His heart picked up tempo as he heard the voice again, the rich, deep peasant voice of the leader of leaders, that made everything clear. “God is Great, God is Great…”
The young soldier did not realize that now he was shouting with the mob, his eyes fixed on his mullah who was outside the gate, on God’s side, outside, clawing at the gate, leading what he knew were his brothers and sisters, trying to break it down. His brother soldiers nearby shifted, even more nervously, staring at him, not daring to say anything, the baying going into their heads and hearts equally. Many of those inside the fence wished to open the gate. Most would have done so if it were not for their officers and sergeants and the inevitable punishments, even death, that all knew was the reward for mutiny. “On God’s side, outside …”
The young man’s brain seemed to explode with the words and he did not hear the sergeant shouting at him, nor see him, but only the gate that was closed against the Faithful. He flung down his rifle and ran for the gate, fifty yards away. For an instant there was a vast silence, all eyes within and without riveted on him, transfixed.
Colonel Mohammed Peshadi, the camp commander, stood near his lead tank, a lithe man with graying hair, his uniform immaculate. He watched the youth screaming, “Allahhhh-u Akk-barrr…” the only voice now. When the youth was five yards from the fence, the colonel motioned to the senior sergeant beside him. “Kill him,” he said quietly.
The sergeant’s ears were filled with the battle cry of the youth who now was tearing at the bolts. In one fluid motion, he jerked the rifle from the nearest soldier, cocked it, leaned momentarily on the side of the tank, put the sights on the back of the youth’s head, and pulled the trigger. He saw the face blow outward, showering those on the other side of the gate. Then the body slumped and hung obscenely on the barbed wire.
For a moment there was an even vaster silence. Then, as one, Hussain leading, the mob surged forward, a roaring, senseless, mindless being. Those in front tore at the wires, careless of the barbs that ripped their hands to shreds. Urged on by those behind, they began to climb the wires. A submachine gun began to chatter among them. At that moment the colonel stabbed a finger at the officer in the tank.
At once a tongue of flame leaped from the barrel of the four-inch gun that was aimed just over the heads of the crowd and loaded with a blank charge, but the suddenness of the explosion sent attackers reeling from the gate in panic, half a dozen soldiers dropped their rifles in equal shock, a few fled, and many of the unarmed watchers scattered in fright. The second tank fired, its barrel closer to the ground, the shaft of flame lower. The mob broke. Men and women fled from the gate and the fence, trampling one another in their haste. Again the lead tank fired and again the tongue of flame and again the earsplitting detonation and the mob redoubled its effort to get away. Only the mullah Hussain remained at the gate. He reeled drunkenly, momentarily blinded and deafened, then his hands caught the stanchions of the gate and he hung on. Immediately, instinctively, many went forward to help him, soldiers, sergeants, and one officer. “Stay where you are!” Colonel Peshadi roared, then took the microphone on the long lead and switched to full power. His voice blasted the night. “All soldiers stay where you are! Safety catches on! SAFETY CATCHES ON! All officers and sergeants take charge of your men! Sergeant, come with me!” Still in shock, the sergeant fell into step beside his commander who went forward toward the gate. Scattered in front of the gates were thirty or forty who had been trampled on. The mass of rioters had stopped a hundred yards away and was beginning to re-form. Some of the more zealous began to charge. Tension soared.
“STOP! Everyone STAND STILL!”
This time the commander was obeyed. At once. He could feel the sweat on his back, his heart pumping in his chest. He glanced briefly at the corpse impaled on the barbs, glad for him - hadn’t the youth been martyred with the Name of God on his lips, and wasn’t he therefore already in Paradise? - then spoke harshly into the mouthpiece. “You three… yes, you three, help the mullah. NOW!” Instantly, the men outside the fence he had pointed at rushed to do his bidding. He jerked an angry thumb at some soldiers. “You! Open the gate! You, take the body away!”
Again he was obeyed instantly. Behind him, some groups of men began to move, and he roared, “I said, STAND STILL! THE NEXT MAN WHO MOVES WITHOUT MY ORDER’S A DEAD MAN!” Everyone froze. Everyone.
Peshadi waited a moment, almost daring someone to move. No one did. Then he glanced back at Hussain whom he knew well. “Mullah,” Peshadi said quietly, “are you all right?” He was standing beside him now. The gate was open. A few yards away the three villagers waited, petrified.
There was a monstrous ache in Hussain’s head and his ears hurt terribly. But he could hear and he could see and though his hands were bloody from the barbs, he knew he was undamaged and not yet the martyr he had expected and had prayed to be. “I demand …” he said weakly, “I demand this … this base in the name of Khomeini.”
“You will come to my office at once,” the colonel interrupted, his voice and face grim. “So will you three, as witnesses. We will talk, mullah. I will listen and then you will listen.” He turned on the loudspeaker again and explained what was going to happen, his voice even grimmer, the words echoing, cutting the night apart. “He and I will talk. We will talk peacefully and then the mullah will return to the mosque and you will all go to your homes to pray. The gate will remain open. The gate will be guarded by my soldiers and my tanks, and, by God and the Prophet on whose Name be praised, if one of you sets foot inside the gate or comes over the fence uninvited, my soldiers will kill him. If twenty or more of you charge into my base I will lead my tanks into your villages and I will burn your villages with you in them! Long live the Shah!” He turned on his heel and strode off, the mullah and the three frightened villagers following slowly. No one else moved.
And on the veranda of the officers’ mess, Captain Conroe Starke, leader of the S-G contingent, sighed. “Good sweet Jesus,” he muttered with vast admiration to no one in particular, “what cojones!”
5:21 A.M. Starke stood at the window of the officers’ mess, watching Peshadi’s HQ building across the street. The mullah had not yet come out. Here in the main lounge of the officers’ mess it was very cold. Freddy Ayre hunched deeper into his easy chair, pulling his flight jacket closer around him, and looked up at the tall Texan who rocked gently on his heels. “What do you think?” he asked wearily, stifling a yawn.
“I think it’ll be dawn in an hour odd, old buddy,” Starke said absently. He also wore a flight jacket and warm flying boots. The two pilots were in a corner window of the second-floor room overlooking most of the base. Scattered around the room were a dozen of the senior Iranian officers who had also been told to stand by. Most were asleep in easy chairs, bundled in their flight jackets or army greatcoats - heating throughout the base had been off for weeks to conserve fuel. A few weary orderlies, also in overcoats, were clearing up the last of the debris from the party that the mob had interrupted.