Hi folks, sorry for the long delay, life as you know has....well, it's been rough for everyone. That and certain events kind of killed my enthusiasm a little, but I am back in the game. Here is a preview of the next chapter, "Persian Twilight". For anyone interested, yes, I have more stuff coming for the Stranger Things fanfic that takes place in the same universe as well. But I do want to say, thank you all for your kindness, patience and support, it's much appreciated.
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World War III: 1988
Chapter 6: "Persian Twilight"
"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 1, 1988
Spring in northern Iran often tended to be a bit more cool than hot, and the very early dawn hours of May the First, 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, 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 May Day, 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 Western capitalists, 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 ammo 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 Iranian 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, his dark eyes slightly narrowed in a questioning gaze. “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 9x39 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 armed with VSS Vintorez sniper rifles dropped them like broken puppets, the Iranian's skulls nearly exploding from the impact of the heavy yet quiet 9x39mm bullets striking their craniums. It was all over within less than 10 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."
