“Maybe we should go home,” said Gus.
“Maybe we should try,” said Frank. He checked the pocket of his parka and found the keys to the bulletproof Nova. They got no farther than the chained gates.
“Trouble,” said the Iranian air force guard. “Trouble on Damavand. Trouble coming.”
Frank backed the Nova away from the gate,
U
-turned, and pulled up outside their Quonset hut. “Looks like we’re here for the duration,” he said.
Bill Steele hurtled past them. “Don’t ask,” he said as he thumped inside. They followed him into Troy’s office.
“Hold on a second,” said Troy into his secure phone to Rocky’s office. “Whatcha got?”
“Bodyguard,” said Steele. “They’ve had a unit here watching over the air force types. They got into it with the
homafaran
and a bunch of civilian techies.”
“Those guys don’t have guns,” said Troy.
“They do now,” said Steele. “Must have raided the arsenal. They’ve got air force military police with them. Bodyguards let loose with rockets and flares, helicopter gunships, I guess just to scare the air force guys, but they didn’t scare. Bunch of American advisers got trapped over there, and tell him we got a bunch of other Americans trapped here.”
“Like us,” muttered Gus.
Troy repeated it all to Rocky, then listened, grunted, and hung up.
“He’ll get the ambassador on it,” said Troy. “He’s got special phone numbers for some of Khomeini’s honchos. Maybe they can help, but meanwhile we better break out weapons.”
Frank put in a bid for a Browning nine millimeter.
“You know you’re not checked out on it,” said Steele.
“I’m not checked out on anything,” said Frank. “But I did learn how to use one.”
“Unofficially?”
Frank nodded.
“Not good enough,” said Steele. “Besides, for what we might be up against an automatic’s not your best weapon.” He unlocked and swung open the doors of a tall steel cabinet. Chain-locked gun racks and deep metal drawers, each with its own thick padlock, glared out at them. “Shotguns are what you guys need. If anything.”
“Let’s hope nothing,” said Gus. “God willing and the creek don’t rise.”
“Take a couple of these,” said Steele, undoing the chains on a rack of shotguns. “Winchester M97s. Twelve-gauge, buckshot. Designed for riot control. Pump action, five-shot magazines.” He demonstrated the pump action and showed them how to release and insert the tubular magazine.
“We can count on the
homafaran
and the Bodyguard keeping their war to themselves, but word is some of these Islamic committees are on their way to help out the
homafaran
. Most likely, they’ll come from the area around Jaleh Square, which means they’ll hit the base from the other side. But others are out on Damavand, setting bonfires, burning tires, in case the Bodyguard tries to send in reinforcements from that direction.”
“Basically,” said Gus, “you just told us the hostiles have us surrounded.”
“Basically,” said Steele. “And if they try to come over or through our fences, we’ll have you out there with some of the rest of us and some air force guards on a firing line. Shotguns and tear gas grenade launchers. I’ll get gas masks for you. The idea is to stop the crowd, not shoot or kill anybody. What you do with the shotguns, you don’t fire at the crowd. You fire at the ground in front of them. That way, you turn the ground into shrapnel that skips into the crowd, low, along with your buckshot. Nobody gets killed, but it hurts like hell and can turn a crowd around in a hurry.”
“Suppose they shoot back?” said Gus.
“If they’re armed, heavily armed, we forget about it. Pull back in here and try to negotiate our way out. I’ll give you guys an extra magazine each. If ten rounds of buckshot from each of a bunch of us, plus tear gas, doesn’t turn them…” He left the sentence unfinished.
Cantwell, his face flushed from running through the cold, hurried into the office. “The Iranian guards supposed to be at the gates…” He caught his breath. “They disappeared.”
* * *
Frank hadn’t seen the cafeteria so crowded since Sergeant Abbas had frightened off its customers. Close to fifty Americans and a handful of Iranian workers huddled around a uniformed air force officer. He introduced himself as Captain William Petry.
“As you can see, some of us are bearing weapons, but we believe this sector will not, repeat, will not face any danger.” Petry’s face, new to Frank, belied his words. Heavy frown lines betrayed the effort he made to keep his eyes from shifting toward the gunfire beyond the walls. “Calm is what’s required. Our chances of leaving the base anytime soon do not, repeat, do not look good. Food and refreshments will be free. We’ve got some movies and some Super Bowl tapes we’ll be running. So let’s keep our heads and make the best of it. We’ll keep you informed.”
* * *
Cradling the shotgun he’d been issued, Frank walked outside. Cantwell, standing in the walkway, turned at the sound of the door. “Prob’ly not a good idea to be out here, sir.” Full dark surrounded them.
“You’re here.”
“I have to be.”
“What’s going on?” said Frank. To his left he could see and hear evidence of the fighting that continued on the base.
“Take a look back the other way,” said Cantwell. Frank turned and saw the rosy glow illuminating dozens of swirling funnels of smoke. His ears followed the turn of his eyes, and he now realized the thud and crackle of weapons sounded equally ominous on both sides of the spot where they stood.
“Bodyguard reinforcements trying to fight their way down Damavand,” said Cantwell. “But all kinds of crazies out there have them bottled up. Bodyguard has tanks, but tanks aren’t very effective for a war on city streets.”
Frank looked at the abandoned guardhouse and the chained gates of the fence and remembered the faces pressed against it a few days earlier, chanting
“Shah raft”
and “Death to America.” It seems nice and calm standing here right now, he thought, like standing in the eye of a hurricane.
“I have to believe the Bodyguard’s not gonna make it through. Then, the crazies’ll either hit us or they won’t. If they do, I don’t think our shotguns and tear gas’ll do much good.”
Frank looked up Damavand toward the flaming sky to the east. Maybe Belinsky’s lucky, he thought. He doesn’t have to worry about getting killed.
“Better get inside,” said Cantwell.
“What about you?” said Frank.
“Colonel Troy assigned me to keep an eye on things out here. Report back if the hostiles got closer.”
Frank headed back toward the cafeteria, but the thought of being trapped in a room taken over by an ancient Super Bowl tape depressed him. Then he thought of the gym. He grabbed the shotgun, headed for Rushmore’s office, and changed into his gym gear: jock, shorts, sweat socks, seriously smelly T-shirt. He grabbed the lined leather gloves he used on the heavy bag, then stopped. If anyone came looking for him and didn’t find him in Troy’s office, he might trigger a panic. But he also feared Steele wouldn’t like the idea of him being in the gym alone. The seriousness of the situation around them made him decide to play by the rules. Bill Steele must have sensed him coming. He turned from the football huddle as Frank approached.
“What the hell are you dressed up for?”
“Could I talk to you for a minute?”
Bill left the circle. Other eyes, including Troy’s, followed him.
“You planning on a beach party or something?”
“Just the gym, but I thought I better let you know. Can I give you the shotgun?”
“You are a pisser, but I guess it’s okay. All the doors over that side that lead outside are locked, bolted, and chained. The air force, our air force, has some guards on patrol. I’ll let them know you’ll be over there.”
“Thanks,” said Frank.
“And hang on to the shotgun. The air force has some guys up on the roof of their admin building across the way. They can see pretty good up Damavand, where the Bodyguard’s bogged down, and across most of Douche Bag Tapper, where the fighting looks to have tapered off a bit. But no tellin’ what may happen next. So hang on to the shotgun.”
“Thanks, Bill. Want to come shoot some hoops?”
“You really are a pisser.”
Frank flipped the switch near the door, flooding the courts with light. He hoped the lights wouldn’t draw bullets, like moths to a candle. He laid down the shotgun and walked to the ball rack. He looked up at the high arched windows set like parentheses in the brick wall. He decided to give the moths a minute or two. When none came, he dribbled onto the court. Thirty minutes and a good sweat later, he returned the ball to its rack, picked up the shotgun and his gloves, flipped out the lights, and headed for the gym.
He groped in the dark for the light switch, then realized someone stood in the deep shadow at the far end of the room.
“Do not be alarmed,” said a familiar Iranian voice. “It is I, Sa’id, the
Mojahedin.
”
Sa’id, the juggler, thought Frank, too frightened to give voice to his thought.
“The light switch is more to your left.”
Frank found it, blinked in the sudden glare, and saw Sa’id in his
homafar
uniform, a G3 automatic rifle in a sling over his shoulder, smiling at him from across the room.
“Welcome. We knew you might be here, and we worried for you. Then, from an advantage point we have on the roof of our hangar, we saw the lights come on. We knew only you would be on the basketball court at this hour with a war going on around you. So I came. And waited here. Knowing you would come here next.”
“But how could you get in? Everything’s locked, chained.”
“We have our ways,” said Sa’id, smiling again. “It is our base, after all.” He stood next to the equipment cage, and, Frank noticed, the door to the cage stood ajar.
“But why? All that shooting going on out there. And we have guards, armed guards on patrol in here. Why would you take such a risk?”
“I take no risk. It is you who stand in danger. I come to take you to safety.”
“Out there?”
“I must insist.”
Frank dropped his gloves and changed his grip on the shotgun: one hand on the barrel; one on the trigger guard, but with the muzzle down.
“No, no. Not like that,” said Sa’id. “Not by force. We insist only to protect you. Munair Irfani, the navy man, came to Anwar, our Anwar, yesterday after he spoke to you. He told us about the
fatwa
that calls for your death. He asked us to look after you.”
“I appreciate that,” said Frank. “More than I can tell you.” It’s good to know someone cares about my life, he thought. “But to protect myself,” he said, “I insist on staying here. You’ve got a war going on out there. It’s much safer in here. No war.”
Sa’id shook his head and unslung his G3. “The revolution goes on everywhere. Even here. Out there we have surrounded the remainder of the Bodyguard unit. They can do nothing. We can keep you out of their line of fire. But out the other way, along Damavand…” He gestured with the muzzle of his gun. “Out there, a big war goes on. Islamic warriors who soon may come this way.”
“Another reason I must stay here. With the other Americans.” Frank hoped to sound as military as possible. He knew his voice sounded hollow, but he tried. “This is my post.”
Not by force, Sa’id had said. But the muzzle of his G3 did not look peaceful.
“We have other Americans with us, about twenty. Air force men in a fortified bunker under the arsenal. We keep them safe.”
Frank’s curiosity had begun to wrestle with his fear. So far, fear showed the stronger grip. “Hiding out under an arsenal doesn’t sound safe to me. Suppose a shell hits it?”
“No matter. The bunker is fortified, and the arsenal is empty. We have given guns to the people, and we have loaded two trucks that will go to the university at first light.”
More good news, thought Frank. His throat tightened. He tried to inhale deeply but could draw only shallow intakes.
“Anwar would be angry if I had to shoot you,” said Sa’id. “But I cannot leave without you.”
“If I’m dead,” Frank managed to say, “I won’t be going anywhere.”
“Oh, no. No. No. No. I could not shoot to kill. Or cripple you. A shoulder, perhaps.”
Jesus, this is a war, thought Frank, remembering Belinsky’s blood marking his clothes and his hands.
“Please, accompany with me.” The barrel of the G3 edged up a notch. “You will be safer with us than to stay here.”
I’d be safer here, thought Frank, but I should be there. Not because Sa’id, weapon in hand, insists. It’s my job. We need to know what’s going on out there. Curiosity outwrestled fear. Okay.
“I should be out there,” he said. “Let’s go.”
They both reacted to a sound outside the gym, turning their heads toward the thump of a door closing. Booted feet and muffled voices moved closer. He glanced at Sa’id, who reached out his hand. Frank scooped his gloves up from the floor and moved quickly toward the equipment cage, leaving the lights on and following Sa’id into the cage.
Sa’id secured the gate with a strip of wire that hung from it. He led Frank into the shadows, and they crouched low behind a pile of exercise mats. They heard the door to the hallway open.
“Yo-ho. Anybody home?”
Feet shuffled, and a second disembodied voice said, “Lights on but nobody home.”
“Steele said that major, Sullivan, whatever his name is, would be in here.”
“Somebody the fuck was in here. The lights’re on.”
“Think he got kidnapped?”
“Hope so. I hate them fuckin’ spooks.”
A flashlight’s beam cut through the wire cage and bounced off haphazard piles of equipment.
“Yo-ho. Anybody in there? If there is, fuck ya. Stay in there for all I care.”
“I don’t think he got kidnapped. I think the spook just finished his little workout and split. And left the lights on.”
“Asshole.”
The light switch flicked, and the room darkened, lit only by the glow spilling in from the hallway. Feet shuffled. The door closed, and the dark deepened. They waited till the muffled sounds from the hallway faded.
“Quiet,” whispered Sa’id. He reached under the pile of mats and pulled up a trap door, wedging the mats against a wall. Dim light from an unseen source below enabled Frank to pick out the skeleton of a wooden ladder. “Quiet. Go.”