On 20 June 1981, President Saddam Hussein's youngest son, His Excellency Qusay, arrived at the Southern Military Command headquarters in Basra accompanied by two travel-worn aides. They were warmly welcomed by the command's chief, Izzat Ibrahim, Lieutenant-General Fattah Khalid the chief-of-staff, and other officers.
In the spacious conference hall Izzat delivered an enthusiastic welcome address, praising Qusay's wit and courage in foiling the Jews' plot against the great fatherland's nuclear reactor, a feat that had greatly boosted army morale. The Southern Command, he declared, must rally firmly around President Saddam and do its part for the great Arab revival by defeating the Persians.
When Izzat finished, Zhang Feng—Qusay—had to speak up. It had been pure luck, he said, yet he was ready to devote his youth to Iraq's future. Then he came to the crucial point: what exactly did Izzat intend to do with him here?
Saddam had agreed to send him south, but no specific post had been assigned. Zhang Feng had no illusions about commanding the whole Southern Command—his seniority and ability were insufficient; even as Saddam's son he would not be handed such power casually.
He had chosen the Southern Command precisely to block the Persian offensive. History, he knew, was about to see Iran's large-scale counter-attack. Even if he could not repeat his earlier dazzling success, thwarting this assault would rewrite Iraq's future.
Let him lead a division; if not a division, then a brigade, a regiment—even a battalion would do. Surely they would not make him a common grunt?
Hearing Qusay's request for combat duty, Izzat smiled. "Your Excellency, your arrival honours all 100,000 men of the Command. Therefore we ask you to remain at headquarters as a Staff Officer in Logistics."
A logistics Staff Officer? Zhang Feng was stunned. Send him to logistics—what could he do there? That was old men's work. He glanced around; none of the other generals looked surprised—they had settled this in advance.
I am President Saddam's son—why am I so unwelcome? The atmosphere stayed cordial, but Zhang Feng knew it was only surface deep.
"By Allah, while the Iranians press to retake our conquered lands and our soldiers hold the line, I, Qusay Abdullah, am willing to be an ordinary fighter guarding the nation's foremost front." Zhang Feng placed his hand on his chest and spoke calmly.
Hearing this, Izzat gave a wry smile. Sending Qusay to logistics had been the President's order; otherwise he would gladly let him lead a second-line infantry battalion. Logistics was a cushy post, yet the President's son—his own nephew—had developed a taste for battle and insisted on the front.
Bullets are blind; if a stray round killed Qusay, how would he answer to his elder brother? Absolutely not. Smiling, Izzat said, "Your Excellency, you've just left school and haven't adapted to army life yet. Spend some time in logistics first. I'll detail several instructors to train you, and later we'll find you a suitable slot. Sending you to the front now—unable to shoot or fight—would be pointless."
A pretty convincing reason, Zhang Feng mused. How do you know I can't shoot? I came from university and never handled a gun, but in my previous life I could use every weapon on Earth.
Izzat had been careless; had he studied Qusay's combat report he would have seen that when they blocked the Israeli planes, Qusay even handled the complex SAM-7 shoulder-fired missile, let alone ordinary rifles.
"Then, Commander, if I learn to shoot, master every combat method and gain sufficient tactical skill, I may go to the front?" Zhang Feng pressed. Since Izzat had spoken—if only to fob him off—he had to stand by it, especially in front of his subordinates. "Indeed. It's for your protection. A battlefield is brutal; an untrained man up there is nearly suicide."
"Good—then let's go." Zhang Feng said.
"Go? Where?"
"Is there a range nearby? Since the commander wants to test me, let him see whether my marksmanship passes muster." Zhang Feng grinned, feeling mischievous—wait till you see my shooting; let's hear what you say then!
Every soldier knows so-called crack shots are fed with bullets; without years of hard sweat, perfect accuracy is impossible. Rome wasn't built in a day—it rose brick by brick, month after month.
As for Qusay, his uncle Izzat knew that he had grown up under the constant watch of bodyguards. Though he had seen guns, he was far from ready to actually fire one with accuracy—he had always focused on his studies, and whether he could handle a weapon proficiently remained to be seen.
"Nothing to fear; let's just put the matter to rest so he stops bothering me." Izzat said, "There's a training ground behind headquarters. Today's welcome party will continue there. Every one of you holds at least the rank of colonel—surely you haven't forgotten how to shoot?"
"Of course not," the officers present replied. They had already sensed what was coming and were eager to watch. President Saddam Hussein could handle all kinds of weapons, but as for his son—who knew? With the commander here to take responsibility, they had nothing to worry about.
Izzat glanced at Qusay, who trailed behind him, then at the crowd of major generals and colonels, and a sudden foreboding struck him. If his nephew actually met the challenge, he would have no way out. If he really sent the boy to a front-line unit and something happened, President Saddam would surely berate him. Although the president favored the elder son, this second son was still his own flesh and blood. Even as the president's brother, Izzat could not afford to offend Qusay too deeply. If the boy passed the test, how could he both honor the president's secret order and keep the peace?
He had it! Izzat suddenly thought of a solution and called over his aide: "Sajjad, go to Arms Depot Three and fetch one rifle and thirty rounds." Thirty rounds—exactly one magazine.
"Yes, sir!" the aide answered and hurried off.
"No need for the trouble—just take a rifle from a guard," Zhang Feng said, pointing to a nearby sentry.
"Their rifles aren't loaded," Izzat replied.
No rounds? Zhang Feng was stunned. This was wartime, not peace; Iraq was fighting Iran. Even if this was the rear, in modern warfare enemy teams could infiltrate at any time. If the Iranians had special-ops like his own, a single decapitation strike could wipe out every top officer in Iraq's Southern Command.
Izzat, however, saw nothing wrong; to him the place was perfectly safe. Even when Iranian planes bombed Baghdad, they left this city alone. It was a Shia-majority center of historic importance to Muslims and home to the Basra School of Linguistics. Bombing it would hurt Khomeini's export of revolution, so for now the Iranian leader had no intention of striking here.
Zhang Feng did not know that Izzat's order for the aide to fetch a weapon had another purpose as well.
The range was small; the farthest target stood only two hundred meters away, and at that distance Zhang Feng was absolutely confident.
"Your Highness Qusay, your rifle," the aide said, holding out an assault rifle with both hands to Zhang Feng.
Zhang Feng took the weapon smoothly and examined it. The rifle was Iraq's domestically produced standard light arm: the Tabuk 7.62 mm assault rifle, a copy of the Soviet AKM 7.62 mm, though its front sight differed—it had a flip-up rear aperture—and the stock's butt was reshaped and slightly longer than other AK variants.
It fired 7.62×39 mm rounds, was gas-operated, selectable for single or automatic fire, with a rotating bolt and a 30-round magazine. It weighed 3.75 kg, measured 900 mm overall, had a muzzle velocity of 700 m/s and a cyclic rate of 600 rpm. Though Zhang Feng had never fired this model in his previous life, as an elite special-forces operator he had studied every weapon thoroughly.
The rifle in his hands was brand-new, its metal gleaming, the walnut stock giving off a faint lacquer smell. The commander was certainly showing him respect, letting him shoot with a pristine weapon.
Zhang Feng pressed the rounds into the magazine one by one and seated it in the rifle. He had never used this gun, but based on the Soviet design it was little different from China's Type 56 or Type 81 rifles.
He set the rear sight to 200 m, chambered a round with practiced ease, and without hesitation aimed at the target 200 m ahead.
There was no wind to compensate for. Standing upright, rifle levelled, breathing steady, he squeezed the trigger.
For an instant time seemed frozen; Zhang Feng felt his old instincts return. He could almost hear the firing pin strike the primer as the bullet left the muzzle and streaked toward the target.
He was confident: even if it wasn't a perfect bull's-eye, it would at least be a nine—after all, it was a stationary target.
Yet instead of praise he saw strange expressions on the faces of the senior officers around him.
"Miss!" the soldier spotting the target shouted.
A miss? Impossible!