“Yes, sir, but…”
“But what? Do any of my orders violate your general orders or any other orders you have been issued since you have assumed this post?”
The jailer thought for a moment, and his eyes brightened. “No, sir, they do not.”
“Then get your ass in gear, now,” Buzhazi said. “If your sergeant major has any questions, have him come see me. Now take me to a conference room.”
“Yes, sir.” The jailer averted his eyes and opened the door to the processing room.
“Corporal Tahmasbi.” The jailer stopped as if stuck in concrete. “You can’t just let me walk out of here, can you? I’m supposed to be in your custody.” The jailer meekly nodded and carefully, almost gingerly, took Buzhazi by the arm. “And, Corporal?”
“Sir?”
“Just because you work in the jails and generally only see the scum of our proud military does not mean you can go around with an unkempt beard, dirty uniform, and unpolished boots,” Buzhazi said, looking the man directly in the eyes, not raising his voice at all but speaking firmly and authoritatively. “If you want to act like a soldier, look like a soldier. And get yourself into a gym and replace that fat with some muscle. I can teach you how to control a man with the lightest touch, but I need something to work with first. Get yourself into shape and I’ll make a shock trooper out of you in no time.”
Things went much easier from that moment on. Buzhazi allowed himself to be led by the upper left arm — it would look better to others if the jailer physically held him — through the hallway to a large briefing room where each shift was briefed before beginning their tour of duty. That was where they found a Pasdaran master sergeant at a desk, doing paperwork. As soon as Buzhazi saw the noncommissioned officer in the room, he loosened himself from the jailer’s grasp and strode ahead of him. The master sergeant saw the general enter the room, shot to his feet, and stood at attention. “Room, atten-shun!” he said.
“As you were, master sergeant,” Buzhazi said. “I am General Buzhazi, commander of the Iranian Internal Defense Forces. I have need of this room.” He turned to the jailer. “Thank you, Corporal. Carry on.” The jailer snapped to attention, then got out of there as fast as he could. Buzhazi turned back to the NCO. “Your name, Master Sergeant?”
“Fattah, sir.”
“Do you recognize me, Master Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir. You…are the former chief of staff. I believe you are currently commander of the Basij…”
“I prefer they be referred to as the Internal Security Forces,” Buzhazi corrected him. The master sergeant nodded, his mind obviously still in a bit of confusion as to what was going on. “You were notified of my arrival here?”
“The message informed me that you are to be held here until further notice. You will be sent to a separate wing until…”
“Until my office is ready, this room will suffice.”
The NCO hesitated. “Office, sir?”
“I’m here to organize the detail that will be sent out to hunt down the terrorists that perpetrated the attack on my units in Orumiyeh.”
“But I thought…er, I thought…”
“We don’t think around here, Master Sergeant — we have orders which must be obeyed until officially countermanded by legitimate orders from a verified higher authority. What are your orders regarding me, Master Sergeant?”
“I…I was told in the message to hold you and await instructions.”
“I am issuing additional instructions to you now,” Buzhazi said, “that do not violate any other orders and as such you will obey immediately. You will clear two phone lines for me and give me the passcodes to access the secure high-speed computer network lines. Where are my staff officers?”
“‘Staff officers,’ sir?”
“I was assured that other officers that are to be under my command were sent here, with orders that they are to be detained until further notice. They were to report to me as soon as possible. Where are they?”
“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?”