A large crowd of about a thousand men, mostly older men and teenagers, began to move toward the loudspeakers, carrying simple construction tools, tool boxes, and bags of food and water. “Upon the command of the Faqih, may he stand at the right hand of God, to all the faithful, the Jihad-e Sazandegi Ministry of Construction Crusades announces a construction jihad this day on behalf of the Islamic Republic of Iran’s Revolutionary Guards Corps. Our mission is to rebuild the gates and outer walls of this installation. The rewards for the faithful and hard-working citizens who help will be the thanks of Allah, your government, and the Revolutionary Guards Corps for whom you will serve.
“Along with the blessings of the Almighty, any man who serves with the Jihad-e Sazandegi will receive relief from tithe for one year for himself, as well as relief for himself, one son, or one grandson from compulsory military service once the project is complete. Step forward, sign your name to the register, swear your oath to work diligently on behalf of the Faqih and the state, and let us begin, under the watchful eyes of God the generous.”
As commanded, the men stepped forward in several lines to sign up for work. The construction jihad was a popular way to get workers for a project. Although there was no pay, the workers were fed and housed at least as well as a soldier, were generally treated well, and received not only the benefits mentioned but consideration for other transgressions or wishes: a student wishing to get into a good college or madrasa might get a second look after he or his father participated in a construction jihad, or a man falling behind in his rent or utility payments might get part of his debts erased by volunteering.
The workers’ belongings were checked as they filed through the entryway to the base, and their persons were subjected to pat-down searches, but it was soon obvious that it was more important to get workers busy than it was to do thorough searches. Each worker signed his name and filled out a short form detailing where he was from, his skills, and his training. The names were cross-checked on a computer to scan for convicted criminals or wanted men. But a construction jihad was a way for convicted men to reduce their parole or probation period, so the computer usually turned up many hits on convicts. Those men were typically assigned to duties outside the base, on the wall or close by.
“These are all old men and children — we’ll never get this project done,” the commanding officer of the work detail, Pasdaran Major Abdul Kamail, said to his noncommissioned officer in charge. “I need workers, Sergeant, not drunks, kids, and handicap cases.”
“Best we could get, sir,” the NCOIC, Sergeant Qolam Loshato, said. “Putting out the word for a work detail without pre-screening individuals usually results in this type of turnout. Besides, they’re working in a Pasdaran facility — who in their right mind wants to voluntarily step within grasping distance of the Pasdaran?”
“If the people are innocent, they have nothing to worry about from the Pasdaran,” Kamail said dismissively. Loshato suppressed a chuckle — he knew no one ever wanted to cross the Pasdaran, innocent or guilty. “Anyway, I don’t care about the people’s paranoia — the priority is still to get that outer fence up. That shouldn’t take more than one or two days. Work them through the night if you need to, but I want that outer fence up.”
“Sir, may I suggest bringing some of the jihadis that do not have criminal records in to begin work on the training center and repairs on the security building?” Loshato said. “If we’re going to be asked to bring the Pasdaran force up to two hundred thousand in six months, we’re going to need those buildings repaired, wired, and ready for recruits and cadre.”
“I’m not worried about offices for cadre or barracks for training more recruits, Sergeant — I’m worried about insurgents getting into this base,” Kamail said.
“Our orders were to get the base ready at all costs…”
“And what about security while we repair and outfit this base, Sergeant?” Kamail asked. “Reports are that over two hundred insurgents were killed at Aran. Two hundred! They could have caused a lot of havoc if they attacked here instead.”
“Buzhazi’s total force is estimated at less than two thousand, sir,” Loshato said. “If the reports are true, we killed over ten percent of their entire force in one strike. Not only that, but their objective to steal supplies to keep themselves going failed. They sustained heavy losses and have fewer resources than they did. It was a great victory.”
“Sergeant, we still lost several dozen men and we blew up our own warehouses, which were filled with real supplies,” Kamail said. “What kind of asinine plan was that? Why didn’t we lay a trap for them outside Aran instead of right inside the damned warehouse complex itself?” He shook his head. “No. I want the perimeter secure before we bring in any more men and supplies. And I want as many of those jihadis checked as possible, especially any assigned inside the base itself. I don’t want any of Buzhazi’s men waltzing in to my base free and clear.”
“Buzhazi wouldn’t dare attack Doshan Tappeh again,” Loshato said. “There are over five thousand men here. He’d be crazy to commit the rest of his troops to the strongest Pasdaran base in the country.”
“If the man was smart, he’d be high-tailing it to Turkmenistan or Turkey right now,” Kamail said. He thought for a moment; then: “Very well, Sergeant. Pick the best of the ones not convicted of any felonies and assign them to work inside the base on the barracks and headquarters building. All others remain on the perimeter work details. Notify the security officer on duty that I’m bringing men into the base. Tell him to call me if he has any questions.”
“Yes, sir,” Loshato said. He saluted, then turned to his radio to issue the new orders.
Shortly thereafter the clerks in charge of doing background checks on volunteers pulled up a list of about thirty men who had no felony convictions, were between the ages of sixteen and fifty, and who were not infirmed, and Loshato had these men marched over to the foreman in charge of rebuilding the headquarters building that was assaulted by Sattari when he and a hundred other armed insurgents rescued Buzhazi from custody.
“These are the best of this group, Sergeant?” the foreman asked when the men were assembled before him. Loshato had to agree that they were a grungy-looking crew — filthy louse-ridden clothes, decrepit shoes, and most with some kind of injury and many with missing ears and bandaged limbs.
“They were all able to get here under their own steam,” Sergeant Loshato said, “and they all appear to be free of felony convictions as far as we can tell after a cursory check. What you see is what you get.”
“And who takes the blame for shoddy work, stolen equipment and tools, or inoperable systems? I do, that’s who! How am I expected to work under conditions like this?”
“You’re under contract to the Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps to complete rebuilding the base on time and on budget,” Loshato reminded him sternly. “It’s not our fault that you didn’t hire enough skilled laborers for the job. The IRGC is reimbursing the government for the cost of issuing a jihad to help your company — if it’s not done on time and on budget, you might find yourself liable for that cost as well as any penalties in the contract and whatever else the commander-in-chief wants to hit you with. So stop complaining and get busy.”
The foreman muttered a curse word after the NCO departed, then turned to the men assembled before him, suppressing a disgusted sneer. “All right you men, listen up,” he said, speaking slowly and deliberately in case they had trouble understanding him. “Our task is simplicity itself. We are fishing fiber-optic, telephone, audio-visual, electrical, and Category-5 network cable through the new walls. This is not brain surgery, but you must pay attention and do as ordered or else we’ll waste valuable time and even more valuable equipment. The fiber-optic cable is especially delicate — it cannot be bent like ordinary cable, and it has to be placed just so in its conduit. Do you understand?” There was a murmur of assent from the men — it was impossible to tell if they understood a word he had said. “Very well. If you remember nothing else, remember this: do not touch anything unless I tell you, and if you’re unsure of any of our instructions, stop what you’re doing and ask. Let’s get to work.”
It was going to be slow going. After the security guards performed another search of the men and their belongings and issued them ID badges, the men shuffled toward the new headquarters building as if in a fog. The foreman knew he was going to be in big trouble if he didn’t find some way to get these guys organized. He spotted an older man who seemed to be the erstwhile leader of this group. “You. Over here.” The old man came over to him. He had several cuts and bruises on his face, head, and neck as if he had been beat up — probably on the street or in jail. “What is your name?”
“Orum, sir,” the old man said. He straightened painfully, then added, “Orum, Abdul, Volunteer Group Leader, reporting as ordered, sir.”
“Volunt…?” And then the foreman realized who he was: a former Basij volunteer from the Iran-Iraq War in the early 1980s, one of the hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children used as “human shields” to waste Iraqi ammunition before sending in the main fighting forces. “You were a Basij…?”
“I was a group leader of the Muhammad Corps, sir, and proud of it,” the man named Orum said, a hint of steel rising in his voice. “I had the best volunteer group in the entire Fish Lake front.”
