40: Chapter 40 Tehran's Reward and Langley's Shadow

May 14, 1978, Ahvaz.

As the first rays of morning sunlight pierced through the mist of the Persian Gulf and illuminated the white marble corridor of the Governors Mansion, Reza sat in his rocking chair, flipping through the "Le Monde" flown in from Tehran.

The front-page headline screamed: "Heroic Prince Reza Crushes Foreign Conspiracy, Order Restored in Khuzestan."

A corner of the newspaper also featured the decree for the "Order of the Lion of Persia," personally signed by the Shah Pahlavi. In the eyes of those bureaucrats in Tehran, who were overwhelmed by protests, Reza had become the only fig leaf for the royal family at this moment.

"A medal?" Reza tossed the newspaper aside and picked up a cup of bitter espresso. "That thing isn't even worth a single 122mm artillery shell. Hassan, who did Tehran send to deliver this piece of junk?"

"Colonel Musa of the Imperial Guard has already arrived at the airport. But he's accompanied by some 'old friends'." Hassan stood in the shadows, his expression stern. "Karimi spotted three Americans. They're wearing military attaché uniforms, but their gait and eyes don't fool us. They're from the CIA."

Reza's fingers, which had been tapping on the tabletop, paused slightly.

What was bound to come would come.

The swift suppression of the rebellion at the Abadan Refinery and the mysterious disappearance of the elite Iraqi squad had clearly alerted the CIA station in Tehran. In their script, Khuzestan was supposed to be in total chaos, allowing American 'technical experts' to use it as an excuse to take over production and ensure crude oil continued to flow to San Diego.

"What's the name of the American in charge?"

"Richard Miller. His cover is a third secretary at the embassy, but in reality, he is a veteran CIA operative in the Middle East. He was just a field grunt during the 1953 coup against Mossadegh, and now he's one of the shadow directors in this land."

Reza stood up and straightened the collar of his military uniform.

"Miller... I've heard that name. A typical Cold War elite who thinks he can manipulate everything." A meaningful smile appeared at the corner of Reza's mouth. "Tell Fatima to seal off the core area of the Cyrus Workshop. Have the workers put on the shabbiest clothes, cover those precision machine tools smuggled from West Germany with tarps, and pile low-quality steel on top. If Miller wants to see a decadent and greedy prince, I'll play the part for him."

Two hours later, in the reception hall of the Governors Mansion.

Colonel Musa handed over the gleaming medal with a face full of smiles, while Miller stood behind him like a ghost, his sharp blue eyes sweeping over Reza's face like a scanner.

"Your Highness, your courage has saved the face of the royal family," Musa said obsequiously.

Reza laughed arrogantly, casually tossing the medal onto the table with a dull thud. "Colonel, I don't care about face. I only care about whether my refinery can continue to lay golden eggs for me. Tell my father, as long as the money is enough, Khuzestan will be the most stable fortress of the Pahlavi Dynasty."

Miller stepped forward, his voice gentle but edged. "Your Highness Reza, we heard that during the suppression of the rebellion, your guard displayed extraordinary organizational skills, and even utilized some... non-active duty detection equipment? Washington is very curious about this."

Reza glanced at him sideways, revealing the arrogance of a nouveau riche. "Mr. Miller, is it? In this country, as long as you have American dollars, you can even buy Soviet T-62 tanks from smugglers. As for the detectors, those are 'high-end goods' I got from some Jewish watch smugglers. It cost me a full five hundred thousand dollars. If you're interested, I'll sell them to you. One million?"

Miller stared at Reza, trying to find a crack in that cynical face. But Reza performed too much like an arrogant, money-grubbing royal playboy with no political ambition.

"Your Highness, Iraq has been making frequent moves recently. If needed, the United States can increase the quota of military advisors in Abadan." Miller threw out the bait.

"Advisors? Forget it." Reza waved his hand, his tone blunt. "I don't want Yanks with little notebooks taking inventory all over my plant. If you really want to help, get the White House to send over more spare parts. Don't let those decrepit compressors go on strike again."

After the meeting, Miller walked out of the Governors Mansion and whispered to his entourage: "This prince is indeed a lustful, greedy fool. His victory at the border is most likely luck fueled by heavy rewards. However, keep a close eye on that adjutant named Hassan. That man has killing intent."

At this moment, standing behind the blinds on the second floor, watching Miller's jeep drive away, Reza's eyes turned as cold as an ice cellar.

"Miller has already underestimated me." Reza said coldly. "Hassan, starting tomorrow, increase infiltration of the militia around the Abadan Refinery. Also, Karimi, make a copy of the intercepted Iraqi commendation order and send it to the Soviet Consulate in Tehran through 'anonymous channels.' Since Saddam Hussein wants to play, I'll make him burn at both ends."

"Your Highness, why give it to the Soviets?"

"Because the Americans want to see Iran and Iraq maintain a balance of power, consuming each other. But the Soviets, they would rather see a chaotic pro-American dynasty collapse. I want to use this illusion to roll out our 'Persia-2 Missile' right under the noses of the US and the Soviet Union."

May 18.

Deep inside Khuzestan, in the depths of an underground space disguised as an abandoned mine.

There was no luxury of high-end incense like in the Governors Mansion here, only the blinding light of electric welding and the roar of heavy machinery. This was the true heart of Reza—Base No. 2 of the Cyrus Workshop.

"The thrust vector nozzle has initially taken shape, but the high-temperature resistant coating still peels off during continuous testing." Fatima pointed to an engine prototype that had been burned pitch-black, her brows furrowed. She hadn't slept in three days, her eyes sunken, but her gaze flickered with a near-maniacal persistence.

Reza walked over and pointed to a junction in the coating. "Increase the proportion of silicon nitride in the formula by 0.5%, and use the 'staged cooling' method I taught you. In this era, materials science is indeed a bottleneck, but we can compensate through structural optimization."

Fatima's hand paused as she recorded, and she looked at Reza in surprise. "Your Highness, this kind of thermodynamic logic... where exactly did you learn it? The Royal Academy in Tehran would never teach these things."

"I'm self-taught." Reza brushed it off, his gaze shifting to another corner of the base.

There sat a few scarred M60 "Patton" tanks and several Soviet-made T-54s obtained from the black market. Workers were dismantling these behemoths.

"Missiles are our sharp sword, but that's not enough." Reza walked up to the heavy tracked chassis. "Once the revolution breaks out, or Saddam Hussein launches a large-scale invasion, we can't rely solely on a few missiles. We need a tank that can race across the desert and penetrate the frontal armor of a Soviet T-72 Tank."

"With Iran's current industrial base, building a tank is nothing but a pipe dream." Karimi reminded him from the side. "Engine, transmission, fire control system—we can't handle any of those on our own."

Reza laughed and patted the cold armor steel. "We don't need to start from scratch. Karimi, we're going to do a 'shell-swap modification.' This is 'Project Z-1' (Zulfiqar, the famous sword in Islamic legend)."

Reza took a stack of hand-drawn blueprints from his briefcase.

This was an improved version he designed based on the later Iranian "Zulfiqar" series tanks combined with the Chrysler M60 chassis.

"For the cannon, we'll use the old British 105mm rifled gun, but we'll install a simplified dual-axis stabilizer I designed. For armor, forget expensive composite armor; we'll use the 'spaced add-on reactive armor' I developed. As for the heart—"

Reza tapped the engine cover of the T-54. "Pair the rugged Soviet engine with our optimized transmission system. Although this 'hybrid' is industrial trash in the eyes of the West, in a desert environment like the Middle East, it's more reliable than those delicate American goods, and we can repair and build it ourselves."

"How much can we drive the cost of this tank down to?" Karimi was most concerned about the cost.

"Less than one-third of an American-made M60. As long as I control those secret oil fields, we can assemble an armored brigade every year."

Just as Reza was depicting his steel blueprint, Hassan walked in hurriedly.

"Your Highness, there's movement in Basra."

Reza put away the blueprints. "Did Saddam Hussein receive that package?"

"He received it." Hassan lowered his voice. "According to our secret agents, the head of the Basra Intelligence Bureau was executed in public. Saddam Hussein was furious; he gathered two infantry divisions on the border. But he didn't attack immediately; instead, he issued a statement in the newspaper, protesting against 'illegal provocations by unidentified Iranian armed forces at the border'."

"Protesting?" Reza sneered. "Protesting is an excuse for the weak. Saddam Hussein is testing my bottom line. He found that the elite squad he sent disappeared without a trace, and he can't figure out how many trump cards are hidden in Ahvaz, so he's chickened out."

"Then what is our next step?"

"Since he's backed down, we must advance." A hint of determination flashed in Reza's eyes. "Doesn't he want to play at infiltration? Hassan, select fifty elite militiamen, and have Karimi issue them that batch of newly replicated directional mines and AKs with low-light sights. We're going to conduct a counter-infiltration."

"Where to?"

"The Majnoon oil field in Iraq. That's one of Saddam Hussein's ATMs." Reza slashed his hand across the map. "Don't blow up the oil wells; that's draining the pond to catch the fish. We're going to blow up their oil dispatch center, and then scatter flyers that say 'Long Live the Pahlavi Dynasty' everywhere. I want to make Saddam Hussein believe that Khuzestan has a 'fanatical elite guard' loyal to the King with terrifying combat power. Only then will he direct all his hatred toward Tehran, and in the cracks of this hatred, we will complete the final assembly of the 'Persia-2 Missile'."

Reza walked out of the underground factory, the endless starry sky above him.