2034: A Novel of the Next World War(26)
He remembered and then re-remembered his last exchange with the old general, how Soleimani had wished him a soldier’s death. Farshad couldn’t help it; he felt as though his outburst in Bandar Abbas had let his father’s old friend down. On the other hand, striking a prisoner had never before been grounds for dismissal for a Revolutionary Guards officer. In Iraq, in Afghanistan, in Syria, and in Palestine, all through his career, intelligence work was often done with fists. He knew many who’d ascended into positions of high command by virtue of their brutality alone. But Farshad’s superiors had expected more from him. They had told him—in no uncertain terms—that he was the most junior person they could trust. And he had betrayed that trust. Although they might have thought that Farshad had momentarily lost control of himself in the presence of an impertinent American flyer, it was more profound than that.
Farshad hadn’t lost control.
Far from it.
He had known exactly what he was doing. He had known exactly how important this American was, even if he hadn’t understood every detail. What he had known was that by beating this American to a pulp, he was pushing his country closer to war with the same alliance of Western powers that had killed both his own father and the old general. Perhaps neither would be disappointed in me after all, thought Farshad. Perhaps they would be proud of me for taking our people one step closer to the inevitable confrontation with the West that our feckless leaders have long avoided. He thought of himself as seizing an opportunity that fate had thrust before him. But it seemed to have backfired and cost him the twilight of his career.
For days and then weeks, Farshad kept to his routine and eventually the phantom itching in his missing leg began to subside. He lived alone in his family’s empty home, hiking his three miles, taking his walk at lunch. Each day, the pair of squirrels who lived in the tree came ever closer, until one of them, whose fur was a very rich shade of brown and who he assumed to be the male (as opposed to the female, whose tail was snowy white), had plucked up enough courage to eat from the palm of Farshad’s hand. After lunch he would return home and write through the afternoon. At night he prepared himself a simple dinner, and then he read in bed. His existence was reduced to this. After a career in command of hundreds and at times thousands of men, it surprised him how he enjoyed being responsible for himself alone.
No one stopped by.
The phone never rang.
It was only him.
So the weeks passed, until one morning he noticed that the single road that bordered his property was filled with military transports, even the occasional tracked vehicle. Their exhausts belched smoke. Beyond the line of trees that partially screened his house he could see them stuck in a traffic jam of their own creation as officers and noncommissioned officers barked orders at their drivers, trying to move things along. They seemed in a frenzy to reach their destination. Later that morning, as Farshad was leisurely filling a notebook with his memories, the phone rang, startling him so much that his pen skipped across the page.
“Hello,” he answered.
“Is this Brigadier Qassem Farshad?” came a voice he didn’t recognize.
“Who is this?”
The voice introduced itself quickly, as though its name were designed to be forgotten, and then informed the brigadier that the General Staff of the Armed Forces had ordered a mobilization of retired and reserve officers. Farshad was then given the address of a mustering office. The building was in a nondescript part of Isfahan, far from the military’s power centers in Tehran where he’d spent much of his career. Farshad finished transcribing the particulars of where he was to report, leaving his notes on a scrap of paper. He felt tempted to ask the voice for details about whatever incident had precipitated this mobilization, but he decided against it. He thought that he knew, or at least had an instinct. When Farshad asked if there was anything else, the voice said no, and wished him well.
Farshad set down the phone. He had a radio upstairs. He could’ve turned it on to find out specifically what had happened, but he didn’t want to, at least not yet. It was midday and he wanted to pack up his lunch, take his walk, and sit beneath his tree, as had become his custom. Farshad knew that if he didn’t report for duty there’d be no recourse. No one would dare say he hadn’t done enough for the Islamic Republic. A few weeks ago, his choice would’ve been an easy one; he would’ve packed his things and happily marched off to another war. But, surprisingly enough to him, he had come to appreciate this quieter life. He had even begun to imagine that he might settle here, in the country, with some measure of contentment.
He left the house for his walk.
His stride was loose, his pace quick.
Down the dirt-packed roads, past the fields of wildflowers, across the footbridge that traversed a stream of glacial melt, he walked and walked, much farther than he usually would on such a morning. Each breath filled his lungs and he felt strong, even at peace. He had no obligation to follow the orders given by the voice on the phone, at least no moral obligation. He had done enough. And if he died old in his bed, far greater soldiers than him had met that same humble fate. War had taken everything from him—first his father, and eventually his mother, who never recovered from that loss—and all that remained was this land that had belonged to his family. Why should war take this last measure of peace from him?
By the time Farshad reached his familiar tree, he was famished. He’d hiked nearly twice his usual distance. It was the first time in a long time that he could remember having such an appetite. With his back against the trunk of the tree, he ate. He savored each bite, angling his head upward as the blotchy sunlight filtered through the canopy of branches and fell onto his smiling face.