Ilan and his men were returning to their base in the hilltop settlement of Hir Shaleyl after another successful night time operation. After Bokar it had been decided to temporarily lower the severity of the attacks, that operation had after all been meant as a signal to the Utman of what they could expect in retaliation for any further atrocities they might have been planning, it had also had the desired effect of spreading fear and panic among the Utman population to the extent that in some villages up to a quarter of the population fled at the first suspicion that Hand of Emet were nearby. This had led him to pioneer new tactics with some pleasing results.
Tonight for example they had visited three separate villages, one of which, Tirat, was known to hold the home of a ULO regional organiser. In Tirat they had located the man’s home and one of Ilan’s men dressed in the drab woollen shawl that was common to the rural types tapped gently on the window of the servant’s quarter at the rear of the building near the kitchen, rousing him his sleep. After some gesturing the servant with a look of mild confusion and irritation rose and proceeded to go to the kitchen where he unlocked the heavy wood door that led from the food preparation area to the external veranda, the shawled figure was not to be seen. Opening the outer screen door and leaning out he called in a hushed tone: “Old man what is it you need? It’s late and my Master is asleep.” It was then that he noticed the shadowy figures standing either side of the door, in fright he hurriedly tried to shut the door but was too late; a booted foot had inserted itself between the door and its frame and with a heave the door was thrown open, the servant opened his mouth to scream for helped but to his shock only a rasping gurgle issued from his throat. He reeled backwards hands coming up to clutch at his throat, blood flowing hot and sticky between his fingers before he collapsed on the floor.
The militiaman wiped his knife of blood on one of the hanging teacloths on the kitchen wall before the men split up and fanned out through the house. Locating the bedrooms they entered silently, dispatching the occupants in the same way as they had the servant. Ilan had personally carried out the execution of the target. The ULO organiser had woken to find a hand clasped tight over his mouth, in the pale moonlight streaming from the window he could see a puddle of dark liquid soaking the sheets issuing from the throat of his wife who lay motionless. With dawning understanding he began to struggle frantically “Medaber Yishveliy sends his greetings.” Said an icy cold voice in his ear just before the blade of a combat knife slammed into his chest, he felt it be tugged out and heard the hiss and bubbling as his scream forced air out of his punctured lung before the blade was again plunged into him, he counted four before he lost consciousness, in total Ilan stabbed him eight times.
The other two villages had been less violent affairs. In one they had destroyed a generator that was being used to power the local water tower and a medical clinic, for good measure they had raided the building’s stores for useful medical supplies and burned down the village school. In the other they had found that the village’s water supplies came from a manual pump. Splitting in to two teams they removed the handle and used thermite ignited on the pump head to destroy the pump’s inner workings while the other busied itself with dousing an olive orchard with gasoline which they lit just before departing for home. Across the valleys other units were engaged in a similar mix of tasks, the aim was to economically cripple the Utman and sufficiently frighten them to make them take flight from their homes. At present the main targets were villages that occupied the valleys between the scattered Lakhzov hilltop settlements. Driving the Utman out from this region had been deemed vital for creating a single defensive line prior to the push up towards Kinere which was currently planned for the spring.
Their convoy began to climb out of the valley hugging one of the steep hills on the approach to a cluster of Lakhzov hill villages known locally as ‘the five crowns’. To their left a slope led up towards one of the settlements, Hir Inban, while on the right of the road the terrain plunged down into the valley below, suddenly a bright flash followed by blast like a hammer rocked Ilan’s car. Ahead of him through the windscreen he could see the lead car be lifted in the air by the bomb detonation before slamming back down onto the road followed by the loud cracks of weapons fire from the surrounding slopes.
Ilan threw himself down onto the floor of the vehicle as bullets began to strike the vehicles. He radioed his men ordering them to take defensive positions followed by a call through to HQ requesting back up hoping that those detachments of Hand of Emet that were stationed in the five crowns had not been sent off on operations. Scrambling across to the opposite side of the car he opened the door and slip out using the vehicle for cover. Looking down the line of vehicles he could see that his men had already gotten in position, their weapons at the ready. Ilan began scanning the hillside looking for the source of the fire, occasionally one of his men would bob up above the cover of the vehicles and fire into the darkness at some estimated enemy position. One of Ilan’s men who had raised his head about the bonnet of a truck slumped down dead onto the road, Ilan swore while one of the men nearest the downed man quickly scurried towards him to check his pulse, before shaking his head mournfully and taking up his weapon retook his position.
It was then that Ilan’s radio crackled into life “Captain Ilan, what’s your status?”
“Taking heavy fire, at least one confirmed dead probably more.”
“Hold tight, Captain Tor is converging on your location from Hir Inban.” Shortly after this message came through Ilan heard a lull in the weapons fire followed by panicked shouts from above, the sound of a few shots being exchanged before the slopes fell silent.
“You can come out now Captain Ilan!” came a voice from the slopes.” As Ilan raised his head tentatively above the defensive line of trucks he saw in the pre-dawn light Tor’s men making their way down the slope, weapons pointing at ten disarmed Utman identifiable from the red armbands they wore as members of the Khaliniz Brigade. The walked sullenly with their hands on the back of their heads, upon reaching the edge of the road their captors ordered them to their knees. Ilan and his men emerged from behind the vehicles taking stock of the damage.
“Took you long enough didn’t it?” said Ilan approaching Tor “but thank Emet you were near.”
“Hardly an accident.” Replied Tor slightly sheepishly “we received a report from our contacts in the Prefecture that they had picked up on Khaliniz radio chatter about a planned operation to infiltrate Hir Inban and bomb the police station, we were waiting in ambush for them.”
“So why did they end up ambushing us instead?” asked Ilan
“Very good question.” Replied Tor “Let’s ask them shall we?” he turned to one of the kneeling men “You. Why the change of plan?”
“I would never tell you, you dog.” He snarled before spitting at the Captain. Tor looked unimpressed, sighed and in a single swift motion raised his hand gun to the man’s forehead and pulled the trigger, brain and shards of bone exploding out of the back of his skull in a shower of gore. He walked to the next in line and raised his weapon to his forehead.
“Why the change of plan?” he asked, his words laced with a tone that suggested he found having to ask tedious. This one having seen his comrade’s fate was more cooperative.
“We were delayed, and then when we saw the convoy we thought they were returning to the village. There is only ten of us, we know we couldn’t complete our mission if the convoy reached so we decided to set an ambush instead.” He rattled off anxiously.
“You see this is why you people will never win. No tactical sense.” Said Tor as he casually turned and walked to join Ilan, as he went he gave a brief hand signal at which the men guarding the Utman fired their weapons into the backs of their heads. “Let’s gather our men” he said to Ilan before turning back to his own men “as for these, take them down to the Utman village and hang them somewhere prominent.”