by C. X. Moreau
“And what of you? You do not seem to be harmed? Did you not fight?” he asked.
“I had no chance, there were many of them, and they had many weapons.”
“I see.” He sighed and rose from the table, crossing the room to stare out the window. He carelessly flicked his cigarette butt out the window, watching as it arced to the street below. “And why have you come to me, today?” he asked, placing emphasis on the last word to indicate his annoyance.
“The Brotherhood will kill all the American invaders. We will do this. They will die for their insult to me. No one may insult the Brotherhood.” Without acknowledging Ahmud’s statement, he again looked out the window, his back to the two young Lebanese.
He sighed again, then said. “Yes, I understand. But what do you ask of me? May I assume this is not merely a social visit?”
Ahmud glanced at his friend, who shrugged. He plunged ahead. “We need your help,” he said tightly.
“Ah, I see,” answered the Syrian. “What do you propose?”
“That the Syrian Army shell the hill occupied by the invaders. It is important. They are very strong. Artillery can destroy them, then the Brotherhood will attack the hill and reclaim it for the people of Lebanon and Islam.”
The Syrian turned to face Ahmud, then shook his head sadly. His gestures and mannerisms were those of a father talking to a recalcitrant child. Sensing his answer, Ahmud spoke, “You must help us. The Brotherhood has been generous to you, and to our Syrian allies. Did I not supply my own brother as a holy warrior and provide you with the means of our great victory against the American Embassy? The Americans are as nothing. We will sweep them from the hill as we swept them from their embassy. But we must act together to insure victory and to cement our friendship.”
The Syrian sat behind the table, and gestured for Ahmud to sit. “Sit Ahmud. Sit Walid,” he said. He regarded both of them, stalling for a moment, choosing his words carefully. His plans were completely formed, his equipment in place. All of his people were trained and ready to move. But he was not ready to move yet. He needed more time to study his prey. He continued to search for the elusive details that would insure victory. The small, almost trivial knowledge of an enemy that allowed him to succeed where others failed. He was not ready, not yet. And until he was ready he would require the hospitality of Ahmud and the Brotherhood. He didn’t have the time to select another militia leader and develop a friendship that would allow him the support required. He let out a long breath, another month and he would be done with this strutting schoolboy who gave away his brother as one would trade a rare coin in a gold souk for something of greater value. He looked into Ahmud’s face. “You must not attack the Americans tonight. Not now. Wait a little. Give me time to talk to my superiors. We will develop a suitable plan of attack for you. Supply you with adequate weaponry, training, and other necessities. You shall have your revenge, in time. Remember the proverb, Ahmud, revenge is a dish best eaten cold.”
Ahmud blanched and said, “I will not wait. We will attack. Without your help if the Syrian Army is afraid of a few American Marines.”
Walid opened his mouth to speak, but the Syrian raised a hand and stopped him. “Ahmud, do not rush into this. You are hurt, and angry. Use this to your advantage. I counsel patience, cunning, shrewdness. Let us not sink to petty insults. We are allies. Together we can overcome the Americans.”
“I will not wait. The Brotherhood shall destroy the Americans. They violate our land, and the memory of my brother,” spat Ahmud in anger.
“Ahmud, maybe he is right. Let us listen to him,” counseled Walid.
Ahmud turned on his friend and said, “No, he is not right. All he wants is talk. Talk of friendship, talk of training, talk of great victories. It is time for us to act. We will have our victory. And we will have the blood of the Americans.”
The Syrian took a cigarette from the pack on the table. He lit it, blowing a stream of smoke into the air. “You have seen the American position?”
“Yes,” answered Ahmud.
“Their defenses?” he continued.
“Yes.”
“Good, tell me what their defenses are. I will need to know this.”
“Then you will help us? You will have artillery shell the hilltop?”
The Syrian shrugged noncommittally and flicked an ash into his dinner plate. Mumpkin, he said, the Arabic word for maybe. “Tell me, what is their defensive layout?”
Ahmud looked to Walid, then spoke, “They have taken the usual precautions. The house is of stone. Some jeeps are in the courtyard. Some of them are always in the small house at the gate.”
“Ahh,” noted the Syrian, “and how many of them are there?”
“Not many. Fifty perhaps,” answered Ahmud.
“And how many vehicles?” he asked.
“Five, perhaps six.”
“How many machine guns do they have?”
“I do not know. They have one in the little house at the gate. We attacked it last week.”
“How will you get to the top of the hill? What route will you take?” asked the Syrian.
“We will wait for your shelling to cease, then we shall go up the road. We have a truck, it shall lead the assault. The truck shall ram the gate and destroy it. Once we are in the courtyard we shall destroy them. We will not spare them. The Brotherhood has no mercy for infidel invaders who do not heed our warnings.”
“Can you not approach up the side of the hill, utilizing the trees for cover?” asked the Syrian. “Then spring upon them in surprise?” The Syrian noticed that Ahmud was becoming increasingly annoyed at the questions. He is losing his patience with me, thought the Syrian. I shall not be able to control him unless I allow this attack to take place.
Ahmud rose and paced in front of the table, then turned to face the Syrian and spoke, “It is not for you to question me. I am not your pupil. I am the leader of the Brotherhood’s holy warriors. We shall attack tonight, and we will slaughter them.”
The Syrian calmly regarded Ahmud. He said nothing, but looked to Walid, who seemed slightly embarrassed. “Walid, what is your position? You are the Brotherhood’s deputy commander. Can the Americans be taken? Are they so weak as Ahmud believes?”
Walid shrugged. “I do not know. There are many of them. But I follow Ahmud. He has been in the army. He knows if they are weak.”
“The army, Ahmud?” The Syrian cocked an eyebrow in mock surprise. “I didn’t realize that you had formal military training. You have not been fair with me. You should have told me. I could have relied on your experience in the past.” Ahmud straightened before the Syrian as if to support Walid’s assertion of his military service. The Syrian nodded approvingly and Ahmud again took his seat. “Ahmud, how many men do you have presently?”
“Perhaps one hundred. Some from the village will come to us when they learn of our plan to attack the Americans.”
“Yes, that is good.” The Syrian leaned back in his chair as if planning a strategy. He did not look at Ahmud, but at Walid, who quickly averted his eyes. This one knows it cannot be done, he silently realized. The Syrian had scouted the American position only once. He had walked by it one afternoon and seen the narrow road that served as a driveway. He saw the sentinel on the roof and noted the steep sides of the hill. Although he could see only a portion of the house he could tell it was well built of native stone. He was unable to tell how many men were inside, but he knew from bitter experience that positions such as these required few defenders. He had never considered it as a target since that day.
He knew now what he would do. The plan took shape quickly in his mind. He leaned across the table, moving the china out of his way. Looking directly into Ahmud’s eyes, he spoke in his commander’s voice, “Since you have decided that you must attack, I will, of course, assist you as far as is within my power. But I must warn you, none of my superiors must know of my assistance to you or the Brotherhood. I extend you a personal favor, Ahmud. I consider this a debt of hon
or, as you are my personal ally here in Beirut. Do you understand?”
Ahmud raised himself in his chair and answered, “Yes, of course.”
“Good. It is not possible for me to arrange artillery for you. My orders for my operations here in Lebanon specifically forbid me to engage the Americans in any type of direct armed confrontation. That means that I cannot ask higher headquarters for artillery fire on a known American position. However, I may still be of some assistance to you. If you would like to listen I think I may have a plan.”
Ahmud nodded and the Syrian continued, “I agree with you that the assault must come tonight. However, I have a means to support your attack. Do you wish to carry out your attack as you have said, using the road as your avenue of approach?”
“Yes. I have seen this road, it will serve our purpose.”
“Fine. However, I must use your truck. If you want some sort of artillery support I will require the truck.”
Ahmud seemed unaffected by the request for the truck, “It is of no consequence. We shall find other vehicles. What do you propose?”
“You say you have one hundred men. That is more than enough. Give me twenty of them to crew the mortars. Walid can be the leader of these men. We will prepare the mortars and shell the Americans. Then you can make your assault. After the hill is taken we will join you. Does that suit you?” asked the Syrian.
Ahmud glanced at Walid. “Yes” he said.
“Walid will also command a small force to remain at the bottom of the hill and capture any Americans who escape. They will attempt to retreat down the hill, and this measure will ensure a complete victory. “
The Syrian studied Ahmud, who was now leaning forward listening as he explained his plan. The fool, he thought, he will believe all of it. He suppressed an urge to smile, as a cat smiles before pouncing on its unsuspecting prey. Now for the final touch. “Ahmud, I will require of you and your men a special task. You must capture at least one of the Americans alive. I want to question him regarding some of their outposts.”
“It will not be difficult. We will do as you have asked,” replied Ahmud. “But why?”
“They have other outposts. If the man knows their locations and their strengths it will make our task much easier in the future.”
Ahmud leaned back in his chair and smiled slightly. “It will be done as you have asked.”
The Syrian continued, “Farouck, my sergeant, will accompany you and the assault team to the gate. Also, one of my men with some demolition gear. The gate will not be a problem with such equipment. You will not miss the truck.” He looked to Walid. “Does this suit you my friend?”
“Yes, I will do as you and Ahmud ask,” answered the boy.
“Fine. The assault shall take place tonight then. I will require twenty of your men. Walid and I shall speak later of the details. He stood and walked to the window. Ahmud and Walid rose to go. Ahmud extended a hand, which the Syrian dutifully shook. “We shall have another great victory tonight, Ahmud. Remember, I need one of them alive. Then it will truly be a great victory.”
“Inshallah,” said Ahmud.
The Syrian nodded almost imperceptibly and said, “Inshallah.” As they left the room he stared out the window at the village. How many times each day did he hear this simple phrase “If God wills it?” Every Arab eventually left matters in the hands of Allah.
A story came to him, from his childhood. A story his father had told him as a young boy. His family had been in Syria for hundreds of years, but during the crusades his village had been captured by the Christian crusaders and forcibly converted to Christianity. At some point after the expulsion of the crusaders most of the villagers had reverted to Islam, but his family had not. His father had told him the story of the crusaders’ expulsion from the village.
A small force of Christian knights had held the town for months against superior Moslem forces. Eventually, the Moslem army had breached the wall and slaughtered the garrison and the inhabitants. But a handful of knights had retreated to the Christian church. Inside the church the families of the knights had taken shelter. The only approach to the church was down a narrow street, and the knights had mounted their chargers and barred the way of the Moslem army. As the knights stood between the Moslem force and the church, the Arab commander mounted the roof of a nearby building to signal the assault that would annihilate the knights and destroy the last vestige of Christian resistance in the town. Before he could give the signal one of the knights stood in his stirrups and cried out “Deus Vult!” in his foreign tongue. The knights charged headlong down the narrow street, crying “Deus Vult!” as they flung themselves into the Moslem lines. Their heavy mounts crashed into the Moslem infantry and the force of the charge broke the line, the sounds of the battle ringing above the cobblestones of the street. The courageous knights were soon overcome but the Arab commander had been so impressed with their daring that he ordered their families spared. He had asked one of the women what their war cry had meant. The woman had replied that it was Latin for “God wills it.”
The Syrian had never forgotten the story, or that he was the descendant of one of those knights. He realized that something of the essential difference between the Eastern mind and the Western mind was reflected in the war cry of the knights and the phrase “Inshallah.” For the Westerner, God’s will was a command to be carried out dutifully no matter what the cost. The Arab accepted events passively and acknowledged the consequences as the will of God.
Behind him the door opened and Farouck entered. He did not allow Farouck to sit. He was, after all, a sergeant. Farouck had been with him for years. He was tough, and perhaps more important, he was cunning. He faced the big sergeant and said, “I have a mission for you. Tonight the Brotherhood will attack the Americans who are in the house on the hill. You and one of the men familiar with demolition work will accompany them. Ahmud will lead the assault after the entrance gate is opened with explosives. Ahmud plans to storm the house and kill any Americans he finds there.”
He studied Farouck’s face. It was impassive, reflecting nothing of his thoughts. He knows this is suicide, and he is wondering how to question my motives. Or already planning his desertion, thought the Syrian.
“Do you have someone you can trust to handle the explosives?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Of course. But I could do it myself if you prefer, Excellency.”
Ah, there it is, he thought. If he goes alone it will be easier to desert. Perhaps feign his death, then slip away once the battle is in progress. “No, Farouck. I have an assignment for you tonight that will require all your attention.” He chose his words carefully, stealing a glance at Farouck as he spoke to catch any reaction he might have. “As you know, I am sure, this attack will fail. The Americans have a strong position, and they have reinforced it within the past few hours.” Farouck remained impassive. “However, Ahmud is determined to attack and annihilate the Americans. He has asked me to provide an artillery barrage prior to his assault. I shall arrange some mortars to pacify him. He will try to force an entry through the gate. I suspect that the attack will fail there, and I do not anticipate any real pursuit by the Americans.” He paused. “Ahmud has reached the limit of his usefulness. I wish now to concentrate on Walid, his deputy. You will ensure that Ahmud does not return after the assault to further complicate my task here.”
“I understand,” said Farouck. His demeanor reflected no emotion, no opinion about the mission assigned to him. The Syrian again walked to the window and looked out. He smiled slightly to himself. He had done well to choose Farouck. The man had played it perfectly. He had done nothing to hint that he might not be willing to carry out such a foolhardy attack with a group of untrained boys, but had listened impassively while the entire plan was explained to him. If he had questioned me, the best he could have hoped for was a transfer back to a line unit where he would die an ignominious death fighting the Israelis. Now I must reward him, as one rewards an obedient child. “You will take no cha
nces with your own safety tonight, Farouck. I have too few good sergeants. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
“Fine, Farouck. You are dismissed.” He heard the muted click of Farouck’s heels coming together, then the door shut behind him. He lit another cigarette, the smoke hot and acrid in his throat. It will work perfectly. Ahmud will die tonight in the assault and Walid will take control of what is left of the militia. He must ensure that Walid comes to no harm tonight. Well, he thought, that isn’t very likely as long as he has the good sense not to go with Ahmud out of some twisted sense of loyalty. He thought again of the knights and their hopeless charge. How stupid men can be. They will sacrifice themselves for what they perceive is honor, or duty, losing their lives for an idea they are incapable of expressing. He sighed. Ahmud’s insistence upon satisfying his honor had almost cost him months of careful planning and meticulous work. There had been a few close moments, but all should be right now. His plan would go forward without delay, only some of the minor players would be changed.
CHAPTER
13
Griffin nodded to Slocum, “So it’s gonna be tonight? Ahmud has more balls than I thought. Give me the radio.” Slocum handed the small radio to Griffin, who keyed the handset. “Downs, how many of ’em are there?” he asked.
A burst of static was followed by Downs’s voice. “I’m not sure. At least thirty, and they’re still coming. It’s a steady file. They’re not spaced apart or anything. Just walking up the road, close to one side. Over.”
“Stand by, Downs. Let me know if any vehicles or heavy weapons come up. Especially any RPGs. Got that?” asked Griffin.
“Roger.”
Griffin looked at Slocum. “All your troops in place and ready to go?”
“Yep,” he casually answered. “Everybody is one hundred percent. All the guns are up and ready.”