Chapter 22
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 022
Chapter Title: Conditions of the Coup. 8 - Black Reaper
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Since the last counteroffensive operation, the Iranian Air Force had proven its mettle in the skies, racking up kills on Iraqi support units and supply convoys heading to Khorramshahr.
Aware of this, the Iraqi military reorganized its air forces to defend the southern advance routes.
With three Iraqi Air Force squadrons converging...
—This is the 72nd Infantry Battalion, Army Reserves en route to Khorramshahr!
We're under enemy air attack! Requesting support! Hurry!!
Eight Iraqi MiG-21s from Nasiriyah Air Base took off and headed east after receiving the desperate radio call from ground forces.
The lightweight fighter par excellence—cheaper than its own weight—the MiG-21 hurtled toward the contact zone at Mach 2, its slender frame slicing through the air.
Less than ten minutes after takeoff.
As the formation neared the engagement area, the squadron leader issued combat orders.
—Zzzt~ Enemy is two Iranian F-4 Phantoms. Engage immediately upon reaching target.
—Roger!
—Confirmed!
At Mach 2, the MiG-21s held their own against the heavier F-4s in dogfights, thanks to their half-the-weight agility.
Moreover, the enemies were bombing ground targets, so their air-to-air armament had to be light.
And they had eight planes. The enemy only two.
Emboldened, the squadron leader barked at his wingmen.
—These bastards are harassing our convoy. Don't let a single one escape. Keep that in mind. And stay sharp in case reinforcements—
As the leader was about to warn them...
BOOM-BOOM!!
The sudden explosion tore the leader's jet apart in a shower of debris.
—Enemy!
—Ambush!
The Iraqi pilots yanked their sticks, scattering into evasive maneuvers.
Another explosion shredded a friendly jet.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM~!!!
Then, missiles streaking in from dead ahead, trailing long vapor tails, filled their sights.
Iranian Phoenix missiles.
Long-range guided missiles with a 100-kilometer reach sliced through the sky toward the MiGs.
—All planes, evade!
—Scatter!!
The MiGs gunned their engines, dispersing every which way.
SHREEEEEK~~~!!
Desperately diving, climbing, jinking left and right to shake the pursuing missiles—another went down.
BOOM-BOOM!!
Jet engines screamed amid the fading blasts, echoing through the heavens.
Finally, after the fourth victim, the surviving Iraqi jets escaped the threat. Exhausted voices traded calls as they closed ranks.
—You okay!
—Who got hit?
—Leader first!
—Enemy? How many?
—Wait. Radar...
—Radar? Where?
The rattled pilots checked their radars post-missile scare.
What appeared was a fifth blip—overlapping their own formation.
—What the...? Where is this...
Suddenly.
SHREEEK~~~!!! RRRRAT-TAT-TAT~~~!!
A burst of cannon fire, orange tracers grazing over a MiG's canopy. THUD-THUD-THUD!!
Orange whips shredded one wing into rags.
—Evasive!
—Enemy!
—Above us!!
As comrades shouted belated warnings, the crippled MiG lost balance and banked sharply.
In that instant. SHREEEK~~~!!
A massive swept-wing beast knifed through the formation like an arrow.
—Break!
—Watch out!
The startled MiGs scattered wildly. The black intruder burst through, wings snapping open.
Like a soaring eagle spreading its wings anew.
But painted in eye-searing jet black—unlike desert tan or gray camouflage.
And on the dorsal fin: a stark white skull emblazoned on black.
The pilots' faces drained white at the sight.
—White Bones!
—Black Reaper!
—Damn it!!
Since war with Iran began, whispers spread through the Iraqi ranks.
Started among pilots, now a ghost story among all troops.
"If you spot black with white bones on the battlefield, don't look back—run."
To fellow airmen, the skull-marked black jet was the Grim Reaper incarnate.
The sky's angel of death who soloed twelve Iraqi fighters.
Iran's ace. A legend among all pilots, friend and foe: Iranian Air Force pilot Prince Sahour Reza Pahlavi III.
Black Reaper.
Iranian Air Force callsign Night Raven cockpit.
He spoke to Hassan.
"Told you they'd bite the bait."
After intel on Iraqi reserves moving to Khorramshahr, they sent two attackers to bomb.
Then waited at distance. Sure enough, Iraqi jets swarmed the bait.
Fired all six 100km-range Phoenix missiles.
Blunted their momentum early, but four foes left. Him alone.
But that number meant nothing anymore.
"With the ones from before, how many total now?"
He'd stopped counting kills himself some time ago.
—57 confirmed.
"Yeah? Not sixty yet?"
—That's already 20% of their total air force.
Hassan marveled inwardly: downing a fifth of a nation's air force solo, and still unsatisfied.
Of course, as his fame spread, Iraqi tactics shifted—fewer kills lately.
Iraq unofficially ordered pilots: "Flee the Black Reaper at all costs."
After he soloed twelve MiGs last time.
"Let's clean up these guys first."
Glancing up. Spotting the skull, the MiGs flipped and fled Iraqi airspace.
"Fuel?"
—Enough to chase one.
"Then let's go. Hold on tight."
Before the words finished.
The F-14 swept its wings back, engines erupting in shockwaves.
WHAM~!! SHRUUUUMMMM~~!!
Accelerating brutally, the F-14 pursued the fleeing MiGs into Iraqi skies.
The war, ignited by Iraq's invasion.
Iranian forces, initially steamrolled by Iraqi armor at the border, began clawing back momentum.
With air superiority secured, Revolutionary Guard guerrillas and urban fighters stalled the Iraqis, buying time to regroup.
As the tide turned, Guardian Council members reconvened in Tehran.
Supreme Council chamber.
Despite good news of Iranian victories, faces were grim.
Ayatollah Khomeini and the council fixated on air force feats—especially rumors about the Third Prince.
"Never thought the air force would fight this well."
"The Third Prince is the real problem. He's already downed sixty enemy fighters. More than our entire air force combined."
"What are the Iraqis doing? Why do they keep running from him?"
"It's not that simple. They're calling him the Mahdi incarnate now. We need a countermeasure."
Mahdi: Islam's messiah figure, like Maitreya—savior restoring justice in end times.
The theocracy's guardians couldn't stomach a royalist Third Prince hailed as such.
"What countermeasure?"
"Stop the Prince. Or stifle the rumors."
"How? We should've rounded up those rumor-mongers early!"
"We used every Revolutionary Guard unit holding off Iraq. No manpower left."
"The people's already hooked. They trust those rats more than our announcements."
"True. And his fame's bigger abroad now. Even Iraqis know the Black Reaper—soldiers and civilians alike."
"So we just let it slide?"
"Of course not."
"First, keep him from more kills."
Ayatollah Khomeini, watching the bickering, finally spoke.
"How go our forces' preparations?"
"Our forces"—not the whole military, but the Revolutionary Guard.
—Assembling at Ahvaz for the big push.
With breathing room from air support, the Islamist regime concluded victory required massing conventional forces too.
On Khomeini's orders, they gathered dispersed armor for a counteroffensive.
"If this op succeeds, the faithful will see our valor."
Dubbed the Basra Thrust.
Target Iraq's logistics hub Basra to isolate invaders. Khomeini, buoyed by air wins, proposed it.
A councilor voiced doubts.
—But Basra's ringed by Iraqi defenses: minefields, triple-quadruple lines. Success flips the war, but failure loses men and exposes other fronts...
He trailed off, noting Khomeini's frown.
Khomeini stared, then spoke.
"Then do this: Assign the Third Prince to the assault force."
—Pardon? The Prince?
"Yes. If he's Mahdi's vessel, he'll deliver victory for us."
All grasped the sarcasm, nodding.
—Indeed.
—Wise counsel.
—Best put him in the hottest spot. Only then can we borrow God's power properly.
—Agreed.
—Pull him from air force at once.
—Yes. Curious if his heavenly glory shines on the ground too.
Khomeini smirked.
"Let's see God's will."
Tehran South, 18th Air Brigade.
Night Raven returned from sortie, taxied into the hangar.
Climbing down with Hassan, he headed to quarters.
Soldiers in the hall snapped salutes without fail.
A casual hand-salute in return drew inevitable whispers.
—He notched more kills again?
—Only three this time, I heard.
—'Only' three? How many you got?
—Just saying it's down from before.
—Enemies flee at sight of the Prince now. Bound to drop.
—Fair.
—Where'd he learn to fly like that? Just rumors till now.
—Went to America alone before ten. Early grad from their academy, they say.
—Thought he just studied there. Intense training.
—Watch it. His Highness ain't like that.
—Just sayin'. Why so heated?
—No offense meant.
—As if you know him. Wait, you were in America too? Met him?
—Nah, I was there a year. Didn't know him then.
—Royal wouldn't notice commoners. Last year, thought he was just gutsy scholar returning amid revolution. Surprise.
—Lucky for us. Thanks to him, war's stalemated. Wish army had one like that.
—Even if? Heard priests on Guardian Council micromanage everything.
—Top brass the issue. Won't win without changing them.
—Quiet. Rev Guards'll drag you off for that.
Overhearing as their talk continued, he entered his assigned room.
Hand on the knob—
The brigade commander approached, saluting.
Though just a pilot under the brigade, his rank demanded mutual respect.
"Your Highness."
"What is it, Brigade Commander?"
"Transfer orders from above."
"Transfer?"
"Yes. Effective immediately, from Air Force HQ to Army HQ. Vehicle ready tomorrow morning for your posting."
He took the proffered orders.
After the commander left, he entered with Hassan.
Austere room: bed, desk, wardrobe.
A private during war? Royal privilege.
To Hassan hanging his jacket:
"Outside mood?"
"Good. Soldiers and civilians see you as a hero."
"Primary goal met. Our forces' status?"
"Revolutionary Guard massing troops and supplies at Ahvaz."
"Ahvaz? Counterattacking?"
"Intel says major offensive prep."
"Target?"
"Basra."
Basra: Iraq's southeast hub, just 30km from fierce Khorramshahr fighting. Iraqi southern logistics base.
"Isolate invaders by taking it."
"Yes."
"Success reverses the war overnight."
"Problem: Iraq's fortified it heavily. Mines, wire, trenches in layers. All-in failure creates gaps."
"Khomeini's overreaching."
"Stimulated by air force and you."
"Wants a show. But massing at Basra—Tehran's defenses?"
"Capital Defense Command's three divisions all en route to Basra."
Khomeini's cronies manned those—stripping them thinned Tehran.
"I see."
Recalling units around Tehran: gaps yawned.
"That's doable."
Hassan nodded.
"Yes."
"Time's ripening, Hassan."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Send the order."
"Your command."
"The desperate foe denies itself. When they discard legitimacy, we topple them from power. And..."
Eyes fell on the desk's transfer orders.
To Army 4th Corps infantry, assembling at Ahvaz.
"I'll march with Ahvaz's army straight to the enemy's heart."
Turning to Hassan, a grin crept up unbidden.
"To stage a coup, you need an army foothold. Right?"
Hassan bowed.
"All shall unfold as Your Highness wills."