“Very inspirational, very touching, Mr. President,” Buzhazi went on, “but you refuse to answer my question or refute my charges.
Are you or are you not in contact with the American Central Intelligence authorities? Are you or are you not working in concert with the corrupt and immoral United States and the Arab traitors to Islam in the Gulf Cooperative Council, to preserve your own power and position at the expense of the Islamic Republic of Iran’s military forces? Did you or did you not know that the Khomeini battle group would come under attack, but did nothing to stop it and even ordered me to withhold my defensive forces and even to dismiss me, so that the attack against us could succeed?”
“Silence, General, or I will have you placed under arrest!”
Nateq-Nouri shouted. “I will not tolerate this any longer!
The Ayatollah Kalantari held up his hand, and the crier shouted the order, “Silence all, the Imam shall be heard!” The cabinet room immediately fell silent.
“Excuse me, Mr. President,” Kalantari said, in a low, barely audible voice. “The charge of conspiring with the Americans and the Gulf Cooperative Council, two of our chief adversaries, is a serious one. General Buzhazi risks much by leveling such a charge against you. If he is proved false, he is disgraced before the Supreme Defense Council and is subject to immediate imprisonment.
Although the general is still your subordinate and faces disciplinary action if he wears the uniform but does not obey your command to be silent, we wish that this matter be resolved. We wish to hear your response to these charges.”
“My response is that General Buzhazi is a liar, and is levying these charges merely to cover up his desperate attempt to precipitate a war with the Gulf Cooperative Council and the United States, his failed military operations, and to try to avoid demotion or dismissal,” Nateq-Nouri said. “I strongly deny all his charges, and as commander in chief I hereby relieve him of command of the Pasdaran and the armed forces of the Islamic Republic.”
The Imam turned to General Buzhazi and said evenly, “General, you may speak. President Nateq-Nouri has denied your charges. Under pain of dismissal and disgrace, you must prove your allegations. What is your response?”
“Here is my response, Your Holiness,” Buzhazi shouted, raising a hand. The doors to the Cabinet chamber swung open, and two armed guards escorted a prisoner inside. The man wore a green-and-yellow prison jumpsuit and was chained at the wrist, ankle, and neck, plus handcuffed in front of his body for added effect. Both eyes were swollen and discolored, and his fingers were heavily bandaged. The barefoot prisoner walked with a great deal of pain.
“This man was pulled out of the Strait of Hormuz on the night of the enemy reconnaissance on the Khomeini carrier group,” Buzhazi shouted, pointing a finger at the man in chains. “He was aboard the vessel that shot down two of our carrier-based fighters that evening. We have reason to believe that this man’s vessel was the launch and control vessel for a small but sophisticated stealth reconnaissance aircraft that was photographing the Khomeini carrier group and was in fact passing along information to the American CIA, forces of the Gulf Cooperative Council, and Israel.
Our fighters sank his vessel, but not before several of his fellow crewmen abandoned the ship and escaped safely to the United Arab Emirates.”
Buzhazi looked at his prisoner and smiled eerily. “We recovered several bodies as well, some of whom appear to be American military personnel, possibly American Marines.” The prisoner closed his eyes, as if in great pain; the assembled men noticed this and nodded, as if he had just admitted the fact. “Their clothing had been carefully stripped of all identifying tags. My staff says this is a typical procedure for a spy vessel.”
The Ayatollah Kalantari motioned for the guards to bring the prisoner forward, toward the Cabinet table; room was made for him at the table, and he stood before the Imams, battered and weak but head erect, staring at the clerics and the others assembled around the table. “Your name, sir?” Kalantari ordered. “You have permission to speak.”
His order was translated by his crier, and the response translated for the Counciclass="underline" “My name is Paul White,” the prisoner replied.
“I’m the executive officer and purser of the S.S Valley Mistress.
Look, Your Honor, I haven’t been able to call my family and tell them I’m all right, and I haven’t been allowed to call the U.S. consulate. Your jets sank my ship, several members of my crew are dead, and I demand to know-“
“Silence, Mr. White,” Kalantari said through his translator. “You will be allowed to contact your family only after your identity and purpose for your voyage have been confirmed.”
“But, Your Honor, I was nowhere near your aircraft carrier,” White interjected. “My ship was at least fifty miles away-“
“Silence, or you will be returned to your prison cell,” Kalantari said. “Answer my questions. What kind of ship is this Valley Mistress?”
“It’s a rescue-and-salvage vessel,” White responded. “We can raise small ships, recover items from deep water, tow large vessels, conduct major power-plant and hull repairs afloat or-“
“What were you doing in the area shadowing our aircraft carrier group?”
“I run a salvage operation, Your Honor,” White said. He cracked a thin smile and shrugged, giving the council members a sheepish expression. “Frankly, Your Honor, your ships were in pretty poor shape, and you were pushing them hard. My ship can … er, could, take any one of your ships in tow, including your carrier, and we can fix any power plant with the exception of course of your nuclear stuff. We’re pretty good at minor repairs, too—motors, engines, appliances, electronics. Plus, we carry a goodly amount of supplies—oil, gasoline, diesel, frozen food, electronics, videotapes—and many vessels invite us to trade with them. But I never came near you guys, Your Honor. Usually if someone needs help, we’ll come running, but we never approach unless waved in because we’re afraid of making you nervous, and you got all the guns. I swear, we never-“
“If I may, Your Holiness?” Buzhazi asked. Kalantari raised a hand, permitting him to continue the questioning. “Do you also carry Stinger antiaircraft missiles as part of your ‘rescue’ inventory, Mr. White?” Buzhazi asked through the interpreter.
“Stingers? I don’t know anything about any Stingers, Sir …
“Our patrol helicopter observed two Stinger missile launches coming from your ship, Mr. White … or should I say, Colonel Paul White,” General Buzhazi interjected. Reading from a folder handed to him by an assistant, he continued in a loud voice: “Colonel Paul White, supposedly retired United States Air Force. Your last military assignment was the 675th Weapons Evaluation Group, Hurlburt Field, Florida, as an engineer working on weapons and equipment for secret special operations units—this Hurlburt Field is very close to the American special operations headquarters in Florida and the United States Air Force’s special operations wing at Eglin Air Force Base. Six months after your official retirement in 1990, you are manifested as the purser aboard the salvage vessel Valley Mistress as you transit the Red Sea, and later as you transit the Strait of Hormuz, destination Bahrain, just before the start of hostilities against Iraq …”
“Hey, General, everyone knew a war was starting in the Persian Gulf—I wasn’t alone,” White said. “Lots of opportunities for a good salvage company, as long as no one confuses you for a warship and puts a bomb down your stacks.”
“How does a retired Air Force officer secure a position on a salvage vessel sailing through the Middle East?”