186: Chapter 167 Standoff

April 3, 1982, 9:45 PM, Ahvaz Air Defense Command Center.

A target signal appeared on the radar screen.

In less than two seconds, the signal vanished.

The operator reported: "The target is unstable; suspected interference."

Then the screen went completely white.

Snow, dense static, submerged all real signals.

Reza stared at the static-filled screen.

This was electronic warfare equipment provided by Washington to Iraq. It was specifically designed for Iran's radar frequency bands. They must have given the technical parameters of Iran's radar to Washington long ago, and those parameters came from Mirza.

"Shut down all radars within effective range," Reza said.

The operator turned around.

"If we turn off the radar—"

"Do it."

The radars went dark one by one.

The interference remained, but it was targeting signals that no longer existed.

Reza took out a piece of paper, wrote a line with a pencil, and had a messenger deliver it to Karimi: Notify Fatima that the radars are all shut down, switch to passive detection, and I need her judgment.

He did not use the radio; he could not let Washington hear.

Three minutes later, the messenger returned with Fatima's reply, also handwritten:

"Passive infrared and acoustic detection. Low-altitude target heat source is obvious; sound is detected before radar. Turn on searchlights, aim northwest."

Reza nodded.

He shouted orders at the command console: "All searchlights, face northwest! Anti-aircraft gunners, switch to manual aiming; rely on your eyes and ears, do not depend on radar fire control!"

Someone in the command center froze, but no one asked why again.

At 9:58 PM, the searchlight array swept the night sky.

Then Reza heard the sound.

The roar of engines came from the northwest, low and continuous. It was flying so low that Reza almost thought it was a vehicle on the ground.

A beam of light found it.

It was a Tu-22 bomber, flying hugging the surface, at an altitude of no more than two hundred meters.

The anti-aircraft guns opened fire immediately.

Tracer rounds streaked across the night sky, sweeping densely toward the aircraft.

The aircraft's bomb bay opened.

The bombs fell with a strange, almost silent, plummeting sound.

Then, light yellow smoke rose near the impact point.

mustard gas.

Reza's stomach sank.

But he had no time to process this.

A shell from an anti-aircraft gun hit the plane's tail. The plane shuddered violently, spewed black smoke, and fled to the northwest.

After their wingman was hit, the pilots of the other three aircraft panicked. They dropped their bombs in a panic over open ground more than ten kilometers from Ahvaz and made sharp turns to escape.

Those bombs landed on uninhabited wasteland.

Of the four planes, only the first one's bombs landed on the edge of the residential area.

Medical teams rushed into the contaminated zone.

Reza had prepared chemical defense equipment and antidote injections in all community centers in advance. The first batch of rescue personnel arrived within six minutes, began dragging away those overcome by the gas, and administered atropine.

The numbers were slowly tallied over the next two hours.

Dead: 173.

Injured: 431.

Reza stood in the command center, looking at these numbers.

173 people. They had names. They had families. They had no reason to die tonight.

"If you hadn't prepared in advance," Karimi said, standing next to him, "this number would be over two thousand."

Reza did not answer.

He knew this statement was true. But 173 people would not die any less just because of the number two thousand.

"About the media," Reza said, "has it been sent out?"

"It was sent out yesterday when you asked me to," Karimi said. "A reporter from the French newspaper Le Monde contacted our people today. He received all the evidence: the serial numbers of the US electronic warfare equipment, a summary of the meeting records between Wilson and Saddam Hussein, and the Saudi transfer documents. He said it will be in print tomorrow."

"Tell him to include tonight's attack as well."

"Yes."

The next morning, the front page of Le Monde:

"With US Intelligence and Equipment Support, Iraq Uses Chemical weapons on Iranian Cities"

Within sixteen hours, this report was republished by thirty-seven media outlets worldwide.

The United Nations Secretary-General issued a statement demanding an emergency consultation by the Security Council.

The Washington State Department spokesperson was grilled for forty minutes at a routine press conference and did not directly answer a single question.

Saddam Hussein's foreign minister canceled his scheduled trip to Europe.

But that same afternoon, the Supreme Leader called Reza to Tehran.

The Supreme Leader did not drink tea, did not sit down, and stood directly in front of the window.

"You leaked the intelligence Iran possessed to the foreign media."

"Yes."

"And you didn't tell me."

"I did not."

"Do you know what this means?"

"I do," Reza said. "Washington will send more weapons to Saddam Hussein."

"Then you—"

"Also know," Reza said, "but if we don't let the whole world know, Saddam Hussein will do the same thing tomorrow, and the day after. Now he must stop for a while, at least until the international pressure subsides. We can use this time to prepare."

The Supreme Leader turned around.

"This is the third time you have done something I did not approve."

"The third time, and I have been right every time," Reza said.

"Just because you think you are right," the Supreme Leader said, "doesn't mean you can act without authorization?"

"I thought I was right, and then the facts proved I was right," Reza said. "This is not just my judgment; this is the result."

The two men looked at each other.

The Supreme Leader was colder than Reza had ever seen him. It wasn't anger; it was something deeper, something harder to deal with.

"Ayatollah Khomeini asked me a question yesterday," the Supreme Leader said. "He asked: If Reza dies tomorrow, who will continue to fight this war?"

Reza did not speak.

"I have no answer," the Supreme Leader said. "This is the biggest problem of this war, and it is the biggest problem of your very existence. Iran cannot rely on any single person, but we are currently relying on you."

"Then cultivate more people," Reza said.

"Exactly," the Supreme Leader said. "I am giving you three months of full authorization. In these three months, teach everything you know and everything you can do to the people who can succeed you. Three months from now, you must show me a system that can replace you—not one person, but a system."

Reza was silent for a moment.

"Three months from now?"

"Three months from now," the Supreme Leader said. "If you succeed, we will talk about your position again. If you fail—"

He did not finish.

But Reza understood.

"I understand," Reza said.

He walked out of the office.

In the hallway, he stopped for a few seconds.

Three months. The Supreme Leader didn't give him a promise; he gave him a countdown.

Three months from now, the patience of Ayatollah Khomeini and the Supreme Leader would be exhausted. No matter how many battles he won, they would consider him dangerous.

But he had no way to change this.

He could only use these three months to do what he had to do.

He took out paper and pen, wrote a line for the messenger, and had him deliver it to Karimi:

"Tomorrow, have Fatima come. I need to talk to her about the development schedule for the Persia-5 Type."

The messenger left.

Reza walked out of the gate and got into an armored vehicle.

The vehicle drove toward the airport.

He closed his eyes in the vehicle.

He was not asleep, but he needed a few minutes of darkness.

Three months.

Then do everything that can be done in three months.