Vulcan's Fire

22

Major Fahed Ayash provided the briefing almost before the SSI team had settled into temporary quarters.

“Welcome to Hasbaya, gentlemen. You will not be here very long but Lieutenant Colonel Leopole and I expect that some of you will be in and out of here, rotating from your militia areas. Therefore it is helpful for you to know something of the city.

“As you saw on the way in, Hasbaya is built on hills near Mount Hermon, sited around a tributary of the Hasbani River. The current population is about thirty thousand, and the local industries include grapes for wine and olive oil. Since you will be working with the Druze militia, you should know that a few kilometers northeast is the pilgrimage site of al Bayyada with its old praying halls.

“History is everywhere. Near Habbariye lie the ruins of a Roman temple with walls twenty-five feet high.” He gave a sardonic smile. “It says something that one of the newest tourist spots is the mosque with a distinctive hexagonal minaret. It was built in the thirteenth century.

“Otherwise, there’s the Chihabi Citadel from the Crusades in the eleventh century, plus the Chehab Palace.

“We’re not far from Syria. Damascus is only about thirty-five miles east, and the border is much closer. That is why your training mission is so important. The militias in the area are under increasing pressure from Hezbollah elements backed by Syria as well as Iran.”

Ayash turned to an easel with a map of the region. “Your primary operating areas are south and east of here, at the villages of Amasha and El-Arian. They are fairly small but their positions are important because they command obvious routes from the border, continuing farther inland to the south.” He paused for effect. “Obviously, that means toward Israel.”

Frank Leopole relieved Ayash at the front of the room, taking in the crowd of operators. He noted that most held rifles or carbines and some had sidearms as well. After the Beirut episode, he had recommended that everyone go armed everywhere, and the proliferation of AKs and Galils attested to the acceptance of his wisdom. Robert Pitney seemed content with his Springfield XD, but Leopole conceded that the speed shooter could do more with a pistol than many operators could accomplish with a rifle.

“Today we’re going to split up into two units,” Leopole began. “Partly that’s so each team can start focusing on its specific mission, and partly for security.” He did not have to elaborate. Bosco and Breezy exchanged hoo-ah glances, acknowledging that if one team was attacked before deploying to its village, the other would remain intact to accomplish its mission.

“I’ll take Team One to Amasha and Chris will have Team Two at El-Arian. Major Ayash will float between them as needed, and coordinate with our IDF liaison out of this facility.

“My team includes Bosco and Breezy, Pitney, and Barrkman. Our militia contact is Rami Hamadeh, who some of you have already met.

“Chris has Ashcroft, Green, Wallender, and Furr with Salah-Hassan Fares. He will be here tomorrow.

“Now, Barrkman and Furr. I know you sniper dudes would rather work together but we need to maximize our expertise so each of you can instruct the militia folks in your respective areas. If it becomes advisable to deploy an all-up team, we’ll pull one of you to work with the other but I hope that isn’t necessary.”

Furr folded his arms and said nothing. Barrkman slumped in his chair, clearly displeased with the decision. Neither would protest— they were far too professional for that and were being well paid besides.

Leopole turned to the map and tapped the appropriate locales. “The villes are about ten or eleven klicks apart. Depending on transport, that means we can reinforce each other in maybe ten minutes, barring en route problems. As soon as we arrive we’ll get on that contingency planning.”

Chris Nissen raised a hand. “Colonel, what’s current intel on the threat in that area?”

Leopole looked at Ayash for the answer. The Druze officer said, “It’s been a hot zone, Sergeant. And it’s likely to get hotter.”

Imam Elham summoned Esmaili and Azizi. “You have a mission.”

Esmaili absorbed the sentiment. We have a mission — he gives orders.

The cleric eased himself into a sitting position against a stone wall. “Your task is one of deception. We know that the infidels expect Hezbollah to take action in this area. The geographic aspects are self-evident.” He nodded behind him, toward the Syrian border fifteen kilometers away. “Therefore, you will begin a series of small actions across a broad front. Using mortars and snipers, your group and others in this area will cause as much confusion as possible, especially among the Druze villages that command terrain features or important roads. They will know that greater action is pending, but not when. And that will be our advantage.”

Azizi ventured a question. “Imam, when is the time?”

Elham looked at Azizi for a long moment. “That will be revealed when you need to know.”

Esmaili was thinking ahead of the game, trying to anticipate problems and requirements. “A few questions, if I may,” he began. Without awaiting approval he pressed on. “Are we to conduct these deceptions as pinprick attacks to keep the enemy off balance, or on a scale large enough to desensitize them for the greater effort?”

The priest cocked his head as if studying a specimen under glass. “That is an astute question, brother. It shows that you appreciate the nuances of the endeavor.” He glanced briefly at Azizi, who turned red-faced at the implication. “How would you distinguish between the two?”

Esmaili felt himself warming to the subject. It was a welcome relief from his usual relationship with the imam. “Mainly it is a difference of scale. As you say, with some snipers and a few mortars we can keep things unsettled with minimal effort almost indefinitely. But if there is to be a large ground offensive, we will need more men and equipment. Also more supplies.”

Elham nodded. “Just so. For the present Tehran and Damascus have few fighters to spare. I can tell you that those available are either committed elsewhere or are being held in reserve. But this will be a multifaceted campaign, not limited to those who fight conventionally. You both know of the survey crews that have prepared possible rocket sites. There are also clandestine teams — special operations troops— who will use the confusion caused by the larger effort to accomplish their tasks.”

Azizi sought to ingratiate himself again. “Whatever the assignment, we will do it, Imam. When should we begin the attacks, and what are our targets?”

The priest pulled a printed sheet from his robe. “These are your objectives and the schedule. But tomorrow would not be too soon.”

“You’re wrong, Sol. It’s going to be even harder than we expected.”

Colonel Yakov Livni and Brigadier General Solomon Nadel had a peculiar relationship. Their respective duties — covert operations and conventional ground forces and logistics — necessarily overlapped on both sides of the Lebanese border. The irony was lost on neither officer that the colonel dictated his requirements to the general, but their mutual professionalism kept them on track.

Nadel was unaccustomed to colonels telling him that he was wrong, but in the freewheeling IDF such candor was not unknown. “All right, I said it would be difficult to provide support to the militia. If I’m wrong, tell me how it’s going to be even harder.”

Livni plunked his ample bulk into a straight-backed chair and jabbed a finger at the map. “From recent intelligence we know that Hezbollah is getting more direct support from Syria. Yes, the Iranians are the power behind Hezbollah but the geographic fact remains that they can’t do much without Syrian cooperation. That means it’s doubly difficult for us to keep track of their movements, let alone their intentions.” He pushed his glasses up on his forehead. “Without more eyes and ears on the ground, we can only guess at what the Druze are going to be faced with.”

Nadel paced a few steps away, then returned. “Look. That’s what I don’t understand. My God, Yakov, the Druze militias are already there. They live there! Surely they know the situation better than anybody in Jerusalem or Tel Aviv.”

“Stay with me, Solly. Yes, of course the Druze know the local situation. We rely on their information to produce our intelligence estimates. But they’re seeing the trees, not the forest. That’s why I’m saying that the reports you receive are more pessimistic, and justifiably so. They include information from more sensitive sources, especially back-channel reports and what the politicians call ‘technical methods.’ Of course that means signal intelligence and decrypts, but nobody wants to say so.”

Nadel threw up his hands. “All right, then. Quit trying to impress me with your high and mighty sources that you can’t reveal. For the moment let’s say that I accept them at face value. Just tell me what I need to know in order to support your Druze friends.”

Livni smiled for a change. “Now we’re getting somewhere. The American training teams are ready to move from Hasbaya to the first two villages. Amasha and El-Arian. There has already been sporadic Hezbollah action in that area. Nothing dramatic, just harassment. A few sniping incidents, some mortars and roadside bombs. But we expect that’s going to increase, either as part of a bigger harassment campaign or as cover for something else.”

“Cover? You mean something covert?”

An exaggerated shrug with raised hands. “It’s too early to tell. But I need your boys to be ready to reinforce either of those places on short notice. If Hezbollah makes an overt effort to seize one or the other, it could signal the start of a larger offensive. In that case, we need to move fast.”

“I agree. But in what strength?”

“General, I’m glad you asked.”

23

“Well, what’ve we heard?”

Michael Derringer was never known as a micromanager but when an operation was under way he liked to keep his thumb on its pulse. The impromptu meeting of the SSI brain trust was evidence of his concern.

As the senior operations officer, Sandy Carmichael had the conn. “Admiral, our teams are deploying to their operating areas. They’ll be in position later today. Frank has half the crew in a place called Amasha and Chris Nissen is taking the others to El-Arian. Both are villages south and east of Hasbaya.”

“Very well. How’s our comm with them?”

“So far, so good. Satellite phones work well, and for the reliability it’s worth two dollars a minute. Conventional phone service is adequate, and we also have e-mail contact but the server in that area seems somewhat erratic.”

“What about Frank’s contact with the IDF across the border? I mean, in case he needs reinforcements immediately.”

Carmichael nodded. “Sir, I was coming to that. Frank confirmed that he has round-the-clock contact with Northern Command. But if our guys were targeted in Beirut, it stands to reason they’ll be in the crosshairs out in the countryside. I’d like to know what we can do to extract them if necessary.”

Derringer turned to the visitor. “Mr. Baram?”

The Israeli diplomat leaned forward, hands clasped on the table. “I am glad that you asked me to this meeting, Admiral. Our Druze liaison officers are, of course, aware of the situation, and best positioned to provide timely assistance. Their counterparts in the IDF also will lend whatever assistance they can, and I understand that air evacuation is the best option.

“However, I agree that it would be helpful to have prior consent of, ah, certain U.S. Government assets in the region. I am making that request both to your State Department and Department of Defense, though it may be some time before I receive a response from either one.”

Derringer squirmed in his chair. “I’d feel better if that had been settled before our teams arrived in Hasbaya but I recognize the urgency our clients feel in getting the training started. Now, I’d like to think that we can rely on the IDF to extract our people on short notice. If there is any doubt about it, we need to know. Today.”

Baram looked into Derringer’s face. “Admiral, at present there is no doubt about our willingness to do so, and currently there’s not much doubt about our ability. I have dealt with the colonel running covert operations in Lebanon, and he is a good man. A very good man. If he says something will be done, it usually gets done.”

The SSI president swiveled his chair side to side. “Very well, then. I’ll accept that at face value.” He turned to Carmichael. “But I’d like to see if we might tap our SecNav or even DoD contacts. It’d be the long way around, but the amphibious group in the eastern Med could get some choppers in there.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve already staffed it. Depending on specifics, it’s about twenty-five to thirty miles from the coast to our op areas. There are terrain features that would be helpful during ingress and egress, but until we know something about threat levels it’s too early to say whether H-46s or 53s would be able to operate in that environment.”

“Oh, how’s that?”

“Well, sir, the situation might not be very permissive, at least not for helos. I understand that SA-7s are about as common as RPGs in that area. Likely even some double-digit SAMs…”

Derringer cut off the explanation. “Who has the ‘phib gru out there?”

Carmichael congratulated herself on her prescience. “Rear Admiral Millikin. He’s…”

“Bill Millikin,” Derringer interrupted. “Good man. He has experience in dustoffs on a hot LZ.” He paused, as if lost in reverie. “Evil Hyphen…” The statement brought uncomprehending looks from the other staffers so Derringer added, “A covert op in Africa about fifteen years ago.”

Marsh Wilmont had kept a low profile after his previous showing, but Lieutenant General Varlowe was blessedly absent today. “Mike, are you thinking of going back-channel to talk to Millikin?”

Derringer drummed his fingers on the table. Finally he said, “Actually, I hadn’t thought about that. But if neither we nor Mr. Baram can get some commitments from State or the Pentagon, I’m not averse to it.”

Before Wilmont could reply, Derringer nodded to Omar Mohammed. “Omar is here because he consulted on the training syllabus for the Druze militias. I think we should hear from him about prospects for fulfilling the contract in case we have to withdraw some or all of our people.”

Mohammed stroked his immaculate goatee. “It remains to be seen whether we would collect full payment for a good-faith effort to train the militias in that area. Our legal department would have to make a judgment, and Ms. Pilong is out today. But as far as the operational end, at the very least we have provided a detailed training program that the IDF liaison teams could follow.”

Carmichael had a thought. “What if we were able to continue training Druze cadres someplace else? Maybe even in the Beirut area?”

Mohammed cocked an eyebrow and looked at Derringer. “That is an excellent suggestion. I think we should pursue it.”

Derringer scribbled some notes to himself. “Very well, then. I’ll see about the old boy network in the Med and you folks coordinate with a fallback plan for returning to the Beirut area.” He jabbed his notepad with his pen and smiled. “Nice to have options, isn’t it?”

The El-Arian militia was reasonably well organized and possessed a degree of experience. The group leader, Salah Al Atrash, had placed his newest members on sentry duty, a compromise between breaking them in as quickly as possible with minimal risk. He had found that issuing automatic weapons to earnest young men eager to prove themselves before their neighbors and kinsmen yielded one of two results: early maturity or premature death.

The sentinel called Talea was twenty-three years old, generally popular with some promise as a potential leader. As he paced beside the stone wall leading to the village entrance, he paused to scan the surrounding terrain. Al Atrash had worked his men diligently in recent days, clearing away tree trunks and debris, and clipping grass that could conceal anyone trying to approach unseen within 250 meters.

Talea had just turned to resume his patrol when a ballistic crack rent the morning air. Fifty meters away, a youngster going about his chores looked up at the unexpected sound in time to see the guard collapse in the road.

A pair of finches broke cover at the noise, but otherwise the area remained calm. Several moments passed before concerned citizens ran to the spot and turned over the sentry’s body.

Some 315 meters away, Ahmad Esmaili patted Hazim on the shoulder and motioned backward. They eased away, keeping low to avoid profiling themselves against the skyline.

Hazim reached out and retrieved the expended 7.62x54mm cartridge case. Feeling as good as he could ever remember, he wanted a souvenir of his first kill.

Frank Leopole surveyed the topography around Amasha. As a professional infantryman, he had never looked at ground the same way after Basic School. Where most humans saw rolling terrain or picturesque hills, he saw dead ground, defiles, and crests. Danger, safety, opportunity.

Major Fahed Ayash and militia leader Rami Hamadeh accompanied the SSI man on his tour of the village. He noted that two hills provided an overlook of perhaps twenty meters advantage. “I wonder why the founders of this place located here rather than over on the high ground.”

The two Druze exchanged knowing looks. “Colonel Leopole,” Ayash explained, “four hundred years ago, access to water was more important than military concerns.” He pointed to the stream a long pistol shot away.

Leopole felt his cheeks redden. “Well, that’s as good a reason as any and better than most.” He laughed self-consciously. Then, seeking to retrieve the situation, he observed, “Either of those hummocks would be useful for forward observers or some decent snipers.” He gauged the distance. “Must be five to six hundred meters.”

Hamadeh chuckled. “It is 560 meters to the nearest and 620 to the other. I have paced it myself. You have a good eye, Colonel.”

The American grinned self-consciously. “Well, I spent a lot more time on rifle ranges than looking for water.” Seeking to change the subject, he asked, “What are your security arrangements for those hills?”

Hamadeh spoke French-accented English. “We patrol the area and one time had guard, ah, post, there. But not enough men to keep on there so we did some nights.” He paused, seeking the words. “Then Hezbollah took two men and killed another. We never see them no more so we cannot put men on hills after dark.”

Leopole turned to Ayash. “Couldn’t the Lebanese army help with some people?”

The Israeli Druze shook his head. “This is a small place, Colonel. The national army is occupied all over the country. That’s why the militia receives as much support as it does.”

“Well, we’ll do everything we can to help make up the difference.” He turned to Hamadeh, speaking slowly. “In our briefings we were told that you do not have facilities such as shooting ranges. Is there someplace we could use for that purpose? Maybe with a backstop?”

The commander nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes. Old quarry behind town. Maybe seventy-eighty meters.”

“All right, we’ll make do with that.” He began walking. “Gentlemen, let’s get started.”

24

“How are they doing?” Leopole asked.

Bosco was inhaling half a bottle of water. He nodded while swishing out his mouth, then swallowed. “Pretty good, Boss. Pitney really helps.”

Leopole stood behind the firing line, watching the former policeman with some of the militiamen. Robert Pitney was leaning over a shooter who had assumed a rough sitting position, demonstrating where knees and elbows belonged. The American was speaking animatedly, with apparent authority.

Bosco wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I don’t know how you say ‘cheek weld’ or ‘sight picture’ in Druze talk, but Robert seems to have it dialed in.”

“Well, it’s preferable to have a native speaker, of course. But you guys seem to do okay working with translators.”

“Yeah. Rami and Hamdam speak enough English for us to get the point across, but something’s gotta be lost in translation. Like, you and I know what we mean when we talk about seating the butt in the pocket of the shoulder, but imagine how that comes out in Arabic!”

Leopole allowed himself an appreciative grin. “Hey, if it works, it works. The groups are tightening up at twenty-five meters and some of the militia are getting faster hits.”

Bosco set his bottle down and prepared to return to the line. “Boss, it’s not my call, but you might tell Robert not to shoot up to speed when he’s doing drills by himself. Some of these studs see him rip off six aimed rounds in a second and want to shoot as fast as he does. It don’t occur to them that he shoots like this”—he cupped his fingers into a two-inch circle—”and they shoot like this.” He raised his hands in an expansive gesture.

“Like Jeff Cooper always said: slow is smooth and smooth is fast. Keep ‘em smooth, Bosco.”

As Bosco resumed his duties, Pitney came off the line for some water. He removed his ball cap and wiped his forehead. “Kind of hard to stay hydrated in this heat, Colonel. But these guys need all the trigger time they can get.”

“Well, as soon as they’re safe in daylight we’ll introduce them to twilight and then full dark. But that’s likely to be a slow process because we’ll have to do a lot of dry runs before I’ll trust them with loaded weapons at night.”

“Yes, sir. I think we can do better if we keep the night relays smaller. It’ll mean more range time, of course, but we’ll have better control of them.”

Leopole considered the suggestion and found it had merit. “That’s not a bad idea, Robert. Have you done that before?”

Pitney raised a bottle from the ice chest and took a long pull. His Camelbak had gone dry fifteen minutes earlier. “Yeah. But that was with a group smaller than this so it wasn’t as hard. Besides, it was an indoor range where we could control the lights. Worked really well.” He chuckled. “Besides, those were cops and some of them actually could look at the sights and press the trigger. These guys…” He shook his head. “On the first day I just about bought myself a ticket home. The gun handling was…”

“Atrocious?”

Pitney laughed again. “I don’t know. What’s worse than atrocious? Awful isn’t bad enough.”

“Abysmal?”

“Somewhere in the first part of the alphabet. But you know, it’s odd. The main problem was muzzle awareness. Everybody sweeping everybody else. It’s hard getting across to these guys that you’re supposed to treat every gun as if it’s loaded, even if you just unloaded it. Some of them just don’t get that. But then I noticed that nearly all of them followed Rule Three.”

“Finger off the trigger?”

“Right. Rule One and Two went out the door but I guess the militia have seen enough movies and news reports that they kept their fingers alongside the frame.”

Leopole conjured up his recent discussion with Bosco. “How’s the language situation?”

Pitney shucked his Camelbak and began refilling it. “Oh, not bad. My basic Arabic is still pretty good. It took me a little while to get used to Druze pronunciation. They speak kind of an archaic Arabic with what we’d call a soft D and a strong, throaty K. But if they slow down just a little I don’t have much problem.”

“Good job, Robert. Keep it up and maybe we can go home early.”

“As Breezy would say, ‘Hoo-ah that, sir.’”

Esmaili saw Azizi conferring with some new arrivals but kept his distance. The strangers were unloading mortar tubes and base plates from a truck with Syrian markings and seemed intent on talking only to the man from Tehran. The imam was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was either plotting or praying.

At length Azizi left his friends to their own devices. Esmaili intercepted him.

“Brother, may I ask what do your mortar men have?”

“Oh, mostly old Soviet equipment, the 2B14 Podnos and M31/M68. Both are 82mm. We find that it is a good compromise between the 60 and 120mm weapons. The Podnos fires a three-kilogram bomb with a range of four kilometers. They weigh only forty kilograms so we can move them and some ammunition with four men.”

“They have experience in operations?”

A faint smile. “Oh, yes. Considerable experience.”

Esmaili conceded the advantage of portability but recognized the limitations. “I only ask because it may be difficult to displace from the firing position once the Druze learn to estimate the location. Their Zionist friends may provide aerial drones for surveillance.”

“Yes, that is always a possibility. The aircraft also may have thermal imagers once our night attacks become evident. It is also thus, brother. The tide comes in and the tide flows out. But Islam’s tide is inevitable.”

Esmaili thought: You have been spending too much time with Elham, brother. Then he said, “So it always has been. And so it shall be here, God grant us the strength to do our part.”

“Our strength is in our arms and in our hearts. And the greatest of these is our hearts, for there faith abides.”

Esmaili inclined his torso in a slight bow. “Truly said.”

Walking away, Esmaili felt a spasm in his shoulder muscles. Azizi used to be halfway rational. Now he has absorbed the imam’s zeal, and that bodes ill for anyone involved with him.

With a start, Esmaili realized that Azizi must have some additional information that he had not yet shared. The cell leader quickened his pace, seeking a solitary place where he could sit down and think before afternoon prayers.

In his Special Forces career, former Staff Sergeant Chris Nissen had seldom dealt with snipers, either incoming or outgoing, but now he was faced with both.

The SSI team had barely arrived when the local militia explained the situation. The Druze leader, with the unlikely name of Ayoob Slim, had been taken aback when he met the American, apparently surprised that a black man would command the training team. But Slim, an intense individual of some forty years, seemed capable of objectivity. Upon consulting with his IDF liaison, Captain Salah-Hassan Fares, he quickly got down to specifics.

Fares translated. “Sergeant, there are Hezbollah snipers here. They have come before but mainly just to shoot at the village. This new one, he hits what he sees.”

Nissen thought for a moment. “Are you sure there’s just one?”

After some back and forthing with Slim, Fares raised his hands. “I am not certain. The local men seem convinced because there is usually just one shot. But they cannot say where it comes from, so there could be more than one, or perhaps just one who moves and shoots again.”

“Well, we can’t let one gomer with a rifle stop us from training. Let’s have my team meet with Mr. Slim and his folks and explain the lesson plans. Then I’ll have a word with my precision rifleman.”

Robbie Furr had a goodly opinion of his professional abilities but he did not relish odds of two or three to one.

“I’ll see what I can do, Chris, but I’ll need a spotter. I mean, somebody who knows what he’s doing.”

“You’d like to have Barrkman back.”

Furr nodded, rubbing his balding head. “He’s about the only game in town. I could work with Green or Ashcroft because Wallender has some language ability that you need. But Phil and Bob aren’t sniper-trained. If I’m going up against some semipros, I want the best I can get.”

Nissen appreciated the shooter’s sentiment, having had to go to a couple of bad places with goody-good people on occasion. He knew that Leopole would be reluctant to place all his sniper eggs in one basket but saw no harm in asking. He looked at Furr and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

25

The sound was distinctive: a hollow, metallic plunk. The mortar shell landed well short of the village but the defenders knew there would be more.

Bosco perked up. “That sounds like an 81-mm tube.”

“How’n hell can you tell, man?” The paratrooper in Breezy was skeptical of anything that a soldier could not hump on his own.

“Hey, dude, Rangers use mortars, you know? I was A-gunner on a 60mm for a while. Got so I could hit Pierce County. Thing is, I don’t think the Hezzies would have 81s. Prob’ly 82s.”

“Well, how far does that thing shoot? It’s gotta be pretty close if we can hear it.”

“The M224 is good for over three thousand meters, but this one’s closer.

“Well, 82s got more range.”

“I know, Breeze. But most all the ammo is three-four pounds. You can only chuck one of those so far.”

“Well, if it’s only fifteen hundred meters out, that’s a hell of a hike in injun country.”

Bosco shook his head. “No, man. You don’t gotta find the tube. All you do is find the FO and pop him.”

“Man, that’s a needle in a Lebanese haystack.” Breezy swept his hand generally eastward. “How’n hell do you find somebody in all that territory?”

“I think we should talk to the sniper dudes. They know about skulking and snooping and stuff.”

As if to emphasize the urgency, another round topped out of its parabolic arc and descended toward the village. Bosco jumped left as Breezy dived right. The projectile landed thirty meters away, dropping rocks and debris in the area. Breezy poked his head up, cocking a wary eye at the sky, and scrambled on hands and knees to his partner. “That does it, man. If our snipers are going after that FO, then I’m goin’ with ‘em.”

Several minutes later Bosco and Breezy consulted with Rick Barrkman. The sniper said, “It’s not as hard to find an observer as it seems. At least you can narrow down the area. I mean, he needs a good view of the target and that usually means elevation. Now, most people would assume he’s somewhere in line between the tube and target but that’s only for amateurs. I think these Hezzies probably have some experience, so let’s scope out the geography.”

The trio adjourned to the roof of the Yousef family and surveyed the terrain within three-quarters of a mile.

At length Barrkman said, “If I was an FO, I’d take my radio to that bluff to the northeast. It has a decent view of this place, it’s off axis from the tube, and it’s far enough out to discourage intruders.” He looked at Bosco.

Jason Boscombe looked back. “Let’s intrude, dude.” He smiled broadly.

Frank Leopole was skeptical. “If I let you three yahoos go traipsing through the boondocks, I’m not likely to get all of you back, and I need you.” He thought for a moment. “Brezyinski, you stay here. Barrkman, you and Boscombe take two Druze who really know the terrain. Check with Hamadeh for his recommendations.” He paused for emphasis. “In no case will you return later than sunset. Even with night vision, when you’re on the move after dark the advantage goes to the home team. Got it?”

Barrkman nodded. “Got it. Sir.”

As the sniper and the former mortar man strode off in search of the militia leader, Brezyinski entered a visible sulk. Leopole was tempted to ignore the youngster’s pout but decided to humor him. “Relax, Breezy. You’re staying here because I can’t spare you.”

“Well, sir, I dunno. Like, does that mean that you can spare them?”

“Don’t push it, son.” Leopole unzipped a patented Marine O-5 type of smile. “Look, it’s a big-picture situation.” Seeing that he had made no dent, he tried a different approach. “It’s like this, Brezyinski. I’m the forest. You’re a tree. You receiving me, son?”

“Five by, Colonel. Five by.”

“I can’t believe they’re that dumb.”

Barrkman rubbed his stubbled chin and pondered the situation. The Hezbollah mortar team had fired six rounds in the past forty minutes, almost inviting retaliation.

“Maybe they’re moving between shots,” Bosco suggested. “There’s several minutes’ delay after every couple of rounds.”

“Yeah. Or maybe the FO is moving. They wouldn’t expect us to go deep, looking for the tube.”

Bosco nodded. “Well, I sure don’t want to go tromping around out here a mile or more looking for something that’s bound to be guarded. Now, the observer…”

“He could move fast. He’d only have one or two guys with him.”

Barrkman turned to Rami Hamadeh, who had insisted on going with the Americans. “Rami, like we discussed: we can ignore the most obvious spots and back off from there. Since the observer probably is not on top of the nearest hill, where would be the next best place?”

The Druze chieftain pointed to the southeast. “Next hill, farther away but still good look at my village.”

“Okay. That makes sense. We’ll try it.” Before Barrkman could say anything else, Hamadeh and his friend took the lead, moving fast and low. The SSI men trailed at a decent interval.

Twenty-five minutes later Hamadeh held up a fist. The group went to cover, having flanked the far hill. Hamadeh had his compact binoculars out, scanning the terrain. Barrkman was using his Bushnell while Bosco and the other Druze maintained a 360-degree search.

Another 82mm round arced overhead, inbound to Amasha. It exploded near the village square.

Hamadeh stopped his sweep, lowered his glasses, and stared at the hillside. Then he raised the optic again. Moments later he turned to Barrkman. “Two men, moving this way. Maybe three hundred meters.”

Barrkman looked hard at the area indicated. He shook his head. “I don’t see them, Rami.”

“They are in grass. You see gray rock?”

The sniper quickly found a four-foot boulder sunk into the slope. “Yes, a little over three hundred meters.”

“Watch that. Get ready.”

In the two-foot grass Barrkman assumed a sitting position. He steadied the Robar QR-2 with his ankles crossed, elbows braced inside his knees. Satisfied, he removed the cap from the elevation dial and added three minutes of angle from his two-hundred setting.

Bosco took the shooter’s Bushnell and assumed a spotter’s position behind him, ready to call the shot.

“Wind’s quartering from the left,” Barrkman whispered. “Not enough to worry about.” He thought: Shooting uphill so the round will go a little high. Torso hit will be no problem.

He chambered the first cartridge from the ten-round M14 magazine.

Minutes passed. Barrkman felt a cramp building in his right leg but willed it into submission. He had held the same position for longer periods.

“Tango,” Bosco said. “Make it two.”

Two camouflaged forms appeared from the left edge of Barrkman’s scope. Both had AKs; one carried a field radio. They settled behind the boulder as if conversing.

“Which one you gonna dump?” Bosco asked in a hushed voice.

“Maybe both. Otherwise the guy with the radio, of course.”

“Hey, the FO could be the one without the pack. He’d be senior.”

Bosco’s logic made sense. Especially in the rank-conscious Muslim world, the lesser man would likely be the mule. It was contrary to Soviet doctrine when platoon leaders often carried their own radios for better command and control. Even if it marked them as priority targets.

Barrkman looked to Hamadeh. “Rami, what do you think?”

“Shoot radio man, the other no can talk.”

Barrkman acknowledged the logic but realized that if he only got one shot, the observer could escape to ply his skills another day. Finally he set his mental trigger. I’ll take the first one that gives me a decent shot.

He inhaled deeply, expelled the breath, and repeated the process.

In the slanting evening sunlight, the two forms reappeared. One clambered atop the rock, allowing him to peer over the crest of the hill, looking toward Amasha. The man with the radio stood nearby.

Barrkman crosshaired the man atop the rock. Hello, Mr. FO.

He thumbed the tang safety forward, then settled into the physical-mental condition that he called “The Zone.”

The world went quiet around him, narrowing to the crosshairs and the pressure of his right index finger. A life balanced precariously upon the thin edge of the sear.

The trigger broke cleanly, the firing pin snapped forward, and the round went.

The ten-pound rifle recoiled straight back. Center left! As the barrel came level again Barrkman had cycled the bolt and resumed his hold. The rock was barren but the radioman was stooped over, looking at something in the grass.

Barrkman did a compressed breath, held it, and put the crosshairs on the second Hezbollah fighter. The round went before he was ready. Damn it! Low left!

By the time he ran the bolt again, the second target had disappeared.

“Tango two ran downhill,” Bosco reported. “Nice job on the first one, though. He dropped like a sack of wheat.”

Barrkman realized that his pulse was elevated. “Damn it to hell! I got on the trigger too soon.” He lowered the QR-2. “That’s the first time I wish I had a semiauto. Just a smidgen faster and I could’ve got him too.”

Rami Hamadeh smiled broadly. “You do well. You shoot the one who calls down the bombs. We go look.”

Bosco glanced at Barrkman, who rose to his feet. “I don’t know, Rami. There could be other gooners out there.”

The Druze shook his head. “Gooners?”

How do I explain Comers and gooners? “Like, bad guys. Hezzies.”

“No, it is okay, yes? You go back. We get dead man’s papers, maps, yes?”

Barrkman nodded his consent. “Okay, but don’t take too long. It’s getting dark.”

Walking back to the village, Jason Boscombe shot a glance at his newfound partner. I just want to get back to town but maybe he doesn’t want to look at the corpse.

Returning with a confirmed kill, verified by three witnesses, Rick Barrkman felt no need to score and paste the target.

When they reached the village Leopole asked, “How’d it go?”

Barrkman nodded toward Hamadeh. “Rami called it right, Boss. He figured where they’d be and they walked right into the scope.”

Hamadeh and his partner came around the corner, carrying a satchel and some Hezbollah equipment. The Druze leader hefted the satchel. “Maps and military papers. Radio fre… freq… channels. Yes? I translate them soon.”

“That’s excellent, Rami,” Leopole replied. “What else did you see?”

Hamadeh turned to Barrkman. “You not miss second shot, Meestair Barrkman. Blood on the ground, yes. We followed south to southeast.” He patted a leg. “You must hit him low. Dragging one foot, yes.

Bosco gave Barrkman a comradely hoo-ah punch on one arm.

26

“And the Ranger’s aim was deadly with the big iron on his hip. Big iron on his hiiiip…” Phil Green was an Arizonan down to his boots. Though something less of a singer, he mouthed the lyrics to the classic gunfighter ballad.

“Marty Robbins sang about six-guns but this is my idea of Big Iron!” He ran an admiring hand along the barrel of the 12.7mm DShK machine gun. Ironically, the Dashika had become an icon both of the Soviet Army and the Afghan mujahadeen who ousted the Russians from their country.

Captain Salah-Hassan Fares of the IDF Druze contingent was pleased with his coup. But no more so than Ayoob Slim, whose militia benefited from the acquisition. His men had unloaded the seventy-five-pound weapon from the truck and set it on its tripod mount.

“Wish we had another one,” Nissen said. “Cross fire’s the best way to prevent trespassing.” He smiled broadly, pleased with his down-home wisdom.

Wallender was unconvinced. “It’s an old design from the 1930s, isn’t it?”

“Hell yes, it’s an old design,” Green replied, “even with the postwar mods. But so’s the 1911 pistol and the Ma Deuce .50 cal. Let me tell you, friend: if something’s still being used seventy or eighty years later, there’s a good reason for it!”

Nissen stood back and scrutinized the Dashika. “I’d like to get one or two of these on wheels. You know, like the Russians used. I wouldn’t care so much about the shield. But if we have to defend this place, it’d be nice to have some mobility for our heavy weapons.” He tapped the antiaircraft sight. “We don’t need all the baroque accessories, but we can keep the recoil damper.”

While the militiamen set up the gun under Slim’s direction, Fares pointed out the features. “This weapon is fed by a fifty-round belt at six hundred rounds per minute. There is a three-position gas regulator, and we will find the best setting according to what ammunition we receive. The muzzle velocity is 850 meters per second, a little less than your .50 caliber.”

Nissen turned from the DShK to the surrounding terrain. “Captain, where do you recommend placing this gun?”

The Israeli Druze looked around. “Your idea of a wheel mount makes sense. We should be able to move it quickly depending on where an attack comes from.” He rubbed his chin as if pondering a philosophical point, which in a manner of speaking was the case. Then he looked up and behind him. “There.” He pointed to a flat-roofed building. “Best field of fire for a fixed position.”

The American gauged the geometry and agreed. “Okay, that looks good. Assuming the home owners don’t mind.”

Fares gave an ironic grin. “Believe me, Mr. Nissen. They will not object.”

Green wondered where the conversation was headed. “If we’re going to defend this place, shouldn’t we be building more walls and clearing better fields of fire?” His blue eyes took in the surrounding terrain, which included a goodly amount of scrub brush.

Fares called to Slim, who trotted over to the group. After some fast Arabic, the militia leader nodded and turned to his men, talking animatedly.

“What’d he say?” Nissen asked.

“He is asking for volunteers to cut the brush and carry stones to build a new wall on this side of the village.”

Green folded his arms and looked skeptical. “Who’s gonna volunteer for work like that?”

Fares suppressed another smile. “Mr. Green, these people know that if they want to keep their homes they must be willing to defend them. The Druze have a long history of fighting to protect their culture.” He inclined his head toward the town. “If the militia want it done, it will be accomplished. The only question is how soon.”

“Outstanding,” Nissen exclaimed. “Now if we could find another machine gun.”

Fares replied, “This one is Russian but I know of another from China. Or maybe Pakistan. Either will do.”

Nissen clapped Green on one arm. “Hey, bro, don’t you love it when a plan comes together?”

Azizi convened a meeting with Esmaili and the leader of the mortar section, another Iranian known as Abbasali Rezvani. Esmaili was experienced enough to know that the man probably was born with another name.

“We have made a good beginning,” Azizi opened. “Now is the time to increase pressure on the enemy.”

Rezvani seemed immune to concern. He was a spare, slender jihadist in his late thirties. Not the type of man accustomed to lugging a forty-kilogram tube and base plate around the countryside, though it was a near certainty that he seldom conducted such exertions himself. “We can operate both day and night,” he replied. “But it will be necessary to provide more security to my teams.”

Azizi nodded. “Yes, brother. It is advisable to alter our attacks in order to prevent the militias from recognizing a pattern. As for more security…” He looked to Esmaili.

“Some of my men can accompany the mortar teams, but that will mean fewer snipers to harass both villages.”

“We still have work for your snipers, my brother. But Rezvani lost an experienced observer who was killed by an enemy sniper. The radioman was fortunate to escape with a wound.”

Esmaili rubbed his chin, mentally allotting assets. “If you begin shelling the Druze at night, you might escape the first two times or so. After that, the Jews and the Americans will supply them with night vision. In fact, they probably have such equipment now.”

He decided not to mention that Hazim had inherited just such an item from the Israeli marksman killed in what now seemed a long-ago ambush. Instead, he changed the subject.

“What information is available on the Zionist mercenaries working with the militias?”

Azizi was prepared. “They have established training programs in both Amasha and El-Arian. Their facilities are meager but evidently adequate. So far the emphasis seems to be on small arms and defensive measures.”

“What about heavy weapons?” Esmaili thought that surely the defenders would upgrade their defenses in the face of the new threat.

“There is no information as yet. But we should expect that they will add more as the situation develops.”

Esmaili fidgeted and eyed Rezvani. The man seemed capable enough but he spoke little and asked no questions. Apparently he was willing to conduct operations exactly as ordered — the perfect soldier to some minds. “My brother, I ask about the militia’s weapons because I believe we need to plan ahead of events. For example, if we are expected to seize one or both villages, we will need more information. And more men.”

The statement carried implicit questions that Azizi recognized, even if he was unwilling to answer them. “At present we have no such intentions. Our part in the overall plan is to occupy the defenders of both places while our brothers expand their control over the surrounding territory. Meanwhile, we continue as directed. We will keep the Druze occupied with sniping and mortar attacks, day and night.” He paused, seemingly pondering whether he should elaborate. Then he stood. “I leave you both to continue your work.”

Ahmad Esmaili knew when he had been dismissed. He returned to his subordinates, musing whom he should next send within range of the sharp-shooting mercenaries.

The rock exploded with abrupt violence, sending shattered stones in all directions.

Everybody hit the deck.

Breezy found himself cheek by jowl with Rami Hamadeh, the IDF liaison officer for the Amasha militia. The American raised his face from the sandy soil. “Welcome to the war, Lieutenant.”

Hamadeh crayfished several meters along the base of the rock wall, then raised his head for a quick look. Breezy was quick to offer an opinion. “Nothin’ to see out there?”

“The sniper could be anywhere. He will keep up a harassing fire until he tires of the game.”

“Or until we nail his sorry ass.” Breezy looked around for Leopole or Barrkman. “That’s the trouble with countersnipers. They’re like cops. Never one around when you want one.”

Lacking an appreciation for American humor, Hamadeh ignored the flippant statement. Instead, he rolled onto his back, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted to the Dashika crew atop the nearby house. The gunner replied with a question while his loader and spotter seemed awestruck. In moments it was apparent why.

Pointing to their right, Hamadeh said, “Go there, ten-fifteen meters and watch for snipers. Anywhere that looks possible.”

Once Breezy was in position, the Druze officer stood and pulled his binoculars from their case. He began scanning the terrain, seemingly looking for the offending Hezbollah shooter or shooters. In a few seconds he lowered the glasses and began walking along the wall.

Mark Brezyinski had seen enough displays of bravado in his life to recognize genuine courage when he saw it. He thought: Great big brass ones. Those gomers got the windage dialed in. All they need is a little elevation and this guy’s bore-sighted. Then he returned his scan to the surrounding terrain.

Hamadeh stopped, turned around, and jogged back. He passed behind Breezy and went several more paces in a long, slow lope, then halted again.

Another rifle shot split the air. It passed somewhere above the living decoy.

Hamadeh remained in place, peering through his binoculars again. He remained until another round snapped out, apparently from a different location. The IDF man went to his knees and turned toward the elevated machine gun. At that moment the Russian weapon pounded out an authoritative tattoo: six- and eight-round bursts traversing a couple of likely spots.

Breezy crawled on hands and knees to join the officer. “I couldn’t see anything. But, Lieutenant, you’re gonna check into a Dragunov round one of these times.”

Hamadeh unzipped an ironic grin. “Ah, yes, yes. Your special forces men say, ‘Rami, you will swallow a 7.62 pill.’”

“Fershure, dude.”

“Pardon?”

Breezy returned the smile. “It means, my green beanie colleagues knew what they were talkin’ about.”

Hamadeh shook his head decisively. “No, no. I will die in bed many many years away. My mother’s mother read my hand when I was born. She was never wrong.”

The former paratrooper absorbed the serious sentiment from the officer who appeared so supremely confident. “Well, I loved my grandma but I wouldn’t let her place a bet in Vegas for me, let alone set the odds on a freaking sniper!”

“Well, yes, Mr. B. Your grandmother, she was not a Druze!”

27

Essam Tawfiq was an experienced fighter but he had little knowledge of mortars. Consequently, Esmaili sent him to learn by observing so he watched closely while Rezvani’s number-two team set up its 2B14 weapon. The four men worked quickly, obviously well drilled in the process. The gunner and his assistant had established a prominent tree stump on the near horizon as their marker stake, and they could shift aim from there.

The A-gunner was friendly, apparently proud of his weapon and his role. “We can traverse a total of eight degrees, which is adequate for our need. The elevation varies between forty-five and eighty-five degrees.”

“Why is this called the Todnos?”

“I am told that it is the Russian word for ‘tray.’” The man pointed to the base plate which in fact resembled a circular serving tray.

In the gathering dusk the crew set out a pile of 3.1-kilogram shells. Meanwhile, the lead gunner consulted his compass and a topographical map of the area. He was satisfied that he had identified his firing position within several meters and felt confident of putting the first round close enough to hit with the second or third. After that he would fire three for effect, dismount the tube, plate, and tripod, and be gone in the Toyota “technical” in a matter of minutes.

As leader of the security element, Tawfiq was responsible for getting his flankers and the forward observer back to base. It was not a cheery prospect. He sidled up to Hazim. “Be prepared to move as soon as the weapon is loaded in the vehicle.”

The youngster nodded silently, fondling the case containing the dead Israeli’s night scope. The sky was still too light for the specialized optic, and much as he relished the thought of using it on a genuine target, he did not want to use up valuable tube life unnecessarily.

Yakov Livni was about as grumpy as a colonel can be in a general’s office. After twice insisting to Solomon Nadel’s chief of staff that a meeting was urgently required, the visitor from special operations was politely invited to cool his heels until the staff meeting was over.

Ninety-five minutes later the officers began filing out of the inner sanctum, bringing Livni to his feet. Since he outranked most of the conferees, Livni felt little reluctance in bulling his way past the juniors and barely excusing himself when he collided with other colonels. He reached the door of Nadel’s office to find the brigade commander engaged in conversation with a lieutenant colonel and a major, neither of whom took much notice of the interloper. From the murmured conversation, Livni inferred that the subject was less important than his own, so he barged ahead.

“General, thank you for seeing me on such short notice!” Livni stomped into the room, displacing the light colonel en route, and plunked a manila folder onto the desk with a resounding thud. “Since we both know that time is short, I’ll get right to the point.” He helped himself to the nearest chair, still warm from recent occupancy, and flipped the folder.

The major craned his neck, trying to assess the import of so rude an entry, but Livni slapped the folder shut. Looking up, he declared, “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but you will have to excuse us. This material is for Sol’s eyes only.”

Nadel’s expression turned from displeasure to indulgence as he nodded to the officers. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, boys.”

When the major closed the door behind him, Nadel leaned across the desk. “Yakov, what in the hell is so damned important that you have to…”

Livni held up a reconnaissance photograph. Nadel took it, examined it, and handed it back. “Where was that taken?”

“Twelve kilometers south of Hasbaya. You recognize the layout.”

“It looks like an excavation for a missile site.”

The smile was back on Livni’s moon face. “You missed your calling, Solly. You should have been a photo interpreter instead of a general.”

Nadel tapped the folder. “What else do you have in there? And where did you get this material, anyway? That sort of intelligence is supposed to come…”

“Oh, never mind. You would see this information eventually, but because of my uncommon intellect and special connections, sometimes I get interesting items ahead of some important people. Even generals.”

Nadel sat down and opened the folder. It contained other photos and some intelligence summaries. At length he looked up. “Yakov, you’re not telling me something. This is all very interesting — even important. But it’s beyond my area of operations unless we’re about to invade Nabatiyeh Governate. And unless you just got a huge promotion, you don’t give that order.”

“Sol, let me tell you what I think.”

“As if I have a choice.”

Livni ignored the good-natured quip. “These recon images show at least two sites within several kilometers of Hasbaya with evidence of surveying a third. Now, of course Hezbollah has long-range missiles, and certainly is willing to use them. But to what purpose? I mean, unless they’re content just to lob some occasional rockets at your headquarters and the surrounding area, what’s the point? They know it will invite retaliation.”

Nadel frowned in concentration. “Well, depending on the type of missiles, basing them there, they could hit as far south as—”

“A Fajr 5 wouldn’t reach Haifa but a Zelzal could hit Nablus, or even farther depending on the model.”

The general stood up and began pacing, as he often did when he wanted to think. “Yakov, it just doesn’t make much sense. Hezbollah doesn’t telegraph its blows like this. There’s not even any attempt at camouflage.”

“Correct.”

Nadel pulled up short. “Well then?”

“Well then, I think your boys should be more worried about what’s not evident in these pictures than what is.”

“You believe this is a deception? Something to move our focus elsewhere?”

Livni slapped the desk. “General, you show real promise. Remind me to recommend you for a promotion the next time I dine with my cousin, the deputy defense minister.”

“All right, all right. I’ll put the brigade on enhanced alert. We’ll increase patrols, looking for more infiltrators, that sort of thing.”

“It’s a good start, Sol.”

“Sure, but it’s only a start considering I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

Yakov Livni picked up the folder and prepared to leave. “That makes you a member of a big club, my friend.”

Two groups of men hunted through the Lebanese night, each seeking its prey without full knowledge of the other.

Using a commercial GPS unit purchased in Beirut, Tawfiq directed Rezvani’s mortar team to its predetermined firing position almost three kilometers from the village. The experienced crew needed only minutes to set up and prepare to fire, but establishing radio contact with the forward observer took longer. That vital member of the team had carefully selected his vantage point well away from the weapon site.

After ensuring that his security element was properly positioned, Tawfiq hastened back to the firing point. He found Rezvani on the radio to his FO.

“Jinn, this is Dancer. Reply.” Rezvani double-clicked the transmit button to ensure that the listener knew the message was ended. He pressed his earphones with his left hand, as if squeezing more performance from the set. Finally he looked at Tawfiq. “He was preparing himself just a moment ago.”

Two kilometers to the west, a Litton night-vision scope was put to use. The image glowed greenly on the CRT, showing a human form via infrared heat. The viewer tweaked the focus knob. Finally Josh Wallender turned to Captain Fares. “They came where you said they would. Confirmed hostile. He has a radio and a guard.”

The Israeli Druze nodded in silent acceptance of the compliment. In truth, however, he did not consider his coup a significant achievement. Once it was known where FOs had operated previously, it was a safe bet that they would not return to those spots very often. Then it was a matter of deducing which new vantages were most useful and assigning the other two teams accordingly.

“We will wait a little,” Fares whispered. “Ayoob Slim’s team might find something as well, and we could take two observers.”

The American rolled his shoulders to ease the muscular tension. He was accustomed to hunting humans in the dark, but the stationary position led to cramps. “It’s up to you, Captain, but the longer we wait the more likely they’ll drop some rounds on the town.”

“Yes. But the first shells are almost always off target. That gives time to decide the best course.”

“But how do we know where the first rounds hit? We can’t see what the observer does because he’s always in position to do just that.”

A gunshot shattered the night. Wallender’s pulse spiked at the sonic blast. Its piercing decibels startled everyone in the group, all of whom would have dived for cover if they were not already prone.

Fares turned, immediately grasping what had happened. He asked if anybody were injured. Receiving negative replies, he loosened a stream of heartfelt invective at the militiaman who had carried a rifle with a round chambered, safety off, and finger on the trigger.

The offender was simultaneously appalled at his slovenliness and the humiliation heaped upon him. Belatedly he complied with the Israeli’s order to lay down the AK and step back. Despite the darkness, in one fluid motion Fares scooped it up, pulled the magazine, and cycled the bolt. A cartridge was ejected from the chamber, tumbling to the ground.

Fares handed the empty rifle to another Druze, then turned to Wallender. “We cannot stay here very long. Do you still see the men?”

Wallender returned his attention to the Hezbollah team’s previous position. He scanned left and right. “Nothing. They’re gone.”

Three hundred meters away, Rob Furr and his companions heard the shot. He knew the hunter’s conventional wisdom: One shot, meat. Two shots, maybe. Three shots, none. He thought: Somebody just got whacked.

In moments Wallender’s baritone was on the tactical frequency. “Trigger, this is Scope, over.”

Furr keyed his mike. “Scope, Trigger. Go.”

“Ah, be advised. We had some tangos but one idiot just had a November Delta here. We’re moving. Over.”

Furr indulged in some heartfelt blasphemy, angry at missing an opportunity. He forced himself to concentrate. “Roger, Scope. We’ll stay put for a while in case something comes this way. Out.”

The sniper turned to Ashcroft and the English-speaking militiamen. “One of Josh’s people just had a negligent discharge. They’re moving to the fallback position.”

Rezvani heard the carrier wave and concentrated on the cryptic message. Then he looked at Tawfiq. “There was a shot somewhere near the observer position. My men are taking a circular route back. We will fire a few bombs on the approximate azimuth and displace.”

Before Tawfiq could reply, Rezvani was hissing orders to the mortar team. The gunner spun the traverse wheel, checked the elevation, and nodded. The A-gunner had prepped three rounds and had them close at hand. All three went down the tube in less than five seconds. Before the last one had landed, the tube was being dismounted from the base plate. Thirty seconds later the bipod was disconnected and being carried to the vehicle.

Rezvani grasped Tawfiq’s arm. “I will take one security man to help guard the weapon. You take the other and meet the observers at the alternate point. They do not know the terrain like you do. We will drive there and return you to the base.”

Tawfiq was unconvinced of the wisdom of separating the team in the darkness, let alone possibly near an alerted enemy, but there was no time to argue. Rezvani was on his way, leaving Hazim with Tawfiq. The commander and his lead sniper set out cross-country.

Josh Wallender had the point with the best night-vision optic. He moved steadily but cautiously, stopping occasionally to allow the rest of the team to keep up with him and maintain proper interval. Fares was next in line, better to communicate with the Arabic speakers. Since he could not read a compass with the NVG in place, he navigated by guesstimate.

Without realizing it, en route to the alternate position, Wallender took a wrong turn. He moved more northerly than intended, owing to a stony crag that blocked the direct line. Though he intended to resume his previous route, the erratic outline of the crag conspired with darkness and poor footing to put him thirty degrees off track.

Salah-Hassan Fares knew the area far better than the American but had seldom ventured out at night. Using a red-lensed penlight, he took occasional compass readings to their direction but could not consult his topographic map on the move. He made a mental note to bring Wallender back on course once the terrain evened out.

Half an hour later there occurred what military professionals call a meeting engagement.

Essam Tawfiq never would have admitted that he was lost. But beneath a quarter moon, the ambient light was insufficient to find his way visually, and the often rough terrain had forced several detours. When he realized that he could not recognize any landmarks, enough time had passed that he knew he had missed the forward observer team.

Tawfiq stopped, gesturing Hazim to keep back. The leader then knelt behind a tree and pressed the transmit button. “Jinn, this is Tawfiq. Reply.”

When two other attempts produced no response, he switched frequencies and made the call he did not want to make. “Dancer, this is Tawfiq. Reply.”

The response came through muted but legible. “This is Dancer. Where are you? Reply.”

“I am looking for Jinn.”

“He called ten minutes ago, looking for you!” There was an insistent pause. “Reply!”

Tawfiq considered his response before keying the mike. “I am…”

“Tangos! Left front!”

Wallender saw one human form in his goggles and another heat source behind it. It was usually difficult to estimate distance with NVGs, but surely the strangers were within the two-hundred-meter zero of his sights. He went to kneeling, aware that Fares and Ashcroft had deployed either side of him.

“No joy,” Ashcroft said.

“I’m on ‘em.” Furr assumed a braced standing position, leveling his Robar custom rifle in the notch of a tree. The night scope’s reticle settled on the nearer form.

Wallender’s mind raced. The odds that two or more friendlies would be somewhere ahead of his group approached absolute zero but he could not afford to take chances. He spoke into his headset. “Slim, this is Josh, over.”

Phil Green replied. “Slim Six actual is nearby. You need him?”

“Negative, Phil. I need to know your posit, definitely. Over.”

“We’re still at our briefed position. No joy here.”

“Roger that. We got bogies in front of us. Over.”

Seconds ticked past. “You need help?”

Wallender shook his head, as if Green could see him. “Negative. Will advise, out.”

He turned to either side. “Tangos are hostile. Repeat, tangos are considered hostile.”

Ashcroft asked, “Shall we flank ‘em?”

“No, keep everybody together. It’s bad enough in the dark.”

Hazim scanned the area while Tawfiq talked on the radio. On the second sweep his captured Galil with the night sight picked up two or three human forms. He rode the adrenaline spike, then relaxed slightly. The observer team at last!

The youngster took several steps forward, tapped Tawfiq on the shoulder, and pointed into the dark. “I believe the observers are less than seventy meters ahead.” He assumed a sitting position.

“What? Where?”

Hazim was tempted to hand the Galil to his superior so Tawfiq could look for himself but thought better of it. “Call them, brother.”

It was the best news Tawfiq had heard all night. He stood up and keyed the mike. “Jinn, I think we see you. Reply. Now!”

When no response came, Tawfiq began feeling more anger than caution. He took several steps forward, raising his voice. “Jinn! Reply!”

The first round from Furr’s rifle took the leading Hezbollah man almost on the notch of the sternum. The impact drove him to the ground, where he rolled over and muttered liquid syllables.

Hazim immediately put his scope on the most prominent target, remembered to control his breath, and pressed the trigger. He repeated the process five times, each aimed at a different shape.

Rob Furr was an expert rifleman; he could cycle his bolt-action weapon almost as fast as he could produce aimed fire from a semi-auto. But the volume of incoming Dragunov rounds provided a temporary advantage to the Hezbollah sniper.

Hazim’s first round had missed its mark but struck the disarmed militiaman several meters behind its intended target. The youngster cried aloud, grasped his shoulder, and fell to one side. The second round destroyed Josh Wallender’s night-vision device, sending metal fragments into his face. The third and fourth rounds struck Furr’s tree, forcing him to seek cover.

The fifth round killed Salah-Hassan Fares. The sixth went somewhere into the Nabatiyeh darkness.

With a last wide-eyed look at Tawfiq’s body; Hazim scrambled across the rocky ground, fleeing that dreadful place.

28

“How bad is it?” Derringer knew only the basics of the previous e-mail from Lebanon.

Sandra Carmichael checked her scribbled notes. “I just talked to Frank on the satellite phone. Our El-Arian team — that’s Chris Nissen’s — was involved in countersniper and security operations last night. They were out with some militia looking for a mortar that had been dropping rounds in the area lately. Apparently they ran into the Hezbollah security element and there was a firefight. Josh Wallender took a round to his NVG and may be blind in one eye. Anyway, Terry Keegan is going to bring him home from Beirut.”

Marsh Wilmont asked, “What about the other casualties, Sandy?”

“One of the Druze leaders was KIA and another militiaman was wounded.”

“Who was the leader?”

Carmichael squinted at her handwriting. “Fares. Salah — something — Fares. He was the IDF contact for the El-Arian unit.”

Wilmont expelled his breath, drumming his fingers on the table. “Not that it really matters, but any word on hostile casualties?”

“Rob Furr got off the first round and apparently that guy’s a KIA though nobody went looking for bodies. As Frank said, there wasn’t time to score and paste targets. After that, the hostile sniper or snipers opened up and achieved fire superiority. Then they broke contact and disappeared.”

Derringer was clearly troubled. “If that’s an accurate report, we finished on the short end of a three-to-one score.” He shook his head. “How did that happen? We’re supposed to be better than that.”

Carmichael’s rebel blood began stirring. “Excuse me, Admiral. But this was a collision of two maneuvering forces at fairly long range in the dark. Frank’s not making excuses but he says the whole thing lasted about fifteen seconds, if that. Furr was the only one to make an aimed shot because only he had a night scope. The opposition had semiautos, probably Dragunovs, and they throw more lead than a bolt gun.”

The SSI president saw the fire in the blue eyes and backed off. “All right, Sandy. All right. But if we understaffed this job, we need to send more people.” He thought for a moment. “Can we send a replacement for Wallender?” He looked at Jack Peters, head of scouting and recruiting.

The former Green Beret almost smiled. “Admiral, I’d be willing to go myself! But since that’s not why I was hired, I should be able to turn up a couple of guys. However, you understand, neither of them are going to be as well qualified as those we already have over there. We really did send the first team, especially where language is concerned.”

Marsh Wilmont leaned forward. “According to Mordecai Baram, everybody’s happy with the progress the Druze are making with our instructors. But we did expect casualties on this contract. That’s why we have a few guys suited up, sitting on the bench.”

“How soon can they get over there?”

Peters frowned in concentration. “I’ll have to check, but probably not before the end of next week.”

Derringer turned to Carmichael. “Sandy, let Frank know that we’re lining up two replacements. Obviously one will fill in for Wallender, then Frank or Chris can decide where to put the other. But with things heating up, it’s probably best to have another man there right away.”

The blond head bobbed. “Concur, Admiral. The new guys will need some time to get up to speed in any event.”

“Speaking of Wallender, I want him to get the best possible care. If we have to pay some out-of-pocket expenses for the best specialist, so be it.” He looked at Wilmont.

“I’ll make it happen, Mike.”

Esmaili sat with Azizi, considering tactical options within the context of the emerging strategic plan.

“Tawfiq will not be easy to replace,” Esmaili said. “He was my best and most experienced man.”

The liaison man from Tehran slightly cocked his head, studying the Hezbollah leader. “You fought together for a long time.”

A quick nod. “To lose him in a relatively minor mission is… regrettable.” Esmaili managed to keep an even tone in his voice.

“Well, he now sits in Paradise. Allow your sorrow to be eased with that knowledge.”

For an ephemeral moment Ahmad Esmaili felt himself warming to the go-between. Then he caught himself. Show no weakness. It can lead to mistakes. And mistakes can be fatal.

“Truly.” After a suitable pause Esmaili asked, “How shall we proceed?”

Azizi relaxed. “As much as Brother Tawfiq will be missed, we are to continue our operations. Your young marksman, Hazim. He did well.”

“So it seems.”

The cocked head again. “There are doubts?”

“Brother, there are always doubts after combat. Especially after a fight in the dark. I do not doubt Hazim’s belief in what he told us. But with no one else to describe the action, it is impossible to know for certain.”

“Yes, of course. That is why I have sent agents to El-Arian. They may learn something in addition to what our signals branch reports on militia radio intercepts.”

Esmaili frowned despite himself. “Why the concern? As I say, it was a small incident except for the loss of Tawfiq.”

“I remember what you said about the phantom sniper in Baghdad. Juba?”

“Yes, I discussed that with Tawfiq. It’s not certain that he was real. Why?”

“We might make use of young Hazim. Build up his reputation, perhaps even using his real name. It could cause fear in the militias while we continue sending your other snipers to harass them.”

Esmaili realized that he may have condemned the youngster by a casual discussion with the now-deceased instructor. “If he gains enough of a reputation, he will certainly be hunted down and killed.”

Azizi rolled his shoulders. “We all serve God in our own way, brother. Meanwhile, I have sent for help.”

“What kind of help?”

“A Chechen sniper, vastly experienced. You know that Chechen Muslims are mostly Sunni. Well, the fighter known as Akhmed grew up sniping Russians and has trained resistance fighters in Afghanistan. He has more than two hundred hits to his credit.”

Esmaili was tempted to smile. “There are claims and there are results. They are not always the same.”

With a wave of a hand, Azizi placated his colleague. “It does not matter. The important thing is that Akhmed has skills well beyond any of your… er, our men. His identity will be kept secret but his deeds can be publicized to our benefit.”

“In other words, to Hazim’s detriment.”

“As I said, we all serve God in our own way.”

For a change, Brigadier General Nadel went looking for Colonel Livni. Not surprisingly, the senior officer found his nominal subordinate engaged in a shouting match with a sergeant. The colonel won, not from a position of greater authority, but the ability to summon greater decibels.

The NCO offered a perfunctory salute and stalked away.

“What was that about?” Nadel asked.

Livni waved dismissively. “Oh, Feldmann throws occasional tantrums. He can’t stand the thought that somebody else might know as much as he does.”

Nadel arched an eyebrow. “A sergeant resents a colonel’s level of knowledge? That’s one for the record book.”

“I’ve known Feldmann for ten years or more. One of the smartest people I ever met but he’s a victim of his own intellect.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, he’s turned down a commission at least twice. His family are all fervent socialists, some from the old school. They equate officers with snobbery and privilege so he wouldn’t ever consider joining the ‘elite.’” Livni etched quote marks in the air with both hands.

“So why keep him around? Is he so bright that he’s worth the effort?”

“Mostly he’s just a pain in the ass, but now and then he comes up with something really useful. Sometimes it’s a fresh way of looking at an old problem.”

Nadel leaned forward. “Yakov, you always pique my curiosity. May I ask what’s the problem this time?”

“Peanut butter.”

The general’s face betrayed incredulity. Before Nadel could respond, Livni explained. “There’s a big dispute in some orthodox communities about whether peanuts can be used during Passover. You know, like other legumes. I told Feldmann that the Ashkenazi don’t allow peanuts but do allow peanut oil, which is true. And presumably kosher peanut butter should be allowed. Since he’s not Ashkenazi it’s not really a concern but he disagrees.” Livni shrugged. “Feldmann often disagrees just to be disagreeable.”

While Nadel absorbed that revelation, Livni folded his arms and tapped his toes. “What can I do for you, General?”

Nadel shook his head as if avoiding a pesky gnat. “Get rid of that damned sergeant. He’s undermining your morale and the national war effort.”

“Well, as long as I run special operations, I’ll keep some special people around me. Now, what’s on your mind?”

“I got your message about the militia situation in El-Arian. I agree they’re going to need a Druze officer to replace Captain Fares.”

Livni nodded slowly, pondering options. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

“I’m thinking of Hussain Halabi. A bright, energetic lieutenant. Do you know him?”

“I’ve heard of him.” The colonel unzipped a wry grin. “But God deliver us from bright, energetic lieutenants!”

“Well, he has some experience over there and I think he would fit in. Besides, he’s the best English speaker among the likely candidates, and that’s important.”

“Agreed. The militia is asking for more American instructors but that’s going to take a little time. The way things are going in that area, they might not arrive soon enough to make a difference.”

Nadel inclined his torso, obviously interested. “Why? What have you heard?”

“I don’t think I’ve heard much more than you have, Sol. But the way I see things, there’s likely to be more Hezbollah activity than before. It could lead to something bigger than we’ve seen in quite a while.”

“All right, then. I’ll make sure that my boys keep their contingency plans updated.” He wagged a cautionary finger. “Just don’t let me be surprised, Colonel!”

29

“Okay, who can we send? I have to let the admiral or Marsh Wilmont know today.” Sandra Carmichael did not like to lean on a colleague, but time was short and getting shorter.

Matt Finch of SSI’s personnel department was ready for the inquiry. “Ken Delmore’s ready to go and Steve Lee says he’ll commit to a couple of months if we really need him. But that’s going to cause problems.”

“Yes, I know. Wallender was committed to the full contract, so if Steve only signs on for sixty days we’ll end up short again.”

Finch nodded. “Yes, but there’s more than that. I mean, he’s a former major and a Ranger to boot. How’s he going to fit in with Nissen’s team? They don’t know each other very well, and I just don’t see Staff Sergeant Nissen rolling over for a new guy O-4.” He shrugged. “It could cause more problems than it solves.”

Carmichael leaned back and examined her manicured nails. “Well, one thing’s for sure. We can’t tell the operators in the field how to do things. I’ll get hold of Frank and see what he says. Maybe the best bet is to reshuffle the deck. Send Delmore to Nissen and transfer one of Frank’s people as well. Then Lee can understudy Frank — maybe work as his exec.”

Finch gave a toothy grin. “Colonel, did you ever consider a career in the personnel field?”

Carmichael speared the human resources dweeb with her blue gaze. “Negative. Not once. Not ever.”

Hazim was the man of the hour. Though trying to maintain Muslim decorum, he simply could not suppress the soaring feeling of ego gratification.

It was delicious.

Azizi added spice to the taste by openly lauding Hazim. “Our sources are clear, my brothers. Hazim fearlessly engaged a superior number of the enemy and killed or wounded three of them. He is our lion! Learn from him and become lions yourselves!”

Sharp male roars erupted from the jihadists, reducing in the end to a rhythmic chant. “Ha-zim! Ha-zim!”

Standing behind the crowd, Esmaili permitted himself a sardonic smile. He recalled the debriefing after Hazim returned without Tawfiq.

“How many rounds did you fire?”

“Ah, five or six.”

“And how many hits did you gain?”

“Ah… I do not know, Teacher. It happened so …”

“A good sniper knows where the sights are when the bullet fires. That tells him whether he hit or missed.”

Now all that was suppressed, never to arise.

Azizi waved down the cheering fighters. Esmaili actually thought that the man seemed to believe everything he was declaring. “Hazim has spilled the blood of our enemies before, and now he adds to the count even at night. He should be the model for us all, and I promise you, brothers — he will have every chance to do so again!”

More cheers erupted from the crowd. Even Ebrahim Larijani joined in the chorus, seemingly recovered from his lesser notoriety at surviving the Beirut mission.

“Learn the lesson, O my brothers!” Azizi’s voice rose in pitch as the spirit came upon him. Or, as Esmaili cynically surmised, as the manipulator arose in him. “The product of slaying the infidel is not merely reducing his numbers. It is instilling fear in the black hearts of the survivors. We shall multiply that fear by making known the names of our finest warriors. I promise you, the name of Hazim is being known and feared by our enemies!”

Frank Leopole convened his team members on short notice. “There’s been some developments that you guys need to know about. Rather than recycle the intel, I’ll have Captain Hamadeh fill you in.”

The Israeli Druze officer stepped to the head of the room. “You know of the incident a few nights ago when Captain Fares was killed and Mr. Wallender was wounded. We are hearing from believable sources that it was the work of a particular sniper with a Hezbollah unit in this area. He is called Hazim. We do not know much about him, other than he is young and apparently experienced. The fact that his name has been released indicates that Hezbollah places considerable faith in him. It is not entirely unknown for particular fighters to receive such attention, but often it turns to a propaganda ploy.”

Rick Barrkman took a special interest in his opposite number. “Captain, you say that he’s young and experienced. How do we know that?”

“There have been two radio broadcasts extolling this Hazim. They were monitored by our signals intelligence.”

“So we really don’t know how authentic the info is.”

“No. As I said, it could be propaganda, but the details of the latest incident indicate otherwise. My special operations contacts treat Hazim as a genuine threat.”

The other Americans were serious, silent, and focused. Leopole took them in: Bosco and Breezy plus Robert Pitney. At length Breezy asked, “So are we gonna hunt for this guy or what?”

Leopole interjected. “We are not. It’s possible that’s what they want us to do. Otherwise there’s not much reason to put some shooter in the spotlight — distract us with a stalking horse.”

Hamadeh cocked his head. “Stalking horse?”

“It’s a deception. Goes way back to the early days of hunting when animals were scared off by humans but a horse or cattle distracted the game’s attention from the hunter. In this case, Hazim or whoever he is could be intended to make us look over our shoulders when something’s coming from another direction.”

While the Israeli absorbed that esoterica, Barrkman pursued his own line of thought. “Hezbollah definitely has more than one shooter. This Hazim might be their star but he can’t be everywhere. I wonder if he’s really doing the job or maybe taking credit for everybody who gets lucky.”

Leopole unzipped a wry grin. “Why Mr. Barrkman, you sound downright cynical.”

“Guilty, your honor.” The sniper laughed. “But I was just thinking, there’s examples from history of super snipers who probably didn’t exist. At Stalingrad the top Russian shooter supposedly had a duel with the top German and finally killed him. But it turned out that there was never a German sniper with the supposed name — Thorvald or Koenings. Just Communist propaganda.”

“So how would you like to proceed?”

“Let’s see if this Hazim dude turns up again. If so, Rob and I can whack him.”

Leopole shot a glance toward Hamadeh. “Maybe that’s what they want us to do. Commit our first team.”

“Well, maybe so. But I’d like to talk to Rob, Colonel. He’s the only one we know of who’s tangled with this turkey, and he might have a take on him that only a sniper would know.”

The SSI leader realized the wisdom of Barrkman’s approach, and decided to concede. “All right. You can huddle with Furr, but I do not want both of you operating together without a solid plan. Keep me informed.”

“Gotcha, Boss.”

As a Special Forces NCO, Chris Nissen had become accustomed to losses and to changes in plans. Now he tried to juggle both while working above and below his level of authority.

He pulled Green and Ashcroft off the morning’s training cycle to impart some information and seek advice.

“I just heard from Colonel Leopole. The office back home is sending two standby guys in a few days. Neither of them have language ability that’s useful but they’re experienced operators. So I’ll continue translating here.”

Green chewed his mustache for a moment. “Well, we sure can use some help, but mainly I wonder about the Druze situation. Since Fares got whacked, who’s going to replace him? I mean, obviously we can’t operate very well without a bilingual liaison officer.”

Nissen glanced over the operator’s shoulder. Rob Furr was working with Ayoob Slim’s people thanks to a militiaman who spoke passable English. “We’re about to get more shorthanded. Frank’s pulling Furr out of here to work with Barrkman on some countersniper job. He leaves tomorrow.”

Bob Ashcroft resorted to mental arithmetic. “The way I count it, that leaves us with three and — what? Thirty or thirty-five militia?”

Nissen rubbed the back of his neck, grateful that his African DNA had prepared him for an oppressive, overhead sun. “About that. Slim there says it varies from day to day, depending on duty rotation and personal or family matters.” He shrugged philosophically. “It’s an old story. Goes with the militia lashup.”

“How’s that?” Ashcroft asked.

“Well, that’s the thing about a militia, you know? It’s not a standing force, which means that you go with whoever’s suited up at the kickoff.”

Green chuckled. “Like the Minutemen who’d fire one or two shots and skedaddle when the redcoats approached. Or the Continental militia who went home to harvest in the summer.”

“You got it, bro.”

Ashcroft looked behind him again. “Are these guys ready for prime time?”

Chris Nissen unzipped a toothy smile. “That’s what’s so damned fascinating about this business. You never really know until it’s showtime. And then it’s too late.”

30

The visiting dignitary was known as Akhmed. The Chechen sniper arrived with two packs, a custom rifle case, and a significant reputation. In his travels his score was said to run upward of two hundred Russians, treacherous Afghans, collaborationist Iraqis, invading Americans, and assorted other infidels. It was said that he never missed.

Esmaili did not believe it; neither did Hazim, who now admitted that he missed fairly often.

Nevertheless, Esmaili and Azizi were present to greet Akhmed when he stepped out of the truck. Azizi took the lead. “Brother, welcome! Your presence here honors us all.”

Akhmed bowed his head in deference to the homage paid him. He muttered a perfunctory response that was barely audible and shook hands without conviction. Esmaili would have dismissed him as a dilettante but for the eyes, dark and peering. Many Muslims avoided direct eye contact. Not the Chechen. He looked directly at each Hezbollah officer, as if trying to see what lay behind their own eyes.

The three quickly got down to business.

Settling in a secluded cabin, Azizi and Esmaili briefed the master sniper on their plan. “We know that your time here is limited,” Azizi began. “Therefore, we will make it as useful and… profitable… as possible.”

Esmaili shot a look at his colleague. Nothing had been said about payment for Akhmed’s services. The Iranian looked at the Chechen with surging ambivalence: respect for his record and questions about his motives. Well, he has to eat like the rest of us. But Esmaili wondered how so devout a fighter as Azizi got his philosophical fingers around the notion of a mercenary who was well paid for slaying God’s enemies. Let alone Imam Elham.

Akhmed nodded his appreciation. He was a tall, spare man in his late thirties or early forties. He moved smoothly, confidently, and seemed to expend his words as economically as his ammunition. “I shall want to see the ground as soon as possible. Today, even. After that we can talk again and make more definite plans.”

“Yes, of course,” Azizi replied. “Brother Esmaili is completely familiar with the area around both villages.”

Akhmed turned to Esmaili and focused on him. The Iranian was mildly upset to discover that he found the attention unwelcome. He looks at me as if through a scope. On the other hand, Akhmed the Sniper probably looked at everyone that way. Esmaili tried to envision two hundred kills, or merely two hundred hits. Never a scorekeeper, he acknowledged that most of his victims had been killed at close range from his early days on the firing squads.

Close range — what range does this Akhmed prefer?

“Brother, the terrain around Amasha and El-Arian is similar. We can insert you into favorable positions from two to perhaps six hundred meters.”

“I usually fire from two hundred meters for head shots,” Akhmed responded. “On a standing man, between four and five hundred.”

Is that all? Esmaili hoped that his disappointment was well concealed. “What rifle do you shoot?”

“A modified Dragunov. It is not my first choice, but the British AWC that I prefer was ruined in a recent operation. With that, I was confident out to seven hundred meters.”

Esmaili merely nodded. He knew that the AWC PM was effective well beyond seven hundred. Rather than press the matter, he concluded, “You should have something to eat, then we can examine the terrain.”

Leaving their guest to have lunch, the Hezbollah men stepped well away. “I did not know he shoots for hire,” Esmaili began. The tone in his voice said, As you failed to tell me.

Azizi took no offense. “It is his way, and his services are invaluable. God will know Akhmed’s heart and his worth at the proper time.”

Esmaili was disinclined to discourse on religious matters. “I can understand his concern with the Dragunov, but the British rifle is capable of far more than seven hundred meters. Certainly nine hundred — with a capable marksman.”

“Oh, Akhmed is certainly capable. But he only shoots when he is confident of a kill. That is part of his fee: a bonus for every observed hit. Therefore, he seldom works with a regular spotter. Whomever we assign to him will also serve as… how would you say it? A tabulator?”

Esmaili folded his arms, assuming a petulant posture. “And our man? What does he receive for his services?”

“Let us hope he does not receive a bullet through his head. But to answer your question, brother, our man will have the knowledge that he serves Allah.”

“Of course, my brother. Of course.”

“Your mission is this Hazim character. He’s out there. Find him, shoot him, and don’t get hurt.”

Rob Furr and Rick Barrkman absorbed Frank Leopole’s directive. But their pleasure at being reunited was marred by the onerous chore of locating an elusive shooter who devoutly wished to remain hidden. Both snipers knew how tediously dangerous their job could become.

Furr was smart and capable but also cautious. “Colonel, isn’t it possible that the Hezzies want us to go looking for this guy? They probably know there’s only two of us with this training team.”

“Rick and I have already discussed that. In fact, we talked to Captain Hamadeh about it. So, yes, this Hazim or whoever he is might be a stalking horse to draw us out. But apart from the Hezzies’ propaganda, we know that somebody out there is a decent shot, and I believe in preventive medicine rather than trauma treatment.”

Barrkman had studied the area topographic maps and narrowed the likely hides near both villages. “Skipper, we’d double our chances of tapping this guy if we split up and work with other spotters. Rob and I might be willing to do that, but there’s no reason to think Hazim works alone. If it comes to a real sniper duel, it could be more of a tag team event than one on one.”

Leopole’s square jaw was thrust outward. “Concur. That’s why I brought you guys together again. We’ll go with our strength for starters and see what turns up. If there’s no definite results after a few days, we can split up.”

Furr squirmed slightly, shifting his feet. “So, how do we know if we bag this bird? I mean, even if we get the body he probably won’t have ID on him. It’s not like there’ll be a big sign saying, ‘Congratulations, you just snuffed Hazim.’”

“Good point. I guess we’ll know if their sniper activity falls off. If not, it means it’s not him or they have other talent. In either case, we’re ahead if you whack one of their shooters.”

Furr and Barrkman gave each other approving glances. The personal nature of the contest appealed to their competitive spirits.

“Another thing,” Leopole added. “This isn’t like the usual sniper or even countersniper operation. Basically, we’ve been called out and it’s high noon on Main Street in Dodge City. In other words, it’s a duel. But there’s more riding on this than just who walks away. Hezbollah will learn something about us depending on whether we accept the challenge or not. So the fact that you guys are out there hunting Hazim tells the opposition that we’re not playing safe. We’re here and we mean to stay.”

“Don’t worry, Skipper,” Barrkman chirped. “If we find him, we’ll kill him.”

Leopole tipped his cap back on his head and rubbed his chin. He thought for a moment, then looked both shooters full in the face. “That’s the way to think of it, you’re the hunters, but you’re hunting other predators. They may have more experience than you do, and presumably they know the land better. But I’m confident that you’re both more proficient, and I think you’re smarter.” He grinned. “Guys, just don’t get wrapped around your egos. Keep your heads in the game without worrying about what the Druze or I or anybody else thinks. At the same time, realize that you’re going up against a specific individual who’s proven that he’s dangerous, day or night.”

Furr recited something he had heard long ago. “Colonel, I respect my enemy but I don’t fear him.”

“Who said that?”

“Me!”

Leopole snorted. “Like hell you did!”

Furr toed the ground, glancing into the dirt. Finally he conceded, “I think it’s from an old samurai movie.”

“Well, you don’t look like any samurai I ever saw. But forget that bushido bullshit. There’s no warrior’s code out there, guys. There’s only winners and losers.”

31

The imam was back from Tehran. He beckoned, and Esmaili resented the gesture to the core of his soul. The Hezbollah commander also detested the sentiment behind the come-hither motion, for it screamed a tacit message: / command and you obey. Or else.

Esmaili approached the cleric, who turned and walked into the house that served as the cell’s headquarters. With a dismissive flick of the hand, Elham ordered the building emptied. In seconds Azizi appeared and the three sat down around the wooden table.

“I have received our final orders,” Elham began.

Esmaili and Azizi locked eyes for an ephemeral moment. Our final orders. Not only did the phrase have the ring of finality, but it implied that all three jihadists were about to set foot upon their final venture. Esmaili knew from experience and a well-honed skepticism that wherever the trail led, Sadegh Elham would remain alive to tell the tale.

“We are to launch simultaneous attacks on the villages of Amasha and El-Arian. It is a maximum effort, without concern for casualties.”

Esmaili’s glance at Azizi said it all: I told you so! He wondered how long the liaison man’s devotion and enthusiasm would remain intact.

Then Elham added, “That is, except for a handful of faithful fighters.”

Azizi did not seem overly relieved or concerned. He merely mouthed the expected phrase, “However we may serve, Imam.”

Unfolding a map, the priest spread it on the table. “Our instructions from Tehran require attacks on the villages mentioned. But they are diversions, which is why heavy losses are acceptable. The main attack will be directed elsewhere, and you will be informed when the time is right. The time will depend upon weather to cover us from enemy aircraft.”

Esmaili realized that the explanation was intended for him. Apparently Azizi already knew the full plan, and that perspective did not sit well with Ahmad Esmaili. They are close — at least far closer than I am to either of them. Therefore, I am likely expendable.

“Imam, if I may point out something. If the main attack goes in another direction, we will have to know its strength to allocate men and supplies. Otherwise the two diversions could soak up assets that will be needed elsewhere.”

Elham cocked his head slightly, scrutinizing the Hezbollah leader. The cleric’s steady gaze made Esmaili infuriatingly uncomfortable. At length Elham said, “Brother, you state the obvious. Of course the main mission will require men and… special equipment. That goes without saying. You should give us credit for competent planning.” Before Esmaili could respond, the priest added, “All has been considered long before now, my brother. I ask only that you place your trust in us, as you would in Allah.”

Esmaili’s mind raced. They are mad: they equate their own judgment with God’s! But then he remembered his childhood instruction: certain imams were especially beloved of God, as evidenced through religious scholarship and good works. Though not equal to a caliph, whose word could not be questioned, the leaders of a defensive jihad possessed special status in The Faith.

Esmaili inclined his head. “Imam, my apologies if I seemed doubtful. But you will understand my concern for seeing to the success of whatever my part of the mission may involve.” A nice recovery, he told himself.

Azizi sought to defuse the tension. “Brother Esmaili, it can be stated that you will have an important, even a crucial, role in the main attack. The unit you lead will be small, and therefore will not detract from either of the diversionary actions.”

“And the special equipment?”

“It will be provided at the appropriate time. There will be technicians to deal with it, so that aspect should not worry you.”

Esmaili rolled his shoulders, evidence of the strain he felt building inside. But as long as the commanders were talking, he decided to risk further questions. “As you wish, brother. But again: I am concerned about proper execution of the full mission. If I am to lead the main effort, who will direct the attacks on the villages?”

Azizi unzipped a smug grin. “I will. Therefore, your more important role will not be burdened with other concerns.”

Esmaili felt himself blanch. Now he knew: the “main attack” would almost certainly be a suicide mission, leaving Mohammad Azizi to supervise the covering forces in relative safety.

Esmaili heard his voice say, “As you wish, brother. I am yours to command.”

“Okay, here’s how it shakes out,” Nissen began. Phil Green and Bob Ashcroft paid close attention: their ex-cop antennae had sensed the atmosphere and picked up the growing tension.

“HQ is sending Steve Lee and Ken Delmore. They’ll be here in a couple of days. We’re getting Delmore directly and Frank will send us Pitney.”

Green’s blue eyes lit up. “I know Ken. We worked with him in Afghanistan.”

Ashcroft laughed. “Yeah, he looks like Mr. Clean on steroids. Bald as a billiard ball with twenty-inch biceps. He can prob’ly bench-press a Yugo without breaking a sweat.”

Nissen almost laughed. “Well, that’s fine, but I don’t know him. What’s his background?”

“Eighty-second all the way. Jumped into Grenada and landed on the runway. Says he was flat on the concrete with blue tracers flashing overhead and he thought, ‘I spent all that time building myself up and now I just want to get small!’”

Nissen chewed on that information and was pleased with the taste. “Well, nobody mentioned any language ability but apparently he has instructor credentials.”

“Sure does,” Ashcroft replied. “He’s been to a bunch of armorers schools and prob’ly knows more about the M16 and M4 than anybody I’ve ever met.”

“Okay, that’s fine. I’m really glad to get Pitney because of his Arabic ability because I can’t do it all.”

“So what’s with Lee?” Green asked.

Nissen shifted his feet. “He’s going to work with Frank. Nobody said so but I think the front office thought it’d be awkward to have somebody senior to me move in here. Personally, I can work under anyone who’s competent but Lee will be brand-new in-country and things might pop pretty soon.”

Ashcroft nodded his agreement. “We worked with Steve in Afghanistan and Pakistan, too. In fact, he led one of our teams hunting the al Qaeda cell that was spreading that virus. He did a good job.”

Chris Nissen was increasingly aware that he was relatively junior with SSI, leading men who had served together on other contracts in other climes. “Well then, Frank and headquarters called it right. I’m used to working with local indigenous personnel because that’s what green beanies do. Apparently Lee’s a door-kicker at heart, and his admin experience can be useful at Amasha.”

“Okay,” Green replied. “How do you want to work Pitney into our band of bros?”

Nissen laughed aloud. “Hell, it looks like I’m gonna be the El-Arian chief of police! With three ex-cops on the job here maybe I can even sleep in once in a while.”

“I’ve talked with Robert a few times,” Ashcroft said. “Obviously he’s a tremendous shooter, and evidently he does well as an instructor, speaking the lingo and all. Personally, I’d rather work through him than most of the militia dudes who sort of speak English.”

“Concur,” Nissen responded. “But let’s keep pushing these guys on the basics. The first time a round cracks past their ears they’re likely to dump half of what they ever learned.”

Green smiled. “Makes ‘em a member of a real big club, don’t it, Staff Sergeant?”

32

Rob Furr fidgeted again. Finally he whispered, “Damn, I gotta piss.”

Rick Barrkman barely turned his head. “You should’ve thought of that before we crawled clear out here.”

“I did, damn it! I drank more water tryin’ to stay hydrated.” Another rifle round cracked across the rocky terrain. Barrkman’s scan went to his left front. “That was about three, maybe four hundred yards. This gomer must not be Hazim because he hasn’t moved much the last three shots.”

“Well, maybe Hazim isn’t the sniper stud he’s supposed to be.” Furr temporarily forgot about his bladder. “What’s he shooting at now?”

Barrkman glanced to his right, squinting in the sunlight toward the village a quarter mile away. “Can’t tell. It’s probably just more harassing fire. I think they’re trying to draw us out.”

“Yeah. Nissen said there’s no activity over at El-Arian so maybe they’re setting us up for a fall there by decoying here.”

Furr nodded. “Makes no sense to telegraph their punches here. Unless maybe they just want our attention in this area to cover something bigger.”

“Well, that’s strategy and we’re tactics. Take another look, will you?”

Furr raised himself slightly from his position directly behind Barrkman, clearing the grass while glassing the open ground. Both men were sweating beneath their ghillie suits in the midday sun. They had chosen a shaded position partially covered by flat rocks that broke up the terrain and rendered them less visible to a knowledgeable observer.

“Nada.” Furr looked upward through his veil. “Sun angle’s changing, amigo. We should think about moving before we lose the shadows of the trees.”

“Okay. You back out. Give a bird call when you’re set and cover me while I move.”

While Furr retrenched, Barrkman kept his eye to his bipoded rifle. He continued scanning slowly, methodically, hoping for a glimpse of movement or a careless reflection. Nothing emerged.

Two minutes later Furr’s call chirped out, a two-tone baritone warble. Barrkman folded his bipod and began inching back. In a few meters his left foot wedged between two rocks and he tried to dislodge them. Unsuccessful, he raised up for better leverage and kicked with his right foot.

A gunshot split the air, impacting two meters in front of him.

Barrkman ducked reflexively. “Damn! That was close!” He kicked hard, felt one rock move, and scampered backward on hands and knees.

Another round split the air, passing overhead.

Furr edged laterally eight to ten meters, then risked a quick peek over the weeds. “Nothing out there much closer than four hundred yards.”

Barrkman brushed the sand from his face. “What did it sound like to you?”

The spotter thought for a moment. “It sorta sounded like the ballistic crack you hear in the pits during a five-hundred-yard string in a high power match.” He shrugged. “It’s sure not that two-hundred-yard snap.”

“I’ve got an idea.”

Furr shook his head. “Uh-oh. That means you want me to get shot at.”

A knowing smile creased Barrkman’s tanned face. “Not this time. I’m going to move off to the left and poke my hat over the top with my binoculars to catch some sunlight.”

“Those are real nice glasses, Rick.” He eyed the Steiners covetously.

Barrkman grinned again. “Hey, if that raghead can put a round through my optic, it’s a lot better than through my head.” He motioned his partner into position. “You do two things: watch for something, and notice the interval between the impact and the sound.”

“You know if he’s smart he won’t shoot again. Not for a while, anyway.”

“Hey, dude, just ‘cause he’s accurate don’t mean he’s smart.”

Ebrahim Larijani allowed his adrenaline to peak, then remembered to control his breathing. He turned to his spotter, Fahed. “Well?”

“I saw dirt from the bullet strike. It was short of the camouflaged form.”

Larijani frowned, visibly unsettled. “Surely it was a hit. I had a steady rest.”

“The first shot was low. I could not observe the second.”

“Well then, it must be a hit.”

Fahed had been warned about Larijani’s ego. Esmaili had confided that Larijani was eager to redeem himself after the Beirut episode. “It could have gone high, Ebrahim. Now come, we must displace.”

Larijani shook his head, returning to his Dragunov’s scope. “No. This is a good position. If we displace we will lose sight of them.” He thought for a moment. “Besides, the Chechen said if we locate them we should stay to keep them pinned down.”

They will certainly move by now! Fahed laid a hand on his partner’s arm. “Brother, remember what the teacher always says. Once you have taken a shot, you must move.”

Larijani shot a glance at the spotter. “Enough! I command here, and we will stay!”

Suit yourself, Fahed said to himself. He began inching away from the sniper, conceding that survival had just trumped teamwork. As he rolled onto his back, he was unaware that his binoculars caught the slanting sun.

“Target! Left front, eleven o’clock, maybe four hundred.” Furr’s voice carried an edge of excitement.

“What’ve you got?”

“Reflection under those trees. Stand by.” Furr raised the Swarovsky rangefinder and lased the suspicious area. He checked the digital readout. “Three sixty, Rick.”

“Yards or meters, damn it!”

“Yards of course!”

“Just checking.” Barrkman thought about the situation. “Okay, get on your rifle. I’m going to try the hat and glasses trick. You shoot whatever shows.”

Furr slid the Robar Snout Rifle into position, resting it on his drag bag laid across a rock. He cycled the bolt, adjusted the elevation dial, placed his eye to the scope, and nodded. “Sniper on.”

“There! Farther back,” Larijani exulted. He looked to his right, expecting to see his spotter close by. Instead the wretch had moved two or three meters away. “You cannot see anything from there!”

“I can see what I need to, brother.”

Disgusted, Larijani returned to his scope. If he was low before, he needed to hold a little higher this time, and settled the aiming point on top of the hat.

He took up the slack in the trigger, held his breath, and pressed.

When he came down out of recoil he regained the target’s position in time to feel a sledgehammer blow at the base of his neck.

Fahed heard the unmistakable sound of a nearby bullet strike, then realized that the report of the shot followed it. Larijani was on his back, gurgling loudly and holding his throat with both hands. Bright arterial blood pulsed between clasped fingers. The shooter’s mouth gaped wide, trying to suck in air but the esophagus was clogged with a hot, thick liquid.

Fahed was tempted to say, “I warned you,” but there was no point. He edged around the dying man’s feet, retrieved the valuable rifle, and made his way to safety.

Before the sound of Furr’s shot had died away, an inbound round overwhelmed it. The ballistic shock of the 7.62 bullet was enough to tell the Americans all they needed to know; the impact on the rock merely confirmed it.

Furr and Barrkman dropped to the earth, their heads nearly colliding. They performed an unintended chorus: “Holy shit!”

Barrkman looked at his partner, both men wide-eyed. “We were set up!”

“No shit, Charlie!” Furr wiped some dirt off his face. “Damn, that guy’s fast on the trigger.”

“Yeah. That must be Hazim!”

Hazim lowered his binoculars and turned to Akhmed. “It was very close.”

The shooter returned to his scope and scanned the area. “The crosshairs were steady and the trigger released cleanly. It should have been a hit.”

The spotter knew that other variables affected the end result but recognized this was neither the time nor the place to argue the niceties. “Well, we must assume they know we are here. We should displace.”

“Yes,” Akhmed replied. “Unlike young Larijani, I fear.” Pulling his rifle off the improvised rest he said, “But at least he served his purpose.”

“Okay,” Leopole said. “Now give it to me again, without the poetry.”

Furr took another pull from his water bottle and wiped his balding head. Barrkman sipped from something that was not water and smacked his lips.

“Like we said,” Furr began. “We staked out a good place east of town. Not too obvious but it had a decent field of view and we were in shadow most of the morning. We heard the harassing fire from time to time but couldn’t spot the shooter or shooters.” He squinted in concentration.

“I was on the scope and Rick was on the trigger at that time because we’d been trading off every half hour. We’d just pulled back into more shade when they sent one our way.”

“How’d they spot you?” Leopole asked.

Barrkman owned up. “I was crayfishing backward and caught a foot between two rocks. I reared up to pull free and they saw me. The first round was just short. The second went high.”

“How much wind?”

“What?”

Leopole inhaled, then expelled his breath. “How much wind was there?”

Barrkman fidgeted again, a sign of agitation. “Hell, I don’t know, Frank. What’s it matter?”

“My point is, gentlemen, if there was a decent wind, that was a good shooter to get the deflection right and the range so close.”

The two snipers looked at each other. Finally Furr said, “I was checking for mirage. There was hardly any. The trees were barely moving. Maybe five miles per hour.”

“Okay, go on.”

Barrkman took up the tale. “We got settled farther back in the shadows and let things settle down. Then we thought about the sonic crack and figured the shooter was inside five hundred yards. Then Rob caught a glint. So I edged off to one side and did the old hat and binoculars trick.”

Leopole smiled despite himself. “The statue of liberty play!”

“Well, obviously these guys don’t watch much football because Rob nailed him.”

The SSI leader turned to Furr. “Tell me.”

“I pegged the range at 360 and got on the gun.” Furr raised his right hand alongside his cheek, left hand extended in front of his chin. “When Rick raised his hat and glasses, the gomer fired. I had a good sight picture and lit him up.”

“You know you hit him?”

“Well, Rick couldn’t actually spot for me, but believe me, Boss. That’s a mort.” He took another swig. “But before I could run the bolt another round hit the rock I was resting on. Scared the hell out of me. We both hit the dirt.”

“Where’d that round come from?”

Barrkman thought about the geometry. “I think it was about 2:00 or 2:30 from us. Obviously they’d been waiting for us to shoot their buddy.”

A polite knock of the door was followed by Ayoob Slim and his English-speaking aide. “Excuse, please.”

“Yes, sir,” Leopole said. “Come in.”

Slim and the militiaman entered. The latter laid a knapsack on the table. It was half covered with dried blood. “We find this where you say,” the acolyte explained.

Leopole looked in the bag and found nothing of interest. He grinned at Furr. “Like you said, Rob. That’s a mort.”

Barrkman punched his partner in the arm. “Way to go, pard.”

Furr merely took another drink.

“Was there a body?” Leopole asked the Druze.

“No, sir. But much blood on ground. Dragged marks in grass. Two hours no more.”

“Thank you, gentlemen.”

When the militiamen had left, Leopole resumed the debriefing. “Okay, you nailed one because they sacrificed him for a chance at you. This Hazim character is smart and patient. That’s worth knowing. So how do you want to proceed?”

The shooters exchanged knowing looks. Barrkman said, “Let us sleep on it, Boss. We’ll talk to you in the morning.”

“All right.” Leopole clapped Barrkman on the shoulder and left.

As the door closed, Furr regarded his friend. “Man! How you gonna sleep after that?”

33

Imam Elham convened a small select audience to hear the message from Tehran. “The moment has arrived,” he announced. “We will begin in three days or less.”

Elham glanced around the room. The other cell leaders were focused, attentive. Mohammad Azizi appeared to possess an excess of nervous energy. Clearly he was eager to demonstrate his influence.

“This mission has no code name,” Azizi added. “It is simply ‘The Operation.’”

Esmaili assessed the fighters’ collective mood. Generally it was relaxed, though some of the men fidgeted. Perhaps they knew that The Operation would lead to their rendezvous in Paradise.

“We have received detailed instructions by messenger,” Elham continued. “Radio communication has been kept to a minimum, and little information has been passed that way, even in cipher.”

Esmaili felt a faint prickling between his shoulder blades, as if he sensed a sniper’s crosshairs settling there. “Excuse me, Imam, but that seems to indicate that some information has been radioed. The Jews and their American lackeys undoubtedly can break any code.”

Azizi was not pleased with the outspoken cell leader. While Elham had been away, coordinating other aspects of the forthcoming venture, Azizi became responsible for defending the operation’s planning and execution.

Elham interjected, concerned about any possible rift in the organization. “Yes, my brother. Given the opportunity to retrieve two or three very brief messages from hundreds or thousands sent on our net, and given enough time, any coded message can be broken, especially with computer analysis. But rest assured, brothers, that our benefactors in Tehran have taken every precaution.” He smiled indulgently, as if assuaging a classroom full of worried children. “Without going into unnecessary detail, I can say that what messages are sent by radio are done so in what is called a onetime pad. That means—”

“That the encryption method is used only for that message, never to be repeated.” Esmaili felt testy enough and worried enough to commit a breach of decorum.

Azizi suppressed a scowl at his Hezbollah colleague, aware that some men in the room were astute enough to interpret the building tension. “Quite so. Your experience does you honor, my brother. And therefore, you will understand that even if our enemies should overhear one of our messages, they will have a very difficult time reading it and an even harder time making sense of it.” He morphed his frown into a smile. “By then, it will be far too late for them.”

Elham took charge again, returning focus to the overall plan. Using a map pinned to the wall, he said, “The attacks on the villages will provide cover for the special operations teams infiltrating the Jewish border and proceeding to specially selected targets.” He pointed to the crossing points within a few kilometers of each other.

“And the method of attack?” Esmaili asked.

Sadegh Elham raised his stony gaze from the map to the questioner’s eyes. “Dr. Momen has provided us with the greatest possible weapon. Carrying it to Paradise represents the greatest possible honor.”

Esmaili grunted. “A suicide mission.”

“Oh, no, brother. Not a typical suicide bombing. Rather, each weapon is the greatest suicide bomb yet available to us.” He leaned back and actually smiled. It was a chilly, predatory smile with ice around the edges.

“We have two nuclear devices. Each of them can be carried by one man, and each bomber shall have at least three escorts. Their mission is to get him to his assigned target — at the cost of their lives.”

Phil Green stuck his head inside Nissen’s small office. “Newbies are here.”

Nissen laid down the map he was examining with the new Druze liaison officer, Hussain Halabi. The former NCO tapped the Israeli on the arm. “Come on, Lieutenant, let’s meet the troops.”

Outside, two men dismounted from the Land Rover. Robert Pitney was accompanied by a very large individual wearing green fatigues and a boonie hat that appeared half a size too small. Green exclaimed, “Ken, my man! You still using VWs for barbells?”

The two mercenaries exchanged comradely hugs and back slaps. Ken Delmore tweaked Green’s mustache. “You’re getting gray, amigo. Or did you just stop using Grecian Formula after Pakistan?”

Green reached up — it was a bit of a stretch — and pulled off Delmore’s hat. “At least I still have hair!”

Delmore, a determinedly cheerful giant, retrieved the hat and looked around. “Colonel Leopole said that Bob A. is here. Where’d he get off to?”

“Oh, he’s like, you know. Working.” Green shrugged philosophically. “Some people insist on doing that.” Sensing Nissen’s presence, he made the introductions. “Chris Nissen, Ken Delmore.”

The two shook, Nissen wincing slightly at Delmore’s crushing grip. “Welcome to our humble AO,” Nissen began. “You come well recommended.”

“Well, thank you, Sergeant. I’m really looking forward to working with you guys. Just show me the area, let me check my zero, and put me where you need me.”

“All right.” Nissen looked at Pitney. “Robert, you’re probably familiar with the general situation from your time at Amasha, but you might as well tag along while we show Ken around.”

Before Pitney could reply Nissen gestured to the IDF delegate. “Gentlemen, this is Lieutenant Halabi. He’s our… ah, new… Druze liaison officer.”

Halabi took three brisk steps forward and shook hands with the two Americans. “You are much needed here, gentlemen. Thank you for coming.”

Delmore grinned hugely. “My pleasure, sir.” Nissen and Green grinned at each other, and Pitney caught the meaning. The money’s better than good, which always doubled the pleasure.

Nissen turned from the informal meeting and led the way down the main road running through the village. “As you can see, this is a defensible position, especially with the open areas on most sides. The militia has been working to improve the perimeter, and we have people on guard twenty-four/seven.”

Delmore stopped abruptly and stood in his size twelve boots. “Good field of fire on this side of town, and it looked pretty much the same on the way in. Nearest cover must be — what? Three hundred meters?”

Halabi stood with arms akimbo. “It is 320 from here to that stand of trees. I suggested that we plant command-detonated mines in there but the militia lacks expertise and equipment in that area. I hope for some improvement before long.”

Pitney usually was content to stand back and absorb information. But the Israeli’s comment left an obvious opening. “Excuse me, Lieutenant. But just how long do your sources indicate we have until Hezbollah makes a move?”

Halabi arched an eyebrow. “My sources are no better than anyone else’s most of the time. But I understand that some unusual measures are being taken for our benefit.” His concluding smile said that no further details were forthcoming.

The Lincoln Memorial was always crowded in the summer, which was exactly why Mordecai Baram chose that spot to meet Michael Derringer.

SSI’s founder arrived a few minutes early and took the rare opportunity to study the monument. As a lifelong, rock-ribbed Republican, Derringer had been educated to revere The Great Emancipator, but some libertarian doubts nudged the usual GOP dogma out of alignment. Having read Lincoln’s first inaugural, Derringer concluded that “Honest” Abe had been just as slick a politician as Bill Clinton — enforcing the Fugitive Slave Law while declaring secession illegal while conceding the people’s right to amend their government or overthrow it.

Derringer turned from the pale icon — ironically, the marble had been quarried in Georgia — and scanned the crowd.

There was Mordecai Baram.

Stepping around a crowd of poorly supervised children— apparently the only kind America produced anymore — the Israeli made eye contact with his SSI colleague. They avoided shaking hands and gave only a modest indication of recognizing one another. They stood side by side, looking up at the nineteen-foot statue as if it were the subject of an impromptu discussion.

“What’ve you got, Mordecai?”

“This is close hold, Michael, for obvious reasons.” The diplomat paused, looking left and right. “Intelligence sources have turned up something of possible concern for your people in Lebanon.”

“Your sources or ours?”

“There’s not much to go on, but decrypts mention three citations of something merely called ‘the operation.’ From context it appears to be aimed at southern Lebanon.”

Derringer turned to face Baram. “Your sources or ours?”

“Michael, please. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Isn’t that how it goes?”

Two boys scrambled past the men, brushing the adults’ suit coats. Derringer resisted the impulse to snag one of the offenders by the collar. “Very well. What else?”

“That’s all, at least for now.”

The retired admiral shook his head. “That’s it? Come on, there has to be more. This… operation… could be anything. Hell, it might be a surgery!”

“Michael, believe me. That’s all there is just now. You can make whatever you like of it. Tell your people or don’t concern them, as you wish. But I thought you should be informed.”

Derringer inhaled, held his breath, then expelled it. He found himself staring at the base of one of the thirty-six pillars supporting the Doric temple. “Very well, then. Thanks, Mordecai.” He turned to go, then paused and looked back. “You’ll tell me if…”

“I promise.”

34

The courier took a wrong turn in the dark. By the time he realized his error, it was too late.

Rounding the curve on the rutted pathway, the Toyota pickup lurched to a stop as the driver stomped on the brake. The fact that he was on that seldom traveled route was suspicious enough; running blackout lights was a giveaway to the militia manning the checkpoint.

A short firefight erupted at the junction of the Amasha-El Arian road.

While the driver lurched the battered vehicle into reverse, his passenger and the two escorts in the back opened fire. But they lacked a stable platform whereas the Druze sentries stood their ground, aimed just above the slitted headlights, and began shooting. At thirty meters most of the rounds went home.

The windshield erupted in a small blizzard of glass chips, turning darkly red on the inside. Struck by four rounds, the driver died almost immediately, and his foot slipped off the accelerator. The passenger, the most important man aboard, took two hits in the upper torso. He dropped his folding-stock AK and collapsed beside the driver.

One of the shooters standing in the back quickly recognized a no-win situation and bailed out. He sustained a grazing hit to one hip and staggered into the dark. His partner, more motivated or less experienced, braced himself against the rear of the cab. He lived long enough to empty his magazine and was gamely attempting to reload when unintentionally shot through the head.

Twelve seconds after it began, it ended.

Two of the militiamen approached the perforated pickup from each side, unaware that if either had to shoot, his partner would stand downrange. The third guard stood out of the subdued glare of the remaining headlight, covering their approach.

Leading with his muzzle, the left-hand searcher saw that the driver was dead, as was the gunner in the bed. Then the Druze leaned inside to turn off the engine. His colleague on the opposite side opened the door and allowed the passenger to slump partway out. The man was inhaling fast, shallow breaths. He muttered something unintelligible.

“What did he say?” asked the first militiaman.

“I do not know,” his partner replied. “I think it’s Farsi.”

The knock on the bedroom door came at an unseemly hour. Nevertheless, Yakov Livni had a standing order: far better to lose a little sleep than to snore through something important. As a military history buff he knew that Hitler’s generals had deemed Der Fuhrer’s rest more important than Operation Overlord, and at Leyte Gulf, Bull Halsey’s staff had allowed the admiral to sleep rather than inform him that Kurita was reported eastbound through San Bernardino Strait.

“What is it?” Livni called through the door.

“A priority radio report from Halabi,” came the reply.

“Bring it in.” Livni snapped on the bedside light and sat up on his cot.

The watch officer, an earnest captain wearing a yarmulke, stepped inside. He handed the scribbled note to the special operations chief, knowing that this time of day — or night — Colonel Livni would require an interpreter.

Playing an optical trombone, Livni extended the message form back and forth, seeking the best focal distance. He squinted, cocked his head, and gave up. “Something about an operation and special packages.” He looked up at the messenger. “Read it for me.”

The captain retrieved the form. “Lieutenant Halabi says one of his militia outposts intercepted a vehicle about 0215.” He checked his watch. “That was about fifty minutes ago. There was shooting, two Hezbollah dead and one wounded. The wounded man seems to be a messenger with an important dispatch for the cells operating around Hasbaya. Halabi attributes that to security concerns about transmitting messages by radio.”

Livni was fully awake now. “What else?”

“Well, the medics at Amasha treated the man, who is Iranian. They got someone to speak Farsi to him and evidently they overmedicated him. He began talking in random phrases. The one that kept recurring has to do with ‘the operation’ and something called ‘momen.’ “

The colonel leaned back against the wall, deep in thought. At length he asked, “Were there any documents?”

“Yes, sir. But Halabi says none have any bearing on special operations or this ‘momen’ reference.”

Livni rubbed his face, felt the stubble, and decided to ignore it. He threw off the blanket and swung his feet onto the floor. “All right. I’m awake so I might as well get up. I want to talk to Halabi in ten minutes. Then I need to see Sol Nadel. Call his chief of staff.”

The aide grinned wryly. “Yakov, you know what happens to captains who wake generals before 0600?”

“I have no idea. So let’s find out, shall we?”

“There is a problem,” Azizi announced. It was still early, even before the Salat-ul-Fajr dawn prayer, but Esmaili was accustomed to working odd hours.

The imam’s acolyte approached Esmaili, who threw back the blanket and stretched himself off his cot. “We have to hold a planning meeting immediately.”

Esmaili mussed his black hair, nodded while stifling a yawn, and from instinct picked up his AK-47. He followed Azizi out of the room, trailing him to the headquarters building.

Inside, Sadegh Elham was already convening the session. Among those present were the mortar crews plus Akhmed with Hazim and two lesser snipers.

The cleric wasted no time. “Early this morning one of our couriers became lost in the dark. He foolishly continued rather than awaiting daylight and drove into a Druze roadblock. Again, rather foolishly, he attempted to force his way through and was shot to pieces. One man survived and made his way here, wounded.

“We do not know if any of our brothers survived, but we must assume that at least one did. Therefore, the security we expected from minimal radio communication may be compromised. I do not believe that any useful documents fell into hostile hands, but anyone captured by the Zionist entity will be tortured into revealing what he knows.”

Elham delivered a scowl that scalded the audience with the heat of his disapproval. A few jihadists squirmed uncomfortably; they read the tacit message. Far better to die fighting than to surrender.

“We are attempting to determine what the militia forces have learned, because anything that comes to them will be shared with the Jews. So unless we receive reliable information fairly soon, we must assume the worst. That means a premature assault on the Druze villages, and an early launching of our main attack.”

At that, Elham nodded to Azizi, who rose and faced the audience.

“We are requesting immediate deployment of our special operators as a contingency against updated enemy intelligence. The working details of the plan probably will not change, but the timetable undoubtedly will. You are all advised to hold yourselves in immediate readiness. Double-check your weapons and equipment. Meanwhile, our group leaders will remain to finalize plans and schedules.” He surveyed the men before him, then nodded briskly. “You are dismissed.”

Frank Leopole was up before dawn. So was everyone else.

“Okay, people, here’s how it looks.” The SSI leader wanted a closed-door meeting with his instructors before discussing plans with the militia.

“Last night the checkpoint down at the fork of the road had a dustup with a Hezbollah unit. There were four Hezzies in a pickup, and apparently they were lost because they stumbled straight into our guys. There was a short firefight resulting in two hostile KIAs and one prisoner, WIA. Another one got away.

“The militia took the POW to El-Arian for immediate treatment. He’s Iranian, and had some documents that Lieutenant Halabi says are somewhat useful. But the most interesting intel came while he was sedated for treatment of two GSWs. He was babbling in Farsi, so Halabi got a translator and stroked the POW. I am informed there’s reason to believe a Hezbollah operation is imminent, and we are treating that as a serious threat. From now on we’re maintaining a twenty-four-hour watch at thirty percent immediate readiness and thirty percent standby. We will maintain that schedule until further notice.”

Steve Lee, now the de facto second in command, barely had time to adjust to his new surroundings. “Frank, what can we expect? Are we looking at an Alamo-type siege or more harassment?”

Out of earshot of the militia, Leopole permitted himself some dry humor. “Well, Steve, if we’re at the Alamo, I’m Bowie and you’re Travis. The rest of you can fight over who’s Davy Crockett but I don’t relish the prospect for any of those roles.”

Picking up on the unaccustomed levity, Bosco rasped to Breezy. “I saw the Disney reruns. Guess I’m Georgie Russell. ‘Give ‘em whut fur, Davy!’”

35

The Mercedes truck had seen better days, but its battered exterior was an advantage to the owners. Its obvious hard use over the years helped conceal the exceptional cargo it carried.

The brakes squealed as the vehicle slid to a halt. Mohammad Azizi quickened his pace across the courtyard, smiling in anticipation while the driver and four passengers dismounted.

“Friends! My brothers! Welcome, welcome to you all.” He indulged in a round of hand shaking and cheek kissing, especially with the senior man. When Elham materialized behind him, Azizi was quick to make the introductions.

“Abbas Jannati, I believe you know the imam.”

Jannati inclined his head, grasping hands with the cleric. “It has been many months since our meeting with Dr. Momen.”

“You traveled safely?” Elham asked.

“Oh, yes. Our Syrian friends were most helpful, even though they did not know our exact mission.”

“That is as we planned it,” Elham replied evenly. He eyed the other jihadists. “And these are our messengers to the Zionists?”

“Chosen by the doctor himself, Imam. They are pledged to deliver the, ah, packages, just as you stated.”

Elham eyed the volunteers from Tehran. He decided that he would spend some time with each in order to confirm their devotion, but if they passed Momen’s scrutiny, they were committed.

“Brothers,” he declared. “Welcome. You may consider this place the portal to Paradise.”

“Come with me.”

Few colonels give orders to generals, but Yakov Livni and Solomon Nadel had an unusual relationship. Livni led Nadel well away from the operations block, stopped at an M113 armored personnel carrier, and motioned the general inside. The vehicle was empty.

“What do you know about an Iranian scientist named Momen?”

Nadel’s eyes widened. “The physicist? That’s a bad one, I think. A hard-liner.”

“So you know of him.”

“He’s involved in their nuclear program.” Nadel almost visibly shivered. “Yakov, you’re making me nervous.”

“Well, misery loves company. Otherwise I wouldn’t be talking to you inside an armored vehicle when my office has furniture and airconditioning.” Livni glanced around the interior of the American-built APC. “Now, I’m mainly here to see if you’re hearing what I’m hearing. So—”

“So,” Nadel interjected, “if your sources come from beyond mine, then something’s afoot that can only mean bad news.”

Livni nodded. “It’s all coming together, Sol. The radio intercepts, some documents we have, ah, acquired. And now the fortunate acquisition of the Hezbollah courier near Hasbaya.” He gave his colleague a playful nudge. “You’ve been to school. What do two and two amount to?”

The general gave his colleague a grim smile. “I’ve learned that it’s not four, because in this business things are seldom what they seem.”

“You see it? About ten-thirty, maybe four-fifty.”

Furr slowly raised a gloved hand and pointed for Barrkman. The sniper team had not been in position long enough to prepare a range card, and besides, the terrain was largely featureless.

Barrkman put his Leopold rifle scope on the area indicated to the left, raising his elevation setting to 450 yards. “Nothing.”

“Okay,” Furr whispered. “From the large, light-colored rock at about three hundred, look uphill and slightly left.”

After several seconds the shooter emitted a low whistle. “Moving shadow where there’s no trees.” He grinned without taking his master eye from the optic. “Damn, you’re good, Rob.”

“You’re just lucky it’s your turn on the trigger.”

“Well, you’ve done most of the shooting so far. Only fair that I get another shot.” Though not usually envious, Barrkman rued that so far the score stood at two-one, Furr.

“We can’t get overeager,” Furr cautioned. “Remember, Frank said the militia had seen movement out here this morning but that don’t mean it’s hostile.”

“What I remember is the way that other bastard’s shot came out of nowhere. This might be another setup.”

Furr shrugged beneath his ghillie. “If so, they’re in for a surprise. Captain Hamadeh confirmed his reaction force is in position, seventy meters back. I just got the word on Baker channel.” He double-checked the frequency on his tactical set and adjusted the earplug for more comfort.

“Okay, bwana. Now what?”

Furr returned to his spotting scope. “I make it a boiling mirage, midrange. Call it three minutes.”

Barrkman studied the visible air, moving slightly right to left. “Concur.” He rotated the windage knob four clicks right, then back one. He looked at his partner. “Now we wait.”

Furr continued watching the suspect area, letting the shooter rest his eyes. If nothing happened, they would trade off in twenty minutes.

At length Furr muttered one word. “Movement.”

Barrkman was back on the rifle, snuggled up to the SR-90. “I see grass moving but no target.”

“Wait a sec.” As the spotter stared through his optic, he caught an unnatural motion. “Rick, there’s something moving above the grass, like maybe an antenna. See it?”

The wind caught the long, thin object, causing a reflection. “Got it. I think you’re right. They must be recon rather than snipers.”

“But there’s nothing to see out here. The ville is hardly visible down the slope.”

Behind his veil, Barrkman chewed his lip in concentration. He turned to Furr again. “Give the Druze a call. See if they can send a couple guys up here.”

“You mean, like, to draw fire?”

“Yeah. But don’t let ‘em get within a hundred meters of us.”

Furr keyed his mike. “Delta, this is Sierra. Copy?”

Five seconds passed. “Sierra, Delta. Copy.” The Americans recognized Hamadeh’s voice.

“Ah, Delta, we have movement to our front. Recommend you send two men to scout about 150 meters to our east. And be careful. Over.”

“On the way. Out.”

Furr looked at his partner. “This better work or they’ll lynch us.”

Barrkman gave no reply. He adjusted his prone position behind the modified Remington 700, seeking his natural point of aim. By flexing his right toes and bringing his left leg forward, he got the most comfortable elevation on the bipoded rifle. Then he told himself: Breathe.

“Friendlies, three o’clock.”

Barrkman accepted the spotter’s assessment while keeping his eye to the scope. The antenna was no longer visible.

Crack!

Furr swung his gaze to the right. He saw one of the two militiamen stagger and fall as the man’s partner dived for cover.

“Where was that?” Barrkman swung his rifle side to side, desperately seeking a sign of the shooter.

“I think it’s from the right front. Maybe one o’clock.”

“Keep looking there. I’m staying on…”

Barrkman’s voice shut off like a switch. He snugged up the Robar rifle, muttered “Round out,” and fired. Immediately he cycled the bolt and fired again.

“Shit, Rick! What’re you shooting at?”

The sniper cycled the bolt once more and fired a third round. Then, leaving the action open, he inserted another cartridge into the box magazine and closed the bolt. Now he had three rounds loaded.

“Two tangos, both down at the first position. Call the Druze. Have ‘em sweep in that direction.”

“Hell no! Damn it, somebody else just popped one of the scouts.”

“They can flank the shooters from this side. Hurry!”

Without further delay, Furr was on the radio. “Delta, Sierra. Send your team out to the northwest. They should be able to flank the shooters.”

“On the way. What is your situation? Over.”

“Two tangos likely KIA. Out.”

Furr crawled alongside the shooter. “Damn it, I didn’t see a thing. What happened?”

“Just after the shot, I saw the head and shoulders of somebody in the grass. I realized we’re looking at the backup team, like the one that almost nailed us before. Hell, maybe the same ones. Before they could shoot, I sent one and his partner raised up to pull him aside. So I shot him, and put in an insurance round.”

Furr shook his head in wonder. “So you think you nailed Hazim?”

Barrkman grinned widely. “I sure nailed somebody, dude.”

Captain Rami Hamadeh was pleased with the SSI team. “We have one man wounded but he should live. Though we did not find the other snipers, you did well, gentlemen. One enemy sniper killed and one captured.”

Frank Leopole stood with arms folded. He suspected that Furr and Barrkman had hung out some Druze as live bait, but for the moment he was willing to cut them some slack.

Hamadeh sat down with the dead sniper’s tally book. “This appears to be Cyrillic but I think it is not. If I had to guess, I would say it is Chechen. I will ask the prisoner.”

Barrkman furrowed his brow. “Chechen? That’s possible. I mean, there’s reports that they send people to fight in Iraq.”

“This was a man who took much pride in his work. See, without knowing the words, it is possible to tell the meaning of most entries. Obviously there is the date, the time, and undoubtedly the distance. All those last entries are three digits. The other columns might be the location, type of rifle, hit or miss, and number of shots fired.”

Furr leaned over the Israeli’s shoulder. “How many did he hit?”

Hamadeh flipped the pages. “I cannot tell. But there are about two hundred entries, apparently dating from 1999.” He looked up at the American. “He was very good.”

Barrkman was still giddy. “Was is the operative word.”

Leopole interrupted the mutual admiration society. “Let me get this straight, Captain. You think that our guys hit their first team? The ones that got away were there to lure us out?”

Hamadeh nodded. “Yes, Colonel. That is how I see it. Of course, we will know more once I interrogate the survivor.” He turned to Barrkman. “You hit him high in the shoulder. He lost quite a bit of blood but he can talk.”

Barrkman absorbed that information. “I guess the third round went into the shooter.”

“Yes, I saw the body. Two hits through the torso.” He smiled broadly. “The sniper who outsnipes Hazim will be famous.”

Robbie Furr did a high five with his friend. “Three for three at 450 yards in — what? Maybe eight or nine seconds? Way to go, pard!”

“Nobody’s going to be famous,” Leopole interjected. “The last thing we need is for every Hezzie fanatic to come gunslinging for the fastest sniper in Dodge.” He lanced Hamadeh with a parade-ground stare. “The less said about this the better, but if anything does get out, your people did it.”

“Understood, Colonel.”

“Akhmed is dead?”

Hazim stood immobile in the small room. Esmaili could read the disbelief on the boy’s face. “He and Basaam have not returned. And you saw nothing of them?”

Hazim shook his head. “No, Teacher. After I shot the militiaman, we were going to displace when we heard three shots, close together. We moved back to the planned rendezvous but Akhmed and Basaam were not there. With more Druze in the area, we thought it best to return.”

Esmaili almost laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “You did the right thing.” He thought for a moment. “If Akhmed had not wanted to spread his experience among our shooters, you would still be with him. Be thankful for that, and remember the lesson.”

Hazim went off to prepare for afternoon prayers while Esmaili and Azizi took a walk. The liaison officer spoke first. “You know, of course, that we can only pray that both are dead.”

“I know, brother.” Esmaili nodded toward the newcomers. “Both of them knew of our… visitors. But they had not been told the details.”

“We shall have to discuss this situation with the imam, but I believe the plan must proceed, especially with the weather in our favor.” He stopped and turned to his colleague. “And you, brother, will play a most important part.”

36

Imam Sadegh Elham determined that the time was right. Facing the nine selected men he had assembled, he spread his hands wide.

“My brothers, my warriors, I must beg forgiveness from some of you.” He allowed the sentiment to hang suspended in the evening air. As a priest and an orator he had long since learned the emphatic benefit of silence.

“I confess before God that I have been required to deceive you as to your true mission. And security requires that all of us keep secret what I am about to reveal, even from the fighters who will attack the Druze villages. But I have consulted with the learned scholars in Tehran, and they tell me that a deception in advancing the jihad is permissible under special circumstances. To do otherwise would have placed our holy mission in serious jeopardy. Nonetheless, I accept whatever judgment God holds against me.”

Seated in the front row, Esmaili thought: As if there is a way to reject the judgment of Cod!

Elham unrolled a map of Lebanon and extended it at arm’s length. One of his acolytes accepted the paper and held it for the audience.

“You have been led to believe that we were planning for a long-range rocket attack against the Zionist state. Much of our work has been seen in that light, without actually saying so. That was part of the plan drafted by our Islamic leaders, commanders, and scientists. Many of you provided security to the surveyors who seemed to be preparing launch sites for rockets to destroy the putrid Jewish nation. Others prepared storage places safe from aerial observation. All of that work was what our Russian friends call ‘disinformation.’ In its own way, it represents as righteous a contribution to the global jihad as the martyrs who carry explosives strapped to their bodies.”

Esmaili glanced to either side, curious as to how the rhetoric was being received. He noted that more of the youngsters paid strict attention than the older, presumably more cynical men.

Elham got down to details. “The deception and actual mission were both conducted by the planners in Tehran, blessings and peace be upon them. They felt it advisable to show some degree of activity in this area to justify the effort to secure additional ground. The Zionists and the Americans would inevitably see some activity here, from their airplanes and satellites, and draw the obvious conclusion— we were planning rocket or missile attacks sometime in the future. But all the while, the true mission went forward.

“The weapon of holy vengeance is not borne upon any rocket, my brothers. In fact, some of you shall have the high honor of escorting the device.” He turned to Modarresi Ka’bi, one of the latecomers from Tehran. He was a slightly built man, apparently in his early thirties. He reached into a large duffel bag and, with difficulty, produced a rectangular shape. Murmurs coursed through the audience — some jihadists knew what they were seeing.

Ahmad Esmaili had already guessed.

Elham was speaking again. “This is our weapon, my brothers. It is one of two purchased at considerable cost in blood and treasure, and its useful life is limited. But when it is delivered to its destination, it will destroy the target in an atomic fireball!”

The room erupted in shouts and barks. Men leapt to their feet, dancing with joyful surprise. They seized one another and embraced excitedly, screaming “Allahu akbar!” Three minutes passed before Elham restored order.

Ahmad Esmaili played his part, singing the praises of all involved while taking in the scene. He tried hard to appear as elated as the others, but doubted that he convinced any skeptics.

Elham waved down the celebrants, most of whom now realized they had been selected to die. The couriers from Tehran — Ka’bi and Jannati — already had made that leap of faith.

The cleric expounded upon the jihadists’ weapon. “A one-kiloton yield can destroy most of an area seven square kilometers. Therefore, your targets have been chosen with that fact in mind. Azizi and I shall brief each team independently to further preserve security. But some things will be obvious to you now: the attacks on the Druze villages will deceive the Zionists into focusing their attention there, while our teams make their way to the frontier.

“Each weapon has two specialists assigned to it. If something befalls one, the other can still activate it. Though these devices have timers for delayed detonation, we dare not trust them. Therefore, our four technicians have already pledged themselves to die in the certainty that each bomb explodes.”

Elham turned his gaze to the other five men. “Those of you honored with the task of escorting the weapons to their targets also are known for your devotion to God. You will stand here tonight in the presence of your comrades and pledge your own devotion to the task, as befits a warrior selected for so critical a mission. You are to accompany your assigned specialists to the site selected for destruction, and no doubt most of you also will enter Paradise.”

The imam pointed to Fida, whom Elham had not seen in weeks. “Fida, my brother, stand.”

The veteran jihadist quickly stood, hands at his sides.

“Do you swear before these men and before God that you will ensure the success of this mission with your life?”

“I do!” The voice was strong and clear. The face bore a tight smile.

“Esmaili, stand!”

The Hezbollah veteran rose to his feet, striking a confident pose.

“Do you swear before these men and before God that you will ensure the success of this mission with your life?”

“Imam, I swear it!” A decisive nod of the head added emphasis.

Elham proceeded down the line, man by man.

Ahmad Esmaili remained standing until the last fighter was sworn. When the ritual was ended, he was pleased. I would almost believe my oath myself!

He looked outside and noted the lowering gray clouds. It was not hard to interpret the meaning: the attack would come before the weather improved.

Mordecai Baram made no pretense of subtlety. He walked up to Michael Derringer and handed him a newspaper with an article highlighted:

Reports from reliable sources indicate that Hezbollah has sought Iranian assistance in obtaining “suitcase bombs” capable of producing small nuclear detonations. Speaking anonymously, military spokesmen said that entry into Israel from southern Lebanon is the most likely approach. A well-placed Tel Aviv source stated that the situation is viewed with concern at the cabinet level.

However, opposition cabinet ministers note that similar, though unfounded, concerns have arisen before, and polling indicates little public enthusiasm for committing Israeli forces to Lebanon again. Observers in Tel Aviv generally believe that further action will await more of a national consensus.

Derringer looked up from the paper. “Yeah. I’ve heard about this. After the Soviet Union collapsed, apparently a lot of backpack nukes were missing. But what’s SSI’s connection?”

Baram retrieved the paper and tucked it in his raincoat. He waited until a train rattled by on the opposite track. “Your team might be in danger.”

Derringer’s gray eyes widened behind his Navy-issue glasses. “You’re saying that there are portable nukes in Lebanon?”

“We believe so.”

SSI’s founder looked left and right. No one stood close enough to hear. “Then what do you recommend?”

“We want you to find them.”

Captain Rami Hamadeh hung up the satellite phone and turned to Frank Leopole. “That was Northern Command, General Nadel’s brigade. We are alerted to expect a major Hezbollah effort within twenty-four hours. You should contact the El-Arian team right away.”

Leopole sorted priorities in his mind. “All right, I’ll call Chris on the command net. The scrambler should provide the security we need. But what does Northern Command mean by a ‘major effort? And how much support can we expect?”

Hamadeh stood up and consulted his notes. “Enemy forces: estimated at company strength or better. Intentions: apparently to seize this place and possibly El-Arian. Enemy ability…” He looked at the American. “You know that already, Frank. Mortars and probably automatic weapons. They seem to respect our night vision so I’d plan for a dawn attack but be ready for anything.”

“They probably can’t take both places with a single company, at least not at the strength of about 150 men. So that tells me they’ll concentrate here or there unless they just want to divert our attention from someplace else.” He shrugged. “Too many unknowns, Rami. They could just as well have a battalion out there.”

The Israeli Druze officer nodded his agreement. “That may be. In any case, the background seems consistent: they’re been surveying and leveling sites in this area, apparently for new missile or rocket batteries. They probably want to control this entire area before their next big barrage, and that means they’ll come at us in whatever force is needed.”

“Which takes me back to my other question. What kind of support will we get from Nadel’s brigade?”

“The operations officer says a reaction force is standing by, capable of ground or helicopter transport. Believe me, Solomon Nadel will support us as much as anyone. But he can’t launch a relief effort without approval from the defense ministry because of public concern about more involvement here.”

“You mean, it’s politics.”

“Frank, I don’t know about America, but in Israel, everything is politics, and it’s all local.”

Leopole rubbed his chin, staring at the floor. “I can understand those concerns, Rami, but does the ministry understand our situation? If we get pushed hard — really hard — we can’t survive outside this village. There’s nowhere to go; we’ll get chopped up if we’re driven out in the open.”

“Well, between you and me, I’m reliably informed that some air support is possible. It depends on weather, of course, and the way things are looking, the attack is likely to come with low cloud ceilings.”

“What about comm? I mean, somebody to direct air attacks.”

The Israeli gave a knowing grin. “It so happens that I attended the close air support course when I was promoted to captain. I can direct gunships or jets.”

“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. And let’s hope these militiamen can do what we’ve trained them to do.”

Hamadeh folded his arms and leaned against the deck. “Frank, where do you live? In the States, I mean.”

“Arlington, Virginia. Why?”

“Well, if a bunch of heavily armed fanatics attacked Arlington, Virginia, wouldn’t your citizens fight like hell to defend their homes?”

A tiny prickling sensation crept up Frank Leopole’s spine. He thought: Some would and some wouldn’t. Some libs would make excuses for the attackers and then ask why the government didn’t do more.

Rather than confess his doubts, Leopole said, “Everybody I know sure would.” Especially a redneck, tobacco-chewing ex-gunnery sergeant named Dan Foyte.

“Well, there you go. It’s the same here, where everybody knows everybody else — and has for four hundred years.”

Derringer took Baram back to the office and immediately convened a meeting. Everyone remotely associated with the Lebanon contract was needed, and those not present were summoned.

Marshall Wilmont shook his head. “This makes no sense, none at all. If the Israelis themselves can’t agree on the suitcase threat, why send us chasing all over Lebanon for something that likely doesn’t exist?”

Baram permitted himself a chuckle. “Politics, my friend. That is, Israeli domestic politics. Did you see the musical 1776? There’s a funny scene where the New York delegate to Congress is asked why he never votes for or against anything. Finally he throws up his hands and bemoans the workings of the New York legislature. He says that everybody talks very fast and very loud and nobody pays any attention to anyone else so nothing gets done.”

“You’re saying that sounds like the Israeli government.”

“No, I am saying that is the Israeli government!”

Wilmont appreciated the humor. “But it doesn’t take an invasion to deal with some backpack nukes. Why not send some covert spec-ops teams?”

“Well, let us just say that recent efforts along those lines led to your contract.”

As SSI’s legal director, Corin Pilong knew about contracts. “Excuse me for interjecting business at this point, but if we’re going to do more than training, it should involve an amendment to the contract.”

Baram blinked in response. He appeared surprised at the no-nonsense comment from that baby-doll face.

“Corin’s right,” Derringer interjected. “We have a separate fee scale for training and for operations.”

Recovering his composure, Baram waved a hand. “Given the very serious nature of the new threat, I cannot imagine that finances will be a problem. I will consult with Tel Aviv today. But I will need more information.”

“Very well,” Derringer said. “Mordecai, if you’ll consult with Corin, I think the rest of us have a lot to do this afternoon.”

Down the hall, Sandy Carmichael huddled with Matthew Finch of Personnel and Jack Peters, who usually handled SSI recruiting.

“If we’re going after nuclear stuff again, we couldn’t do better than Bernie Langevin,” Carmichael began.

Finch nodded. “Concur. He stuck it out all through the Chad episode and the chase for the Tarabalus Pride.”

Peters was out of the scientific loop, and did not mind saying so. “I’ve not dealt with him. What’s the story?”

Carmichael knew the details. “Major Bernard Langevin, PhD, USAF Reserve (Ret), has his feet in three worlds: scientific, military, and diplomatic. He’s been around the block. Got started as an under-grad physics student and went Air Force ROTC to help with tuition. He got a master’s almost for drill and could’ve stayed for twenty. But the Air Force tried to nudge him into weapons design when he was more interested in the operational end, and became a NEST officer.”

“NEST?” Peters asked.

“Nuclear Emergency Search Team. Or maybe it’s Support Team. Anyway, the ‘broken arrow’ guys. But there wasn’t much work along those lines so he went with the reserves for longevity and was offered a job with IAEA. Once in a while, if he has enough Merlot, he’ll tell you he wasn’t thrilled about the U.N. but the job got him to interesting places with a chance for some excitement.”

Peters slowly shook his head. “A nuke who wants excitement? Nooo thank you. I remember a bubblehead friend of mine who said, ‘I don’t want to hear ‘Oops’ around nuclear reactors or submarines.’”

Finch knew Langevin’s dossier almost by heart, and clearly admired the scientist. “As a onetime IAEA investigator, he’s seen the best and worst of United Nations operations and eventually he left in disgust. As he said late one night, ‘I might as well get better paid for what I know because I’ve already been ignored for it.’”

Peters accepted his colleagues’ assessment. “Okay by me. But is he available? And what if he’s not?”

Carmichael’s mouth curled at the edges, producing the dimples that Peters secretly admired. “Oh, Bernie’s available, trust me on that. Whatever he’s doing, he’ll jump at the chance to get his boots dirty.”

Finch’s Rolodex memory for personnel matters did a quick shuffle. “We don’t have anybody else remotely like him, which is why he’s on retainer. If Bernie can’t go for some reason, we’ll have to get the admiral to call in some DoD markers.”

“Okay,” Peters replied. “So who else do we need?”

Carmichael almost hated herself for what she was about to say. “I’ve been thinking about the language situation. We don’t have anybody over there who speaks Arabic, Hebrew, and Farsi. But Hezbollah is heavily Iranian.”

Finch’s eyes widened as realization dawned. “Oh, no…”

“ ‘Fraid so, Matt. I’m going to ask Omar if he’ll go.”

Peters realized the implication. “Dr. Mohammed? I know he’s a fine training officer, but how would he do in the field? I mean, he’s…”

“Overweight, out of shape, and enjoys restaurants and museums. I know. But he’s the only game in town.”

Finch shrugged. “Well, all we can do is ask. So, who else?”

Carmichael thought for a minute. “With the guys we already have over there, probably nobody else. If there’s extra security needed, I don’t know why the Druze couldn’t help.”

Finch shook his head. “On something this sensitive? I’d think the Israelis would insist on people trained for the job.”

Carmichael almost patted the recruiter’s hand in sympathy. “Matt, I’m not going to say that Mr. Baram’s lying to us. But if anybody thinks the Israelis are going to pass this off to some hired mercs, hoping they’ll get lucky looking for a real small needle in a really big haystack, they’re crazy.”

“So…”

“So,” Carmichael replied, “I’d bet next year’s retirement checks that we’re a backup. The Izzies probably have people in place right now. Then, when and if the nukes are found, if there’s any publicity, Tel Aviv can deny their people were in Lebanon. They’ll say… ‘Ta-da! Our friends from SSI did it.’”

Peters caught the drift. “More deniability.”

“You got it, cowboy.”

Peters and Finch looked at one another, then at the diminutive ops officer. Their faces asked the tacit question: now what?

Carmichael reached for the phone, put it on speaker, and consulted her PalmPilot. After three rings someone answered.

“Langevin here.”

“Bernie! Sandy here.”

“Ah, Sandra my sweet! When do we leave? I have a week’s worth of condoms.”

She blushed visibly while stifling a giggle. “Dr. Langevin, you might like to say hello to my colleagues here with me: Jack Peters and Matt Finch.”

“Uh, oh. Hello, gentlemen. Matt, I hope you are not going with Sandra and me. Threesomes are so passé these days.”

Finch’s brown eyes gleamed while he bit his lip. Peters mouthed the words: “Is he drunk at four o’clock?”

Carmichael waved him down, still chuckling. Then she tried to regain control of the conversation. “Bernie, you’re right about taking a trip. How did you know?”

“Because, my sweet, you only call me when you want me to go somewhere, and it’s never with you. So what is it this time?”

“Is your passport current?”

“Forever and a day.”

“Good. We need you here approximately at noon yesterday. Time is very short, Bernie. Very short. To be safe, I’d recommend you pack a bag and bring all your travel documents and whatever references you need. We’ll be working late, and you could be wheels in the well tomorrow.”

“Where to?”

“For now, just the Middle East.”

“All right. And, ah, what references?”

Carmichael thought for a moment; it was an open line. “Bernie, that suitcase you’re going to pack?”

“Yes?”

“Well, this job could involve suitcases that radiate.”

“On the way, Sandy.”

The line went dead.

37

“It’s coming. I can feel it.”

Frank Leopole stood at the front of the room with the SSI team and Druze officers arrayed around him. He had sketched a rough topographical map of the area on the schoolhouse blackboard, using colored chalk to define various positions.

“Why now, Colonel?” militia leader Azzam Hamdam asked through his interpreter, a youngster with financial ambitions in Beirut — or Washington, D.C.

“A combination of factors. First, the timing. The harassing fire has dropped off since our snipers got a handle on things, but I don’t know if that’s an indication of Hezbollah intent. There’s more activity over at El-Arian, so I’ve warned Chris Nissen’s team to go on high alert.”

Breezy raised a hand. “Boss, where’d our sniper dudes go, anyway?”

“They’re conducting another surveillance of the area. At least Furr will return to El-Arian in a day or so but Barrkman might go with him. We’ll see how things look tomorrow.

“Beyond that, the weather’s clamping down. I understand we’ll have low ceilings and maybe some rain the next couple of days. Even though we’re supposed to have close air support, it’s unlikely that Northern Command can arrange fast movers for a while. As for helo gunships, that remains to be seen.”

Leopole nodded toward Rami Hamadeh. “Captain Hamadeh has some information to share.”

The Israeli Druze took two steps forward and turned to face the group. “General Nadel’s brigade is fully briefed to support us, and Colonel Livni’s special operations detachment can insert some teams on fairly short notice. But I am told that the political situation is considered tense, and we should only expect outside help in extreme circumstances.”

Steve Lee shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “Captain, I understand that concern. But hasn’t it occurred to anybody that if we wait for ‘extreme circumstances’ it’ll probably be too late? After all, we’re twelve miles from the border, and that’s a long way if choppers can’t get in.”

Hamadeh had to concede the point. “It’s the best compromise that Northern Command could arrange with the ministry.”

Bosco sensed that something was missing. “Excuse me, gents. But where’s the Lebanese Army while all this is going on?”

The Israeli raised his eyebrows, as if hearing an unwelcome question. Finally he said, “The army is stretched thin right now, especially in the areas around Beirut and Sidon. We have liaison with their headquarters but we cannot count on much help, at least on short notice.”

Leopole turned to the blackboard. “All right, then. I’ve designated these points in white for twenty-four-hour defense, and these in blue for daylight. With Mr. Hamdam’s permission, I have suggested manning levels until the crisis passes. That means an interruption of daily life in the village, but there’s no way around it.”

The militia representatives voiced their assent and Leopole politely dismissed them. Once they left, he shut the door and spoke in subdued tones.

“All right, listen up. I got an encrypted e-mail from Arlington, and Captain Hamadeh confirmed it from his spec-ops sources. There’s serious concern about Hezbollah smuggling backpack nukes through this area.”

“Ho-lee shee-it.” Breezy’s voice was hushed, fervent.

Bosco added, “Oy vay!”

“It’s a short-notice alert, and we’ll just have to hope for the best for a while,” Leopole added. “But HQ is sending Omar Mohammed and Dr. Langevin to us ASAP. They could be here in a couple of days. If we have to shift gears and go after the nukes, the militia will simply have to look out for itself.” He glanced at Hamadeh. “I imagine that the IDF will have people on this side of the border as well, but there’s no word on that.”

Hamadeh felt the pinch. His immediate fate rested with the militia and the SSI team; his ultimate allegiance lay with the State of Israel. “I’ll see if I can get clearance for more information. It will be necessary if a nuclear threat actually develops.”

Chris Nissen beckoned to Robert Pitney. They paced several yards before Nissen spoke. Pitney thought he knew what was coming. “Robert, I take it that you’ve never been shot at.”

“No. At least not intentionally.” He grinned but the joke fell flat.

“Well, that’s about to change. I’ve heard from Frank. The Hezzies will probably try to take us in the next couple of days. I just thought I’d give you some time to collect your thoughts if you like.”

Pitney shook his head. “No thanks, Chris. I’m cool.”

The former Green Beret regarded the former cop in the gathering darkness. “Yeah, I can see you’re calm and collected. But… Robert, it’s just never like anybody thinks it’ll be.”

“Yes, I know that. I’ve trained operators who’ve done the deed, Chris. We talk about the psychological aspects. And I’m telling you, I’m ready for whatever’s coming down.”

Nissen shifted his feet and folded his arms. “Well, then you’re a member of a big club. I thought I was ready, too. The first time, I mean.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“Well, it was…” Nissen’s voice trailed off. “It turned to hash.” He snapped his fingers, loud and clear in the night air. “Just like that.”

Pitney realized that Chris Nissen probably did not admit such things to many people, and accepted the NCO’s candor as a compliment. He thought, Maybe this is the ultimate time for candor. “What about the other guys? Are they worried about me?”

“No. Not that I know of.” Nissen hastened to reply, hoping to cut off any doubt that his top shooter might entertain. “But, Robert, they’ve all been to the show before. They pretty much know what to expect. I just don’t want you to enter a combat situation with unrealistic expectations.”

“Chris, I think I’m pretty damned realistic.” The mild obscenity was unusual for Robert Pitney, who used it for effect. “It’s going to be loud and scary and confusing. I’ve read about the loneliness of the battlefield: S.L.A. Marshall was way off base about firing ratios but he was right about that.” He stopped to gather his thoughts. Finally he said, “Staff Sergeant, I’ll do my part. You can take that to the bank.”

Nissen nodded. “Okay then. Listen, you’re one of only three Arabic speakers on either team. I’d like you to direct traffic for me. I’ll tell you where I need people to go. There’ll be less confusion if you tell them.”

“Chris, I’m not just the best shooter in this ville. I’m almost certainly the best shooter in this country right now. I’ll get more hits with fewer rounds than anybody, including your snipers — wherever they are. Just put me where you need the most hits.”

The team leader leaned back, stretching his lumbar muscles. After a moment he said, “Tell you what. Under your contract I could order you to do just what I said. But I guess I can consider you a force multiplier. So here’s the deal, Robert. You put your guys where I tell you to put them, make sure they’re well set, then have at it. Shoot ‘em up. But between reloads, check with me because comm is likely to go south. If you have to be a runner between your guys and me, that’s how it’s gonna be.”

Pitney did not know it but he grinned. Extending a hand, he said, “It’s a deal, Sergeant.”

They shook, then parted.

On the way back to the HQ building, Nissen was intercepted by Bob Ashcroft. “How’d it go? Is he gonna be okay?”

“Well, I think so, Bob. He’s a little hard to read. Either he’s one of the coolest cookies I’ve ever come across or he’s sitting on something inside.”

“Maybe he figures that anybody who can shoot like him is golden.”

Nissen rubbed his neck, kneading the muscles. “Yeah, I thought about that. But Pitney’s too smart to take that for granted.” He massaged his neck again. “If I had to guess, I’d say that after all his trophies and his training classes, he’s finally got a chance to do the job, you know? Maybe he’s looking to prove something to himself.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“Yeah. You said it.”

“The operation will proceed like this,” Azizi began.

Facing his jihadists, he referred to a rough map drawn on a sheet of butcher paper, taped to the wall. “We are assigning two-thirds of our fighters to the attack on Amasha. If we are able to occupy the village, so much the better. We may or may not try to hold it, depending upon government reaction. Meanwhile, one-third will attack El-Arian and keep the defenders occupied there. If we can force some people out of the villages, onto the roads and across the countryside, so much the better.” He paused for effect. “You will not attempt to stop unarmed people from fleeing either area. Is that clear?”

Abbasali Rezvani, the head mortarman, ventured a question. “May I ask why, brother? It would seem preferable to prevent anyone from escaping and opposing us later.”

“Ordinarily that would be true, but not now. The more refugees we have in the country, the better our special operations teams will blend into the scene. We want both teams to get as close to the border as possible before they break away from the crowds.”

Rezvani accepted the logic of the argument, but pointed to the map. “Would not the refugees more likely go east or north, toward Hasbaya?”

Azizi smiled. “Not if there is fighting and frequent mortar shells exploding in that direction.”

Sitting in the front row, Ahmad Esmaili glanced around. None of the special operators gave any indication of concern for the deception aspect of the plan. That was as it should be. None of the men attacking the villages knew that their casualties would be considered the cost of doing business as long as at least one of the suitcases reached its ultimate destination.

38

The embassy staffer spotted the SSI men as soon as they appeared from the jetway. “Dr. Mohammed and Dr. Langevin?”

Omar Mohammed set down his briefcase to shake hands. “Yes. We didn’t know who would meet us…”

“Jim Bassinger.” He greeted Langevin as well, showing his ID. Then he said, “I’ll get you through customs as fast as possible. Follow me, gentlemen.”

Mohammed and Langevin exchanged knowing smiles. “Mr.” Bassinger wore civvies but he looked West Point, which in fact was the case.

Safely in the embassy limo, Bassinger immediately got down to business. “I don’t know what you heard before you left, but things are pretty tense here. There’s two or three bombings a week and the army and police have their hands full. I know that your situation is compounded because there’s no official Israeli presence, and I understand that SSI is contracted to the Israeli government. We’ve been tasked to support you as much as possible, but it’s limited.”

“How so?” Mohammed asked.

“Hezbollah and probably a bunch of other Islamic outfits have most of the embassies and consulates under constant surveillance. Your people, the Druze militia, are especially of interest. You probably heard about the attack on Rafix Kara’s compound a while back.”

Langevin nodded. “It was mentioned in our departure briefing.”

“Well, Kara died yesterday. The news hasn’t been released yet, probably because it’s still uncertain who will replace him. Frankly, I’m not sure that anybody can.”

Mohammed absorbed that information and filed it for later reference. “Mister… ah, it isn’t really Mister Bassinger, is it?”

The staffer’s mouth curved slightly at both ends. “Dr. Mohammed, it’s not even Bassinger, but it’ll have to do. I know you’ll understand.”

Langevin appreciated the fact that he was dealing with a professional. The State Department ID had shown that the bearer was James L. Bassinger. “So, what can you do for us, sir?”

“We’ll put you up in a secure facility tonight and see about getting you down to Hasbaya tomorrow. You’ll have an armed escort but there may be a delay. It looks as if Hezbollah is going to attack Amasha or El-Arian. Maybe both.”

The physicist had suspected as much. “In that case, I would like to have a weapon myself.”

Bassinger almost grinned at the sentiment. “Dr. Langevin, you will understand that the United States Department of State does not issue firearms to visiting citizens.” Before either SSI man could reply, Bassinger added, “However, your Druze escorts undoubtedly will have a fine selection for you.”

Langevin noticed the telltale bulge of Bassinger’s suit coat. “What do you carry, James?”

The staffer kept a straight face. “I don’t understand the question.”

Imam Sadegh Elham returned from the evening prayer and made the announcement. “It came to me during Salat-ul-Asr. The weather remains favorable so we will attack tomorrow.”

Esmaili knew what that meant. “Then the weapons teams will leave the day after, to take advantage of the confusion in the area.”

“Just so,” Elham replied. He turned to Azizi. “Brother, the attacks on the villages are in your hands. As we planned, do everything possible to draw attention on the local area. Keep up the pressure, regardless of casualties.” After a short pause he added, “We can always find more recruits for the jihad.”

The cleric returned his attention to Esmaili and Jannati. “My brothers, your service has been long and hard. At the end of this mission, you will finally be able to rest.”

For the moment, Esmaili decided to ignore the religious significance of that sentiment. But the meaning was clear enough. He glanced at Jannati, who would carry the package with an assistant. The nuclear jihadist appeared calm and composed. He has already decided to die.

Yakov Livni walked into Solomon Nadel’s quarters unannounced. When the duty noncom intercepted him in the foyer, he waved her down. “Tell Sol that I need to see him.”

Nadel appeared several minutes later, buttoning a checkered shirt, noticeably disheveled. “This had better be damned important,” he growled. “My wife got a rare attack of libido half an hour ago.”

“Well, that should be plenty of time, even at your age,” Livni quipped. “Besides, aren’t nuclear weapons in Lebanon pretty damned important?”

The brigadier detoured to the kitchen and returned with two beers. He dismissed the housekeeper with a nod.

“Tell me.”

“Solomon, I’m sticking my neck out — way out. The information we discussed before has been confirmed again so I’m sending some small teams across the border. But if any of them run into the kind of trouble you’d expect with backpack bombs, they’re going to need help.” He paused, staring into his friend’s face. “The kind of help only you can provide.”

Nadel’s response was a long stare. Finally he took another sip from his bottle and set it down. “Who else knows?”

“You, me, my chief of staff, and the operators. Twelve men in three teams.”

“Nobody in Jerusalem or Tel Aviv?”

Livni grinned. “I’m old and bald, Sol. I’m not slow and stupid.”

“Well, if we’re lucky — really lucky — nothing will come of it. After all, it’s still not certain that the backpacks exist, just that there’s a plan. But if something does turn up, and we intercept the bombs, then everything is all right. Nobody will get a medal or anything, but the heat will be off.”

“My God, Sol. You’re talking like a politician!”

Nadel tapped his shoulder, where an epaulette would rest. “It comes with the position. As you well know.” He leaned forward, sliding the beer aside.

“Look, if I have to send my people in to get your people, I’d be obliged to notify higher command. I’d have to inform headquarters even if I didn’t wait for permission. Besides that, there’s no keeping a secret with this sort of thing.” He smiled. “As you well know.”

Livni finally reached for his own beer and sampled it. “Hmmm… not bad.” He regarded his nominal superior across the table. “I’ll tell you what I know, Solomon. I know that your main concern is that I’ve started an operation that may result in some of your boys having to cross the fence, and some of them may not come back. I’m sorry for that — as sorry as I can be. But how in God’s name can we allow portable nuclear bombs along our border, let alone risking their getting inside?”

“What about your Druze contacts? Can’t they help?”

“Some of them are aware of the situation, but I don’t control them.” He bit his lip in concentration. Then he said, “You know that Rafix Kara died?”

Nadel leaned back, as if nudged. “No. My God, when?”

“Just the other day. There was no question of him making a full recovery but I thought maybe…”

“Maybe you could talk to him again?”

“Well, that would have been nice.”

“So who will take over?”

Livni gave an eloquent shrug. “Who knows? His surviving boy, God love him, he’s a fine youngster. But he’s too young to fill his father’s shoes, and I don’t know who else might step up.” He exhaled, almost a sigh. “I’m afraid it will degenerate into a power struggle, Sol. All the time and effort in building up a really useful, reliable organization. Now…”

Solomon Nadel finished the sentiment. “Now we need them more than ever.”

39

The mortars began at dawn, falling on the perimeter defenses.

Frank Leopole was already up, supervising the dispersal of the militiamen. He warned two groups to spread out, but had language problems. Finally he grabbed Rami Hamadeh and shouted over the explosions. “Tell them to keep their interval! One round could take out four or five of ‘em!”

The Druze officer nodded, already having noted the problem. It was understandable, really. New troops — or at least men unaccustomed to combat — tended to bunch up for moral support. It was just what artillerymen and machine gunners counted on.

With low clouds hanging in almost a ground cover, the sun was obscured in its effort to break through from the east. Leopole conceded that even if he got approval for helicopter gunships, they would not be available until later in the morning. By then the issue was likely to be decided.

He sprinted back to the command center and picked up the satellite phone. After an interminable wait — it must have been twenty seconds — he heard the voice he wanted. “Nissen.”

“Chris, it’s started here.”

“Yeah, here too, Frank. Harassing fire so far but our recce team reports large movement on the reverse slope.”

“All right. I’m coordinating with Captain Hamadeh. He’ll see about getting some choppers but with the clouds on the ground it’ll be a while.”

“Affirm. Good luck, Frank.”

“You, too, guy.”

Leopole scooped up his AK and walked briskly from the HQ building, then stopped. He realized that he had left his helmet inside.

An 82mm round exploded twelve meters in front of him.

Buckets of cold water in the face and all down his front. That’s what it felt like. He could see nothing, and hoped that it merely meant he had blood in his eyes. He needed to swallow but had difficulty. Something was tightening in his chest and he opened his mouth wide, sucking in as much air as possible.

It was the damndest thing: he smelled brownies in the oven after school.

Someone was calling his name, as if from far off.

It sounded just like his mother.

“Frank!” Breezy shook his CO by the collar, trying to get a response. “Frank! Damn it!”

Mark Brezyinski pulled his medic’s kit closer and grasped for… what? What do I need? Frank’s so messed up. “Oh, my GOD!”

Another round landed thirty meters away, dropping dirt and stones all around. Breezy hardly was aware.

A, B, C. Airway, breathing, and circulation. He leaned over Leopole, feeling for a pulse and finding none. He lifted an eyelid, seeking life… and found none.

Brezyinski realized that he was crying. Bawling like a damned kid. Almost, anyway. The hot tears left tracks down his cheeks, creasing the grime. He wiped his sleeve across his face, smudging the tears and the dirt. He forced himself to look around, regaining control. C’mon, man. Ruck up. Stay in the fight.

Steve Lee was alongside. He took one look and nudged Breezy. “He’s gone, Breeze. Come on, there’s others who need help.”

“Hos-tiles to the front!”

Bosco was on the wall, shoving militiamen to better firing points as the Hezbollah infantry advanced. The fighters came on in two waves, dodging and weaving, a few firing ineffectively from almost three hundred meters. For a moment he thought, Sure wish we had the snipers, but they’re on the way to El-Arian.

In the next moment he was shouting. “Pick your targets, hold and squeeze!” Bosco knew that only a few Druze could understand him, but he made the effort anyway. Finding a good rest, he set both elbows atop the rocky wall, stared a hole in his rifle’s front sight, and began squeezing off aimed rounds in the subdued light.

Mortar rounds continued falling, adding noise and confusion— and cover — for the attackers. Some militiamen ducked behind the wall, avoiding the worst of the fragments. Hamadeh sent their leader, Azzam Hamdam, to kick them back into position. Meanwhile, the Israeli officer went in the other direction, ensuring that the active shooters — which were most of them — spread their fire across the frontal assault.

On the way back, Hamadeh saw a militiaman blown off the wall by a mortar round. The Druze landed with a thud, rolled over two or three times, and tried to get up. The IDF officer knelt beside him, ran a quick assessment, and saw that he could be saved. Hamadeh waved to Breezy. “Over here!”

Though previously trained as a medic, Breezy was a shooter by choice. But in a curious way he welcomed the chance to work on somebody. He forced the image of Frank Leopole from his mind, examined the Druze, and exclaimed, “Dude! Don’t you know a sucking chest wound is nature’s way of telling you to slow down?”

With the help of another Druze, Breezy dragged the casualty around a corner, temporarily out of harm’s way. He leaned down, ear to the man’s chest.

“Can you help him?” the militiaman asked.

Breezy nodded. “It’s a pneumothorax — air in the pleural cavity. His right lung collapsed. I can hear the air whistling through the hole.” He found the medical terminology oddly comforting; never mind that his impromptu aide could not understand the argot. He grabbed the casualty’s right hand and laid it on the wound. Then he had the other Druze press down with his own hands. “Keep pressure on the bleeding, okay?”

While the second Druze did as ordered, Breezy pulled a dressing from his kit. He tore it open with his teeth and pulled off the plastic wrapper. He talked himself through the process. “The wrapper of a field dressing is great, but you can use cellophane like from a cigarette pack or aluminum foil, or even duct tape. You want a big enough patch to keep the material from getting sucked inside, so make it, like, two or three inches around the hole.”

The militiaman looked down at his fellow citizen, who seemed surprisingly calm. “Yes, yes. Is good!”

Breezy taped three sides of the patch, explaining, “That lets him breathe better. Now roll him onto his wounded side if you can. The extra pressure can help prevent more bleeding. Okay?”

Again the nod, accompanied by almost a smile. “Yes, good. Thank you, American. Thank you!”

Breezy patted the man on the shoulder, wiped more tears from his eyes, and returned to the wall.

The volume of fire increased. With the attackers inside one hundred meters, and the mortar shells beginning to abate, it became more a rifle fight. Breezy heard the clatter of full-auto fire and looked to his right. Damn it! Wasting ammo! He ran in that direction.

He almost tripped over a body.

Looking down, he became immobilized. “No, man, nooooo…”

The body belonged to Jason Boscombe, formerly of the United States Army Rangers. He had taken a round through the neck: more likely from blind luck than skill. But it had severed the spine and Bosco was just as dead.

Brezyinski sank to his knees. He felt numb, empty, and drained of emotion. He was still kneeling like that when the Hezbollah fighters reached the wall.

“Hold it!” Barrkman held up a hand. The Druze driver did not understand American English but recognized the stop signal.

The Land Rover braked to a halt on the two-lane road, engine idling. Barrkman cocked an ear to the southeast. “I saw something. A light, kind of like an explosion.”

Furr leaned forward from the rear seat. “Maybe it’s just…”

An ephemeral eruption burst near the gray horizon, followed three seconds later by a faint carrumph.

“That’s prob’ly mortars,” Furr declared.

“Yeah, and El-Arian’s catching ‘em.”

The Americans paused to consider their options. In that short interval, two more Rash-carrumphs occurred. “That’s not harassing fire,” Barrkman said. “I think it’s the real deal.”

Furr stuck his head out the window, looking around. “If so, we sure as hell can’t stay out here. We gotta find someplace to hole up. Or go back.”

Barrkman rubbed his chin in thought. “But Frank said if the Hezzies hit one ville they’ll probably hit both.” He turned to the driver. “Bahjat, where can we hide this thing around here?”

Bahjat Hanifes spoke passable English but required time and patience. “Hide? This thing?”

“Yeah.” Barrkman patted the dashboard. “This vehicle. Where can we keep it out of sight. From the road.” He remembered to speak slowly and distinctly.

“Ah. Not many places.” He swiveled his head left and right. Then, without further comment, he put the gearshift in reverse and began backing up.

At length Hanifes stopped and cranked the wheel hard over. He let out the clutch with a jerk and the tires slithered through some mud puddles. The Druze maneuvered onto some grass, then eased the Land Rover down a slight incline. He backed under a small stand of trees, set the parking brake, and switched off.

Barrkman climbed out, surveying the terrain. “Well, we’re out of direct view of the road and I guess we can cut some foliage to cover the windshield. Other than that, I’m out of ideas.”

Furr unlimbered himself from the rear and tugged at some bags. “We can’t stay near the car. If the Hezzies see it, they’ll come for a look.” He set aside the custom AR-15 he had carried across his knees and picked up the drag bag with his precision rifle. “I have a coupla days’ worth of MREs and some water but that’s it.”

Barrkman set aside his AK-47 and withdrew his own sniper rifle. He began taking inventory. “Bahjat, what do you have?”

Hanifes hoisted his personal weapon, a Romanian AK, and a chest pack full of loaded magazines. From his knapsack he withdrew some bread, grapes, and bottled water.

Barrkman looked at Furr. “I don’t suppose you brought your night vision, did you?”

“I thought I’d be back by this afternoon.”

“Well, I’ve got mine but it won’t be much good for anything but surveillance. A fight’s a losing proposition with just three of us. Best thing we can do is lay low and see how things go.”

Furr walked over to the Druze. “Bahjat, do you have a radio? Contact with Captain Hamadeh or Mr. Hamdam?”

“No, sir. No radio. I never need.”

Barrkman walked several yards from the trees and looked around. “There’s plenty of daylight, maybe more. We could walk cross-country toward Amasha and see what’s doing there. It’s better than getting caught on the road.”

Furr pulled his Glock 19 from its shoulder holster and chambered a round before replacing the pistol. “But if we get there and it’s under attack, then what? We’d be on the outside looking in. Maybe between the Hezzies and town.”

Barrkman returned to the vehicle, withdrew his rifle case, and faced northwest. “Like I said, we should find us a hole and sit tight. But someplace that’s not obvious — no hilltops but with a good field of view.”

Pondering his partner’s suggestion, Furr saw no alternative. Without speaking, he pulled a roll of electrical tape from the glove compartment and tore off two thin strips. He applied one to the inside of each partly open door, the other end attached to the frame. Then he shut the doors. “What’s that?” Barrkman asked.

“If somebody checks this rig before we return, the tape will be pulled off.”

“You are one sneaky bastard, you know that?” Barrkman grinned appreciatively. Then he added, “But what if they booby trap the truck?”

Furr grinned back. “Then we’ll know for sure somebody was here.”

The senior sniper laughed at the gallows humor. “Okay, then. All we need now is someplace to hide.”

Bahjat Hanifes was a quietly competent militiaman. “I know place. You come we go.” He stepped off with a purposeful stride, and lacking options, the Americans followed at six-meter intervals.

40

Chris Nissen had a problem. Or, more accurately, he had one problem that outweighed all the others.

Ducking another mortar round, Nissen grabbed Robert Pitney by the flak jacket. “Listen! We can’t hold the eastern perimeter. There’s too many Hezzies. We’re gonna have to pull back to the inner perimeter…” He turned his head to avoid more dirt and rocks thrown up by another 82mm shell. “I think we can hold there.”

Pitney nodded amid the noise. “Gotcha. I’ll start on it.” With that, he was on the way, shouting in Arabic, pulling every second man off the firing line.

Nissen gestured to Bob Ashcroft. “Pitney’s pulling the Druze back to the interior perimeter. You get with Lieutenant Halabi and establish those guys as a base of fire to cover the others when they pull back.”

Before Ashcroft had sprinted twenty meters he saw Halabi consulting with Ayoob Slim, the militia leader. They went in opposite directions: Slim to the firing line and Halabi to the fallback position. Obviously they had a handle on things so Ashcroft went to a gap in the line and looked for somebody to shoot.

There was no shortage of targets. Ashcroft estimated eighty to one hundred Hezbollah fighters advancing on the village, and not many were taking fire. He reminded himself to breathe, settled down behind his FN-FAL, and began firing at attackers perhaps 150 meters out. He was jarred by occasional mortar rounds, and once ducked to avoid automatic fire, but he selected individual targets and shot at each until it fell. He was counting rounds rather than hits, and at eighteen he decided to reload.

Something nudged his shoulder. Phil Green’s blue eyes twinkled in the gray light. “Is this a private party or can anybody play?”

Ashcroft completed the reload and stuffed the previous magazine inside his vest. “I’m just playin’ through. Nissen wants some cover for the militia who’re pulling back to the inner line.”

Green pointed a thumb down the wall. “If you’ll notice, you’re practically the last one here.” With that he leaned into the wall and shot the two nearest assailants, forty yards out.

Ashcroft glanced left and right. How’s he stay so calm? He tugged on his new magazine to ensure it was seated, then looked at Green. “Set?”

“Set!” Green shouted.

“Go!”

Beneath a volume of covering fire, the two Americans scrambled across the open ground between the inner and outer stone walls. They heard the Dashika’s distinctive chug-chug-chug pounding from atop the nearest building. Green had to jump two militia bodies but scooped up one of the men’s AKs en route.

As Ashcroft and Green leapt the inner wall, the militia’s Dashika rattled out a long burst, perhaps fifteen rounds. Ken Delmore, an automatic weapons aficionado, looked up in disdain. “They’re wasting ammo. And I don’t think they’re hitting very much.”

The big man turned and made for the external steps leading to the balcony where the Russian weapon was mounted. He was halfway up when an RPG round impacted near the top of the landing. The two Dashika gunners were wounded and Delmore was blown off the steps. He fell eight feet onto his back, landing with a discernible thud. He didn’t move.

Pitney was first to reach him. The ex-cop ran the A-B-C assessment, then shouted, “He’s breathing!” He looked back at Delmore. “Can you hear me?”

Delmore opened his eyes, trying to focus on something. “My back.” It came out as a croak.

“Okay, don’t move.” Pitney called in Arabic, summoning a militiaman who spoke some English. He said, “Stay with him. I’ll be back. But don’t let him move.”

Pitney scrambled along the wall until he found Nissen. “Delmore’s down and I think the heavy MG is knocked out. But most of the guys seem to be shooting.”

“All right. Keep directing their fire, Robert. I don’t know why the Hezzies haven’t flanked us but they seem set on keeping up the frontal assault.”

Pitney almost smiled. “Suits me.” He found a good position amid the Druze and began firing. Nissen watched for a moment, curious how the hottest shooter in Lebanon would handle the situation. He noted that Pitney appeared almost calm, certainly deliberate. He shot quickly but not fast. Undoubtedly the Hezbollah unit scaling the first stone wall was taking serious casualties.

Hussain Halabi ran up to Nissen, hunched over amid the gunfire. “I think we need more men here. Let me bring half of those from the south side. They have almost nothing to shoot at.”

“Okay, go ahead. I still don’t understand why they’re not flanking us.” Nissen patted the liaison officer on the shoulder and Halabi scampered off. He went twenty meters and fell flat. At first Nissen thought he had tripped, but when the Israeli didn’t move, the American suspected the worst. “Oh, no.” He grabbed Ashcroft again. “Help me!”

The SSI operators ran to Halabi, and without speaking, each grabbed an arm. They pulled him into the lee of a bullet-pocked building and knelt down. Nissen turned Halabi’s head toward him. One look was enough for Nissen. “He’s had it. Must be AP ammo through the vest.”

Ashcroft turned to resume shooting when Nissen caught him. “Tell Pitney to go to the south wall and bring half those guys back here. Hurry!”

Nissen ensured that Pitney dashed away on his mission, then walked along the wall, stooped over to reduce his silhouette. Occasionally he stopped to double-tap an attacker but mainly he kept moving, watching for gaps, lending encouragement. When he turned back to retrace his steps he ran into Ken Delmore.

Nissen’s brown eyes widened in astonishment. “They said you were a hard down.”

Delmore leaned close amid the noise. “I was. Back hurts like hell.” At that, he pivoted, shouldered his custom AR-15, and looked for targets.

Moments later Pitney reappeared with several militiamen in tow. He distributed them along the wall, but the firing had dropped off. Nissen waved to Ayoob Slim, hailing the militia commander. With Pitney on hand to smooth over linguistic difficulties, the SSI leader and the Druze chieftain reached an agreement.

“Okay,” Nissen concluded. “We’ll keep this layout but I want the reaction force to move closer to this position. They’ve been trying to push us from the east all morning.”

“About time for a change, don’t you think?” asked Pitney.

“No, I don’t. These blockheads get something in mind and they stick with it. That’s why I want the reaction force closer to us than to the south.”

“Well, okay, Chris. But it’s not much more than a squad.”

Nissen nodded. “Yeah, I know. But we can’t stay nose to nose with these bastards indefinitely. If they throw another human wave at us, some might get through. So we need to plug the gap right away.”

Pitney exchanged a few words with Slim, who said something and nodded vigorously. “Ayoob says he understands.”

“All right. You and him get things sorted out. And run an ammo check. We may have to redistribute magazines between the lookers and the shooters.”

“Okay.” Pitney thought for a moment. “The Hezzies took a beating. You really think they’ll try again?”

Nissen grinned. “Not a doubt in my military mind. But I’m gonna check with Frank to see what’s doing at Amasha.”

41

Mohammad Azizi lowered his binoculars and rubbed his chin. Sprawled on a hummock half a kilometer from the village, he judged that the attack was progressing tolerably well. He accepted the handset from his radio operator and called his subordinate commander.

“Ameen, this is Baahir. Reply.”

The RO glanced at the leader of the security element. They exchanged knowing glances. Trust Azizi to select a grandiose call sign. Baahir meant “dazzling” or “brilliant” while Ameen was merely “trustworthy.”

The assault commander took ten seconds to respond. “We are heavily engaged in…” The sound of gunfire crackled behind the voice, which faded out. Azizi waited for clarification, and when it did not come he tried again.

“Ameen, this is Baahir. Reply.”

“I am here.”

“This is Baahir. Listen, I can see people fleeing the opposite side of the village. Keep up the pressure but do not prevent anyone from leaving. Acknowledge.”

The carrier wave snapped and sputtered. Something high-pitched assailed Azizi’s ear, ending in a screech. Nearly a minute passed. Then the voice was back. “Ameen speaking. My radio operator has been killed. But I am advancing. Reply.”

Azizi pressed the transmit button. “Baahir responding.” Long seconds passed. He tried again.

After two more attempts Azizi passed the handset to his RO. The operator shrugged. “It seems that he can transmit but not receive.”

“Well, there’s nothing more to be done here.” Azizi levered himself out of the prone position. He picked up his rifle and began walking downhill. “We should get closer, anyway.” When the radioman caught up with him, he added almost as an afterthought: “Try to contact the El-Arian commander. I want to know the situation over there.”

Breezy didn’t know how he got under cover. He only remembered looking into Bosco’s dead face. He was hardly aware of the gunfire around him: it was nearly constant, almost atmospheric. Just part of the landscape. Becoming aware, he remembered to run a system check on his rifle: half-empty magazine, round chambered, safety engaged. One full mag remaining.

Steve Lee rapped on Breezy’s helmet. “You okay? We can’t stay here.”

Breezy stared into the retired major’s face. Lee. Steve Lee. You pulled me away from… Bosco. He nodded. “We…” We what?

Lee slapped the operator upside the head, hard. “Damn it, Brezyinski, snap out of it! We’re in deep serious here. Get your damned head back in the game!”

The sharp blow got results. Breezy’s grief-numbed brain defaulted to shock, then anger. He opened his mouth to scream at his tormentor, then something settled in the back of his mind. He’s right. Gotta stay in the fight.

He blinked, hard. “Okay, Major. I’m all right now.”

“Hoo-ah!” Lee hefted Leopole’s satellite phone. “I hope to hell this battery’s good. Wasn’t time looking for another.” He glanced left and right before leaving cover, noting the growing confusion around him. Some militiamen were withdrawing slowly, firing and leap-frogging back upon each other as they had been trained. Others were scampering for cover, though none had abandoned their weapons.

Lee inhaled, blew out the breath, and said, “With me.”

He lunged upright, driving forward with his weight lifter’s thighs, and pivoted to cover the far end of the block. Breezy was close behind, swinging his muzzle to cover the opposite side of the street. They went ten or twelve paces when Breezy saw the projectile smoking toward them. He only had time to scream “RPG!”

The warhead exploded within feet of Steve Lee, and he went down in a tumble. He was screaming in pain and rage, holding his ruined right leg with both hands.

Breezy stopped, entertaining an ephemeral question: Is he done? Should I run?

He slung his rifle and grasped the stitched cloth handle on the back of Lee’s ballistic vest. Hardly noticing the 240 pounds of man and gear, Breezy pulled Lee through an open door.

“The radio!” Lee yelled. “Get the radio!”

Breezy looked outside and saw the precious lifeline in the street. He glanced at Lee’s bloody leg — what was left of it — and hesitated.

“Go, God damn it!” Lee shoved at him with one hand.

Breezy dashed into the street, scooped up the sat phone, and dashed back inside. He unslung his medic’s kit and pulled out a tourniquet. He worked fast, almost glad to have something to occupy his mind.

He knew that he was feeling the rising tide of panic. With an effort of will he choked it down. “It’s bad, Maje, but I can handle it.”

Lee allowed his head to rest on the floor, not wanting to look at his severed limb. He was surprised at how little pain he felt so far. But it’ll come.

Breezy finished tending the traumatic amputation and pulled Lee farther inside the room. Some family’s breakfast had been violently interrupted. Looking around, he saw Lee’s carbine and fetched it for him.

“Jim Bowie,” Lee rasped.

“What?”

“That’s me. Jim Bowie, propped up in bed at the Alamo.” Lee emitted a giggle. “Mexicans over the wall. Gooks in the wire.”

Breezy feared that Lee was descending into shock. In the dim light, it was possible to see his eyes dilating.

“Major, can you stand? I can help you outside and maybe we can get help.”

Lee shook his head violently. “No… no. Wouldn’t make it.” He fumbled at his vest, seeking his notebook. As he patiently, deliberately wrote something, he said, “Gimme a shot.”

Breezy reached into his bag. “You want morphine?”

Lee clinched his teeth, biting down the rising pain. “All you got.”

Brezyinski recoiled at the implication. “I can’t do that. You know…”

Lee’s left hand was on Breezy’s throat. “Listen! I’m not gonna make it. An’ you can’t get out with me. But we can’t let them get the sat phone. Here.” He shoved the paper into Breezy’s hand. The ruled lines were crudely scrawled in black ink smudged with blood not quite dried.

Breezy focused hard to read the words. Fatal wound, can’t move. Ordering B out with radio. Love to family. Lee.

“Now, gimme enough morphine!”

On by far the worst day of his life, before or after, Mark Brezyinski rolled up Stephen Lee’s sleeve, found the vein, and complied with his friend’s wish. Then the onetime happy-go-lucky paratrooper picked up the sat phone, walked through the door, and went over the wall.

42

Something was different about Imam Elham. He looked pleased for a change, standing before Hezbollah’s yellow and green flag.

Greeting Esmaili, Jannati, and the others, he almost smiled. “I have just received a message from Brother Azizi. The operation against Amasha appears successful. Our fighters should completely occupy the village before long. Many people are fleeing.”

Esmaili asked, “What of the attack on El-Arian?”

“That too is successful, even with lesser goals. Our forces have prevented any reinforcement of Amasha, and the defenders are reported staying in place. Some residents also are leaving there.”

Jannati, who listened closely and seldom spoke, ventured a question. “Imam, then when will we leave on our mission?”

“Tonight, when there is more confusion in the dark. With refugees spreading across the countryside, it will be easier for our two teams to conceal themselves among the rabble.”

“God is great!” Ka’bi, Jannati’s partner from Tehran, leapt to his feet. He led the others in the familiar chant. Esmaili was among the first to rise in response, mouthing the words with the others.

We are the nation of Hezbollah!

I shall sacrifice my life for Allah.

I am proud.

I am ready to sacrifice all the others in the same way.

As the meeting broke up, Elham made that same infuriating come-to-me gesture to Esmaili. “I want to add a man to your team. He may be useful in holding any pursuers at bay.”

“Yes?”

“Your young marksman, Hazim.”

Esmaili blinked in surprise, measuring his words. Hazim may fit your plans, but not mine, old man. “With respect, I prefer to leave him here with the security force. He is still learning the business of sniping and he could slow us down.”

“Brother, his mission is to slow down those who might learn of your presence. After that, he can make his own way. If he survives.”

Esmaili thought: Another man thrown away. For an ephemeral moment he wondered why he suddenly cared about preserving one life when he had willingly led so many others to their fate. Maybe because the firing squad dream had returned again recently.

“As you wish, Imam.”

Elham rewarded the chieftain with a rare pat on the shoulder. “We all serve God in our own way. You more than most.”

Breezy found a depression in the ground and sat down, rifle cradled across his knees. He tried to prompt more water from his Camelbak but it was empty. He leaned back against a rock and closed his eyes, inhaling slowly, deeply.

He saw Steve Lee lying on the floor of that house, calmly waiting for the morphine to do its merciful work.

Breezy’s eyes snapped open. His brain began to churn. Why’d he make me do that? He could have shot himself. Maybe he’s Catholic or something. Hell, I’m Catholic — sort of — and I would have done it. Everybody knows what happens to prisoners. Your family gets to watch your head being cut off on TV.

Mark Brezyinski was not given to rationalization. Before Amasha, his world had been ordered, if frequently violent. He had relatives whom he saw on occasion, but mostly he had SSI and his work. And Bosco. Now there was nobody to fill that void, the once-in-a-lifetime friendship. Breezy knew instinctively that there would never be another, and he allowed himself to cry a little more, as much for himself as for his dead friends.

There’s a reason I’m alive. It’s not just a crapshoot. But what is it?

On an impulse, Breezy pulled the crumpled, bloody paper from his pocket. He looked at Steve Lee’s dying declaration. Fatal wound, can’t move. Ordering B out with radio. Love to family.

An electric tingle ran down Breezy’s spine. It wasn’t fatal. He could have survived. He just couldn’t move. So… he was, like, saving… me!

In the pale gray atmosphere of midday, Breezy saw the dawn’s reality. I don’t really understand the sat phone, and probably he knew it. He could have destroyed it. But he gave me a reason to go.

So he wasn’t in shock. He was thinking clearly right up to the end.

Breezy raised his hands to his head, grasping the paper that would prove he behaved decently. For the first time he wondered whether he would tell SSI the truth of Steve Lee’s death, or whether he would put the best possible mask on an ugly face and say that the operator died before Breezy left that awful place.

He got up, looked around, and seeing nothing, began walking in the general direction of El-Arian, still rubbing the moistness in his eyes.

He had gone about a klick when he heard something that froze him in midstride. A vehicle, fast approaching. Breezy looked around, seeking a hiding spot, and found none. In desperation he sprinted downslope toward a tree but it was too far. He dived into the grass, flattening himself, rifle shouldered.

The engine sound came from a Nissan pickup with a Dashika mounted in the bed — a “technical” in Third World terms. The truck screeched to a stop about eighty meters away, off the road, with the engine idling. Two armed men dismounted. Breezy glimpsed at least two others in the cab.

The two men — surely Hezbollah — went to opposite sides of the tailgate and opened their flies. Pit stop, Breezy thought. He moved his front sight from the dismounted men to the seated occupants. He disengaged the safety, keeping his finger off the trigger.

When finished, the pair climbed back in the bed. The driver engaged the clutch and began to add throttle when the assistant gunner pounded on the cab.

He was looking directly at Brezyinski.

Amid excited jabbering and animated gestures, the jihadists focused their attention on the strange form. The primary gunner swung the snout toward Breezy and tugged on the charging handle.

Breezy shot him off the mount.

When the A-gunner stepped behind the weapon, Breezy got off two fast rounds, one of which connected. The gunner sagged into the bed, screaming in pain.

The driver accelerated, leaving one motionless body in the dirt. Breezy tracked the vehicle as best he could, but the grass blocked his view. For a moment he allowed himself to believe he was safe.

The pickup came back, stopped fifty meters away, and the passenger opened fire with the Dashika. The first burst went high. The second chewed up the grass and dirt around Breezy. He crawfished right, getting off snap shots that did no good.

Now the driver had his AK out and was firing semiauto.

Breezy rolled away again, knowing that the Hezzies had achieved fire superiority. He could not stop and take aim without giving them a better target.

He tasted raw heart, felt his urgent bladder. He had no choice— keep moving.

The next burst straddled him — rounds impacting left and right. God, God. I’m gonna die!

Abrupt silence.

Breezy moved again, saw the Nissan still there but no shooters in sight. He rose to one knee, rifle ready. What the…?

Three men appeared from behind the tree he had tried to reach. They advanced at a jog, spreading out, moving professionally.

Breezy waved a joyous wave, breathing the air of the saved. One of the men waved back.

Rick Barrkman had a huge grin on his face. Breezy leapt on him and hugged his neck, pounding his tactical vest, almost crying in relief. “Man, I thought… I was dead.” He choked down a sob, rubbed his eyes that were wet again.

Rob Furr and the militiaman checked the vehicle. There was one gunshot, which told Breezy all he needed to know. After loading the bodies, the Druze got in the cab and drove the truck downslope.

Furr walked up to Breezy and placed both hands on his shoulders. “You lucky bastard! If we’d been thirty seconds later they would’ve toasted you.”

“Shit, tell me about it!” He wiped his face, gleaming with perspiration and tears. “Where’d you guys come from?”

Barrkman turned and waved to the Druze, who was bringing the Land Rover. Then he said, “We holed up for a while this morning when we saw the attacks on both villes. We waited till things quieted down and came back to the truck, then saw you. We barely had time to get our scopes on these guys.”

Breezy sucked in more air, aware that his heart was still surging. “I never even heard you shoot.”

“Not surprising.” Furr laughed. “With all that belt-fed noise.”

Barrkman cocked his head. “Breeze, if you’re out here all alone, what’s happening in Amasha?”

Breezy opened his mouth twice. Finally, he told them.

“It’s a mess over there.” Chris Nissen raised his hands in frustration. “Brezyinski’s version is probably the most recent, but we’ve had Druze reports that the place is still holding out.”

The erstwhile NCO paced in the room, rubbing his chin in concentration. The other SSI operators sat or stood, according to their state of fatigue. Nissen surveyed them for their current utility:

Ashcroft and Green appeared strong. Delmore talked a good game but he moved stiffly, slowly. Barrkman was composed; Furr obviously worried about his friends in Amasha. Breezy had definitely changed. The puckish, surfer dude persona was gone, probably forever. He sat against the wall, obviously brooding.

Pitney was outside, coordinating the defenses with Ayoob Slim. He’s doing good, Nissen conceded.

With seven men plus himself, Nissen had to make a decision shortly, and there was no point delaying it.

“Listen up,” he said. “I’ve been talking to Captain Hamadeh. He’s hoping for aerial surveillance to look at Amasha later today, if the weather lifts. The fact that the Hezzies haven’t hit us again leads us to think this morning’s attack was a delaying action. Apparently they didn’t want us to reinforce Frank’s garrison, and now that they probably own it, they may be satisfied. Or they might come back to pick up the pieces.”

“So what do we do, Boss?” Delmore’s voice was lighter than his back felt.

“Hamadeh hopes that some of the Amasha militia will be able to get here, like Breezy did. If so, that’s great. If not, we have to arrange contingencies on our own.”

Barrkman asked, “What sort of contingencies?”

Chris Nissen inhaled, then blew out his breath. “Okay, here it comes.

“Hamadeh has heard from his special operations liaison with Northern Command. There’s intel, considered good, that the opposition has one or more backpack nukes.”

The NCO waited for the inevitable chatter to abate. “This is not, repeat, not for distribution. But there are clandestine spec-ops teams on this side of the border, looking for infiltrators who could have the nukes. We’ve been asked to deploy one or two teams, assuming we can spare the manpower. If so, Hamadeh will notify his people to look out for us.”

Green raised a hand. “Chris, that’s not what we signed on for. The contract is training and…”

“Yeah, I know. I’m going to discuss that with Arlington as soon as I can. It’s still pretty early there — about 0300.” He paused, looking at the far wall. “Besides, they need to know about Frank and… the others.”

“There’s lots of people out wandering around, you know.” Breezy’s voice caught most of the operators by surprise. He had hardly said a word since relating the news about Amasha. “I think the Hezzies want a lot of civilians in the countryside.”

“Why’s that?”

“Cover. If there’s backpack nukes out there, it’d be easier to sneak ‘em to the border with a bunch of refugees.”

Nissen looked at Green, who nodded. “That’s a good point, Breeze. I’ll talk to Hamadeh about it.” Maybe he’s getting his edge back.

“Meanwhile, we’re getting some help from headquarters. There was an encrypted e-mail last night that Dr. Mohammed is flying to Beirut with a physicist. They’ll join us ASAP.”

Ashcroft perked up. “That must be Bernie Langevin! Phil and I worked with him on the yellow cake smuggling.”

Green’s mouth curled at the edges, elevating his mustache. “Only PhD that I ever met who can strip a Beretta.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s not his main credentials,” Nissen replied. “Anyway, Dr. Mohammed is coming because he speaks Farsi as well as Arabic and Hebrew. He can be a big help, especially if we tangle with some Iranians.”

Furr roused himself and made a point. “Chris, if we send teams out chasing nukes, how many guys would stay here?”

“I don’t know yet. But I think we want three or four men per team, which means no more than two teams.”

When nobody else commented, he put his hands on his hips. “Okay, that’s it for now. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear more.”

As the shooters filed out, Breezy held back. Finally he walked up to Nissen. “Sergeant, I have one thing to say.”

“Yeah?”

“If you send out a team, I’m on it.”

Before Nissen could reply, Breezy was headed for the door.

43

Sandy Carmichael set down the phone and sat in stunned silence. Then she removed her reading glasses, laid her head on the desk, and allowed herself to cry.

Marshall Wilmont found her that way four minutes later.

The burly, unkempt chief operating officer felt even more useless than most males in dealing with weeping women. He patted Carmichael’s back, awkwardly slipping an arm around her shoulder, and asked, “Sandy, hon. Please… what’s wrong?” The only reply was more sobs.

At length she raised her blond head, eyes streaming tears, and croaked out the words. “Oh, God, Marsh. They’re dead. I think they’re all dead!”

Wilmont reached over his operations officer and flipped the intercom. “Mike, you there?”

When no response came, Wilmont buzzed Derringer’s secretary. “Peggy, where’s the admiral?”

“I think he was going to see you, sir. I can…”

“My God, Marsh, what is it?”

Derringer appeared at Carmichael’s door. He took in the scene and reached the desk in four brisk strides. Leaning over, he grasped Carmichael by both shoulders. “Sandy! Come on, what is it?”

Retired Lieutenant Colonel Sandra Carmichael raised herself upright. She reached for a Kleenex and applied it to her ruined makeup. After blowing her nose, she found her voice.

“I just heard from Chris Nissen. He says the attack on El-Arian was a deception.” She stopped, inhaled, and exhaled. “His guys wanted to reinforce Frank’s team but couldn’t get out. They found Breezy in the countryside and… and…”

Derringer motioned for Wilmont to fetch some water.

“Go on, Sandy.”

She wiped another tear from her cheek. “Breezy said…” She looked into Derringer’s face. “Oh, Mike. He said they’re gone. They’re all dead!”

Wilmont set down a paper cup, which Carmichael sipped.

“Who’s gone?” Derringer demanded. “Who was with Frank?” He looked at Wilmont.

“Steve Lee went to work with Frank and one of the others moved to Nissen’s team.”

Carmichael swallowed carefully. “Amasha was Frank’s job with Steve and Bosco and Breezy. Pitney went to El-Arian with the new man, Delmore. There were one or two snipers with Frank, too.”

Derringer pulled up a chair and sat opposite Carmichael. He realized that he was into Shock, the first stage of grief, and began allowing himself to expect the worst. For the moment he would skip Denial, touch upon Anger, and default to Acceptance. Depression undoubtedly would come in its own time.

“If Nissen couldn’t get out, it sounds like Hezbollah not only took Amasha but they’re holding it.”

“What’s that matter?” Carmichael’s Alabama accent was sharp, angry.

Derringer touched her forearm. “Sandy, we still don’t know for sure if Breezy’s report is accurate. But we can’t start dealing with it until we know the local situation.” He looked at Wilmont. “Marsh, see if you can get Nissen on the satellite phone. We need more hard intel.”

As Wilmont ambled out, Carmichael eyed her boss. “That’s my department, Admiral. I can still function, you know.” Her voice was flat, accusatory.

“Not right now you can’t, Sandy. You take a little while to compose yourself, then we’ll get down to business.”

She nodded and walked from the office, headed for the ladies’ room.

Derringer watched her leave. Not so long ago she killed two men in a shootout and it hardly fazed her. But now she’s probably lost two or three friends and she can’t shoot anybody.

Bernard Langevin looked out of place in the company of Type A door-kickers. Slim and balding, he stood five feet seven and tipped the scales at 136 pounds regardless of what he ate. The fact that he held an intermediate certificate from a cordon bleu school put him in rare company for a physicist. But for the moment he deferred to SSI’s training officer.

Omar Mohammed began briefing the field team. “Gentlemen, I know that we have arrived at the worst possible time. It’s especially hard for me since I knew and worked with Frank Leopole for several years. I also knew Steve Lee and Jason Boscombe, as we deployed to Afghanistan. But we are professionals, and I know that we will continue doing a professional job.

“First: organization. Sergeant Nissen remains in charge at El-Arian, with Delmore who has a back injury. It’s a risk, but our priority is finding the backpack weapons. Chris and I talked by phone and agreed to field the most operators possible while the militia continues defending the village. Since there’s been no further attacks, that looks fairly safe.

“Now, we’re deploying two teams, each with a linguist. I’ll have one with Ashcroft, Brezyinski, and Furr. Dr. Langevin goes with Barrkman, Green, and Pitney, who of course speaks Arabic. We will be in radio contact, and if one team makes contact, we hope the other can join up. But we cannot count on secure communications, so keep that in mind.

“A couple of you know Dr. Langevin from pursuit of the Iranian yellow cake last year. For the rest of you, let me say that Bernard has a superb reputation both as a scientist and an operator.” The training director injected a wry smile into his introduction. “He is the only physicist I’ve ever known who understands the principle of the double tap and the elegance of the Mozambique Drill.”

Getting the response he desired, Mohammed continued. “With his arms control background, Dr. Langevin is of obvious help in our search for the backpack weapons. Assuming we make contact with the Hezbollah agents, he will decide how best to proceed. Since I speak Farsi, I will provide any language help required.

“Now, I’d like to ask Dr. Langevin to tell us about what we’re after.”

Aware that he was subject to testosterone-fueled scrutiny, the lithe physicist held up a photo.

“The item of interest is the RA-115 special atomic demolition munition, better known as a backpack nuke or suitcase bomb. There are other models like the 155 with different weights and yields. We might find something that nobody even knows about. But functionally they’re similar to the American Mark 54, both capable of yielding about one kiloton. The Mark 54 weighed 163 pounds while reportedly the Russian weapons are a lot less.”

Phil Green asked, “Doctor, how many nukes are we talking about?”

“Well, that’s the sixty-four-million-dollar question. Open sources are pretty consistent at about eighty 115s but I’ve seen estimates as high as two hundred fifty. When the USSR collapsed in 1990, tactical weapons were pulled back to Russia from all but three of the former republics: Ukraine, Kazakhstan, and Belarus. There’s been reports that renegade KGB agents sold some backpacks, and that’s possible because apparently some of the weapons were kept by the KGB’s own commandos.”

“So you’re saying that both the KGB and the military had backpacks?”

“That’s how it appears. You have to appreciate how bureaucratic things were in the Soviet Union. It’s as if everybody wanted a finger in every pie: basically empire building. The main agency was called the 12th GUMO, the ministry of defense office that oversaw nuclear weapons. So you had both KGB and military Spetsnaz units capable of delivering backpacks, but the actual control and distribution of the nukes was fairly complex. I think that some were kept near operational units while others were in special depots for inventory and maintenance.”

Ashcroft raised his hand. “How much damage could one of these things do, Doctor?”

“A one KT detonation could level an area of two, maybe three square miles. That may sound like a lot but actually it’s not. Remember, these things are demolition devices, meant for sabotage rather than strategic or even tactical use. The effects could be heightened by adding radioactive materials to produce a ‘dirty bomb’ that would increase lethality, but that would take some expertise.”

Langevin began pacing, warming to his subject. “Now, we need to remember. The Soviets weren’t slipshod or crazy. They knew the possibility that some of these things could get into the wrong hands. So they put PALs on each weapon — permissive action links. That means that anybody who had a nuke would need the correct codes to enable a detonation for that particular package.

“There’s more. The shelf life of a backpack nuke is pretty limited in any case, but once the weapon is separated from its power source it relies on a battery. At that point the clock’s ticking before the weapon goes flat line.

“Now, I already alluded to the maintenance problems. It’s safe to say that as a general rule, a backpack needed inspection and probably upkeep twice a year — maybe more. So…”

Ashcroft interrupted. “So anyone who bought one of the damn things would need some know-how or support to make it work.”

The scientist nodded. “Correct. Depending on the type of weapon, the operator needs four to ten minutes to detonate it.”

Rick Barrkman’s baritone arose from the back row. “Doctor, how in the world do we know where to begin looking for these things?”

Langevin arched an eyebrow and looked to Omar Mohammed.

“I was coming to that little item,” Mohammed began. “Originally we were going to the field with IDR liaison, Druze officers who have worked with special operations command. But the recent casualties have made that difficult, so we’re relying on direct radio contact with Northern Command. If we find anything, we notify them as soon as possible, but not at the risk of allowing a weapon to get away.”

“Doctor, how secure is the comm?” Furr did not want to take communications for granted.

“Each team has a frequency-agile radio that has been tested for compatibility with Northern Command. That’s in addition to our own radios for talking between our teams and El-Arian. I speak Hebrew; but if for some reason I cannot communicate, the Israeli command net will have English-speaking operators on hand until further notice. The authenticator codes are on cards with each set. Before we leave, we will check out another operator on each team.”

Green’s lips curled beneath his mustache. “Gosh, Doctor, where’d we ever get such high-priced equipment?”

Mohammed returned the door-kicker’s mirthful tone. “Let’s just say that I have a very rich uncle.”

Rob Furr still had concerns that he wanted discussed. “Dr. Mohammed, I don’t want to play what-if all day, but there’s just a lot that could go wrong and I’d like to know what sort of planning is involved. Like, what if we get one of these nukes and Dr. Langevin isn’t available? None of us knows how to disarm the thing.”

Langevin rose to his feet. “If I am KIA, you mean.” Without awaiting a response, he continued. “In that sorry event, women around the globe will tear their hair in a frenzy of grief.” He managed a straight face. “But of lesser concern, you should keep ‘the thing’ as secure as possible and call for help. Obviously, you do not want it to fall into the wrong hands again, and I will show you how to render it inoperable. I have written instructions with pictures.” His message was implicit: Even you knuckle draggers can understand them.

“Another thing,” Ashcroft said. “I like to think I can get out of trouble as fast as I can get into trouble. Are we gonna have to walk out through Indian country?”

“No, you will not,” Mohammed replied. “Northern Command and the Beirut embassy both have helicopters standing by. As soon as they hear that you have recovered a weapon, the helos will be on the way.”

Barrkman had sat patiently through the what-if session. “Sir, I would like to ask my question again. How do we know where to start looking?”

Mohammed lowered his voice to emphasize the seriousness of his words. “The border has been divided into operating areas for us and for… other assets. That’s as much as I can say for now. If necessary, some of those assets can be directed to you via Northern Command.”

“So there’s Israeli teams out looking, too,” Barrkman replied.

Mohammed made a point of looking around the room. “Other questions?”

Pitney finally spoke up. He was getting fidgety with all the discussion. “Yes, sir. When do we leave?”

“Right after dinner.”

Brigadier General Solomon Nadel strode into the special operations office. It was past dinnertime but the watch officers were accustomed to seeing the brigade commander at odd hours.

“Sir, Colonel Livni is not here just now,” the major said.

“That’s all right. He’s entitled to some rest.” Before the staffer replied, Nadel nodded at the map of the operating area. “Show me the teams.”

The major traced a finger across the border. “Aleph, Beth, Gimel, and Daleth, east to west.”

“Three men each?”

“Yes, sir.”

Nadel tracked his scan across the map. “How did you decide where to deploy them?”

The major grimaced. “Feldmann.”

“What?”

“Sergeant Feldmann. Colonel Yak… Livni… places great confidence in his intuition.”

“Sergeant Peanut Butter?”

A grin replaced the grimace. “You heard about that? Uh, sir.”

“Heard about it? Hell, I was there!”

“Well, General, that’s the thing about Feldmann. They say he’s always right or he’s never wrong.”

Nadel shook his head, as if just awaking. “What’s the difference?”

“Nobody knows, sir. But when the leader of Team Gimel saw the layout he said, ‘If Feldmann thinks that’s where we’ll find them, that’s the sector I want.’”

“God help us,” Nadel responded. Then, looking closely at the map, he added, “And the others?”

“Sir?”

“The other teams.”

The ops officer shifted his feet. He doesn’t want to discuss it, Nadel thought. “Well, General, I don’t know if…”

“Well, I know. Major. Yakov and I already discussed it.”

“Ah, yessir. I’m sorry, sir. The Americans have two teams in this area.” He traced the region north of the IDF zones.

“Are you in contact with them?”

“Yes, General. We ran a routine communications check about half an hour ago.”

“Then we’ve done about all we can.”

The major grinned. “For now, anyway.”

“Yes, for now.”

Marshall Wilmont had nothing encouraging to say. “Right now it’s doubtful that we’ll recover any of the bodies. Officially they’re all MIA, but Brezyinski saw Frank and Boscombe killed, and apparently Lee was fatally wounded.”

Carmichael said, “Marsh, I’m not criticizing Breezy in any way, but you know there’s always room for doubt. Eyewitnesses are wrong all the time.”

Derringer rapped the table. “What about the other two? Furr and…” He checked his notes. “Barrkman.”

“Breezy found them between the villages,” Wilmont replied. “Apparently they saved his a… neck. A real last-minute rescue.”

Carmichael’s mind was clearing, sorting options. “Where’s the Israelis in all this? I mean, we were contracted to them on behalf of the Druze. What happened to the backup we were promised?”

“I’ve asked Mr. Baram to see us this afternoon,” Derringer explained. “He might have something more by then.”

Carmichael rattled a printout. “Thank God we still have e-mail contact with Nissen. With our encryption it’s more secure than the phone. He confirms that Omar and Bernie have arrived. Because of the local situation at El-Arian he sent most of his team to meet them in Hasbaya. The embassy arranged helo transportation and will get our people to the search area.”

Wilmont ran the time zones in his head. “If they start now it’ll be well after dark.”

Derringer drummed his fingers in the rudimental pattern that said he was thinking again. “They might as well, because the opposition isn’t likely to wait.”

It was time.

After the evening Salat-ul-Maghrib prayer, Imam Sadegh Elham raised his hands in a benedictory gesture. “Remember the words of the father of Ahmed Assil, the first suicide bomber, who said, ‘What else is there for a man but to sacrifice his son for his religion?’”

The two special weapons teams knew they did not need to respond to the rhetorical question. Instead, they listened with growing impatience to be on their way. But the priestly commissar had more words of inspiration.

“We will not bow to the great Satan, the arrogant power-hungry tyrant that plans to rule the world. We will shout the slogan we learned from Imam Khomeini louder, higher, stronger: Death to Israel! Death to America!”

The jihadists joined the chant. “Death to Israel! Death to America!”

Fervently shaking his fist, Ahmad Esmaili shouted as long and as loud as anyone.

Then, map in hand and compass dangling from his neck, he led his five-man team into the Lebanese night.

44

The two jihadist teams separated soon after leaving the Hezbollah base, but both headed generally southwest. Neither knew the route or the target of the other, but Esmaili could read a map. He reckoned that both units would try to penetrate the same six-kilometer front along the Lebanon-Israel border. It just made sense: it was one thing to toss off a phrase about “suitcase bombs” and quite another to hump that thirty-kilogram weight across broken terrain at night.

Esmaili was not surprised when Abbas Jannati ordered Modarresi Ka’bi to carry the device for the first part of the trek. Apparently neither was Ka’bi who, for all his undoubted devotion, lacked the younger man’s athletic frame. He stopped frequently to hoist the load higher on his shoulders, and though he seldom complained, it was clear that he would be just as pleased to share the honor of carrying the RA-series weapon to its destination.

At length Ka’bi called a halt. “Brothers, forgive my body’s weakness, but I must rest.” Without awaiting approval, he slipped the harness off his back and sat down, leaning against a rock. He pulled a water bottle from his cargo pocket and drank deeply.

Esmaili gestured to his teammates. Hazim and his two partners walked about twenty paces away and faced outward, keeping watch. Ka’bi rubbed a shoulder. “We would make faster time on level ground.”

“You state the obvious,” Jannati hissed. “But we could be seen near the road and that must not happen.” He turned to Esmaili. “How are we progressing?”

The cell leader consulted his map, using a red-lensed light. “We have come perhaps four kilometers. It is a little over ten to the border.”

Jannati glanced over his shoulder at his colleague. “Perhaps it would have been better to come this far by vehicle.”

Esmaili folded the map and tucked it in his shirt. “No, the risk is too great. The militia patrol this area sometimes, and they would surely stop any vehicle this time of night. That has already happened, you know.”

The nuclear warrior nodded. “Yes, I heard. That was unfortunate. We can only trust that it did not betray our plans to the Zionists.”

“Brother, do not worry so much. God will guide our path.”

Jannati stretched out a hand and clasped his escort’s arm. Then he rose and picked up the weapon.

As he resumed the march, Esmaili congratulated himself upon his growing ability to sound sincere on religious matters.

It was blind, dumb luck.

The leader of Team Gimel called a halt to change batteries in his night-vision optic. He had used the device more than expected, because his tactical sense told him the men he hunted would keep to the depressions and shadows. Twice he had been startled by thermal images nearby, but neither were hostile. The first had been a group of four people, apparently a family settled for an uncomfortable night in the countryside. He had crept close enough to overhear their muted conversation and determined that they were more refugees from Amasha.

The second image had spiked his adrenaline because it moved. The lieutenant had flicked his safety off before he realized it was a stray goat.

While the officer installed a new battery, his NCO caught something moving toward them. In a hoarse whisper he called, “Alert. Right front.”

The commandos went on point just as the strangers saw the Israelis. For a cloud-shrouded moment both teams looked at each other in the nocturnal grayness, less than twenty meters apart.

The Hezbollah team responded as briefed. Backing away the leader called in Arabic, “Where is my daughter? Where is Fatima?”

When there was no reply, the Iranian concluded that the strangers were hostile. He ordered his men into a semicircle, weapons pointed outward.

The sergeant, who spoke fluent Arabic, responded convincingly, “We have not seen her.” Immediately he berated himself: I should have said I have not seen her. Now they know there are others.

“What is your village?” the voice demanded.

The lieutenant was beside the sergeant. “Tell them you don’t understand.” Then he was gone, moving left. The third man obeyed a signal to flank right.

“What did you say?”

There was muted, rapid talk in the dark. The NCO thought it sounded agitated, perhaps an argument.

The jihadist asked again, “What village are you from? Have you seen a little girl?”

Seconds later the lieutenant’s voice rasped over the tactical headset. “Four or five men, all armed.”

“I see five,” the corporal said from the opposite flank.

The Israeli officer recalled his initial doubts: three men were too few to handle a determined enemy but with only twelve operators, the fourth team afforded more coverage. Now came the crunch. “Moshe, ask them to come to us.”

The sergeant opened his mouth to speak when the Iranians started shooting.

In the next fifteen seconds, eight men fired more than 130 rounds. The dank night was split by muzzle flashes from AKs and Galils, and both sides took casualties. As the focus of the Muslims, the Israeli sergeant had little chance. He took four rounds through the torso and crumpled to the earth.

The lieutenant and the corporal used their positions to advantage. They shot down two enemies before the other pair shifted fire to them. The officer was hit in the legs, fell prone, and kept shooting. The corporal fired an ineffective burst at a fleeing shape and another fighter eluded him.

The fifth man had the weapon.

The lieutenant called on the team channel. “Moshe, are you there?”

Moments ticked past; the pain began rising above his knees. Finally the corporal responded, “He’s dead.”

“Levi, I’m hit. I can’t move. Can you find the package?”

“I’m moving.”

The corporal executed a tactical reload and scampered through the area, littered with empty brass and bleeding bodies. He searched for several minutes when he heard a high-pitched scream: “Allahu akbar!”

Turning in that direction, the commando closed the distance, his pulse accelerated with physical effort and impending dread. Gunfire erupted ahead of him, scything, searching fire. The Israeli recognized the situation: the surviving gunman would hold off any pursuers while the weaponeer activated the device.

The nocturnal hunter swung wide to his left, seeking an opening from the flank. It took longer than he wanted, but he was the only remaining chance.

The next thing he heard was an incredibly loud explosion emitting a blinding, searing light.

45

“There’s a nuclear event in southern Lebanon.”

Sandra Carmichael’s hands went to her cheeks. “Oh, dear God…”

Derringer’s voice came over the intercom. “It’s on Fox right now.”

Carmichael refused to have a television set in her work space but she knew where to find one. She threw off her high heels and sprinted to the briefing room. It was crowded when she arrived and getting more so.

The reporters were a serious-looking journalist in his mid-forties and a gorgeous newsreader in her early thirties. Carmichael was peeved when two visiting Pentagon types indulged in male bonding.

“I prefer Patti Ann Browne,” said Manpower. “She is just plain beautiful.”

“But Julie Banderas is hot,” replied Plans and Programs.

Carmichael exerted some command presence. One ice-laden gaze of her baby blues was enough to silence the kibitzers. They don’t know, she told herself. Officially we’re not even there.

“The magnitude of the blast is still unknown,” said the journalist, “but Lebanese, Israeli, and United Nations authorities are examining the evidence. However, it’s feared that casualties will run in the hundreds if not thousands on both sides of the border.”

“Yes, Jarrod,” chirped the eye candy. “We have a report from Washington on emergency response teams, and here’s Claren DeWild with some details…”

While most of the SSI staff absorbed the usual routine of such events — repetition of what little was known — Marshall Wilmont silently beckoned from the door. He led Carmichael and Matt Finch to Derringer’s office and closed the door.

“We don’t know about our people yet,” Derringer began. “From what I’ve learned about the location, it’s well away from the Hasbaya area.”

“But, Admiral, our teams are undoubtedly along the border looking…”

“Yes, I know, Sandy. I know. We’re trying to call Chris Nissen right now.”

The intercom buzzed. “Admiral, Sergeant Nissen on the sat phone.”

Carmichael’s hands went to her cheeks. “Oh, thank God.”

“Thank you, Peggy.” Derringer punched the button. “Chris, do you read me?”

“Affirmative, sir.” Nissen’s baritone came through crisp and clear.

“Very well. What can you tell us?”

“Not much, Admiral. Everybody’s all right here in El-Arian but we still don’t know the full situation at Amasha. Apparently the Hezzies still own it. But as for the blast down along the border, we don’t know a thing.”

“No word from our people there?”

“There was a brief message from Langevin but it was garbled. I don’t think they’re in danger because he sounded cool. But I haven’t had a peep from Dr. Mohammed.”

“Chris, do you know where he was in relation to the detonation?”

“No, sir. I mean, we still don’t know exactly where it happened. Just somewhere north of the border. If I had to guess I’d say south of Al-Khiyam.”

Derringer scribbled a note with the obscure-sounding name. “Why’s that?”

“Mainly a hunch. It’s the biggest place near our search area and I think we’d know if the town had been nuked. The weapon we’re looking for has a limited radius.”

Carmichael leaned on the desk. “I thought there were two or maybe three nukes.”

Derringer nodded. “Chris, our information was two or more weapons. What’s your take?”

“Well, sir, I meant the type of weapon. But Dr. Bernie seems to think it was two max. Maybe the size of the explosion would tell how many backpacks went off, but I still think it’s one. After all, if I was running their op, I wouldn’t put all my eggs in one basket.”

Derringer looked around the room. “Anybody else have a question?” Carmichael, Wilmont, and Finch shook their heads.

“Chris, thanks for your help. I know you’ll keep us informed.”

“Count on it, Admiral.”

Finch unbuttoned his vest and began rolling up his sleeves. “It’s going to be a long wait.”

Carmichael nodded. “No lie, GI.”

Joyful pandemonium. Shouting, dancing, and gunfire in the air. Only one man stood apart from the celebration.

Imam Sadegh Elham watched on the sidelines; arms folded, face impassive. At length he turned to go to his quarters when Mohammad Azizi arrived.

“You heard?” Elham asked.

“Yes. Just now.” He looked at his watch. “It must have been about forty minutes ago.”

“What is happening at the villages?”

Azizi was surprised that the cleric would care about the diversions that made the nuclear surprise possible. “We control Amasha and keep watch on El-Arian. Whether we can hold Amasha, I do not know. The Lebanese Army is bound to respond sooner or later.”

A dismissive wave. “No matter for now. As long as the situation is stabilized in this area, I am satisfied.”

“But what about the special teams? Are both gone?”

“I believe that one was intercepted and followed orders. The other…”

Azizi blinked as if coming awake. “Followed orders? Imam, I did not know of any such orders. You mean, to detonate a weapon on Lebanese soil?”

The priest’s dark eyes bored into the other man’s face. “You did not need to know all the contingencies. But if you think for a moment”— he allowed the barb to sink in—”you will see the wisdom.”

“Ah, I see. Better an explosion anywhere than to allow a bomb to be recaptured.”

“Certainly. But there are other teams, brother. Ones that I did not mention. They also probe the Jews’ defenses and will draw some of the searchers away from our special operatives.”

Azizi regarded the priestly commissar with renewed respect. The operation was more sophisticated and more complex than the Hezbollah man had realized. “Imam, I bow to your foresight and planning.”

Elham’s response was to turn back to the celebrants, watching their juvenile display for a moment. Then he walked away, intending to pray for better results with the second weapon.

“Well, damn it to hell, what do we know?” Solomon Nadel’s normal composure had abandoned him in the frustration and concern. “I have my brigade on full alert but not even division knows what’s happening.”

Yakov Livni gave a sardonic grin. “Solly, I doubt if even Mossad knows what’s happening. All I can say is that I’m grateful the explosion happened up there rather than down here.”

“Nobody I know will argue that point, but we have to assume there are other weapons. Whatever happened, we still need people combing the area looking for more infiltrators.”

Nadel slumped against a desk, arms folded. “Yakov, what about your teams?”

“You mean the ones that officially don’t exist?”

Nadel nodded.

“Well, it looks as if two of them actually do not exist anymore. There’s no word from Team Gimel or Daleth, which I think were in the area. Aleph and Beth have checked in but they’re farther from the blast.”

“So we may never know about the other two teams.”

“Depending on where they were in relation to ground zero, no. I expect overhead coverage fairly soon. Once I see the exact area, I can make a better guess as to our boys’ location.”

“Well, keep me informed, Yakov. But for now I have to get my brigade deployed. We really don’t know what’s coming, do we?”

Livni spread his hands. “Maybe more of the same.”

Jennati had seen more than a very bright flash to the west. He saw opportunity.

“Brothers! The premature explosion is a blessing from Allah. We can use the area to approach the border unseen.”

Esmaili half expected somebody to object. When no one did, he found his voice. “That area now is contaminated with radiation.”

Jennati hefted his load and smiled. “My brother, what does it matter? We are all pledged to die.”

Speak for yourself, Esmaili thought. Instead, he said, “But the Zionists will be completely focused on that area. They will have aerial surveillance and probably satellites as well. We cannot hope to escape detection there.”

The weaponeer erased his smile in a heartbeat. “I believe we can. The device probably devastated an area of several kilometers or so. That is more than enough to conceal so small a group as ours.”

With that, Jennati abruptly turned right and strode toward the blast site. Esmaili went along for the moment, studying the terrain for a likely hiding place.

46

“Are you sure they had a backpack?” Langevin wanted to be certain before he committed either team to action.

“There’s four or five,” Green replied, pointing to the isolated house. “I just got a glimpse but yes, two had backpacks.” He bit his lip. “Of course, they might have been ordinary packs.”

The physicist mulled that over for three seconds. “I don’t see any option, gentlemen. We must assume they’re carrying a weapon.” He retraced his steps deeper into the copse of trees and pressed the transmit button. “Alpha, this is Bravo, over.”

Seconds later Omar Mohammed’s cultured tones responded. “Bravo, Alpha here. Over.”

“Omar, we have a sighting. Recommend you join us at these coordinates.” He handed the set to Barrkman, who was navigating with a map and GPS.

Fifteen minutes later the two teams were united. They wasted no time.

“All right,” Mohammed began. “Bernie stays here of course. I’ll provide perimeter security with Barrkman and Furr. Ashcroft, Brezyinski, Pitney, and Green are the entry team.” He glanced around. “Questions?”

There were none.

Approaching the house from the blind side, Robert Pitney willed himself to control his pulse, much as he did before a stage in a major match. He had visually checked his Springfield XD. He had a full magazine of .40 caliber Black Talons and one in the chamber. Thirteen rounds to get him through the door and across the room before a reload. A LaserMax sighting system had replaced the normal recoil spring assembly, affording an optical sighting plane nearly identical to the bore.

He thought deeply about what he was going to do. Then he nodded to Phil Green.

The shotgunner stepped back and shouldered the Benelli entry gun. He aimed at the lower door hinge and fired. The ounce and a quarter slug splintered the wood, separating the hinge from the door. Green rode the recoil upward, instantly shooting the middle and top hinges as well. Then he put the last two rounds either side of the doorknob, raised his right foot, and kicked hard.

The door collapsed inward, slightly askew. Breezy was first through the breach, closely followed by Pitney and Ashcroft.

Shooting erupted inside.

As his partners began the dash into the room, Green thumbed three buckshot shells into the tube magazine and followed the other operators.

Breezy was quick on the trigger but his MP-5 had only stuttered when he was knocked off his feet. His ballistic vest stopped a 7.62x39 round fired five meters away. He thought: Fight your way to your feet. He was forcing himself into a sitting position, raising his MP-5, when Robert Pitney opened fire.

Standing to Breezy’s right, slightly in front of him, Pitney activated his pistol’s laser and swept the room, left to right. Even through the Dillon electronic hearing protectors, the short-barreled, compensated pistol barked out a succession of rapid-fire rounds. Breezy heard the cadence almost as a submachine gun: pop-pop-pop-pop-pop. The muzzle flash was impressive.

Behind the sights, Pitney’s sensation was different. He was aware of gunfire in the room, incoming and outgoing, but he ignored it. He had microseconds to discern the hostiles, place the orange-red dot above the eyebrows, and stroke the trigger. The first man — the one who shot Breezy — was kneeling behind a table. The third fighter was shorter than those on either side, requiring a fast adjustment of the dot’s placement. When the muzzle aligned on the fourth man, Pitney double-tapped him before swinging back to where the first had stood. Nobody was there.

Move!

Pitney remembered to lateral away from his firing position in case somebody had time to draw a bead on him. Now he was aware of Ashcroft’s FAL barking once, twice. Green appeared between them, shotgun at low ready.

“Clear!” Ashcroft called. He and Green advanced on the prostrate forms, kicking weapons away.

Breezy finally found his feet. Swearing fervently, he hoisted himself off the floor and leaned against the wall. He was breathing heavily but recovered his poise to scan the room, looking for somebody to shoot.

“Breezy, you okay?” It was Pitney.

“Yeah, I think so. This vest…” He fingered the hole in the nylon covering.

Pitney turned toward the others. “Bob, what’d you shoot?”

Ashcroft rolled a body over with his right foot. “This one was still moving.”

Pitney exchanged magazines and took two steps toward the four corpses. He uttered something unintelligible.

“Man, that was fast!” Breezy exclaimed. He regarded the speed shooter. “You saved my ass, amigo.”

Pitney looked at the cadavers on the floor, nodded, and holstered his pistol. Then he turned and walked outside.

Green opened a shaded window, admitting more sunlight. The three SSI men began a professionally detached postmortem on their opponents.

“Lookit,” Breezy said. “The first three all checked into a round almost between the eyes.”

Ashcroft leaned over the fourth Hezbollah man. “This one took a hit alongside the nose. He was still twitching so I finished him off.”

“Well, that settles it,” said Green. “Pitney can join my army anytime.”

The ex-cop looked around. “Hey, where’d he go?”

Breezy stuck his head through the doorway. “Oh, he’s outside having the dry heaves.”

Green looked for the packs and found them leaning against the wall. He thought they were the right size for an RA-115 but they were mostly empty. “Guys, I think we’ve been suckered.”

It was time for a decision.

Esmaili waited until the group approached a small hill, then called a halt. He noted that the grass was beginning to resemble exposure to prolonged drought, and read the signs accurately.

Addressing Jannati, he said, “We are approaching the edge of the blast zone. I agree that we will probably meet no one ahead of us but we should beware of those who may chase us.”

Jannati had allowed Ka’bi to resume carrying the weapon, freeing himself until the final push. The nuke-qualified leader turned and surveyed the terrain behind them. “We can see for two kilometers or more, brother. There is no need for concern as long as we keep watch.”

Esmaili nodded, as if sagely. “I agree, Commander.” He made a point of appearing deferential to the Tehran expert. “But why not post a man to guard our rear? He can catch up to warn us or he can delay them if necessary.”

Jannati obviously cared little for the welfare of any of his jihadists. Which was to say, nothing. But without appearing indifferent, he accepted the Hezbollah veteran’s advice. “Very well. Select one of the escorts.” With that he motioned for Ka’bi to continue westward, deeper into the beaten zone.

Esmaili turned to Hazim. “Take a position partway up this hill to avoid exposing yourself on the skyline. Watch for anyone following us. If no one appears in an hour, follow our trail.”

Hazim shifted his feet, apparently ambivalent. He seemed honored at the responsibility but nervous about being separated from the group. Finally he said, “I will, Teacher.” He hefted the scoped Galil and selected a position behind a rock.

Esmaili merely nodded, It’s the most I can do for you, boy. Then he topped the hill, seeking the place he knew must exist nearby.

Yakov Livni knew there was no point trying to talk to Brigadier General Nadel for a while. The brigade’s maneuver elements were spooled up, dispersing to avoid presenting a concentrated target for whatever was coming next.

As a Merkava raced past, Livni pulled a handkerchief and covered his mouth. His aide wondered why the special operations officer was standing in the open, watching the traffic. “Colonel, shouldn’t we stay in the command center? There’s bound to be intelligence updates.”

“Until I can see something like satellite coverage, the rest is just gossip.” He shot a quick look at the captain. “You’re old enough to know that.”

“But, Colonel…”

Livni cut him off with a raised hand. “I’m too old a bunny to believe every report that comes after something like this. There will be ten wrong reports for every accurate one, and later on nobody will be able to say how the ten got started.” He shook his head. “No, I’m going for a walk while I still can. You tell the on-duty staff to sort out what seems to make sense. I’ll look at those reports when I get back, then the others later on.”

Without awaiting a reply, Yakov Livni stepped off in the direction he happened to be facing. He ignored the vehicles speeding past, unconcerned that he might not be seen in the swirling dust.

Teams Gimel and Daleth were likely just dust themselves.

47

Omar Mohammed asked the obvious question. “What are we up against?”

Bernard Langevin rubbed his chin in concentration. “It’s hard to say for certain, Omar. But we can make certain assumptions. A one-KT ground burst would scoop out a good-sized hole and blow radiated dirt and debris into the atmosphere. How far it would go depends on composition of the soil and current winds.”

“How close can we approach the blast zone?”

“Well, a rule of thumb for a kiloton weapon is near or total devastation within eight hundred meters with radiation extending maybe ten square kilometers. But radiation effects are extremely variable. We can probably enter the obvious blast zone for a way but it’s best to err on the side of caution. At least for a while.”

Phil Green was looking over Rick Barrkman’s shoulder, studying the map. “I have a question. If there’s another team, which way would they go? Maybe they’d go through the blast zone to shake off any pursuers.”

Barrkman looked up. “You know, that makes sense. It’s not like they’d worry about their long-term health.”

Mohammed and Langevin studied the sniper as if seeing him for the first time. The others read their expressions: They don’t expect shooters to think like that.

Finally Mohammed spoke up. “All right. I believe we can have it both ways. We will proceed with our two teams as before. Bernie knows the nuclear effects and can tell when to turn back from the blast zone. I will continue on course more directly for the border.” He looked at the grim-faced men around him. “Any questions?”

Furr asked, “What if nobody finds anything?”

“Then we will remain in radio contact. If we lose communications, we will regroup here at sunset.”

Without awaiting comment, Langevin unlimbered his Geiger counter and started walking toward the detonation site. Barrkman, Green, and Pitney followed at a greater interval than usual.

They had gone far enough.

“Brothers.” Esmaili’s voice was level, even friendly.

Jannati turned at the sound and saw the muzzle of Esmaili’s AK, aimed at his chest. A single round took him off his feet as his brain registered the most important question in the universe: Why?

For Abbas Jannati, Planet Earth faded to a washed-out pale color, dimmed to gray, blurred into invisibility, and went permanently black.

He barely heard the other shots, one- and two-round sequences.

Esmaili fired deliberately, almost calmly, from the shoulder. He had already decided his engagement sequence: the leader, holding an AK, then the two security men on either side.

Modarresi Ka’bi came last.

The thirty-six-year-old fighter carried no rifle because he packed the weapon. Without time to shed his thirty-kilogram load, he could only make a vain attempt to flee, and he got perhaps ten meters before two rounds knocked the pins from under him. He hit the rocky ground face-first, beginning to feel the pain in both legs. Esmaili ended the torment with an aimed round to the cranium.

Esmaili checked the other bodies, found no signs of life, and reloaded. Then he grabbed a folding shovel, picked up the weapon, and began walking west. He was headed into the blast zone.

“Did you hear that?” Barrkman asked.

Bernard Langevin stopped in his tracks. “Gunfire?”

Green nodded. “Yeah, four or five rounds.”

Barrkman pointed to his right front. “I think it was over there. Hard to tell how far.”

Langevin pressed the transmit button. “Alpha, this is Bravo. Over.”

“Alpha here.”

“We just heard shots farther into the blast zone. Maybe a klick or so west of us. We’re going to look. Over.”

“Be careful, Bernard.”

“Always. Out.”

When the grass turned from brown to dead, Esmaili stopped. He set down his burden beside what appeared a hurricane-blasted tree and looked around. He noted a prominent rock fifteen meters away and unlimbered the folding shovel. Digging in the earth beside the rock, he scooped out a hole large enough to accept the backpack and stuffed it in the hole. Then he filled in the hole, spreading the excess dirt far enough away to avoid notice.

Esmaili sat on the rock, sipping water. Then he took three compass bearings and wrote them on a pad, but he felt confident of finding the place again without map references.

Good, he thought. Now I only have to find the Zionists. They will make me a wealthy…

The rifle bullet slashed past his right ear. Before the sound subsided, Esmaili was flat on the ground, reaching for his AK.

He squirmed to the edge of the rock, searching for his assailant. He felt the bile rising from his stomach, more from disappointment than fear.

Hazim, you damned fool! I gave you a chance to live!

When no other shots followed, Esmaili sorted the possibilities. He thinks I am dead and has left me for the jackals, which is unlikely. Or he is waiting to see if I move. Or he’s moving to a better position.

The Iranian reckoned that an ambitious, self-confident youth would not sit it out. Patience is not a youthful virtue. Therefore, he is moving, probably to my left where he gains a better view.

Esmaili low-crawled through the ruined grass, back a few meters from the trunk of the tree. In a few minutes a crouching figure approached from the west. He circled farther out than I thought. Good for you, boy. But not good enough.

From his prone position twenty-five meters away, Esmaili identified the rifle before the face. The scoped Galil told him all he needed to know. “Hazim!”

The young marksman spun at the sound of his name. Before he spotted his teacher, he felt the impact of a 7.62 round in his right shoulder. He dropped the trophy rifle and slumped to his knees, crying in anguish and in pain.

“Don’t move!”

Esmaili rose high enough to check his surroundings. Seeing no one else, he swung to his own left and approached Hazim from the right side. The stalker had crumpled to the ground, holding his shoulder with his left hand. He moaned and sobbed, talking unintelligibly.

Esmaili knelt beside his pupil and tossed the Galil away. The Iranian regarded the young Lebanese as if he were a specimen under a microscope. Pale complexion, a sheen of perspiration on the face, eyes wide.

“You were a decent pupil at one time, but you never learned to call your shots. That one went to my right. And you could not have been more than 150 meters away.” His voice carried a tsk-tsk quality.

Hazim raised himself on his left elbow. “Traitor! You murdered the brothers! I saw the bodies!”

Esmaili’s left hand snaked out, quick and hard. The blow stunned the boy for a moment. Before he could react, Esmaili said, “Fool! I gave you a chance to escape. You would have been wise to take another direction. Now…”

“Kill me, traitor! You’re going to do it anyway so do it now.”

Esmaili slung his AK and pulled the marksman to his feet. “You damned, stupid young idiot!” He shook the boy roughly, causing a yelp of pain. “You can still get out of here.” He shoved Hazim eastward and retrieved the Galil.

“You’re… you’re not going to kill me?”

Esmaili waved violently. “Go! Just go!”

Still disbelieving, Hazim forced himself to walk. Amid the pain and weakness, he tried to sort out the rationale for letting him live. Surely the Teacher knew that if Hazim recovered he would tell what the Iranian had done, where he had buried the weapon. But why send him away? Why…

Hazim looked back, saw Esmaili traipsing ten paces behind him. They had gone about two hundred meters and the Lebanese countryside lay before them. Israel was somewhere off to the right. Maybe the Teacher was going there…

The round from Esmaili’s AK struck Hazim at the base of the skull.

Accelerating his pace, Esmaili barely looked down. I couldn’t leave a corpse so close to the weapon.

48

Ahmad Esmaili saw them before they saw him.

He went prone in the grass, now brown again rather than dead. He looked at them through Hazim’s scope. Four men, all armed, perhaps three hundred meters. He decided to let them approach.

When it was obvious that the searchers would pass barely one hundred meters from him, Esmaili laid down his rifles. He stood up, raised his hands, and began walking. It is worth the risk.

Pitney saw him first. In Arabic he shouted, “Do not move!”

Esmaili froze in his tracks. He recognized the intruders as professionals.

While Barrkman and Green kept watch, Pitney and Langevin talked to the stranger who seemed to wander alone and unarmed in an extremely violent place. But first they searched and cuffed him.

“What was the shooting over there?” Pitney asked.

“Oh, four men were killed. Nobody else was there.”

The cop in Robert Pitney began to surface. “What are you doing out here by yourself?”

Esmaili decided now was the time. “I have knowledge of a nuclear weapon and wish to sell that information to the Israelis.”

Half an hour later Omar Mohammed arrived. He deployed Ashcroft, Brezyinski, and Furr on perimeter security, then looked at the man who gave his name as Ahmad Esmaili. Mohammed took a chance and asked in Farsi, “How is it in Tehran?”

Esmaili smiled, feeling increasingly confident. “There is much nuclear activity, my friend. I was with Dr. Momen recently.” He raised his manacled hands. “I could show you.” Mohammed uncuffed him, explaining, “He says he knows of a weapon.”

Langevin was skeptical. “How can he prove that? And where is it?”

After the translation, Esmaili tore a page from his notebook and handed it over. Langevin recognized a reasonably accurate set of Cyrillic letters and numbers. “This is a serial number of a nuclear demolition device?”

Mohammed confirmed that it was.

“Where is it?”

Esmaili grinned self-confidently. “That information will cost the Zionists a great deal of money.”

“Colonel!” The captain ran to Livni as he entered the operations block. “Colonel, we just heard from the American team. They have a Hezbollah officer who claims he has hidden a suitcase bomb.”

“Where?”

“Eight kilometers over the border, on the fringe of the detonation zone.”

Livni absorbed that message, rubbing his stubbled chin. “Well, he’s not going to give it to us for the asking. What does he want? Money? Asylum?”

The captain nodded. “Correct on both counts. Two million American dollars, a new identity, and a passport to anywhere on the planet.”

“Well, I can’t make that promise, and even if I did, he wouldn’t believe it. So what does this man expect? We can’t have him and the Americans standing around in the dark while Tel Aviv sends diplomats into the Lebanese countryside.”

“The American scientist, Dr. Langevin, suggests that he and the head of the team come here with the Hezbollah man. We can keep them safe until Tel Aviv figures out what to do.”

Livni rubbed his neck. “Meanwhile, what about the weapon? Anybody could find it and take it.”

“Yes sir. That’s why this Esmaili suggests that we make a deal— fast.”

“All right. Bring them in. And see if the other Americans need a flight to El-Arian.”

The aide raised a hand. “But, sir, what about approval to enter Lebanese airspace?”

For once, Livni actually smiled. “When I was in Washington I learned a wonderful philosophy: it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”

Derringer took the call from Nissen. “Yes, Chris! Talk to me!”

“Admiral, I figure you could stand some good news. Our guys found a Hezbollah operative who had another bomb. Evidently this guy snuffed his teammates and stashed the nuke. He wants to sell it. Now he’s in Israel with Dr. Mohammed and Dr. Langevin. They’ll stay with him until the Israelis figure what they’re gonna do.”

“Was anybody hurt?”

“Ah, nosir. For a change.”

“What about the rest of the team?

Nissen chuckled. “They’re back here, enjoying some MREs and local wine. Things have calmed down here, but with nukes in the picture, I think the Lebanese Army will kick the Hezzies out of Amasha.”

Derringer forced the nuclear concern to the back of his mind. “So there’s nothing new about Frank and the others?”

“Ah, nosir.” After a pause, Nissen added, “I just don’t think they made it, Admiral.”

“Very well. I want everybody to sit tight. Don’t leave the village, Chris. We’re going to see about terminating the contract and bringing everybody home.”

“Works for me, sir.”

Derringer hung up and turned to the staffers who had been waiting for the call. He focused on Corin Pilong. “What do you think, Corin? Can we get out of the remainder of the contract?”

The Filipina’s huge brown eyes gleamed in response. “Admiral, the first thing I learned is that it takes two willing parties to write a contract but only one of them to end it. Without mutual consent there’s little prospect for getting through the term of the agreement.”

“Barring litigation, of course.”

“Well, ordinarily I would agree. But if ever there were unusual circumstances, this is it, sir. After all, a nuclear device has exploded in our client’s area — the venue, if you will — and there is a clause providing for discussion of termination owing to acts of God and extenuating circumstances and—”

“And yadda-yadda. Et cetera, et cetera.”

The icy brain behind the baby-doll face caught her employer’s mood. “Ditto, ditto. And so on and so on…”

Marshall Wilmont could stand only so much sitcom banter. “If I might interject, it seems that with the Lebanese Army and the U.N. and just about everybody else in the region swarming through that area, a temporary peace is about to break out.”

“Concur,” Carmichael added. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? A small nuke goes off, and suddenly everyone wants to get along. Even the Israelis and Iranians are talking, though of course neither side is going to admit it.”

Derringer leaned back in his overstuffed chair, hands behind his head. “You know, it could be that Hezbollah will be the big loser, once the damage is fully assessed and the bodies are buried. Nobody with an ounce of objectivity thinks anyone but Hezbollah was behind the nuke, and those who claim otherwise are just going to look damned silly.”

Wilmont cocked his head. “So you think that Iran and Syria will try to put a happy face on their role in this?”

“Guarandamntee it, Marsh.”

“Well, the Lebanese and the Israelis aren’t going to buy it.” When Derringer made no reply, Wilmont added, “Are they?”

The president of SSI abruptly brought both hands down on his desk, loudly. “No, they’re not going to believe it, but I’d bet my retirement that they’re going to pretend that they do.”

Wilmont’s bleary eyes widened in recognition. “Big-picture considerations. Regional politics and foreign aid; that sort of thing.”

“Yadda, yadda,” Derringer rejoined. “And ditto ditto.”

49

Omar Mohammed and Bernard Langevin watched the IDF limousine depart Northern Command headquarters. They waited until it turned the corner before either spoke.

“Do you think he’ll get his full payment?” Mohammed asked.

“Well, he has so far. His nuke is the real deal. Without the documentation I can’t tell the remaining shelf life but it looked good enough to scare me out of my knickers. You know, it was smart to hide the bomb inside the blast zone. The ambient radiation would cover any trace of the weapon, assuming there was any, and not many people would spend much time looking there.”

Mohammed pivoted on a heel to return to the headquarters’ air-conditioned comfort. His Banana Republic attire was beginning to show unseemly perspiration stains. “Tell me, Bernard. Do you think he really killed his compatriots?”

“I don’t know. Not that it really matters. Either he’s a murderer or an opportunist. Maybe both. In any case, he prevented another nuclear detonation, and whatever else he’s done in his life, that’s a plus.” Langevin thought for a moment. “Omar, what do you think or the guy? Personally.”

“I believe he is who and what he says. Our Israeli friends may have a file on him, but in any case they will know the facts soon enough.

“So why’d he turn? I mean, he spent his whole life fighting. It looked like he had a clear shot at a worthwhile target on this side or the border. Presumably he could have set the timer and scooted for safety if he wasn’t into self-immolation. So why does somebody like that suddenly get greedy for money?”

Mohammed cocked his head and stroked his goatee. “Bernie, this is an interesting man. As a case study, that is.” The native Iranian pulled a notepad from his jacket. “Esmaili has a world of experience. Revolutionary guards, the Iraq war, special operations, cooperation with Hamas and the Palestinians, and the last two or three Lebanon conflicts.” He looked up. “He’s in his early forties and he’s been at war for almost thirty years. My reading is that he simply got sick and tired of the constant fighting. He seems to think that he has earned a rest.”

Langevin was unconvinced. “I’m not so sure, Omar. I mean, that could be true, but to what extent can we really know? After all, he could have simply set the timer and disappeared after the explosion.”

Mohammed placed a fraternal hand on Langevin’s shoulder. “My friend, I think that he did not want to be used anymore. Twice he told me that the imams and the hierarchy used up a generation of naive young patriots and religious zealots. But the old men who sent them out to die always remained safely behind. Always.” He shrugged. “As for the money — that was probably convenience, not entirely greed.”

“You think he could’ve got more than two million?”

“Almost certainly, based on his knowledge of Hezbollah operations alone. Of course, it required good faith on the part of the Israelis, but at this point in his life, I believe that our Mr. Esmaili decided he had nothing to lose by trusting his enemy.” Mohammed arched an eyebrow. “And he’s a shrewd businessman: two million is quite a bargain.”

Langevin looked around to ensure that no one overheard. “How long do you think he’ll last on the outside?”

Mohammad stroked his beard again. “Oh, eventually the facts will be known, by intention or by mistake. But wherever he goes, I would not wager his surviving long enough to spend his money.”

“Well, maybe his information will do some good before then.” Omar Mohammed indulged in a wry smile. “I would wager a goodly sum that if Imam Elham remains in Lebanon very long he will receive some unexpected visitors one night.”

Bernard Langevin, PhD, smiled in recollection. “As our young friend Breezy would say, ‘Hoo-ah the unexpected visitors.’”

50

“There they are.” Derringer caught sight of Delmore’s bald head towering above the crowd.

Most of the SSI staff was on hand to meet the team returning from Lebanon. Or at least the survivors, Derringer told himself. He just noticed Jack Peters. “Jack, why’d you come all the way out here?”

Peters shifted his feet. “Well, I feel a kind of obligation, Admiral. Frank and I recruited Pitney and now…” He shrugged beneath his raincoat. “He doesn’t really know anybody else from the office.”

Derringer watched his talent scout greet Pitney with a warm handshake.

“Robert, welcome back.”

The shooter was obviously surprised. “That’s good of you, Mr. Peters.” He scanned the reception committee. “I didn’t really expect a crowd like this.”

“Well, we just want you guys to know how much we appreciate what you did. All of you.”

Pitney absorbed the meaning without comment.

“How are you? Really.”

“Oh, tired but okay.” Robert Pitney paused for a moment. “I thought I knew more or less what to expect, but I didn’t. Not really. Chris tried to tell me that in his own way.” He glanced at Nissen, exchanging handshakes and hugs. “I guess I’m glad that I went, because I learned something.”

Peters cocked his head. “Yes?”

“I learned that the price you pay for seeing the show is steeper than you think.” He stared at a travel poster, then said, “I guess I’ll spend a lot of time wondering if it was worth the price of admission.”

Amid the greetings — heartfelt and pro forma — Sandy Carmichael sought out Brezyinski.

“Breezy! Welcome back, guy.” She gave the door-kicker a warm hug that took him by surprise. He squeezed her in return.

“Thanks, Colonel Sandy.” He sucked in some air. “It’s so… good… to be home.”

She patted his arm. “Mark, when you’ve had time to settle in, come see me. Matt Finch and I will be reshuffling the go-to roster and we’d like to discuss some options with you.”

“Well, thanks. A lot. I mean, I really do appreciate it. But I’m not sure what I want to do after… what’s happened.”

“Breezy, you can do just about anything you want. Like J. J. Johnson. He’s on our full-time training roster so he doesn’t deploy to field operations unless he asks to.” She studied Brezyinski’s face closely. He’s tired and hurting. This isn’t the time to make a decision. “Why don’t you go see him in Idaho?”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinkin’ about that. I mean, I want to see Bosco’s family in Washington State. I could see the Double Jay on the way back.”

Derringer and Wilmont gathered the ten operators around Chris Nissen. SSI’s founder knew it would be a few days before the full team was assembled again. “Gentlemen, welcome back. Welcome back.” He shook his head. “You did an extraordinary job.” He raised a fist to his mouth and gave an unnecessary cough. “Ah, we’re planning a memorial service for Frank… ahem… and the others. It’ll be at Arlington next month. Check with the office and we’ll have the details.”

Green ventured a question. “Admiral, what about Jacobs and Malten? Last we heard they were still in Beirut.”

“No, they came home day before yesterday. The doctors finally released Malten to travel.”

Barrkman leaned toward Furr. “Damn, they missed all the fun.”

“Yeah, unless Malten calls taking a round through the guts some kind of fun.”

Wilmont recognized that Derringer did not want to say much more, and imposed his bulk between the admiral and the operators. “Fellows, we have some vans waiting as soon as your luggage is ready. This way, please.”

As the crew proceeded to the baggage carousel, Carmichael eased up to Derringer.

“They look bushed, Admiral. And I don’t mean the travel.”

“Well, some of them have been through an ordeal. I saw you talking to Brezyinski.”

“He’s still dealing with Boscombe’s death. I think he will be for quite a while.” She looked up at her boss. “Maybe for the rest of his life.”

Derringer took Carmichael’s arm and turned away from the crowd. “Sandy, I don’t want to appear an opportunist. I think you know me better than that. But after this mission, SSI’s future is assured. It didn’t look good a couple of months ago, but handling the backpack nuke is a major coup for us.”

The Alabaman furrowed her forehead. “Admiral, how can we publicize that? The Israelis must rate it beyond top secret.”

“Well, I talked with General Varlowe today on that very matter. You know how Beltway insiders love to be — inside. The word will get around, even if it’s not quite the full story. Insiders will hear that we saved Israel from taking a nuke.”

“So we’re some kind of deniable heroes.”

Derringer merely gave her a small grin, slightly cynical around the edges.

After an awkward pause, Carmichael spoke her mind. “Mike, I’m certainly glad the company will survive. I mean, I’m not ready to retire, and I still enjoy the work. But, you know…” Her southern accent trailed off.

“Well…”

“Tell me. Please,” she prompted.

“Well, we turned a corner in Lebanon. It’s not going to be the same without Frank and Steve, is it?”

“No, it’s not.” Her voice was soft amid the background babble.

“You mentioned you’re not ready to retire. But I’m not so sure about me.”

Sandra Carmichael could think of nothing to say.

51

“You know, Bosco came here to see me before the African gig.”

J. J. Johnson made another cast and landed his fly within eight inches of his aim point. Dissatisfied, he whipped the graphite rod backward, flexed it twice more, and tried again. The Woolly Bugger alit three inches from the floating leaf.

Brezyinski nodded. “Yeah, he told me about that. Said he convinced you to come along.”

Johnson laughed aloud. “That turkey! I already decided to go. Just wanted to have some downtime with him so I played him like…” He grinned. “A fish on the line.”

Breezy regarded the erstwhile Foreign Legionnaire. “I guess you guys became pretty good buds, too.”

Johnson shrugged. “Well, you know how it was. Hell, you were everywhere I was: Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Chad. Yeah, the B Man was some kind of operator.”

Breezy made his own amateurish effort at casting. Clearly his heart was not in it, even as an accuracy game when the fish weren’t biting. At length, Johnson asked, “How’d it go with Bosco’s family in Ellensburg?”

“Oh, okay I guess. His old man wasn’t around much but I talked to his sister. They wanted to know… well, you know.”

“What it was like when he checked out.”

Breezy nodded, still staring at the lake.

Jeremy Johnson was a worldly young man, not quite thirty. He allowed his fly to drift for a moment, reading Breezy’s mind. “What’d you tell them, Breeze?”

“Ah, the usual stuff.”

“Like, it was instantaneous. He never felt a thing.”

Breezy shot his colleague a sidelong glare, then relaxed. “Yeah, never felt a thing.” He bit his lip in concentration. “Maybe it’s even true. He was dead when I saw him.”

Before Johnson could respond, Breezy added, “I’m seeing a counselor.”

“No, I didn’t know. But that’s good, Breeze. It helped me, after… you know.”

Brezyinski gave a knowing nod. After the ragheads flayed you like a salmon with that strip of belted tire. He had seen the scars on Johnson’s back and legs. He felt guilty because he talked under torture. Anybody would’ve talked.

Breezy felt better about sharing his thoughts. “I tried the VA but they’re always overworked. So SSI got me a private shrink. I see her twice a month. It really helps, you know?”

“Sure do.” Johnson cast again, picking a different spot. “What’ve you learned so far?”

“Well, I said that I couldn’t understand why I was so shook when Frank was killed but I hardly slowed down for… Bosco. I mean, I had a lot of respect for Frank but we weren’t close or anything. He usually rode us about our laid-back attitude, you know.”

Johnson laughed. “Tell me about it!”

“Anyway, Ms. Cottin — Michelle — says that I empathized with Frank because I was trying to save him and watched him die. I mean, I heard his last breath and I saw the light go out of his eyes. But with Bosco it was almost like, ‘Bye, guy.’ I just looked at him and then Steve Lee pulled me away. Michelle says that I had a subconscious resentment toward Bosco, because he was such a good bud and checked out without saying good-bye. How weird is that? I mean, it’s not like he had a choice!”

“What about Lee? You tried to save him, too.”

“Well, that’s different, I guess.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “Ah, hell, J. J., I dunno. I didn’t know him real well, either. I’ve talked about it with Michelle and I think there’s not so much grief there because it was his choice. At the time I thought he was just looking for an easy way out, and I couldn’t carry him or anything, so I gave him the needle. But now I know that he was really looking to give me an out — saving the radio and whatnot. So no, I don’t have as much heartburn about him.”

“This Michelle sounds like a cool lady.”

“Hoo-yeah.”

Johnson turned to regard Breezy. “What’s that mean?”

“Well, she’s almost a babe.”

“Oh, c’mon, Brezyinski! You’re not hitting on your shrink, are you?”

Breezy laughed again. “No, of course not! It’s just that…”

“Just what?”

“Well, sometimes I wonder what she looks like undressed.”

Johnson suppressed his own laugh. “Brezyinski, you are one sick puppy.”

“Well, of course I am!” He was smiling in the afternoon sun.

“Lemme guess. She’s a good ten-fifteen years older, married to a millionaire investment broker with six kids.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much in the zone. Her husband’s a surgeon. Based on her diploma I think she’s eleven or twelve years older. Three kids.”

“Pardner, I think Ms. Cottin is doing you a ton of good.”

Breezy made another cast, better than before. “So do I, J-Man. So do I.”