Ben Zeev raised his head. Each man had heard these words at some point in their lives. Several recognized Psalm Chapter 91. For each man, the words had more meaning at this moment than they thought possible. “For two years we have trained. From this point we do not return without achieving our mission. Our forefathers watch our every step. I know that none of you will hesitate in your duty.” Heads nodded in agreement.
The captain switched back to Farsi. “Now we go.” The local time in Iran was now 11:57 p.m., 30 minutes ahead of Iraqi time — the difference the result of Iran maintaining its own time zone a half hour ahead of Iraq. The easy part of their journey was now behind them and what lay ahead was a drop into the valley just underneath Baharvas followed by a further climb in elevation of over 3,000 feet amid steeper mountains. They only had 2.4 miles to go as the crow flies, but their path would require them to climb a steep 2,500 feet over the last half mile, a portion of the western slope of Kuh-e Takht-e Uraman, one of the higher peaks in the area. Their destination, designated Point Kabob II, was a section of switchback on Road 15 that was only about four hundred feet below the point where the road passed its zenith over the mountain at just over 8,500 feet. Thankfully, they were still too early in the season for any significant snowfall. The captain worried about whether Arsadian had gotten the message on the change in rendezvous point. Only time would tell him for sure if the Armenian had succeeded in reaching Kabob II.
Ben Zeev took one more look at his watch, which had been on Iran time since given the mission go ahead earlier in the day. Midnight. He estimated that they would not arrive at Point Kabob II before 3:00 am.
39 — Point Kabob II
Task Force Camel crossed Road 15 on foot at 3:05 in the morning. The sun’s ascent was still three hours away and the only natural light on this moonless night was the cloud-like consistency of the Milky Way as it stretched from horizon to horizon. The temperature was just under freezing as Captain Ben Zeev crossed the two lane road and headed quickly up the rocky slope on the eastern side. At this altitude, the mountain was completely barren of vegetation, comprised only of rock and the sand created from eons of the actions and reactions of wind, water and temperature on that same rock. The sand and rock was the color of dark grayish tan, as if the hand of God had pushed these jagged mountain rocks upward through an ancient desert.
Climbing up the final 300 feet of his journey, the commander came upon his point man crouched behind a large boulder that stood alone and formed an intermediate crest. Yosef was quiet, one of his true gifts. He used hand signals to direct his commander’s vision. Fifty feet below them, on the other side, was a flat sandy area about fifty yards wide and at points as much as twenty five yards deep. The pavement of Road 15 bent through the northern edge of the area like a snake, forming a 180 degree turn. To the east, or uphill side, the road followed the mountain contours and continued up to the next switchback about half a mile further along and 410 feet higher in elevation. On the western side, the road ran downhill slightly for only a hundred yards before it turned back on itself and headed back to the south, passing below the spot where Ben Zeev and Yosef now crouched. At the western edge of the flat parking area was a thatched hut that formed a makeshift Kurdish tea house. In the summer, local villagers sold tea to the many families and tourists who travelled this road to enjoy the spectacular mountain views.
Both men had the same first impression as they looked through their monocles at the parking area below. There was no truck parked there, only a single sedan. Ben Zeev signaled his man to continue to scan the area, looking for anything or anyone that could threaten the team. He then turned and walked back a small distance to join the rest of the team. Sending a man to keep his point man company at the observation rock, the captain pulled out the TSU device and turned it on for the first time since crossing into Iran. The team had not rested during the prior three hours. The plan called for them to be on board the truck and underway to their target before dawn. The timetable was in jeopardy. As the device powered up and established its satellite link, the yellow star indicating that a message was waiting immediately began blinking. The captain entered the proper commands to display two new messages.
Delayed. Close.
Confirmed 2002.
The messages had been sent a couple of hours earlier. Ben Zeev did not know what to make of the first message. But the second message confirmed that the mission was still green lighted and that the rendezvous was still Point Kabob II, located 50 feet below their current position. Ben Zeev shut down the unit. Following mission protocol, he sent no messages nor did any man on his team emit any radio wave transmissions. They wore no tracking devices and their authorization to broadcast from inside Iran was contingent upon emergency or absolute necessity.
The captain set up pickets and told his men who were not on watch to rest and sleep if possible. The lack of motion would quickly make them cold, so each man removed a camouflaged blanket that he carried in his backpack, white on one side and on the other, the light gray digital pattern that had been perfected by the U.S. military in nearby Afghanistan. The blanket doubled as an infrared and thermal suppressor, making the men virtually invisible if necessary to hide from Iranian eyes. They had brought minimal supplies — just enough to either meet the truck or make it back across the border into Iraq. But the blanket was an item that they had learned was necessary during their first mission rehearsal in the Kurdish mountains 18 months earlier when Ben Zeev had cancelled the practice session early to save two of his men from the danger of frostbite.
An hour later and seven and a half miles to the north in Dezli, Captain Javed Samadi of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard was gently nudged by his driver as he slept in the back seat of his sedan. “Sir, it is past zero four hundred. We have had no contact.”
The IRG captain shook his head to wake himself. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and straightened the cap on his head. “Nothing?” His voiced cracked in the dry air.
“No, sir.”
The captain was disappointed. He wondered why God would not bless him with glory. Had he not been faithful to Allah in his heart? Yet, it seemed that no matter where he took his unit, action was elsewhere. He had spent most of the overnight hours checking on his men who lay in wait along the valley approaches just north of Dezli, the valleys that the locals swore to him were the favorite entry points for Kurdish rebels. Two hours earlier he had walked back to the sedan to warm up and rest, telling his driver to communicate contact status every hour. Now he opened the door and emerged from the car to stretch and let the cold air wake all of his senses.
Nearby a dozen of his trucks were parked — the vehicles that moved his unit around the mountains of western Iran. The truck closest to his sedan contained his radio communications unit. He walked over and the sergeant in charge stood to salute his officer, simultaneously kicking the man next to him awake. The officer spoke first. “Tell all units to abort operations and return. I want to be out of here by sunrise.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant saluted his commanding officer. He started to sit and then stopped and addressed the captain. “What about the roadblock?”