56: Chapter 53 Gyroscope and Human Nature

September 16, 1978, underground assembly area of the workshop.

When Fatima pushed the metal component over, Reza did not take it immediately; he first glanced at her.

Her expression was off. It wasn't the frown of someone who had discovered a technical issue, but something else—a suppressed look of someone who had something to say but hadn't decided how to bring it up, like someone ready to question another but still organizing their words.

Reza picked up the gyroscope component first and examined it.

The aluminum alloy casing still bore traces of manual polishing, but the surface finish was approaching the standards he required. The weight was nearly 120 grams lighter than the previous version, and the internal rotor bearings had been re-fitted, with tolerance control better than both previous versions. It wasn't perfect, but under these conditions, it was a result nearing the limit.

"It is much better than the second version," he said, placing the component back on the table. "How long did Iskandari's people take?"

"Eighteen days," Fatima said. "They had to rework it twice in the middle."

"Tell them I want six for the next batch. Give them three weeks, and do not lower the precision standards."

"Understood." Fatima did not write it down, agreeing immediately, which showed she had already calculated these numbers in her head.

Then, she did not continue discussing technology. She paused for about three seconds before bringing up something else:

"Your Highness, I need to know what these things will eventually be used for."

There were only two people in the room. Hassan was guarding outside, and the others in the workshop were in their respective areas; there was only the low hum of the mechanical ventilation system.

Reza did not answer immediately, picking up the gyroscope again and turning it in his hand.

"Don't you already know?" he said. "Missiles, short-range surface-to-surface, with a range covering targets within the province."

"I know it is a missile," Fatima said, her tone calm but her articulation clear. "What I am asking is, who is it meant to strike?"

Once this question was asked, something changed.

It was not a threat, nor was it a negotiation; it was just someone who had spent nearly a year in a basement, pouring all their energy into a pile of steel and propellant, needing to know the direction of what they were doing at a certain point in time.

Reza put the gyroscope back and looked up, staring directly at her:

"Do you want to hear the truth, or do you want to hear a version that sounds reasonable?"

"The truth." Fatima did not hesitate.

"The truth is," Reza said, "it is not striking anyone right now because we haven't reached that step yet. The meaning of its existence is to let those sitting across the negotiating table at some point in the future know that Iran is not a country that can be threatened casually." He paused. "To put it more directly: it is a trump card that gives us the right to say no."

Fatima stared at him for a few seconds.

"Then what if, one day, you decide to fire the first shot?"

"If that day comes," Reza said, "I will come and tell you personally, rather than letting you build the tool without knowing and then handing it over."

There was a promise in this answer—not a political one, but words spoken from one person to another: "I will not keep things from you."

Fatima was silent for a moment, then picked up the blueprints on the table, folded them again, and put them into her folder.

"There is one more thing," she said, her tone returning to work mode. "There is an oxidizing agent in the propellant raw materials. We are currently procuring it through civilian chemical channels, but if the usage increases further, it will trigger the threshold for the province's chemical product controls, and the procurement records will be audited."

"How long until it triggers?"

"At the current rate of consumption, about three months. If we are to build six new complete missile bodies to go with the new gyroscopes, it might be compressed to two months."

Reza wrote a line on his notebook, tore it off, and gave it to her: "This name, a chemical trader in Tabriz. He has a procurement channel that bypasses provincial audits and deals in the resale of industrial raw materials. We have dealt with him before. Take this paper to find his contact, give my name, and have him use the import filing route. It will be handled directly at the customs level, and the province won't see it."

Fatima took it, glanced at it, and put it in her pocket.

"Is it expensive?"

"It is expensive," Reza said, "but it is a hundred times cheaper than the cost of the workshop being exposed."

Fatima nodded, said nothing more, picked up her folder, and stood up to return to the work area.

Walking to the door, she paused, her back to Reza, and said:

"It is not that I do not trust you, Your Highness. I just need to know what I am doing, otherwise I cannot give it my all."

"I know," Reza said. "That is why I told you."

She went out.

Reza sat by that table for a while longer. He didn't flip through any materials, just sat there, his mind turning over the other layer of meaning in that conversation—Fatima asking this question today meant she had been thinking about this for a long time, holding it in, only speaking up today. This meant she was not an impulsive person, nor was she a purely technical personality immune to grand slogans; she cared about direction and where her work was landing.

Such people are the hardest to replace and the most necessary to cultivate.

Not with money, not with status, but with the truth—even if it is only part of the truth.

On the way back to Ahvaz, Hassan was driving. Reza remained silent in the back seat. Hassan was accustomed to this silence and did not disturb him, just kept driving.

About half an hour later, Reza spoke:

"Hassan, have you ever thought about what would happen if this finally failed?"

Hassan's hands did not move, the speed of the car did not change; he just kept driving steadily. After a few seconds, he said:

"No."

"Why haven't you thought about it?"

"Thinking about it is useless," Hassan said. "We have already come this far anyway."

This answer was simple to the point of being crude, but in that crudeness was something solid. It was not blind; it was a way of handling things that only someone with a clear underlying logic possesses—do the things you can control well, and put aside the things you cannot control, not letting them consume your energy.

Reza leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes.

"Fatima asked me today who these missiles are ultimately meant to strike," he said. "Have you thought about this question?"

"I have," Hassan answered quickly this time. "Strike those who should be struck."

"Who are those who should be struck?"

"Those who bully the Persians."

This sentence was spoken very directly, without any embellishment, but it contained a very clear logical core—not ideology, not religion, just the simple judgment of a Persian man from a humble background regarding "who is bullying us."

Reza opened his eyes and watched the road flowing past outside the car window.

"Then what if, one day, those bullying the Persians are the Persians themselves?"

The car was silent for about ten seconds.

"Then we strike them too," Hassan said, his voice dropping half a degree. "No matter who they are."

On September 20, Reza received two messages from Tehran, one good and one bad, arriving almost simultaneously.