Vulcan's Fire [SSI 03]

by Harold

  Esmaili was unaccustomed to philosophical debate, being far more familiar with violent confrontation. But his tactician’s mind defaulted to the analytical mode that had kept him alive in the region’s worst conflicts. “Imam, please excuse me if I fail to understand something. It appears that we believers are placed in a dilemma. If The Faith is to expand to all the corners of the earth, it must be done by offensive jihad. But lacking a caliphate authority, that jihad cannot be implemented. So how is The Faith to achieve its rightful place in the world?”

  Elham squirmed on his cushion, looking as if a needle had found its way into his posterior. He peered at the questioner with an ill-concealed mixture of curiosity and resentment. At length he found his tongue.

  “We must find the middle path, neither violating The Word nor giving the unbelievers too much latitude. For instance, the Koran prohibits torture, mutilation, and burning prisoners alive. Muslims must not pillage homes or the property of noncombatants. Enemy crops, trees, and livestock are immune except as food for the army of Believers. Neither kill a woman, child, or aged man. But those who would strangle Islam must be scourged and destroyed. That is the way to convert the world to The Faith.”

  Esmaili nodded as if absorbing the priest’s wisdom. Not by conviction but by coercion, he thought. Well, if that was the method, so be it. Ahmad Esmaili would play his role, just as he had since the Iraq war. But he fully intended to witness the end of the current mission just as he had the miserable conclusion to that sorry affair in 1988.

  Afterward, while Tawfiq oversaw the morning’s training, Elham drew Esmaili aside. For once the imam seemed almost relaxed. He even laid a hand on the leader’s arm. “We are going to survey certain areas in preparation for the mission. I will have qualified men here within a few days.”

  “Yes, Imam.” Esmaili hoped that he could elicit additional details. “How may we assist you?”

  “We shall require security for the surveyors, who will operate in some fairly remote areas in this region. I estimate that only one or two days will be required for each site. There will, however, be several locations.”

  “Very well. I will assign qualified men as soon as we know how many teams are needed.”

  “Brother, your commitment is noted. And gratefully received.” Elham almost smiled: a ghosting, ephemeral curvature at the ends of the mouth.

  When Elham departed—he seemed to glide across the ground, barely raising his sandaled feet beneath his robe—Esmaili went in search of Fida. Since meeting him, the man had proven competent within certain limits, and was reliable thus far. Esmaili decided to feel him out.

  “I have just spoken with Imam Elham. He instructs me—us—to provide security for some surveying crews.”

  Fida perked up. “Surveying? Well, that might explain it.”

  “Explain what, brother?”

  Fida looked around, ensuring privacy. “My cell has received information, or rumors, that the rocket force may use this area.”

  “Yes, I have heard the same thing.” Recalling his speculation with Azizi, Esmaili was pleased with their powers of deduction. He knew that Fida was unlikely to ask about sources.

  “Well, then. It seems that possible launch sites are to be examined and surveyed. That would make perfect sense, because . . .”

  “Exact firing positions and level ground would be necessary.”

  Fida nodded. “Just so.”

  Esmaili’s risk assessment mode was activated in the left lobe of his brain. At first he had envisioned a suicide mission of some kind. Now it appeared that the upcoming operation was likely to draw Israeli air strikes. He had survived far worse. Among other things, Saddam’s artillery had been purchased on a massive scale. And that did not include the poison gas.

  For the first time in days, Ahmad Esmaili felt the onset of something like relaxation.

  * * * *

  SAFED, ISRAEL

  Colonel Yakov Livni entered Major General Moshek Brafman’s office without knocking. He did not even indulge himself the pleasure of having Gabriella announce him.

  The special operations commander stood inside the door and pointedly cleared his throat. Brafman looked up, saw what he saw, and politely dismissed his chief of staff. The colonel got the hint and closed the door as he left.

  “What is it, Yakov?”

  Livni plodded the few steps to the desk and sat down. “Realtime intelligence. It looks as if Hezbollah knows about the SSI mission.”

  Brafman took off his reading glasses and plopped them onto the desktop. “Tell me.” When he got no immediate reply, the brigade commander leaned forward. “Signals intelligence, obviously. So tell me, Yakov!”

  Livni leaned back, folding his hands over his bulging stomach. “I can neither confirm nor deny. But you grasp the essentials, as usual.”

  “Actually, I am patiently waiting for Colonel Livni to tell me— General Brafman—what they know. Details, Yakov! I have people at risk up there.”

  “As do we all.” Livni rubbed his stubbly face and licked his lips. He wanted to ask for some wine but knew the general to be sadly deficient in appreciating such things.

  “All right, General. Our sources”—he arched his eyebrows— “are more than halfway convinced. They have Hezbollah reports that Druze militia units in southeastern Lebanon are going on increased alert, and seem to know or at least suspect that third-party nationals will be involved. I don’t know how else to interpret that information.”

  Brafman stood up and began to pace. “How many times have we been down this road? I keep telling the army staff that sometimes we need unfiltered information, the raw data. At some point we have to be able to form our own opinions about intelligence from above.” He looked at his colleague, as if inviting agreement. Receiving none, he asked, “Is Sol Nadel cut into the loop? I would think that the brigade commander supporting the operation should be told.”

  Livni spread his hands, as if to say they were tied. When Brafman glared at him, the spec-ops officer finally relented. “There may be a leak in Kara’s organization. That’s speculation. But right now it’s as good an explanation as anything.”

  Brafman did some mental mastication. “Well then, are you going to tell Kara?”

  Another set of arched eyebrows.

  Brafman felt a shiver between his shoulder blades. “Are you trying to say that it might be Kara?” He was on his feet again. “I don’t believe it!”

  “Actually, neither do I. Apart from the fact that I’ve worked with him for years, he’s far too dedicated to his cause. His people. In that regard, he’s a lot like us.”

  Brafman spun on a booted heel. “The hell he is! He’s as likely to fight us as help us.” The general snorted. “You of all people should know that!”

  “General, sit down. Take off some of the strain.” Livni forced himself into an even more relaxed posture. “Look, I’m not taking anything for granted. After all, Major Ayash is in Beirut with the American Leopole right now. I’m certainly not going to put them in danger by withholding information. I’m just advising you of the situation.” He pushed himself out of the chair. “I’ll keep you advised. General.”

  Brafman smiled at last. “Good day, Colonel. And kiss Rachel for me.”

  A broad male-bonding wink. “I’d rather kiss Gabriella—for me!”

  * * * *

  14

  BEIRUT

  It was a measure of Rafix Kara’s charm that he could manipulate strong men who knew they were being manipulated. The day after their initial meeting he began the charm blitz by presenting Frank Leopole with two ultimately pragmatic gifts. “Accept these,” the merchant began, “and wear them in good health.”

  Leopole opened the box, finding a Second Chance Kevlar vest and a Sig Sauer P229 with three loaded magazines plus a belt holster.

  The American mercenary looked up, wide-eyed. “Mr. Kara, I certainly didn’t expect any gifts. I mean, it’s up to me to provide my own . . .”

  Kara waved both hands
vigorously. “No, no, my friend. Since that unfortunate demonstration by my people yesterday, it is up to me to provide for my guest.” He smiled broadly, obviously pleased with his coup. “Besides, I confess a certain selfishness. How can we conclude our business if you need either of these items—let alone both of them—and do not have them?”

  In his Marine Corps career, Leopole had served mostly with mission oriented professionals who tolerated the inescapable Charlie Sierra factor common to all militaries. Kara broached no trivialities, lest any of them divert him from the welfare of his cause. And his cause was far more than a corps: it was a people.

  The Druze warlord—no other single word described him— would not have made a model Marine. He was studiously flamboyant, though the Corps certainly had its share of such types, including the mercurial Smedley Butler with two Medals of Honor and the iconic Chesty Puller with five Navy Crosses. But in their brief time together, Leopole recognized Kara as a natural leader, the sort of commander who worked simultaneously behind the lines and at the front of his organization. Beneath the charming, almost boisterous exterior, the American discerned the steel core that Colonel Livni had described.

  Considering Kara’s charmed life and checkered affiliations, it occurred to Leopole that the Druze matched the Corps’ self-proclaimed title: No better friend, no worse enemy.

  As Leopole tried on the vest, he wondered what he would do with it. “I don’t know if they’ll let me on the plane with these things, so maybe I should leave them with you.”

  “Oh, I have plenty of both. After all, this is Lebanon.” He shrugged philosophically. “Why don’t you keep them until you leave? That way I can return Kamal’s Beretta.”

  Leopole returned the grin. “Yes, sir. I appreciate the loan.” He laid the backup gun on the desk, slide locked back and magazine removed.

  Kara sat down and opened the folder marked “IDF-SSI.” He produced narrow-lensed reading glasses and scanned his notes. Satisfied, he removed the spectacles and regarded Leopole again. “You are doing well here, Colonel. I appreciate it when a plan proceeds as drafted, mainly because I know how rare that is. But after today we should have a firm grip on things. Major Ayash seems satisfied with our progress. He should be back shortly.”

  Leopole sat down opposite Kara. “Well, he and Colonel Livni obviously have a lot of experience working together.”

  Kara laughed aloud, leaning back with his hands clasped behind his head. “Yakov! What else did he tell you about me?” Before Leopole could respond, Kara rebounded, hands on the desk. “Do not bother answering. It’s only a rhetorical question, you know?” The smile was back—a semipermanent feature on the Druze’s face. “Yakov and I have worked together for years, and we have fought as well. He probably did tell you that.”

  “Well, he . . .”

  “Of course. That’s the way of the world here. Shifting alliances, new priorities. Changing loyalties is one of the permanent factors in the Middle East. But Yakov and I…well, we serve different causes but whenever those causes overlap, we work together. Neither of us has ever betrayed the other.” He jabbed the desktop with an emphatic finger.

  “Yes, sir. That’s what he told me.”

  “Now you and I, Frank. I will call you Frank from now on. You and I, Frank, we start fresh.” He thumbed his chest. “I am Rafix now for you. No baggage, you might say. We take each other to face value, and because we both are honorable men, we work hand in hand.” He grinned self-consciously. “Or better, hand in glove?”

  “Affirmative, sir. Hand in glove.” Leopole did not care to pursue a masculine hand-in-hand image.

  “Now,” Kara continued. “Our village and regional militias you already know about. You and Major Ayash will work with them in the way we all agreed. The Israeli government pays your employer, who pays you I trust.” He did not wait for a perfunctory response. “But things are active down there, Frank, and they will get more active. I admit I do not know just what Hezbollah has in mind, but it wants more control of more land. Yakov and I are in contact about that but his masters will not want to admit that, you know?”

  Leopole nodded. “Oh, yes. That’s why the IDF Druze members are assigned to us: for liaison and for deniability.”

  “Yes, yes. Just so.” Kara laughed aloud. “Deniability! It is big part of what you do, yes? You are there but you are not there even when everybody knows you are there. You are—what is your word?— indivisible?”

  “Ah, that’s ‘invisible,’ Rafix.”

  The warlord thoroughly masticated the etymological distinction. “In-visible. Ah, I see. Not visible!” He chortled again. “Hey, Frank, I see invisible! Makes me like Superman, yes?”

  Leopole wondered about Kara’s sudden giddiness. Maybe the arms merchant had imbibed something between breakfast and lunch. “Well, sir, ah, Rafix, that would mean you have X-ray vision.”

  “Then what is ‘indivisible’?”

  “It means undivided. That is, unable to divide. Remaining whole.” Leopole decided not to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Heaven only knew what an ebullient Rafix Kara would make of that.

  Kara turned serious again. As if reading the American’s mind, he declared, “Like your country, Frank.” He shook his head side to side. “Not like mine. Poor-poor Lebanon. She is never united.”

  Leopole sought a chance to end the moribund discussion, or at least change its direction. “Well, Rafix, maybe when our mission is over, that part of your country will be more unified than before.”

  * * * *

  NABATIYEH GOVERNATE

  For a man of action and violence, Ahmad Esmaili unexpectedly found himself gaining admiration for the philosophical, scholarly cleric who had taken control of the Hezbollah cell. Never mind that the imam’s devout routine was unwavering: prayers every morning, noon, afternoon, evening, and night. The full ritual usually was observed, and Esmaili noted that even some of the most zealous fighters went along with the routine more for appearances than from conviction.

  But Imam Elham—or, equally likely, Dr. Momen—had demonstrated exceptional foresight and attention to detail. Esmaili admitted to himself that the planning stages for the forthcoming operation were handled with military competence. For it was, ultimately, a military mission.

  Following the afternoon Salat-ul-Asr, Elham beckoned to the Hezbollah leader. Esmaili resented the gesture, conducted more as an order than an invitation, but frequently he learned something new in such sessions.

  Elham said, “Come, let us walk.” It was, Esmaili realized, often a time for confiding an operational detail that had been withheld. Elham seemed to mete out such items as if they were cash to be spent sparingly. So it was today.

  “In order to assure security for our mission, it will be necessary to secure some additional areas. The holy warriors under Dr. Momen’s guidance will require some area for movement. You understand?”

  “Certainly, Imam. But how much area? We have to know for planning purposes.”

  The cleric turned briefly away, profiling his hatchet face. At length he said, “Certain locations around Hasbaya.”

  “Hasbaya? That is a Druze area. I have operated there. Several villages are well defended with organized militias.”

  Elham’s face remained expressionless, almost serene. “We know the strength of the Druze. In fact, I will confide to you that our operatives are watching those areas now, and conducting surveillance of their headquarters in Beirut and elsewhere.”

  Esmaili was astute enough to appreciate what such surveillance involved. “You mean Rafix Kara? The merchant who supplies so much money to the Druze and the warlord who keeps them armed?”

  “We are well informed on all such men, my brother. But you need not concern yourself with those measures. Focus instead on the task at hand.” He turned to begin walking, knowing that his colleague would follow. “You will have some assistance. We have been preparing for this mission for many months now, and reinforcements will be available.”

  E
smaili absorbed that information and the implications. “May I ask how many men? And their state of training or experience?” He did not enjoy having to cadge operational information from the imam, but had learned that if he did not ask, frequently he was not told until later.

  “The details are still being finalized in Tehran and Damascus. We will have the information in ample time, though.”

  Damascus1. So it is a larger operation than I thought.

  As if reading Esmaili’s thoughts, Elham continued. “I can tell you, my brother, that the technical material for our mission must come through Syria. That information is for your ears only.”