“And in the meantime?”
“The streets will be barricaded to slow the soldiers down, buildings will be burned to bring the people out. Those who have lived in fear and oppression for more than a decade will welcome the chance to rise up and be heard. I have been in this city for a year now. Believe me, I know.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“The starting point for our revolution: Talegahani Street, also known as Takht-e Jamshid.”
“The American Embassy …”
“Fitting, don’t you think?”
During the thirty-minute drive across the city, Kourosh and Evira were able to gulp a restorative meal of bread, cheese, and water. The driver of the car maneuvered skillfully down side streets to avoid the throngs already beginning to spill out with screams of defiance. The Revolutionary Guards were restrained and fearful, unsure of the proper response to make. Clearly, they knew something was brewing. Reinforcements had undoubtedly been called in, but with the streets barricaded and, judging by the smoke spreading in the sky, some already burning, passage would not come easily.
“This is as far as we can go,” Yakov announced when they reached an intersection that was barricaded in all directions. The barricades were constructed of wood, furniture, cinderblocks, abandoned cars, dumpsters, and garbage cans wedged firmly into place. An exultant mass of people was standing atop the heaps, shouting and waving their rifles.
“Soviet Kalashnikovs, American M-16s, and Israeli Galils,” Evira noted. “Impressive.”
“We got them everything we could lay our hands on.”
“Revolution!” a freshly revived Kourosh yelled jubilantly as they exited the car, thrusting a tight fist into the air. “Kill the bastards! Kill them all!”
His long hair danced in the wind, small face taut in its resolve. His feelings mirrored those of a nation frustrated by watching a reconstruction effort that had left the people worse off than ever before. The frustration was rampant now, set to brew by the Israeli plants but boiling over on its own.
“What about McCracken?” Evira asked of Yakov as they shouldered their way through the masses, which grew thicker the closer they got to the former American Embassy. “Did he say anything else, anything about Yosef Rasin?”
“All I know is that he arranged for your rescue.”
“Is he coming? Is he here?”
“I know nothing more than what I’ve told you.”
Evira realized she had lost track of Kourosh and almost panicked. She located the boy rallying with a group of children his own age holding clubs and mallets as weapons. He was cheering them on and might have been all set to join them when Evira arrived to pull him back to her side. She marvelled at the restorative effects a bit of food and water had had on both Kourosh and herself. Of course, the fervor and excitement they were in the midst of deserved a measure of the blame, too.
“It’s wonderful!” The boy beamed. “Isn’t is wonderful?”
She wanted to tell him that war was many things, but it was never wonderful. Innocent people were unquestionably going to die there today. The Israeli plot had as its primary aim the toppling of Hassani from power. The loss of Iranian life to accomplish that end was simply a means, accepted and condoned. The people, the masses Kourosh was cheering for, were mere pawns, sacrifices to a greater end.
These thoughts turned Evira cold. Was it no different for her rallying of the Arabs of Israel, urging them to organize and work toward a greater voice in the government? Yes, her means were nonviolent, but people had similarly been hurt working toward a higher cause they could not wholly grasp. She was using them, just as the Israelis were using the Iranians, to fulfill her own ends and goals.
They continued forcing their way through the swelling mass, more people joining it by the second. The plan would be for those in the street to smother the Revolutionary Guard as best they could by neutralizing the guards’ superior weaponry and keeping them from the strategically placed barricades for as long as possible. It was a numbers game, one of bodies as well as bullets, and success depended on the people wearing the guard down and outlasting it until the Apaches arrived. At that point the powerful attack ships would strafe positions of Revolutionary Guard strongholds in the hope of opening a clear path for the masses to their ultimate target: The royal palace in Niavarin. To be overrun, ransacked, destroyed.
A red-faced man struggling for breath spotted Yakov and approached. Evira recognized his features as Israeli as well.
“The guardsmen are taking control at the embassy area,” he reported grimly.
“Already? How?”
“They responded quicker and better than we anticipated.”
“Perhaps they knew, were warned.”
“They didn’t hesitate. They fired their guns into the crowds without a single warning. It was awful. The people fled in all directions, stampeding over the bodies left behind. I’m just ahead of them.”
“The word will spread, then,” Iranian student leader Rashid said. “Others will scatter and run when their own deaths confront them.”
“All right,” Yakov conceded. “Give Hassani round one. What do you hear of Shah Reza Boulevard?”
“The barricade is forty feet high at the head of the square. The people are chanting and are ready to burn buildings as soon as the guardsmen show themselves.”
“We’ll make our stand there, then. A different start for the revolution, maybe even an improvement.”
They were changing direction now, fighting to make their way through the frenzied masses blocking the route to Shah Reza Boulevard. Evira grabbed Kourosh by the arm and held him tight, his eyes still gleaming at the sights around him.
“Come,” Yakov beckoned her. “We can get to the boulevard quicker this way. It’s only a few blocks from Talegahani Street.”
And the Revolutionary Guard, Evira thought.
In McCracken’s mind the Apache was without question the finest attack helicopter ever built, the latest generation AH-64A model’s maneuverability matched only by its power. In appearance it was a species all to itself, sleek and narrow down the body with no bit of wasted space. It had a top speed of over one-hundred-eighty miles per hour and could maintain a five-hundred-mile flying range with the new fuel it was burning. The Apache’s armaments included dual sets of four Hellfire missiles and nineteen aerial rockets suspended beneath each wing and a 30-millimeter chain gun mounted on the underside.
Blaine figured the chain gun would be the most crucial weapon at the start, followed by the Folding-Fin Aerial Rockets once Revolutionary Guard strongholds were effectively pinned down. Commands to fire both these and the superpowerful Hellfire missiles were channeled directly by the copilot-gunner through a TADS (Target Acquisition and Designation Sight) directly into the fire-control computer. The margin of error was almost nonexistent as a result. From a defensive standpoint, the Apache’s armored shell could tolerate rocket hits that would fell any other helicopter gunship and was virtually undetectable to incoming infrared missiles.
The only real problem facing them was fuel consumption. To circumvent part of this, the plan was to use the aircraft carrier Kennedy, on its patrol in the Persian Gulf, as the operation’s staging ground. And even then one midair refueling would be required to reach Tehran and a second needed to return to the carrier upon the mission’s completion. The jet carrying Blaine and Johnny Wareagle landed first on the Kennedy’s deck, which had been cleared of everything but the Apaches.
“This way, gentlemen,” a barrel-chested soldier with an unlit cigar stuck in his mouth said after they had climbed down. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the idling jet engine. “I’m Gunnery Sergeant Tom Beeks. Got the equipment you requested all ready.”