Everyone, with the exception of Puglisi and Sturgis, cheered the outcome of the hearing. The sharing of this costly punishment wiped away the animosity between them.
Things were back to normal.
.
IRANIAN SF CAMP
NORTHWESTERN IRAN
THE camp actually had no name, and was referred to as ordu makhus--the special camp--by both the Iranian government and the Army.
One of the small garrison's denizens, Major Archibald Sikes--aka Sikes Pasha-had recovered completely from his shoulder wound suffered during the fighting on the Afghanistan border. It was still a bit stiff and if he turned over on it in his sleep, it smarted enough to wake him. However, he had full use of the arm, and there didn't appear to be any permanent disability involved. But he wasn't worried about the injury anyway. He had only half a dozen survivors of his Arabs, including Warrant Officer Shafaqat Hashiri, and he was fretful as hell about his situation.
The whole Iranian thing he'd been sucked into was falling apart. In fact, the Iranians were now showing more concern about themselves than any grandiose plans of conquest that encompassed the entire Middle East. There was no more talk about their Persian Empire or the program to develop Shiite insurgencies as part of their armed forces. If Sikes were thrown out on his ass, he would be what is known as persona non grata--unwanted, useless, shunned, and shit-out-of-luck no matter where he went in the world. As a man with no country or passport, he would be vulnerable to arrest by British authorities. And that would mean long years in a military prison.
He needed a drink bad, but here he was, deep in the Islamic world, where consumption of alcohol was considered a sin.
.
1900 HOURS
THE officers in the camp were quartered in tents like everyone else, except they had wooden slat floors so they didn't have to walk on the dirt inside their domiciles, like the lower-ranking men. Their furnishings were slightly better as well, with a cot, chair, small table with a drawer, and a simple frame wardrobe. There was also a net to keep insects out, stretched across the front of the canvas structure. The exception among the officers was Brigadier Shahruz Khohollah, who had a comfortably furnished bunker complete with a carpet.
Sikes shared the accommodations with his former mentor, Khalil Farouk, but the old friendship had faded quite a bit. The Brit no longer trusted his Arab companion, and kept his personal feelings about the current situation to himself.
Sikes sat in his chair, his feet upon the table, smoking a Turkish cigarette from a carton given him by the brigadier, when he noticed some commotion toward the main gate to the garrison. He walked to the tent opening and stepped outside. He could see a car drive up from the camp interior to meet another, larger sedan, which had just arrived. Soldiers scurried around to get out some luggage, while a man wearing safari-type garb made up of a khaki shirt, trousers, and desert boots stepped out of the vehicle. A gray felt Australian hat with the brim turned up on one side topped off his attire.
Sikes grinned to himself at the familiar individual he could recognize even at a distance. It was the arms dealer Harry Turpin, who had a contract with the Iranians to provide them with the latest in modern military weaponry, vehicles, and equipment.
"I wonder what that bluddy old bastard is up to," Sikes mused.
.
2100 HOURS
SIKES wasn't sleepy, and he lay on top of the covers listening to the deep breathing of his companion, Farouk, across the tent. Boredom pressed down so heavily on Sikes that he didn't care if a vehicle drove up and a couple of Iranian secret police goons got out and dragged him off to be summarily shot. In fact, he would welcome it.
Then a car did come to a stop outside the tent.
Sikes sat straight up, then relaxed at the sight of the man getting out. "Hello, Harry,"
he said. "I saw your arrival a coupla hours ago." He got to his feet and opened the net to let the Cockney enter the tent.
"'Ow are you, Archie, me lad?" Turpin said in his East End London accent. He nodded to Farouk, who had awakened. "And 'ow are you, Farouk, you ol' rascal?"
"I am very well, thank you," Farouk said. "It is so nice to be seeing you again."
"Oh, I'm good news for the two o' you," Turpin said. "You can bet your last shilling on that. Or pence or Euro or whatever the bluddy 'ell they're using in Blighty nowadays."
"Sit down, Harry," Sikes said. "Sorry, but we got no proper drinks to offer you."
"Sobriety is the scourge of Islam," Turpin said. He winked at Farouk. "No wonder you blokes are always looking for a fight."
"I admit I have enjoyed a whiskey now and then," Farouk confessed. "But here we have no choice. But we do have some canned fruit juice."
"I've got me own refreshments back in the bluddy tent, thank you," Turpin said, settling on the camp chair while Sikes and Farouk went back to sit down on their respective bunks.
Sikes leaned forward. "Wot d'you mean, you got good news for us, Harry?"
"Wot do I mean?" Turpin said with a wide grin. "I'll tell you, alright. I'm a vanguard, that's wot I am, see? I'm an 'arbinger of good news. I 'ave just made arrangements to bring in surplus East German tanks from Belarus, 'ey? Right straight to this camp. Also plenty o' small-arms ammo, shells for artill'ry and mortars and the like. And this deal also includes self-propelled cannons."
"And you're having 'em delivered here?" Sikes asked.
"Right 'ere where we are this very minute," Turpin said. "You lads are gonna take part in a big push. A bluddy invasion, that's wot it's gonna be."
Sikes and Farouk looked at each other, then back to Turpin. Farouk shook his head. "I am not understanding what you say to us, Harry. We have just pulled back from the Afghanistan border. Where on Allah's earth will we be going?"
Turpin laughed loudly. "Right back to where you come from, mate. You and this lot are gonna be storming across the international line straight into Afghanistan. Not only are more Iranians coming 'ere, but Shiites too."
Sikes was so astounded that he stood up. "But Iran has just made an agreement with the Yanks to stay away from Afghanistan."
"Well, Archie me lad, then it looks like the Yanks are in for a great big fucking surprise, ain't they?
.
MANCHESTER, ENGLAND
9 SEPTEMBER 1930 HOURS
CHARLIE and Nancy Sikes sat in their small parlor, watching TV. Neither one was paying much attention to the program, which was a sitcom involving a dysfunctional family feuding with their neighbors, who were another dysfunctional clan unable to cope with life's little problems.
Charlie and Nancy had real-life worries and saw no humor in the comic performances of the actors in the program. Their son Archibald, a soldier in the British Army, had deserted his unit in Iraq and had not been heard from for many long months.
They didn't know if he was dead or alive.
The doorbell rang, and Mrs. Sikes walked out to the hall and down to the entrance to the house. She opened door and saw two bobbies in full uniform and helmets at the simple portal. "Good evening, madam," one of the policemen said. "Is Mr. Charles Sikes at home?"
Mrs. Sikes didn't answer. She turned and hollered. "Charlie! There's a couple o' coppers asking after you."
Mr. Sikes appeared in the hall from the parlor with a puzzled expression on his face. "Wot can I do for you?"
"We'd like you to come down to the station, if you please, Mr. Sikes," the spokesman said.
"Wot for?"
"A routine inquiry, sir. We must ask you to come straightaway, please."
"I'll get me coat." He reached over to the hooks on the wall and pulled off his jacket and an American baseball-style cap, then stepped past his wife. "I'll be back soon. Maybe we'll learn something about Archie."
"Alright, Charlie."