But now she had discovered what all the military activity was about, and it was a lot more than just the Jandarma goon squads attacking Kurdish villages looking for revenge for the attack in Diyarbakir: the Turkish army was building these little fire bases in the countryside. Was Turkey bringing in the regular military to reinforce the Jandarma?
They had changed their reconnaissance patrol plan because of the spectacular double missile launches they had observed the night before. They were accustomed to seeing artillery and air bombardments from Turkey against Kurdish villages and PKK training camps, but these were no artillery rounds—they were guided high-performance missiles that were maneuvering while ascending, not in a ballistic flight path, and they exploded far up in the sky. The Turks had a new weapon in the field, and they obviously had something to do with all this base construction activity along the Turkey-Iraq border. It was up to her and her squads to check it out.
Along with water and concealment, the most important aid to the fighters was preservation of night vision. All of the fighters carried red-lensed goggles, and the closer they got to their objective the more they had to use them in order not to spoil their night vision, because the perimeter of their objective was illuminated by banks of outwardly aimed portable floodlights, which threw the encampment beyond into total darkness. It was an interesting tactic, thought the squad leader: the Turkish army certainly had night-vision technology, but they weren’t using it out here.
It could be a trap, but it was definitely an opportunity they couldn’t waste.
The squad leader, Zilar Azzawi, motioned for her shooters to move forward. As they spread out and began setting up, she scanned the perimeter with her binoculars. Set between each portable floodlight setup was a sandbag firing nest, separated from one another by about twenty yards. Seventy yards to her right was a truck entrance built of sandbags and lumber, blocked by a troop transport truck with the right side covered with a solid wall of green plywood panels, forming a simple movable gate. There was a single layer of thin five-foot high metal rolled fencing between the sandbag emplacements, held up by lightweight stakes. This was definitely not a permanent camp, at least not yet.
If they were going to take advantage, now was the time.
Azzawi waited until her team was ready, then pulled out a simple Korean-made hiker’s walkie-talkie and clicked the microphone button once, then clicked twice. A few moments later, she got two clicks in reply, followed by three clicks. She clicked her walkie-talkie three times, put it away, then touched the arm of the two men on either side of her with the silent “get ready” signal.
She lowered her head, closed her eyes, then spoke “Ma’lēsh—nothing matters,” in a low, quiet voice. She paused for a few more heartbeats, thinking of her dead husband and sons—and at that, the fury within her pushed the energy of a jet engine through her body, and she smoothly and easily stood up, raised her RPG-7 launcher, and fired at the sandbag gun mount across from her. As soon as her round hit, her other squad members opened up on other emplacements, and in seconds the entire section was wide open. At that moment the two other squads under Azzawi’s command on different sides of the base also opened fire with rocket-propelled grenades.
Now the lights that had prevented the attackers from seeing inside the base gave them an advantage, because they could see survivors and other Turkish soldiers preparing to repel the attack. Azzawi’s sniper teams started picking them off one by one, which forced the Turks to retreat farther back from the perimeter into the darkness of their camp. Azzawi threw her RPG launcher aside, retrieved her radio, and yelled, “Ala tūl! Move!” She picked up her AK-47 assault rifle, screamed, “IlHa’ūnī! Follow me!” and ran toward the base, firing from the hip.
There was no alternative but to dash across the illuminated no-man’s-land to the base—they were easy targets for anyone inside. But without her pack and RPG launcher, and with the surge of adrenaline mixed with fear coursing through her body, the fifty-yard run felt easy. But to her surprise, there was little resistance.
There were a few bodies in the destroyed gun nests, but she saw no signs of things like mine detonators, antitank weapons, or heavy machine guns or grenade launchers, just light infantry weapons. Apparently they hadn’t been expecting much trouble, or they hadn’t had time to set up properly. This notion was reinforced a few moments later when she found construction equipment, concrete, lumber for forms, and tools in piles nearby.
In less than five minutes of sporadic fighting, Azzawi’s three squads met up. All three had pushed forward with relative ease. She congratulated each of her fighters with handshakes and motherly touches, then said, “Casualty report.”
“We have one dead, three wounded,” the first squad leader said. “Seventeen prisoners, including an officer.” The other squad leader reported similarly.
“We have four wounded and eight prisoners,” Salih, Azzawi’s assistant squad leader, said. “What is this place, Commander? That was too easy.”
“First things first, Sadoon,” Azzawi said. “Set up perimeter guards in case their patrols come back.” Salih ran off. To the second squad leader, she said, “Bring the officer to me,” as she wrapped a scarf over her face.
The captive was a captain in the Turkish army. He was holding his left hand over a gaping wound on his right biceps, and blood was freely flowing. “Get a medical kit over here,” Azzawi ordered in Arabic. In Turkish, she asked, “Name, unit, and purpose here, Captain, and quickly.”
“You bastards nearly shot my damned arm off!” he shouted.
Azzawi raised her left arm, letting her hijab sleeve roll down to reveal her makeshift prosthetic. “I know exactly how it feels, Captain,” she said. “Look at what the Turkish air force did to me.” Even in the semidarkness, she could see the soldier’s eyes widen in surprise. “And this is far better than what you did to my husband and sons.”
“You…you are Baz!” the officer breathed. “The rumors are true…!”
Azzawi removed the scarf from her face, revealing her dirty but proud and beautiful features. “I said name, unit, and mission, Captain,” she said. She raised her rifle. “You must understand that I don’t have the desire or the ability to take prisoners, Captain, so I promise you I will kill you right here and now if you don’t answer me.” The officer lowered his head and started to shiver. “Last chance: name, unit, and mission.” She raised her weapon to her hip and clicked the safety switch off with a loud snap. “Very well. Peace be with you, Captain—”
“All right, all right!” the officer shouted. It was obvious he wasn’t a trained or experienced field officer—probably a desk jockey or lab rat pressed into service at the last minute. “My name is Ahmet Yakis, Twenty-third Communications Company, Delta Platoon. My mission was to set up communications, that’s all.”
“Communications?” If this was just a communications relay site, it might explain the lax security and ill-preparedness. “For what?”
Just then, Azzawi’s assistant squad leader, Sadoon Salih, ran up. “Commander, you have got to see this,” he said breathlessly. She ordered the prisoner to be bandaged up and secured, then ran off. She had to hop over a lot of cables strung throughout the camp, and she saw a large truck carrying what appeared to be a large steel container to which most of the cables were attached. They followed a bundle of cables up a slight rise to a large enclosure covered with camouflage netting.