by Harold
Barrkman beamed a knowing smile. “Because that’s what the gun club wants, man. That’s the trouble with police and the military: they buy what they think they want instead of what the shooters need. Like the M40A3 the Marines got a couple years ago. The damn thing weighs about nineteen pounds: how’d you like to hump that piece of iron in Afghanistan where it’s uphill in both directions?”
“Yeah, I know. I trained some recon dudes a while back. They said the Quantico benchrest shooters injected themselves into the process. They like heavy rifles because they only carry them from the jeep to the firing line.”
“So why’d the sniper school go along with it?”
Furr shrugged. “Go along to get along, I guess.”
“Well, let’s shoot snout before we draw a crowd. If there’s time left over I want to do some position shooting.”
“Six-pack of beer on the best offhand group?”
Barrkman responded, “Sure. Are you buying Maccabee or Goldstar?”
“No way. You’re buying me Heineken. They import it here, you know.”
“Now how’n hell did you know that?”
Rob Furr enjoyed the gotcha. “Somebody once said, ‘Time spent on Google is seldom wasted.’”
Barrkman tossed his partner a box of Black Hills. “You gonna talk or shoot?”
Inserting a magazine, Furr quipped, “I’m gonna shoot, then I’m gonna drink your beer.”
“Well, all I can say is you’d better enjoy it while you can. Where we’re going there’s probably not much liquor.”
“Hey, Lebanon’s national beer is Almaza. It’s considered an excellent pilsener. Most people drink it with salt.”
“Google?”
“Pitney,” Furr replied.
“Say what?”
“Robert Pitney, the new guy. His wife’s family used to do business in Lebanon so I asked him about the culture and food and stuff.”
Barrkman nodded quietly. “He doesn’t seem the drinking kind.”
“Well, neither do you. But he’s not. In fact, he’s Muslim.”
“Muslim? You gotta be . . .”
“Hey, you gonna talk or shoot?”
* * * *
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
Hazim was a dutiful student in most aspects of his Hezbollah training, but none more so than his desire to become a sniper. He heeded Tawfiq’s advice about not removing the scope too often, but he lavished considerable care on the action and the optics.
Esmaili nurtured the youngster’s ambition, providing encouragement with some practical assistance. Returning from a supply run, the Iranian diverted to the practice range before delivering his goods to the warehouse. As expected, he found Hazim playing with his daytime scope. Esmaili dropped a canister beside the young Lebanese.
Hazim looked up, surprised. “Teacher! I did not see you.” He leapt to his feet, almost stepping on the metal can.
“Stealthiness is a virtue for most warriors, but especially snipers.” Esmaili almost smiled. “I admire your diligence, boy. Accept this gift.”
Hazim forgot himself and bowed reverentially, as if to an imam. Then he knelt to examine the container. It was dark green with yellow stencils in the Jewish alphabet. Opening the tin, he withdrew a rectangular cardboard container. Though ignorant of Hebrew, he was adept at numbers. “7.62 NATO” held significance for him.
“Ammunition for the rifle!”
“Two hundred fifty rounds. Use it sparingly. I do not know when I may have more.”
As Hazim all but genuflected, Esmaili returned to his vehicle. Tawfiq was waiting with a knowing smile. “You are spoiling that boy, you know.”
The commander returned the grin. “Yes, I know.” He glanced over his shoulder, observing the Lebanese fighter declaring God’s bounty to his friends. “He will be useful one day. Or night—depending on how long the batteries last.”
Esmaili stopped to ponder whether his manipulation of the youngster was much removed from the late ayatollah’s exploitation of children in the Iraq war. Without reaching a conclusion, he asked, “How is he progressing?”
Tawfiq almost chuckled. That was significant, as he was a man who seldom laughed—or had reason to. “Actually he shows some promise. He has read the sniping manual repeatedly and I believe he could recite long passages. I have worked with him on the mil scale, and since it is based on meters there is not much room for confusion.”
“How is his marksmanship?”
“Well, not remarkable but he shows ability inside three hundred meters. He can hit a half silhouette about half the time, depending on wind. Beyond that, he might be useful for harassing fire . . .”
Tawfiq cocked his head at his colleague’s sudden silence. “Yes?”
“I was just thinking. Do you remember our second trip to Iraq, supporting the resistance fighters?”
“Yes, yes. Two years ago, more or less.”
“There were reports of an Iraqi sniper called Juba. He was said to use a Tabuk, the Iraqi version of the Yugoslavian rifle.”
“I thought he was a fiction. A ghost to scare the crusaders.”
Esmaili shook his head. “I believe he was genuine—for a while. If he was killed or went away it mattered little. Other successful snipers could continue shooting in his name, and spread the fear.” He gave a grim, tight smile. “We may have our own Juba growing right here.”
Tawfiq was unaccustomed to guile beyond the tactical variety. The psychological aspect was new to him but he recognized the potential benefit. And the risk. “He may not last long.”
“True.” He paused for an ephemeral moment of self-examination. Then he asked, “What word is there about the next supply shipment?”
* * * *
SAFED, ISRAEL
Colonel Yakov Livni was a man with many irons in the same fire. The fire was the impending clash in southern Lebanon, and few but his immediate colleagues knew how badly he had been burned. The loss of his nephew was seldom far behind his brown eyes, and alternately he rebuked himself for previous errors while striving to avoid making others.
Fahed Ayash was part of that plan.
Livni made the introductions, a quick turnaround since he himself had only met Leopole at their original briefing with Brafman. By way of explanation, Livni said, “Mr. Leopole, Major Ayash will be your primary liaison with the Druze militias. He has worked with some of them before, and he has as much experience as anyone I know in that area.” Livni nodded to Ayash as if to say, “You’re on.”
Ayash spoke passable English, telling Leopole, “In Beirut you will meet a man named Rafix Kara. He is very important to our ... ah, the mission.” The Druze officer grinned self-consciously. “His influence alone could be enough to produce success, let alone his contacts and his support.”
“Yes, Mr. Baram mentioned him during the planning sessions in Arlington. I trust that Mr. Kara knows we’re coming.”
Ayash nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes. In fact, we have arranged for you to meet him, as you say, one to one. That is how he prefers to operate, on an individual basis. He believes it is the best way to measure a man, especially someone he does not. . .”
“Trust?”
“Oh, no, Colonel. I was going to say, ‘someone he does not know.’” The IDF man smiled, as much in satisfaction at his quick recovery as at the American’s justified skepticism.
Leopole stood up and stretched. His lower back was cramped again; he wondered if it were occupational tension or the aging process. Maybe both, he told himself. “Major Ayash, I’ll level with you. I’ve now dealt with six or seven people and I still haven’t even set foot in Lebanon. Just how are we supposed to maintain security with all the people who’ve been involved in our meetings?”
The Druze seemed taken aback. He blinked twice, moved his lips, and then found the words. “We are all working together in the IDF: Jews, Druze, Army, special operations. I do not know your, ah, grasp of my people’s culture but we Druze are all of the same blood. Family, you know? Nobody
would do anything to risk hurt to others.”
The SSI operator noted Ayash’s heightened color, which could only be embarrassment or anger. It was obvious which was the more likely. Waving a placating hand, Leopole replied, “Oh, no, Major. Please do not think that I question anybody’s loyalty. But I’ve been involved in ops that. . . er, operations . . . that were compromised because of a careless comment made without harmful intent. That’s all I meant.”
Ayash squinted at Leopole, as if assessing the American’s honesty. Evidently satisfied, he concluded, “Mr. Leopole, we are all of the same boat, as you say. If anything goes wrong, I will be sinking with you.”
“Fair enough, Major. Fair enough.”
* * * *
12
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
Mohammad Azizi delivered Dr. Momen’s colleague, on schedule.
Imam Sadegh Elham appeared to be in his mid-forties. In contrast to the corpulent Momen, Elham’s was a thin, spare frame with few of the scientist’s unctuous mannerisms.
However, Esmaili noticed that the cleric’s eyes had the same look. While Imam Elham did not wear spectacles, his gaze—penetrating and perceptive—reminded the Hezbollah operative of Momen’s. Ahmad Esmaili felt a tiny chill. Both of them are probably mad.
“Peace be upon you,” Esmaili greeted the cleric. Elham replied in kind, apparently with genuine sentiment. Then he presented papers identifying him as spiritual advisor to the Hezbollah cell. That his bona fides were genuine there could be no doubt. His warrant was handwritten by Dr. Momen and countersigned by his deputy.
After the ritual greetings, Ahmad Esmaili showed the imam to his quarters, allowed him to settle in, and departed. Esmaili realized that he was glad to be out of the man’s presence.
Azizi saw Esmaili standing alone and joined him. “Our guest is satisfied with the present situation. You have prepared well, and Dr. Momen should be pleased.”
The Hezbollah leader managed a straight face. “Praise be to God that we have performed our mission ... so far.” He regarded Momen’s acolyte. “You will be in frequent contact with the doctor?”
“Yes, yes.” Azizi nodded eagerly. “My duty requires me to return to Tehran at various intervals. But do not worry, brother. You will be well mentioned in my reports for your work ... so far.”
Esmaili waved a hand. “Oh, please do not trouble yourself. Doing the work is reward enough.” This time the sentiment did require some facial control. He wondered if Azizi were gullible enough to believe the statement or merely indifferent, knowing something of what was to come.
If Azizi were skeptical, he concealed it beneath an earnest demeanor. “Soon there will be plenty of work for your men to prove their devotion to the jihad.” He actually smiled. “That should please them, should it not?”
“Most assuredly. I only pray that we are up to the task—whatever it may involve.” How long are we going to continue exchanging banalities?
Azizi recognized that Esmaili was fishing for more details. But that did not bother him. Were it otherwise, he might have had reason for suspicion. “My friend, you know almost as much as I do at present. For now it is enough that Dr. Momen has entrusted an important mission to our hands, and favored us with his most valued advisor. We will learn more details when we need to know them.”
“Then my fighters can be satisfied. I should check their progress this afternoon. Please excuse me.”
Azizi nodded deferentially. “Of course, brother, of course. I shall see you at the evening prayer. The imam will conduct it himself.”
“I shall be honored to pray behind him.”
As he walked away, Ahmad Esmaili was careful to keep his head up and his shoulders back. He did not wish Mohammad Azizi to realize how the Hezbollah chieftain really felt: like the loneliest man in Lebanon.
* * * *
HAIFA, ISRAEL
Chris Nissen convened the planning session with the entire SSI team. “Colonel Leopole is meeting with our main Druze contact in Beirut but he left a list of topics for us to cover.” He set down his notes and jumped on one of his favorite subjects.
“What’s the best way to take down a roomful of bad guys?”
“A Mark 82 through the roof,” Breezy quipped. When his wisecrack drew no laughter, he went on the defensive. “Well, a five-hundred-pounder takes down a bunch of bee-gees.”
“It’s not a theoretical question,” Nissen insisted. “If we’re going to work with the Druze in securing their villages, we have to be ready to show them some interior tactics.”
Bosco sought to cover his partner’s gaffe. “We have the canned routine from the company’s training manual. Use flash-bangs if possible, frags if necessary, and put at least a short stack of operators through the door or another entry. Then run the walls and hose anybody with a weapon.”
Nissen nodded in agreement. “But what if there’s known or possible noncombatants?”
“That’s why we start with flash-bangs. Then secure everybody there and let the intel guys sort them out.” He shrugged. “It’s worked for us before.”
Nissen returned to the main subject. “Well, let’s realize that our clients will not have the latest gear that some of us brought. We need to stay focused on teaching them to use their own weapons as efficiently as possible.”
Josh Wallender broke his usual silence. “Chris, what do we know about the Druze and their gear?”
“Not a lot right now. Mostly AKs. I don’t think they have many sidearms. That means when we get to interior tactics we’ll show them how to use what they’ve got. The more specialized weapons, like precision rifles, we’ll address as they arise.”
Phil Green, the ex-SWAT cop, had a lot of experience putting cuffs on uncooperative suspects. “I don’t think we can be too dogmatic about this, Sergeant. I mean, there’s too many variables, and good-guy bad-guy recognition is a biggie, especially when everybody looks alike. Besides, what if there’s more suspects than operators? There’s going to be a lot of noise and confusion, especially with women and kids screaming and crying. We’ll have some guys slinging their own weapons while putting flex cuffs on everybody, and that reduces the number of shooters for emergencies.” He shook his head. “I’d avoid an inside fight if at all possible.”
Privately, Nissen agreed, but Leopole had wanted various scenarios discussed before meeting the militiamen in Lebanon. “Okay, you’re right. It’s likely to be dark and noisy and confusing. Lots of chances for distraction and surprises. But I’m talking a last-ditch situation. No way to solve the problem without entering the room.
“Just for consideration: a bud of mine did an exchange tour with the SAS. He said at Prince’s Gate in 1980 one of the terrorists at the Iranian embassy was hiding among the civilians. They pointed him out so two SAS dudes scooped him up and pinned his arms against the wall. One of the other guys double-tapped him with his MP-5 and that was that. All twenty-six hostages were released and five of six terrorists were KIA. A real slick op.”
“Not quite in line with our usual ROE, is it?” Bosco asked with wink.
“No, Mr. Boscombe. It is not.”
Bob Ashcroft, who had trained as a police crisis negotiator, had another angle. “The only situation I can think of for entering a room would be a hostage situation. I mean, if the BGs have shot a couple of hostages and tossed the bodies out the door, then all bets are off. Otherwise, I’d maintain a perimeter and wait ‘em out.”
Nissen realized that the subject was far more varied than the training teams would have time to address with their clients, so he sought to simplify matters. “All right, then. Let’s consider this: you have two or three men ready to enter a room full of hostiles. What’s their best choice of weapons and tactics?”
Breezy turned serious for a moment. “I really like my suppressed MP-5 with a light. And I’d wear goggles and ear protection.”
“Why ear protection if you’ve got a suppressed weapon?”
The operator unzipped a gotcha grin. “B
ecause, Sergeant Nissen, the bad guys prob’ly don’t have suppressed weapons.”
“Okay, point well taken.” He looked around. “Anybody else?”
Robert Pitney squirmed on his seat. After a moment, he spoke up. “It might sound odd, but I’d take a big-caliber race gun with a laser sight. And a light.”
As a former Green Beret NCO, Chris Nissen had little experience with the civilian shooting world. But he was intrigued. “Okay, it does sound odd. But suppose I’m willing to be convinced.”