37: Chapter 37 The Inspector's "Refined Interest"

May 7th, three days until the nationwide protests.

The "inspector" sent from Tehran had arrived.

The man was called Mansour, the deputy director of the Khuzestan branch of SAVAK, a typical bureaucrat.

He wore an expensive British suit, and his leather shoes were polished as bright as a mirror. The first thing he said after getting out of the car was not to discuss official business, but to ask: "I heard that the lamb pilaf and dancing girls in Ahvaz are the best in all of Persia?"

Reza received him on the terrace of the Governors Mansion.

On the table sat expensive champagne and caviar shipped from Tehran.

Reza had changed into a loose silk shirt, holding a beautiful woman sent by a local celebrity in his arms, while swirling a wine glass in his hand.

"Director Mansour, there is plenty of pilaf, and I have already arranged for the dancing girls at the mansion tonight." Reza smiled cynically. "However, things are so chaotic in Tehran right now, how do you have time to come visit me?"

Mansour grabbed an olive and tossed it into his mouth, his eyes sweeping over the woman in Reza's arms with an ambiguous smile.

"Oh, Your Highness. It is precisely because things are so chaotic in Tehran that I had to come out for some fresh air. The Director gave instructions to investigate illegal armed forces and secret radio stations in every province. I heard you started some sort of 'Revival Project' in the desert? And built quite a few factory buildings?"

Reza sneered inwardly. That agent codenamed "Blacksmith" had indeed reported it, but obviously, the information had been filtered into "embezzling public funds to build factories."

"What Revival Project? That is my retirement fund." Reza lowered his voice, acting mysterious. "Mansour, let us be frank. Half of the funds provided by my father the King went into the pockets of those big shots in Tehran. If I do not launder the remaining half through some real projects, will I be left drinking the northwest wind when I return to Europe in the future?"

Mansour laughed heartily and pointed a finger at Reza: "Your Highness is truly a straightforward man. I understand, I understand everything. However, as a matter of routine, I must take my men for a tour tomorrow, so I can write a report when I return."

"Go, feel free to go." Reza waved his hand dismissively. "Hassan, take the Director to look around the 'Water Pump Factory' tomorrow. By the way, give the Director a pair of those 'precision water pump bearings' that just arrived from Switzerland, and let him take them back to study."

The so-called "gift of a pair" was actually two gold bricks hidden inside the bearing boxes.

Mansour's eyes narrowed into slits, and his wrinkles radiated satisfaction.

Early the next morning.

Mansour, accompanied by several attendants and escorted by Hassan, walked into the Cyrus Workshop.

The workshop was a scene of bustling activity—naturally, it was all a performance.

Everywhere there were semi-finished water pump casings. Fatima was wearing grease-stained overalls, holding a large wrench in her hand, and was cursing at a huge centrifugal impeller.

"This is the third time the balance calibration has failed! Those damned Germans sold us nothing but defective products!"

She cursed so convincingly that when Mansour approached, she intentionally let coolant splash onto his pant leg.

Mansour frowned and stepped back a few paces, covering his nose and sniffing the pungent smell of pig iron and cutting oil in the air. For a pampered bureaucrat like him, this environment was simply torture.

"Is this that submersible pump?" Mansour pointed at the huge missile module component that indeed looked like a water pump casing.

"Director, this is a Type-3 pump we custom-made for the Khuzestan farms. If you are interested, I can have the workers demonstrate the welding for you on the spot." Hassan stood to the side, obsequiously offering a high-end cigar.

Mansour waved his hand. He glanced at the cluttered steel pipes and rusty machine tools, and the last shred of suspicion in his heart completely vanished.

This was a typical, inefficient face-saving project designed to swindle royal subsidies.

"Enough, enough, look at all this dust." Mansour wanted to leave after staying for less than twenty minutes. "His Highness Reza is really something; he could have just left this kind of drudgery to a butler, yet he insists on watching it himself. Let's go, Captain Hassan, we still have to get back for that lamb pilaf."

At the workshop exit, Reza Bahrami was passing by, sweating profusely while carrying an iron frame. He glanced at Mansour, then at Hassan, a flash of triumphant red light flickering in his eyes.

He felt that he had performed a great service and would soon be able to leave this hellhole and return to Tehran to be promoted and get rich.

But he did not notice that the way Hassan looked at him was like looking at a dead man already in the grave.

That night.

Mansour was dead drunk in the best mansion in Ahvaz, with two dancing girls clinging to him, one on each side. He rested his head on the gold bricks, feeling that Khuzestan Province was truly a paradise.

Meanwhile, Reza had already appeared at an abandoned old mine twenty kilometers away from the workshop.

Karimi and Fatima were already waiting there.

Deep in the mine, a disassembled Persia-1 Type engine assembly was mounted on a static test stand.

This was not an act. This was a real, life-or-death static ignition test.

"All systems checked. Fuel injection at 100%, pre-combustion chamber pressure normal." Fatima's expression was cold as iron, with no trace of the irritable female worker from the day.

Reza stood behind the thick lead glass observation window and looked down at his watch.

23:59.

"Begin."

As Fatima pressed the red button.

Boom—!

A violent blue flame instantly erupted within the tunnel, the tremendous roar locked tightly by the mine structure, which was a hundred meters deep. The intense vibration made the ground tremble slightly.

Reza watched the pressure curve jumping wildly on the monitor screen, his fists slightly clenched.

Fifteen seconds, thirty seconds, one minute.

The flame remained stable throughout. This meant the "dimensionally reduced" engine nozzle material design provided by Reza had worked—even using the cheap alloys currently available in Iran, it could withstand the high-temperature ablation of solid fuel.

"Thrust has reached 85%... 90%... 100% of the design value!" Fatima's voice trembled slightly. "Due to the simplified fuel formula, the specific impulse is 6% lower than the original version, but within a 200-kilometer range, the accuracy compensation is negligible."

The engine cut out.

Red smoke filled the tunnel, the lingering scent of expensive chemicals after high-temperature combustion.

"It's a success." Karimi let out a long sigh of relief and looked at Reza. "Your Highness, with this thing, our backbone is half straightened."

Reza looked at the screen, his eyes deep and unfathomable.

"No, this is just the beginning. Saddam Hussein's tank clusters, Israel's factories, America's aircraft carriers... they do not yet know that Persia's backbone is growing back underground."

He walked out of the observation room; the desert outside was brilliant with starlight.

"Karimi, take care of Reza Bahrami. Mansour has already taken the money and left; this bait has fulfilled its mission."

"Understood. Should I disguise it as a robbery or a disappearance?"

"Disguise it as protesters." Reza gave a cold smile. "The protests are in three days. Let him 'heroically sacrifice' himself at the hands of the mob during the chaos. Remember to send his family a decent pension; we must let everyone see the Prince's 'benevolence'."

Three days later.

May 10th.

The powder keg of all Iran exploded on schedule.

The sound of gunfire from Tehran reached Ahvaz.

Reza stood on the terrace of the Governors Mansion, watching the surging black tide of people in the streets, as well as the "Self-Defense Force" cadres appearing faintly in the crowd, wearing blue armbands.

He knew that the old era, which had made him sigh with regret in his past life, was collapsing.

And he, upon these ruins, would personally plant a war drum embroidered with a dragon flag.

"Hassan, pass down the order. According to Plan B, begin taking over the guard duties of the oil refinery. Since Tehran is in chaos, we must help my father the King... 'look after' this land well."

The tide of the Persian Gulf began to rise.

It was the color of blood.