Sattari looked at his commanding officer’s face and read it immediately. “I thought you said the spirit of the old Basij was dead, sir,” he said.
“Maybe not quite yet, my friend.” He outlined his plan to Sattari, who issued orders right away.
Colonel Ali Zolqadr stepped out of his BMP command vehicle, hands on his hips, and observed the battalion spread out behind him with immense glee. He took a deep breath of already-warm, dry desert air. “A nice morning for a bloodbath, eh, Major?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Zolqadr’s aide, Major Kazem Jahromi, responded. He nervously looked outside the armored personnel carrier.
“Uh…sir, we’re only at three kilometers range to the wall, sir. Perhaps you’d better get back in the vehicle.”
“I’ll be up there in the commander’s cupola before too long, Major, but I wanted to step out onto the field of battle before we start to roll in,” Zolqadr said. “This is my first armored field assault — in fact, I believe I’m leading the first Pasdaran armored assault since the American attacks against us over eleven years ago.” He took another deep breath. “This is where every commander belongs, Major — at the head of his forces, leading the charge. This is definitely where I belong.” He looked at his watch. “How long before their deadline to surrender is up?”
“Just a few minutes now, sir.” A few moments later, from well inside the armored vehicle: “Sir, scouts report trucks coming out of the compound with white flags.”
“How many?”
“Six, sir. Covered five-ton delivery trucks. Two approaching each battalion formation.”
“Six! With…what, twenty men per vehicle? Maybe thirty? Looks like a good percentage of Buzhazi’s rebel forces are deserting him! Excellent news!”
Soon they could see two trucks moving slowly toward them, a white bedsheet tied to the radio antenna serving as their flag of surrender. For the first time he felt a thrill of panic for being at the head of this column of vehicles as the trucks moved closer. “Don’t let the bastards near the battalions!” Zolqadr shouted to his headquarters unit commander. “Stop them well short of the battalions and have them get out of the vehicles one by one. Make sure the men don’t rough them up. Let the others still inside see how well they’ll be treated, and maybe we’ll draw a few more out. Make them all feel welcome — before we execute their traitorous asses.”
“Don’t shoot, Zolqadr,” he heard over his radio. “We’re waving surrender flags. May Allah condemn you and your descendants to eternal damnation if you violate a flag of surrender.”
“It’s Buzhazi!” Zolqadr shouted in glee. He raised his binoculars and, sure enough, saw the general himself driving one of the trucks! “Tell the rest of First Battalion I want Buzhazi alive!” he shouted to his aide. “If he tries anything, disable the truck, but don’t kill Buzhazi!” He picked up his portable radio. “Are you surrendering too, General? How surprisingly wise of you.”
“I’m only doing this to be sure my men who wish to surrender will be treated fairly, as you promised, like Iranian soldiers and not criminals,” Buzhazi radioed. “I intend to return to the library after I drop off these brave men and continue my fight for freedom, and if you try to capture me, the whole world will know what a coward you are.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll let you live — plenty of chances to kill you or see you hanged in Shahr Park, along with the other criminals,” Zolqadr said. The trucks were too close for binoculars now. “Stop right there and let the men out. I promise they will not be harmed.”
“I want to be close enough to look at you face to face, Colonel,” Buzhazi said. “I want to look you in the eye before I kill you, just like I did to Badi.”
“I said, stop right there, General,” Zolqadr radioed back, “or my men will open fire!” He whirled around and screamed, “Get two BTRs and their dismounts up here and cover those trucks, now!” His aide relayed the order.
Buzhazi’s truck slowed, and at that moment there was a tremendous explosion to the north, followed by a second explosion seconds later. “What was that?” Zolqadr cried. Two massive mushroom clouds of black smoke rose into the sky. “What’s happening?”
“Suicide bombers!” someone screamed. “The trucks are packed with explosives! They’ve destroyed one command vehicle and a tank!”
Zolqadr nearly tripped over his own feet in confusion as he whirled around and returned to his own armored vehicle. “Don’t let them any closer!” he yelled to his aide. “Open fire! Open fire!”
“Look out!” someone cried. “Take cover!”
Zolqadr turned. The two trucks heading toward him had not stopped but had accelerated — they were less than a hundred meters away now! “All units, open fire!” he screamed. “Stop them!” A machine gun immediately opened fire right above his head so close that he thought he had been hit, and he ducked and dodged left around the BMP.
The second truck weaved and dodged as it barreled toward them, and it appeared as if it was going to keep on coming, but soon its engine compartment hood blew open when its engine block was shredded by the twenty-three-millimeter cannon shells. It weaved a few more times, then its front tires were blown out and it half-collapsed, half spun to the ground. “Good shooting!” Zolqadr said. “Do the same to Buzhazi’s truck — try to take him ali…”
And at that instant the second truck detonated, the force of two thousand pounds of high explosives — part of an immense weapons cache found on the grounds of the Khomeini Library, brought in by the Pasdaran when the clerics and politicians from Tehran arrived — bowling over the Pasdaran infantrymen like clay jars hit by a whirlwind. But Buzhazi’s truck was not far away, and the force of the blast knocked the truck completely off its wheels and over onto its right side.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Zolqadr shouted — not just to relay the order but because he couldn’t hear his own voice very well from the ringing in his ears caused by the detonation of the second truck. He drew his sidearm. “I want Buzhazi alive!” He turned to his aide. “Grab a rifle and follow me, Major!” The aide blanched at first by the order and then by the smug, amused expressions of the Pasdaran infantrymen around him; he almost dropped the AK-47 rifle offered him, and he grasped it like it was a snake waiting to bite him.
Zolqadr flinched at the sound of yet another explosion to the south, and the chatter on his portable transceiver told him another BMP command vehicle had been hit. His was the only command vehicle to survive this cowardly attack! Buzhazi was going to pay dearly for this! He aimed his nine-millimeter Zoaf pistol at the driver’s door as he approached. “Buzhazi!” he shouted. “Come out of there! You are my prisoner!”
“Sir, be quiet!” his aide shouted, ignorant of the fact that half the battalion could hear him just as loudly. “He might hear you!”
“I don’t care!” Zolqadr shouted. “I want the great Hesarak Buzhazi to know that I think he is a craven coward to order a suicide bomb attack against the Pasdaran! I hope to personally pull the lever to drop you in the gallows, you worthless piece of shit! Can you hear me, Buzhazi? Your attack has failed, and now I’m going to execute each and every survivor in that library, and I’m going to have you watch each execution. I’m coming for you!”
Zolqadr jumped up onto the truck and pulled open the driver’s door. He saw Buzhazi crumpled up against the passenger side door, his head bleeding from a half-dozen wounds, his body covered with soot and broken glass, his hands…
…were repeatedly pressing a switch — and he realized with shock that it was a detonator switch! Had it not malfunctioned, Zolqadr and anyone within fifty meters would’ve been blown into a million pieces! He immediately but carefully climbed off the truck, stepped away from the vehicle as if moving to join his aide, then radioed for men to get Buzhazi out of the stricken truck.