“Sir, may I suggest bringing some of the jihadis that do not have criminal records in to begin work on the training center and repairs on the security building?” Loshato said. “If we’re going to be asked to bring the Pasdaran force up to two hundred thousand in six months, we’re going to need those buildings repaired, wired, and ready for recruits and cadre.”
“I’m not worried about offices for cadre or barracks for training more recruits, Sergeant — I’m worried about insurgents getting into this base,” Kamail said.
“Our orders were to get the base ready at all costs…”
“And what about security while we repair and outfit this base, Sergeant?” Kamail asked. “Reports are that over two hundred insurgents were killed at Arān. Two hundred! They could have caused a lot of havoc if they attacked here instead.”
“Buzhazi’s total force is estimated at less than two thousand, sir,” Loshato said. “If the reports are true, we killed over ten percent of their entire force in one strike. Not only that, but their objective to steal supplies to keep themselves going failed. They sustained heavy losses and have fewer resources than they did. It was a great victory.”
“Sergeant, we still lost several dozen men and we blew up our own warehouses, which were filled with real supplies,” Kamail said. “What kind of asinine plan was that? Why didn’t we lay a trap for them outside Arān instead of right inside the damned warehouse complex itself?” He shook his head. “No. I want the perimeter secure before we bring in any more men and supplies. And I want as many of those jihadis checked as possible, especially any assigned inside the base itself. I don’t want any of Buzhazi’s men waltzing in to my base free and clear.”
“Buzhazi wouldn’t dare attack Doshan Tappeh again,” Loshato said. “There are over five thousand men here. He’d be crazy to commit the rest of his troops to the strongest Pasdaran base in the country.”
“If the man was smart, he’d be high-tailing it to Turkmenistan or Turkey right now,” Kamail said. He thought for a moment; then: “Very well, Sergeant. Pick the best of the ones not convicted of any felonies and assign them to work inside the base on the barracks and headquarters building. All others remain on the perimeter work details. Notify the security officer on duty that I’m bringing men into the base. Tell him to call me if he has any questions.”
“Yes, sir,” Loshato said. He saluted, then turned to his radio to issue the new orders.
Shortly thereafter the clerks in charge of doing background checks on volunteers pulled up a list of about thirty men who had no felony convictions, were between the ages of sixteen and fifty, and who were not infirmed, and Loshato had these men marched over to the foreman in charge of rebuilding the headquarters building that was assaulted by Sattari when he and a hundred other armed insurgents rescued Buzhazi from custody.
“These are the best of this group, Sergeant?” the foreman asked when the men were assembled before him. Loshato had to agree that they were a grungy-looking crew — filthy louse-ridden clothes, decrepit shoes, and most with some kind of injury and many with missing ears and bandaged limbs.
“They were all able to get here under their own steam,” Sergeant Loshato said, “and they all appear to be free of felony convictions as far as we can tell after a cursory check. What you see is what you get.”
“And who takes the blame for shoddy work, stolen equipment and tools, or inoperable systems? I do, that’s who! How am I expected to work under conditions like this?”
“You’re under contract to the Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps to complete rebuilding the base on time and on budget,” Loshato reminded him sternly. “It’s not our fault that you didn’t hire enough skilled laborers for the job. The IRGC is reimbursing the government for the cost of issuing a jihad to help your company — if it’s not done on time and on budget, you might find yourself liable for that cost as well as any penalties in the contract and whatever else the commander-in-chief wants to hit you with. So stop complaining and get busy.”
The foreman muttered a curse word after the NCO departed, then turned to the men assembled before him, suppressing a disgusted sneer. “All right you men, listen up,” he said, speaking slowly and deliberately in case they had trouble understanding him. “Our task is simplicity itself. We are fishing fiber-optic, telephone, audio-visual, electrical, and Category-5 network cable through the new walls. This is not brain surgery, but you must pay attention and do as ordered or else we’ll waste valuable time and even more valuable equipment. The fiber-optic cable is especially delicate — it cannot be bent like ordinary cable, and it has to be placed just so in its conduit. Do you understand?” There was a murmur of assent from the men — it was impossible to tell if they understood a word he had said. “Very well. If you remember nothing else, remember this: do not touch anything unless I tell you, and if you’re unsure of any of our instructions, stop what you’re doing and ask. Let’s get to work.”
It was going to be slow going. After the security guards performed another search of the men and their belongings and issued them ID badges, the men shuffled toward the new headquarters building as if in a fog. The foreman knew he was going to be in big trouble if he didn’t find some way to get these guys organized. He spotted an older man who seemed to be the erstwhile leader of this group. “You. Over here.” The old man came over to him. He had several cuts and bruises on his face, head, and neck as if he had been beat up — probably on the street or in jail. “What is your name?”
“Orum, sir,” the old man said. He straightened painfully, then added, “Orum, Abdul, Volunteer Group Leader, reporting as ordered, sir.”
“Volunt…?” And then the foreman realized who he was: a former Basij volunteer from the Iran-Iraq War in the early 1980s, one of the hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children used as “human shields” to waste Iraqi ammunition before sending in the main fighting forces. “You were a Basij…?”
“I was a group leader of the Muhammad Corps, sir, and proud of it,” the man named Orum said, a hint of steel rising in his voice. “I had the best volunteer group in the entire Fish Lake front.”
“Muhamm…you were in the battle of Fish Lake?” The campaign known as Operation Karbala-5, the operation to try to take the Iraqi port city of Basrah which began in January of 1987, was one of the bloodiest in the Iran-Iraq War — over sixty-five thousand Iranians, mostly Basij volunteers, were slaughtered in six weeks of intense fighting and artillery and rocket battles. The worst battle of Karbala-5 was known as Fish Lake, referring to the artificial river over thirty kilometers long and two kilometers wide which the Iraqis had constructed to keep Iranian forces from sweeping into Baghdad. The Iranians outnumbered the Iraqis ten to one. Most of the Iranian fighters were conscripts and Basij volunteers like this old man — ordinary citizens who had received little or no military training. Fish Lake was protected by mine fields, barbed wire, trenches, and interlocking fields of machine gun and artillery fire — some even thought that Saddam had electrified the water itself.
When artillery barrages failed to break down the defenses around Fish Lake, the Pasdaran decided to send in the Basij. Over a quarter-million men, women, and children were marched forward against Fish Lake’s defenses with little more than a rifle and one clip of ammunition, and the Iraqis ruthlessly cut them down. The casualties were so staggeringly high that it was believed that the sheer mass of corpses in Fish Lake would allow the Iranian Revolutionary Guards to simply walk across without getting their feet wet.