34: Chapter 34 Landmines

Hassan established fifteen "training points" in the Arab-inhabited areas of western Khuzestan Province—nominally "tribal self-defense training camps," but in reality, paramilitary militia bases.

Each training point had fifty to one hundred people, divided into three echelons:

The first echelon was the "core"—about twenty people who had received complete infantry tactical training and could use AK-47s, RPG rocket launchers, and mortars.

The second echelon was the "reserve"—about thirty people who had received basic marksmanship and drill training, capable of quickly reinforcing the first echelon during wartime.

The third echelon was "logistics"—the remaining people responsible for transport, communications, and medical care.

By the end of April, the total strength of the fifteen training points reached 1,200 people.

But Hassan was still not satisfied.

"Your Highness, I need more weapons."

"What is missing?"

"Heavy weapons. Right now, the militia only has light weapons—rifles, hand grenades, and RPGs. If we are really going to fight the government forces, these are not enough. I need mortars, heavy machine guns, and preferably some anti-tank missiles."

"Anti-tank missiles?" Reza frowned. "That stuff is too expensive. A Soviet-made AT-3 anti-tank missile costs five thousand dollars on the black market."

"Then we will use Anti-tank mines," Hassan said. "Hasn't the Cyrus Workshop already built more than five thousand of them? Give me one thousand."

Reza thought for a moment.

Anti-tank mines were indeed a good choice. Low cost, high power, easy to deploy. The only problem was—landmines are defensive weapons, not suitable for offense.

But at the current stage, the militia's main task was "defense."

"Fine. But there is one condition—the use of the mines must be approved by me. You cannot bury them arbitrarily."

"Why?"

"Because it is easy to bury mines, but hard to dig them up. If we bury mines everywhere in Khuzestan Province, these mines will become our own trouble in the future."

Hassan nodded.

"Understood. I will establish a set of 'mine maps'—the location of every single mine will be recorded."

"Very good."

In the last week of April, Reza did something unplanned—he took a trip to the Abadan Refinery.

It was not an inspection; it was a "negotiation."

The Abadan Refinery was the largest refinery in all of Iran and the economic lifeline of Khuzestan Province. This refinery employed over twenty thousand workers and processed one-third of Iran's total crude oil output every day.

But the refinery workers were extremely dissatisfied with the Pahlavi Government.

Low wages, poor working conditions, withheld benefits—these problems existed in all state-owned enterprises throughout Iran, but they were particularly severe at the Abadan Refinery.

In the history of his previous life, in the autumn of 1978, the workers of the Abadan Refinery launched a massive strike, which directly led to the interruption of Iran's oil exports, caused the Pahlavi Government's fiscal revenue to plummet, and accelerated the collapse of the regime.

What Reza wanted to do was to "recruit" these workers in advance.

He did not go directly to the labor union—the union's leadership had already been infiltrated by SAVAK.

He sought out the "informal leaders"—those who had prestige among the workers but were not on the official list.

Karimi provided three names.

The first was Hussein Farah, forty-five years old, an old technician at the refinery who had worked there for twenty years. He was not a union cadre, but whenever the workers had issues, they went to him.

The second was Ali Naji, thirty-two years old, a foreman of the refinery's electrical team. His father was killed by the British during the oil nationalization movement in 1953, and he himself harbored deep hatred for foreign powers.

The third was Jafar Mousavi, twenty-eight years old, a young engineer at the refinery. He graduated from the University of Tehran and could have stayed in the capital to work, but he chose to return to his hometown of Abadan.

Reza arranged to meet these three men at a teahouse outside the refinery.

The teahouse was dilapidated, with faded movie posters pasted on the walls. There were not many customers, mostly workers from nearby.

The three men arrived on time.

When they saw Reza, their expressions were a bit tense—a provincial governor asking to meet them was not a good sign.

"Sit." Reza pointed to the chairs opposite him. "Don't be nervous. I am not here to arrest anyone."

The three men sat down, but their bodies remained stiff.

"I heard the refinery workers are very dissatisfied with the government." Reza got straight to the point.

The three men looked at each other, but no one spoke.

"I am dissatisfied too." Reza continued, "King Pahlavi sells Iran's oil to the Americans, and the money earned goes into his own pocket. The workers receive meager wages, work in toxic environments, and cannot even get compensation if an accident happens. This is not fair."

Hussein Farah finally spoke up.

"Your Highness, you are a member of the royal family."

"I am. But I am not one of Pahlavi's men."

"Is there a difference?"

"Yes." Reza said, "The Pahlavi family only cares about their own power and wealth. I care about the future of Persia."

"The future of Persia?" Ali Naji sneered. "Your Highness, do you know how my father died? In 1953, the British and Americans launched a coup and overthrew the Mosaddegh government. My father participated in the protest and was beaten to death in the street by thugs hired by the British. I was seven years old that year."

"I know." Reza said, "The 1953 coup was the most shameful page in Iran's history. Mosaddegh wanted Iran's oil to belong to the Iranians, but the British and Americans would not agree. They supported Pahlavi and turned Iran into their colony."

"Then what do you want?" Jafar Mousavi asked, "Do you want to overthrow Pahlavi?"

"Yes."

The three men were stunned.

"Are you crazy?" Hussein Farah lowered his voice, "Your Highness, these kinds of words—"

"I am not crazy." Reza interrupted him, "I am very clear-headed. The Pahlavi regime is already rotten to the core. Either I overthrow him, or someone else will. The only difference is—who will take over this country."

"Ayatollah Khomeini?"

"Perhaps. But Ayatollah Khomeini only understands religion, not economics, not the military, and not how to make Iran truly strong."

"And you do?"

"I understand some things." Reza said, "At least I know—if Iran wants to get rid of foreign control, it must master three things: oil, military industry, and food. Oil is money, military industry is the fist, and food is life. Only when these three things are mastered can Iran be truly independent."

Jafar Mousavi stared at him for a long time.

"Your Highness, what exactly do you want to do by asking us here today?"

"I want you to help me."

"Help you with what?"

"Help me control the Abadan Refinery."

The faces of the three men changed.

"You want us to launch a strike?" Hussein Farah asked.

"Not now. But I need you to be prepared." Reza said, "In the second half of 1978, the situation in the country will deteriorate sharply. By then, the refinery workers will spontaneously go on strike—I don't need to incite them. What I need is—when the strike happens, you can control the situation, not let the refinery be destroyed, and not let SAVAK make arrests in the chaos."

"Why?"

"Because the refinery is the lifeline of Khuzestan Province. If the refinery stops, the economy of the entire province will collapse. I don't want to see that happen."

Ali Naji said coldly: "Your Highness, you speak well. But why should we trust you?"

"You don't need to trust me." Reza said, "You only need to look at what I have done."

He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and pushed it to the middle of the table.

"This is my promise to the refinery workers: First, starting next month, all local workers in Khuzestan Province who work at the refinery will receive a twenty percent wage increase. Second, all workers disabled by work-related injuries will be provided with medical subsidies and living expenses by the provincial government. Third, all children of the workers can enter public schools in the province for free."

The three men stared at the paper, unable to say a word.

"Where will this money come from?" Jafar Mousavi finally asked.

"From my private account." Reza said, "I have some businesses in Khuzestan Province. A portion of the money I earn is used to improve people's livelihoods."

"Why do you want to do this?"

"Because I need you." Reza was very frank, "I will not pretend to be a saint. I am doing these things because I need the workers' support. But at least—what I am doing is good for you. This is better than the Pahlavi Government just exploiting you."

Hussein Farah picked up the paper and read it carefully.

"Your Highness, if you can really do these things—"

"I will do it."

"Then we are willing to try."

Reza stood up.

"Very good. In the next few months, continue to work as normal. Do not expose your connection with me. When the time is ripe, I will contact you again."

The three men also stood up.

When they reached the door, Ali Naji suddenly turned back.

"Your Highness, one last question—if you really overthrow Pahlavi, will you become the next Pahlavi?"

Reza looked at him.

"I don't know."

Ali was stunned for a moment.

"But I can tell you one thing." Reza said, "If one day I become a person like Pahlavi—you can treat me the same way you treat Pahlavi. I will not blame you."

Ali stared at him for a few seconds, then nodded.

"I hope that day never comes."