,” Kazemi said honestly. “But they won’t expect us to go in that direction.” He indicated two dashed lines than ran across the runway complex approximately mid-field. “Men on foot and in smaller vehicles can cross via this tunnel that goes under the runway; the rest have to go across the runway. But we’ll be heading away from the counterattack vector. We can have a platoon set up booby traps and ambush sites to make it appear that’s where we’re headed and to slow down the Pasdaran advance, while the rest of the force heads south.”
Buzhazi thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well, Ali. I agree with your plan.” He put a hand on his shoulder. “I hate to do this, Ali, but you’re the most senior officer surviving, so I’m going to have you organize and lead the diversion team.” He pointed to Kazemi’s map. “I’ll have you set up ambushes here, at the security center entrance gate. You set up booby-traps along the main road that will funnel responders toward your ambush zone. Will you do that, Ali?”
Kazemi’s eyes widened, but after a moment he lowered his head and nodded solemnly. “Of course, General. Who should I take with me?”
“General Zhoram’s company is scattered across the northern warehouse area in overwatch positions,” Buzhazi said. “You’ll have to find them and get them organized.” He handed Kazemi the radio from the dead security officer’s belt. “They should be monitoring Zhoram’s channel. I’ll check on you before we depart.”
“I’ll get as many as I can, but I won’t waste time—I can set up booby-traps as well as the next guy.”
“Good,” Buzhazi said. “Remember, you’re just a diversion, not a suicide squad. Once the attackers pull back from the ambush zone to regroup and re-evaluate, your job is complete. Head out immediately and we’ll meet up at rendezvous point Delta to the south. No heroics, understand?”
“Yes, sir. You know me: I’m no hero.”
“If you aren’t one today, Ali, I don’t know what else to call you.” The two men shook hands. “Thank you, Ali. You’ve done well.”
“Thank you, General. I won’t let them past me, don’t worry.” He hurried off.
The radios were very quiet in the next fifteen minutes, and only sporatic gunshots were reported around the base. Buzhazi found Kazemi in the second floor of an administration building, just a few dozen meters from the security center entrance. “Are you all right, Ali?” he asked.
“I’m fine, sir,” Kazemi said. He looked over Buzhazi’s shoulder—the general was alone. “Shouldn’t you be leading the battalion off the base, sir?”
“I wanted to check on you first. The rest of the battalion is ready to move. Report.”
“I could only locate a couple of General Zhoram’s men—the rest have been captured, killed, or fled,” Kazemi said. “But we have set up roadside bombs in several places along the road.” He motioned outside. “We’ve got two machine gun squads set up either side of the gate, and two men with a grenade ‘blooper’ that can suppress counterfire out to about a hundred meters. Best I could do on short notice. What’s our situation, sir? I haven’t heard anything on the radios.”
“We’ve been beaten up pretty badly,” Buzhazi said plainly. “We’re going to try to move out along three routes.” He motioned to them on Kazemi’s map, which had already been extensively updated in a very short time. “I want to thank you again for all you’ve done, Ali.”
“It was my duty as well as my pleasure, sir. I’ll be ready for them if they try to rush us, and then we’ll be hightailing it right after you.” He looked at the map. “How many do you think you can take through the tunnel under the runway, sir? I would think most of the battalion can get on the other side that way before the Pasdaran would even be alerted.”
“Ah yes, the tunnel,” Buzhazi said. “We decided not to take the tunnel, Ali.”
“Why, sir?”
“Because frankly we didn’t know it existed,” Buzhazi said. He quickly drew his sidearm and pointed it at Kazemi’s face. “We found it, of course—and we found the Pasdaran ambush platoons covering it too.”
Kazemi’s eyes widened in surprise. “What are you doing, sir…?”
“As soon as I saw the size of the bullet hole in Zhoram’s man’s head, Ali, I knew it wasn’t from a sniper rifle—it had to be from your sidearm,” Buzhazi said, taking Kazemi’s rifle away from him. Two infantrymen came in and pulled Kazemi to his feet. “And I couldn’t figure out why you were drawing such a detailed map of our deployment and cataloging our supply situation so carefully…unless I considered that you were passing all that information along to the Pasdaran. And when you didn’t seem to have any trepidation about guarding the north part of the base, I knew that the Pasdaran had to be waiting for us on the south—the direction you urged us to go.” Kazemi made no attempt to rebuff any of those arguments. “Why, Kazemi?”
“Because this revolution of yours is doomed, Buzhazi,” Kazemi said. “You can’t stop the Revolutionary Guards from crushing you—you can’t even stop Zolqadr’s men from infiltrating your ranks at will and inciting defections and sabotage. General Zolqadr promised that all charges against me would be erased forever and I would be promoted if I set you up.”
“And you believed him? That’s the last and biggest mistake you’ll ever make.” Buzhazi pressed his pistol into Kazemi’s abdomen, feeling for any body armor under his clothing with the muzzle, then pulled the trigger three times. The guards let the corpse fall forward in a pool of blood. He pulled his radio from its pounch on his web belt. “All Lion units, jangal, jangal.”
As Buzhazi and his guards left the building they heard several explosions behind them as the insurgents launched grenades and fired on vehicles, fuel trucks, aircraft, and anything else that might catch on fire, and several bigger explosions that destroyed remaining vital parts of the security building. When they exited the administration building, Buzhazi could see several columns of smoke rising from the south. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.
From a half-dozen spots along the northern wall surrounding the base, Buzhazi’s men emerg
ed from the base and onto Setam-Gari Avenue. Much of the traffic on this busy thoroughfare had stopped or slowed to see what the smoke on the base was about, and Buzhazi’s men used that opportunity to their advantage. They picked out several large trucks, motioned with upraised weapons for the driver to get out, then blasted it with grenade and rifle fire. Soon the boulevard was a mass of confusion, blocked off in both directions, clogged with fleeing drivers escaping the smoke and gunfire.
But the smoke and explosions caught the attention of two Mi-24 attack helicopter crews orbiting over the runway and the southern part of the base, waiting for the insurgents to flee in that direction. They immediately swooped in over the avenue and began firing at anyone with a gun in his or her hands—and when there was a larger concentration of individuals, the helicopter weapons officers opened fire with fifty millimeter rocket launchers, spraying high-explosive, fragmentary, and flechette-tipped projectiles into the terrified crowds.
The carnage was unimaginable, and the completely indiscriminate slaughter enraged Hesarak Buzhazi. But he knew he could not stand out here in the open and fight. He hated the idea of rushing across the avenue into the dense shops and homes north of the airbase, but he had no choice—soon the troops set to ambush them from the south part of the base would be rushing north to engage. The attack helicopters had set up a slow orbit over the avenue, their slower rate of fire showing that they finally decided they had better start conserving their ammunition until the rest of the Revolutionary Guards entered the battle. If he was going to make an escape, now was the time.
“All units, take cover inside the strongest looking buildings you can find!” Buzhazi radioed. “Tell anyone you find inside to get out as fast as they can! Once they’re away, get away from the area and rendezvous at point Gazelle as planned. Out.” He turned to the dozen men surrounding him. “This way. Keep down and keep your weapons out of sight—those helicopter gunners are firing at anyone who looks like they’re carrying weapons.” He then dashed off into the most modern-looking building he saw in front of him, a branch of the Bank Sepah.