World War III: 1988 Chapter 6 "Persian Twilight, Part 1"
Tiamat
I've seen the future...
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Writer's note: This Chapter 6 is actually a part 1 detailing the events in Iran in May of 1988. Some of you may have already read the preview, but as I kept writing this chapter it turned out a bit bigger than expected, so I broke it down into a part 1 and part 2. Part 2 should be up in another few days. Thanks again for your support!
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World War III: 1988
Chapter 6: "Persian Twilight, Part 1"
"One cannot escape Death and guests."
--Persian proverb.
For close to eight years now, the Iran-Iraq War had run its course in a fruitless, pointless exercise of carnage on both sides of the Iran-Iraq border, resulting in the deaths of over half a million Iranians and Iraqis, soldiers and civilians alike. The war by 1988 had ground to a stalemate, with nothing gained for either side. Both nations had effectively shot their bolt, but with the Iranians possessing few allies and running out of cash and resources to prosecute the war, several members of the Revolutionary Council led by Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani had approached the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Sayyid Ruhollah Musavi Khomeini about a new proposed cease fire and had pushed for the Ayatollah to accept. The Ayatollah had balked and refused, denouncing what he had called "a poisoned chalice". In desperation, several members of the Supreme Council allied with Rafsanjani had secretly approached the Soviets for assistance in staging a coup to overthrow the Ayatollah. The Soviets had been rather cautious, if not outright skeptical about the offer to negotiate, but had sent out "feelers" in the form of several KGB infiltrators to see if perhaps such a coup might be realized and perhaps prove beneficial to the Soviets.
All that had changed, however, when the country known as Yugoslavia, which was barely holding together since the death of Josip Broz Tito, finally began to fragment violently with the various factions and republics descending into civil war and anarchy. As this matter was seen as a potential powder keg right on the Soviet's doorstep, the Soviets had decided to shift the majority of their attention to the rapidly devolving situation in the Balkans and had decided it was better to let the Iranians fend for themselves. This decision would end up having repercussions as word leaked of the aborted coup to the Ayatollah and his fanatically loyal Revolutionary Guards. The next several days since word of the coup came out was indeed bloody as many of the Supreme Council members and their aides, including Rafsanjani that were planning to participate in the coup were rounded up and all publicly beheaded in Azadi Square. That was not enough for the Iranians however…
After interrogating to death one KGB agent who was unlucky and unable to escape the Iranians, the Ayatollah, sickly yet enraged, told his followers to march on the Soviet embassy in Tehran and "send the infidels a message." The message first came with hundreds, then thousands of both fervent Iranian civilians and Revolutionary Guards who first laid siege to the embassy, then stormed it as Soviet security forces guarding the compound found themselves enacting their own version of the siege of the American Alamo. The deaths numbered in the several hundred as every last one of the Soviets in the embassy compound, civilians and security forces were slaughtered to the last, while at least twice as many Iranians died from the onslaught of Soviet automatic weapons fire. The Iranian network IRIB carried images of multiples fires, charred corpses, twisted and mangled bodies, and even more bodies of Soviets, men and women alike being strung up by rope on metal shafts like slabs of meat, to be further mutilated and mocked by throngs of fanatic Iranians.
For the Soviets, for such an act of barbarism that had spilled the blood of so many of their own sons and daughters, the actions of the Iranians could bring only the harshest of reprisals….
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Village of Jamaran
Northern outskirts of Tehran, Iran
May 9, 1988
Spring in northern Iran often tended to be a fairly cool, and the very early dawn hours of May the Ninth, outside Tehran was no different. The Persian night sky that would soon give way to dawn was clear and still lit by many a twinkling star, while a gentle cool breeze drifted down from the Alborz mountains that separated the Caspian Sea from the Iranian Plateau upon which Tehran had sat for centuries.
As far as Major Anatoly Goncharov of GRU Spetsnaz was concerned, it was the perfect weather to do some much-needed killing.
It had been a long, tiring trek for the Major and his team. As he sat in the musty cab of the American-made M35 "Deuce and a half" truck, a vehicle they had borrowed from their Vietnamese allies for this particular operation, the vehicle lurching as it along with several other similar trucks rumbled along an uneven stretch of dusty road toward their objective, he silently went over all that had transpired thus far. He and his team had been inserted via MI-8M helicopters on a long flight from a forward airfield near the Iranian-Turkmenistan border, to an infiltration point several kilometers outside the village of Jamaran, a town outside the Iranian capital of Tehran. Under most circumstances, this town would have held little significance, except that it was the current residence of none other than the "Supreme Leader" himself, Ayatollah Khomeini.
Shitty roads, would have expected no less for a fucking backwater country like this, the Soviet Major groaned inwardly as the truck lurched when it rolled over another pothole, his head nearly whiplashing against the back of the cab. He looked over to regard the driver, Sergeant Major Bilol Karimov, a weathered, well-seasoned Spetsnaz veteran of Uzbek ethnicity, who like Anatoly, had served several tours in Afghanistan. Anatoly knew Bilol, both of them in fact were veterans of STORM-888, the operation that had successfully raided the Tajbeg palace in Afghanistan. Quite a few other Spetsnaz that had been hand-picked for this operation were also veterans of STORM-888, or had done several tours of Afghanistan. At least half of them were of Tajik and Uzbek ethnicity, allowing them to more easily blend in with the local populace if needed. Indeed, many of them were from the 154th Separate Spetsnaz Detachment, commonly known as the "Muslim Battalion", though each had been carefully groomed to be loyal to the Motherland and the Socialist cause. Each of the Soviet operators were discreetly dressed in olive-drab field uniforms reminiscent of what the Iranian military, and in particular the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps wore, while each of the trucks they rode in had been carefully painted over with the symbol of the IRGC, a fisted hand clutching a rifle superimposed over the world globe.
Right now, most of our comrades will either soon be watching, or participating in the May Day parade in Moscow, Anatoly mused. We, however, shall offer the Motherland, along with the Proletariat of the world, a much nicer present…the heads of all those Allah-worshipping goat-fuckers who murdered our fellow countrymen. The Major smiled grimly at that. It was time to send these backwater Persian asses a message, one they would never forget. It would be a most memorable Victory Day celebration, indeed.
"Mind the roads, Sergeant Major, this trip has been tiring enough as is," Anatoly growled. His own muscles ached from fatigue as he worked a kink in his neck from the lack of sleep. Thankfully, a thermos of good, hot strong black chai tea sweetened with sugar had been provided for him along with each of the men, as well as, surprisingly enough, several thermos of actual real Cuban coffee. Anatoly had nearly gagged at the bitterness when he'd drunk it. This is supposed to be the preferred drink of elitist Westerners, how do they swallow that shit?
"Yes, affirmative Comrade Major, but these roads are even worse than the ones back home," Bilol muttered. A heavy dark mustache nearly hid his upper lip as he focused his gaze on the road ahead, with which low-storied buildings made of mud brick, wood and stone also began to appear lining the street. At this hour, the streets were entirely deserted. "Still, I must admit, those Americans do make good trucks."
Anatoly chuckled. "Indeed. We can thank them later when this is over, or rather, they can thank us for doing them a favor." At least Bilol speaks Russian well enough, Anatoly mused to himself. That, and he knows the difference between a toilet and a potato washing machine. Some of those Red Army recruits from the East still haven't learned fucking Russian, or know their ass from a hole in the ground. Enough musings, time to check in. He rapped twice on the rear of the cab to get the attention of his radioman who rode in the rear cargo along with the rest of the team. The radioman proffered the mic of the encrypted radio he carried through the cab rear window, which Anatoly took before keying it and spoke into it quietly.
"All units, this is Sumerki Actual, we are in the objective village, approaching first checkpoint, report status." Static hissed and popped over the frequency before acknowledgements poured in.
"Zenit reporting, we have crossed the gardens and have removed outer sentries, in position at target objective.
"Grom reporting, we have eyes in overwatch on the first checkpoint, and are in position at the second checkpoint."
"Comrade Major!" Bilol spoke again, this time in a hushed whisper, "the first checkpoint is up ahead." In the distance, several concrete barriers along with a parked truck, a spotlight, and a manned machine gun nest could be seen in the distance.
Anatoly nodded. Here we go. He rapped the back of the cab again, this time several in rapid succession to tell the men to get ready, and was answered with a faint chorus of innumerable clicks and racks of automatic weapons being checked. Anatoly had his own weapon, an AKS-74UB carbine with a built in PBS-4 suppressor and tritium night sights, along with an under-attached BS-1 suppressed grenade launcher that could silently launch 30mm grenades without detection. Combined, it was an excellent weapon system that had served Anatoly well in Afghanistan along with a few other places. Bilol for his part had a suppressed Makarov PB pistol sitting on his lap, waiting to be drawn and used.
"Grom Overwatch, this is Sumerki Actual, we are now approaching the first checkpoint," Anatoly quickly spoke into the radio mic again, awaiting a reply.
"Sumerki Actual, this is Grom Overwatch, affirmative, awaiting signal." The Colonel nodded wordlessly before handing the radio back to his radioman. He quickly released the magazine loaded with 5.45mm rounds on his weapon and checked the magazine feed before rocking it back in place. "Slow and steady," he muttered lowly to Bilol before pulling the olive-drag fatigue cap low over his eyes, concealing the tufts of his walnut-colored hair, pretending as though to be asleep. Bilol nodded wordlessly as the truck idled toward the manned checkpoint, slowing to a halt as one of the guards, a young twenty-something soldier wearing similar garb with a patch on his arm indicating he was IRGC waved him down. The spotlight came in focus on the lead truck, as several other sleepy-looking guards stood up with their G3 rifles.
"Hello Brother!" Bilol spoke cheerfully in authentic Farsi as he lowered the window of the cab. "Good evening…or is it good morning? I can never tell."
"Good morning, what is your business here?" The gate guard queried. "We were not told of any scheduled deliveries this early."
"New orders from HQ, they felt it pertinent to deliver additional troops and weapons to reinforce the garrison," Bilol replied, imitating the local Farsi dialect to perfection. "I have a copy of the orders…here we go." Bilol fished what appeared to be several documents out of a pocket and proffer them to the guard…before appearing to carelessly let them fall out of his left hand. "Oh, damn, sorry," Bilol apologized profusely, with the gate guard muttering an angry curse before bending down to pick up the scattered papers.
"NOW."
Bilol rapidly pulled up the suppressed Makarov PB pistol with his right hand and shot a round directly center into the gate guard's head, dropping him like a puppet with it's strings cut. He rapidly fired two more shots center-mass into the guard next to him who didn't even have a chance to shout or scream, the shots puncturing his lungs and heart. He too fell dead. Next to him, Anatoly rapidly brought up the AKS-74UB and pulled the selector lever to "semi" in one rapid motion, and snapped off two shots at another guard to his right, striking him directly in the head and leaving a rooster trail of blood, brains and gore. Before any of the other guards had time to react, two more Spetsnaz that had quietly climbed out the back of the truck dropped to a kneeling position on either side and brought AS VAL suppressed rifles to the fore. The weapons were patterned after the highly-successful VSS Vintorez suppressed sniper rifles that Spetsnaz had been using recently. Each of the weapons made an audible report no louder than a cough as they fired heavy 9x39mm bullets that traveled at subsonic speeds, striking directly center mass into the remaining guards. Nearby, two other sentries manning an MG3 7.62mm machinegun flanking the checkpoint only had enough time to register utter shock before two Spetsnaz sniper teams equipped with Vintorez rifles dropped them like broken puppets, their skulls nearly exploding from the impact of the heavy subsonic 9x39mm bullets striking their heads. It was all over within less than five seconds.
Anatoly nodded, pleased as he gently cradled the AKS-74UB in his hands, acrid smoke rising in wisps from the suppressor. "Nicely done," he said quietly, receiving a wordless nod from Bilol. But the big fish was still ahead. He motioned to the radioman to give him the mic again, which he did. "This is Sumerki Actual, first checkpoint secured, proceeding to the second checkpoint, Zenit and Grom, standby."
The radio again cackled faintly with static with replies of affirmation from elements Zenit and Grom, as several more Spetsnaz filed out of the last truck and began picking up the fallen corpses and their weapons to hide them out of view. Several of their comrades quickly and quietly collected the weapons and ammunition lying about, notably the MG3 machine gun. We may need it later. Waste not, want not after all. Anatoly knew that even if the operation went as planned, sooner or later it was going to get noisy and either the local police or militia would be sending someone to investigate. From the last truck several men quickly went about seeding both sides of the road with MON-50 and MON-90 anti-personnel mines. These were similar to the American "claymore" mines and had similar devastating effects, especially the MON-90 that was larger with twice the depth and was particularly brutal against light vehicles.
Let's hope we get this done soon, we're on a clock, and this whole fucking backwater will soon be like an anthill when the real shooting starts, Anatoly mused. He then checked his watch: It was 2:45 AM local time. Cyka bylat! This is going to cut it close. Already around this time the other Spetsnaz group would be taking out the security around Mehrabad Airport allowing Operation Molniya-88 to proceed. That was assuming all things would go somewhat according to plan…and Afghanistan had plenty of examples for Anatoly how that went. Anatoly nodded to Bilol and made a quiet hand signal to his men to finish their business and get back in the trucks.
"This is Sumerki Actual, beginning approach to second checkpoint. Zenit and Grom, prepare to execute on signal."
The trucks began to rumble along again, making a series of sharp turn onto a narrow road with high walls on both sides. Anatoly grimaced at this, his eyes darting right and left. Just like the fucking hills and mountains of Aghanistan. He had one too many bad memories of getting ambushed by mujaheddin, and wasn't looking for a repeat, not tonight. Just need to get close enough to that checkpoint, right where the Hussayniyya, or whatever the fuck they call that place is. If all went well and the secondary checkpoint sentries were dispatched quietly quietly, then they would go straight in and kill everyone in that building and the building right next door where the IRGC are. Khomeini, that sickly little ass is supposed to be in the small adjoining add-on rooms built into the Hussayniyya right by the street. That of course we assume the intel is correct…and how many times did those stupid slovochs in so-called intelligence in Afghanistan fuck up everything on the drop and the target? Operation South in 1982, what a fat stinking mess that was! Still, so far it seemed their luck was holding, this time.
As the lead truck lurched closer, Anatoly could see the final manned checkpoint sitting not far from what was the Jamaran Hussayniyya. The final checkpoint appeared more well-guarded than the previous one, this one with several more guards, several spotlights, and what was the very clear outline of a manned heavy machinegun. From the outline Anatoly guessed it was a DsHK, or Dushka as it was fondly known by most Russians, either captured from the Iraqis or perhaps a bastard Chinese copy of one. All Anatoly knew was that machinegun's 12.7mm rounds could easily tear through them and the trucks if it wasn't taken care of…
"Zenit and Grom, this is Sumerki Actual," Anatoly intoned again into the radio mic proferred by the radio operator. "Execute second checkpoint, I repeat, execute." Again, almost like a replay of the first checkpoint, several guards including the heavy machinegun crew were quickly taken out by well-aimed quiet shots from both Val and Vintorez suppressed rifles, blood and viscera exploding from their chests and heads from the impact of the subsonic rounds. Several other IRGC guards were ambushed from behind, with Spetsnaz from Zenit unceremoniously slicing their throats and then dropping them like sacks of garbage. Again, it was all over within a matter of seconds.
Anatoly grinned broadly. Perfect! Our luck is truly holding out. At this time of morning, most of the other guards and residents were still sleeping, unaware of what was about to take place. Wasting no time, the trucks rumbled up and came to a stop. Commands were silently given in hushed whispers with hand signals as men clambered out of the trucks and joined their comrades, taking up positions. The Hussayniyya stood before them, a simple two-story complex with a domed glass ceiling and an edifice of white plaster. Next to the Hussayniyya was another building, another simple two-story building where a reputed contingent of IRGC soldiers were said to be sleeping. And finally, another one story building jutting slightly outward from the Hussayniyya and with a simple entrance, was Khomeini's reported residence. Utilizing rehearsals they'd made in a mock compound as part of Operation Molotok-497, the various Spetsnaz teams took up positions in readiness for the assault…
Sadly, as it's often said, few if any plans survive contact with the opposing force…and Anatoly's luck was about to hit a snag.
The snag came in the form of a bleary-eyed IRGC soldier exiting out of the first floor entrance of the IRGC barracks building. He had his Iranian-copy G3 rifle slung barrel downward in a casual manner as he carried a hot steaming pot of tea in one hand which would have been a welcome sight for the now-deceased checkpoint guards. When he saw the dead bodies of his comrades sprawled about, he dropped the tea kettle with a reverberating thunk and attempted to shout a warning, only for a waiting Spetsnaz commando to clamp his mouth with one hand and slice his throat with a gleaming knife in the other. However, for better or worse, the IRGC guard had the safety off on his G3 rifle. As his right hand jerked against the trigger, a booming staccato burst of 7.62mm rounds shot out, tearing through the asphalt and almost tearing into the leg of another Spetsnaz operator who had to leap away.
FUCK!! Anatoly angrily cursed. There went the surprise! Fuck it, it was only going to hold for so long. "ALL UNITS EXECUTE!! GO!!!" He shouted into the radio, though there was almost no need as the Spetsnaz operators of assigned teams Sumerki, Grom and Zenit acted as though on instinct, with various operators with their designated squads quickly began to "stack up", as it was called to breach the entrances of the two buildings. Operators from Grom lined up next to the open entrance to the IRGC barracks building. Two operators threw in flashbang grenades, the grenades going off with a blinding flash and loud BOOM before they quickly entered, with sounds of rapid-fire shots soon following.
Anatoly's own unit, Sumerki stacked up outside the entrance to what was reputed to be Khomeini's residence building built into the Hussayniyya. As two operators moved to breach the entrance, a hail of 7.62mm rounds tore and ripped through the door, tearing apart the first operator in a shower of gore, while the second operator's left arm was torn off at the elbow.
Anatoly cursed again. It sounded like they had another MG3 machine gun mounted inside the building firing out. Bastards must have known something was up! He pointed at two of his men. "You! With me!" They ran to the DshK that sat nearby, while the other men aimed their weapons at the windows and fired suppressive bursts, keeping any other IRGC soldiers from firing out the windows. The three men hurriedly swung the heavy machinegun on it's tripod under Anatoly's guidance and aimed at the building entrance. Soon the weapon ripped away a large deafening burst of heavy 12.7mm rounds, the muzzle flash lighting up the street as the heavy rounds tore through the door and walls of the building, eliciting screams and moans from several shooters inside. Anatoly made rapid gestures to the other operators to continue the breach, and soon several RGD-5 grenades were tossed through the windows. More booms followed, and soon the team regained the initiative and stormed into the Khomeini residence.
"This is Grom Actual, we are beginning clearing of the upper floors of the Guard building, we have multiple wounded and require medical assistance!"
"This is Zenit Actual, we are entering the Hussayniyya, Sumerki, watch your fire!"
Anatoly looked at the two men on the DshK. "Good work, keep this position manned alongside the security detail until you're relieved!" With that he bounded and rejoined his other comrades as the breaching team secured Khomeini's residence. His boots crunched on glass and bloodstained rugs as he stepped across the ruined entryway. Several men in olive drab IRGC uniforms laid around, ripped apart in a mess of crimson gore from the grenades and the heavy slugs of the DshK machinegun. The residence was, or rather had been a simple room of no more than 12 square meters, with a colorful rug that was now stained crimson with blood, and sparse furnishings. Anatoly's men checked the bodies and began checking for any possible hiding place in the house, in the closet, under the bed and any possible false panels. Sounds of gunfire reverberated through the walls as the men of Zenit team began clearing the adjoining building.
"Comrade Major, no sign of the primary target!"
The Spetnaz commander's brow furrowed. "He's here somewhere." What a surprise, the fucking intelligence was wrong AGAIN! Of course, they moved him! But he's a sickly bastard, he couldn't have been moved far. "What word from Zenit team?!"
The radio operator listened over his radio mic. "Comrade Major, heavy resistance reported on the upper floor of the main building!"
Guarding something important, perhaps? Anatoly gestured to the PKM gunner crew who had just entered. "You! Set up a base of fire from the adjoining inner balcony, see if you can provide fire support for Zenit team! The rest of you, with me!"
Anatoly and the rest of the team egressed with full speed out of the residence and alongside the Hussayniyya. Gunfire continued to reverberate throughout the area, several more booms from grenades could be heard from the IRGC and Hussayniyya buildings, and soon, the caterwaul of an air-raid siren could be heard through the air. Shit, better hope our comrades are on the way soon, those black asses will be sending a response team here soon enough. The Spetsnaz commander and his team soon made contact with Zenit team, which was led by Captain Denis Andreev, a blonde chiseled man whose face was scarred by a near miss in Afghanistan that had grazed his cheek. He was shouting orders to his men who were pushing through the "fatal funnel" of the main entrance of the Hussayniyya main entrance. The interior of the building itself was an atrium with an upper balcony and rooms that ringed around it, providing for a near-perfect kill zone for anyone storming the building, and from the looks of several Spetsnaz men who were being pulled out bleeding, screaming and groaning, it was working. Several IRGC guards were above on the upper balcony, shouting and firing G3 rifles and anything else at hand against the Spetsnaz commandos.
"Captain Andreev, REPORT!!"
The Captain turned to the Major, sweat, grime and blood streaking his face. "Comrade Major, we have heavy resistance on the second balcony, west side! I'm trying to get my PKM gunner team into position for base of fire to—"
Anatoly gritted his teeth and came within an inch of the Captain's face. "Push your men through and get that fucking PKM gunner in position NOW, Captain!"
"Yes Comrade Major!" With that, several more men pushed through the entryway, firing AKS-74U's, RPK's, and AS VAL's, providing suppressive fire for the PKM gunner to move up. Soon, a heavy burst of 7.62x54mm rounds spat from the PKM machinegun toward the inner west walls of the atrium, ripping into the plastered walls, steel, and several of the IRGC guards, further ripping apart bone and flesh alike. Soon, the other PKM team that had made their way to the balcony from Khomeini's residence overlooking the inner atrium joined in the carnage, firing several bursts from their own machinegun and stitching the upper east walls and rooms with gunfire. Soon, several RGD-5 grenades were unpinned and tossed onto the upper inner balconies of the east and west side, accompanied by several explosions of fragmenting steel and screams. Soon, it became eerily silent except for the groans and moans of the wounded on both sides.
"Move! Get the upper floor secured, now!" Soon, more Spetsnaz from team Sumerki began to file up the nearby stairwell, weapons drawn, each man covering the other with Anatoly following them. The men soon came upon the upper balcony, strewn with the dead and bloodied bodies of several IRGC soldiers. Brass shell casings littered about while the one pristine plastered walls were now completely pockmarked with bullet holes and fragments. A few IRGC soldiers were still twitching and moaning, but were quickly dispatched with shots to the head by the Soviets. The lead Spetsnaz operator pointed to several shot-out windows of an adjoining room, with several heads including Anatoly nodding in reply. Soon, the lead operator prepped another flash-bang grenade and tossed it inside. And other flash and boom sounded out before the men entered, weapons raised. They soon came upon one IRGC soldier who looked like he'd been trying to raise someone on a nearby radio but was now stumbling in a daze, before a short burst from an AKS-74U from the lead man dropped him like a sack of potatoes. The team pushed ahead, into another room where another IRGC soldier was attempting to pull up what appeared to be a frail, sickly man from a bed. The soldier attempted to bring his G3 rifle to bear, only to receive a three-round burst from Anatoly's weapon straight to his head, nearly obliterating it in a spray of viscera and gore that splattered the walls.
The operators piled into the room, surveying the man lying in the bed who was wrapped in pajamas, an IV drip and needle was attached to his nearby right arm. His form was indeed frail, sickly, weak…and yet, the graying beard, and the face that had once held a menacing gaze over the Middle East as the face of the Iranian Revolution, was unmistakable. And yet, he now looked and seemed like yet another infirm patient at the end of his days.
"Comrade Major, it's him." The lead operator leveled his weapon squarely at the man's head, who seemed to barely register the presence of the Soviets. His mouth moved as if to murmur a word, but nothing came.
"Indeed it is, comrade, indeed it is." Anatoly chuckled with amusement. "This sick little faggot is the one who once called us the Lesser Satan?" Anatoly spat those last words out like an insult. "Do the honors." As the operator was about to squeeze the trigger on his AKS-74U, an idea entered Anatoly's thoughts. "Wait. Not yet comrade…I have another idea." As though on cue, a number of heavy WUMPHS could soon be heard reverberating through the walls. Through a widow, the night sky was suddenly lit with several explosions in the direction of the main city of Tehran. Tracers from antiaircraft batteries could be seen arcing skyward, as more air-raid sirens began to wail. Anatoly looked at his watch, it was 3:10, local time.
"Relax, comrades, our other friends in Soviet Frontal Aviation are giving the locals their wake-up call! Operation Molniya-88 is now in full effect, now the real fireworks begin. Check the other teams and see to the wounded, and alert the radio man, tell him to pass along that Molotok-497 is a success, we have bagged our prey. Now, as for this," Anatoly looked at the barely conscious form of Ayatollah Ruhollah Musavi Khomeini, a dark smile forming on his own lips as he felt the hilt of his Spetsnaz-issue knife. "Comrades…bring me some rope."
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Much later in the day, the bloody corpse of the late Ayatollah Khomeini would be found swinging from a hangman's noose against the outer wall of the Jamaran Hussayniyya, his neck stretched. His abdomen had been sliced open with his internal organs splattered on the asphalt below, while vultures had pecked away his eyes. Graffiti written in Persian along the outer wall near the site of Khomeini's corpse stated four words:
"YOUR GOD IS DEAD."
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Writer's note: This Chapter 6 is actually a part 1 detailing the events in Iran in May of 1988. Some of you may have already read the preview, but as I kept writing this chapter it turned out a bit bigger than expected, so I broke it down into a part 1 and part 2. Part 2 should be up in another few days. Thanks again for your support!
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World War III: 1988
Chapter 6: "Persian Twilight, Part 1"
"One cannot escape Death and guests."
--Persian proverb.
For close to eight years now, the Iran-Iraq War had run its course in a fruitless, pointless exercise of carnage on both sides of the Iran-Iraq border, resulting in the deaths of over half a million Iranians and Iraqis, soldiers and civilians alike. The war by 1988 had ground to a stalemate, with nothing gained for either side. Both nations had effectively shot their bolt, but with the Iranians possessing few allies and running out of cash and resources to prosecute the war, several members of the Revolutionary Council led by Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani had approached the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Sayyid Ruhollah Musavi Khomeini about a new proposed cease fire and had pushed for the Ayatollah to accept. The Ayatollah had balked and refused, denouncing what he had called "a poisoned chalice". In desperation, several members of the Supreme Council allied with Rafsanjani had secretly approached the Soviets for assistance in staging a coup to overthrow the Ayatollah. The Soviets had been rather cautious, if not outright skeptical about the offer to negotiate, but had sent out "feelers" in the form of several KGB infiltrators to see if perhaps such a coup might be realized and perhaps prove beneficial to the Soviets.
All that had changed, however, when the country known as Yugoslavia, which was barely holding together since the death of Josip Broz Tito, finally began to fragment violently with the various factions and republics descending into civil war and anarchy. As this matter was seen as a potential powder keg right on the Soviet's doorstep, the Soviets had decided to shift the majority of their attention to the rapidly devolving situation in the Balkans and had decided it was better to let the Iranians fend for themselves. This decision would end up having repercussions as word leaked of the aborted coup to the Ayatollah and his fanatically loyal Revolutionary Guards. The next several days since word of the coup came out was indeed bloody as many of the Supreme Council members and their aides, including Rafsanjani that were planning to participate in the coup were rounded up and all publicly beheaded in Azadi Square. That was not enough for the Iranians however…
After interrogating to death one KGB agent who was unlucky and unable to escape the Iranians, the Ayatollah, sickly yet enraged, told his followers to march on the Soviet embassy in Tehran and "send the infidels a message." The message first came with hundreds, then thousands of both fervent Iranian civilians and Revolutionary Guards who first laid siege to the embassy, then stormed it as Soviet security forces guarding the compound found themselves enacting their own version of the siege of the American Alamo. The deaths numbered in the several hundred as every last one of the Soviets in the embassy compound, civilians and security forces were slaughtered to the last, while at least twice as many Iranians died from the onslaught of Soviet automatic weapons fire. The Iranian network IRIB carried images of multiples fires, charred corpses, twisted and mangled bodies, and even more bodies of Soviets, men and women alike being strung up by rope on metal shafts like slabs of meat, to be further mutilated and mocked by throngs of fanatic Iranians.
For the Soviets, for such an act of barbarism that had spilled the blood of so many of their own sons and daughters, the actions of the Iranians could bring only the harshest of reprisals….
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Village of Jamaran
Northern outskirts of Tehran, Iran
May 9, 1988
Spring in northern Iran often tended to be a fairly cool, and the very early dawn hours of May the Ninth, outside Tehran was no different. The Persian night sky that would soon give way to dawn was clear and still lit by many a twinkling star, while a gentle cool breeze drifted down from the Alborz mountains that separated the Caspian Sea from the Iranian Plateau upon which Tehran had sat for centuries.
As far as Major Anatoly Goncharov of GRU Spetsnaz was concerned, it was the perfect weather to do some much-needed killing.
It had been a long, tiring trek for the Major and his team. As he sat in the musty cab of the American-made M35 "Deuce and a half" truck, a vehicle they had borrowed from their Vietnamese allies for this particular operation, the vehicle lurching as it along with several other similar trucks rumbled along an uneven stretch of dusty road toward their objective, he silently went over all that had transpired thus far. He and his team had been inserted via MI-8M helicopters on a long flight from a forward airfield near the Iranian-Turkmenistan border, to an infiltration point several kilometers outside the village of Jamaran, a town outside the Iranian capital of Tehran. Under most circumstances, this town would have held little significance, except that it was the current residence of none other than the "Supreme Leader" himself, Ayatollah Khomeini.
Shitty roads, would have expected no less for a fucking backwater country like this, the Soviet Major groaned inwardly as the truck lurched when it rolled over another pothole, his head nearly whiplashing against the back of the cab. He looked over to regard the driver, Sergeant Major Bilol Karimov, a weathered, well-seasoned Spetsnaz veteran of Uzbek ethnicity, who like Anatoly, had served several tours in Afghanistan. Anatoly knew Bilol, both of them in fact were veterans of STORM-888, the operation that had successfully raided the Tajbeg palace in Afghanistan. Quite a few other Spetsnaz that had been hand-picked for this operation were also veterans of STORM-888, or had done several tours of Afghanistan. At least half of them were of Tajik and Uzbek ethnicity, allowing them to more easily blend in with the local populace if needed. Indeed, many of them were from the 154th Separate Spetsnaz Detachment, commonly known as the "Muslim Battalion", though each had been carefully groomed to be loyal to the Motherland and the Socialist cause. Each of the Soviet operators were discreetly dressed in olive-drab field uniforms reminiscent of what the Iranian military, and in particular the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps wore, while each of the trucks they rode in had been carefully painted over with the symbol of the IRGC, a fisted hand clutching a rifle superimposed over the world globe.
Right now, most of our comrades will either soon be watching, or participating in the May Day parade in Moscow, Anatoly mused. We, however, shall offer the Motherland, along with the Proletariat of the world, a much nicer present…the heads of all those Allah-worshipping goat-fuckers who murdered our fellow countrymen. The Major smiled grimly at that. It was time to send these backwater Persian asses a message, one they would never forget. It would be a most memorable Victory Day celebration, indeed.
"Mind the roads, Sergeant Major, this trip has been tiring enough as is," Anatoly growled. His own muscles ached from fatigue as he worked a kink in his neck from the lack of sleep. Thankfully, a thermos of good, hot strong black chai tea sweetened with sugar had been provided for him along with each of the men, as well as, surprisingly enough, several thermos of actual real Cuban coffee. Anatoly had nearly gagged at the bitterness when he'd drunk it. This is supposed to be the preferred drink of elitist Westerners, how do they swallow that shit?
"Yes, affirmative Comrade Major, but these roads are even worse than the ones back home," Bilol muttered. A heavy dark mustache nearly hid his upper lip as he focused his gaze on the road ahead, with which low-storied buildings made of mud brick, wood and stone also began to appear lining the street. At this hour, the streets were entirely deserted. "Still, I must admit, those Americans do make good trucks."
Anatoly chuckled. "Indeed. We can thank them later when this is over, or rather, they can thank us for doing them a favor." At least Bilol speaks Russian well enough, Anatoly mused to himself. That, and he knows the difference between a toilet and a potato washing machine. Some of those Red Army recruits from the East still haven't learned fucking Russian, or know their ass from a hole in the ground. Enough musings, time to check in. He rapped twice on the rear of the cab to get the attention of his radioman who rode in the rear cargo along with the rest of the team. The radioman proffered the mic of the encrypted radio he carried through the cab rear window, which Anatoly took before keying it and spoke into it quietly.
"All units, this is Sumerki Actual, we are in the objective village, approaching first checkpoint, report status." Static hissed and popped over the frequency before acknowledgements poured in.
"Zenit reporting, we have crossed the gardens and have removed outer sentries, in position at target objective.
"Grom reporting, we have eyes in overwatch on the first checkpoint, and are in position at the second checkpoint."
"Comrade Major!" Bilol spoke again, this time in a hushed whisper, "the first checkpoint is up ahead." In the distance, several concrete barriers along with a parked truck, a spotlight, and a manned machine gun nest could be seen in the distance.
Anatoly nodded. Here we go. He rapped the back of the cab again, this time several in rapid succession to tell the men to get ready, and was answered with a faint chorus of innumerable clicks and racks of automatic weapons being checked. Anatoly had his own weapon, an AKS-74UB carbine with a built in PBS-4 suppressor and tritium night sights, along with an under-attached BS-1 suppressed grenade launcher that could silently launch 30mm grenades without detection. Combined, it was an excellent weapon system that had served Anatoly well in Afghanistan along with a few other places. Bilol for his part had a suppressed Makarov PB pistol sitting on his lap, waiting to be drawn and used.
"Grom Overwatch, this is Sumerki Actual, we are now approaching the first checkpoint," Anatoly quickly spoke into the radio mic again, awaiting a reply.
"Sumerki Actual, this is Grom Overwatch, affirmative, awaiting signal." The Colonel nodded wordlessly before handing the radio back to his radioman. He quickly released the magazine loaded with 5.45mm rounds on his weapon and checked the magazine feed before rocking it back in place. "Slow and steady," he muttered lowly to Bilol before pulling the olive-drag fatigue cap low over his eyes, concealing the tufts of his walnut-colored hair, pretending as though to be asleep. Bilol nodded wordlessly as the truck idled toward the manned checkpoint, slowing to a halt as one of the guards, a young twenty-something soldier wearing similar garb with a patch on his arm indicating he was IRGC waved him down. The spotlight came in focus on the lead truck, as several other sleepy-looking guards stood up with their G3 rifles.
"Hello Brother!" Bilol spoke cheerfully in authentic Farsi as he lowered the window of the cab. "Good evening…or is it good morning? I can never tell."
"Good morning, what is your business here?" The gate guard queried. "We were not told of any scheduled deliveries this early."
"New orders from HQ, they felt it pertinent to deliver additional troops and weapons to reinforce the garrison," Bilol replied, imitating the local Farsi dialect to perfection. "I have a copy of the orders…here we go." Bilol fished what appeared to be several documents out of a pocket and proffer them to the guard…before appearing to carelessly let them fall out of his left hand. "Oh, damn, sorry," Bilol apologized profusely, with the gate guard muttering an angry curse before bending down to pick up the scattered papers.
"NOW."
Bilol rapidly pulled up the suppressed Makarov PB pistol with his right hand and shot a round directly center into the gate guard's head, dropping him like a puppet with it's strings cut. He rapidly fired two more shots center-mass into the guard next to him who didn't even have a chance to shout or scream, the shots puncturing his lungs and heart. He too fell dead. Next to him, Anatoly rapidly brought up the AKS-74UB and pulled the selector lever to "semi" in one rapid motion, and snapped off two shots at another guard to his right, striking him directly in the head and leaving a rooster trail of blood, brains and gore. Before any of the other guards had time to react, two more Spetsnaz that had quietly climbed out the back of the truck dropped to a kneeling position on either side and brought AS VAL suppressed rifles to the fore. The weapons were patterned after the highly-successful VSS Vintorez suppressed sniper rifles that Spetsnaz had been using recently. Each of the weapons made an audible report no louder than a cough as they fired heavy 9x39mm bullets that traveled at subsonic speeds, striking directly center mass into the remaining guards. Nearby, two other sentries manning an MG3 7.62mm machinegun flanking the checkpoint only had enough time to register utter shock before two Spetsnaz sniper teams equipped with Vintorez rifles dropped them like broken puppets, their skulls nearly exploding from the impact of the heavy subsonic 9x39mm bullets striking their heads. It was all over within less than five seconds.
Anatoly nodded, pleased as he gently cradled the AKS-74UB in his hands, acrid smoke rising in wisps from the suppressor. "Nicely done," he said quietly, receiving a wordless nod from Bilol. But the big fish was still ahead. He motioned to the radioman to give him the mic again, which he did. "This is Sumerki Actual, first checkpoint secured, proceeding to the second checkpoint, Zenit and Grom, standby."
The radio again cackled faintly with static with replies of affirmation from elements Zenit and Grom, as several more Spetsnaz filed out of the last truck and began picking up the fallen corpses and their weapons to hide them out of view. Several of their comrades quickly and quietly collected the weapons and ammunition lying about, notably the MG3 machine gun. We may need it later. Waste not, want not after all. Anatoly knew that even if the operation went as planned, sooner or later it was going to get noisy and either the local police or militia would be sending someone to investigate. From the last truck several men quickly went about seeding both sides of the road with MON-50 and MON-90 anti-personnel mines. These were similar to the American "claymore" mines and had similar devastating effects, especially the MON-90 that was larger with twice the depth and was particularly brutal against light vehicles.
Let's hope we get this done soon, we're on a clock, and this whole fucking backwater will soon be like an anthill when the real shooting starts, Anatoly mused. He then checked his watch: It was 2:45 AM local time. Cyka bylat! This is going to cut it close. Already around this time the other Spetsnaz group would be taking out the security around Mehrabad Airport allowing Operation Molniya-88 to proceed. That was assuming all things would go somewhat according to plan…and Afghanistan had plenty of examples for Anatoly how that went. Anatoly nodded to Bilol and made a quiet hand signal to his men to finish their business and get back in the trucks.
"This is Sumerki Actual, beginning approach to second checkpoint. Zenit and Grom, prepare to execute on signal."
The trucks began to rumble along again, making a series of sharp turn onto a narrow road with high walls on both sides. Anatoly grimaced at this, his eyes darting right and left. Just like the fucking hills and mountains of Aghanistan. He had one too many bad memories of getting ambushed by mujaheddin, and wasn't looking for a repeat, not tonight. Just need to get close enough to that checkpoint, right where the Hussayniyya, or whatever the fuck they call that place is. If all went well and the secondary checkpoint sentries were dispatched quietly quietly, then they would go straight in and kill everyone in that building and the building right next door where the IRGC are. Khomeini, that sickly little ass is supposed to be in the small adjoining add-on rooms built into the Hussayniyya right by the street. That of course we assume the intel is correct…and how many times did those stupid slovochs in so-called intelligence in Afghanistan fuck up everything on the drop and the target? Operation South in 1982, what a fat stinking mess that was! Still, so far it seemed their luck was holding, this time.
As the lead truck lurched closer, Anatoly could see the final manned checkpoint sitting not far from what was the Jamaran Hussayniyya. The final checkpoint appeared more well-guarded than the previous one, this one with several more guards, several spotlights, and what was the very clear outline of a manned heavy machinegun. From the outline Anatoly guessed it was a DsHK, or Dushka as it was fondly known by most Russians, either captured from the Iraqis or perhaps a bastard Chinese copy of one. All Anatoly knew was that machinegun's 12.7mm rounds could easily tear through them and the trucks if it wasn't taken care of…
"Zenit and Grom, this is Sumerki Actual," Anatoly intoned again into the radio mic proferred by the radio operator. "Execute second checkpoint, I repeat, execute." Again, almost like a replay of the first checkpoint, several guards including the heavy machinegun crew were quickly taken out by well-aimed quiet shots from both Val and Vintorez suppressed rifles, blood and viscera exploding from their chests and heads from the impact of the subsonic rounds. Several other IRGC guards were ambushed from behind, with Spetsnaz from Zenit unceremoniously slicing their throats and then dropping them like sacks of garbage. Again, it was all over within a matter of seconds.
Anatoly grinned broadly. Perfect! Our luck is truly holding out. At this time of morning, most of the other guards and residents were still sleeping, unaware of what was about to take place. Wasting no time, the trucks rumbled up and came to a stop. Commands were silently given in hushed whispers with hand signals as men clambered out of the trucks and joined their comrades, taking up positions. The Hussayniyya stood before them, a simple two-story complex with a domed glass ceiling and an edifice of white plaster. Next to the Hussayniyya was another building, another simple two-story building where a reputed contingent of IRGC soldiers were said to be sleeping. And finally, another one story building jutting slightly outward from the Hussayniyya and with a simple entrance, was Khomeini's reported residence. Utilizing rehearsals they'd made in a mock compound as part of Operation Molotok-497, the various Spetsnaz teams took up positions in readiness for the assault…
Sadly, as it's often said, few if any plans survive contact with the opposing force…and Anatoly's luck was about to hit a snag.
The snag came in the form of a bleary-eyed IRGC soldier exiting out of the first floor entrance of the IRGC barracks building. He had his Iranian-copy G3 rifle slung barrel downward in a casual manner as he carried a hot steaming pot of tea in one hand which would have been a welcome sight for the now-deceased checkpoint guards. When he saw the dead bodies of his comrades sprawled about, he dropped the tea kettle with a reverberating thunk and attempted to shout a warning, only for a waiting Spetsnaz commando to clamp his mouth with one hand and slice his throat with a gleaming knife in the other. However, for better or worse, the IRGC guard had the safety off on his G3 rifle. As his right hand jerked against the trigger, a booming staccato burst of 7.62mm rounds shot out, tearing through the asphalt and almost tearing into the leg of another Spetsnaz operator who had to leap away.
FUCK!! Anatoly angrily cursed. There went the surprise! Fuck it, it was only going to hold for so long. "ALL UNITS EXECUTE!! GO!!!" He shouted into the radio, though there was almost no need as the Spetsnaz operators of assigned teams Sumerki, Grom and Zenit acted as though on instinct, with various operators with their designated squads quickly began to "stack up", as it was called to breach the entrances of the two buildings. Operators from Grom lined up next to the open entrance to the IRGC barracks building. Two operators threw in flashbang grenades, the grenades going off with a blinding flash and loud BOOM before they quickly entered, with sounds of rapid-fire shots soon following.
Anatoly's own unit, Sumerki stacked up outside the entrance to what was reputed to be Khomeini's residence building built into the Hussayniyya. As two operators moved to breach the entrance, a hail of 7.62mm rounds tore and ripped through the door, tearing apart the first operator in a shower of gore, while the second operator's left arm was torn off at the elbow.
Anatoly cursed again. It sounded like they had another MG3 machine gun mounted inside the building firing out. Bastards must have known something was up! He pointed at two of his men. "You! With me!" They ran to the DshK that sat nearby, while the other men aimed their weapons at the windows and fired suppressive bursts, keeping any other IRGC soldiers from firing out the windows. The three men hurriedly swung the heavy machinegun on it's tripod under Anatoly's guidance and aimed at the building entrance. Soon the weapon ripped away a large deafening burst of heavy 12.7mm rounds, the muzzle flash lighting up the street as the heavy rounds tore through the door and walls of the building, eliciting screams and moans from several shooters inside. Anatoly made rapid gestures to the other operators to continue the breach, and soon several RGD-5 grenades were tossed through the windows. More booms followed, and soon the team regained the initiative and stormed into the Khomeini residence.
"This is Grom Actual, we are beginning clearing of the upper floors of the Guard building, we have multiple wounded and require medical assistance!"
"This is Zenit Actual, we are entering the Hussayniyya, Sumerki, watch your fire!"
Anatoly looked at the two men on the DshK. "Good work, keep this position manned alongside the security detail until you're relieved!" With that he bounded and rejoined his other comrades as the breaching team secured Khomeini's residence. His boots crunched on glass and bloodstained rugs as he stepped across the ruined entryway. Several men in olive drab IRGC uniforms laid around, ripped apart in a mess of crimson gore from the grenades and the heavy slugs of the DshK machinegun. The residence was, or rather had been a simple room of no more than 12 square meters, with a colorful rug that was now stained crimson with blood, and sparse furnishings. Anatoly's men checked the bodies and began checking for any possible hiding place in the house, in the closet, under the bed and any possible false panels. Sounds of gunfire reverberated through the walls as the men of Zenit team began clearing the adjoining building.
"Comrade Major, no sign of the primary target!"
The Spetnaz commander's brow furrowed. "He's here somewhere." What a surprise, the fucking intelligence was wrong AGAIN! Of course, they moved him! But he's a sickly bastard, he couldn't have been moved far. "What word from Zenit team?!"
The radio operator listened over his radio mic. "Comrade Major, heavy resistance reported on the upper floor of the main building!"
Guarding something important, perhaps? Anatoly gestured to the PKM gunner crew who had just entered. "You! Set up a base of fire from the adjoining inner balcony, see if you can provide fire support for Zenit team! The rest of you, with me!"
Anatoly and the rest of the team egressed with full speed out of the residence and alongside the Hussayniyya. Gunfire continued to reverberate throughout the area, several more booms from grenades could be heard from the IRGC and Hussayniyya buildings, and soon, the caterwaul of an air-raid siren could be heard through the air. Shit, better hope our comrades are on the way soon, those black asses will be sending a response team here soon enough. The Spetsnaz commander and his team soon made contact with Zenit team, which was led by Captain Denis Andreev, a blonde chiseled man whose face was scarred by a near miss in Afghanistan that had grazed his cheek. He was shouting orders to his men who were pushing through the "fatal funnel" of the main entrance of the Hussayniyya main entrance. The interior of the building itself was an atrium with an upper balcony and rooms that ringed around it, providing for a near-perfect kill zone for anyone storming the building, and from the looks of several Spetsnaz men who were being pulled out bleeding, screaming and groaning, it was working. Several IRGC guards were above on the upper balcony, shouting and firing G3 rifles and anything else at hand against the Spetsnaz commandos.
"Captain Andreev, REPORT!!"
The Captain turned to the Major, sweat, grime and blood streaking his face. "Comrade Major, we have heavy resistance on the second balcony, west side! I'm trying to get my PKM gunner team into position for base of fire to—"
Anatoly gritted his teeth and came within an inch of the Captain's face. "Push your men through and get that fucking PKM gunner in position NOW, Captain!"
"Yes Comrade Major!" With that, several more men pushed through the entryway, firing AKS-74U's, RPK's, and AS VAL's, providing suppressive fire for the PKM gunner to move up. Soon, a heavy burst of 7.62x54mm rounds spat from the PKM machinegun toward the inner west walls of the atrium, ripping into the plastered walls, steel, and several of the IRGC guards, further ripping apart bone and flesh alike. Soon, the other PKM team that had made their way to the balcony from Khomeini's residence overlooking the inner atrium joined in the carnage, firing several bursts from their own machinegun and stitching the upper east walls and rooms with gunfire. Soon, several RGD-5 grenades were unpinned and tossed onto the upper inner balconies of the east and west side, accompanied by several explosions of fragmenting steel and screams. Soon, it became eerily silent except for the groans and moans of the wounded on both sides.
"Move! Get the upper floor secured, now!" Soon, more Spetsnaz from team Sumerki began to file up the nearby stairwell, weapons drawn, each man covering the other with Anatoly following them. The men soon came upon the upper balcony, strewn with the dead and bloodied bodies of several IRGC soldiers. Brass shell casings littered about while the one pristine plastered walls were now completely pockmarked with bullet holes and fragments. A few IRGC soldiers were still twitching and moaning, but were quickly dispatched with shots to the head by the Soviets. The lead Spetsnaz operator pointed to several shot-out windows of an adjoining room, with several heads including Anatoly nodding in reply. Soon, the lead operator prepped another flash-bang grenade and tossed it inside. And other flash and boom sounded out before the men entered, weapons raised. They soon came upon one IRGC soldier who looked like he'd been trying to raise someone on a nearby radio but was now stumbling in a daze, before a short burst from an AKS-74U from the lead man dropped him like a sack of potatoes. The team pushed ahead, into another room where another IRGC soldier was attempting to pull up what appeared to be a frail, sickly man from a bed. The soldier attempted to bring his G3 rifle to bear, only to receive a three-round burst from Anatoly's weapon straight to his head, nearly obliterating it in a spray of viscera and gore that splattered the walls.
The operators piled into the room, surveying the man lying in the bed who was wrapped in pajamas, an IV drip and needle was attached to his nearby right arm. His form was indeed frail, sickly, weak…and yet, the graying beard, and the face that had once held a menacing gaze over the Middle East as the face of the Iranian Revolution, was unmistakable. And yet, he now looked and seemed like yet another infirm patient at the end of his days.
"Comrade Major, it's him." The lead operator leveled his weapon squarely at the man's head, who seemed to barely register the presence of the Soviets. His mouth moved as if to murmur a word, but nothing came.
"Indeed it is, comrade, indeed it is." Anatoly chuckled with amusement. "This sick little faggot is the one who once called us the Lesser Satan?" Anatoly spat those last words out like an insult. "Do the honors." As the operator was about to squeeze the trigger on his AKS-74U, an idea entered Anatoly's thoughts. "Wait. Not yet comrade…I have another idea." As though on cue, a number of heavy WUMPHS could soon be heard reverberating through the walls. Through a widow, the night sky was suddenly lit with several explosions in the direction of the main city of Tehran. Tracers from antiaircraft batteries could be seen arcing skyward, as more air-raid sirens began to wail. Anatoly looked at his watch, it was 3:10, local time.
"Relax, comrades, our other friends in Soviet Frontal Aviation are giving the locals their wake-up call! Operation Molniya-88 is now in full effect, now the real fireworks begin. Check the other teams and see to the wounded, and alert the radio man, tell him to pass along that Molotok-497 is a success, we have bagged our prey. Now, as for this," Anatoly looked at the barely conscious form of Ayatollah Ruhollah Musavi Khomeini, a dark smile forming on his own lips as he felt the hilt of his Spetsnaz-issue knife. "Comrades…bring me some rope."
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Much later in the day, the bloody corpse of the late Ayatollah Khomeini would be found swinging from a hangman's noose against the outer wall of the Jamaran Hussayniyya, his neck stretched. His abdomen had been sliced open with his internal organs splattered on the asphalt below, while vultures had pecked away his eyes. Graffiti written in Persian along the outer wall near the site of Khomeini's corpse stated four words:
"YOUR GOD IS DEAD."
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