In other words: the system was infested with vermin; the vermin had to be eradicated, and the nest incinerated — and this place was most definitely the nest.
Dressed in uniforms as the Pasdarans, Buzhazi’s forces situated themselves near three of the library’s entrances. They were careful not to deploy any forces on the west side of the library — that side faced the holy shrine of Hazrat-e-Ma’sumeh, Shi’ite Islam’s second holiest shrine, about a hundred meters away. What they were about to do would certainly inflame a lot of religious passions already — there was no use in angering the faithful even more by desecrating one of their holy places, even if it was by accident.
Buzhazi had a plan ready to break down the large concrete and steel doors to the library, but that wasn’t necessary — a guard waved him over when he noticed them assembling outside. Buzhazi ordered his men to drive their vehicles right up to the gates as if they were deploying to protect the entrances — and when they did so, the guards inside, young Pasdaran troopers fresh out of school, admitted them immediately. “Status of your security detail, Specialist?” Buzhazi asked as he stepped inside the heavy door, casually looking around.
“My God, sir, where have you been?” the young enlisted trooper asked. “We have not been relieved since our security regiments departed.”
“Is that any reason to abandon safety protocols, Specialist?” Buzhazi asked. “Get your finger off that trigger. Never place your finger inside that trigger guard unless you’re prepared to kill someone.” He grasped the young trooper’s rifle and flicked the safety switch on. “Same for the safety.”
“Sorry, sir. Sorry.”
“Pay attention from now on, soldier. Where is your platoon leader?”
“Gone, sir.”
“To whom do you make your post reports?”
“Uh…we inform the imams when they ask, sir,” the trooper said. “We weren’t told who else to report to.”
Buzhazi shook his head. “That’s fine, Specialist. You and your comrades will report to my company commander from now on. I relieve you. Report over there right now and do as you’re told.” The trooper started to hurry off toward the vehicles arrayed outside the gate, then stopped, returned to his spot, rendered a salute, and managed to wait until it was returned before hurrying off again. Within moments the entire security detail on this gate, just a dozen men, had left their post and were in custody; within minutes, the other two entrances were secure as well. The prisoners would be given a choice: swear allegiance to Buzhazi and join his insurgency, or die. Not one moment of hesitation would be tolerated.
Buzhazi, Sattari, and a group of six security men entered the library. The place was as beautiful inside as it was stark outside: tall soaring ceilings capped with a beautiful mosaic tile dome, polished marble columns, shining marble floors inlaid with gold and silver, and long rows of oak bookshelves surrounded by tables, chairs, rugs, and computer workstations. A magnificent thick topaz carpet outside of an ornately decorated archway signified the entrance to the Khomeini mosque.
There was no one in the library at this hour. Just as Buzhazi started to worry about how to find the mullah in charge of the place, his wish was granted the moment he set foot on the topaz carpet without removing his boots: a man in a white turban and long flowing white and gray robes came running out of nowhere, waving his hands, followed by several assistants. “You! You! I have told you a hundred times, you may not enter the shrine of the faqih without permission from the imam! Now go!”
Buzhazi stood his ground. “I wish to speak with the imam immediately, priest,” he said.
“Have you gone mad? Morning prayers are not for another two hours — the imam receives no one until after prayers unless it’s an emergency, and normally not until after breakfast and morning rituals.” The mullah looked at Buzhazi. “I do not recognize you, soldier. Remove your helmet in this holy place and identify yourself.”
“I have information that you have important visitors here from Tehran with you, priest,” Buzhazi said, keeping the helmet in place. “I want to speak with the imam, immediately.”
“You will remove yourself from this place immediately!” the mullah shouted. “I shall see to it that you are relieved of duty and flogged for this act of gross disrespect!”
Buzhazi turned to one of the young men that had followed the mullah. “Does this man know where the imam is?”
“We all serve the imam of this library. But he will do nothing except…” He didn’t finish his sentence…because Buzhazi had withdrawn his pistol from its holster and shot one round through the mullah’s forehead. In a flash Sattari had his pistol out as well, covering the other acolytes.
Buzhazi kept the smoking pistol in his hand but did not point it at anyone. He turned to the young man he had just referred to: “Okay, son, now I’ll ask you the same question: do you have some special guests from Tehran here, and will you take me to them?”
The young man hesitated, then nearly fainted from fear as he saw Buzhazi roll his eyes impatiently and begin to raise his pistol. “Yes! Yes! We have guests staying here! Important men from Tehran, members of the Leadership Council, the Assembly of Experts, the Council of Guardians, and the Majlis.”
“And?”
“And…” He looked at the dead body of the mullah lying on the once-immaculate marble floor, his face ashen, and nodded. “Y-yes, I will take you.”
“Good boy.” Buzhazi motioned to Sattari, who radioed for more units to follow them inside and secure the library. “Describe where we’re going first, then take us.”
“So what about your spaceplanes, Patrick?” President Kevin Martindale asked. “Where do we stand?”
“The second Black Stallion spaceplane is ready for operational flight testing, and the third will be ready in six months, sir,” Patrick replied. “The contractors are already tooled up for spare parts production and spiral upgrade development. They can be ready to restart full-scale production within two months of initial funding: we could have two more spacecraft ready within twelve months; the tankers can be ready in six months. Fuel and oxidizer are commercially produced worldwide, readily available, easily shipped and stored, and require no special training to handle — no need to expose the program by procuring or storing large amounts of cryogenic materials. The aircraft and tankers are easily concealed and deployed, need no special security or storage, and blend in with the tactical military inventories of any air base in the world.”
“So you can build another Air Battle Force made up of spaceplanes and park them out in Dreamland — with you in command?” National Security Adviser Sparks asked. “Got this all figured out, eh, McLanahan?” To the President he added, “The committees will see right through that, sir. Barbeau will get what she wants; then, at the first inkling of trouble from Dreamland — and I can guarantee there will be trouble — she’ll spearhead the charge to cut off funding and pillory you as the grand architect of the failed spaceplane scheme.” He glanced at McLanahan and said plainly, “With all due respect, sir, McLanahan is damaged goods.”