Distant Valor

by C. X. Moreau

  The sniper heard the high-pitched whine of the plane’s engines and knew he would kill the man. At least I’ll do it cleanly, he thought, with one shot through the heart and lungs. As the huge plane settled onto the runway the pilot reversed the engines and the air itself vibrated. A sudden fury rose in the mind of the sniper, alone behind his weapon, his finger on the trigger. The rifle flung itself into his shoulder, and he had a quick vision of blue sky through the scope before it settled back down onto its bed of sandbags. Through the sight he again saw the man, sprawled across the front of the bunker, his legs kicking spasmodically as he convulsed in death.

  A large red stain spread across the Arab’s chest as Downs lowered himself into the bunker. He looked at Mac who had watched it all with Smith and Ferris from another firing port. The four exchanged silent glances. “Jesus Christ,” said Downs, then he sat on his cot at the rear of the bunker.

  “Jesus Christ,” he repeated. Smith, Mac, and Ferris remained at the firing ports. All the Lebanese disappeared off the street. From somewhere down the line of Marine bunkers rifle fire pierced the afternoon air as the noise from the plane fell to a low rumble. The Marines yelled wildly as the first shots rang out and the firefight began. The sniper backed away from his weapon. He could smell his own nervous sweat as he rose to leave the bunker. He avoided the faces of Downs and the others. As he stepped past his partner the other Marine laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s a war, man. Remember that,” he said.

  Praise for

  Distant Valor

  “Affecting . . . A haunting slice of military life that unsparingly catalogues the risks, rewards, pain, and joys of casting one’s lot with warriors.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Moreau uses the building block of authentic detail to craft a solid tale about a little-known, undeclared war. His debut should attract readers seeking to understand how the U.S. military is waging peace in the Middle East.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Outstanding! A classic in, yet above and beyond, the war genre. Thank you, C. X. Moreau, for an enlightening work.”

  —John M. Del Vecchio, New York Times best-selling author of The Thirteenth Valley and For the Sake of All Living Things

  “With his first book, Distant Valor, C. X. Moreau, joins the company of top rank military novelists. He shows the reader what it really means to be a Marine.”

  —W. E. B. Griffin, New York Times best-selling author of the Corps and the Brotherhood of War series

  “A clear picture of Marines in action and the politicization that often causes bungled operations. The picture is harsh; but it depicts the anguish and humanity of the Marines who so gallantly bear the brunt of carrying the flag to foreign shores. This first novel rings with the authenticity that only a serving Marine could supply.”

  —Florida Times-Union

  “A novel of character, as are all great war novels…cuts to the heart of the military experience in our time . . .”

  —San Jose Mercury News

  “An absolutely authentic portrayal of the Marines who endured the mud and the blood in Beirut. As captain of a ship offshore, I watched it; C. X. Moreau obviously lived it, up close and personal.”

  —P.T. Deutermann, best-selling author of The Last Man

  “C. X. Moreau has seen the military future first-hand in Beirut. In an age of fateful involvements in the wars of others, the terrible dilemmas described so ably in Distant Valor are too often the essence of duty for today’s Marines and soldiers. This book is as authentic as they come, heartrending and true, exciting and brutally tragic. It is a worthy monument to heroes cast aside.”

  —Ralph Peters, New York Times best-selling author of The Officers’ Club

  Distant Valor

  Also by C. X. Moreau

  Promise of Glory

  Distant Valor

  C. X. Moreau

  Distant Valor

  Ignition Books

  Published by arrangement with the author.

  Copyright © 1996 by C. X. Moreau

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information please contact: permissions@endpaperspress.com or by writing Endpapers Press, 4653 Carmel Mountain Road, Suite 308 PMB 212, San Diego, CA 921306650.

  eISBN: 978-1-937868-07-9

  ISBN: 978-1-937868-61-1

  LCCN: 2017937411

  Cover design by Elementi Studio Ltd.

  Photo of explosion of the Marine Corps building in Beirut: Official USMC Photo.

  Photo of the Marine Battalion Landing Team headquarters at Beirut International Airport: Department of Defense. American Forces Information Service. Defense Visual Information Center.

  Visit our website at: www.endpaperspress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, or events either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, corporations, or other entities, is entirely coincidental.

  Neither the United States Marine Corps nor any other component of the Department of Defense has approved, endorsed, or authorized this book.

  Ignition Books are published by Endpapers Press, a division of Author Coach, LLC.

  The Ignition Books logo featuring a flaming “O” is a trademark ™ of Author Coach, LLC.

  This book is dedicated to the Marines and sailors

  who served in Beirut, Lebanon, during the deployments of 1982-1984.

  Et pour nos frères, mort pour la France.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank my literary agent and editor, Andrew Zack and the Andrew Zack Agency. Had it not been for Andrew’s belief in this book, his insight as an editor, and his perseverance in presenting it to various publishing houses, this project would never have been brought to fruition.

  Special thanks also to Tom Doherty, Camille Cline, and the people of Tor/Forge for taking a chance on an unknown writer.

  Any acknowledgment would be incomplete without a special thanks to those friends who assisted me in the technical preparation of the manuscript, who encouraged me in its writing, and whose belief in me as a writer was unwavering.

  And, most important, thanks to those of you with whom I served during the long months in Beirut. The privilege was mine.

  Semper Fidelis

  Distant Valor

  PROLOGUE

  “In such dangerous things as war the errors which proceed from a spirit of benevolence are the worst.”

  —Karl von Clausewitz (1780-1831)

  Eastern Mediterranean, 1982.

  In the darkness the American and French naval vessels alter course for the second time in as many hours and make sail for the port of Beirut. The commanders of the ships gauge their speed so as to arrive at dawn, the hour when the warring factions are most likely to be at rest.

  Below decks, in the berthing areas, old hands feel the change of course and rouse their sleeping troops. Before orders can be relayed to those in the ranks, platoon sergeants are checking the weapons and gear they know their men will need once ashore in the hostile city. Ammunition is passed out and weapons are given a final check by sergeants too young to have ever seen combat. As the helicopter assault platoons are designated and formed up, the Marines stage their packs in the narrow gray passageways of the ships. Hours before dawn the spaces closest to the flight decks are lined by Marines too nervous to sleep who sit in silence and wait for the arrival of the helicopters that will ferry them to shore.

  In the cavernous well decks of the amphibious assault ships other Mar
ines form into landing parties and align themselves in symmetrical rows next to the small flat-bottomed boats that will carry them ashore onto the beaches south of the city. Few sleep, many play cards or write letters home in the dim light and dank air of the well deck. Before loading into landing craft the Marines are given short briefings by junior officers regarding the morning’s mission.

  On the hangar decks of the American vessels, ground crews work unceasingly through the night to prepare their aircraft for flight. As each aircraft is made ready, it is lifted to the flight deck by the heavy elevators that hang precariously over the dark waters of the Eastern Mediterranean. Pilots sit in ready rooms and study the aerial photographs of the city they will fly over in the morning, noting the positions of the warring armies and the numerous antiaircraft emplacements of both sides.

  The first streaks of light begin to form on the eastern horizon as the smaller ships of the fleet carrying the majority of the Marines alter course just off the coast of Lebanon and head south toward the beaches where the Marines will come ashore. The remainder of the fleet, including the French vessels, steers north and slips into the channel leading to Beirut’s once magnificent port. Those on the bridge and above decks are treated to a spectacular view of the sun rising over the mountains that ring the city. The desolation of the port is enough to remind them they are entering a war zone of some eight years.

  Everywhere around the harbor are the rusting, pitted hulks of merchant vessels destroyed by the fighting. Warehouses lining the port show the signs of heavy fighting, and fires burn unchecked in many areas of the docks. Railroad cars sit on their sidings, some apparently undamaged, others totally destroyed. Lookouts on the vessels fail to spot a single living being. In the predawn calm even the ever-present gulls do not disturb the quiet.

  Although most of the sailors, Marines, and French legionnaires are unaware of it, the city is slowly succumbing to eight years of violence and civil war. In the heights above the city lies the Israeli army. Trapped within the city are the remnants of the PLO, which has harried Israel’s border with Lebanon since the last invasion in 1978.

  Three months earlier, in what many judged to be a repeat of the 1978 invasion, the tank columns of the IDF lunged across the Israeli-Lebanese frontier. Finding the forces of the PLO vulnerable and in disarray, the Israelis pursued their foes to the gates of the city. Once satisfied that the PLO had been run to ground in Beirut the IDF drove east of the mountains and hammered the regular forces of the Syrian army, arranging to seal off any escape by the PLO with the help of the Christian Phalangists who occupied the mountains north of the city.

  For some three months the IDF had pounded their foes in Beirut with every weapon in their arsenal. To the east the Syrian army had been beaten back within its own borders and an uneasy cease-fire had taken hold. Israeli aircraft flew unimpeded above the city and selected their targets at will, attacking with virtual impunity.

  Although badly beaten, the PLO remained a force to be reckoned with as long as it remained within Beirut. Battle-hardened Israeli commanders knew the cost of house-to-house fighting and preferred to stand off and let the air force and heavy guns batter the PLO while their infantry encircled the city and cut off its lifelines. Israeli engineers pumped mud into the gigantic pipes that delivered fresh water to the city, and the residents resorted to digging wells through the concrete of their sidewalks. Electrical power was also easily eliminated, and candles became scarce in Beirut as hospitals struggled to treat the wounded in operating theaters using emergency generators to power lights and machinery.

  While a horrified world looked on the Israeli army slowly and effectively tightened its grip on the city. The PLO shifted its gun positions, placing them near hospitals, schools, and any other target that might facilitate gory pictures of maimed civilians should they be hit by errant Israeli bombs. Determined not to loosen its death grip, the IDF continued to shell Beirut, seemingly oblivious to the clamor of the world press for some form of mediated peace.

  Amid the protestations of the United Nations the Israeli government finally conceded to allow the PLO to withdraw from the city. The Israelis insisted, however, that no heavy weapons be allowed to exit with the fighters, and that they be evacuated through the port of Beirut by non-Arab shipping.

  Halfway around the world, the American secretary of state was by now virtually frantic to loosen the Israeli stranglehold on the Lebanese capital and quickly agreed to arrange the evacuation of the PLO. Neutral shipping for the evacuation of the Palestinians was arranged, and U.S. naval vessels routinely sent to the Mediterranean were ordered to land their Marines beside French legionnaires and safeguard the withdrawal of the PLO.

  Within days U.S. Marines were standing beside their French counterparts in the Foreign Legion as thousands of PLO fighters boarded ships for destinations in North Africa. Although the Palestinians did not attempt to bring out their heavy weapons, American and French commanders were hopelessly outnumbered and planned a fighting withdrawal to their vessels in the harbor should hostilities have broken out. The PLO for its part seemed content to don new uniforms, arrive at the port in whatever semblance of order they could manage with their heavy weapons in tow, and fire their remaining ammunition into the air.

  By week’s end the PLO had abandoned the city amid the chaotic sounds of its ammunition arcing skyward and the cheers of the Lebanese civilians only too happy to endure this final danger to be rid of their uninvited guests. The PLO leadership, including Yasir Arafat, retired to Tripoli, Lebanon, some distance to the north.

  The Americans and the French, having accomplished their task without the loss of a single life, were only too happy to quit the city and return to their vessels. As the fleet pulled away from the pier the IDF prepared to enter Beirut from the south as their Christian allies secured the port and harbor.

  While the IDF slowly began to consolidate its positions in the city the Christian Phalange plotted its revenge against its old enemy, the PLO. The Phalangists had not forgotten the PLO alliance with the various Muslim factions that had sought to remove the Christians from power during the Lebanese civil war in 1975. Indeed, had it not been for the intercession of Syria, the PLO and its allies, the Lebanese Muslims might have virtually wiped out the Phalangists during the height of the fighting. As it stood, several Christian villages had been the focus of PLO massacres, most notably Damour, just south of Beirut.

  The code of Lebanon now called for the Christians to exact their revenge. The massacres at Damour and the other villages had gone unanswered. Now that would be changed and the honor of the Christian fighters restored.

  Young Israeli tankers stood helplessly by as vehicles bearing dozens of Christian Lebanese entered the Sabra and Shatilla refugee areas and the killing began. Those who understood Lebanon, and there were a few in the Israeli command who did, knew that this night would mark another chapter in the Lebanese tragedy. By morning hundreds lay dead and the stage had been set for the next round of fighting. Israeli troopers and commanders stared in horror at grinning Lebanese militiamen who left the camps smiling amid the carnage.

  Within hours the story of what had taken place began to reach the world, and the United Nations once again publicly called on the IDF to withdraw from Lebanon. Behind the heavy mahogany doors of the Security Council chambers the American representative was asked to answer for the actions of the Israelis.

  As the information began to filter back to the White House the National Security Council advised an aging American president to act in a decisive manner. The United States, they argued, would be held responsible for the actions of Israel to varying degrees by the rest of the world. In fact, the United States was the only country with any hope of exerting influence over the Israelis, whose army now sat astride the Lebanese capital and its warring factions. To avoid another bloodbath and possibly a broader Middle Eastern war, the United States would have to act quickly. The European dailies were already editorializing that the United States and Franc
e had assumed responsibility for the safety of the remaining Palestinians by entering the port two weeks earlier.

  The president of the United States sat alone in the Oval Office looking at the first reports of the massacres as the U.S. representative to the UN Security Council assured its other members that the United States was prepared to act. Even now, he told them, an American and French fleet was headed toward Beirut, and within hours U.S. Marines would land to take up positions between the Israelis, the Christian militia, and the families of the Palestinians.

  CHAPTER

  1

  Griffin groaned inwardly and leaned back on his pack. He scanned the patrol route associating map features with landmarks and road junctions as the staff sergeant continued to brief the squad. He mentally walked the eleven kilometers of the day’s patrol and concluded that the fate of first squad could have been much worse. Not too many tight twisted streets or tall buildings that could block radio transmissions and isolate the sixteen-man patrol in a sea of hostile faces. He cursed silently over the fate that had made him part of this insignificant footnote in Marine Corps history, in a place he hadn’t known existed only five months ago. The battalion had waded ashore in Beirut with an ill-defined mission that fell well short of Griffin’s expectations.

  It wasn’t like the old man’s war. No chance to be a real Marine and measure himself against a real enemy. Instead he was involved in a half-baked intervention as a “peacekeeper” in another squabble between the Arabs and Israelis. He wondered what his father would think of this, and gave an involuntary smile. At that moment, the staff sergeant asked if he had anything to add. Griffin exchanged glances with the older man and asked the squad radioman, “Is comm up?”