23: Chapter 23 Abadan Refinery

A 1,500-meter deviation is not precise enough to hit a military base, but for large-area targets like cities, ports, and oil fields, it is perfectly adequate.

Furthermore, if Fatima could produce gyroscopes locally, it would mean that the production of the Persia-1 Type missile would no longer be limited by external supply chains.

From "buying key components" to "entirely domestically produced."

This was a qualitative leap.

"Leave the matter of the precision balancing machines to me," Reza said. "Start mass production using the existing twenty-seven imported gyroscopes. I want at least twenty guided Persia-1 missiles by August 1978."

"Twenty in eight months?" Fatima frowned slightly. "It's not impossible, but the workshop is short-handed. The missile bodies can be produced on an assembly line, but I have to personally oversee the assembly of the guidance modules. The installation angle of each gyroscope must be individually calibrated; a deviation of just one millimeter can result in a flight error of several hundred meters."

"I will transfer another twenty technical workers to you."

"From where?"

"The Abadan Refinery."

The Abadan Refinery was Iran's largest refinery and one of the largest industrial facilities in the Middle East. It employed tens of thousands of technical workers, including many skilled in precision machining. Over the past year, through mosque networks and tribal connections, Reza had developed a group of "sympathizers" within the refinery—technicians dissatisfied with the Pahlavi regime and willing to "do something for Persia."

It wouldn't be difficult to select twenty people from this group to join the Cyrus Workshop.

However, the security risks would increase.

"Karimi." Reza turned to the old Lieutenant Colonel. "You will be responsible for screening the new personnel. Use a double standard: besides background checks, everyone will only handle non-sensitive processes for their first two weeks after entering the factory. Within those two weeks, you must complete behavioral observations and cross-verifications on them. Isolate anyone with suspicious signs immediately."

"Understood." Karimi nodded. "But I suggest adding one more thing: a 'delay test'."

"What do you mean?"

"When new personnel enter the factory, I will 'accidentally' reveal a piece of false information to each of them, such as 'there is a piece of equipment stolen from the United States in the workshop.' Then, I'll observe whether this information appears outside. If there's no leak within a month, it means the person is clean."

"A canary trap."

"You can call it whatever you like." The corner of Karimi's mouth twitched slightly—the closest the silent old soldier ever came to a smile. "I spent twenty years in the Military Intelligence Bureau, and I only believe in one principle: don't trust anyone's words, only the test of time."

Reza nodded.

He felt increasingly fortunate to have found Karimi. The old Lieutenant Colonel filled the most critical gap in his team: professional counter-intelligence capability.

A sliver of grayish-white light began to appear on the horizon.

Dawn in the desert comes quickly—it takes only twenty minutes to go from pitch black to broad daylight.

Reza stood on the Gobi desert, watching the eastern skyline gradually brighten.

The crater from the "The First Arrow" was somewhere two hundred kilometers away. He couldn't see it, but he knew it was there.

A black crater over two meters in diameter. The surrounding sand had been overturned by the shockwave, and fragments were scattered over a range of dozens of meters.

If that crater weren't in the uninhabited Gobi, but at the Presidential Palace in Baghdad, the Ministry of Defense in Tel Aviv, or the U.S. Air Force base in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia—

It wouldn't just be a crater; it would be an earthquake.

But now was not yet the time.

Missiles were tools, not the end goal.

The true target was—

1978.

In the history of his past life, on January 7, 1978, Iran's largest newspaper, Ettelaat, published an article attacking Ayatollah Khomeini, sparking large-scale protests by religious students in the city of Qom.

The suppression by SAVAK resulted in many deaths.

The deaths sparked even larger protests.

The protests sparked even more brutal suppression. The suppression sparked national outrage.

From January to December, the spiral spun faster and faster, eventually dragging the Pahlavi Dynasty into its grave.

There were thirteen days left until the start of that spiral.

In thirteen days, Iran would enter an irreversible state of turmoil.

And Reza needed to ensure that every one of his chess pieces was in place before the turmoil began.

Military: twenty guided missiles, three thousand Anti-tank mines, five thousand militia. To be completed within eight months.

Political: Professor Professor Mortazavi in Tehran, Montazeri in Isfahan, and... in Tabriz.

Tabriz.

That blank space that hadn't been filled yet.

He had to fill it as soon as possible.

"Hassan."

"Here."

"Send a letter to Ayatollah Shariatmadari in Tabriz. In my personal name."

Hassan's footsteps paused for a second.

Ayatollah Shariatmadari was the most influential religious leader of the Azeri people and one of Iran's top three religious authorities.

He had fundamental differences with Ayatollah Khomeini; Ayatollah Khomeini wanted to overthrow the monarchy, while Ayatollah Shariatmadari only demanded a "constitutional monarchy."

But in the storm of 1978, Ayatollah Shariatmadari controlled the street forces in Tabriz and the entire West Azerbaijan Province. Without his cooperation, no one could establish a foothold in northwestern Iran.

"What should I write in the letter?" Hassan asked.

Reza thought for a moment.

"Just write—'Your Eminence grand ayatollah, Persia needs your wisdom. Please allow me to visit Tabriz to consult you in person when convenient.'"

"Just that?"

"Just that. The first contact doesn't need to say much. It's enough to let him know that there is someone paying attention to him and respecting him."

Hassan nodded and turned to carry out the task.

Reza took one last look at the eastern horizon, where the sun had already leaped from the edge of the desert, dyeing the entire Gobi golden-red.

Golden-red.

The color of the Persian Empire's flag.

He gripped the notebook in his hand and turned toward the jeep.

The moment the car door closed, he wrote four words in his notebook next to the line for "January 7, 1978"—

"The storm is coming."