Basra, Southern Military Region Command.
"Still no word on Qusay?" Izzat asked, his face ashen.
"The Thirty-Fifth Brigade's ground units are still combing the area; the helicopters overhead are searching too. An hour ago we located the three Type 63 Armored Vehicles His Excellency Qusay had set out in—one of them very near the wrecked supply base—but no one was on board," replied Chief of Staff Fatt Halad.
With air support, the Thirty-Fifth Brigade scored a brilliant victory: a single brigade held an entire armored division at bay, captured nearly a thousand Iranian soldiers, seized more than fifty Chieftain Tanks and close to a hundred U.S.-built M113 APCs, and took over a dozen senior enemy commanders—everyone except Division Commander Rajavi. An entire armored division had been wiped out in one engagement—the first time that had happened in more than a year of war.
Because of this triumph the Southern Military Region would receive presidential commendation, especially the officers and men of the Thirty-Fifth Brigade, who had suffered almost fifty-percent casualties. The President had already ordered the brigade expanded into the Thirty-Fifth Armored Division and equipped with state-of-the-art weapons to honor its heroic stand.
Yet Izzat knew the laurels were only skin-deep; their blocking action had committed an unforgivable blunder: the President's own son had been lost on the battlefield.
Whatever excuses each side might offer, should anything happen to His Excellency Qusay, the President would praise the Thirty-Fifth Brigade in public while—who knows—privately plotting another purge to eliminate those he deemed disloyal.
Even Izzat, Saddam Hussein's brother, could be dragged down.
So, though the fighting had ended, the six Hind helicopters did not immediately return; under the pretext of sweeping the battlefield they hunted for Qusay, while the exhausted Thirty-Fifth Brigade—aside from escorting prisoners—spread out across the marshes in a cordon search.
Izzat knew the lapse had been his: Qusay was still a youth, not yet eighteen, yet already displaying remarkable military talent and razor-sharp battlefield instinct.
This Qusay is practically a god! Izzat marveled inwardly.
He himself had never believed the Iranians would attack from that quarter—utterly impossible—how could they blunder so crudely? That area was marshland impassable to tanks.
Yet, like something out of the Arabian Nights, the Iranians pulled it off with their hulking Chieftains; when Izzat heard they had laid reeds and even sprinkled cement to build a road, he could scarcely credit it—audacious, unconventional—the Iranians seemed transformed into tactical geniuses.
Had Qusay not come south, had he not visited the Thirty-Fifth Brigade, the southern front would now be unraveling in chaos.
Beyond the marshes lay open plains; Iran's powerful armor would have driven a dagger into their rear, slicing through Hamid, following the Karun River, descending on Abadan from the north. The several divisions that had besieged the city for a year—already drained of fight—would find themselves caught between two fires and collapse.
From this angle Qusay was nothing short of a miracle: he had penetrated the marshes at mortal risk, spied out the Iranian armor, and destroyed their base. Though Qusay had not personally reported it, every clue pointed to his team raiding the enemy logistics depot and igniting mountains of fuel and ammunition.
Otherwise, with the Thirty-Fifth Brigade's outdated T-62s, they could never have stopped the onslaught. Muhammad had said the first evening's fighting was sheer luck; the enemy had inexplicably pulled back—undoubtedly the moment their fuel dump had exploded.
Had that not happened, the Iranians would have cleared the marshes that first night, bursting free like tigers from a cage, and the consequences would have been dire.
It was Qusay's bold stroke that saved the Thirty-Fifth Brigade.
Decisive, meticulous, wagering everything like a gambler—was this really his nephew who had not yet turned eighteen?
He was the pride of the Iraqi people, the army's war-eagle!
"Ding…" The telephone on the desk rang abruptly.
An aide lifted the receiver: "Hello—what? You've found His Excellency Qusay? Where?"
Izzat snatched the phone: "This is the Region Commander—where is Qusay?"
"Sir, it's Marwan—we're at Basra Central Hospital."
"Click!" Izzat slammed the handset down. "To the hospital—now!" He sprinted out.
Qusay was in hospital—please let nothing serious have happened!
Marwan heard only the dial tone; he hung up with a wry smile. When people care, they panic—in the commander's eyes Qusay clearly mattered above all else.
Qusay, piloting the massive Chinook, had already prayed to allah, God, and the Buddha, begging every deity to keep him safe.
In any other situation he felt master of his fate, but in this helicopter he had zero confidence.
Fortunately the Chinook behaved; not a single warning light flashed.
Qusay headed west, cleared the marshes, then turned south. Though he could read the radio compass, crosswinds kept nudging him southwest instead of due south.
By sheer luck he spotted the Shatt al-Arab, followed the river, and reached Basra.
With his skill level, city flying was impossible—buildings and power lines were lethal hazards.
So he set the Chinook down on Highway Six a few kilometres outside Basra, left guards with the bird, flagged down a passing car, and rode straight to the city's largest hospital.
Qusay's greatest concern was his wounded men—especially Nilhe, whose leg injury was so severe and blood loss so great he had slipped into coma. He could only hope the surgeons could pull him through.
While waiting, Marwan phoned Regional Command.
Izzat and his staff leapt into their cars and sped to Central Hospital.
Qusay, don't scare me—if anything happens to you, how will I ever explain to the President?
In Iraq at that time rule by family ties was common; key posts in Saddam's regime were held by loyal kin, and his elite Republican Guard hailed from his hometown of Tikrit.
Qusay was also Izzat's nephew, and the uncle cared deeply.
The Region Commander moved out in person, escort vehicles front and rear. Though the trip was rushed, they still took every precaution.
The moment Izzat stepped into Central Hospital he saw Qusay standing in the lobby; police had already sealed the building, and Qusay knew his uncle had arrived.
His one-piece flight suit accentuated Qusay's resolute air; exhaustion lined his face, yet every part of him was intact.
"Abdullah, I'm relieved to see you safe—I've worried about you for days," Izzat said.
"Uncle!" Qusay knew Izzat's words came from the heart.
A false alarm—Qusay was unharmed.