Vulcan's Fire [SSI 03]

by Harold

  In the second row, Leopole saw Breezy lean over to Bosco and mutter something behind a cupped hand. The hoarse whisper was faintly audible. “Ah, Mr. Brezyinski, would you care to give us the benefit of your wisdom?”

  Breezy straightened up, looking much like a seventh-grader caught passing notes in class. “Oh, nosir. I mean, no thank you.”

  Leopole caught the titters in the audience. He was less miffed about whatever the ex-paratrooper may have said than interrupting the briefing. He placed his hands behind his back and paced forward, looking over the heads of those in the front row. “Oh, come now, Mr. Brezyinski. You’re far too reticent. I’m sure that you would not interrupt the important facts I’m trying so poorly to communicate to everyone unless it were worthy of universal distribution.” He gave a Clint Eastwood stare, complete with narrowed eyes and tic of facial muscles.

  Bosco leaned back, hands comfortably clasped on his lap, trying hard not to smile.

  Seeking succor and finding none, Breezy plunged ahead. “Well, if you put it like that, Colonel. . .” He almost said, Sure thing, dude. “I was just commenting to my esteemed Ranger colleague here that since the Israeli spec-ops guys got hammered, we’re going in because we’re expendable.”

  Frank Leopole blinked once. Then twice. He thought: That’s exactly why we’re going.

  Then he said, “Mr. B, you surprise me. Of course we’re expendable. And we’re very well paid for it. But since you’re a bright, upstanding young man who already knew that when he signed up for this job, you merely state the obvious.”

  Breezy slumped in his chair. “Uh, yessir. I sort of thought the point could stand to be made again. Sir.”

  “And what does your esteemed Ranger colleague make of his own expendability?” Leopole switched his reptilian gaze to Jason Boscombe.

  Bosco rose to the challenge. “Hoo-ah on the ‘very well paid,’ sir!”

  Now the group’s laughter was open and genuine. Even Frank Leopole, former lieutenant colonel of Marines, joined in. “Very well. As long as we have that settled, we shall return to the briefing.”

  The operations officer returned to the map. “As you can see, our op area lies about ten to fifteen miles north of the Israeli border. We will receive covert logistic support from the IDF brigade in that region, but it’s unrealistic to think we can get away with it indefinitely. There’s just too much Hezbollah activity and supporters in the region. That means we’ll stash a goodly supply of food and ammo on the initial runs in case air and ground transport is denied us. We could probably get by for a while on our own, but I do not want to impose upon our clients. Reportedly some outlying villages have had problems in the past.”

  Chris Nissen, who would lead one of the training teams, had a question. “Colonel, I understand the benefit of taking our own gear with us, especially radios. But if we get an Alamo situation in one of these villes, will there be enough Russian guns and ammo for us?”

  “Good question, Sergeant. And the answer is yes. Mr. Kara is, ah, very well connected and well supplied. In fact, we may detail a couple of men to stay in Beirut and coordinate with him. That’s one of the things Major Ayash and I discussed with him. So rest easy. If we use up our own stash, there will be AKs and LMGs and probably RPGs aplenty. Even mortars.”

  “Any chance of fighter or gunship support?”

  “That’s possible, more likely helos than fast movers. I’ll know more before we leave.”

  Josh Wallender raised a hand. “Colonel, I’d like to know more about the covert nature of this mission. It seems that since we’re doing weapons and tactics training, there’s going to be a lot of shooting. That’s gonna get the Hezzies’ attention for sure.”

  Leopole nodded. “Undoubtedly it will. But remember, we’re going to Lebanon. Things are different there. People shoot AKs in the air just to let off steam or to celebrate birthdays or weddings. So we’ll blend in more than if we were operating elsewhere.

  “Which reminds me. I know most of you brought your favorite cammies or BDUs or whatever. When we get to Beirut, Mr. Kara will provide us with several sets of local clothes, which can be anything from blue jeans to burkas.” He shot Breezy a quick grin. “And Brezyinski, I’d love to see you in a burka that’s a lovely shade of blue.

  “But a lot of shooters in Lebanon wear paramilitary clothes, sometimes a mixture of camo patterns. We’ll try to blend in as much as possible, depending on what the locals are wearing.” He looked around. “Anything else?”

  Silence met the question so Leopole said, “Get your gear ready, gentlemen. We’ll gear up in twenty-four hours.”

  * * * *

  Part

  3

  LEBANON

  * * * *

  16

  APPROACHING BEIRUT

  “Hey, lookit!”

  In his aisle seat, Bosco craned his head to look past Brezyinski. “What?”

  Next to the window, Breezy pointed aft. “We’re popping flares, man!” He turned back to his partner, eyes wide. Both men knew what flares meant.

  A row behind them, Robert Pitney leaned forward. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  “We’re in SAM country, dude.” Bosco raised from his seat just enough to glimpse the last decoy burn itself to oblivion in thousands of degrees Fahrenheit. Then he sat down again and buckled his lap belt.

  The Israeli pilot of the charter DC-8 made a belated announcement. “Ah, this is the captain. I apologize for not warning you gentlemen of our countermeasures. Please be assured that we drop chaff or flares only as a precautionary measure. The decoys are not, I repeat not, being used against a specific threat. We will be on the ground shortly.”

  Immediately the aged jetliner dropped its nose, inducing negative G. Breezy felt his butt try to leave his seat. “Whoa! Gnarly, dude!”

  Bosco lanced his friend with a narrow-eyed stare. “We’re poppin’ flares, making a kamikaze approach to Beirut International, and all you can say is ‘gnarly?”

  Pitney managed a grin in Breezy’s defense. “Well, it beats puking.”

  The McDonnell Douglas jetliner made a high sink-rate landing on Runway 03 that jarred items in the overhead luggage compartments. But nobody complained.

  Chris Nissen was seated with Frank Leopole. “Hey, baby. I don’t know much but I know that chaff and flare kits cost a bunch of shekels. The charter business must be makin’ a ton of money.”

  Leopole shook his head. “I doubt it, Chris. This outfit does a lot of back-channel work and must go to some, ah, interesting places. More likely the Israeli government foots the bill.”

  Across the aisle, Phil Green expressed his opinion. “Colonel, I don’t believe that for a hot minute. More likely the U.S. taxpayer foots the bill.”

  “Well, that same gentleman is footing our bill, so I’m not going to lodge a complaint, Mr. Green.”

  Green sat back. “Hoo-ah on footing the bill, sir.”

  From Beirut Rafic Hariri International Airport it was an eight-kilometer drive to the city center, paralleling the coast. Riding in two buses provided by Rafix Kara, the SSI operators noted the Lebanese ambience through windows screened to prevent grenades from being tossed inside.

  “Kinda interferes with the view,” Bosco observed. “Pretty country, though.”

  Robert Pitney had seen the sights before. “This is one of the best views of the Med that you’ll get anywhere. Even with all the damage.” He smiled self-consciously. “Great bikini watching, too.”

  Breezy turned around. “Now what would a married Muslim guy know about bikinis?”

  Pitney flashed a self-conscious grin. “Hey, man, I’m married, not dead. Besides, some of these ladies are trolling for rich Americans. You guys could go back married men yourselves.”

  Bosco made a face. “Not me, dude. I ain’t the marrying kind. But, uh, are there, like, any clothing optional beaches here?”

  “Hey, how would I know? I’m the married Muslim guy.”

  Breezy perked up. “Hey, I saw a mag
azine in Haifa. It had a feature on these new bikinis, man. They’re, like, minikinis so the gals are practically falling out of ‘em.”

  “So this is Beirut.” Phil Green’s comment broke the salacious conversation in the rear of the bus. He looked around, absorbing the urban combat ambience of the battered, beautiful city.

  “You know, a few years ago I trained with a guy who’d been a State Department rep here in the eighties. He said that some of the locals who worked in the embassy brought weapons and a change of clothes to work. During lunch they’d change into cammies or sweats, take their AK or FN and a satchel full of loaded mags and go shoot for an hour. Then they’d come back and return to work. Unless they got whacked, of course.”

  Bob Ashcroft eyed his partner, obviously unconvinced. “Well, you got to admire somebody who takes his work that seriously.”

  The buses arrived at a compound already prepared for the SSI men. Waiting to greet them was Rafix Kara himself.

  Leopole stepped off the first bus and shook hands with the host. “Hello, sir. It’s good of you to meet us in person.”

  In contrast to their previous meeting, Kara was serious, almost somber. “It is the least I can do, Colonel. Things have changed since we parted last week.”

  Leopole noted the formality, which he ascribed to Kara’s wish to appear professional before the American team. Certainly he showed no sign of the giddy hospitality from the day Kamal was killed. “I call you Frank from now on ... I am Rafix now for you.”

  Growing more expansive, Kara addressed the SSI men. “Gentlemen! Welcome to Beirut.” He waved a hand at the walled enclosure. “This area is as secure as anyplace in the city. You will get to know the area while you are here. The U.S. embassy, American University, and American Hospital all are here in the northwest of the city. So you are among friends, yes?” He chuckled in an effort to provide a relaxed atmosphere.

  Chris Nissen leaned over to Josh Wallender. “With the arty damage we saw and the small-arms holes in some of these buildings, it don’t look like such a friendly neighborhood to me, bro.”

  Wallender cast a professional eye along the rooftops, looped with razor wire and patrolled by sentries. “Hoo-ah on the ‘hood, my man.”

  Leopole assumed command of the situation. “We’ll be quartered in two of the buildings to disperse our assets. Follow Mr. Kara’s people, get settled in, and we’ll meet in the dining hall in an hour.”

  Bosco and Breezy picked up their duffels and gun cases. Bosco asked, “Did you get what Frank said? ‘Disperse our assets.’”

  Breezy slung an MP-5 case over his shoulder. “Sure, man. Just good soldiering, you know? Put your eggs in different baskets so they don’t all get smashed at once.”

  “Yeah, I know, Breeze. I’m one of the good eggs so I can figure that out by myself.”

  * * * *

  SSI OFFICES

  Sandra Carmichael poked her blond head inside Derringer’s door. “Admiral, did you copy Frank’s e-mail?”

  “No, I’ve been working on budget requests the past hour or so. What’s the word?”

  “They’re in Beirut, arrived this afternoon local time. It’s just a preliminary report but Rafix Kara has everybody installed at a compound in the city. Frank says it looks secure.”

  Derringer took in that information, anticipating the next move. “Very well. I suppose his IDF liaison people are with him?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But it stands to reason. That major went with him to confer with Kara last week. There are others who’ll work with our team once they get to the militias around Hasbaya.”

  SSI’s founder laid his reading glasses on the desk and leaned back in his overstuffed chair. “Come in, Sandy. Sit a spell.” Then he added, “And close the door.”

  Sandy sensed that her boss wanted to talk about something more than the current operation. In her years with SSI she had learned of Michael Derringer’s focus on his people more than a particular mission.

  “You’re worried about Frank and the guys?”

  “Oh, well . . . yeah.” He swiveled his chair ninety degrees. “You know me, Sandy. When there’s an operation under way, sometimes I have trouble staying focused on other things, even though that’s my job. After all, Marsh is supposed to keep an eye on our day-to-day business.”

  Sandy placed her manicured hands on the desk. “Sir, are you thinking about the shootout Frank was involved in last week?”

  Derringer stared at a framed lithograph on the far wall. It showed USS Constitution engaged with HMS Guerriere in 1812. Now that was a shootout. Twenty-four-pounders almost hull to hull.

  He turned to his operations officer. “Excuse me?”

  She cocked her head, almost the same way she did when she wanted to look extra cute. This time it was genuine curiosity. “Frank, Admiral. In Beirut last week.”

  Derringer forced his consciousness forward two centuries. “Oh, yeah. Excuse me, Sandy. But yes. I was thinking of Frank.”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, it’s just the nature of our business, you know? I mean, we live a pretty normal life here in the office. But once in a while, people we know—our colleagues—go in harm’s way and sometimes they get harmed. For some reason, it just struck me that I’d never really envisioned Frank or most of our people actually doing what they do. Getting in gunfights, killing people to avoid being killed or maimed.” He looked at her. “You know what I mean?”

  Lieutenant Colonel Carmichael squirmed slightly. She sensed the potential for an interservice rivalry, but she was well paid to speak her mind on professional matters. “Well, Admiral, yes I do. I mean, that’s pretty much what we do in the Army. I understand that the Navy has other roles and missions . . .”

  Derringer flinched visibly. “Ouch. Or should I say touché.” He managed a grin. “But your point is well taken. I spent thirty years on active duty and never got shot at. Not once. For that matter, no submariners have been shot at in over sixty years and not many black-shoes. The only real combatants were aviators and SEALs.”

  Carmichael accepted victory gracefully. Besides, she harbored genuine affection for her boss. He’s such a dear man, she told her daughters. But the Army-Navy thing was never far beneath her peaches and cream complexion.

  “Well, I suppose that’s just the luck of the draw, Admiral. I mean, the Air Force doesn’t have much of a direct role in the war on terrorism, either. At least not the big-ticket items like air superiority fighters and stealth bombers and such.”

  He waved a hand. “Ah, you’re just being magnanimous, Sandy. But you don’t have to coddle an old sea dog. We sailors grow pretty thick skins, you know, facing hurricane winds and staring into sun-bleached skies.”

  The SSI operations officer thought for a moment. “Admiral, it seems to me that we’re doing a decent business because we do go to bad places. You must’ve seen that coming years ago when you started the firm.”

  Derringer swiveled slightly in his chair, obviously more receptive to the turn in the conversation. “It wasn’t very hard to predict, Sandy. The way Bush Forty-one and Clinton and Congress rushed to downsize, the opportunity was there for anybody who could look downstream a few years. The military was bound to be caught short, and civilian contractors were well positioned to pick up the slack.” He fought down a self-congratulatory grin. “Now DoD can’t do without us.”

  She nodded. “So we’re back to Square One. Our friends go to interesting places and get shot at.”

  Derringer squinted at the attractive Alabaman. He recalled that she had killed two of three Muslim assassins sent to destroy SSI’s headquarters last year. “You’d go with them if you could, wouldn’t you?”

  “In a New York minute, Admiral.”

  “But what about your girls?”

  “Well, Kippy’s starting college, and Patty could stay with Nyle and Carol.”

  Derringer shook his head. “Nyle and Carol?”

  “Oh, my brother’s family. Actually, I’ve discussed it
with them and it would be okay for a while.” She smiled. “Besides, they’d love the chance to spoil her.”

  “Sandy, listen up.” Derringer leaned forward on the desk, hands clasped before him. “There are some contracts I’d allow you to work in the field, but this job in Lebanon is not one of them. You receiving me, Colonel?”

  She bit her lip. “Five by five, Admiral. Five by five.”