Strike Force

“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,” Buzhazi 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.”

“How long have you been ‘drying him out,’ Master Sergeant?”

“Three days, sir.”