5: Chapter 5 Irrigation Canals and Granaries

February 1976.

Four months had passed since Reza's transmigration.

The oil well's production stabilized at around 2,800 barrels per day. Abdullah Al-Sabah's fleet came to load oil twice a week, each time filling two old 5,000-ton tankers, transporting them along the blind spot routes of the Saudi coastline to Kuwait.

After four months, Reza already had 1.6 million dollars in his account.

He didn't save a single cent of this money. He spent it all.

Where did he spend it? Three places.

First, food.

Through Abdullah Al-Sabah's network, he purchased large quantities of wheat and rice from Pakistan and Turkey. He bought 8,000 tons over four months, all stockpiled in six secret warehouses in the remote mountains of Khuzestan Province.

Hassan was very puzzled by this: "Your Highness, why buy so much food? Iran is not short of grain."

"It's not short now, but in half a year, it will be."

Reza didn't explain too much.

In the second half of 1976, due to a poor harvest, the Soviet Union would go on a frantic shopping spree in the international market, historically known as the "Soviet Great Grain Purchase." This buying spree would directly cause global grain prices to soar by more than 40%. As a net grain importer, the living costs of the common people in Iran would rise sharply.

Pahlavi was busy negotiating arms purchases with the United States and wouldn't care about the lives of the common people at all.

And he, Reza, would sell the stockpiled grain to the people of Khuzestan Province at cost price when grain prices skyrocketed.

Not giving it away for free—people don't cherish things that are free.

Selling at cost price—letting the people feel, "This Prince didn't make money off us, he is one of our own."

This calculation was ten times more cost-effective than giving it away for free.

Second, irrigation systems.

In the north of Khuzestan Province, there was the Karun River with abundant water, but the farmland downstream was largely abandoned due to a lack of irrigation channels. The "Karun River Diversion Project" planned by the Pahlavi Government had been drawn on paper for ten years without digging a single meter of channel.

Reza didn't start a major project.

He had Hassan recruit 300 masons and plumbers from the provincial capital, and according to the "simplified drip irrigation system" blueprints he drew, they built small-scale irrigation networks in six villages downstream of the Karun River.

The blueprints were very simple: use PVC pipes to draw water from the river, generate natural water pressure through the drop, and then use simple valves to control the diversion, allowing the water to accurately drip irrigate the roots of each crop. No electricity or water pumps were needed, and the cost was less than five dollars per mu.

Chen Feng, who had worked on similar projects in the Northwest in his previous life, could draw this system with his eyes closed.

In the first week of construction, more villagers watched than worked.

In the second week, the irrigation system of the first village was connected to water. The yellowish-brown river water flowed along the PVC pipes into the cracked farmland, soaking the soil that hadn't seen water for half a year.

An old farmer squatted on the ridge, watching the water flow out of the pipe, his lips trembling for a long time before he suddenly burst into tears.

He had farmed all his life and had never seen anything that could irrigate land without needing people to carry water.

The news spread like the wind.

In the third week, village chiefs from a dozen surrounding villages voluntarily came to the Governors Mansion, requesting "His Highness Reza" to build irrigation systems for them too. Some village chiefs brought the prettiest girls in their villages, saying they wanted to "offer them to His Highness" to show their gratitude—which Reza politely declined.

By the fourth week, the "Reza Canal"—a name spontaneously given by the people—in the north of Khuzestan Province already covered twelve villages, benefiting more than 20,000 people.

The effect was immediate.

No speeches, no slogans, no religious endorsement needed. One irrigation canal was worth more than a thousand sermons.

For the first time, Hassan felt he had followed the right person.

The "big shots" he had seen before either only made promises they didn't keep, or if they did keep them, it was to loot even more. His Highness Reza was the first noble to take out real money to build irrigation canals for the poor.

Of course, what Hassan didn't know was that Reza's goal in doing this was far more than just "buying people's hearts."

Every village covered by the irrigation system would become his "intelligence node." The villagers were grateful to him, and any outsider entering these villages would be spontaneously reported to the Governors Mansion.

This was a hundred times more efficient than spending money to hire informants.

Third, military expansion.

Over four months, Hassan recruited 1,200 young men from the tribes in Khuzestan Province, incorporating them into the guard under the name of "Provincial Defense Militia." Including the original 437 people, the total force reached over 1,600.

The quality of the new recruits was uneven, but they had one thing in common—they were poor and hateful.

Poor, because of the Pahlavi Government's exploitation of the border provinces for decades. Hateful, because their land was requisitioned by the National Iranian Oil Company, and the compensation was embezzled by local officials layer by layer, leaving them without even a drop of soup.

These people were the best to use. Feed them, give them a gun, and tell them, "Your hard life is caused by those people in Tehran," and they would risk their lives for you.

Reza was not in a hurry to let these people fight.

For the first three months, the recruits only did two things: physical training and disciplinary training.

Physical training was Hassan's responsibility—running ten kilometers, doing five hundred push-ups, and marching with thirty-kilogram sandbags every day. Those who didn't reach the standard were eliminated; the elimination rate was 20%.

Disciplinary training was personally handled by Reza.

He set three iron rules:

First, do not harass the people. Violators would be beaten fifty times, and shot for a repeat offense.

Second, obey orders. Any order, whether understood or not, must be executed before discussion. Violators would be confined for three days.

Third, confidentiality. Anything seen, heard, or done in the guard, if a single word is leaked, the whole family will be punished.

The third rule was the harshest, but also the most effective. Tribal people valued family, and the collective punishment system directly hit what they cared about most.

After three months, the 1,600-man guard already had some shape. At least they stood straight, could run, and obeyed orders.

But this was far from enough.

He needed an armed force that could confront the regular army, not a group of militiamen holding rifles.

"Your Highness, the news about that female student at the University of Tehran has been found."

One evening, Hassan walked into Reza's office with a thin file.

"Fatima Hosseini, 22 years old, senior in the Physics Department at the University of Tehran. Her father is a middle school teacher in Isfahan, and her mother is a housewife. In 1974, she published a paper titled 'Theoretical Model of Uranium Isotope Separation Efficiency in Gas Centrifuges' in the 'Iranian Science Journal,' which was cited by a researcher at the US Oak Ridge National Laboratory. Her name is in the SAVAK files, marked as 'Object of Concern—Possesses Sensitive Knowledge Background'."

"Has SAVAK taken any action against her?"

"Not yet. She only published a paper and hasn't participated in any political activities. SAVAK is currently busy arresting leftist students and Ayatollah Khomeini's people, so they don't have time for a female student studying physics."

"Where is she now?"

"University of Tehran dormitory. She graduates next month and hasn't found a job yet. Her supervisor wants to recommend her for study in France, but her family can't afford it."

Reza closed the file.

Fatima Hosseini.

In the history of his previous life, this name did not appear in any public records. But when Chen Feng was reviewing early materials on Iran's nuclear program, he had seen a vague mention in a footnote of a declassified document—"An Iranian female physicist proposed a theoretical framework for optimizing uranium enrichment efficiency in the late 1970s, but failed to put it into practice due to political turmoil."

No name, no photo, only this one sentence.

But based on the publication time of the paper and the research direction, Chen Feng deduced that this person was most likely Fatima Hosseini.

A genius buried by the times.

In the original timeline, she might have gone into exile after the Islamic Revolution, or she might have been persecuted by the Ayatollah Khomeini regime as a "secular intellectual." Either ending was a tragedy.

But on this timeline, Reza wanted to turn her into the core figure of Iran's military-industrial rise.

"Make arrangements, I want to go to Tehran."

Hassan looked up sharply: "Your Highness, you cannot go to Tehran! SAVAK has a 3,000-man spy network there, and the King's eyes and ears are all over the city. Once you show up—"

"I will not show up as a Prince."

"But—"

"Hassan." Reza interrupted him, his tone not heavy but every word sounded like a nail, "Some people are worth me taking the risk personally."

Hassan was silent for a moment.

"Then I will go with you."

"You are not going. You stay to watch the house. After I leave, if there is no news within three days, you take everyone and retreat into the mountains. Blow up the oil well, burn the documents, and leave no trace."

"Your Highness—"

"This is an order."

Hassan's lips pressed into a line.

He bowed and gave a military salute, turned, and walked out.

He stopped when he reached the door, didn't look back, but the voice squeezed out from his tight throat: "Your Highness, you promised to give us a Persia we wouldn't dare to dream of. You must live to fulfill it."

The door closed.

Reza sat under the lamp, looking at the blurry photo of Fatima Hosseini in the file—short hair, round face, wearing black-rimmed glasses, the corners of her mouth slightly drooping, her expression too serious for a 22-year-old girl.

He opened his notebook and wrote a line at the top of the page marked "Military Industry"—

Fatima Hosseini = The key to Persia's military industry. Must be obtained.

Then he added a small line below—

Note: This person has a strong personality, doesn't respond to soft or hard tactics, only responds to "technical bait."

What bait to use?

Reza flipped to the last few pages of the notebook. There were a few sketches drawn there—they were the schematics of a "simplified solid-fuel rocket engine" he had drawn based on his memories from his previous life.

Incomplete, but enough to make a genius physicist lose sleep with excitement.

He closed the notebook and turned off the light to rest.

Three days later, he was going to Tehran.

To meet a woman who could help him change the military landscape of the Middle East.