by J E Higgins
Perez, though largely urban trained and experienced, had a fair amount of jungle training from his legionnaire days. However, he did not have the jungle combat experience of the men working with him. They drew their proficiency from para-military groups such as the Aguilas Negras (Black Eagles), the successor to the Colombian right-wing United Self-Defense Force of Colombia or AUC. Their resumes boasted years of fighting experience in South American battlefields. Still, the young mercenary was confident he could maintain discipline and control amongst his group.
The meeting ended with a summary brief and a radio check of the communications system. Plūcker had been able to get his hands-on HF radio systems. It was late afternoon. Perez and the others jumped back into the other two Land Rovers. They drove off leaving Dayan, Ripley, and Vanderhook enough time to set up their operation.
Opening up the second icebox, they retrieved their tactical kits. Underneath the chairs and beach blankets, they collected their diving equipment. Luckily, Plūcker had come through with even more decent equipment. Granted it wasn’t exactly the state of the art equipment the three were accustomed to using. Yet, it was definitely new and still quite useful for their purposes. The final component was the weapons. They had been tucked neatly in plastic bags inside rubber sheeting underneath the vehicle’s undercarriage.
Instead of the TAR or Galil rifles used commonly by Israeli soldiers, they were looking at short stock AKMs and .45 caliber 1911 handguns. Luckily, these were quite new and proved to work very well when tested.
It was near dusk when all the men were kitted up. The Klepper canoe had finally been assembled. Looking at its lightweight wooden frame and canvass and rubber skin, one could almost question whether it might be safer to approach the journey in a paper boat. Still, the Klepper had a decade's long, trusted record for naval commandos the world over. Fortunately, it had been so widely used for so long by so many of the world’s elite forces, it was relatively generic and easily obtainable. The aluminum rudder was a little difficult to handle, but they managed. The team opted to paddle their way in. It was a two-man boat which meant a third man was going to hang along the side. This role fell to Dayan, who still wasn’t sure how it happened.
“Mind, the crocs and piranha that might be in there,” Ripley joked.
“Remember, I have to live through this mission if you still want to get paid,” Dayan replied as the two men launched the canoe into the water.
Vanderhook followed with rowing paddles in hand. By now they were all decked out in black diving suits, with tactical webbing strung over them. Stowing away their weapons, Vanderhook and Ripley got into the craft as Dayan slid into the water and took hold of the rear. The last touch was to lay a grassy covered gilly-suit over the top of their bodies and the canoe to help break up outlines. For someone looking through a possible surveillance camera, they would look like nothing more than debris or floating driftwood.
The natural current drifted toward their location, so paddling was not so exhausting. Their concern was the return trip against the current if they had to make a run for it. The sun was setting as the craft floated in the water. The men had blackened their faces and placed shrubbery over themselves as well as the craft to help break up their outline. The canoe afforded them a low center of gravity to further aid in this masking.
Dayan held on behind, his body drifting loosely in the water. Though chilled, the Israeli took solace in the idea that he had endured far colder waters in far worse circumstances during his operational days. His eyes peered through the shrubbery at the darkening landscape. The soldierly instincts developed from years in combat zones were honed to precision as he looked for any anomalies or human forms moving in the growing darkness.
Even with the cover of a wet-suit, it was impossible not to feel the vegetation and aquatic life rubbing against various parts of his body. Dayan couldn’t help but think of the comments made by Ripley about the more dangerous water-life creatures known to swim in South American waters, and he tended to shudder with each sensation that fluttered against him.
Neither Vanderhook nor Ripley uttered a word as they paddled quietly along. They were careful to keep their strokes slow and the paddles close to the water to prevent attracting too much attention. They also took care to keep close to the shoreline to avoid being observed. They were less than half a mile from the target’s perimeter when the last rays of the sunset finally disappeared below the horizon. The team broke out their night vision optics and continued. The image from the optics presented a world of lime green outlines and ghost-like creatures roaming around.
It was the potential for outlines of humans that concerned the team the most as they neared their location. Inside, Dayan could feel the mixture of nerves and excitement emerge within his bowels. Although a seasoned operator, natural human responses were still a reality. He suddenly felt a touch on his forearm. It was Vanderhook trying to direct his attention to the mesh of wire fencing across the land they were about to pass over and through as they entered the camp. A slight gleam coming from high up in a near tree caught Dayan’s attention. It was easily noticed by the lack of any other lighting and the stark contrast it made through the lenses of their optics. As they expected, it was a security camera covering the waterway.
The paddles suddenly stopped dead in the water. Dayan could only assume the other two operators had seen the camera’s gleam as well. The craft floated some distance with complete stillness before the paddles were taken up again. They could see no further signs of hidden cameras or other electronic devices. The two paddlers directed the craft up against a patch of mud and grass along the shoreline.
Disembarking, Vanderhook and Ripley tactically positioned themselves on the soft earth. They then proceeded to slowly and quietly pull their equipment from under the camouflage covering. Carefully they began handing off the weapons. Condoms had been slipped over the rifle muzzles to protect against mud and debris clogging them, and the 1911s were kept in plastic bags to prevent water damage. With weapons now slung and holstered, the men slipped their night optics into the rubber bagging they kept with them. From the same bags, they retrieved their snorkels and diving masks. They placed these on over their faces while lowering the bottom half of their balaclavas to take in the breathing devices. One by one they slipped into the murky waters of the canal.
They estimated they would have to swim nearly three hundred meters downstream from the entry gate before coming within proximity of the campgrounds. Given the odds of possible patrols, the operators agreed that keeping in the water as long as possible gave them the best chance to avoid any conflict. Once all three were in the water, Ripley attached a thin infrared tape along a dangling tree branch just a few feet from the canoe. Hopefully, they wouldn’t overshoot the canoe on the way back. The tape was the most discrete and practical way to mark the location in the darkness.
The three hundred meter swim presented an endless labyrinth of thick, underwater vegetation that repeatedly tried to latch on to the divers. All the debris and nocturnal swimming creatures moving about bumping into the team of nocturnal invaders made accidents a strong possibility. All three men had undergone extensive training for operating under such conditions at night. Anyone else would have either drowned or given up and moved to land early in the mission.
Dayan mentally paced off what he roughly calculated was three hundred meters. Reaching back, he tapped the arms of the other two and together they maneuvered toward the shore. Slowly emerging from the water, the three men took a few moments to assess the situation. Dayan had calculated the distance accurately; they had hit their target. Not too far away, they saw lights from the campgrounds and heard men barking out orders.
Staying close to the water, the three slowly moved along the shoreline against the bank, carefully scanning the location. There was no wire or any other deterrent along the shoreline. It was obvious that the security concern was an intrusion by land from locals and certainly not by professionals.
When
they were all satisfied the area was clear, they signaled each other with a pat on the shoulder. From this point, no form of verbal communication was permitted. Operating in the darkness with enemy patrols anywhere and within such close proximity to a populated campsite, talking would be dangerous.
One after another they slid up from the water working their way through the slimy mud along the bank until their hands, at last, touched the grass and twigs, giving them more stability. Inching their way slowly onto drier ground, they took up positions against the first micro-terrain that provided immediate concealment. Dayan, the first into position, carefully reached for his rifle and slid it out from beside his body. Cautiously lifting his body slightly off the ground, he was able to maneuver his weapon enough to bring it up to a firing position. Aiming it in the direction of the camp, he scanned the area, traversing slowly from side to side, alert for any movement.
Though it felt like hours, it had only been a few moments that Dayan was alone before he felt Vanderhook coming up behind him on the left, then Ripley taking up his position on the right. No one moved for several seconds as Ripley and Vanderhook scanned the flanks of their position with their night optics. When they were confident that it was clear, they each tapped one of Dayan’s feet.
Slowly the trio rose to their feet. A hand signal from Dayan had them moving forward. With Dayan taking the lead, Vanderhook following, and Ripley securing the rear, they moved out in a line toward the camp. The darkness of their black wet-suits was their only camouflage, so they stayed close to the shrubbery and, when necessary, sunk lower to crawl into the more open areas.
As they neared, the shouts and talking from the camp became clearer; they could start to make out actual conversations. To no one’s surprise, the conversations resonating from the camp was a mixture of Spanish and Arabic. The Arabic being spoken was in a different accent than the Arabic Dayan had heard around the Mediterranean. Still, the natural way the conversations flowed indicated that these men spoke this Arabic dialect like a native and not as a second language.
For the most part, the conversations amounted to small talk and joking by random voices shouting back and forth. However, a deep baritone bellowing loudly rose above all other voices and quickly cowed everyone into silence. This voice particularly caught Dayan’s attention. This man was not joking or speaking generically. No, he was giving orders!
Dayan raised his hand with a clenched fist. His signal called for the other two men to freeze in their tracks. It was obvious that neither Ripley nor Vanderhook spoke Arabic. They could only understand the Spanish being voiced. So, they were both ignorant of what was being spoken by the baritone from the camp. However, it was enough to stop their team leader in his tracks, so they knew it was important. Slowly, the trio sank down on their knees and waited.
The Israeli listened as the baritone went into some sort of monologue. Dayan realized quickly they were instructions for training that was about to commence. What caught his attention in the opening statement was the baritone yelled out that they had only one month left before the operation was to be executed. From there, the dissertation fell to instructions for securing street blocks and moving on multiple story buildings. All of which the baritone thought they still needed more training.
Dayan listened for a few minutes until the order was given for the teams to form up and prepare to conduct training. After that, the Israeli again lifted his arm. This time his hand was open and he gently waved it forward. The three rose from their position and started moving again. Navigating slowly through the shrubs and keeping close to the trees to provide concealment, they continued forward.
Occasionally, they stopped in the shrubs when they heard voices in the distance. The patrols Dayan was initially concerned about were moving about in the darkness. However, they were comprised of men who were not professional soldiers. They bantered back and forth then complained about trudging in the dark and running into bushes. From the conversation, it was obvious that no one but the patrol leader had any night vision equipment. This limited their effectiveness and worked to the advantage of the commandos.
Now within sight of the camp, the trio took positions behind a thicket atop a slightly elevated point looking across at the camp. Ripley and Vanderhook watched the rear and flank while Dayan observed the camp. Inside the site was a military compound. Men, Arab from their looks and speech, were moving about dressed in olive green military fatigues. Most of them were gathered around two old buildings that looked as though they had once been living quarters. The whole operation looked like it had been a mining operation. Now, it appeared it was being used for combat training.
Reaching into his rubber case, the Dayan produced a small digital camera. While on this mission, he, like the other two, had left their mobile phones and evidence of their identities behind to prevent the enemy from finding anything. Peering through the camera, he began snapping shots rapidly working his way from one end of the camp to the other. He tried to catch as much as he could in the limited time frame he had. Raising his wrist, he looked down at the slight glow of his watch. They had less than thirty minutes before Perez and the rest of the team would initiate a diversionary attack if they heard nothing from the trio.
Finishing his second scan with the camera, Dayan stopped to take note of the man he determined was the source of the baritone voice. A large man with a thick beard and bear-like frame was barking orders to the others. Aside from his obvious position of authority, what caught the Israeli’s attention was the uniqueness of his accent. He spoke Arab as did the others; however, he had a Persian accent that Dayan was all too familiar with. He had heard this same accent from the Iranian al’Quds that worked with the Shiite guerrillas he encountered during an operation in Lebanon. The baritone was directing the men as they practiced moving to and then storming the buildings.
The Israeli took several pictures of the baritone before tucking his camera away. Signaling the other two that he was finished, the trio got up slowly and made their way around to the far end of camp’s left flank. By now the lighting from the camp was good enough that the commandos had removed their night optics. Sliding into a depression that ran along the first three buildings offering a cover of darkness against the camp lighting, the three inched their way along the buildings. They listened to the sounds and conversations to determine what each structure might be used for.
Then he heard the words coming from the second building. “I need to have these reports and logistics requests drawn up for the commander’s review meeting tomorrow.” The other buildings offered only silence in one and conversation about soccer in the other. Interestingly, the words were spoken with the same Persian accented Arabic he had heard from the baritone. He could only assume that the second building hosted the leadership of the camp.
The Israeli beckoned the other two commandos to follow him to the second structure. At the edge of the depression, Dayan motioned the other two to stay as he stepped closer to the building. Peering inside he saw the office was deserted except for one man who looked like a bookkeeper. He was dressed in cotton slacks and a collared shirt and appeared to be immersed in a mountain of paperwork.
Dayan stood fast as the front door flung open and the baritone walked in wedging his way through the door. The two Iranians looked at each other before the larger one spoke. “They’re coming along. Still, we are dealing with training and not much actual experience.”
“They are quite receptive to the training, which is better than we initially assumed,” replied the smaller one.
The baritone shrugged and nodded. “Is that what you are going to tell the commander tomorrow?”
“Of course. I see no other answer. Besides, the timeline gives us one more month before we proceed with what we have,” the smaller man reminded.
The baritone turned for the door. “Let’s get some tea. I’m thirsty.”
The smaller man agreed and rose from his chair to follow his compatriot out the door. The door shut leaving the offi
ce deserted. Dayan signaled the men of his intentions, then slid through the back door─ luckily, it was not very well secured. Inside, he moved to the desk where the smaller Iranian had been working. He glossed over the contents and saw some memory sticks lying off to the side of the laptop the Iranian had been working on. With only a few seconds available, the Israeli made the decision to grab what he could ─ the knowledge was more vital than discretion. He had stashed the sticks in his bag when the door opened.
Major Semir Ali Essouri stood looking at the figure dressed in a black wet-suit with the face concealed behind a balaclava. The addition of tactical webbing and weapons made the figure an all too recognizable sight. He had seen such commandos many times on missions in Lebanon, and he knew at once who or what he was looking at.
In an instant, both experts gave into their natural combat-honed instincts. Essouri reached for the pistol he had tucked in his holster. At the same time, Dayan produced the knife on this belt. It was a scene from an American western. Essouri had just pulled his gun from his holster when the Israeli went for him. Dayan pressed up against his adversary embracing him like an old friend. He wrapped his arm around the back of the Iranian’s head. The Iranian barely felt the arm of his assailant clutched around him before the sensation of the cold sharp blade entering into the back of his head stabbing into the brain stem with surgical-like precision.
It was only a second, and Dayan was now holding the dead body of Major Semir Ali Essouri. Gently, lowering the corpse to the ground, Dayan closed the door Essouri had come through and headed toward the back. He had just reached the door when he heard creaking from the front. He turned to see the baritone now standing in the doorway.