A Touch Of War

by Isaac Stormm

  “Plausible deniability,” Krause interjected, curious to hear Anderson’s reply.

  “I hate those words.” His attempt at displeasure faded with a wry smirk. “We use ‘em all the time though. But yeah, he’ll deny it.” He scanned the paper once more, then laid it on the cushion beside him. He understood that when he did mention it, Grozner might counterattack with the NSA spying on N.A.T.O. Something in hindsight that was totally unwarranted and that he failed to ask for a full briefing on. He thought of a way to head off the accusation while still pressing Grozner. He would save it for last after they monitored the reports from the Constant Phoenix, which brought him to his next words. “How long before our bird arrives?”

  “About two hours. There’s a massive storm front edging its way over Azerbaijan. They’re above it, and may be able to beat it to the target area. If they don’t, it shouldn’t interfere with their collections.”

  “Good.” If the jet’s data was positive, he’d have to cancel the evening’s dinner with the Polish Ambassador, mainly to convince Grozner not to act out of haste. If it discovered nothing, then things would go as planned and this matter, or scare rather, could be forgotten.

  He placed the document back in its folder and leaned over, handing it to Krause. “I’m glad I found this out. I wonder who else is listening to us.” Probably everyone, he figured. All the industrialized nations of the world operated one big wiretap, and hypocrisy, or better yet, lies, was the lubrication that caused it to run. He reckoned he might have a career after he left the presidency, speaking out about the stuff. Right now, he imagined that lone aircraft winging its way over a troubled sky.

  “Is everyone on board the plane aware of who we’re monitoring?”

  “Only the pilot. I’d say the co-pilot might have a hint when he looks at the GPS.”

  “The computer operators. The ones who send the data. How are they not to know?”

  “Computers on the plane only collect data, they don’t show any position. Besides, we made it clear that even if they did, the GPS was not to be turned on for their screens.”

  Anderson looked at his watch. That sound he heard as he left the operations room of a clock ticking returned as he heard, ever so slight, the secondhand make its way around. “Less than two hours to go.”

  Chapter Three

  Northern Iran

  The winds blew in from the northwest, howling through the forested canyons and spurring aloft leaf-cloaked dust devils that twirled and climbed into nothingness below the leaden sky. Their dances cast an ominous tone as evergreens bowed over, shedding their needles, which twirled to the rhythm, infesting the air into an almost blinding thickness. They sliced the air, nipping for the exposed eyes of the solitary man lying prone amid a family of dirt-stained rocks that were too small to protect him from the frenzied assault. He acknowledged by wrapping his green turban one more time around his bearded face, which made his deep brown eyes appear to grow smaller and sink further back into their sockets. He tried to ward off shivering as the wind rippled over the large brown cape he had wrapped around the length of his body, leaving only the black issue boots of the Iranian Army visible.

  A figure in similar dress slithered up to him, keeping his head down to ward off the stinging dust that nipped at his flesh. Strapped on on his back was an AK-47 whose worn finish revealed flecks of silvery steel that told of its unmatched utility in environments such as this. It swayed with his movement when he reached to tug at the boots of his leader, Cyrus Khani.

  Cyrus sensed the touch and turned his head to see his second-in-command, Khalif Wasir, a lad only 22 years old to his 45, bellow out in Kurdish something he didn’t comprehend. The wind masked all sound except its own and he raised an upturned palm to show his confusion. He motioned for the man to crawl closer. Wasir scrunched up next to him to repeat what he said.

  “Cyrus…Too dangerous here. We must—“ Cyrus’s hands clasped his mouth as if fearing others would hear, which was impossible.

  “We already found several of our people executed. I’m afraid these—“ Cyrus pointed down from the precipice they were on, to the valley floor where a sliver of dirt full of thousands of small rocks coursed in front of them and disappeared around a bend in the mountains. The rains would arrive sometime in summer. They always did. The evergreens would receive nourishment and the paltry runoff would scour the floor enough to raise a few inches of milky brown water to course for a few weeks before evaporating again. Except today, everything was about to start much earlier, and that’s why he imagined the column of trucks approaching on the riverbed was keen to evacuate the area lest they be stranded.

  He wished for a pair of binoculars. His group, a 34 man unit of Kurdish separatists fighting long and near impossible odds to establish a homeland in this part of the country, had been scouting this area for the last four days. And it was all because of a rumor. Something he normally would never act on, but felt compelled to this time. It was the fate of nearly 50 of their brothers captured within the last year in combat with the Iranians. He had suspected they were executed shortly after capture, yet down through a willing pipeline of Kurdish ears, he had heard and was convinced many had survived. The intelligence became so precise that it had led him to this point and the sight just becoming invisible a fair distance away upon the riverbed rocks. It was one vehicle, then two, three, and four. A small interlude of space and a tan Jeep camouflaged with brown stripes came up the rear, followed by an olive-toned 6x6 truck with a canvas tarp over its rear deck. Tucking in behind, came six white Toyota trucks with open rears filled with huddling figures. Behind them came another 6x6 and two more Jeeps.

  Wasir acted on instinct. He turned to the group, most gathered and concealed along the slope 50 meters to his rear, and twirled a clenched fist, signaling them into position. They spread out to his right and moved closer to the edge, finding station behind the quivering trees and overlooking the riverbed. The needles still stung at them and they had to squint their eyes to keep the dust from knifing their pupils. These men had 28 AK-47’s, three belt-fed PKM light machine guns and three RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenade launchers readied to unleash a tight cone of fire able to be shifted almost by instinct, even in this weather, when they sensed either of their commanders pointing at something they wanted taken out.

  “Them?” Wasir asked, the wind biting into his sides, tingling his spine, making him unable to quell the nervousness growing within. He unslung the AK and laid it on its side in front of him, watching the convoy grow closer. He moved the selector switch down to semi-auto. No sense in wasting rounds since the closest they would come would be about 100 meters away and 100 meters below. Judging the distance, the rest of the men, save for the machine gunners and the RPGists, slid their selectors down too. They could not afford to waste ammunition since the timing of convoy routes in this area was still an inexact science and patrols in these mountains infrequent. So, Cyrus stressed to them long ago that single shots were for targets 100 meters and beyond, while automatic was for those under that distance. Too much blood had already been paid to waste ammunition.

  Cyrus remained fixated on the white Toyotas. It was impossible to tell if they were fighters or just common criminals the Iranians liked to use for slave labor. Perhaps they were just miners. Something else kept whispering in his mind though. They were his men, captured guerillas, had to be, he knew that even though he couldn’t see their faces. There must be at least 50 under Iranian guard. In a couple more minutes they would pass under him. He decided to give Wasir an answer. “I know they’re ours.” They would wait for the first vehicles to get as far away as possible before opening fire. This way they would have most of the convoy in sight. Then it dawned on him, just as the first vehicles began to pass. The rest of the men were watching for the signal. They were steady behind their sights, struggling to keep weapons moving through in the gale fingers applying a little more pressure to triggers. The riflemen and machine gunners sighted on the Iranians, training on
doors and engines. The RPGs aimed for the covered decks. They need not be told about the Toyotas. They would know not to fire.

  Cyrus scooted back, rolled, and waved his hands at the men to knock it off. The convoy continued to trek along at walking pace. Once determined but now bewildered eyes looked at him, wondering why they were to let this prey, easy pickings for even the most inexperienced fighters, get away.

  “Let’s go.” Cyrus pulled his body up and trundled back to the slope, waving his men from position. Wasir stood right behind him and the group followed their leader up the steep slope to a narrow terrace hidden from the sky. “The RPGs. Crosswind’s too strong. Won’t be able to get anything. To great a risk to engage.” Wasir imagined if it had been him, the order to fire would have taken place. Maybe it was that reason why Cyrus was reluctant to send him out as the group’s sole leader this morning. Wreckless eagerness. He muted the thought. There was something far more important he needed to offer. “The river bed leads to a bridge. They must make a turn to the right about 2 kilometers ahead before they reach it. We’ll be able to move through the forest and cut them off. It’ll bring us a better ambush position. We will be less than 100 meters away when we take them.” He nodded his head toward the slope. “We must go, now.” The group turned and planted hands and feet onto the slope.

  They begin clawing into the steep incline with the wind seeming to take notice and work against them, no longer chaotic and without direction. Instead, it shoved them forward, trying to flatten them as a great invisible palm. Hands reached for trees, stripping bark with fingernails, holding on and pulling themselves past to reach for another. Those that couldn’t grab hold seemed to slide back just a little more with each step. Cyrus and Wasir paid no attention, they saw the top edge of another terrace creeping and growing ever broader as they clawed at the earth. Their bodies heaved in protest. Their heavy breaths dissipated in the howling wind. Cyrus and Wasir rubbed their eyes, fending off the dirt that ricocheted off the ground in front of them. They recalled clanging metal. Weapons rattling against ammunition pouches. He saw a few more hard steps would bring them to the terrace. They reached their hands out with extra effort, clawed a gob of needle-laced dirt and crested the flat ground. They pulled themselves over then turned around to offer a hand to others. They grasped the arms of one of the RPGists and pulled him between them. Taking a deep breath and letting out a grateful sigh, he rose to his feet and looked up at the next slope they would tackle. Wasir couldn’t see it, as a mound of earth stretched along the length of the terrace like a bench. He wanted to get a head start and pressed his boot to raise himself up with one good lurch so he could mount it. The others continued inhaling the air, sucking up dust particles that caused many to cough and rub their eyes as they filled with water to battle the discomfort. Cyrus stayed at the edge helping the final two over, then nodded for them to continue climbing. They followed and pulled themselves up the bench aided by comrades clutching their hands and tugging at their elbows. Wasir, well on his way up, figured he had another hundred meters of climbing. The evergreens became thicker and the top could not be seen. Wasir gathered final breaths for the last effort. A deep inhale and release of a sigh and, as if on cue, the wind began to let up into an almost tolerable breeze. “Again,” Cyrus said, catching up to him. They stepped up the slope. Cyrus was just a little in front to his left. His body stung all over and he struggled at the end of the climb to pull himself above the edge of the bench and collapse onto the terrace. Others did likewise. That’s when the first volley of shots rang out.

  Men collapsed just as they tried to get up, some screamed, marked with patches of spewing blood. The earsplitting roar deciphered itself into a steady beat of several automatic weapons carefully concealed just a few meters away from the unsuspecting group. The assassins, clad in black uniforms and balaclavas and spinning around from behind the shelter of trees trunks, worked their triggers with a methodical efficiency that sent three to five rounds into each man. The timing of their bursts was far enough apart that it seemed like one long string of shots joined together.

  Then Wasir jolted. Blood began to gurgle out the corner of his mouth. He could taste the warm, metallic wetness mixing with his saliva. Then his willpower took over. Consciousness left him. But something urged him to roll to his side. Pain shot up his spine and exited his mouth in a guttural scream as he tried, but couldn’t do it. The gunfire started to die down and he knew they would be upon him in a few seconds. His eyes tightened and he could feel the blood growing thicker in his mouth. He swung an arm over, trying to lead his torso. Every muscle strained for this one instant. They urged him over, pushed by the deep determination that had allowed him to survive for the last two years. He failed. Closing his eyes, he spit a gargle of frothy red onto the ground and rolled through it, slipping over the edge of the bench as if gravity suddenly released him. His body unfurled a trail of red sludge behind it as he felt for a moment like he was flying, gravity spinning the world in a dizzying blur. His head smashed against a tree, ripping open his forehead. He continued his descent, no longer hearing the wind except the rustle of leaves that stuck and matted to the dark wound marks on his clothing. The strap of the AK caught something, ripping it free of the weapon. It tumbled away as he shot past the ledge of rocks where he and Cyrus were minutes earlier and fell deeper down a depression, his torn body bouncing on the earth. A jut of searing pain stopped his roll and he noticed the world still blurred and spun. His breathing slowed, and the blood filled his mouth again. He closed his eyes once then opened them. Liquid began to patter on his face and course down and around his cheeks. It was cool. Almost frigid. The world was saying goodbye to him, he knew that, and he did not fight it. The pain became numb and he felt something ready to snatch him. He smiled, and wheezed something unintelligible from his weakened lungs. He opened his eyes wide and imagined his arms outstretched, reaching into the clouds to retrieve the final words he longed to say. Then, knowing he left his body, looked down upon it and watched its torn and bloody lips utter the words he longed to hear…”Allahu Akbar.” He watched his eyes close and the spirit return to its flesh, hungry for sleep.

  “Cease-Fire!” The high-pitched voice in Farsi language yelled. More stuttering pops sounded and echoed amid the trees. “Cease-Fire!” The killers lowered their G3 battle rifles. Their ejection ports poured smoke from hot chambers unaccustomed to lengthy full automatic sessions. Magazines were ejected and fresh ones inserted as the voice calling a halt to the killing emerged behind a large tree partway up the slope. He jogged down to join his men to lead them forward and inspect their work. They kept their rifles snug in their shoulders as they approached some of the bodies who still moaned, but didn’t move.

  Most of the Kurds were clumped atop each other. Arms and legs tangled in a perverse puzzle forming into mounds of bodies. Some had managed to roll off the bench and lay still on the terrace. It appeared that they never even had time to unsling their weapons. The ambush was remarkable in its completeness. Swift and effective just as their leader expected from them.

  His boot pushed one of them over onto their back. He brought a black and white photo up and held it beside the face, coordinating between the two images for positive identification. “Not him.” Colonel Rashidi Zarin, leader of Al-Quds platoon 82 said to his adjutant Jasper Talibi. “Get these bodies separated, I’ll check these.” He stepped down onto the terrace and stood at another whose eyes remained wide open, almost fixated on him. Zarin checked the course of his nose and width to his eye sockets. Every man in this part of the world had a beard and it was almost impossible to base a determination on that alone, so he reached down and turned the head to the side. No match. He stepped over to another one, while the rest of the force got busy, laying the bodies out side by side.

  “Major, up here.” He turned and headed back up for the man who was squatting next to a body. “This one?”

  Zarin took two fingers and gripped the corpse’s nose, turning the head to face
him. He looked once more at the picture, then smiled “Yes. That’s the bastard.” He saw the top portion of his head was gone and entrails of brains were missing. Zarin continued like a hunter relishing his greatest trophy. “It appears we got the rest of his bandits as well.” He looked over the bodies still being laid out. No cries heard anymore. “I want a count.” He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, flicked the wheel of an ancient silver-brushed Zippo lighter and drew a refreshing stream of tobacco into his lungs. He noticed the sound of the rain pattering above him, and a few drops started landing on his shoulders. The mild pelting was a bit soothing and more of the moisture began coursing through his cropped black hair. He smoothed his scalp with a hand, drawing in another lungful of nicotine. He stepped to the edge, looking down the slope. “Sweep down to the cliff. Some may have gotten away.”

  “Thirty-three,” came the call.

  “One missing.” He turned to his men. “Down there.” He pointed. “But first,” he summoned a rifle, ejecting the magazine to see it filled to the top. “Business.” He slapped the magazine back in, walked to the first body, let the muzzle drop to just above the forehead and pulled the trigger. The round exploded out the back of the head, spattering blood in runny specks onto his boots. He moved to the next and repeated the action.

  The men watched, unfeeling, their stares absent of emotion. Being ruthless was ingrained in them. More so since they had been killing this way for over a year. They knew when they volunteered for the Al-Quds, all emotion must be discarded when dealing with enemies of the state. Many came from families involved in the students’ movement and were conditioned from birth for a hatred of all things real or perceived as an insult to Shia Islam and Iran. This they handled as expected. Taking place before them was something much different. As Zarin moved down the line, they knew sometimes the enemy, as shot to pieces as he or she may have been, could still be alive waiting for the final chance to kill, get away, or just try to hold on to what fading chance of mortality remained. This sight before them was a different matter. Zarin never said just why he did it, knowing they would never dare question him. All knew though. Al-Quds had seen plenty of them since its founding and still had plenty. Sadists. No matter what excuse they gave, their lust for destroying life, even those that were already taken, always overshadowed operations like this. A real commander would simply order others to carry out such a task like this, not take it upon himself. Not Zarin. He ejected the magazine of 20 rounds, motioned for another and continued on, each shot seconds apart, resounding through the trees a signal that if the thirty-fourth man still breathed, he heard the execution taking place.