“Oh. Yes. Lift the roadblock.”
Five minutes later, the sound of starting car engines awakened Hamak Arsadian. He looked out his windshield and saw the straight truck that had been stuck in the line ahead of him moving forward. “Yes,” he stated loudly as he pumped his fist. He looked at the clock on his dashboard. It was 4:28 a.m. and the Armenian had about twelve miles of driving to reach the rendezvous point, the last five miles of which would be a treacherous climb up and over the snow capped peak of Kuh-e Takht-e Uraman. He swung his legs down and lowered himself into the driver’s seat. He was in a race against the dawn.
Forty-six minutes later Yoni Ben Zeev heard the sound that made him smile for the first time since parting company with the Night Stalkers. The sound was the unmistakable rumble of a large diesel engine being used to help manage the downhill momentum of a truck. The noise travelled clearly in the pre-dawn darkness. The captain looked up the mountain and saw the artificial light of a pair of tractor headlights as they swept around a switchback. He alerted the man next to him and the team was awake with their blankets packed away within seconds, every man now like a racehorse with Ben Zeev the jockey. A minute later and the commander could finally confirm the shape of the tractor-trailer rig as it negotiated the last hair-pin turn half a mile up the road. He stood and walked to the rock that overlooked the parking area. He looked down to see that the single sedan was still parked in the same spot as when they had arrived. They only had about 45 minutes of darkness left.
Hamak Arsadian recognized Point Kabob II with no problem. He had stopped for tea twice before at this spot while driving Road 15. It was he who had suggested this location as a backup if needed. As the roadway started a sharp turn on itself to the right, he under steered his rig onto the flat sandy parking area. Swinging the truck to the right to park roughly parallel to the curved pavement, he came to a stop with his headlights shining into the parked sedan. “Shit,” said the Armenian, lamenting the further bad luck. He let his lights linger on the car, the interior now lit up as if an enemy plane caught in a World War II searchlight.
On the rock above, Ben Zeev reached up with his right hand to turn off his night vision monocle and flip it upward, freeing his right eye to join his left in natural vision. He could clearly see that two men were sleeping in the front seats, which had been reclined. The captain was not sure, but the car looked like a mid-90s vintage Toyota Corolla. As he thought about what to do, the man in the driver’s seat raised his head up, covering his eyes from the intense glare of the tractor headlights. He looked toward the source of the light, obviously hearing the diesel engine and correctly deciphering the source of this annoyance. Just as abruptly he put his head back down on the reclined seat and rolled onto to his right side to turn his eyes and head away.
In the cab, Arsadian did not know what to do. But he knew that Ben Zeev would handle the situation. He turned off his headlights and settled down to await the next event. Up on the rock, the captain tapped his point man on the shoulder and the pair headed back to the rest of the team. He pointed to Manuchehr Moresadegh, who everyone on the team called Manu. “You and Yosef go down and get rid of them. Just tell them to move on. Tell them it’s not safe due to Kurdish rebel activity.” Manu shook his head in consent. “Leave your NVGs and backpacks here,” ordered the commander, referring to the night vision monocles each man wore. Both were happy to comply as the units had long since begun to irritate. For Manu the headgear that mounted the monocle was giving him a headache. For Yosef, it had been the plastic eye cup rubbing his skin as he walked. “Take your flashlights,” Ben Zeev commanded. “Go back down to the road there.” The commander was pointing toward the spot below them where the team first crossed Road 15 about two hours earlier, “and walk up the road to the car.” The two men understood their assignment.
Manu had lived in Tehran until his parents immigrated to Israel when he was 10. His Farsi was flawless and, more importantly for this assignment, very authoritative. Ben Zeev could not imagine any civilian failing to obey him. But Manu was also critical to the success of the mission. Everyone on the team knew that. Obviously the captain assessed the two men in the sedan to be low risk. He was sending Yosef for two reasons. The first was that the men in the car likely were Kurds who may not speak Farsi. The second was revealed when Manu headed down the mountain. Ben Zeev grabbed Yosef by the arm and spoke quietly in his ear. “Don’t let anything happen to Manu.”
Yosef looked his commander in the eye. “No worries, boss.” The Israeli commando from Erbil turned and bounded down the mountain, catching up with his partner in seconds.
For the first time on this mission Yoni Ben Zeev pulled his AKM rifle off his shoulder, chambering a round in the process. He headed back to the rock to provide cover fire for his team mates if needed. It took three minutes for the pair of Israeli commandos to walk up the road, around the switchback that was just below Point Kabob II and up to the sedan. The small four-door Corolla was pointing away from them as they approached. Manu walked up the driver side of the car. The strap on his AKM rifle was slung over his left shoulder and across his back, allowing the weapon to hang conspicuously across the front of his body at waist level, his right hand holding the gun’s pistol grip tightly. In his left hand he held a small flashlight. He shined it into the back seat. It was full of junk, as far as Manu could tell, but no humans. He walked another step to the driver side window. On the other side of the car Yosef stood quietly, his SIG pistol drawn and cocked in his hand. He did not take his eyes off of the two occupants.
Manu Moresadegh tapped on the window with the muzzle of his assault rifle while he shined the flashlight at the back of the head of the man in the driver’s seat. “Open your window,” he ordered. In the tractor parked only 30 feet away, Hamak Arsadian watched the men standing outside the sedan. He assumed they were part of Ben Zeev’s team, but he had never been told any specifics so could not be sure. He had not noticed their presence until Manu switched on his flashlight.
The man in the driver seat rolled over to look into the flashlight beam. He could see the muzzle of the AKM pointed at him on the other side of the glass, which Manu made sure he couldn’t miss. Manu repeated his command and the man reached down along his left side and rolled down the window. Simultaneously he raised his upper body and reached back with his right hand to release the mechanism that allowed the reclined seat to snap upward into a normal driving position. “What are you doing here?” demanded the commando in perfect Farsi.
The man was scared, the inescapable reaction to having the business end of an assault rifle only a foot from your head. His partner in the passenger seat was now awake and could also make out the muzzle of the assault rifle and nothing more. The driver spoke. Manu recognized his words as Kurdish, but could not understand him. Manu spoke to both men. “Do you understand Persian?”
The driver continued to talk. The passenger was now wide awake but said nothing, the fear on his face being his only obvious commentary. Manu decided that he didn’t care what they had to say as long as they got on their way. “Leave. You must leave.” Again, the driver continued to talk, his voice now gaining in volume. Manu tried once more. “You need to leave the area. Drive on.” The native of Tehran took his right hand off his weapon and waved it in a motion that suggested departure while he shined his flashlight on his right arm.
The driver said more that Manu could not understand. This time the passenger added his voice. Suddenly Manu heard a voice coming from the behind the car. “He is saying that he is the owner of this tea hut.” Yosef was walking around the car to the driver side. “Perhaps we should switch sides.” Manu stepped toward the rear of the car as Yosef passed by, moving forward until his body was even with the side view mirror. Yosef turned and shined his flashlight into the car. The driver was speaking the Kermanshah dialect of Kurdish. Yosef’s native Kurdish was the Kurmanji dialect. Communication would be difficult, but not impossible.