102: Chapter 99 Ahvaz

November 27, Ahvaz.

Fatima met with the Soviets in an unremarkable teahouse.

The one representing the Soviet side was a man in his fifties who claimed to be a "trade representative," but Fatima could tell at a glance that he was an intelligence officer—his gaze, his manner of speaking, and his attention to detail were not those of a trader.

"Ms. Fatima," the Soviet said, "let's keep this brief. The Soviet Union is willing to provide Iran with weapons, technology, and funding, on the condition that Iran guarantees it will not join the American camp."

"Iran no longer needs American weapons," Fatima said.

"But Iran needs Soviet weapons," the Soviet said, "such as the T-72 production line, technical data for Mi-25 Helicopters, and Scud missiles."

Fatima felt a jolt in her heart. These were big-ticket items.

"What do you want?" Fatima asked.

"It's simple," the Soviet said. "Iran's policy in the Persian Gulf must not harm Soviet interests. Specifically—Iran cannot control the Strait of Hormuz, cannot ally with the Gulf Cooperation Council countries, and cannot deploy missiles on the Soviet Union's southern border."

"These are political conditions," Fatima said. "I have no authority to decide."

"We know," the Soviet said, "so we need you to convey this to His Highness. Tell His Highness that the Soviet Union is willing to cooperate with him, but not for free. He needs to reserve a place for the Soviet Union in Iran's future politics."

Fatima returned to the Pump Station and recounted the Soviet's words to Reza word for word.

After listening, Reza remained silent for a long time.

"The Soviets want to bet on me," he said, "but they don't want Ayatollah Khomeini to know."

"Are you going to cooperate with them?" Fatima asked.

"Yes," Reza said, "but not now. Right now, I am in no position to negotiate terms with the Soviets. I need to prove my worth on the battlefield first, and then have enough political leverage before talking to them."

"Then how will you reply to them now?"

"Tell them—'His Highness appreciates the Soviet Union's kindness, but currently, Iran's supreme decision-maker is Ayatollah Khomeini. Any negotiations involving Iran's foreign policy must go through official channels in Tehran.'"

"Saying it this way, they will feel you are stalling."

"Let them feel that way," Reza said. "Stalling is better than agreeing, and agreeing is better than refusing. When the situation is unclear, the best choice is to do nothing."

December 1, Pump Station.

Reza stood on the rooftop, looking at the Iraqi positions in the distance.

A month ago, the Iraqis were still five kilometers from the perimeter of the Pump Station. Now, they were twenty kilometers away.

A month ago, Iran's strength was only two thousand men. Now, with the new recruits arriving after the general mobilization, the strength at the Pump Station had exceeded twelve thousand.

A month ago, Reza was still worried that the Pump Station could not be held. Now, he was thinking about how to break out.

"Karimi," he said, "help me prepare a report. I want to submit the next phase's operational plan to Tehran."

"What plan?"

"The plan to attack Basra."

Karimi was stunned for a moment: "Are we really going to attack Basra?"

"We really are," Reza said, "but not now. If we attack now, we don't have enough troops. But in three months, when the five hundred thousand men from the general mobilization have finished training, when Fatima's weapons factory capacity has doubled, and when the equipment from the Soviet Union and France arrives—Basra will be our next target."

"How will Saddam Hussein react?"

"He will be afraid," Reza said, "and then he will do something stupid. Saddam is someone who always does stupid things when he's afraid. The more afraid he is, the stupider he acts."

He took out that deep blue notebook and wrote a line on the newest page:

"France has agreed to cooperate. The Soviet Union is looking to place a bet. Saddam's new weapons are fitted with our seals. Advancing on three fronts simultaneously, waiting for Basra."

He closed the notebook and looked at the western sky.

The sunset glow was like blood.

Tomorrow will be a new day.

December 5, 1980, Pump Station.

Three days after the plan to attack Basra was sent to Tehran, the reply arrived.

Rafsanjani called personally: "The Ayatollah agrees in principle, but with two conditions. First, the attack cannot take place earlier than the end of next March. Second, the attacking force cannot exceed thirty thousand men."

After listening, Reza was silent for three seconds.

At the end of March, the rainy season in Khuzestan has just ended, and there is still standing water on the ground. A force of thirty thousand men is far from enough to attack a city like Basra.

"Tell the Ayatollah," Reza said, "attacking Basra with thirty thousand men is suicide. I need at least fifty thousand."

"The Ayatollah says thirty-five thousand at most."

"Forty-five thousand. No less."

The sound of paper flipping came from the other end of the line. Rafsanjani was consulting with someone next to him.

"Forty thousand. The Ayatollah says forty thousand is the upper limit."

Reza took a deep breath. Forty thousand men might just be enough to attack Basra. Provided the tactics are right, firepower is sufficient, and the Iraqis make mistakes.

"I accept. But the Ayatollah needs to give me three things—air cover, artillery support, and independent command."

"Air cover and artillery support will be discussed by the Supreme Defense Council. As for independent command, the Ayatollah says it can be granted."

Reza hung up the phone and walked to the map.

Basra, Iraq's second-largest city, has a population of over one million. To the south is the Shatt al-Arab, to the north are marshes, and to the west is the desert. There are three defensive lines around the city's perimeter, the furthest being fifteen kilometers outside the city.

Iraq has stationed about four divisions in Basra, with a total strength of fifty to sixty thousand men. Including the city's militia and the Revolutionary Guard, the total strength could exceed eighty thousand.

Forty thousand against eighty thousand, a siege battle.

"His Highness," Hassan walked in, "what did Tehran say?"

"Forty thousand men. Attacking at the end of March."

Hassan frowned: "Forty thousand men to attack Basra?"

"The tactics must be right," Reza said. "We cannot launch a direct frontal assault. For a frontal assault, even a hundred thousand men wouldn't be enough."

"Then how do we attack?"

Reza's finger moved across the map: "Attack here first—the Fao Peninsula."

Hassan was stunned for a moment: "The Fao Peninsula? Isn't that south of Basra?"

"Yes. The Fao Peninsula is Iraq's only outlet to the sea. If we take the Fao Peninsula, Basra becomes an inland city, its supply lines will be cut, and morale will collapse."

"And then?"

"Then we besiege it without attacking. Let Basra starve itself out."