we’ll draw a few more out. Make them all feel welcome — before we execute their traitorous asses.”
“Don’t shoot, Zolqadr,” he heard over his radio. “We’re waving surrender flags. May Allah condemn you and your descendants to eternal damnation if you violate a flag of surrender.”
“It’s Buzhazi!” Zolqadr shouted in glee. He raised his binoculars and, sure enough, saw the general himself driving one of the trucks! “Tell the rest of First Battalion I want Buzhazi alive!” he shouted to his aide. “If he tries anything, disable the truck, but don’t kill Buzhazi!” He picked up his portable radio. “Are you surrendering too, General? How surprisingly wise of you.”
“I’m only doing this to be sure my men who wish to surrender will be treated fairly, as you promised, like Iranian soldiers and not criminals,” Buzhazi radioed. “I intend to return to the library after I drop off these brave men and continue my fight for freedom, and if you try to capture me, the whole world will know what a coward you are.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll let you live — plenty of chances to kill you or see you hanged in Shahr Park, along with the other criminals,” Zolqadr said. The trucks were too close for binoculars now. “Stop right there and let the men out. I promise they will not be harmed.”
“I want to be close enough to look at you face to face, Colonel,” Buzhazi said. “I want to look you in the eye before I kill you, just like I did to Badi.”
“I said, stop right there, General,” Zolqadr radioed back, “or my men will open fire!” He whirled around and screamed, “Get two BTRs and their dismounts up here and cover those trucks, now!” His aide relayed the order.
Buzhazi’s truck slowed, and at that moment there was a tremendous explosion to the north, followed by a second explosion seconds later. “What was that?” Zolqadr cried. Two massive mushroom clouds of black smoke rose into the sky. “What’s happening?”
“Suicide bombers!” someone screamed. “The trucks are packed with explosives! They’ve destroyed one command vehicle and a tank!”
Zolqadr nearly tripped over his own feet in confusion as he whirled around and returned to his own armored vehicle. “Don’t let them any closer!” he yelled to his aide. “Open fire! Open fire!”
“Look out!” someone cried. “Take cover!”
Zolqadr turned. The two trucks heading toward him had not stopped but had accelerated — they were less than a hundred meters away now! “All units, open fire!” he screamed. “Stop them!” A machine gun immediately opened fire right above his head so close that he thought he had been hit, and he ducked and dodged left around the BMP.
The second truck weaved and dodged as it barreled toward them, and it appeared as if it was going to keep on coming, but soon its engine compartment hood blew open when its engine block was shredded by the twenty- three-millimeter cannon shells. It weaved a few more times, then its front tires were blown out and it half- collapsed, half spun to the ground. “Good shooting!” Zolqadr said. “Do the same to Buzhazi’s truck — try to take him ali…”
And at that instant the second truck detonated, the force of two thousand pounds of high explosives — part of an immense weapons cache found on the grounds of the Khomeini Library, brought in by the Pasdaran when the clerics and politicians from Tehran arrived — bowling over the Pasdaran infantrymen like clay jars hit by a whirlwind. But Buzhazi’s truck was not far away, and the force of the blast knocked the truck completely off its wheels and over onto its right side.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Zolqadr shouted — not just to relay the order but because he couldn’t hear his own voice very well from the ringing in his ears caused by the detonation of the second truck. He drew his sidearm. “I want Buzhazi alive!” He turned to his aide. “Grab a rifle and follow me, Major!” The aide blanched at first by the order and then by the smug, amused expressions of the Pasdaran infantrymen around him; he almost dropped the AK-47 rifle offered him, and he grasped it like it was a snake waiting to bite him.
Zolqadr flinched at the sound of yet another explosion to the south, and the chatter on his portable transceiver told him another BMP command vehicle had been hit. His was the only command vehicle to survive this cowardly attack! Buzhazi was going to pay dearly for this! He aimed his nine-millimeter Zoaf pistol at the driver’s door as he approached. “Buzhazi!” he shouted. “Come out of there! You are my prisoner!”
“Sir, be quiet!” his aide shouted, ignorant of the fact that half the battalion could hear him just as loudly. “He might hear you!”
“I don’t care!” Zolqadr shouted. “I want the great Hesarak Buzhazi to know that I think he is a craven coward to order a suicide bomb attack against the Pasdaran! I hope to personally pull the lever to drop you in the gallows, you worthless piece of shit! Can you hear me, Buzhazi? Your attack has failed, and now I’m going to execute each and every survivor in that library, and I’m going to have you watch each execution. I’m coming for you!”
Zolqadr jumped up onto the truck and pulled open the driver’s door. He saw Buzhazi crumpled up against the passenger side door, his head bleeding from a half-dozen wounds, his body covered with soot and broken glass, his hands…
…were repeatedly pressing a switch — and he realized with shock that it was a detonator switch! Had it not malfunctioned, Zolqadr and anyone within fifty meters would’ve been blown into a million pieces! He immediately but carefully climbed off the truck, stepped away from the vehicle as if moving to join his aide, then radioed for men to get Buzhazi out of the stricken truck.
“Your attacks failed, General,” Zolqadr shouted triumphantly as the semi-conscious former chief of staff of the Iranian military was dragged before him. He made sure Buzhazi was awake, then pointed back the fifty meters toward his BMP and the three armored personnel carriers that had moved up to guard it. “See? My battalion is intact, and we have more than enough firepower to…”
At that instant there was a blinding flash of light, several globes of smoke in the sky directly above his command vehicle…and then a massive series of explosions as his BMP and all three BTRs blew apart like firecrackers. The shock waves and the surprise of the sudden attack again knocked them all off their feet. When Zolqadr looked up, he saw several more armored vehicles in his battalion on fire…and the rest turning and racing madly in the opposite direction! Echoes of still more explosions rolled across the ground from the other battalions’ directions. The Pasdaran infantrymen around him didn’t know what to do, until finally they simply ran off toward Qom. Soon only Zolqadr, his aide — frightened into complete immobility — and Buzhazi remained.
“What…in…hell…happened?” Zolqadr muttered. He turned to Buzhazi, his face a contorted mask of fear, confusion, and blinding rage. “What did you do, Buzhazi?” But the general was in absolutely no condition to respond. Zolqadr drew his pistol and aimed it at Buzhazi’s left temple. “Answer me, you traitorous piece of filth! What happened here? Whose work is this? Who are you working with?”
“The…devil,” moaned Buzhazi. “Or maybe the angel of death. Let’s go visit her together, Zolqadr.”
“I’ve changed my mind, Buzhazi,” Zolqadr cried. “I’m not going to turn you over for a public trial and execution — I’m going to kill you right here, right now, for what you’ve done!” Zolqadr grasped Buzhazi’s jacket, pulled him up off the ground, pressed the muzzle of his pistol against his head…
…and suddenly there was a dark blur of motion. The Zoaf pistol was snatched out of his hand, and Zolqadr was sent flying backward by an iron-like blunt object as if he had been hit by a speeding car. Dazed and with his breath knocked out of his lungs, he struggled to a sitting position and looked up…
…and saw two figures standing over Buzhazi, clad in dark gray outfits. Their arms, legs, and torsos were covered in some kind of structural framework; they wore thick belts around their waists, large fairings on their shoulders and calves, very largecaliber long weapons resembling oversized sniper’s rifles, and large bullet-shaped helmets that completely covered their heads, necks, and shoulders. One figure stood guard, aiming his rifle toward the battalion, while the other attended to Buzhazi.
“Who are you?” Zolqadr shouted. “Who are you?”
The figure with Buzhazi turned to look at the Pasdaran colonel. “Be quiet,” the figure said in some sort of electronic voice in Farsi. “This battle is over.”
Zolqadr heard a creak and rattle of heavy metal, looked to the west, and smiled. “Not quite, my friend,” he said. The figure looked around. One of the Zulfiqar main battle tanks was racing across the desert toward them. Zolqadr started to half-crawl, half-stumble backward as the tank’s coaxial machine gun opened fire, and the ground erupted into hundreds of bursts of smoke as the shells hit home. “Looks like your battle is over, bastards!”
But when the shooting paused, Zolqadr was shocked to see…the two figures still standing! They had been directly hit by twenty-three-millimeter cannon fire and were still in one piece! Then, the second figure calmly raised
