After landing, Arslan leisurely folded up his parachute. This was home soil, close to the capital; once the enemy finished their raid, a rescue team would come and pick him up.
Arslan walked south for a stretch until he reached a roadside, waiting for the search party.
To his dismay, the Iranian planes had long since flown off after dropping their bombs, yet no military vehicle appeared.
A bad feeling crept over him—had they forgotten him? Or had command already written him off as KIA?
He slapped his forehead; that had to be it. With the MiG-23 shot down, they probably assumed he'd scattered his blood across the sky.
Now he was in real trouble—he'd have to find his own way back.
Walk? In the air, a flick of stick and throttle swallowed dozens of kilometres, but on foot he'd never reach base before nightfall.
Just then a donkey cart appeared in the distance, driven by an old man.
Perfect—he'd hitch a ride. Arslan waved at the old driver.
"What are you doing out here?" The old man eyed Arslan's odd get-up: something like a uniform yet not quite, and a helmet in hand.
"I'm a pilot. The Persians shot me down; I need to get back to Baghdad—mind giving me a lift?" He pulled ten Dinars from his pocket as he spoke.
The Dinar was Iraqi currency; at the moment one Dinar traded for more than three dollars, so ten was a tidy sum.
"Sure, sure, hop on." The old man took the money.
Money makes the devil push the millstone. Arslan lay on the donkey cart, watching white clouds drift across the blue sky, completely relaxed.
"Beep-beep!" A car horn sounded up ahead. Arslan sat bolt upright to see several military trucks approaching.
They wouldn't send this much brass just to fetch me, he thought; I must be famous. "Hey, I'm over here!" he shouted.
The driver didn't even glance his way—he just roared past.
Arslan groaned. Didn't they know he was here? He looked at his flight suit—the most obvious badge of all.
The jeep in the middle suddenly stopped.
Qusay spotted the gesticulating figure on the donkey cart and grew curious—especially when he saw the Iraqi Air Force flight suit. Though the fellow wasn't in a cockpit but on a cart, his vigour screamed youthful energy.
"Hey, brother, which unit?" Qusay called.
Grateful that someone finally noticed, Arslan answered, "77th Fighter Squadron, Second Lieutenant pilot, Arslan."
Arslan! After searching everywhere, here he was. President Saddam Hussein had already approved Qusay's request to transfer Arslan to the Southern Military Region, yet with his plane down Qusay had feared the worst—injury or death.
Seeing him alive and kicking, Qusay felt his luck couldn't be better.
The man kept ignoring him, showing no envy that Arslan was a pilot, so Arslan asked, "Who are you, anyway?"
"Qusay Abdullah," Qusay replied with a smile. "Welcome to the Southern Military Region."
Qusay Abdullah? The name rang a bell; suddenly Arslan recalled his father mentioning this was the President's youngest son.
Looking at the similarly aged Qusay, Arslan felt a surge of kinship. "Yes, sir."
"Come on, ride with me." Qusay opened the jeep door.
No arrogance—such modest Commanders were rare. Arslan felt he'd met a kindred spirit and jumped into the jeep.
"Arslan, tell me about shooting down that Tomcat," Qusay said... Back at headquarters, Izzat and the staff were already drafting the plan Qusay had proposed.
Qusay's foresight and judgement left Izzat without doubt, especially after reconnaissance spotted Iranian forces secretly massing along the Bahamshar River.
The Persians were eyeing Abadan! And Qusay predicted they would launch the main assault at dawn on 26 September. The precision was uncanny—almost as if he were commanding the Iranian army. Only a handful knew the date, and all were working feverishly toward it.
Yet the plan required giving up current advantages, which troubled Izzat. Fortunately Qusay had returned to Baghdad to persuade the President; if he agreed, the manoeuvre could be devastatingly effective.
Street fighting was to be avoided at all costs—it was nothing but a meat grinder.
"Commander, Qusay is back," an aide announced.
"Oh?" Izzat looked up to see the dust-streaked face.
"Qusay, well done," Izzat said. "We've received the President's order appointing you special staff officer at the command."
"The honour is mine," Qusay replied. "How are our preparations?"
"Under way," Chief-of-Staff Fat Hallad said. "Besieging Abadan we have the 10th Armoured Division, 11th Special Forces Brigade, 96th Infantry Brigade, and 60th Armoured Division. We plan to quietly pull the 11th, 96th, and 60th to the Karun River side, set up a second defence line with the 42nd Infantry Division. The 10th Armoured will stay in Abadan, make brief contact, then withdraw to draw the Iranians in."
Armoured divisions were mobile; a fighting withdrawal would be smoother and cost fewer losses. The pull-out had to be staggered to avoid alerting the Iranians, so it was delicate work. Building the second line was also complex, and with only a month, time was tight.
"What about the 35th Armoured Division?" Qusay asked—the unit he had started with, now expanded to division strength.
"The 35th took heavy losses last time; replacements haven't arrived, so they've pulled back to Khorramshahr to rest and refit," Fat replied.
He'd have to file a report to Logistics to hurry them up; who knew when those desk jockeys would finish otherwise, Qusay thought.
"Commander, gentlemen, besides the Army we must value the Air Force. Using airpower to smash enemy armour is highly effective," Qusay said.
"But we can't handle their Tomcats; the moment they show up our planes have to run," Izzat said.
"We're not without options. I've brought someone with me—a hero who downed a Tomcat over Baghdad. You've all heard?" Qusay said.
"Yes, we heard," the officers answered.
"I've stationed him at Basra Air Base to teach others how to bring down a Tomcat. Commander, we're waiting for your signature on the order," Qusay said.
"Absolutely no problem." Izzat was delighted to have recruited such a man.