83: Chapter 80 Chessboard Reversal

On August 25th, Ayatollah Khomeini sent the second batch of reinforcements from Tehran—not troops, but supplies.

Three train cars of ammunition, two thousand chemical defense suits, a batch of field medical equipment, and a "Wartime Authorization" issued by the Supreme Defense Council of Iran. The content of the authorization was very brief:

"In view of the critical position of Khuzestan Province in the upcoming border conflict, Prince Reza Pahlavi, the supreme administrator of the province, is authorized to command all military, civilian, and paramilitary forces in Khuzestan Province under wartime conditions, without the need for step-by-step approval from higher authorities. This authorization is valid until further notice from the Supreme Defense Council."

Karimi understood the significance of this authorization the moment he saw it: "This is tantamount to turning Khuzestan into an independent war zone during the war."

"Not independent," Reza said, "but special."

The difference between the two was subtle, but in this context, it meant everything. Ayatollah Khomeini gave him command, but not political autonomy—military operations in Khuzestan were up to him, but the political direction of Khuzestan was still decided by Tehran. This arrangement was both a recognition of his ability and a carefully crafted system of checks and balances.

Reza accepted this arrangement. He knew that during wartime, such checks and balances would be diluted by actual military needs—when the bombs started falling, no one would have time to care about subtle political balances.

On August 28th, Rafsanjani brought bad news from Tehran.

"The Ayatollah's health has deteriorated," Rafsanjani said, "The doctors say he needs at least two weeks of absolute bed rest. During these two weeks, the actual decision-making power of the Supreme Defense Council will be temporarily handed over to a seven-member committee—two of whom are very unfriendly to you."

Reza frowned.

"Who?"

"Montazeri," Rafsanjani said, "and Ali Bani-Sadr."

Montazeri was Ayatollah Khomeini's most valued successor candidate, belonging to the hardline faction ideologically, and was suspicious of any "non-Islamic" power structure; Bani-Sadr was more extreme, having publicly stated that Iran's military command should not be concentrated in the hands of any non-religious personnel.

"Will they move against my command?" Reza asked.

"They certainly will," Rafsanjani said, "but not now. They will wait until the war starts—if Iran wins in the early stages of the war, they will claim the victory is due to 'Allah's protection and Islamic unity'; if Iran suffers losses in the early stages of the war, they will immediately use this as an excuse to shift the responsibility for command errors to you, and then take over military control of Khuzestan."

Reza quickly assessed the situation in his mind.

These two were not fools, and their strategy was reasonable—during wartime, the struggle for military command often occurs between the victories and defeats on the battlefield; the winner's voice is automatically amplified, and the loser's authority rapidly disintegrates. What Montazeri and Bani-Sadr were waiting for was not for Reza to make a mistake, but for a "Reza's failure" to be manufactured.

"Then don't let them wait," Reza said.

"What do you mean?"

"Once the war starts, I want to achieve an indisputable victory in the shortest possible time—not days, but hours. Fast enough that they won't have time to organize a political offensive, fast enough that the entire attention of Iran will be drawn by news from the battlefield, and fast enough that anyone trying to challenge my command at this time will look like they are dragging the country down."

"What do you plan to do?"

Reza didn't answer directly, but took the border map marked with dense information from the drawer, spread it on the table, pointed to a spot on the east bank of the Shatt al-Arab, and said:

"On the early morning of September 16th, Iraq will launch the first wave of attacks at this position. Their plan is to cover it with artillery first, then advance with armored clusters in three directions, with the middle one pointing directly at the Abadan oil fields. If their plan succeeds, Abadan will fall within 72 hours—but their plan will not succeed."

He paused, then stated his core tactic:

"Within the first minute of their attack, I will turn their artillery positions into scrap metal."

Rafsanjani looked at the map and asked: "With what?"

"Persian-1 Type B," Reza said, "Precision strikes, not blanket fire, but surgical strikes—hitting the ammunition depots and command posts of the Iraqi artillery positions directly. Before their artillery fires, before their armored clusters depart, break the first link of the entire attack chain."

"And then?"

"Then the Anti-tank mines network will receive the remaining armored forces. Iraqi tank groups that have already lost artillery support will become moving coffins in front of Anti-tank mines and rocket launchers."

"And finally?"

"Finally, Hassan's rapid reaction force will strike, clearing all remaining Iraqi forces attempting to flee."

After finishing, Reza looked directly at Rafsanjani: "From the launch of the first missile to the explosion of the last mine, the entire process will take no more than six hours. Six hours later, there will be no organized Iraqi offensive force left on the Shatt al-Arab border."

Rafsanjani digested this plan, then asked a critical question:

"Everything you said is based on one premise—that our intelligence is accurate, and Iraq will really make a move on the early morning of the 16th. Are you sure about this?"

Reza was silent for a second, then said: "Not one hundred percent. Intelligence is never one hundred percent. But I have enough certainty that it's worth betting all my chips on this point in time."

This was not bluffing. Reza knew better than anyone that his "future script" gave him an intelligence advantage far beyond ordinary people, but he still couldn't eliminate all variables—history would be changed, and even every step he carefully constructed could deviate at the last moment.

But war was never a game that pursued certainty. It was a game of betting on uncertainty, and the chips were the people and weapons that were prepared to the extreme.

On August 30th, Reza gathered all his core staff for a final comprehensive pre-war check.

The attendees included: Hassan (rapid reaction force), Karimi (intelligence system), Najjari (military production), Farrokhzad (military liaison), and Fatima (via encrypted video link). Iskandari was at the workshop supervising the final sprint of the T-72 Tank production line and was not present.

Reza drew a timeline on the whiteboard, marking the key nodes for each day ahead:

September 1st - 5th: Final checks of all forward positions completed, all Anti-tank mines laid and marked.

September 6th - 10th: Missile units enter the highest state of combat readiness, all launch positions finish camouflage and final debugging.

September 11th - 15th: Rapid reaction force enters standby positions, logistics supply lines complete final deployment.

Early morning of September 16th: Wait.

"The last three days are the silent period," Reza said, "All radio communications will be reduced to a minimum, and all non-essential activities will stop. The entire Khuzestan Province will enter the final silence before the war."

He looked at everyone present and said:

"From the day I arrived here in 1975, five years have passed. Five years ago, I was a prince squeezed into a remote province with only five hundred people in my hands. Today, I am here, with you, guarding the most important province in Iran, facing its biggest threat in thirty years."

He paused.

"I didn't walk to this day alone. Everyone in this room has shouldered responsibilities for today that you cannot shirk. I will not forget this, and Iran will not forget it either."

"But now is not the time for thanks. Now is the time to act."

He pressed his hand on the border map:

"Sixteen days later, we will prove one thing to the whole world—Iran is not a country that can be bullied at will. And the first person to prove this is us."

After the meeting ended, everyone dispersed, and only Fatima stayed behind via video.

"There is something I have always wanted to ask you," she said, "but I don't know if I should ask."

"Ask."

"You knew this war would come from the beginning, right? Not guessing, but knowing. You knew when it would come, in what way it would come, and perhaps even how it would end." Fatima's eyes looked straight into the camera, "I want to know, where exactly does this certainty of yours come from?"

Reza looked at her without avoiding the question.

"You can understand it as," he said, "I am someone who understands this land better than most people. I know the temper of this land, know where its wounds are, and know who will come to uncover these wounds and when. This understanding was not formed in a day or two; it was exchanged for a massive amount of time, energy, and cost."

This answer was not a lie, but it didn't tell the truth either. It was something in between—it acknowledged an "extraordinary understanding," but didn't explain the specific source of this understanding.

Fatima was silent for a while, then said: "I can accept your answer. But I have one condition."

"What condition?"

"No matter where this certainty of yours comes from, in the upcoming war, I need you to bet it all. Don't hold back, don't hide any backup plans. If the outcome of this war depends on whether we have brought out everything, then I want to know that we have indeed brought out everything."

Hearing this request, Reza laughed.

"Fatima," he said, "From the day I decided to build the first underground workshop in Ahvaz, I have never held back anything. Every step of the way, I have been betting all my chips. This war will be no exception."

Fatima nodded, and the video connection was cut off.

On September 1st, Reza stayed alone in his office in Ahvaz until late at night.

He stood by the window, looking at the night outside. In the distance were the fires of the oil fields, like countless eyes that never extinguished.

He took the dark blue notebook out of his pocket, turned to the last page, and wrote another line under the line "Everything is ready. Waiting for that gunshot":

"Countdown to the gunshot: fifteen days."

After writing, he closed the notebook and turned off the light.

The war was about to begin.

And he had been waiting for this moment for five years.