33: Chapter 33 The Gears Underground

Mid-April.

Khuzestan Province entered a strange "dual-track state."

On the surface, it was the most stable province in all of Iran. There were no large-scale protests, no bloody conflicts, oil production was normal, and taxes were paid on time. Official reports from the Pahlavi Government listed Khuzestan as a "model province."

But beneath the surface, another system was operating at high speed.

The production capacity of the Cyrus Workshop doubled in March.

Fatima led her team to complete the assembly of the seventh guided Persian-1. There were twenty gyroscopes left in stock—at the current rate, the production goal for all twenty could be met by August.

But Fatima was not satisfied.

"Twenty isn't enough," she said during an internal meeting. "If war actually breaks out, twenty missiles are only enough for one salvo. Once they're fired, they're gone."

"Then how many do you want?" Reza asked.

"At least fifty. Preferably a hundred."

"We don't have enough gyroscopes."

"That's why I'm going to make them myself."

Fatima spread a hand-drawn design on the table.

"This is a simplified gyroscope I designed. The precision is forty percent lower than the imported ones, but the cost is only one-tenth. If I can get a precision balancing machine and a set of micron-level lathes, I'm confident I can achieve mass production within six months."

Reza stared at the design for a long time.

In the memories of his past life, Iran only barely mastered the technology for domestic gyroscope production in the 1990s—and even then, it was by learning from North Korea and China.

But Fatima could draw a feasible design right now.

This woman was a monster.

"A precision balancing machine and lathes—where do we get them?"

"Germany. Siemens or Zeiss would work," Fatima pushed up her glasses. "But this kind of equipment is military-controlled; it can't be bought through normal channels."

"What about smuggling?"

"It's possible. But the price will be at least three times the normal rate, and the transport risks are high."

Reza turned to look at Karimi.

The old Lieutenant Colonel was leaning against the wall, an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

"Can you get them?"

"I can," Karimi said, "but it will take time. This kind of precision equipment can't be shipped directly from Germany to Iran—Western intelligence agencies would notice. It must be shipped to Turkey or Pakistan first, disassembled into parts, and brought in by land in batches. It'll take three months at the fastest."

"And the money?"

"For two machines plus transport costs, roughly five hundred thousand dollars."

Reza did the math in his head.

The income from the secret oil field was now stable at around three hundred thousand dollars a month. After deducting the workshop's operations, militia training, and intelligence network expenses, they could save about one hundred thousand dollars a month.

Five hundred thousand dollars—the equivalent of five months' savings.

"Approved," Reza said. "But on one condition—once the equipment is in place, you must produce the first batch of domestic gyroscope samples within two months."

Fatima's eyes lit up.

"Deal."

After the meeting ended, Hassan pulled Reza aside.

"Your Highness, I have a question."

"Speak."

"Fatima—who exactly is she?"

Reza paused.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean—" Hassan lowered his voice, "a twenty-four-year-old female university student who can design missile guidance systems, improve gyroscopes, and now wants to localize production. This isn't normal. Even the best students from the University of Tehran's Physics Department couldn't be at this level."

Reza was silent for a few seconds.

Hassan was right.

Fatima's abilities indeed exceeded the scope of a "genius student." She could not only understand the simplified blueprints Reza drew but also optimize and improve upon them.

This kind of ability, in his past life, would require at least ten years of engineering experience to possess.

But Reza couldn't tell Hassan the truth—that the reason Fatima could do these things was because the blueprints Reza gave her were a "dimensionality strike" in themselves. Although those blueprints were simplified, the core principles were all mature technologies from the 2000s of his past life. Fatima was simply taking a step forward while standing on the shoulders of giants.

"She is a genius," Reza said. "Some people are just like that—give them a starting point, and they can run to the finish line on their own."

"Do you trust her?"

"I trust her ability."

"And her loyalty?"

Reza looked at Hassan.

"What are you worried about?"

"I'm worried—" Hassan hesitated, "I'm worried she knows too much. If one day she betrays us, or is caught by SAVAK—"

"She won't."

"Why?"

"Because she has no way back," Reza said. "From the day Fatima joined us, she was already on SAVAK's blacklist. Her only choice now is to go all the way with us. Betray us? Where would she go? To Pahlavi? Pahlavi would treat her as a 'female student involved in illegal military industrial activities' and have her shot immediately. To the Americans? The Americans would only treat her as an intelligence asset to be squeezed dry and then discarded."

Hassan thought about it and nodded.

"But we still need to be on guard."

"Of course," Reza said. "That's why the core areas of the Cyrus Workshop—warhead assembly and guidance system debugging—can only be entered by Fatima and three assistants she personally selected. No one else, including you and me, can enter. That way, even if someone defects, they won't have the complete technical data."

"Understood."

Two days later, Karimi brought back news.

"Your Highness, there's progress on the German side."

"How fast?"

"Faster than expected. There's an arms broker in Istanbul, Turkey, who happens to have a Siemens precision balancing machine—it was salvaged from a bankrupt Swiss watch factory. Although it's second-hand, it's well-maintained. The price is also cheap—two hundred thousand dollars."

"And the lathe?"

"The lathe will have to come through Pakistan. There's a 'friendly individual' in Pakistan—a retired army colonel who now runs a machinery plant in Karachi. He can get a Zeiss micron-level lathe, but it will cost three hundred thousand dollars, plus two months for transport."

Reza calculated.

The fifty thousand remained fifty thousand, but the time was shortened from three months to two.

"Do it."

"One more thing," Karimi said. "That Pakistani colonel—he wants to meet you."

"Meet me? Why?"

"He said he is 'very interested in the future of Iran'," Karimi's tone carried a hint of mockery. "Translated—he wants to confirm if you are a client worth a long-term partnership."

Reza smiled.

"A smart man. He wants to bet on me winning."

"Do you want to see him?"

"I do. But not now. Tell him—once the equipment is safely delivered to Iran, I will personally go to Pakistan to have a drink with him."

"Understood."

After Karimi left, Reza sat in his office for a long time.

Pakistan.

In the history of his past life, Pakistan was one of the important "technical sources" for Iran's nuclear program. From the late 1980s to the early 1990s, Pakistan's "Father of the Nuclear Bomb," Abdul Qadeer Khan, secretly sold uranium enrichment technology and centrifuge designs to Iran.

But now it was 1978.

Qadeer Khan was still working as an engineer at a uranium enrichment plant in the Netherlands, and Pakistan's nuclear program had only just begun.

If Reza could establish contact with Pakistan ahead of time—not officially, but "underground"—then many things in the future would become much simpler.

He took out his notebook, turned to the "Long-term Strategy" page, and wrote a line:

"Pakistan Line—backdoor for nuclear technology. Priority: High."

Meanwhile, militia training was also accelerating.