Chapter 23
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 023
Chapter Title: Coup d'État Initiation. 1 - Rendezvous
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Abadan, the vital transportation hub on Iran's western border.
Just 70 kilometers from the Iran-Iraq border,
and a straight-line distance of only 110 kilometers to Basra, the key stronghold in southern Iraq.
By car, it was a drive of just a couple of hours,
and by fighter jet, only a matter of minutes—it was that close.
The encampment of the Iranian Army's 4th Corps, stationed in Abadan.
The grounds buzzed with tens of thousands of soldiers arriving from all over.
Vroom~~~
A jeep kicked up dust across the open plain as it sped through the encampment entrance.
It came to a stop in front of the corps headquarters tent at the center.
Screech~.
The jeep halted.
The officer in the passenger seat hopped out and hurriedly opened the rear door.
The rank insignia on the officer's uniform marked him as a captain.
The sight of a captain—at least a company commander—opening the door drew the eyes of nearby soldiers to the vehicle.
A moment later.
A young officer stepped out from the open rear door, his uniform impeccably neat. He looked almost boyish.
The insignia on his cap read major.
Yet the captain's face was tense, as if facing the corps commander himself.
The mismatched rank for such a youthful face, combined with the captain's demeanor.
An unexpected name popped up amid the soldiers' puzzled stares.
- Hey! Prince Sahour?
- What? Who’s Sahour?
It was a quiet mutter,
but the name spread like wildfire through the crowd.
- What?! Prince Sahour? That guy... uh, I mean that gentleman?
- Is it really Prince Sahour? The one they call the Black Reaper?
- Let me see! Whoa, it is! Prince Sahour. What’s he doing here?
- That’s Army uniform. Isn’t Prince Sahour Air Force? Why’s the Air Force ace wearing Army gear?
- Where? Where? That’s him, Prince Sahour?!
Soldiers swarmed like they’d heard a famous singer was performing for them.
To allies, a savior;
to enemies, the Black Reaper. The troops flooded the area in seconds to catch a glimpse of the Air Force’s genius pilot, filling the space before corps HQ.
After receiving transfer orders,
his former unit’s commander had personally driven him all the way to Abadan.
Setting aside their prince-officer dynamic,
as fellow soldiers and pilots of the same fighter type, the commander spoke with deep respect.
"It was an honor serving with you."
At his departure, pilots, ground crew, regular troops, sentries, even cooks—all turned out to see him off.
Having arrived at the 4th Corps’ temporary Abadan camp amid their farewells.
The first thing he encountered upon arrival was the soldiers crowding to see his face.
The corps HQ tent, which he’d normally avoid, was now a bustling marketplace.
- Hey! Don’t push!
- Let me get a look too!
- Wasn’t he the one who provided air support when we were cut off at Dezful last time?
- He looks so young. Younger than my little brother.
- Watch your mouth. What if the prince hears...
- Prince? We’re a republic now.
- Didn’t you see? When civil war nearly broke out, he came back himself and stopped it. Without him, the royalists and revolutionaries would’ve torn each other apart.
- Fair point.
- Is he like the other royals? War breaks out, and he’s the first to enlist, leading the Air Force to bomb Baghdad. We can even counterattack because of him.
The murmurs buzzed loudly from all sides.
He scanned the soldiers’ faces once over.
Those who met his eyes quickly bowed their heads.
Some out of fluster,
others from genuine respect welling up inside.
A few familiar faces nodded quietly, as if they’d been waiting.
He glanced at them, then turned.
"Is this corps headquarters?"
Hassan, now standing behind him, replied.
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Then I should pay my respects to the corps commander first. Let’s go in."
"Yes. This way."
Hassan stepped ahead, and he followed leisurely into the corps HQ tent.
The rumor was already spreading through the corps.
The incarnation of Mahdi, Sahour, had arrived.
The temporary corps command post at the center of the makeshift tents.
Major General Izar, commander of the 4th Corps, frowned at the young transferred major amid a dozen officers.
Though the republic had been declared,
decades of ingrained habits hadn’t vanished entirely.
People still harbored unease and resentment toward the king and royals deep down.
And this wasn’t just any royal.
Unlike the fled king, he’d returned alone to a chaotic nation,
and since the war began, protected the Army from the skies while slaughtering the Iraqi Air Force—a war hero.
No matter the gulf between major and major general.
His reputation alone made it impossible to treat him lightly.
"Welcome on your transfer, Major Pahlavi."
"Thanks."
A response that went beyond arrogance—bordering on rudeness.
The operations officers’ faces paled at the young major’s reply to the lofty general.
Major General Izar twitched one eye.
"What was that tone, Major Pahlavi?"
"Though I’m a major, I represent the Pahlavi royals. Even before the supreme commander or the Supreme Leader, I’d address them as such."
"This is the military, and you just transferred in—forgot that?"
"I didn’t transfer. I came of my own volition."
"What?"
"The Iraqi Air Force no longer threatens ours. I made sure of that. But the Army’s only now rebuilding its strength. That’s why I’m here—to help the Army drive the shameless Iraqis from our soil."
Major General Izar was dumbfounded by the brazen attitude.
Originally a colonel, he’d sided with the revolutionaries during the upheaval, earning rapid promotions to general.
Harboring quiet insecurity about his qualifications, Izar ground his teeth inwardly.
"Want punishment for insubordination?"
He replied without changing expression to the general’s threat.
"Royals aren’t subject to national law. Especially the king."
"What nonsense is that?!"
Izar shot up, hand itching toward his pistol.
Then Hassan, standing silently behind, stepped forward.
"When the king is absent, a regent acts in his stead—it’s only natural. The third prince fulfills that role for the absent king, so all immunities apply equally."
"That crap ended long ago! No kings in our Islamic Republic!"
Hassan didn’t blink at the bellowing general.
"Arrest these bastards and throw them in jail now!"
Confused officers froze at the general’s roar.
Then Colonel Murabak, chief of staff, intervened.
"Didn’t you hear? Drag them out! Guards!"
Guards waiting outside rushed in at the colonel’s order.
They surrounded them after assessing the scene.
Hassan shielded him, poised to lunge.
"Enough. Let’s go."
The tension eased at his single word.
Murabak seized the moment.
"Drag Major Pahlavi and his entourage outside now! Hurry!"
Surrounded by guards, they exited the command post.
Murabak glanced at them leaving, then turned to the general.
"I’ll handle them."
"What? What do you mean?!"
"Prince Pahlavi—or Major—was the Air Force ace and guardian of Iran’s skies until yesterday. Detaining and punishing him after less than a day risks morale. With the big offensive looming, let’s handle it quietly later."
The big offensive.
The Iranian Army’s counterattack, prepared on Ayatollah Khomeini’s orders.
Izar, who’d received direct command from the Supreme Leader, was staking everything on it.
"You know morale is key to breaching Iraq’s minefields."
Izar nodded.
Worried about the operation, he relented.
"Keep them from causing trouble. Understood?"
"Yes, General."
Murabak saluted and left the tent.
Escorted by guards, they were led—unexpectedly—to neat private quarters.
Hassan unpacked his duffel bag casually while surveying the room.
After watching, he gazed out the window at the view.
Soldiers from everywhere bustled about.
Most were young, boyish faces.
Gazing at them, he recalled the Iranian Army’s big offensive plan.
Crafted by the Guardian Council.
Men who’d learned war from the Koran, devoid of military knowledge or experience—their plan was brutally naive.
Even with some soldiers’ tweaks.
Expecting the Army alone to breach layered minefields, barbed wire, and trenches was unthinkable for any proper soldier.
As he stood by the window watching.
The door opened.
Colonel Murabak, who’d dragged them from the command post earlier, entered alone.
Hassan rose and stood by his side.
Murabak caught his breath,
then knelt, hands to the ground, forehead to the floor.
"Forgive my rudeness, Your Highness."
Murabak was born to an ordinary farm family.
Dreaming of the military, he started as a junior officer,
excelled through training, but as a commoner, his path led only to platoon leader in a remote unit.
One day, immersed in his duties,
a letter arrived from above.
- Sahour Scholars Selection. Prepare for U.S. military academy.
Selected as a Sahour Scholar, Second Lieutenant Murabak earned a U.S. academy slot.
An opportunity once reserved for nobles.
Heading to America, he first met the 10-year-old Prince Sahour.
And vowed there.
- The only one I’ll serve is Prince Sahour.
Ten years later.
A U.S. academy grad with meteoric promotions, Murabak joined the revolutionaries,
rose to colonel, becoming Major General Izar’s chief of staff.
And today, he faced Prince Sahour again.
"Have you been well?"
"I’ve awaited only Your Highness’s call."
"Good. How many Shadows are here?"
"Half the active platoon commanders are ours."
"Half. Not bad."
"At your command, they’ll all rise."
"You remember me. Thank you."
"Your words in New York are etched in our hearts. Some fell to the revolution’s allure, but seeing their tyranny and betrayal turned us back. We’re stronger now."
He nodded.
"Yes. The time is ripe. They’ll prove themselves unfit for the throne. When the troops abandon them, we rise."
Murabak bowed deeper.
"All shall be as Your Highness wills."