Captain Jagir Rezha, a distant illegitimate relation of the Shah, examined his position with some concern and worry. The British, who dominated Iran – or at least they had, as the position of the future British wasn’t so clear – had restricted Iran to a small army; only ten thousand soldiers were positioned in the north. The future British had given the Iranians some of the captured Italian weapons, and some Italian advisors to teach them how to use them, but they were a very mixed blessing at best.
“Bastards,” he muttered, and studied his fortress. He’d positioned the best guns to defend the location, knowing from Finland that the Russians would come on and try to take it by force. He had his own scouts out, watching for incoming Russian attacks, but he knew that warning would be limited.
“Flare,” one of his spotters shouted, as a firework burst up in the sky. He had hardly any radios, certainly not enough to give his scouts some, and the only solution had been flares. A horseman might not make it back before the enemy arrived; the only solution had been a chain of flares in the sky.
“Positions,” he shouted. He’d picked his position with care; the Russians would have to charge at him, unless they looped around miles away they’d have to come at him frontally. A rumble passed through the air as a swarm of planes passed overhead, heading south, perhaps to Tehran itself.
“Sir,” a man shouted, as a second, duller rumble began to sound. He lifted his binoculars and saw a line of black shapes moving across the ground, heading for his position. He cursed as details of the Soviet tanks became clear; they seemed far tougher than the Italian tanks were, tough and mobile. There were several different designs, moving as if the world couldn’t hold them, and he knew with a sudden sick certainty that he couldn’t stop them.
“Stand by to fire,” he said, as the gunners worked their guns. They hadn’t realised that it was futile; not yet. Had the Soviets spotted them? “Fire!”
All of his guns fired as one. He was proud of his men as explosions dotted the Soviet ranks, and then he felt his heart sink. Only one Soviet tank had skidded to a stop, burning; three more tanks crashed into its rear. The others just kept coming, firing on their own.
“Fire,” he yelled desperately, and then an explosion blasted him to the ground as a Soviet tank hit his guns. The chain of explosions devastated the Iranian position; the Italian tanks were picked off without even managing to fire at the enemy. The entire position had been decimated, and still the Soviets were coming on. His infantry turned to flee, only to be mown down by machine guns as the enemy closed in. A shell landed near him and he knew no more.
Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
17th September 1940
“It’s a coordinated action,” Stirling said, as the display of advancing Soviet tanks appeared on the screen. A long-range drone had been based in Saudi Arabia, supporting the anti-Saud campaign, and PJHQ had ordered it moved to Iran as soon as the first reports became clear.
Hanover lifted an eyebrow. “Why do you think that?” He asked mildly, his mind ticking over with thoughts. “Coordinated with whom?”
“The Germans and the Japanese,” Stirling said. “We lost Gibraltar only two-three days ago, and the Japanese are clearly preparing to hit the remains of the Empire in the rear. Meanwhile, the Soviets take Iran; that gives them the option of heading west into Iraq and then Saudi – an area of vital interest to us – or heading east into India, dooming any possibility of forging a democratic government.”
“I wonder if Prime Minister Nehru knows,” Hanover mused. The Indian and Pakistani embassies – Bangladesh hadn’t rated an embassy since the state collapsed – had been seconded to the Provisional Government, trying to hold India together.
“The Iranians have demanded our help,” McLachlan said. “As you know, we replaced the embassy in Tehran with some of our people at once, and pulled out most of the troops to Iraq. The Iraqis are attacking us; at least the Saudis are grateful.”
“They’re not really Saudis,” Hanover reminded him wryly. Shahan McLachlan had proven to be even more of a gift from God than he’d expected. Securing the oil supply – and incidentally gobbling up Kuwait and the Gulf States – had been easier than he’d expected, and it provided a place to dump unwanted immigrants. “Two questions; can we help them? Should we help them?”
General Cunningham coughed. “I don’t see that we have a choice,” he said. “I admit that I would be opposed to fighting under these circumstances, but if they gain a toehold in Iran, they will be difficult to dislodge later. On the other hand, unless the Iraqis cooperate, we will have serious difficulty in supporting any counter attack – hell, we’ll be on a shoestring.”
He picked up the remote and adjusted the display. “We currently have two infantry divisions and one armoured division in the North African theatre, along with air support and logistic formations. If we force through the final stages of their conversions, the Contemporary 7th Armoured can also be deployed, at least as far as Saudi, which is where we planned to stockpile material. As it is, we’ll be limited, and Contemporary forces will be worse off, I’m afraid.”
He shook his head. “Canada, at least, can supply us with ammunition for them, but their tanks are nowhere near as tough as they have to be,” he said. “We’d be much better off sending the unconverted units to the Far East, and trading 2nd Armoured for them, or using 3rd Armoured and its support formations…”
Hanover shook his head. “Parliament would have kittens,” he said. “We have to keep a reserve in Britain.”
“Then we’ll have to rely on the provisional governments of North Africa to hold their own forts,” Cunningham said. “If we move our forces to Saudi, and work there to build up a reserve, then we can move them into Iran if politics dictate. However, I must warn you that our logistics will be very bad indeed.”
“So are theirs,” Stirling said. Hanover looked across at him; the young officer was clearly thinking out loud. “The Soviet army was never very good at logistics, and it seems that they’re planning to snatch as much ground as they can in the next few days. At some point, they’re going to have to refuel, and we have a major airbase in Iraq.”
Hanover nodded. The Iraqi Government had allowed the British to keep the massive airbase in the centre of the country, simply because they weren’t certain what to make of the news of the future.
“We can move a couple of Jaguar squadrons, one of the mobile air control systems and their supports into Habbaniyah Airbase,” Stirling said. His voice stumbled over the name. “Once the drone has located the support formations, we can start pounding them from the air, and isolate the Russian formations in Iran. I don’t think that we could weaken them enough for the Iranians to handle them, or even stop them, but we could slow them long enough to move our own forces into Iran.”
“In theory, they can take most of the country in a month,” Cunningham said. “There is the danger that they might launch an attack of their own on Habb… whatever base.”
“Habbaniyah,” Stirling said. “We could airlift an infantry force in and task it with holding the base.”
“Assuming the Iraqis cooperate,” Hanover said thoughtfully. “Their policy towards us changes every second day.”
“And some of them might tip off the Soviets to the location of the airbase,” Cunningham said. “We can’t count on the Red Army being as incompetent as Rashid Ali, who is currently under arrest.”
Hanover considered. The Iraqi Regent hadn’t hesitated to purge those who would overthrow the monarchy; it had been child’s play to slip in a few other names. Rashid Ali’s power base hadn’t been enough to preserve him from jail, although the Regent had hesitated to have him executed.