Vulcan's Fire [SSI 03]

by Harold

  Mohammed nodded in agreement. “Unless anyone has other thoughts on the subject, we will make that a doctrinal item. Full auto only at close quarters.”

  Pitney had a thought. “Doctor, are we likely to have people with sub guns?”

  “You mean submachine guns?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, I don’t know. It hasn’t come up.”

  The speed shooter bit his lip. “Sometimes it’s better to have a pistol than a buzz gun, especially in tight spaces. I’m just wondering if we should decide if we want to try teaching SMGs or handguns. I mean, there probably won’t be time for both.”

  Now Bosco’s curiosity got the better of him. “You saying that a pistol’s better than an MP-5 up close and personal?”

  Pitney blinked his green eyes. After two heartbeats he replied, “I know it’s better for me. And probably for most guys. Look, you don’t have as much risk of leading with your muzzle around corners, and retention is easier with a handgun. There’s no real advantage in the ammo, and in fact the pistols I’d carry are all bigger than nine-millimeter.”

  Bosco squirmed in his seat. “Yeah, but with one trigger pull of an MP you can dump ten, twenty rounds into somebody.”

  “What if there’s two or three of them? I’m not trying to pump myself up here, but I can show you on the range that a pistol is better than a buzz gun against multiple opponents up close.”

  The erstwhile Ranger recognized an opportunity. Robert Pitney seemed to be challenging Jason Boscombe to a man against man contest. Bosco’s Heckler & Koch against Pitney’s Springfield XD.

  “What sort of test would it be, dude?”

  Pitney smiled. “Say, five targets at ten yards.”

  “What kinda targets?”

  “Oh, eight-inch steel plates. Starting with both guns at low ready.”

  Bosco thought for a moment, then leaned back and laughed. “Hey, dude, I only look stupid. That’s the kind of games you play all the time. I’d end up buying you a case of beer or something.”

  “No, no,” Pitney insisted. “I’m not trying to sandbag anybody. I’m just saying that I’ve run that test several times, and the pistol usually wins. It’s because the distance is too short for the sub gun’s sight radius to be a real advantage, and that HK trigger can’t be tweaked like most pistols. When we switch guns, after a few runs the guy shooting my pistol does better.”

  “Better than you?”

  Pitney tried suppressing a grin and failed. “Well, better than he did with the buzz gun.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Bosco laughed.

  * * * *

  Part

  2

  ISRAEL

  * * * *

  9

  SOUTHERN LEBANON

  Ahmad Esmaili returned to the secure orchard area that sheltered his unit from overhead observation. He found Fida conducting weapon familiarization drills for the new men, some of whom appeared not quite through puberty.

  “Do they really get so much younger, or are we so much older?”

  The Lebanese fighter was both experienced and cynical. “Both, of course. As long as the world keeps turning, it supplies us with a new crop of volunteers every year. I accepted two of these boys because they had no place to go. Their families are dead or displaced, so I believe we are engaging in charitable work as well as military recruiting.”

  Esmaili emitted a noncommittal grunt. He looked at the youngsters who were learning to field strip an AK-47. Eventually they would be able to disassemble and reassemble a Kalashnikov blindfolded. Whether they could shoot one straight and fast was another matter.

  Fida scratched his beard and examined his superior’s face. Nothing registered, which was entirely normal. “Was your trip worthwhile?”

  Leaving Tawfiq to supervise the newcomers, Esmaili took Fida several meters to one side. “I will tell you as much as I can. My trip was made for the purpose of spending about two minutes with a highly placed man in Tehran. We are to be honored with a significant assignment, but that will be determined later. Meanwhile, I will receive information and directions from Mohammad Azizi and we will conform to his directions until further notice.” He paused.

  “Yes?”

  “There is something more. The . . . source . . . said he is dispatching ‘a beloved colleague’ to oversee our part of the operation. I do not know if the new colleague will replace Azizi or work beside him, but I want you to know that we are going to be under greater scrutiny than ever before.”

  Tawfiq scratched his beard again. It was showing faint traces of impending gray. “Well, that could mean anything, could it not? That is, a sign of trust and confidence or . . .”

  “Or a lack of trust and confidence.”

  “What do you think, brother?”

  Esmaili dropped into a crouching position, idly rearranging pebbles between his feet. Tawfiq joined him, back to the shade tree class under way. “No. I have thought of little else since leaving Tehran. Based on what the . . . source . . . told me, it seems to be considered an honor. Besides, I do not believe that we would be given a crucial mission if we were mistrusted.”

  Tawfiq grimaced. “There is a possible explanation, you know. We might be considered expendable and your . . . source . . . wants to ensure our compliance.”

  The Iranian made no comment. None was necessary. At length his subordinate whispered, “You think so, too.”

  Esmaili leaned back and sat on the ground, hands grasped between his knees. “I only know that the mission will involve a high degree of technical expertise, something beyond our capabilities. Therefore, we will almost certainly be assigned security for the operation.”

  Tawfiq knew better than to speculate on when or where, let alone to ask his commander for more details. He rolled his slender shoulders, “inshallah.”

  A curt nod. “God’s will.”

  * * * *

  NORTHERN COMMAND HEADQUARTERS

  SAFED, ISRAEL

  Frank Leopole had experience of women in a dozen nations. As he said, “There are two kinds: mothers and others.” He was decidedly an Other kind of guy. Never married and presently minus a commitment, he was comfortable in doing without for an indefinite period. However, the sabra who escorted him into the office prompted him to reconsider his impending celibacy. Raven hair, huge brown eyes, and a face of chiseled marble atop a slender carriage caused the former Marine a momentary distraction.

  It was obvious that the commanding officer had first choice of the base secretarial staff.

  Major General Moshek Brafman greeted his guest by rising from his desk. He was a stout third-generation Israeli who looked more Middle Eastern than Polish. However, he caught the American’s glance at the mobile decor and smiled approvingly. “Isn’t she a beauty?” Brafman emitted a sigh. “My wife was a head turner in her day, but Gabriella . . .” He shook his head. “Hoof!” Despite his accent, the sentiment was clear.

  “She must be a distraction, General.”

  “Yes, she is. She certainly is.” A male bonding smile and a gesture toward a sofa. “Would you like some refreshment?”

  “Ah, no, sir. Thank you.” He took a seat, remaining erect and attentive.

  Brafman plunked down beside Leopole and frankly studied the SSI operator. “Colonel, from what I am told, you are a direct individual and a man of action. Therefore, I shall do you the honor of being blunt. Though this is an international operation, and ordinarily it would involve certain . . . diplomatic niceties. While I hope that our relations will remain cordial, all of us need to keep certain realities in mind.”

  The general paused a moment, ordering his thoughts. “As a professional, you must know that few plans remain unchanged. That especially applies to your upcoming work, for a variety of reasons that must be clear by now.”

  Leopole nodded. “Yes, sir. Mr. Baram and a few others gave several briefings before we left.”

  Brafman smiled slightly. “Well, he is not one to gild the lily, so to speak
. Sometimes it’s a wonder that he advanced so well in government work.”

  “You know him, then?”

  The general squirmed slightly and gave a sideways glance. “We are acquainted, Colonel.” His tone changed from jovial to matter-of-fact. “As I was saying, although you will be training our Druze friends to defend their villages, it’s still an Israeli operation—which we of course will deny to one and all.”

  Leopole did not know how to respond to such candor from a foreign general so he merely nodded.

  “Your people, Colonel, absolutely must keep as low a profile as possible. Naturally, if you are attacked, you may defend yourselves.” Brafman set his thick hands on his knees and launched himself off the couch. He began pacing. “Frankly, it was foolish of our politicians to expect that third-party people could remain uninvolved. The area you will be working is of particular interest to Hezbollah, and once your presence is known, the pressure may increase rather than decrease. You understand?”

  Leopole stood. “Certainly, sir. Mr. Baram said in his briefings that we might take casualties.”

  A decisive nod. “Good!”

  After three or four heartbeats, Brafman held up a hand. “I did not mean that the way it came out, Colonel. Naturally . . .”

  “Yes, sir. You approve Mordecai’s honesty.”

  “Well, let us say that I know of Mr. Baram’s honesty.” The ironic grin was back.

  “Certainly, General.”

  Brafman was pacing again. “Now, as I was going to say . . . although your team will operate directly with the militias, it will always be under IDF supervision. You will meet some of our own Druze officers before you proceed to Beirut. Some of them have worked with their Lebanese cousins before, some have not. But I want to emphasize this, Colonel: whatever you may think of a given situation, your actions will be guided by Israeli interests, not American.”

  Leopole shrugged. “General Brafman, I never expected anything else.”

  “So. How many training teams will you deploy?”

  “Two or three, depending on local requirements. We can double up where needed.”

  Brafman absorbed that information, nodding solemnly. At length he said, “You must realize that some of the areas are remote, quite remote. Your men will be beyond our ability to help in anything less than several hours. More likely a day or more. Even helicopter reinforcements are no guarantee. Therefore, it is advisable to establish relations with other villages and other militias in each area. That is where our own Druze officers can help the most.”

  Leopole accepted the information stoically. “Yes, sir. It’s pretty much what we were told in Arlington.” He stepped to a wall map covering Israel, Lebanon, and much of Syria and Jordan. Tapping the paper he said, “General, besides reinforcements and supplies, I see our big concern as communications. We have cellular capability and may even be able to talk to headquarters in Arlington. But as I understand it, we’re relying on your people for contact with you.”

  The Israeli nodded. “That is correct. Our liaison officers are well equipped. The militias . . . not so much.”

  Leopole turned away from the map to face his host. “You know, if I were a Hezbollah planner, I’d start working on a way to interrupt your comm. Then I’d drop the hammer before anybody here realized something was going down.”

  A taut smile. “Colonel Leopole, I admire men who think as I do. That is why our liaison and training teams have communications specialists with frequency-agile radios, encryption, and burst transmission capability.” He raised an eyebrow. “And not all of it is made in the U.S. A.”

  “As long as it works, General. As long as it works.”

  Brafman then turned to the map. He ran a finger along the northeastern border. “Here we are fifteen kilometers from the border, well within range of Katyushas.” He turned to his guest. “In 2006, some of us spent time in the bomb shelters, I can tell you. But you will be working opposite the area of the division in this area. Solomon Nadel, one of the brigade commanders, is tasked with supporting your mission, and he works with the special operations branch, which conducts our efforts in Lebanon.” He looked at Leopole. “I can read your mind. Do not worry about too many layers of command authority. This is a streamlined operation, and as I just noted, your IDF liaisons will have direct contact with brigade, special ops, and with me.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “Then we understand one another.” He sat down at his desk and pressed the intercom. “Gabriella, would you bring us some refreshments?”

  * * * *

  NABATIYEH GOVERNATE, LEBANON

  Mohammad Azizi brought the word.

  “Dr. Momen’s colleague will arrive in two or three days. I am to escort him across the Syrian border.”

  Ahmad Esmaili set down his topographic map. “Who is he?”

  Azizi slid into a chair. He felt more at ease with his fellow Iranian since returning from Tehran. “Imam Sadegh Elham. He is an old friend of Dr. Momen. They have much in common, especially The Faith . . . and science.”

  “Science. There are priests and scholars who insist that Islam should not become dependent upon science or technology. Such men cite the corruption of the West.”

  The liaison officer waved dismissively. “Well, Imam Elham is not among them.”

  “What do you know of him?”

  “A devout servant of God. More a leader than a scholar, I believe.”

  “No, no. I mean his background. His influence.” His political connections.

  “Well, I know that he has ministered to various Hezbollah units in recent years, often with prestigious assignments. His name has been connected with our rocket forces.”

  Esmaili perked up. “Rocket forces? What is the need of an imam there?”

  Azizi permitted himself an ironic smile. “My brother, God’s minions are needed everywhere the faithful are found.”

  The commander squinted in concentration, staring at the floor. “Rockets. That could explain what Dr. Momen meant when he referred to ‘technical experts.’” He raised his gaze. “Since the blessed doctor is involved in nuclear research . . .”

  Azizi shook his head. “No, no. I do not think so.” His voice was harsh, insistent. Clearly he did not like the sum of two and two. “Besides, there would have to be testing to match a nuclear warhead to any rocket.”

  “We do not know all that occurs in Iran ... or Korea. Or elsewhere. Who is to say what has been tested and what has not?”

  Esmaili referred to his map again. Spreading it on the table, he laid out the geography. “From this area there are not many worthwhile targets within range. Haifa is well beyond the 122mm Katyusha rockets but barely within range of Fajr 3s based just inside of the border, not to mention Fajr 5s. But from this area, Haifa is too far.”

  “What about the Zelzal rocket? One hears much of it.”

  Esmaili fidgeted, feeling mildly angry that he had little current knowledge of rockets and missiles, though he knew Zelzal was the latter. Many jihadists tended to use the terms interchangeably. Moreover, most of what he did know dated from his brief tenure with Dr. Momen.

  But there was something else, more unsettling. It occurred to him: Azizi does not know the plan.

  “Depending upon the model, Zelzal has a range of one hundred fifty to perhaps four hundred kilometers. I believe it carries a six-hundred-kilogram warhead.” He thought for a moment, trying to dredge up the figures from his memory. “The Shahab 3 and 4 possess much greater range—from twelve hundred to two thousand kilometers. They are based on the North Korean No-dong, and probably carry a thousand-kilogram warhead.”

  “Then they would be better used here than closer to the border.” Azizi flicked the map. “They can easily reach any point in Israel.”

  Esmaili rubbed his chin, then brushed his mustache. “Yes, but it makes no military sense. As soon as the Jews discover long-range missiles in this area they would destroy them.”

  “But how would they know? Surely the S
hahab batteries would set up quickly, fire their rockets, and be gone.”

  The cell leader regarded his colleague. “The Americans must have satellites overhead almost constantly. They give any such information to the Zionists.” He paused to allow that sentiment to set in. “No, the longest range weapons would only be fired from Iran itself, where retaliation would be most difficult.”

  “Very well, then,” Azizi replied. “The Fajr series is too short-ranged and Shahab too sophisticated for use here. Therefore, let us assume a Zelzal with two-hundred-kilometer range. From here, that could strike Haifa, Netanya, and Nablus. But if we were to move thirty kilometers southwest, to Qiryat Shemona, a Zelzal could reach Tel Aviv.”