Tehran Decree
By
James Scorpio
Published By Smashwords
Copyright © James Scorpio 2010
This book is copyright under the Bern Convention
No reproduction without permission
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Published by Jamscorp Electrobooks 2010
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Disclaimer
This book is a work of fiction, characters, descriptions
and situations incidental in the text are therefore not
intended to slur, or defame in anyway, individuals,
organisations or government authorities.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Edwina Anne Whitworth for her assistance in the preparation of this novel
PROLOGUE
The government had not done any better since the dismissal of Clement Chester, the Australian New South Wales commissioner of police, in fact, they had well and truly stuffed things up. The latest news broadcast had signaled the release of most hostages, but not the US president, which is what the terrorists wanted anyway. As far as Chester was concerned, the authorities were a lot of limp dicks pissing in the wind, and he was glad to be out of it in his forced resignation.
Although Chester relished his early retirement, the circumstances surrounding it had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Vengeance was a cruel agitator and would not let go of his addled brain. They had humiliated him, all of them, after forty loyal years of service to the police force and the country he loved, the very last thing he needed in his twilight years was a ready made set of political demons.
Every night he would go through the Sydney cross city tunnel fiasco, reenacting the whole damned thing in his head, creating better scenarios that would have worked had he been given another chance, but one could not rewind the past, life wasn’t a rehearsal for something better, it just happened and that was it, take it or leave it.
But he was fortunate in some ways, he had what some psychiatrists might call a split personality, which gave him the ability to divide his personality in half, so that one half was unaware what the other half was doing. Two separate people in the same body; the equivalent of psychological Siamese twins, but even this had its problems.
He suffered long and terrible periods of recrimination due to internal conflict between the two halves, which frequently lead to severe depression.
The two halves were separate all right, but they were not water tight, and they kept knocking on each others doors looking for trouble. As soon as he had closed one door, the other opened, and he found himself struggling to keep both doors closed at the same time. On the few occasions he achieved this it was absolute bliss. The world went away and heavenly peace descended, but it had a short life span, and the demons would come back with a vengeance. It was a contention between some psychiatrists that the struggle between the left and right brain hemispheres was the cause of many mental disorders.
Chester had smoked marijuana cigarettes to alleviate it, but this often made the depression even worse, and of late, suicide had entered his mind to end the terrible struggle and unbearable dark nights.
Strangely, the actual thought of committing suicide temporarily relieved his depression, but it always came back when the brain was cheated of actual reality, it was as if relief could only be satisfied by the physical act of suicide itself.
He pointed the remote, sitting upright and switching through the TV channels, in his favourite patchwork armchair; it was a present from long gone mates and a survivor from his training days at the police academy.
He continued to change the news channels picking out reruns of the worst cases of police ineptitude during the tunnel siege and verbally criticised them between gulps of beer and long draws on his marijuana cigarette. Chester spent most of his free time in his shed away from his wife, so that he could practice and sustain all the bad habits she so despised in him. Most of his evenings were spent this way in a drug induced stupor, enhanced with draughts of alcohol. He did have his lucid periods, during which he carried out all the things he’d missed out on during his drug induced haze. Unfortunately, the distinction between the two periods was becoming dimmer and dimmer, and he was vaguely aware that unless he went cold turkey very soon and stayed that way; it would be the end of him. God had made a complex being all right, but the management part of the brain simply wasn’t competent enough to control it. Had the almighty unwittingly created a monster, a sophisticated Frankenstein monster conjured up from the left over molecules of the universe. Chester, although a roughly hewn male externally, was a delicate and sophisticated thinker in his lucid moments, which unfortunately, were becoming rarer with each day that passed. But he had the forethought and insight to know his wife, Rosey Chester, was now taking the brunt of his gross misdemeanors.
Rosey had taken to charity work and community volunteering in a desperate bid to relieve her frustration, and to secretly get away from her husband of thirty years. He had become all the things she detested in a man; he was bull necked, overweight, scarred with wrinkles and unbearably irascible most of the time. He never dressed formerly anymore, it was either worn jeans or drill shorts, matched by a grubby polo top.
On this particular evening a Ladies Club progressive international dinner was in progress, and it was the sort of thing Rosey Chester loved. The lucky ladies as she referred to her companions, went from one members house to another, tasting a different international dish at each house. The chosen country happened to be France and Rosey had spent many hours cooking French cuisine with all the trimmings. She just loved the French -- classy and culturally savvy, they were everything Clement wasn’t, and she would have given anything to play host to her ladies group. But her house would not be on the list of venues visited, courtesy of Clement who hated visitors impinging on his private life, and in any case, Rosey was ashamed of him. She made a point of prolonging such occasions for as long as possible so that Clement would hopefully be asleep in bed by the time she arrived home.
It was two thirty a.m. by the time the last morsels of her French cuisine and that of her companions had been consumed and Rosey decided enough was enough. Clement should be well and truly tucked up in bed by now. It took nearly another hour before things were cleaned up and pots and pans were assigned to their rightful owners.
Rosey drove the short distance back home and arrived there at three-thirty p.m., and on this occasion, she pulled in the drive way cursing -- the outside light was off, but there was a dull yellow glow in Clement’s shed, with fluctuating light flashes in the side window.
Clement had obviously fallen asleep again in front of the telly, it was just one of a battery of irritating habits he had developed since his abrupt retirement. Rosey was at the end of her tether and had begun to realise that this awkward, drug addicted recluse, was a mere shadow of the man she had married all those years ago.
His habits had been largely hidden during his days at work and had now become fly blown and out of all proportion. Every word he uttered, on the rare occasions when he chose to talk to her, was full of irony and irksome platitudes about the human race and its inevitable decline.
She had agreed with him on numerous occasions but that was never enough for Clement, he wanted to spend evenings discussing, and arguing, over the same points day after day, week after week.
Rosey slammed the door on the Holden Commodore hoping this would wake him, then wrenched the shed door open. The flickering brightness of the TV screen matched against the darkness of the rear of the shed confused her and she peered intently at the old armchair. It was several moments before she realised Clement wasn’t sitting there; she looked beyond, to the rear of the shed.
She was met by an incomprehensible void of shifting forms, which refused to be focussed into a cohesive whole; the scarcity of the pervading light seemed to be creating misleading images of its own.
Shouting his name in frustration she switched on the main light at the side of the door. Three seconds passed before the imagery registered in her cerebellum.
She stiffened in horror; Clement was strung up to the roof of the shed, his head pulled crazily to one side by a hemp rope tied in a rough knot around his neck, a deathly gray pallor bathed his twisted features. Sputum and saliva streaked with blood, dribbled from his open mouth, his expressionless eyes protruded from a bloated misshapen face; she wanted to vomit and cry in the one breath.
An old stool lay on its side a mere six inches from his feet -- once again he had stuffed things up -- botching his own death by slowly strangling himself, instead of the swiftness and finality of a clean spinal severance.
A severe pang of conscience surged through her brain, perhaps she had been too hard on him, her strict upbringing had often resulted in futile arguments, which Clement always lost on moral grounds, causing him great humiliation. He had hidden his despair in self abusive drinking and drug taking. Her heart softened for the first time in years; seeing him for the last time; in this, the ultimate state of self humiliation.
She knew under the depraved behavior patterns he was a good man at heart, who had been knocked from pillar to post, smitten with bad habits he couldn’t control and chewed to pieces by a politically correct system gone mad.
She looked up at him one final time in a prolonged, wistful gaze, and held his cold hand between hers, trying desperately to warm it up -- just a little.
‘Why Clement...why?’
Chapter One
TWO YEARS EARLIER
Lexton, South Australia
Few people would want to be stranded four hundred kilometers from civilisation in the South Australian outback, but the site had been well chosen. The distance was just enough to be isolated and out of sight of an over quizzical public, but still amenable to transport services from the big city. In this sense Lexton Detention Centre was both remote and yet still accessible. The area was dry, sandy-brown dessert, with random dabs of dark green salt bush stretching as far as the eye could see. A merciless sun poured its energy unremittingly over the barren landscape.
It was impossible, as well as highly undesirable, to focus on the penetrating harshness of the solar disc, but the celestial body made up for her insensitivity. At the end of the day as the incandescent disk touched the earth’s horizon, a shimmering display of light and shade erupted. It wavered through intense yellow to glorious gold. Majestically, the gold coalesced to a deep blood red, the display held for perhaps four to five minutes, then dramatically plunged into the earth creating total blackness. Some of the local aboriginals looked upon it as the quenching of the hot sun by the coldness of the South Australian night.
Port Augusta residents described the sunsets as absolutely stunning; like being on the barren moon of a strange planet and watching the sun being eclipsed by the curvature of the moon.
Habib Sharazi had spent the last three years in South Australia, but had never seen any of this. In fact most of the detainees at Lexton detention camp had never seen a South Australian sunset. They were always moved around the camp in closed vehicles and the windows of the compound were all built inwards to prevent contact with the outside.
Most family compounds consisted of round sheet metal, demountable buildings, without windows, reminiscent of circular stone age huts. Adding to the unsavory properties of the environment was an eight metre razor wire fence surrounding the entire compound. Any observer outside the camp would have been perplexed by this, as there were never any detainees to be seen. Inmates were kept locked up all day and deprived of most normal facilities.
It was a bright morning during roll call when Habib Sharazi saw his first chance to escape the ugliness of Lexton. Nothing could be as inhibiting and soul destroying as metal back to back buildings which cut out all semblance of Australiana. The great southern country had much more to offer and being in the dessert without food or water was no deterrent. At least he could die having experienced a modicum of the earthiness and freedom that was the Australian outback...it was worth the risk.
The genesis of a new day infused him with the power to be free whatever the cost. A sudden rush at the razor wire fence, throwing all caution to the winds, actually seemed a rational thing to do at the start of a brand new day. Such rashness was the prerogative of the younger man and it was a natural desire of the human psyche, but it had to be controlled or it could perish in blood, pain, and tears, at the hands of brutal security guards.
He had been through the early morning monitoring many times and had noted what he thought was a possible flaw in the accounting procedure. It was a stand by your beds routine, while the security guard counted and checked off names on a clip board list. Such routines inevitably became boring to both the guard and inmate, but the most interesting thing about the procedure was that it was conducted by one man; such was their confidence in the deterrent effect of isolation and the razor wire fence.
Positioned at the end of the inmate lineup he could just see a portion of the Australian guards head and sleeve with the large initials ACM stitched across it. He was animatedly trying to communicate with a new Arab inmate without much success.
Sharazi knew that ACM meant Australasian Correctional Management and it was part of a partnership called Australasian Correctional Services (ACS), half of which was owned by the giant Australian firm of Hessan, with the other half controlled by a private American security company, run by an American multimillionaire.
They were hand in glove with the US and Australian governments. Living and making money out of the misfortunes of displaced illegal immigrants. It seemed somehow immoral even when confronted with the excesses of militant Islam. He had often wondered how he could ever live as a free Muslim surrounded by the companies of such mighty Western infidels.
The ACM guard was further distracted by the Arab’s wife who pulled determinedly at his sleeve while shouting at him in Arabic and pointing to the check board listing.
Sharazi took his chance slipping quietly behind the row of inmates and out through the half closed door. It was yet another contemptuous assumption through familiarity, that the guard had not bothered to lock the door. Sharazi deftly eased himself out of the door and sprinted across the open ground. It was his first good view of the Australian outback, but it was demarcated by a barrier of light and steel, which ran off into the distance, curving round into a great circle totally enclosing his small world. It was a taste of freedom -- but it is was only a sip from a poisoned vessel.
He searched in vain for a weak point in the barbed fence line. The light glinting off the razor wire partially blinding him as he ran, skirting the metal thorn encrusted spirals -- then a gap of intense light emanated from one side of the fence -- was it a way out? Had Allah given him a signal?
A flurry of raised voices echoed behind him driving him on. He plunged blindly forward, his mouth dry with exertion from the hot dessert air. The loss of precious bodily fluids increased as he began heaving and sweating, with every muscle aching -- there had to be a way through the infernal steel barrier.
He spurred himself on even harder, even though his body began to rebel -- his muscles were twinging and full of pain -- threatening to seize up.
The halo of light grew more intense and he surged towards it -- like a moth diving towards an open flame. It had to be a break in the fence wire. Allah was goading him on to freedom. Then something strange happened, as if he had broken through the barrier, all the pain abruptly disappeared and his body felt like it were floating on a cloud. Fine detail disappeared even with both eyes wide open, sweat stung his eye sockets, and his receptors could only register blurred shapes.
The blinding light totally enveloped him and he stopped abruptly, as if constrained by an invisible hand. A paralysing force abruptly gripped his torso and a burning sensation stabbed at his neck and face.
His body swung freely as if suspended in a heavenly hammock -- it was then he noticed his body was being constrained by bloodied metal barbs.
The pain rudely returned biting into his brain, he could not open his eyes, then he cried out, as spattering red liquid ran down his face and pooled in his lap. The guards dragged him from the wire -- a crumpled heap of deep gashes and bloody streaks -- a paramedic quickly entered the scene and set about patching the gaping wounds in his arms and face.
‘How bad is he?’stutted an out of breath senior security officer.
‘I’m sorry sir, but he’ll need immediate surgery,’ one of the security officers peered warily at the razor wire...each barb was a means of cutting one’s wrist or throat, and there were thousands of them all around the camp perimeter. He lowered his head in a futile attempt to hide a shameful grimace.
‘What the fucking hell are we doing to these retched people?’ the chief officer blurted out in a flurry of emotion; the paramedic responded, gazing alarmingly at the razor wire,
‘I don’t know about that sir, but I do know one thing -- we haven’t thought this through. These people are very familiar with pain and suffering, so a few rolls of razor wire isn’t going to bother them too much.’
‘You’re probably right there, in fact, the razor fence might be just the place to martyr themselves on...after all, Jesus Christ only had a wooden cross and a few rusty nails, and look at the attention he got!’
Chapter Two
White House Washington
President George Frederick Garner had just entered the Oval office for another days hard paper work, which had been piling up after a series of meetings on the worsening war in Iraq. The morning briefing sheet from the director of the CIA lay precisely in middle of his desk as requested by the president. The report was one of the first documents he read on entering the office, as well as a number of other related issues on Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan, and now Pakistan had just joined the list. Such was their importance that they were taking up an increasing amount of his formal work time as well as his informal activities. The US now had three hotbed areas to choose from, plus a possible forth, as well as ever increasing problems on the home front.
The prestige and power of the presidential office had steadily diminished with time, and he could see the day when no one would accept this once highly coveted job, supposedly occupied by the most powerful man in the world -- it was all a lot of hogwash.
He read the briefing quickly, as was his normal habit, then reread the document concentrating on the more important aspects.
An undisclosed British warship had detected several Iranian missile firings in the last four days, whilst these were not unusual, their range and frequency had increased substantially, which was a new and alarming development.
The firings and range increases had been partially confirmed by the American carrier USS Ronald Reagan located in the Arabian Sea just off the coast of Oman.
A compounding factor in this issue had been worrying the president -- due to the increasing militarism and incursions of Iranian paramilitary groups in northern Iraq the US government had increased the troop dispositions in this area to over four thousand. The question was; were the increased Iranian missile firings in response to US troop movements?
Garner booted his laptop and assessed the most recent documentation on Iranian weapons of mass destruction. The CIA document estimated a five to ten year development before Iran could produce a nuclear bomb of its own. Garner knew that this was a best guesstimate based on various reports, false or otherwise, and that it could not be relied upon. No one in the world knew exactly when Iran would become nuclear capable except Iran, and even they couldn’t put a lid on it.
The irony of it all was that Iran could be capable of delivering a nuclear bomb right now and with the ability to wipe out Washington and the White House. If this were correct, the USA was in grave danger, not to mention other supportive states such as Israel and Saudi Arabia.
He peered out of the window at the manicured lawns and well tended shrubbery of the White House gardens, something he often did in order to calm his nerves. The view seemed to be one of the few permanent images he had got used to during his political life on capital hill.
Nature knew how to project a calm image, but even this was becoming a little jaded, middle east politics had become a dangerous tit for tat scenario with a first in winner takes all end game.
An overwhelming passion forced him to concentrate on the ultimate scenario -- stifle the bloody problem with a massive invasion of men and state of the art military equipment, or better still, nuke the fucking place to hell with a hundred nuclear warheads on all the major cities. A radioactive wasteland seemed preferable to a seething Arab state, riddled with hatred, and nuclear weapons pointed at the heart of the United States.
He smiled sardonically at his muse, it was the same old story, smite your enemies before they smite you -- but then there was another ancient story of David and Goliath -- with Iran playing the role of David.
Whatever the outcome there could only be one looser and one winner, but there was a third outcome niggling away at the back of his mind, there could be two losers, with sufficient well placed nuclear weapons they had the capacity to virtually wipe each other out. Truth was there would be no clear winner whatever scenario was played out. He stared for a few moments at the shifty logistics on the computer screen, keying up and down the lines of digits, it was clear, more accurate intelligence was required
He scrolled down the page looking at the missile capabilities of Iran, the information had a similar veracity to the nuclear bomb threat, except that it might be a little more accurate.
It was known that the development of the inter continental Shahab-6 missile system was well on track and its estimated range was a minimum 10,000 kilometers. Such a weapon could reach New York thus annihilating America’s most prestigious city in one stroke. It was also known that Iran had had extensive practical and theoretical assistance from North Korea, China, and Russia, on all aspects of missile development.
Once again, after applying severe logic, it was a case of go in now and administer the coup d’état, or face up to a long drawn out cold war with a possible nuclear holocaust as the outcome.
He sighed for the second time...gone were the days when one could simply swat ones enemy with a few good bombing runs, or a quick nuclear strike banishing them forever. The world was always watching -- such were today’s communicative capabilities -- one could not give little Mohammed a black eye on the sly, without the whole country knowing about it, and if it were two black eyes, then the whole world would know.
He continued scrolling down the reports trying to push away his extraneous thoughts which came charging in each time he picked up a major point from the screen. Iran once again reared its ugly head.
Another significant aspect of the Iranian situation was the discovery by allied vessels of ships heading for Iran which contained an assortment of parts for huge guns, this in itself was of great concern, but even more worrying were the number of vessels running the sanctions gauntlet which had not been detected. The middle east was awash with armaments and the whole world was in danger of drifting into anarchy.
It was a new cold war scenario and one that America didn’t want. It was becoming clear that as long as there were different political ideologies in the world and countries with weapons to pursue them, the USA would always be the standing target. She was the natural leader of the free world, and thus, also the natural enemy of all tyrannical states. Aggression was part of human nature even in the mildest person it was a normal defence mechanism -- violence was a here to stay unless human nature itself were changed. This brought up even more drastic scenarios which bordered on the destruction of homo Sapiens as a species.
Chapter Three
Iran / Iraq Border
It was as thick as cotton wool and as gray as Portland cement in every direction; a wall of impenetrable mist obscured everything.
Major Born had been given strict orders to keep a rigid ten metres from the Iraq / Iran border and to recce the area for insurgent Iranian forces, but never to cross the border into Iran under any circumstances. So far it had been an absolute nightmare, they had started off their ten man patrol along the border in crystal clear weather, and this insidious haze had gradually enveloped them.
Initially, Major Born had not worried too much, after all he had a good compass and a state of the art military GPS device, which informed them of their position within a few metres. In spite of this wonderful piece of technology it was still possible to get lost, and even end up arguing with the directions given by the actual GPS device, especially when all visual senses were cut off by a dense fog. There was a tendency for human intelligence, gained through ones senses to argue with, and even usurp accurate readings from an electronic or a mechanical device. Born yelled back at his second in command.
‘What the hell do you make of this bloody fog lieutenant,’
‘Don’t know sir...I didn’t know they had fogs in Iraq.'
'Neither did I...you don’t suppose it could be artificially induced?’ said Born.
‘You never know sir...could be a new weapon of mass confusion,’ it looked too ethereal to be a sandstorm and yet there seemed to be definite particles flying around, and the men had to cover their mouths to protect their lungs from the fine dust.
‘Could this be a mixture of water vapour and sand? the major queried'
‘I suppose it’s possible sir...beats the shit out of me.’ The more the patrol edged its way along the border the greater the murkiness became.
Major Born was now disorientated and experiencing great difficulty in interpreting the GPS device even though directional parameters were plainly in front of him, his brain would simply not accept them. His mind knew that he had been this way and that, and the right direction was now directly to his left. Mankind was now at odds with one of his most recent technological marvels. Lieutenant Harrison, the second in command, continued straight on following his GPS device.
‘Not that way lieutenant, we need to keep closer to the border line,’ yelled Born tapping his subordinate hard on the shoulder.
‘But the GPS sir?’
‘Fuck the GPS...this is the right way.’
‘But sir, we're going the wrong way,’ Harrison blurted desperately, brandishing his GPS device and pushing it in the Major’s face. Older officers sometimes didn’t take too kindly to new technological kids on the block and Born looked skeptically at his second in command.
‘What was one of the first things you learned in basic training Lieutenant?' Harrison squinted at the Major in disbelief...had this big strapping man started to lose his grip on reality?
‘In case you have forgotten Lieutenant, it was how to follow orders...so shut the fuck-up, and do as you’re told,’ the body of men continued in obedient silence.
An hour elapsed before the fog began to clear and Major Born halted the patrol and retrieved a pair of high power service binoculars. He scanned the horizon in a slow 180 degree sweep before settling on an old farm house some fifty metres away.
Harrison hand-signaled the rest of the platoon to get down and take cover.
The cause of the strange mist then gradually became apparent; piles of fine sand dunes dotted the landscape, Born grabbed a handful of the material and sifted it through his hand.
‘Here’s the culprit lieutenant...this stuffs finer than talcum powder...a moderate wind could soon whip it up’
‘Could be a kieselguhr deposit sir, there’s lots of it around here,’ the fine sand wafted from the Majors grasp as he looked ahead.
‘Never mind the kieselguhr lets check out that farm house up ahead.’ The major circled his arm over his head and the patrol slowly spread out forming a large circle surrounding the house. Harrison gave the hand signal indicating a slow closure on the building.
Major Born refocused the binoculars on the roof of the farmhouse, and stopped abruptly, crouching low, he pointed at the building.
‘What the hell is that?’ Harrison squinted hard at he top of the house trying to follow his commander’s extended finger. A gabel window on the roof seemed to frame a large circular object -- parts of which glinted in the sun.
‘It’s the business end of a large artillery gun sir.’
‘Thanks for confirming that Lieutenant ...I thought I might be hallucinating.'
‘No sir, I concur, but I thought big guns went out with Hitler and his cronies.’
‘No lieutenant, they never did go out of fashion -- in fact, they graduated to firing monster shells, as a matter fact, I recall the US Navy stopping an Iranian ship carrying big gun parts some months ago. That was probably a lucky incident...God knows how many other vessels got through since then. The major’s blue tooth earpiece buzzed.
‘Yeah...’
‘Tale end sir...there’s a supply wagon at the rear of the house sir...its stacked with shells, and the vehicle has the international radiation sign stenciled on it,’ Born looked sharply at Harrison.
‘The radiation sign on a military vehicle -- you know what that means lieutenant?'
‘The trucks radioactive sir!’
‘No, the bloody shells are...looks like we might have stumbled onto a strategic nuclear emplacement.’
‘You mean the gun’s set for firing nuclear shells?’
‘Exactly...know what I think lieutenant?'
‘No...what sir?’
‘We’re standing on hot coals...lets get out the hell out of here pronto!’ Harrison turned round and signaled for the men to retreat, then realised they were surrounded by a rag tag bunch of what seemed to be Iranian paramilitaries.
Major Born pressed an emergency button on his satellite phone. It was then he noticed the reading on the GPS digital display -- they were three kilometers inside the Iranian border
‘Hells fucking bells lieutenant ...we’ve gotta get out of here,’ Born continued to press his communication button finally receiving a distorted reply.
‘HQ...CCB...go ahead Major.’
‘We’re surrounded by Iranian Para’s...they’ve got nuclear shells here and a bloody great gun to fire them...were going to fight our way out,’ Harrison gazed alarmingly at the Major -- Born smiled back, then emptied his carbine in the direction of the Iranians.
Chapter Four
Brigadier Arash Al Zandi responsible for the security of the Iran-Iraque border area sat at his desk massaging his forehead. Born in Tabriz out of the poisoned Tehran limelight, with a cultured upbringing, he was more worldly wise then most of his military contemporaries. He had a deep sense of morality, and could think beyond the obvious with a clear consciousness, which made him special within the Iranian officer cadre.
However, an open minded person tended to be a rare quality in the Iranian Army, but Al Zandi was grateful for it. Unfortunately on this occasion, it had provided him with a strong sense of foreboding as he struggled to understand the message he had just read. He reappraised it for the third time, staring at the heading and trying to make sure it wasn’t some sort of sad joke -- even in Arab countries jokes were sometimes perpetrated, but they were rarely practical jokes.
It had come from the his superior General Hakem Gamela and had been passed down the chain of command via the Supreme Leader’s office in the form of a decree enacted by the Supreme Leader himself.
From the attached preamble it was clear that the supreme number one Muslim of Iran, had finally decided to act. The Americans had not only continuously enacted heavy sanctions over many years, but were now dictating how Iran should run its own country. Not satisfied with this, they were now massing on the Iraq border with the obvious intention of invading Iran.
A preliminary head count indicated that an advanced force of approximately four thousand US armed infidels were in position, just rearing to cross the border. The festering hellhole that was Iraq, would now be perpetuated in Iran, unless drastic and immediate action was undertaken.
Enough was enough, the American aggressors were merely upstarts in a very ancient world -- in their own parlance -- they were green to their gills. Brawling infants in fact, and needed to be taught a severe lesson in world etiquette. One does not harass and destroy ancient civilisations whose great accomplishments were commonplace long before the United States of America was a mere twinkle in the Anglo Saxon’s eye.
The body of US troops would be eliminated the instant they crossed the border using newly acquired nuclear technology, and Iraq would be freed from the imperialist aggressors.
All of this Brigadier Al Zandi could readily relate too, but it was the last part of the decree that he could not come to terms with. He stroked his small mustache and his steel gray eyes twitched in their Persian sockets as the crisis in his mind started to escalate. The furrows in his olive dappled forehead deepened as his brain grappled with the flawed military thinking.
He’d had a few strange orders in his time but this was truly maniacal, he cursed the supreme leader under his breath -- clerics, politicians, whatever their persuasion, should leave the militarily thinking to those most qualified to do so -- didn’t these buggers ever learn. The ample lessons of history were there for all to see; Stalin’s military purges, Hitler's gross interference in strategy; all lead to terrible disasters. They never learned to let the military top brass make the military decisions, particularly on the ground, because ultimately that was where wars were won and lost.
With this in mind Al Zandi continued to peruse the official document.
The majority of terrorist groups who supported and were assisted by the Iranian government were to go onto a special war footing, aimed at abducting the American president, if and when, he set foot on foreign soil. Alternatively, if this could be achieved on US soil by covert insurrectionists, so much the better.
The sole purpose of the exercise was to put the US president on trial for his life in a major Tehran court in front of the whole world. Foreign corespondents would be invited and the trial would be relayed over the Internet in agonising detail designed to make the Americans squirm. The actual execution, also over the Internet, no doubt, didn’t bear thinking about.
Al Zandi swept his eyes over the typed sheet for the forth time just to make sure he grasped its true meaning. Strange orders sometimes did strange things to ones perceptions. The American president was to be seized, preferably alive, and brought back to Iran, regardless of his location at the time of the abduction. He would then be tried in front of a Muslim court for crimes against Islam and the people of Iran. Sentencing would then be carried out in full view of the world media. The propaganda created by this act alone, would be worth many victorious physical battles fought against the American imperialists.
Al Zandi realised it had been proven beyond any doubt in the minds of all Iranians, that the American president had humiliated Allah without the need for a public trail -- which meant only one thing -- the whole process was a gross political sham aimed at ridiculing the US president in the eyes of the world.
To humiliate Allah was to forfeit one’s life. The trail would therefore inevitably culminate in the execution of the US president. Since the execution would be shown live on the Internet it would also give the whole specter a new dimension and create maximum propaganda in the eyes of the world.
The decree preamble pointed out that the whole operation was entirely justified, since it drew direct parallels with the American practice of Rendition; whereby so called Muslim dissidents were secretly removed to another country to be interrogated because the chosen country had no laws against torture. Many of the so called dissidents were considered expendable and tortured to death behind locked doors.
This also had analogous connotations to the German Death Squads (the Einsatzgruppen) who operated in the rear of the German army during the second world war. Then there were the American black opps groups and the huge security firm known as Blackwater, as well as numerous others masqurading as security organisations, supposedly guarding western buildings and diplomats in Iraq. Latest estimates by the Iranian foreign office put the number of armed security contractors working in Iraq at 20 - 30,000 personnel.
All terrorists groups all over the world aligned with Islam were to be advised of the decree and its implications were to be put into effect immediately. It was to be expected that certain secret Muslin groups in the US might eventually kidnap the president just as soon as a window of opportunity occurred. However, other groups in other countries would also get their chance if the president went abroad. Al Zandi was acutely aware that Islam had already given the US a bloody nose in the 9/11 fiasco.
Uncle Sam would not tolerate another gross humiliation on the world stage. The Supreme Leader was digging a very big hole which would eventually cave in, burying the Iranian leadership and countless innocent people. One didn’t taunt one’s enemy and give him no where to hide.
Chapter Five
Australia
Recovery was slow for Sharazi but at least he had rid himself of the terrible confinement of Lexton detention Centre. It had cost him dearly, with a permanently scared body and face, and a deformed left hand, but thanks to Allah, he still lived. Mere cosmetic failings were as nothing in the sea of life and greater things would be accomplished -- he was sure of that.
He soon realised that the past events were more than just a skirmish with fate. In hospital he was a freer man and his injuries conjured up extra perks; sympathy and consideration abounded from nursing staff, and unexpected official visitors. Some of them had actually come from the federal government, desperate to smooth over his ill treatment, and ward off any political embarrassment to the ruling party. Grass roots politics and public sympathy made a wonderful mixture, one feeding off the other. It was a win-win situation boosting the poles, giving the public what they wanted and serving the Islamic cause by helping Sharazi get back on his feet.
They offered him a compensation package which would partly pay for any further cosmetic surgery. However, as with most government initiatives there was a catch, the money could only be spent on medical fees paid to a listed physician specified by the government. The official documentation had named three specialists carefully chosen by government consultants. He was about to consign the forms to the waste bin, when three blurred figures appeared at the entrance to the ward, and came towards him.
Sharazi sat up awkwardly and peered through swollen eyes at the three men now standing at his bedside. Two of them were typical white male bureaucrats with lightweight pressed suits and polished patent leather shoes. Well shaven and groomed to the hilt -- he was clearly a special case.
The third person was very different, he wore a plain robe, headdress and leather sandals, so typical of his Iranian homeland, Sharazi’s curiosity ran wild and he uttered a few phrases in Farsi, the common Iranian language, through bruised lips. This instantly shocked the robed man, and he held up his hand -- then looked at the two white officials.
‘Please Habib, speak English if you can, we must confer in the common tongue of this country,’ one of the officials smiled in an effort to put Sharazi at ease.
‘We understand your predicament,’ he said, ‘and have allowed a fellow Muslim cleric to confer with you. This would normally be strictly off limits to an illegal immigrant, but there seems to be some confusion in your case. Our interpreter,’ he pointed to the man in the turban, ‘Farid Hassan Kazeni, will ask you a few questions about your past and fill you in on future arrangements. We will leave you to confer for thirty minutes then we will return,’ the two white officials left the hospital ward and walked back to their car.
The turbaned man peered with small brown eyes for a few thoughtful moments at the battle scared young man -- as if trying to assess his future potential.
‘I don’t know if you realise it Habib, but you are an extremely lucky young man. You could easily have died from your wounds, in fact, we had another man who did a similar thing, and died within hours of contacting the razor wire.’
‘I see...death of a thousand cutts then,’ Sharazi mumbled offhandedly.
‘Exactly...that’s where you were lucky, your injuries were not quite as great and your treatment was very swift and thorough. You owe the Australian authorities your life’ Sharazi grimaced.
‘If it wasn’t for the Australian authorities I would be here in the first place...I owe them nothing,’ Kazeni frowned, his high forehead creasing in alarm.
‘It might be better if you stopped thinking and obeyed your basic inclinations Habib,’ Sharazi raised a belated smile.
‘Which are?’
‘Humility...eat your humble pie and fall in line with the authorities...that way you will make life a lot easier and you will be able to think more clearly about your future.’
‘Which is?’
“That is what we are about to discuss,’ Kazeni opened a folder he was carrying and produced an official looking printed sheet. His voice dropped slightly and he moved closer to the bed.
‘We haven’t got much time, so if you can fill in that government question form while I brief you in on the exact situation here, we’ll be able to make some progress,' Sharazi squinted at the form and frowned at the personal nature of the questions.
‘Don’t worry about the questions...just tell them what they want to know, or rather, what you think they want to know. It’s just a formality, a bit of government red tape, the form will be buried in some dusty government archive and hopefully never see the light of day again.
In the mean time, don’t tread on their toes, it’ll only make things worse later. Now I don’t know if you realise it, but there will be a general election in Australia within the next month. This is why the government has eased up on the extreme treatment of illegals, particularly doubtful cases such as yourself. I know you speak Farsi and you are an Iranian national -- but I don’t know what your political inclinations are. I need to know now... you can trust me...I will swear to Allah if you wish...so please be
as open and extreme as you like. Whatever you pass on to me will never leave my lips,’ Kazani looked him hard in the face.
‘To whome do you owe allegeance Habib?’ Sharazi shuffled painfully beneath the sheets of his bed.
‘Arrik Akkabar...Allah is Good...Iran’s glory has always been its culture...whatever form that might take,’ said Sharazi earnestly.
‘Give me your hand,’ Kazani pushed a small business card into his palm.
‘Secrete that in your bed...when we leave, go to the toilet, memorise the relevant details and phone number, destroy the card, then contact me when you get out of here.’
Chapter Six
The tension in Brigadier Arash Al Zandi’s brain was almost unbearable, a conflicting military order was the worst nightmare for any commander to enforce, particularly when it pushed the world into a possible nuclear Armageddon.
Zandi, in his mid-forties, his jet-black hair combed straight back, had supported the new hard line regime because he thought the Muslim world needed to reassert itself in the face of ever increasing US global dominance.
But this radical decree had gone beyond all rational expectations -- one could only push the American aggressors so far as past events had shown only too well.
Al Queda had started this horrific, so called holy war, in the name of hard line Islam, much to the consternation of the moderate Muslim countries.
It wasn’t so much the actual attack of 9/11 that worried Al Zandi, but the American reaction to it, which had brought down all hell on Afghanistan and Iraq. This would pale at the side of an all out attack by the US on Iran. So far the Americans had delivered their foreign policy with one hand tied behind their backs, and in some cases two hands. A blatant nuclear confrontation with the worlds greatest nuclear power was shear suicide and would lead to the total destruction of Iran and most of the population.
In spite of all these recriminations Al Zandi’s choice was very bland and simple: either carryout the given orders, or be summarily executed for refusing to enforce them.
He reread the main outlines of the decree and marked off the orders he had to carry out, then keyed-in an unlisted number on his secure phone line and slowly reiterated the orders to his subordinates, taking great care to remove all emotion from his voice.
The higher up you were in the pecking order the more likely your head would be lopped off should an error occur -- the humble soldier in the field was a safer option. A rigid protocol towards ones duty was the only safe line to take in such cases for both soldier and commander. His orders would now enable a direct attack on the US forces should they stray, by design or chance, into Iranian territory; the order included nuclear retaliation.
Strangely, his actions reminded him of a piece of covert advice given to him by his father who was also a higher ranking officer in his day. The words burned into his brain... ‘learn how to suffer fools in very high places and your head will be saved,’ his father had spoken the words to him during his time at the officer training school, when things became tough and insubordination had crossed Al Zandi’s mind. It had saved him from many awkward impasses with superior officers and politicians alike. But now the words were beginning to ring hollow...perhaps it was time to revolt against such fools in high places and treat them like the fools they really were.
Cutting the phone off, he instantly realised he had become nothing more than the Supreme Leader’s unwilling executioner -- this would be the last time such an order would be relayed through him. This time the price for saving one’s head was too high. He suddenly felt extremely vulnerable and terribly alone -- Iran was unsafe and unreliable -- no one could be trusted, least of all any of his military cronies. He’d forgotten what real friendship was all about, and camaraderie between fellow officers was non existent, he now believed that ninety percent of the time it paid to be a skeptic rather than a believer. This was extremely dangerous thinking in an Islamic Republic where total obedience in the armed forces to the Supreme Leader was of paramount importance. Continual turmoil between beliefs and political commitment were beginning to take their toll on his sanity.
Chapter Seven
Sharazi had to admit Australia was a good place to live, freedom and opportunity were virtually unprecedented compared to life in Iran, but his mission was clear cut. Allah was the dominant force in his life, in fact, he had already reiterated many times that he lived because Allah deemed this to be so. How else could he have been spared the terrors of the Lexton detention camp? Then there was the general election which had finally freed him from captivity by the infidel authorities.
He now had a furnished flat and was able to earn a modest living by working two part time jobs in the fast food industry. All of these fortuitous things were not merely chance -- there had to be a higher power involved behind the scenes.
Today would be his full initiation into the Black Islam Brigade BIB, who rigourously taught the Jihad using Osama Bin Ladin’s basic teaching methods taken directly from his Jihad manual.
Farid Kazeni would be his guide since he was familiar with the manual and knew it page by page. He had been working on the manual over the years, updating, improving, and adding new ideas, all with Osama’s blessing.
Weapons and their strategic use in opposition to the infidels was his latest chapter. It was written in theory, but it now had to be proved in practice, and Australia offered some of the best practice terrain in the world, as well as an unprecedented degree of security. Thousands of square kilometers of remote unmonitored hinterland existed -- a virtual carte blanche for covert military manoeuvres.
Kazeny was more than eager to try out some of his revolutionary ideas in the terrorist paradigm, but he needed the sure backing of devoted and well trained fighters. Only when they had thoroughly mastered the principles of the Jihad Manual would they become trusted Mujihadeed warriors.
It had become apparent that the manual lacked certain subjects that the Muslim world had so far chosen to ignore. Kazeny had realised in recent years that far too much dependence had been placed on Allah and his protective cloak. It was often assumed that Allah would protect any righteous Muslim who prayed religiously and obeyed his teachings; this was a case of blind faith.
In the Christian religion it was a case of God helping those who helped themselves. Hateful though it may seem, Muslim leaders would have to adopt this stratagem, as well as other seemingly distasteful ideas. This would form part of his next foray into Qsama’s Jihad Manual, hopefully, with the leaders full blessings. It was an area where he would have to tread very cautiously; a degree of totality would have to be surrendered if Islam were to dominate the world. Perhaps the truly committed warriors would be granted certain exemptions in the eyes of Allah.
Christian authorities could never understand that allegiance with Allah and his fellow Muslims was total. Islam wasn’t just an eastern religion that could be changed or disregarded at will, it was a whole way of life that demanded total compliance, it was instilled into the body and brain, and as such, was inseparable from one’s spiritual and material being. No piece of paper and ad hoc ceremony, so persuasive in the western world, could ever change that unless permitted by Allah.
The word Allah was the Arabic word for God and Islam meant submission to God. Muslims prayed to Allah five times a day; how many times did Christians pray to their God each day? Sharazi smiled to himself, Christianity would be very lucky to glean a few misguided religious zealots on one day each week. Clearly Islam was on the rise, while Christianity was on the decline.
There were two main versions of Islam; the good and righteous faith which devoted Muslin's worshiped and the extreme version which the terrorist mobs had hijacked for their own maligned ideologies. Both were acceptable beliefs in defence of Allah as far as Habib Sharazi and Farid Kazeni were concerned, and BIB represented the latter ideology.
He continued to smile knowingly when he thought of the Islam extremists -- they were like the Christian soldiers of old who came to the Holy Land and murdered Muslin's by the thousands, simply for not believing in Christ, it was they who were the godless infidels. How things had changed -- it was now the Christians turn to die for not believing in Allah -- not that many of them hadn‘t been killed, in fact, thousands had already died at the hands of Muslim extremists, and many more would surely follow.
After prayers in the Mosque Farid Kazeni shared a simple meal of salad and bread rolls with his new recruit, they dined in the open air at the back of a Victorian Mosque in a quite corner of the garden.
‘How do you like the tomatoes Habib...not bad are they...grown in the little green house behind our garage.’ Sharazi smiled politely and nodded his agreement. They were good and they did taste different, fresher than the usual super market variety, and with a tangy tomato flavour about them. Kazeni started to look serious and stared into the distance.
We’ve had word from abroad, the Supreme Leader has started to make amends, he has finalised another decree,’ Sharazi stopped eating and looked intently at his friend. Decrees which came from abroad were nearly always a little worrying from his point of view, he could understand killing infidels if Islam were under direct attack, but initiating such violence without provocation was something else. Kazeni lowered his voice.
‘I’ve no doubt it hasn’t escaped your notice but the Americans have thousands of troops based in Iraq and are massing more soldiers near the Iraq-Iranian border; they could be setting up for an imminent invasion of Iran.’ Kazeni paused for effect, carefully noting the influence his words were having on his protégé.
‘This has already gone too far, and the Supreme Leader has decided that should they move into Iran, the Americans will be annihilated. The US president is behind these moves and is the greatest infidel of them all. He must be punished by whatever means we can muster, and the Supreme Leader has decreed that he be abducted as soon as possible whenever he travels abroad, or in the USA. He is to be taken alive if possible, to be tried in an Islamic court in Iran...that is the gist of the decree.’
Sharazi blew a stream of hot air through pouted lips.
‘That my friend is some decree; I don’t mean to contradict the Supreme Leader, but isn’t this a bit drastic,’ Kazeni silently studied his friends features.
‘You know what these decrees are all about...they are a struggle between the Assembly of Experts and the Supreme Leader. The Assembly is there to examine such decrees and will undoubtedly dismiss this one after suitable deliberation...no expert in his right mind is going to let this decree continue.'
‘I wish I had your confidence Farid but you knew as well as I do that the Council of Experts has never questioned any of the Supreme Leaders decisions since its existence,' Kazeni relented after a little thought.
‘You may be right Habib, the Iranian President has embraced the decree, and he has the political will of the people. No doubt in view of this, all groups have been put on world wide alert -- the US president will be abducted wherever and whenever the opportunity occurs ...unless we receive alternate considerations.’
At that moment Sharazi dipped his head, it meant he now had doubts about what he was getting into, his natural inbuilt beliefs were now resisting the path Kazeni had mapped out. It went deeper than the mere dogmas of Islam or Christianity...it was a feeling, and feelings if they were intense enough, over ruled everything else including the intellect. Despite of all the intense meditation and total compliance with Allah human emotions still came to the surface and would not be quelled. It was the sort of thing that revolutions were all about.
Kazeni touched his lips with a paper tissue, and sipped a little filtered water then stared reflectively at Sharazi.
‘You realise Habib...that we must now prepare, lest we be chosen for the task the Supreme Leader has in mind,’ Sharazi, rather than allow his mentor to see his open expressions, stood and turned -- walked a few paces, and looked at the backdrop of city buildings in the distance. Solemnly he turned and quietly nodded his compliance, inwardly he knew his strong doubts had to be kept in check for the time being -- but sooner or later, they would have their way.
Chapter Eight
Spiral Cafe Canberra
Roger Jansen, CEO of Jansen Associates, Private Investigators, sat at a small round table in the Spiral Cafe in Canberra supping his café latte, and reading the latest government anti-terrorist precautions. It was all well and good, and he applauded the governments initiative, but it did not address the real cause of the problem, such actions merely created a challenge for the ardent insurrectionist. In fact most terrorist groups tended to study government precautions as a training exercise for budding students in terror.