2034: A Novel of the Next World War(78)

By the time the last of the paratroopers splashed into the water, the Russian missiles had stopped falling. Reports from Iranian reconnaissance aircraft scrambled from Bandar Abbas were that the Russian fleet, which was moving from the northern Indian Ocean to reinforce the islands after the paratroopers seized them, had retreated north, back toward the Red Sea and the Syrian port of Tartus.

The Russian prisoners mixed calmly among their Iranian captors, the two sides swapping cigarettes, speaking each other’s languages in broken phrases. Because neither nation existed in a formal state of war with the other, it allowed each side to assume a posture of mea culpa: the Russian paratroopers for their misbegotten and opportunistic invasion, and the Iranian conscripts for inflicting on them the inconvenience of captivity.

Farshad’s state of mind was neither apologetic nor hostile—he was numb. A bone-deep exhaustion had set in. After a battle—particularly a battle won—he had usually felt elation, a nearly uncontainable exuberance as he passed among his men, readying them for a counterattack and radioing his situation report to a congratulatory high command. Not this time. Farshad didn’t have the energy to prepare his men for an unlikely counterattack. As for the high command, when General Bagheri’s helicopter arrived from Bandar Abbas right after nightfall, Farshad could barely muster the effort to receive it.

When Bagheri stepped off the ramp, he walked with his arm extended, as if the congratulatory handshake he offered to Farshad had lured his entire body from Tehran. “Fine work,” Bagheri muttered. The radius of his congratulations spread wider as he trooped the line, clasping the shoulder of every soldier who came within reach. Only when a member of Bagheri’s staff handed out challenge coins did the befuddled conscripts realize they’d met the chief of staff of the armed forces.

General Bagheri and Farshad retired to the “command post.” They sat on the lip of Farshad’s hole, staring out into the spongy darkness. “Did they land over there?” asked General Bagheri, pointing in a vague direction, to where the night hid the thousands of parachutes littered over the surface of the water.

Farshad nodded.

General Bagheri gave a belly laugh. “You are the embodiment of Napoléon’s most famous maxim. Do you recall it?” Farshad shook his head. Not because he didn’t know the maxim (which he did), but because he didn’t care. He could feel himself struggling to stay awake. General Bagheri prattled on, “When it comes to a general, Napoléon said, ‘I would rather have one who is lucky than good.’”

Farshad leaned his head all the way back, his face flush with the stars. He felt a slight spasm through his body, as one feels when dozing off in a dull movie. General Bagheri continued to speak. His voice—and its message—only partly registered to Farshad as he listed further and further toward sleep. Bagheri was stumbling through a half-hearted apology, in which he conceded that he hadn’t believed Farshad’s report about the threat to these islands but in which he also congratulated himself for possessing the intuition to send Farshad to command the garrison. Farshad propped his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his palms. General Bagheri didn’t seem to notice, continuing to heap praise not on Farshad himself but on his remarkable luck. The importance of this victory over the Russians couldn’t be overstated, explained General Bagheri. It would unite the nation and the nation would, of course, again recognize Farshad with the Order of the Fath. Schoolchildren would learn his name, which shouldn’t be that of a lowly naval officer. No, this wouldn’t do. General Bagheri then confided to Farshad that his staff had already begun to process the required paperwork to have Farshad reinstated to the Revolutionary Guards and, perhaps, even promoted.

This woke Farshad up. “You’ll do no such thing.”

“And why not?” asked General Bagheri, whose tone wasn’t anger but bewilderment. “Your country needs to honor you. You must let it. Is there some other distinction you would prefer? Say the word and, believe me, it will be yours.”

Farshad could see that General Bagheri was telling the truth. This was Farshad’s moment to ask for what he truly wanted. And why shouldn’t he? He’d given his country so much, everything in fact. From his father’s assassination, to his mother’s grief and death thereafter, to his own adult life spread across so many wars, everything he’d ever had or could have hoped to have had been laid on the same altar.

“What is it?” General Bagheri repeated. “What is it that you want?”

“I think,” said Farshad sleepily, “that I just want to go home.”

“Home? . . . You can’t go home. There’s work to be done. Your reinstatement must be accepted . . . then there’s a new command to discuss . . . I have certain ideas . . .” As General Bagheri spoke, the sound of his words receded, as if he were speaking at the distant end of a tunnel down which Farshad had begun to travel. Farshad had stopped trying to remain awake. He leaned onto his side in the dirt, tucked his knees to his chest, and with a rock for a pillow drifted into the sweetest sleep he had ever known.



* * *





18:57 July 30, 2034 (GMT+8)

28°22’41”N 124°58’13”E

“Blue Leader, this is Red Leader; acknowledge arrival at release point.”

“Roger, Red Leader. This is Blue Leader. We’ve arrived.”