20: Chapter 20 The Invisible Front

November 1977.

The gyroscopes arrived a month earlier than expected.

Farouk's efficiency exceeded Reza's expectations—perhaps stimulated by the sixty thousand dollars in profit, or perhaps because Abdul Qadeer Khan's network was in an expansion phase during this period, and shipping speeds were naturally fast.

Thirty gyroscopes were disassembled into parts and mixed into six boxes of "CT scanner accessories," then transshipped through Kuwait to the Port of Ahvaz. The director of the Khuzestan Provincial Hospital personally received the goods at the port, and after signing for them, the boxes were transported away by a truck with hospital license plates.

The truck did not head for the hospital.

It turned onto a dirt road outside the city of Ahvaz, heading southeast all the way into the desert.

Three hours later, thirty gyroscopes appeared on the workbenches of the Cyrus Workshop.

When Fatima unwrapped the first gyroscope, her fingers trembled for a moment.

It wasn't nervousness. It was excitement.

For a physicist, the sophistication of this object was comparable to a work of art—a dual-axis frame structure, beryllium-copper alloy rotors, jewel bearings, and a rotational precision with a drift rate of less than 0.01 degrees per hour.

Although far inferior to American military-grade gyroscopes—the kind Hughes Aircraft Company provided for the Tomahawk Cruise missile—it was more than enough for a short-range weapon like the Persia-1 Type with a range of two hundred kilometers.

"With this," Fatima pushed up her glasses, her gaze as burning as if she were staring at a newly discovered star, "the deviation can be reduced from 2.8 kilometers to within 400 meters."

"How long will it take to complete the adaptation?"

"Give me two months. The main workload is in the inertial navigation algorithm—the gyroscope is just hardware; the real difficulty is how to convert the gyroscope's data into flight control commands. I need a circuit system capable of real-time calculations."

"What kind of circuit?"

"Ideally, a microprocessor. But I know I can't get one—that's restricted American technology. So I plan to build an analog computing circuit using discrete components. The precision will be lower, but it'll be enough."

When Fatima said "enough," the expression on her face was subtle—a scientist's slight disdain for an imperfect solution, mixed with the confidence of "but I can make it work."

Reza had seen this expression many times before. Every time he saw it, he would silently add a point to Fatima's "irreplaceability index" in his heart.

Now, this index was so high it was impossible to calculate.

If anything happened to Fatima, the entire technical research and development of the Cyrus Workshop would be paralyzed. She was the soul of this underground arsenal, and souls cannot be replicated.

"She needs protection," Reza said to Hassan after Fatima left.

"What level of protection?"

"Starting today, Fatima must have someone by her side twenty-four hours a day. Two guards, on shifts. Someone follows her to the lab, someone follows her to the cafeteria, and someone stands guard at the door when she goes to the bathroom."

"She won't like it."

"I don't need her to like it. I need her to stay alive."

Fatima indeed did not like it.

That evening, she burst into Reza's office and slammed her hand on the desk.

"Why did you send two soldiers to follow me? Do they have to watch me tighten screws? Are they going to stand guard while I'm dreaming?"

"Yes."

"On what grounds?"

"Because right now, you are the most valuable person in all of Iran."

Fatima was stunned for a moment.

"It's not because you're a woman, nor is it because I think you're weak," Reza said, looking into her eyes. "It's because what's inside your head is more valuable than all the steel and explosives in this workshop combined. If the Americans knew of your existence, they would use any means to take you away—kidnapping, assassination, or subversion. Not to mention the Israelis; the Mossad never plays by the rules when doing such things."

Fatima fell silent.

She was a rational person. A rational person does not use emotion to refute a logically sound argument.

"...Can they stay a bit further away?" she finally said, her tone softening slightly. "At least don't stand right next to the workbench. Last time, that soldier knocked over my oscilloscope and nearly wiped out half a month's worth of my data."

"Fine. A distance of five meters, within line of sight."

"Ten meters."

"Seven meters."

Fatima glared at him and turned to leave.

As she reached the door, she turned back and said, "You're a dictator."

The door slammed shut.

Hassan was waiting in the hallway and saw Fatima storm past, with two guards obediently following seven meters behind.

"Is she alright?"

"She's fine. She's just not used to being protected," Reza said. "Give the guards clear instructions—keep a seven-meter distance from Fatima, don't touch any of her equipment, and don't speak to her unless she speaks first. She's a scientist; she needs quiet."

Hassan nodded. Then he reported another matter—something more troublesome than the gyroscopes.

"Your Highness, there's a problem with the Voice of Persia."

Reza's expression changed.

"What kind of problem?"

"After the seventh issue was printed, a batch was intercepted by SAVAK at a distribution point in southern Tehran. Not many, about two hundred copies. But SAVAK has started tracing the printing source."

"What about Professor Mortazavi?"

"He's safe for now. He's not responsible for the printing, only for writing the articles. The printing is being done by a student organization at the University of Tehran using a mimeograph machine in the school's basement. SAVAK found the mimeograph machine, but they haven't found the operators yet."

Reza closed his eyes and thought for a few seconds.

In his memories of his past life, SAVAK's crackdown on underground publications during 1977-1978 followed a pattern of "tight first, then loose"—in the second half of 1977, due to human rights pressure from the Carter administration, Shah Pahlavi was forced to ease the suppression of the opposition. SAVAK's budget was cut, and many operations were halted.

In other words, if they could hold out until the end of 1977, the survival space for the Voice of Persia would automatically expand.

But for now, the problem of the exposed printing source had to be resolved.

"Stop the mimeographing," Reza said. "Starting from the next issue, switch to offset printing. I'll have Abdullah buy a small offset press in Kuwait and smuggle it into Tehran. Change the printing location; don't use the school basement anymore—it's too easy to check. Find a private residence, ideally in the slums of South City; SAVAK agents don't like going to those places."

"Offset printing has better quality, but it's also faster—isn't the risk of being discovered higher?"

"On the contrary. Mimeograph ink has a distinct smell that SAVAK's search dogs can sniff out. Offset printing uses regular printing ink, which smells just like a newspaper; the dogs won't be able to tell the difference."

Hassan once again wore that "how do you know everything" expression.

"Also," Reza continued, "I want to personally review the content of the eighth issue. Add a section at the end—unsigned—reporting on the irrigation projects and food distribution in Khuzestan Province. Let the readers know that there are still people in Iran doing real work. Don't mention my name, but provide enough details so people can guess who it is."

"A vague association?"

"Yes. We can't reveal my identity publicly yet, but we need to start building an image of a 'mysterious nationalist leader' in the readers' minds. When the revolution breaks out in 1978, this image will be the stepping stone for me to step forward."

This is the basic skill of a propaganda war—create momentum first, then make an appearance.

In his past life, Ayatollah Khomeini used fifteen years of cassette tapes to achieve this. Reza intends to do the same with one year of underground publications.

The timeframe is shorter, so it must be more precise.