Hamid had seen firsthand what happened when the rules of secrecy were broken. They had forced Hamid to watch the punishment of someone who had threatened their secrecy. Pakvar had looked him in the eye and told him that the same would happen to him if anyone ever found out what he knew. That was almost three years ago now.
Pakvar was Quds Force — the elite Special Forces branch of the Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution. English-speaking countries referred to it as the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC). Men in Hamid’s unit whispered that Pakvar had spent much of his time in Iraq, leading guerilla units in training, and planning attacks against US troops. He had arrived on Abu Musa four years ago, with the foreigners.
That was when the construction started. The Grey Buildings went up in a matter of months. Shipments of electronics and personnel arrived in a flurry. Sometimes by plane. Sometimes by ferry. On rare occasions, the shipments would be transported like they would tonight. Hamid knew that these shipments were one of the biggest secrets Pakvar’s men held.
The Grey Buildings were three stories tall and had very few windows. A grey stone exterior. No other markings. This was strange for the Iranian military. Normally there would be propaganda plastered up on just about every bare surface.
None of the men Hamid worked with knew what went on inside these buildings. The men who worked inside the Grey Buildings almost never left. They always arrived on their transports at night, wearing masks, and departed in the same fashion. Food preparation, resupply, and trash collection to the structures had strict procedures that the IRGC support staff had to follow. It allowed the buildings to remain completely closed off to the rest of the island.
There were many rumors about what went on there, of course. Some said it was a secret Iranian military base to spy on foreign ships in the Persian Gulf; others claimed that it was a nuclear weapons facility or a chemical weapons research lab. Half of the island was an Iranian military base, so it made sense for the Iranian government to locate a secret installation there.
Abu Musa was located at the western end of the Strait of Hormuz, in the hot waters between Iran and Dubai. Every day, oil tankers and warships passed the island on their way in or out of the Gulf. Over the past few decades, Iran and the United Arab Emirates had had several disputes over who actually owned the land. Then Iran had stationed military personnel there, and the disputes didn’t much matter. The Iranian Air Force had begun placing jets there in the mid-2000s.
Hamid had joined the IRGCN over fifteen years ago and had risen to the rank of chief petty officer. He had always liked the ocean, growing up near Jask, another Iranian oceanside city. When the chance to work on patrol craft had come up, he had jumped at the opportunity. Years of hard labor, baking in the hot sun while on these patrol boats, had taken its toll on him. But he still loved being at sea, regardless of the mission that they trained him for.
He looked at the large-caliber machine gun that sat on a five-foot stand on the aft deck. These sailors that Hamid commanded had probably chanted “death to America” with their teenage companions during boot camp. They probably looked at that weapon and were eager for the chance to use it in combat. Hamid wasn’t sure when his personal beliefs had begun to stray from the politics of his organization, but they had.
Perhaps it had been the first time he had looked up at a US Navy aircraft carrier steaming past his patrol craft at twice his speed. The sheer size and formidability of those floating city-sized ships made Iran’s patrol craft seem like some silly joke.
But Hamid didn’t think that was why he had lost faith in his country’s regime. The futility of preparing for war against a great foe had not changed his beliefs. More likely, his internal beliefs had changed when his wife had given birth to their first child. Hamid had spent his days on the steamy waters of the Gulf, and his nights placing his finger into the tiny, perfect hand of his new son.
The man that Pakvar had murdered in front of him that night had a son, too.
Hamid still heard that poor boy’s screams in his sleep. It had been late at night, three years ago. Hamid was tying up his patrol craft to the dock. Pakvar was standing at the end of the pier and called him over. They drove to the Grey Building and Hamid finally found out what lay inside.
Pakvar brought Hamid down a series of concrete stairs, deeper and deeper underground. Hamid couldn’t believe how far down the structure continued. They passed rooms filled with computers. Thousands of computers. Small square boxes, fans humming. No monitors. They were lined up on shelves, stacked three rows high. Every room had wires and piping connected to the network. There were very few people who actually worked here, Hamid realized. Whatever this place was, it did not appear to be what any of the gossipers on the island had thought.
When they arrived in the dungeon-like room Pakvar had been taking him to, Hamid covered his mouth in horror.
There was an Asian man and his family, each naked and bleeding, sprawled out next to each other on the cold concrete floor. The Asian man was older. He looked to be in his fifties. The woman that Hamid assumed was the man’s wife lay next to her boy. None of them moved. A few of Pakvar’s goons stood over them, machine guns in hand. The Asian man looked up at them all, terror in his bloodshot eyes.
Pakvar clutched Hamid’s arm and said, “Today you begin working for us. You will provide us with logistics transportation using your patrol craft. All of our activities need to remain confidential. Is that understood?”
Hamid nodded. He looked at the family on the floor.
Pakvar leaned forward and whispered into Hamid’s ear. “No one can know of our secrets.” He turned to one of the uniformed men in the room and nodded, his thick and dark eyebrows furrowed as he shouted a command. Then the family was dumped alive into some type of oven. Pakvar walked to the wall and flipped the switch. He stared at Hamid as he did it.
The screams were like nothing Hamid had ever heard. He looked away, the taste of bile on his tongue, his knees weak. The heat from the oven made him sweat.
When the flames overcame them and the screams subsided, Pakvar walked up to Hamid. His words were like ice. “This man tried to tell others of what we were doing here. You cannot. You can take your boat and flee across the sea at any time. But I am told that you have a family residing on this island. I promise you this: if you ever speak of what you see us do… or if you ever flee… your family will suffer this fate that you witnessed here tonight.”
Hamid’s eyes watered, both from the furnace and the horror. He nodded agreement.
As they walked back up the steps, he found himself wondering just where the smoke exited the building. Would others on the island notice the smokestacks? Not this late at night. Were there bits of human ash floating up into the air and then falling into the sea? Would his ash someday be scattered into the sea the very same way? A dull, helpless feeling overcame him.
After that night, every day had been a prison sentence. Hamid became the ship driver for those who worked in the Grey Buildings on Abu Musa. His normal chain of command knew that he was getting his orders from Lt. Col. Pakvar — and they knew not to ask any questions. On a typical day, Hamid would patrol the coastal waters of Abu Musa and then return home to his family at night.
But about twice a month, a message would arrive that he was to report to the Grey Buildings at a certain hour. There, Pakvar would give him a rendezvous location and a time. Out into the Gulf he would travel. Sometimes he was to bring supplies to the rendezvous point. Sometimes he was to pick something up. Always at night, and always in secret.