Chapter 5
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 005
Chapter Title: Conditions for the Coup. 3 - Securing Position
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Outskirts of New York, a shooting range.
A massive facility spanning 100,000 pyeong.
He'd rented out the entire place for the day.
In the biting cold of January.
At the far end of the range—over a kilometer in length—he'd spread a thick military blanket on the grassy field and lay prone atop it.
Mounted on a sandbag in front of him was an M40 sniper rifle.
He steadied his breathing, cheek welded to the stock.
Whoosh~~.
Truth be told, all this was just for show, putting on an act for Hassan standing nearby.
In reality, he didn't even need this much preparation.
Even now, scenes from the game replayed endlessly in his dreams.
And when he'd entered the body of the Iranian royal family's youngest prince—a figure who hadn't existed before—he'd brought those abilities with him.
He could wield every skill he'd honed in the game, exactly as before.
For instance.
If he activated Call of Destiny's sniper mode while holding a gun...
He could deploy the sniping techniques straight from the game.
Just like this.
The zoomed-in field of view in sniper mode.
A superhuman focus where time itself seemed frozen.
And finally, a flawless, steady trigger pull.
Not a single element faltered; it all flowed seamlessly.
Bang!!
Less than two seconds after the shot.
The watermelon placed a kilometer away exploded like a firecracker.
Hassan, who had been watching through binoculars from the side, shouted.
"Hit! Nice shot~ Your Highness!"
He racked the bolt to eject the spent casing.
Ping~!!
Clack!
After reloading, he pretended to catch his breath again and squeezed off another round.
Bang~!!!Ping~!! Clack!
Bang~!!!Ping~!! Clack!
Bang~!!!Ping~!! Clack!
Watermelon, followed by pineapple, then melon, and finally an apple.
The fruits burst in sequence.
He set down the now-empty rifle and rose to his feet.
"Incredible, Your Highness."
"Spare me the flattery."
"Even when I was active duty and training with the U.S. Army Rangers on an exchange, I'd never seen marksmanship like that."
Hassan was one of the Sahour Scholars.
A military man by trade, he'd entered service as his chamberlain since childhood.
After coming to America together, he'd been sent to train with U.S. special forces units.
Every technique from America's elite spec-ops forces was etched into his body.
Once he stood, Hassan gathered the blanket and rifle from the ground.
Together, they headed toward the lounge building behind them.
As they walked, Hassan reported the latest intel.
"The four leaders at Guadeloupe have issued a joint statement."
The Guadeloupe Accord.
The heads of state from four nations gathered on the French territory of Guadeloupe.
U.S. President Jimmy Carter.
UK Prime Minister James Callaghan.
French President Valéry Giscard d'Estaing.
West German Chancellor Helmut Schmidt.
January 6, 1979.
The four leaders declared they would not intervene in the Iranian crisis.
The decisive shift came from President Carter, who had initially been sympathetic.
Though he had provided the trigger for that change,
he feigned ignorance.
"So it came to that after all."
"Yes. This puts His Majesty the Shah even more cornered back home. There might even be traitors emerging from within."
By now, large swaths of the military and police had turned against the royals.
They could no longer muster forces to suppress the protesters.
The palace was instead fretting that troops ordered to crack down might turn their guns on them.
"Likely. Especially after what happened next door just recently."
1978.
In Iran's neighbor Afghanistan, mutinous military factions had staged a coup, capturing and executing the president, first lady, and their children.
For Shah Reza Pahlavi II, this was no distant affair.
"Cancer treatment—Johns Hopkins is the best, right?"
A sudden question.
But his prepared retainer Hassan stayed abreast of every scrap of American news and info around the clock.
"Yes, that's correct. Are you planning to bring His Majesty over?"
"Have to. He's my only father, after all. And Mother won't budge unless he does."
Hassan nodded.
"Contact the hospital—reserve a VIP room. Assemble a top team of specialists. Rockefeller's probably among their major donors, yeah?"
"He is."
"I'll reach out to Rockefeller. Get me his number."
Running Dark Angel had forged discreet ties with America's ultra-wealthy elite.
The Rockefeller family—titans of the energy sector—was among them.
"Understood. I'll make the arrangements."
By the time their conversation wrapped, they'd reached the lounge.
Inside the empty lounge.
Warm tea and fresh fruit awaited.
He sat and lifted a teacup.
"Also, contact the scholars."
"Yes, Your Highness. Your orders?"
"Time to send a message."
Hassan's eyes widened.
"You're going public yourself?"
"Isn't it about time? The king's seat, vacated by his flight. Pro-royalist factions thrown into chaos without a head, opposition forces charging in without restraint, seizing the chance. In that hellish pandemonium, wouldn't they listen—even to a bastard son's message, so long as it's royal blood?"
Hassan nodded gravely, his expression hardening.
Reflexive tension.
"The threats won't be few."
"Risks come with the territory. You think I can swallow a kingdom worth billions just sipping tea on this couch?"
Reading his resolve, Hassan nodded again.
"I'll ensure everything's handled."
He took a sip of tea.
And then.
"Not long now till we head home."
January 1979.
With the four nations' stance declared, Shah Pahlavi was backed into a corner.
Meanwhile, the protesters—assured of no U.S. intervention—lost all fear.
Countless military, government, and intellectual figures who'd been playing both sides now flocked to the demonstrators.
The protests blazed hotter,
and to quell them, the royals declared martial law.
But the pro-royalist forces were far too feeble to contain the flames.
Shah Reza Pahlavi II uttered a single, hollow phrase laced with exhaustion.
"I am weary now."
Dawn of January 16.
The royals, officially announcing a "vacation," boarded a waiting Boeing 727 at Tehran Airport with the shah, his queen, family, and retinue, departing for Cairo, Egypt.
The king's flight.
Learning their liege had fled, the pro-royalist factions plunged into panic.
At the same time, citizens hearing of the king's escape erupted in fury.
"The king's run away!"
"The arch-traitor Pahlavi II fled like a rat!"
"Execute the remnants!"
Caught between the vanished throne and raging crowds, pro-royalist guards and officials floundered in chaos.
Meanwhile, the protesters gained momentum.
In that midst, a single plane was hastily dispatched to Paris.
Paris, Charles de Gaulle Airport.
Ayatollah Khomeini, summoned urgently, arrived in a car sent by his patron.
A young man from Iran greeted him.
A man in military uniform welcomed Khomeini.
"Ayatollah Khomeini, I presume?"
"Indeed."
"This way. The plane departs shortly."
"No, what is all this? A sudden flight to Iran?"
"Everything's prepared back home. Those yearning for a new government await your return."
His face brightened at the news of those awaiting him.
But doubt crept in.
"Was this arranged by... that gentleman?"
Throughout his exile, Khomeini had received financial aid from a shadowy benefactor he'd never met, not even knowing his name.
The young man nodded.
"Yes."
"Might I at least learn his name? I've been in the dark all this time. It's like a thirst I can't quench."
"We don't know his name either. We just refer to him by another title."
"Another title? What is it?"
"Black Prince. Dark Prince."
At the royal connotation, Khomeini's expression tightened slightly.
To him, the royals were irreconcilable foes.
"Is he from the royal family?"
"That, we don't know. Only..."
"Only?"
The young soldier replied with pride and reverence.
"If not for him, far more Iranian soldiers and civilians would have bled than they have."
February 1.
Khomeini arrived at Tehran Airport.
Footage of his return aired nationwide on Iranian TV.
Throngs of followers mobbed the airport to welcome him.
There, Khomeini formally declared the Islamic Republic.
"This is not the completion of our goal. It is merely the beginning. Our aim is a true Islamic Republic guided by God's will. We shall never compromise or halt until we achieve it. We must annihilate all enemies who obstruct us and firmly plant God's will upon this sacred land."
Khomeini immediately established the Islamic Revolution Committee.
The throne, abandoned by the fleeing king.
Prime Minister Shapour Bakhtiar, suddenly saddled with a steaming pile, flailed like a man swept into rapids.
In reflex, the PM extended a hand for talks to Khomeini.
But Khomeini rejected it outright.
"No compromise with anything tied to the royals. The prime minister and all in the regime must resign immediately. Hand over all power to our Islamic Revolution Committee."
But surrendering power wide-eyed meant certain doom later,
so Bakhtiar had no choice but to resist for now.
Bakhtiar promptly summoned pro-royalist guards, army paratroopers, and Interior Ministry security forces to Tehran.
Khomeini rallied soldiers backing the united revolutionary front.
As both sides swelled their ranks,
tension teetered on the brink.
Like a powder keg moments from ignition.
Then, a Boeing 747 private jet approached Tehran Airport.
The control tower, spotting the unscheduled approach, radioed urgently.
"Tehran Airport Tower to approaching Boeing 747. Do you copy?"
"New York-bound Boeing 747 Phoenix. Requesting permission to land on Tehran runway."
"This flight was not scheduled. State your identity and purpose for clearance."
"This is the private jet of His Imperial Highness Prince Sahour Reza Pahlavi III of the Imperial House of Iran. Phoenix. We carry His Highness returning to Tehran. Clear the runway immediately and prepare to receive the prince."
"What? Who's aboard?"
Silence blanketed the tower for a moment.
Then another transmission.
"Repeating: His Imperial Highness the Third Prince of the Imperial House is aboard. Clear the runway and prepare reception at once, or face charges of insulting the crown later."