The Goat and the Wolf

[Jay]

The village had no name anymore. Its Kurdish residents had fled over a decade ago, displaced by drone strikes and shelling from both sides of the conflict. Now it was little more than a skeleton of clay-brick homes and collapsed minarets. The howl of wolves outside searching for prey joined the erie sound of the winds. A cold wind howled down from the mountain ridges, bringing with it the scent of old ash and diesel.

Inside the gutted shell of a former schoolhouse, a dozen men sat in a rough semicircle, AK-47s leaning against the crumbling walls. A portable propane heater hissed softly, casting flickering shadows against the graffiti-scarred plaster.

Commander Delîl scratched his patchy beard as an old Soviet Makarov was holstered at his sid. He pointed at a camera images pinned to the wall with rusted nails.

“The base at Tatvan military base has two vulnerabilities: the fuel depot along the western fence, and the relay tower above the comms center. We hit them both, we cut power, disrupt their communications, and we launch several strikes targeting the soldiers encampments here, and here.”

Beside him, Rojda, the group's field technician and demolitions expert, a former electrical engineering student from Diyarbakır, adjusted her keffiyeh.

“Our estimate is that there are between 5,000 and 10,000 soldiers spread across the base. That is based on open source intelligence we gathered. I did a recce mission which showed minimal patrol movement between 0200 and 0430. Nightwatch rotates every 90 minutes. Their jammers are only good for two kilometers, we’ll use short-burst line-of-sight radio for exfil instructions.”

Someone in the back coughed. Heval Cemal, a hotheaded newcomer from the Syrian front, shifted impatiently.

“We should hit the comm tower first. Then use that window to take out their power supply.”

Delîl gave him a hard look..

“No. We hit the fuel dump first. Fire draws their attention. Then we plant the second charge at the tower while they're scrambling. Keep them reactive. Always reactive.”
A beat of silence.

Outside, a shepherd’s dog barked at nothing.

Rojda stepped away from the wall.

“We only have a hundred and fifty fighters here. I don’t see how we can possibly expect to take on the entire base. At best, we could pick off a squad or two before we’d have to withdraw due to their heavy vehicles and Turkish reinforcements.”

Delîl nodded, then looked at each of them in turn.

“Look…I know that this seems daunting, but our goal is to give them a bloody nose. I am still working out the assets, but whatever we do, we need to strike that base.”

Rojda shook her head. “What if we use mortars here?” She pointed to several rugged overhead passages overlooking the bases.

“No,” Delîl said abruptly. “We’d be putting our limited assets at risk.”

Rodja looked at the map. “We can’t attack them head on. We’re practically throwing away lives.”

Delîl shook his head. “I can’t risk those assets.”

“But you can risk our lives right?” Heval said as he picked up his rifle. “Like cheap chum.”

Delîl shot him a straight look. “I don’t know how you did things back in Syria, but you don’t get to lecture me here.”

Heval moved towards Delîl before Rodja put her hand out and pushed him back, “Don’t.” She said staring at the Heval.

Heval huffed, “We beat out dictatorship. No one you haven’t here, ” and with that he stormed out of the schoolhouse to the encampment outside.
,
“He is just eager Delîl, don’t pay him any mind.” Rodja said, wiping her face as she took off her keffiya.

Delîl shook his head. “They always come like that. Him, Mustafa, Roja, all the same…” He paused as he looked at the map. “And they always meet the same faith.”

Rodja gave him a stern look. “Delîl…it isn’t your fault.”

“I am the commander of this cell. It is my responsibility.”

Rodja gave him a soft look this time. "We are all fighting here for our homeland."

"Yet, it feels like we are fighting ourselves more than our enemy." Delîl said in defeat.

"This is new." Rodja acknowledged. "The orders, the target, and the stakes. I know you are thinking long-term, but we need to give them more than just a bloody nose. We need to wake them up."

Delîl nodded. "Get the rest of them back in here. We'll discuss it again."

Rodja gave Delîl a curt nod before going outside to get the rest of the guys back inside to finish their discussion.

 

[Jay]

The meeting site had no name, no markings, and no fixed coordinates that could be spoken aloud without risk. It existed only as a set of instructions passed hand to hand, adjusted weekly to account for surveillance patterns and satellite overpasses. On this night, it was a disused agricultural compound tucked into a fold of terrain where the Iraqi border bled indistinctly into southeastern Turkey.

They arrived separately.

The first pair crossed on foot just after dusk, their approach masked by the thermal clutter of livestock moving through nearby fields. A second group arrived an hour later in an unlit pickup truck, its engine cut well before the compound came into view. The driver remained with the vehicle, engine block cooling under a canvas tarp while the passengers continued on foot. It seemed tonight the odds were in their favor, the sky was cloudy, which made it safer to move around.

They did not linger outside however. Each arrival was met by a runner who confirmed their identity, using a sequence of gestures. No one entered until the last group had arrived. Only then did the heavy metal door swing inward.

Inside, the air smelled of dust, fuel, and old grain. A single generator powered two dim lights and a field radio tuned permanently to static. Along the far wall stood the regional commander, a broad-shouldered man in his late forties whose beard had gone gray before its time. Beside him stood his intelligence officer.

The commander waited until everyone had taken a seat on overturned crates and folding stools. Only then did he speak.

“You were careful,” he said, not as praise but as confirmation...almost as a question. “Thank you all for coming.”

A murmur passed through the room, quickly suppressed. The intelligence officer stepped forward, unfolding a rough map drawn on waxed paper.

“The Turks are rotating platforms,” he said. “They fly high for hours, then low and fast for short windows. They are mapping movement aroound the area, not chasing targets. That means they are preparing for something.”

One of the cell leaders from the Turkish side leaned forward. His jacket was too light for the cold; his eyes were rimmed with exhaustion. “They know the old routes,” he said. “We have been expecting air strikes but nothing yet, which means they are waiting.”

The commander nodded. “They always wait after they think they’ve learned something.”

He looked around the room, making eye contact with each leader in turn.

“That is not why we are here. We are planning an operation against an Iranian border post,” the commander continued. “The objective is not symbolic act. We intend to neutralize the position long enough to open a corridor for weapons transfers to PJAK.”

The words landed unevenly. A few heads nodded at once. Others remained still.

One of the cell leaders spoke first, his tone unmistakably wary. “Why PJAK,” he asked. “We are already stretched thin. Every fighter we lose is a loss we feel immediately. Why open another front for someone else’s struggle?”

A murmur of agreement followed. The commander did not interrupt. He let the doubt breathe, because doubt unspoken had a way of curdling into disobedience later.

He then responded. “This is not charity. It is about building infrastructure for our operations. Movements do not survive in isolation. Ties are built through shared risk. If we cana get the PJAK on board we can use their facilities to bring in resources to our forces here Iraq.

“We have scouted the border thoroughly,” the commander’s intelligence officer went. “Benar Valley offers terrain that limits heavy response and complicates aerial observation. We have been provided a drop site where explosives and rifles can be staged ahead of time and where PJAK will be waaiting for them.”

“The plan is simple,” he said. “A direct action against the border post to fix attention and resources. The engagement does not need to be prolonged. It needs to be convincing. While that happens, an infiltration team moves north to secure the drop site and transfer the materiel. Once that is complete, everyone withdraws. No pursuit. No escalation.”

Another cell leader, older than most, leaned back against the wall. “Iran is not Turkey,” he said quietly. “They respond differently. If this goes wrong, it won’t stay local.”

“That is true,” the commander replied without hesitation. “Our objective is limited. We are not declaring war. We are opening a door and closing it again before anyone decides to look too closely.”

A younger leader broke it at last. “And if PJAK fails to capitalize on this,” he asked, “if they take the weapons and disappear?”

The intelligence officer answered this time. “Then we have learned something at acceptable cost. But if they succeed, we gain a partner with terrain access, cross-border reach, and a shared enemy. Movements that endure do not choose their allies because it is comfortable. They choose them because it is necessary.”

The commander surveyed the room once more.

“This operation is not about Iran alone,” he said. “It is about demonstrating that we are not cornered, that our struggle extends beyond a single border, and that we are capable of coordinated action despite pressures we face.

“We move only if everyone here understands their role,” the commander concluded. “Questions are welcome. Doubt is acceptable.”

The intelligence officer glanced at his watch again.

One of the cell leaders from the northern corridor spoke first, his tone apologetic but firm. “Our resources are already committed,” he said. “We have authorization for an operation against a Turkish military convoy. A senior official will be present. Surveillance is ongoing, and if we divert now, we lose the window entirely.”

Another leader nodded in agreement. “The same applies to us. Men, logistics, safehouses, they are already tied to that action. Standing them down would expose them.”

Before the commander could respond, a third voice entered the conversation from the far side of the room.

“We have standing orders for actions along the western coast,” the man said. “Cells are in motion. Communications are compartmentalized. Pulling them back now would create more risk than proceeding.”

The regional commander’s brow furrowed. The western coast was far from this theater. For a brief moment, his eyes flicked to the intelligence officer, who gave no visible reaction at all.

“Western coast,” the commander repeated slowly.

He said nothing else about it. Not yet. Questions could wait.

Silence followed, dense and expectant. Then one by one, four of the remaining cell leaders spoke saying they could particpate. The commander exhaled once, quietly. He nodded. "Let's begin then."