Chapter 1

Autonomous Operation - The mode of operation assumed by a unit after it has lost all communications with higher echelons. The unit commander assumes full responsibility for control of weapons and engagement of hostile targets. Department of Defense dictionary


A High Valley in the Talish Mountains, Iran
April 8, 2006

The column of thirty armed men followed a well-defined trail that wound its way up the forested valley. Four of the men led heavily laden packhorses. The easily recognized shapes of RPG launchers hung from hooks on the horse's saddles ready for immediate use. One of the animals carried two larger missile launchers.

The spring thaw was well advanced. Rivulets of water cascaded down the mountainside forming small streams that flowed into the foaming river below the trail.

A more substantial stream cut across their path. Men and horses negotiated the steep banks and forded the icy water.

As the men progressed up the valley, the snow that had been restricted to the mountainsides above the valley, reached down to the trail, and in places covered it with melting drifts.

Without warning, a large rock came crashing down the hillside, and bounced in front of one the horses before disappearing into the river below.

The horse shied, and men searched the hillside for signs of what had dislodged it. Several unshouldered their Kalashnikovs, and scanned the slope down the sights of their rifles. For a few seconds, there was no sound other than the noise of the river, then men began calling in Arabic.

“What was that?”

“Can you see anything?”

“No!”

“It must have been a loose rock.”

The column started to move again, but rather than looking down at the trail in front of them as before, the men searched the hillside for movement.

The bearded men wore sheepskin jackets or long leather jerkins over loose-fitting robes. A tall, much older man with a white beard rode at the head of the column.

A man walking beside the older man's horse said, “Sheik, do you think we are being watched?”

“Who would watch us, Abdul? The Persians know we are here. The Azeri unbelievers do not know we are coming, and we have yet to cross the border.”

“Perhaps the Russian infidels. I heard a rumor their Spetsnaz troops would be waiting for us.”

“Market gossip spread by the accursed Kurds. I heard the same rumors, and that's all they are. We know every Kurd is an American spy, and they are just trying to frighten us. The Russians would not dare to invade the Islamic Republic of Iran. It would serve only to further inflame the believers in their midst.”

The two men fell silent, and the column moved on.

A short while later, the tall man called a halt. Rather than eating, drinking, rest, and good-natured banter, the men took small prayer mats out of their packs, and placed them on the ground. They all knelt and bowed in the same direction. Muttered prayers competed with the sound of the river.

When the prayers were finished, some men brewed tea, while others distributed flat bread, dried meat and fruit.

After a twenty-minute break, the column reformed and set out again.

“Sheik, how far to the border?”

The tall man reached for a device tied to his saddle, and studied it for a few seconds.

“Less than a kilometer.”

“How we will know when we cross the border?”

“The border is unmarked. This infidel machine will tell us,” He said, showing the handheld GPS to his companion.

A single shot echoed across the valley, and simultaneously the walking man's head exploded in a spray of blood and brain tissue.

Men dropped to the ground, finding the nearest cover along the side of the trail. Some fired their Kalashnikovs at unseen targets further up the valley. The horses stopped and neighed nervously. They were familiar with the sound of gunfire, and stopping was better than the effort of climbing the trail under their heavy loads.

The Sheik hastily dismounted without checking whether his Lieutenant was still alive. He knew
a corpse when he saw one.

The gunfire tapered off, and shouts traveled up and down the line of hidden men.

“How many?”

“Did we get them?”

“I can't see them.”

“They must have fled.”

The tall bearded man, his back against a boulder directly above the river, was less sanguine. As a veteran of Afghanistan and Chechnya, he knew all about ambushes. In an ambush, you need to kill and disorientate your enemy in the first few seconds. You hope the enemy breaks and runs. If not, then you concentrate on the remaining resistance. If the enemy doesn't break, then the best course is to retire to fight another day.

In an ambush, time is of the essence. The quicker everything happens, the greater the chances of success. As far as he could tell, a single sniper had shot one man. The rest of the firing came from his mujahedeen.

He searched the valley floor on the far side of the river. If their unseen enemy was there, then he and all his men were dead, but the river was a difficult barrier to cross, and Iranian intelligence had been definite. This was the only trail, and the river couldn't be crossed until summer when the water level dropped.

In the quiet after the gunfire ended, he listened for the sound of helicopters. They were the real enemy of the ambusher and the ambushed alike. They could turn a successful ambush into a rout of the attackers, or devastate a group of men pinned down and blocked by ambushers, but all he heard were the rushing waters of the river below him. He looked into the sky. All he could see was an oddly fat vulture lazily circling directly above his position.

He gave orders to arm one of the surface-to-air missiles, ready for launch.

His two senior lieutenants crawled up to him, and deferentially asked what they should do.

“Who are the casualties?”

“Sheik, the only casualty is Abdul. He is dead.”

It was as he suspected. A single sniper had killed one man. Stories he had heard of American
snipers in Iraq came to mind, but a lone American sniper, or even a small team, in these remote mountains was impossible. Perhaps the Russians are using the same tactics. All infidels are the same. A Spetsnaz force could be hiding further up the trail waiting for his men to attack. What should he do?

His two lieutenants squatted beside him as he sat deep in thought. No more gunshots disturbed the valley's tranquility. He ordered one of his lieutenants to take four men, climb up, and then along the mountainside, to see if they could come upon the unseen ambushers from above. The lieutenant left to carry out his orders. The Sheik peered around the rock. His horse stood on the trail waiting patiently to resume its journey.

The sniper had stopped them at a point where the valley began to broaden as it approached the pass, and the trail turned to the right in order to bypass a large slab of rock. Below him, the river ran in a deep V-shaped ravine. On both sides of the ravine, the valley floor sloped gently for about fifty meters before rising sharply in a jumble of rocks. Widely spaced pine trees covered the valley floor.

He used his German-made binoculars to search the valley and mountainsides for signs of movement. Visibility was good through the trees, and he was sure that none of their attackers were in view.

The vulture continued to circle high above them. He had heard in India, the Hindu people left the bodies of the dead out for the vultures to eat - a barbaric practice, no better than leaving a body out for the dogs to eat. They would bury Abdul as a good Muslim with his head pointing toward Mecca. He silently cursed the vulture, as if it were responsible for his companion's death.

The Sheik knew he was no longer a young man. Sometimes he thought he was too old for Jihad. He should be back in Saudi Arabia with his sons and grandchildren, but the infidels, unbelievers, and apostates were all around, constantly infecting the Ummah - the community of believers. Their technology and entertainments were too seductive for the young. Jihad was the only answer. He glanced at the GPS, seven hundred meters to the border.

He sat in silence, with his back against the rock, pondering his options.

A single shot rang out, and he heard the sound of something falling down the mountainside.

“Mohamed, can you see what happened?”

His lieutenant peering through the binoculars replied, “One of the men, climbing along the mountainside, has been shot. I can see where he has fallen. It looks like he's been shot in the head.”

Another single head-shot. This was not the kind of war he understood. He searched the valley floor on the far side of the river for movement. An enemy there should have made their presence known by now.

Another single shot rang out.

“What happened?”

“Another man has been shot. What should we do, Sheik?”

“Call the men back.”

A shout went out, and the men edging along the steep mountainside toward the unseen ambushers, turned back, retracing their steps.

The Sheik knew enough of military tactics that his only alternative to a costly frontal assault was to outflank his enemy, but how could he do that in these mountains?

He called to his lieutenant, and told him to unload the packs from the horses and to select four good horsemen to ride in a dash past the sniper's position. The man left to carry out his orders.

A few minutes later, he heard hooves galloping past on the rough trail. He waited for the sniper to open fire, but all he heard was the receding sound of the horse's hooves on the rough trail.

Chapter 2