Four men were seated on the ground little more than twenty yards from Ramm, using their jeep to shield them from the scouring wind. They couldn’t see him where he hid, but they might hear the clearing of his throat. The men had propped their weapons – Russian AK-47 assault rifles – against the jeep, in easy reach. They’d pulled their headscarves around their hawkish faces. One of them had lit a hand-rolled cigarette and was drawing on it, almost in defiance of the wind. From where he lay watching them, their observer could smell the camel dung fragrance of the tobacco. Then again, the men didn’t smell much different.
The quartet of men had parked their vehicle off road, hidden from the traffic on Road 95 by the convolutions of the earth, after driving there from Zahedan during the night. In Arabic the city derived its name from the plural for “pious”. None of the four men could claim as much. They were Taliban fighters, an Iran based splinter cell of terrorists and murderers. They were in a shallow depression, almost like a natural cauldron between the foothills, barely two miles from where the converging borders of Afghanistan and Pakistan made a spearhead wedge into eastern Iran.
It would have been so simple to kill them. They were unaware of Ramm’s presence, and he could erupt from his hiding place and be among them within seconds, definitely before any of them could bring their guns to bear. But killing them wasn’t why he was there. Sure, they’d die if he had his way. But not before they made the rendezvous and brought his real targets within range. For now he had to wait, let them enjoy their rough jokes, their stinking cigarettes, and he’d put them in a hole afterwards.
Traffic was light on the highway. Occasionally a car would skim by, heading to Zahedan twenty or so miles to the south, or to Zabol or Birjand north of there. Trucks were few, but the roar of diesel engines did resonate the air on a few occasions. Ramm zoned out those sounds, listening for a different type of transportation. He had to wait another ten minutes before the rhythmic chop of rotors brought two of the squatting men to their feet. They passed rifles to their two friends, before picking up their own AK-47s. They didn’t appear alarmed: carrying the guns was all for show.
The breeze that had earlier scuffed the dirt from the nearby hills had dropped. But a fresh barrage of wind-tossed grit assaulted Ramm’s eyes and mouth, as a helicopter swooped in overhead, its downwash setting zephyrs to dance. He stayed low, fully pulling the tarpaulin over him, but more to ensure he wasn’t spotted by any of those on the helicopter than to protect his face. His camouflage sheet, sprinkled over with earth, would conceal him from ordinary view, but if the chopper came equipped with a FLIR camera they’d make out his heat signature if he allowed any of it to leak out. He had to consider that those in the helicopter could be alert to surveillance, the reason he’d brought a sheet lined with tinfoil.
Ramm listened to the pitch of the engine change, and knew that the chopper was hovering a short distance beyond where the Taliban fighters had parked their jeep. They’d made themselves busy earlier, rolling away some of the larger stones that dotted the landscape to form a clear landing zone. The downwash from the rotors kicked up a furious cloud of debris that pattered over Ramm’s shroud before the helicopter touched down. Only when he was positive it was on the ground did he push back the folds covering his face.
Greetings were called in Arabic. Ramm didn’t understand what was said, but then he didn’t need to. Their tone told him that the newcomers were friends of the terrorists. He edged forward a few inches so that he had a clearer view of where the Taliban met with the new arrivals. Two men had alighted from the helicopter, and though they wore clothing not dissimilar to the local men, theirs were cleaner and of better quality. The scarves they wore around their faces could not conceal their occidental colouring or paler eyes. These men weren’t Iranians, but Russians.
Still Ramm didn’t show himself.
He waited.
After certain protocols were satisfied on both sides, one of the newcomers went back to the helicopter. A third white man stood in the open doorway, and he swung down a large brown case to his colleague. The man returned with it to the small grouping of men, who beckoned him to the jeep. He placed the case on the hood. One of the Iranian’s – obviously the leader of their small cell – moved to unclasp the case, but the Russian held up a hand and placed it against the Iranian’s chest. His warning was too low to be heard, but the Iranian nodded and took a short step back. The Russian then laid his hands delicately on the locks, and it was apparent that there was a safety routine to be obeyed in opening the booby-trapped case.
A pale green wash of light lit the faces of the men clustered around the case. The lead Iranian offered the flash of tobacco-stained teeth and sealed a deal. One of the Taliban fighters who’d stayed by the jeep leaned inside and pulled out a smaller attaché-type case. Ramm doubted that the case would contain money: any monetary deals carried out here would require more hard cash than the small attaché could contain. The Russian locked the case, and left it sitting on the hood. He held out a palm and the attaché was passed to him.
That was all that Ramm had been waiting for. He pushed up from beneath the tarp, shedding dirt as he lunged across the intervening space. From lying prone to being among the men was a matter of less than three seconds. It took almost two seconds for any of the men to register his sudden appearance, another second to process it, and a second or so more to lift a weapon. But already Ramm’s knife had driven in twice, and two of the Taliban fighters fell with their ribcages punctured, the blade having angled in to pierce their lungs and hearts.
Shock.
Abruptness.
Devastation.
All were factors that Ramm relied on in his attack.
Yet his surprise assault would be countered very rapidly. Two Taliban, three Russians, and even the helicopter crew remained uninjured, and heavily armed. Had Ramm employed his gun he’d have invited immediate return fire, and would have probably been pinned down much sooner. As it was, the first counter attack came rapidly, and a gunshot cracked so close to his head that the sound was painful. But Ramm had dodged and the round missed its mark and ricocheted off the jeep instead of his cranium. Ramm rolled, then vaulted off the floor feet first into one of the Russians. His pistoning legs lifted the man, threw him ten feet through the air. Before the man ever hit ground, Ramm was once more back on his feet, and with sense-defying speed he pivoted and kicked the legs from under one of the Taliban. The man went down on his back, but his finger was squeezing the trigger of his assault rifle. Rounds seared the air, and stitched a ragged pattern up Ramm’s chest. The impacts staggered him, but he snarled in defiance and stamped down on the man’s stomach with enough savagery that innards threatened to push from the man’s every orifice. He batted away the rifle barrel, then drove his knife into the man’s throat, pinning him to the gritty earth. Ramm left the blade in situ.
Discounting the man in the doorway of the helicopter, there was still an Iranian and a Russian standing. Both men were those that had laid claim to the respective cases. The Taliban leader grabbed the large brown case to drag it off the jeep’s hood. The Russian ran for the helicopter with the attaché. For now, Ramm ignored the Iranian, confident that the man would be unable to escape him. But if the Russian reached the helicopter and it took off, then he’d be out of Ramm’s reach. For all that his skills and physicality sometimes defied logic, he had his limitations: he couldn’t fly.