Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (165 page)

“There's a lot of confusion on the radio, sir, but I think I put together a reasonable picture,” Kazemi replied. He pulled out a fairly detailed handmade map of Doshan Tappeh Air Base with the positions of their insurgent forces and their current manpower and ammunition situation marked on it. “It looks like we're facing three concentrations of Pasdaran soldiers right now: the barracks to the west, the main gate area to the southwest, and the northeast aviation command headquarters. We count two helicopters airborne and two more ready to go on the airfield. The good news, sir, is that our scrounger security teams have engaged the units sent to the warehouse area to the north, and although we took some heavy losses it appears the Pasdaran concentration there has been broken up.”

“Your recommendation?”

Kazemi looked at Buzhazi carefully. “Two of our scrounger teams made it out, sir—we lost the rest, except for a few stragglers,” he replied. “You made contact with General Yassini, and he's not helping us. Two of the three mission objectives have been completed. The third objective is to get out safely and withdraw. That is what we should do.”

Buzhazi nodded. “Well thought out, Ali.”

“I recommend we disengage and get out before the Pasdaran organize and flood in,” Kazemi continued. He pointed toward the warehouse area. “The defenders have disengaged and fled the warehouse area, but I think they'll send in counterattack forces shortly, so the north and northwest escape routes will soon be cut
off. The only other alternative is to the southeast, between the main part of the base and the flight operations area. Once outside the base, we have just two kilometers to go until we're outside the capital province, and then we're in open terrain and can move out quicker. We'll be traveling in the opposite direction of the scrounger units, which will give them a better chance of escaping, and we'll be heading away from the residential areas north of the base, so there'll be less danger of having civilians caught in the crossfire.”

“But we'll have to cross the runway and taxiways,” Buzhazi said. “We could be caught in the open.”

“It's a risk, sir,” Kazemi said honestly. “But they won't expect us to go in that direction.” He indicated two dashed lines than ran across the runway complex approximately mid-field. “Men on foot and in smaller vehicles can cross via this tunnel that goes under the runway; the rest have to go across the runway. But we'll be heading away from the counterattack vector. We can have a platoon set up booby traps and ambush sites to make it appear that's where we're headed and to slow down the Pasdaran advance, while the rest of the force heads south.”

Buzhazi thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well, Ali. I agree with your plan.” He put a hand on his shoulder. “I hate to do this, Ali, but you're the most senior officer surviving, so I'm going to have you organize and lead the diversion team.” He pointed to Kazemi's map. “I'll have you set up ambushes here, at the security center entrance gate. You set up booby-traps along the main road that will funnel responders toward your ambush zone. Will you do that, Ali?”

Kazemi's eyes widened, but after a moment he lowered his head and nodded solemnly. “Of course, General. Who should I take with me?”

“General Zhoram's company is scattered across the northern warehouse area in overwatch positions,” Buzhazi said. “You'll have to find them and get them organized.” He handed Kazemi the
radio from the dead security officer's belt. “They should be monitoring Zhoram's channel. I'll check on you before we depart.”

“I'll get as many as I can, but I won't waste time—I can set up booby-traps as well as the next guy.”

“Good,” Buzhazi said. “Remember, you're just a diversion, not a suicide squad. Once the attackers pull back from the ambush zone to regroup and re-evaluate, your job is complete. Head out immediately and we'll meet up at rendezvous point Delta to the south. No heroics, understand?”

“Yes, sir. You know me: I'm no hero.”

“If you aren't one today, Ali, I don't know what else to call you.” The two men shook hands. “Thank you, Ali. You've done well.”

“Thank you, General. I won't let them past me, don't worry.” He hurried off.

The radios were very quiet in the next fifteen minutes, and only sporatic gunshots were reported around the base. Buzhazi found Kazemi in the second floor of an administration building, just a few dozen meters from the security center entrance. “Are you all right, Ali?” he asked.

“I'm fine, sir,” Kazemi said. He looked over Buzhazi's shoulder—the general was alone. “Shouldn't you be leading the battalion off the base, sir?”

“I wanted to check on you first. The rest of the battalion is ready to move. Report.”

“I could only locate a couple of General Zhoram's men—the rest have been captured, killed, or fled,” Kazemi said. “But we have set up roadside bombs in several places along the road.” He motioned outside. “We've got two machine gun squads set up either side of the gate, and two men with a grenade ‘blooper' that can suppress counterfire out to about a hundred meters. Best I could do on short notice. What's our situation, sir? I haven't heard anything on the radios.”

“We've been beaten up pretty badly,” Buzhazi said plainly. “We're going to try to move out along three routes.” He motioned
to them on Kazemi's map, which had already been extensively updated in a very short time. “I want to thank you again for all you've done, Ali.”

“It was my duty as well as my pleasure, sir. I'll be ready for them if they try to rush us, and then we'll be hightailing it right after you.” He looked at the map. “How many do you think you can take through the tunnel under the runway, sir? I would think most of the battalion can get on the other side that way before the Pasdaran would even be alerted.”

“Ah yes, the tunnel,” Buzhazi said. “We decided not to take the tunnel, Ali.”

“Why, sir?”

“Because frankly we didn't know it existed,” Buzhazi said. He quickly drew his sidearm and pointed it at Kazemi's face. “We found it, of course—and we found the Pasdaran ambush platoons covering it too.”

Kazemi's eyes widened in surprise. “What are you doing, sir…?”

“As soon as I saw the size of the bullet hole in Zhoram's man's head, Ali, I knew it wasn't from a sniper rifle—it had to be from your sidearm,” Buzhazi said, taking Kazemi's rifle away from him. Two infantrymen came in and pulled Kazemi to his feet. “And I couldn't figure out why you were drawing such a detailed map of our deployment and cataloging our supply situation so carefully…unless I considered that you were passing all that information along to the Pasdaran. And when you didn't seem to have any trepidation about guarding the north part of the base, I knew that the Pasdaran had to be waiting for us on the south—the direction you urged us to go.” Kazemi made no attempt to rebuff any of those arguments. “Why, Kazemi?”

“Because this revolution of yours is doomed, Buzhazi,” Kazemi said. “You can't stop the Revolutionary Guards from crushing you—you can't even stop Zolqadr's men from infiltrating your ranks at will and inciting defections and sabotage. General
Zolqadr promised that all charges against me would be erased forever and I would be promoted if I set you up.”

“And you believed him? That's the last and biggest mistake you'll ever make.” Buzhazi pressed his pistol into Kazemi's abdomen, feeling for any body armor under his clothing with the muzzle, then pulled the trigger three times. The guards let the corpse fall forward in a pool of blood. He pulled his radio from its pounch on his web belt. “All Lion units
, jangal, jangal.”

As Buzhazi and his guards left the building they heard several explosions behind them as the insurgents launched grenades and fired on vehicles, fuel trucks, aircraft, and anything else that might catch on fire, and several bigger explosions that destroyed remaining vital parts of the security building. When they exited the administration building, Buzhazi could see several columns of smoke rising from the south. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

From a half-dozen spots along the northern wall surrounding the base, Buzhazi's men emerged from the base and onto Setam-Gari Avenue. Much of the traffic on this busy thoroughfare had stopped or slowed to see what the smoke on the base was about, and Buzhazi's men used that opportunity to their advantage. They picked out several large trucks, motioned with upraised weapons for the driver to get out, then blasted it with grenade and rifle fire. Soon the boulevard was a mass of confusion, blocked off in both directions, clogged with fleeing drivers escaping the smoke and gunfire.

But the smoke and explosions caught the attention of two Mi-24 attack helicopter crews orbiting over the runway and the southern part of the base, waiting for the insurgents to flee in that direction. They immediately swooped in over the avenue and began firing at anyone with a gun in his or her hands—and when there was a larger concentration of individuals, the helicopter weapons officers opened fire with fifty millimeter rocket launchers, spraying high-explosive, fragmentary, and flechette-tipped projectiles into the terrified crowds.

The carnage was unimaginable, and the completely indiscrimi
nate slaughter enraged Hesarak Buzhazi. But he knew he could not stand out here in the open and fight. He hated the idea of rushing across the avenue into the dense shops and homes north of the airbase, but he had no choice—soon the troops set to ambush them from the south part of the base would be rushing north to engage. The attack helicopters had set up a slow orbit over the avenue, their slower rate of fire showing that they finally decided they had better start conserving their ammunition until the rest of the Revolutionary Guards entered the battle. If he was going to make an escape, now was the time.

“All units, take cover inside the strongest looking buildings you can find!” Buzhazi radioed. “Tell anyone you find inside to get out as fast as they can! Once they're away, get away from the area and rendezvous at point Gazelle as planned. Out.” He turned to the dozen men surrounding him. “This way. Keep down and keep your weapons out of sight—those helicopter gunners are firing at anyone who looks like they're carrying weapons.” He then dashed off into the most modern-looking building he saw in front of him, a branch of the Bank Sepah.

It was a good defensible spot—unfortunately it was also a good place to get trapped in, since access was limited in any other direction except out the front door. Buzhazi immediately radioed for other platoons to spread out around the bank building to help defend it from different directions and to provide cover fire in case they needed to escape. Setam-Gari Avenue was choked with cars and obscured with smoke, with people running in all directions trying to cover their mouths with belongings, scarves, or hankerchiefs. Every few moments he would see another horrifying sight of a woman carrying a bag of groceries or a child holding a soccer ball get gunned down by the attack helicopter's cannons. He swore loudly, trying desperately to squeeze the images out of his consciousness. He lifted his radio: “All Lion units, Lion One, report! Lion…”

Suddenly the entire front of the bank office was blasted apart by rocket fire, sending clouds of brick, stone, and glass inside. One
soldier standing beside Buzhazi caught the full brunt of the explosion, his lifeless body plowing into the Iranian general. Buzhazi's vision was gone—the only thing that told him he was still alive was the terrible ringing in his ears from the blast and the feel of the young soldier's blood and tissue covering his face. Someone lifted him free of the wreckage and body parts. The soldier asked something, but Buzhazi couldn't hear him, so he just nodded and patted his arm to tell him he was okay.

A few minutes later, with the volume on the radio turned up all the way, Buzhazi was able to hear the reports coming in from his battalion: “Lion Two is about a half-block away. Are you all right, One? Anyone there?”

“I'm okay, Two,” Buzhazi radioed. “One casualty so far. Lion Three, report.”

“Lion Three doesn't have you in sight, but…stand by…” There was another loud explosion not far away, with more screaming and panicked citizens running in every direction.

“Lion Three, what's your status?” No reply.

“This is Two. Looks like Three got hit pretty bad.”

“Copy. Lion Four.” No reply. “Lion Four, report.” Still no reply. “Lion Five.” Again, no response. “Lion Four and Five, key your mikes if you can hear me.” Buzhazi thought he heard the coded clicks on his radio, but he wasn't sure if it was real or just wishful thinking.

“One, this is Two, armored personnel carriers advancing from the west,” the leader of Second Company reported. “I see one…no, two, two of them. Traffic is slowing them now…One, I see dismounts! Six…eight…ten dismounts, approaching each side of the street.”

“Copy, Two.” Buzhazi turned to the men behind him. “Listen up, men. Who do I have behind me?”

“Lieutenant al-Tabas, sir,” a terrified, high-pitched voice responded. “I've got Sergeant Ardakan and most of the members of Kush platoon with me.”

“Weapon status, Lieutenant? Anyone with a grenade launcher and some HE rounds?”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence; then, Tabas and Ardakan moved beside him, crouching low. The sergeant was carrying an AK-47 assault rifle along with a “blooper,” a thirty-millimeter grenade launcher, and he wore a bandolier of grenades. The lieutenant carried an AK-74 assault rifle. “What do you need, sir?” Tabas asked.

“I need that launcher and your grenades, Sergeant,” Buzhazi said. Ardakan looked confused, but gave the general his “blooper” and grenades. Buzhazi loaded a smoke round into the launcher.

“Sergeant, I need some cover fire.”