Captain Ben Zeev keyed his PTT. “Sandman engage.” He led his men forward without issuing a command. The team of five ran to rejoin Hisami and his partner.
At the sniper position, the range finder began a countdown that had been rehearsed by the trio hundreds of times. Their next actions were simple muscle memory. “Three… two… one… shoot.”
The last word from the range finder was drowned out by the muffled explosions of two 7.62 x 51 mm rounds on each side of the man. The 269 grain bullets headed downrange, covering the distance to their targets in 1.5 seconds. Near the edge of the access road, in a position that had been used for years by Iranians without event, two men died instantly. The two snipers manually chambered their next rounds. Benny Stern continued to watch the two Iranian access road guards, ready to shoot either body if he detected signs of life. Another shot would not be necessary. The other sniper turned his weapon toward the structures on the ridgeline, ready to provide support as necessary.
Reunited with the mountain goat and his partner, the seven man team of commandos advanced to the southwest along the ridgeline. As he walked, Hisami replaced the magazine in his pistol despite having nine rounds still available. The last two men in the group stopped at the third trailer — the one housing two generators and the communication machinery. The remaining five men continued another thirty meters to the middle trailer. Ben Zeev pulled out his pistol. He took point for a four man entry. He and the mountain goat would be the shooters, using pistols. The two men trailing them would provide backup using M-4 carbines.
Captain Ben Zeev did not hesitate once the entry team was properly aligned in an entry stack. He walked up the three steps to the door and pulled it open. It was never kept locked. He walked in at a normal pace, but with intent. His pistol was drawn and pointed in his hands. As he entered, one man was warming up canned soup on an electric stove as two other men were seated at a table drinking tea. The trailer held two IRGC men and two radar technicians. The ability to distinguish between them was easy. The IRGC men wore camouflage while the radar technicians wore the light blue shirts of the Islamic Republic of Iran Air Force. The man warming the soup wore light blue. Ben Zeev’s eyes scanned to the two men at the table. Both wore camouflage. He fired twice. The first round entered the back of the head of the man who was facing away from him. The man’s forehead blew open, spewing blood and brain matter onto the man seated across from him. That man was too shocked to react. Yoni Ben Zeev fired again at the same time Yosef Hisami fired. Two rounds hit the chest of the Iranian Republican Guard Corps soldier facing the Israeli team.
The radar technician at the stove froze in fear, certain that his life was about to end. One of the men with an M-4 kept his weapon on him, approaching so that the radar technician lost all thought of engaging in any heroic action. Ben Zeev and Hisami continued past the table and walked down a narrow side hall. At the first door, the captain opened it and entered the room, the mountain goat behind him. The light in the room was off, the only illumination now coming from the hallway through the open door. An Iranian man who had just gotten to his feet from a top bunk was confused. “What the hell is…” shouted the man.
“Quiet,” responded the captain in Farsi. “Hands up.” The man started toward the captain, who was closing the distance by continuing to advance. Ben Zeev was not sure of the man’s intention, but he was not concerned. The man was wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. “Hands up,” repeated the captain. The Iranian took another step and Ben Zeev lifted his right leg and kicked the man in his crotch, the Israeli’s boot making solid contact with the man’s testicles. The Iranian let out a groan and immediately sank to his knees, continuing his downward motion until he was doubled up on the floor. “Watch him,” said Ben Zeev as he turned to exit the room and continue down the hall to the single restroom at the end of the trailer. He cleared the small bathroom. “All clear.”
The Israeli commandos used plastic handcuffs to bind the arms of the two radar technicians behind their backs. As that was being done, the captain and the mountain goat walked back out of the trailer. As they stepped onto the dirt to head to the control trailer, they noticed that the two men who had stopped to clear the generator trailer were already covering the door of the final radar operations trailer. All six of the IRGC guards were now dead and two of the four radar technicians were in custody. Now only the two radar technicians on duty were left to secure, both men hopefully ignorant of the events of the last few seconds.
Ben Zeev and Hisami were at the door in under half a minute. The captain paused to catch his breath and relax. This entry would be different. He relaxed his arm and lowered his pistol to his side. The mountain goat did the same. Calmly, Yoni Ben Zeev opened the trailer door and walked in. Yosef Hisami followed. Inside the trailer, the room was dimly lit. Two Iranian radar technicians sat in front of control stations built into the center of the trailer. They were both busy and they both had their backs to the door. One man was doing what he would do for the rest of his shift if left interrupted — he was watching a flat panel display of the radar’s information. The other, the man seated in front of both a radar display panel and the communications equipment, was reading a manual.
Captain Ben Zeev walked calmly up behind the man seated at the communications panel while Hisami walked up behind the man on primary radar watch. The two Israelis looked at each other and Ben Zeev nodded his head at the same time as the communications man started to ask why they were being bothered. The first word did not make it out of his mouth. At the same moment, each Israeli grabbed the collar of the man seated in front of him and pulled each swiftly backwards and away from their control panels and computer equipment. Both men were seated in wheeled chairs and both chairs instantly gathered momentum. The communications technician assumed this was a practical joke and got angry as he and his chair flew backwards across the trailer’s linoleum tiled floor. He pressed the soles of his shoes down on the floor to arrest his momentum.
The radar watch officer had not noticed either man come in. He was wearing headphones that picked up Air Traffic Control communications from the regional center in Ahvaz. On his console, he could select the feed from any of the major ATC centers in Iran. He was reaching forward with his left hand to select another feed when he felt his hips move involuntarily underneath him. The sudden acceleration away from his console left him confused. His chair spun around as it travelled across the floor and the man fell out of his seat. Both Iranians started to curse the IRGC guards who they thought were responsible for this outrage.
“Quiet,” shouted Ben Zeev. “Hands up.” Hearing the commands, the two Israeli commandos still outside the trailer came through the open door and trained their M-4s on the two Iranians, who slowly started to realize that this was no practical joke by their IRGC guards. The two men were placed in plastic cuffs and left in a seated position on the floor, their backs against the trailer wall opposite the control and communication consoles.
The captain keyed his PTT. “Secure. Secure. Everyone come home.” At the spot where the flat panel receiver stood on its tripod, Manu Moresadegh lifted the tripod and headed out as Isaac Mofaz gathered his tablet and his backpack and followed behind. At the sniper position, all three men were quickly on their feet and moving across the tiny dell — more a depression — between the knob and the ridgeline of the radar complex. No longer having to worry about stealth, they only needed to cover 250 meters to reach the operations trailer.