by Harold
Esmaili saw the logic: Zelzals could be deployed on trucks and dedicated launch vehicles—a definite advantage given Israeli air superiority. Still, something did not track quite right. “Brother, even assuming you are correct, consider the outcome. We would have to fire many missiles to achieve worthwhile damage, and even with mobile launchers they could be found and destroyed. That indicates a few missiles carrying massive warheads. Therefore . . .”
“Therefore,” Azizi interjected, “either Imam Elham and Dr. Momen are planning nuclear rockets or something else entirely.”
* * * *
10
HAIFA, ISRAEL
The SSI team was assembled at a secure compound that afforded a few days of preparation before proceeding to Lebanon. Frank Leopole allowed the men to settle in, get better acquainted, and enjoy the pool or exercise room. Then it was down to business.
At the initial briefing Leopole related the administrative details. “I met with General Brafman of Israeli Northern Command, and he laid out the situation. You already know we’re working with Druze militia in southern Lebanon, and we’ll have IDF Druze members as liaison officers and translators. Largely we’ll be semi-independent, sometimes in fairly remote areas, but I am assured that we’ll have secure, reliable comm via the IDF people.” He stopped for a moment, then added, “If it works, that’s great. If not, I have some backup that should permit us to talk directly to HQ in Arlington. It’ll be on an as-needed basis, but Admiral Derringer said the board sprung for the extra gear just to cover the bases.”
The operations officer mentally ticked off the topics he intended to cover. “Now then, as for our Druze contacts, you should know a couple of things. They’re Israeli military personnel but obviously they have an interest in the welfare of their cousins in Lebanon. I have no reason to think that any of them are other than what they seem, but I’m not taking anything for granted. I want our relationship to be polite and professional, but there’s no need to tell them everything we know. General Brafman was pretty plainspoken with me: we’re under Israeli command and we’ll act in accordance with their best interests, not ours. While I appreciate his candor, I think we could become expendable if things go south. But don’t worry too much: as usual, SSI has a Plan Alpha and a Bravo to extract us.”
Chris Nissen, though relatively new to the firm, was not timid. “Care to share that with us, sir?”
Phil Green added, “Yeah, I might sleep a little better.”
Leopole did not want to reveal that neither plan was finalized: too many political and bureaucratic hoops still remained. So he said, “One is by land, the other by air. That’s all I can say for now.”
Seated in the back, Robert Pitney congratulated himself for his foresight. While he had no reason to doubt his new employer’s concern for his welfare, he had a list of names, addresses, and phone numbers based on his in-laws’ business contacts. None were located in the likely operating area, but he knew that if he made enough calls, somebody would come for him—either from devotion, greed, or both.
Breezy always asked the obvious questions. “Colonel, how do we get to our AO? I take it that we’re supposed to keep a low profile.”
“Lower than a snake’s navel, son.” Leopole allowed the laughter to abate, then added, “We’ll address that when we meet with our IDF folks in a day or so.
“Now,” Leopole continued. “Before you left, you had the standard in-country brief about local culture and customs. I’m going to add something else.” He placed his hands on his hips and inclined his torso slightly forward, as if imparting physical emphasis to his words. “I am reliably informed that Lebanon produces some of the finest-looking women in the Middle East. Maybe the finest.”
He lanced Jason Boscombe with a D.I. stare, and was rewarded when that worthy slid lower in his chair. Both personally and professionally Leopole believed the mantra “Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted.” His efforts had shown that celebrities of Lebanese descent included entertainers Yasmine Bleeth, Salma Hayek, Shakira, and supermodel Yamila Diaz. Bosco, however, being a leg man, was disappointed to find divided opinion on Paula Abdul’s heritage but otherwise he was suitably impressed.
Leopole knew that Bosco and Breezy had enjoyed themselves immensely during some downtime in Haifa before the previous operation, which climaxed in a sea chase across the Mediterranean. While none of the local or visiting fillies had complained—in fact, a few were downright complimentary—the duo’s antics had brought unwelcome attention.
“Now hear this,” Leopole intoned. “What you do on your own time with consenting females is not, repeat not, your own business. In these circumstances it reflects on this firm and upon our contracting parties, so I expect you to bear that in mind at all times.” He paused for effect. “If you meet some hottie who invites you to go skinny-dipping with her boobacious friends, I want to know about it.”
Breezy turned to Bosco. “Boobacious? Did Lieutenant Colonel Leopole just say ‘boobacious’?”
“Fershure, dude. I heard him five by five.”
* * * *
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
Omar Razlavi stalked the dreamscape of Ahmad Esmaili. Ferretlike in his speed and agility, the Iranian teenager had become noted for his ability to snake in and out of barbed wire, finding and marking Iraqi mines. Nobody seemed to know exactly where Omar came from or the circumstances that placed him in the front lines in 1981. But the boy’s innate ability to find mines buried beneath dirt or sand, in the dark, grew to near legendary status. As a Sarjukhe in the Twenty-third Special Forces Brigade, he refused every promotion above corporal. He insisted that God had made him for mine clearing, and that was what he would do.
Armed with his faith, a green headband, and a sack full of white flags, Razlavi probed the enemy ground with a hard plastic knife. Thousands of Saddam’s mines—many of foreign manufacture— were avoided by the Ayatollah’s soldiers during the long war. In an endeavor where survival often was measured in hours, Omar Razlavi thrived for seven years. And then some.
The next morning, Esmaili awoke with the beginning of a plan. He went in search of Fida and found him after breakfast. “I want to talk with you.”
Fida recognized the statement as more a command than a desire. They walked a safe distance from the aspiring jihadists and sat on a stone wall.
“I had a dream last night. Usually I do not remember my dreams, but this was different. It dealt with reality.”
Fida squirmed on the uncomfortable rocks. “Yes?”
“During the Iraq war, I knew a young mine hunter. Omar Razlavi.”
“Yes, yes. I remember the name.”
“I became acquainted with him late in the war, and served with him during operations with Hamas in Palestine. I learned then that Omar was an orphan. Thousands like him were taken into the army and fed into the war. We had no choice: we were fighting for our survival and full mobilization was required. But those boys, those young boys . . .” His voice trailed off.
Finally Esmaili spoke again. “Most of them went willingly. They were filled with revolutionary spirit and the excitement of serving the nation. And God,” he hastened to add. “They had never known anything else.
“Sometime late in the war, when it was clear that there could be no winner, I began to wonder. How did a teenaged boy like Omar find his calling? He was by far the best at what he did; I never heard of anyone who came close to matching him. It was as if he was born to hunt mines. But what else might he have accomplished? Was mine clearing the only thing he was meant to do? What if . . .”
The what-if remained moot. But Fida grew wary; his well-honed sense of survival began twitching at the back of his cranium. He would not betray any doubt to his superiors, who were notably unsentimental about living heroes, but neither would he bare his professional neck, let alone the personal variety.
“What if? Do you mean, what if he had another calling?”
Esmaili nodded quietly. Then he turned to his colleague
. “Something other than war.”
Fida shifted his AK; he was seldom without it. “He was born into a time of war, brother. As you say, he served the revolution and he served God in the best way he could.” When that comment drew no response, Fida prompted, “What became of him?”
“A few years after the truce, some of our commandos began passing their knowledge to Palestinian fighters. That was his end.”
Fida grasped the essential facts. The traditional religious rivalry was set aside as Iranian Shiites worked with Hamas Sunnis against the common Zionist enemy. He could guess the rest.
One dark night, along the Gaza Strip, Ahmed Esmaili had seen the fatal explosion from well behind the mine hunter’s position. It was not difficult to interpret the events: an Israeli sentry glimpsed movement through his thermal imager and flipped a switch. The command-detonated mine erupted six meters from the Iranian instructor, sending him directly to the right hand of God.
“You saw Razlavi in your dream?”
Esmaili nodded. “It gave me an idea.” He licked his lips. “Obviously we have an important operation coming fairly soon. I think there is a way to create a diversion that will not deprive us of many men.”
Fida was interested. “Brother, in God’s holy ledger the loss of one man may benefit hundreds of others.”
“So you approve of a sacrifice?”
“Certainly, if it yields a profitable return.”
Esmaili accepted the assessment. No doubt their scientific sponsor would approve it as well.
“By the way,” Fida added, “when do you expect Dr. Momen’s colleague to join us?”
“I have not been told exactly, due to security concerns. But Azizi said he should return with the man in a few days.”
“If God wills it.”
Esmaili continued playing the righteous game. “Surely He does, brother. Surely He does.”
* * * *
SAFED, ISRAEL
Two-star generals seldom brief former lieutenant colonels, but Moshek Brafman wanted his American colleague to enter Lebanon as well prepared as possible. He had arranged for Leopole to meet Yakov Livni, who knew the lay of the land, both geographical and political.
“Tell me about Rafix Kara,” Leopole said.
Livni shook his head as if recalling a favorite uncle. He stared at the floor, then raised his gaze to the American. “He is probably all that you have heard and more. Flamboyant, charismatic, and maddening to work with. At one time or another he’s fought almost everybody in Lebanon, but when he’s on your side there’s no better ally. The fact that he is still among the living I can only attribute to divine intervention.” He shrugged. “God has use for such people.”
The SSI operative nodded slightly. “Yeah. I heard that he has a talent for walking away from ambushes and assassinations.”
Livni raised his eyes and his hands in a dramatic gesture toward the ceiling. “Oh, the stories I could tell . . .”
“So you’ve worked with him?”
The Israeli turned serious. “Yes. Yes, I have worked with him.” He decided not to relate that he had also worked against the Druze warlord when Israeli interests diverged from Kara’s.
Leopole stretched his muscular arms behind his head. “Well, the main thing I need to know is if I can trust the guy. That’s job one.”
Livni nodded gravely. “As I said, Colonel, Rafix has been at odds with most of the major factions in the country at one time or another. The one thing I can count on is that he’s totally opposed to the Syrians and Iranians. And the other thing I can count on is his courage. Many people may question his loyalty at a given moment, but never his courage.”
“Okay, so he’s a brave sumbitch who might shove a blade between my ribs. How does that make him worth working with?”
The Israeli operative waved a placating hand. “No, no. Do not misunderstand me. Rafix has a sense of honor to go with his courage. I have never known him to betray anyone. But as conditions change, so does his allegiance.” He paused for emphasis. “Colonel Leopole, the key to understanding Rafix Kara is very simple. He is Druze to the core. As long as your mission benefits his people, he will be a loyal ally. But remember this.” Livni wagged a pudgy finger. “If he ever has reason to doubt your commitment to his cause, he probably will shove that blade between your ribs.”
* * * *
11
HAIFA, ISRAEL
Rick Barrkman and Robbie Furr seemed an unlikely pair. The former was athletically built and fond of working out; the latter was not. In fact, Furr claimed that he had been eating at his favorite Mexican restaurant since before he was born, and he could pack away a large platter of tacos and enchiladas with little effort. Nevertheless, after working together for years, each knew the other’s strengths and vices. They had long since passed the point where they were professionally wedded: frequently they could communicate by something approaching mental telepathy. They even shot the same zero to eight hundred yards.
Now they needed to see how their rifles had fared the rigors of international air travel.
Barrkman uncased the Robar SR90, a customized Remington 700 with orthopedic stock and Leupold ten-power scope. Owing to their different physiques, the cheek piece and length of pull were optimized for Barrkman, though Furr could crawl the stock well enough to compensate. His own rifle was an SR60, a near duplicate of Barrkman’s minus the orthopedic furniture.
Furr laid down on his mat, set up the spotting scope, and focused on the hundred-yard target taped to a riddled piece of plywood. He glanced around. “I guess I’ve seen worse ranges but I don’t remember just where.”
Prone behind the rifle, Barrkman thumbed three rounds into the Remington’s magazine. Keeping his right index finger along the stock, he checked the Leupold’s elevation knob and was satisfied with the setting. “Frank says we should be grateful for this place. Nothing else is available.”
“Well, okay. Consider me grateful.” Seated beside his partner, Furr focused the Kowa scope and said, “Spotter on.”
Barrkman snuggled up to the twelve-pound SR90 and adjusted the butt’s elevation with his left hand. Then he looked through the scope. “Sniper on. Upper left.”
The spotter’s attention went to the top row of four black aiming dots. He heard the shooter inhale, then exhale. Three seconds later the 2.5-pound trigger broke cleanly and the shot went. Barrkman cycled the bolt, lifting the knob with the heel of his right hand, rotating the palm, then pushing the bolt back into battery. It appeared one fluid motion. “Center.”
“Six o’clock, low,” Furr replied.
Barrkman ignored the call and fired again. “Center.”
“On top of the other.”
At the third shot, the marksman said, “Center.”
Furr looked over at him. “Center. The cold bore shots are still a quarter to a half minute low.”
“Well, it’s consistent.” He grinned. “Besides, the guy downrange never knows the difference.”
The pair changed positions to verify each shooter’s zero. When Furr was finished, his friend shook his head. “Dude! Three rounds, two holes. What happened?”
Furr pointed downrange. “Right to left mirage. I caught it just as I broke the last shot. Didn’t you see it?”
“Nah, it must’ve been a pretty good gust of wind.” He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Or . . .”
“No way, man. Dead nuts center call.”
Obligatory bantering concluded, the sniper team repeated the zeroing process with the SR60. Six more rounds of Black Hills .308 snapped downrange at 2,650 feet per second. The result was two ragged groups with one called flyer.
Barrkman asked, “How many rounds through your barrel now?”
Furr entered the latest data in his log. “That’s 2,489.”
“Getting a little high. You gonna rebarrel anytime soon?”
“Not as long as it prints like today,” Furr replied. “Unless you want to spring for a new Schneider tube.”
“In your dreams, amigo.”
“Hey, where’s the snout?”
Barrkman turned around and tapped the third gun case. He withdrew a Robar QR-2, actually a Ruger 77 adapted to accept ten-round M14 magazines with a detachable six-power scope and flip-up iron sights. The combination of sniper and scout rifle yielded the unlikely nickname “snout.”
Furr accepted the precision carbine, handed to him with the bolt open. Nevertheless, he inserted a pinkie finger to be certain. Then he assumed a sitting position, cradling the Ruger’s comfortable weight. He dry-fired three times, running the bolt rapidly each time. “It’s beyond me why the military keeps buying honking big rifles that weigh sixteen or eighteen pounds when this does about eighty percent of the work at ten pounds.”