Chapter 27

A high valley in the Talish Mountains, Iran
April 11, 2006

Razmara inspected the partially constructed rope bridge. The men had done a good job. This was no surprise because in mountainous Iran, footbridges made out of rope and wood were common, and many men had experience of building them. They should finish the bridge by the end of the day.

“How did you get the first man across the river?”

“See that tree between the two rocks.”

Razmara could see a large dead tree trunk, jammed between two large boulders, reaching more than half away across the river.

“We put it there. Then we got a volunteer to climb to the end of the tree, and jump into the river. The current swept him into the eddy just below the large rock on the far side where he could climb out. With a man on the far side, it was just a matter of throwing ropes across, and finding the best place to anchor them.”

“Who volunteered to jump into the river?”

“Kerbad! He said it was like a river he used to swim in as a kid, just a lot colder.”

“I’ll remember his name,” Razmara said.

The two men he sent back yesterday, rode up the trail, and stopped in front of him.

“Captain Razmara, Colonel Mahdavi wants you to report to him by radio, immediately.”

“Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“You are dismissed. Go get tea and something to eat.”

Razmara thought Mahdavi was an incompetent fool, but that was not uncommon in the Islamic Republic's Revolutionary Guard Corps where political reliability and religious zeal were rated more highly than ability.

Mahdavi was close to the Mullahs, and that meant he could not be challenged. Razmara, in contrast, found it hard to take the Mullahs seriously, and thought they should be kept out of government - not an opinion he voiced in public.

Mahdavi should know, their radio didn't work in these mountains, and Razmara would have to ride a considerable distance to find a place where it did. He doubted he would be back before nightfall, and that meant staying overnight away from his men.

He had been sending regular patrols up to the roadblock, and so far, there had been no problems. Not that he expected the six men stationed there to put up much resistance, but the gunfire of an attack would warn his main force, and ensure they weren't surprised.

Razmara called the radio operator over, and said they would be moving out in half an hour. He arranged food to take with them, and then went to speak to his second in command.

A short while later, four men rode in silence down the forested valley. Two guards were at the front, with the radio operator in between, and Razmara at the rear. He had instructed the radio operator to stop at the first location he thought he could make radio contact with headquarters.

When Razmara was with his men, he was always too busy to have much time to reflect, so this was a pleasant interlude away from the constant pressures of commanding men in the field.

Razmara thought back to his childhood, and the old man who lived alone in a small hut on the edge of the village. He had come back to the village, after twenty years in America, with enough money to buy some land and build a house. Then the Revolution came along, and the Islamic courts confiscated his land and house because he had purchased them with money from the Great Satan.

The old man moved into the rundown hut, and became an embittered recluse, largely shunned by the people of the village. He was some kind of distant uncle to Razmara, and his father sent him over twice a week to do chores. The old man, who had never married and had no children, began to treat Razmara like a son. When his chores were finished, the old man would bring out a treat for him, a pastry or dried fruit, and he talked about America.

In those days, there was no satellite television, only a poorly received state run channel that rarely showed anything of interest. The old man became his window on the wider world, as he told Razmara about things he had never seen - airplanes, big cars, highways, supermarkets, restaurants and malls.

He loved to hear the old man talk, and he created a secret world based on his imagined version of America.

Of course, later he learned that America had its problems – crime, drugs, and racial conflict. But Iran had the same problems, and the heroin problem in Iran was getting worse. He suspected several of his Revolutionary Guards were addicts.

The radio operator cut Razmara’s reverie short when he called a halt, and said, “I think we can get radio contact from here”

They had stopped where the relatively narrow upland valley joined the main, much larger, valley. The river cascaded down the side of the main valley in a series of waterfalls. Razmara looked out over the green and peaceful valley, and thought how beautiful it was.

Razmara dismounted, and took some almonds from his saddlebag, while the radio operator unpacked, and setup his equipment. One of the guards lit a kerosene stove, and began to brew tea.

Five minutes later, the radio operator said “I have contact with headquarters sir. It fades out a bit, but it should be OK.”

“Thank you, Armajani!” The radio operator was a good man.

Razmara picked up the headset, and heard his radio operator speaking to someone at headquarters.

“Captain Razmara calling for Colonel Mahdavi.”

“I will tell Colonel Mahdavi, Captain Razmara is calling.”

There was a long delay while Razmara listened to the chitchat between his radio operator and the operator at headquarters. Eventually, Colonel Mahdavi came on.

“Why are you so late in calling me? I have been waiting all day.”

“I'm sorry sir, but it took me three hours to get to a place where our radio works.”

“Why aren't you at your objective?”

Razmara thought at least Mahdavi had enough sense not to say what his objective was, over an open radio link, anyone could listen in on. “We were attacked sir, just before the pass, and had to withdraw.”

“Then you must fight your way through the ...”

The rest of the statement was lost in a burst of static.

“Colonel, these were professional troops, perhaps Russian. I lost four men, and I don't want to lose any more. We are taking a different route across a rarely-used secondary pass, bypassing the ambush site.”

“Captain Razmara, I want you to go back, and capture one of the snipers. Tehran wants to know for sure if they are Russians. That is an order directly from the Pasdaran. Twenty of your best men should be enough to do the job. The rest of the men can continue across the secondary pass.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was useless to argue. The decision had been taken out of his hands. His responsibility now was to execute his orders, without his men taking too many casualties.

Chapter 28