by Harold
* * * *
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
Mohammad Azizi found Esmaili working with the budding snipers. The man from Tehran crooked a finger at Esmaili, who left the shooters to continue under Essam Tawfiq.
Azizi led Esmaili off to a safe distance before speaking. “How are they progressing?”
“Three of the six are satisfactory, especially the boy, Hazim. But he is more motivated than the others.”
“What of the other three?”
Esmaili shrugged. “One might progress, given more time. As for the others, I see more enthusiasm than dedication.” He looked over his shoulder at the group. “I believe they volunteered for the prestige.”
“Then we may consider them to be expendable?”
Ahmad Esmaili’s professional antennae sensed the political atmosphere and sent a warning message to his personal receptors. Be careful. “Brother, we are all expendable in the jihad, are we not?”
Azizi regarded his colleague carefully, as if uncertain of the cell leader’s intent. Finally he replied, “Surely, we all do Allah’s will.” He almost smiled. “But some can serve God sooner than others, if you understand my meaning.”
Esmaili thought: Larijani and Yazdi just volunteered to die. “I understand, brother. When do you require them?”
“They must be in Beirut tomorrow night. There is a situation developing that will benefit us in the near future if certain measures can be taken soon.”
“I do not understand the urgency. After all, there are much more experienced men in Beirut than any of these . . . boys.”
Azizi glanced at the nascent snipers, then turned back to their leader. “The need is twofold, Esmaili. First is security. The target is already aware of the threat it faces, but that is localized. We can get your . . . boys . . . into the area without going through the usual channels. Secondly, the target area is well defended and capably manned. It is unlikely that the snipers will survive, but if they achieve even part of their mission, that is acceptable.”
Esmaili wanted to ask Acceptable to whom? But he dared not. Instead, he nodded. “I see. That way, we preserve the more promising fighters for the future.”
“Exactly so.”
With no alternative, Esmaili yielded to the situation. “I will have them ready for you this evening.”
Azizi raised a hand. “Oh, forgive me, brother, if I did not make myself plain. You see, I shall show the way, but they are going with you.”
* * * *
17
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
The briefing was largely a lie but it had to be.
Azizi closed the door of the building that had served as headquarters for Esmaili’s unit, and had been usurped by Imam Elham. The cleric was absent at the moment, but Azizi had dropped some hints that the forthcoming operation carried not only his knowledge, but consent.
Esmaili’s sniper students sat on benches, appearing eager or pensive depending upon their state of training and motivation. All they knew was that a mission was pending, and that two would be accorded the honor of conducting it.
“Our unit has been selected for an operation in Beirut,” Esmaili began. “Brother Azizi informs me that two men will be needed, and time is short. I think it best if you hear the details directly from him.”
As he stepped aside, Esmaili glanced at Hazim. The boy seemed confident of himself, and not without reason. He was generally the best shooter in the class, always eager to earn approval. The others were interested in sniping; Hazim was devoted to it.
Azizi went straight to the point.
“There is an American mercenary team at a Druze compound in Northwest Beirut. Our operatives have been watching them since they arrived. We believe that the Zionist lackeys are about to move into this area to train the local militias, and we intend to prevent that from occurring.” He paused for effect. “After consulting with brother Esmaili, I have selected two of you to undertake the dangerous task of destroying some of the Great Satan’s minions.”
Hazim squirmed in anticipation. He appeared positively radiant. He is about to be disappointed, Esmaili thought, but he should be delighted.
Azizi intoned, “Ebrahim Larijani and Moshen Yazdi, stand up.”
The anointed pair immediately rose. Esmaili thought that Larijani appeared more enthused than Yazdi, but both presented an air of willing complicity.
“You will execute the plan that has been drafted. I will take you to your operating area, where Brother Esmaili will supervise the details.”
Esmaili looked directly at Hazim. The boy’s face was a mask. His superior realized that it reflected stunned disbelief. Esmaili thought: He cannot believe that they have been chosen over him.
Azizi was speaking again. “I am informing all of you about this plan for two reasons. First, so that you will realize the seriousness of your training. And secondly, so that those not selected for this mission can help the designated fighters prepare in the limited time.” He nodded and the two shooters sat down.
“You have much to do. I want you to confirm the scope settings on your rifles, select the best quality ammunition, and pack whatever else you may need. If all goes well, you may be back here in three days.
“Meanwhile, Imam Elham will provide a benediction before you leave to take your place in the jihad.” He glanced at Esmaili. “Be ready to leave by sunset, after Salat-ul-Asr.”
Esmaili ignored Hazim’s doelike eyes and followed Azizi from the building. While the others were congratulating Larijani and Yazdi on their great good fortune, the cell leader caught up with his superior.
“Azizi, I need a word with you.”
The liaison man slowed and, reluctantly, turned. “We can talk on the drive north.”
“Not without the others hearing us. Before I take those boys to this mission, I would know more of the intelligence behind it. Mainly, how is it known that the targets are Americans?”
With an obvious exertion of patience, Azizi replied, “There is no doubt, brother. It comes from direct observation. They are employed by a paramilitary contractor that works for the highest bidder. And in anticipation of your other questions, we believe their ultimate destination is a Druze area because their benefactor in Beirut is a well-known Druze operative. He seldom deals with other communities.”
Esmaili absorbed that information and drew the logical conclusion. “And since we are operating in a Druze area, the Americans are likely to work against us here.”
After a slow three-count, Azizi replied, “We are engaged in preventive measures, brother. Consider your mission in that light.”
* * * *
KARA COMPOUND, BEIRUT
Rafix Kara wanted to throw a welcome banquet for the SSI team, and while the Americans appreciated the sentiment, most were skeptical of Druze cuisine. Informed of the impending dinner, Frank Leopole laid down the law.
“We are dining in tomorrow night. You will not only eat what Mr. Kara feeds us, but you will enjoy it! These people have gone out of their way to welcome us, and by Chesty Puller’s ghost, we are going to show our appreciation.”
Breezy looked wide-eyed. “Chesty’s ghost? You mean he’s dead?” He searched the room with a say-it-ain’t-so urgency. “My God, why didn’t somebody tell me?” He turned to Bosco, laid his hands on his partner’s shoulder, and cradled his head. Breezy’s shoulders quivered in a fair impersonation of bone-deep grief, accompanied by soap-opera sobs. Bosco bought into the sudden drama fest by patting the former paratrooper’s back in a there-there motion.
Leopole had to turn away to hide his smile. He decided to ignore the histrionics and proceeded with the briefing. Turning to face the audience again, he continued. “You got a briefing on Druze culture in Arlington but it didn’t include food. However, I think we can expect lamb or chicken plus a vegetable dish, then some entertainment. If you can’t choke that down, well, there’s need for a couple of sentries on the roof tomorrow night. Somebody to back up one of our snipers.”
Breezy raised his head from Bosco’s shoulder. “Will Chesty’s ghost be up there? I’d feel better if he was walking point.”
Mark Brezyinski did not realize that he had just hung a high, slow one over the center of Frank Leopole’s plate. The former Marine swung and connected.
“Well, I don’t know, Mr. Brezyinski, but since you demonstrate such concern, I could excuse you from the night’s sampling of Lebanese cuisine.”
Bosco was cautiously interested. “Colonel, if we stand guard duty, what would we eat?”
“Oh, I can get you some burgers and fries from a McDonald’s in the neighborhood. Maybe some half-liter Cokes.”
The trap was well and truly baited.
Breezy perked up. “Gosh, Colonel, that’d be great.”
“All right, then. You go on duty at 1800. I’ll send somebody for your burgers around 1930 and you’ll be relieved at 2200. Of course, that means you’ll miss the floor show.”
“Floor show? You mean there’s entertainment?”
Leopole fished a paper from his pocket and feigned difficulty reading it. Holding the note at arm’s length, he said, “Jasmine and Bahiya. Apparently they’re sisters.”
Bosco asked, “What are they? Like, singers?”
The tight little smile was back on Leopole’s face. “Actually, they’re like belly dancers.”
The room erupted in hoots and howls. Bosco and Breezy received hearty thanks for volunteering to miss the Druze cuisine and the evening’s onerous conclusion.
* * * *
18
BEIRUT
“There is the target area,” Azizi said. “I leave it to you as to how you proceed.”
Esmaili studied the compound, first from the north, then from the other sides. Keeping a block away with his binoculars, he drew sketches and set his men making notes about the guards’ routine. As he expected, there was none. Unpredictability was a sure sign of professionalism.
The Iranian cast a look at the afternoon sky. The operation would be conducted after dark, affording his shooters a compromise between visibility and concealment. But the distances were fairly short—barely two hundred meters—and even Ebrahim Larijani and Moshen Yazdi should be able to get hits under those conditions. Esmaili wished for another night scope but the Dragunovs available to him had limited optics.
Esmaili was not overly concerned. The SVD rifle’s standard four-power scope featured a battery-powered reticle and an infrared filter. He had ensured that everyone in his sniper class had some experience with night firing, at least under full moon conditions. Tonight was a waning moon but the city’s ambient lighting would make up much of the difference.
As for the two shooters, Esmaili knew that they were not ready for combat, but perhaps they were ready for a couple of assassinations. He double-checked the figures on his crude range card and returned to the briefing point with Azizi.
“The tactical situation is favorable,” Esmaili began. His two students were attentively wary. All they knew so far was that they would have a glorious opportunity to strike the Great Satan. “We will fire from the north and the east sides of the target building, coordinating by radio. Each of you will have two of brother Azizi’s guards as your security element.” He looked directly at each youngster, pinning their gaze with a practiced mixture of sympathy and intensity.
“We will synchronize our watches before deploying, because it is important to have precise timing. The main attack will fall within seconds of your shots, so any guards on the roof or the walls need to be eliminated before they can provide warnings.”
Larijani spoke up. “What should we do after the main attack?”
Esmaili caught a sideways glance from Azizi. He does not expect either of these boys to be alive at that time. “Withdraw with your security element to this position and await orders.”
“Where will you be, Teacher?” Yazdi was the more nervous of the pair, and that was saying something.
“I shall be on another rooftop, communicating by radio. Do not worry, brothers. I am never far from you.”
* * * *
KARA COMPOUND
Dinner was fair; the entertainment was memorable.
Leopole sat at the head table with Kara, his wife, and two sons. The boys were sixteen and nineteen, subdued for the offspring of a domestic warlord but astutely attentive. Leopole inferred that their education had been as practical as it was varied. They spoke excellent English— better than their father—and apparently were equally proficient at French.
As Leopole had predicted, the main courses were chicken and lamb. But Kara was insistent that everyone try a vegetarian dish. “This is sulbeta,” he began. “It is a mixture of buckwheat with peas, zucchini, onions, and tomatoes, then it’s spiced with salt, paprika, cinnamon, and pepper.” He leaned affectionately toward his wife. “Nobody makes better sulbeta than Asala.”
Mrs. Kara smiled appreciatively but said little. She sipped her wine, spoke occasionally to the boys, and otherwise held her own counsel.
Toward the end of dinner, Kara raised his glass. Leopole knew that Druze traditionally shunned alcohol, but apparently the Karas made exceptions for special events. Kara had drunk one glass of Chateau Kefraya throughout the meal, commenting that most wine comes from Baalbek in the Bekaa Valley. That esoterica was lost on the American, whose taste ran more toward single-malt scotch. He did not know that Druze families owned some of the vineyards, which tended to be located on tactically advantageous terrain.
“My friends,” Kara intoned. The conversation dropped off as attention shifted to the head table. “My friends, though we have already met, I take this time to bid you welcome. Not only to my country, but to the cause of my people. In a few days you will be working with many of the militia leaders you have met here tonight. I wish all of us success, good health, and if it comes to pass, good hunting!”
The SSI men returned the sentiment with a hearty response, and the Karas made their farewells for the evening. Leopole suspected that Asala knew little of the planned entertainment, as her husband dutifully escorted her to the exit well before the dancers appeared.
Apart from two bodyguards, both sons carried weapons without concern for them being seen. Salim, the older boy, had a Romanian AK-47 while Walid favored an MP-5. Whatever floats your boat, Leopole thought.
After a short interval, one of Kara’s men pressed the play button on a Sony Walkman. The music featured strings, percussion, and cymbals, bringing two barefoot dancers onto the floor. The audience erupted in a chorus of masculine shouts and enthusiastic applause. Even Robert Pitney sat up straight to get a better view.
Up on the roof, Bosco and Breezy heard the noise and recognized it for what it was. “How good could it be?” Bosco asked.
“Sounds pretty damn good,” his friend replied. They continued pacing in opposite directions, stepping around Rob Furr and his NVG-equipped rifle.
“How’s it goin’, dude?” Breezy envied Furr the cushy job of lying on a padded shooting mat, looking at a green-tinted world through his Litton scope.
“About going to sleep up here.” He gave an exaggerated yawn, wondering how Rick Barrkman was enjoying the floor show. Then he nodded toward the Druze guards. “I wonder how they like walking their shoes off all night long, waiting for something to happen.”
Brezyinski stifled a yawn himself. He wanted to sit down for a while but knew better. “Something always happens when you’re not ready for it.”
* * * *
BEIRUT
Azizi appeared out of the urban darkness. “The operation is proceeding. You may tell your snipers to open fire in two and one-half minutes.”
Esmaili had been tracking the sentries atop the target complex. Most were rovers, in keeping with the doctrine of unpredictability. But he had spotted two permanent stations through his second-generation-plus Russian device. They would be the most dangerous to his shooters, but because they lacked a good view down the chosen approach, they were low-priority targets.
Since Azizi said that the main attack would come from the east, Esmaili had deployed his men to cover that approach as well as ninety degrees off axis to establish a cross fire. It was only necessary for Larijani and Yazdi to gain fire superiority long enough for the main blow to land, or merely to distract attention away from the street level.
Esmaili keyed his radio. “Two minutes. Acknowledge.”
“North ready.”
“East ready.” Their voices sounded firm.
The Iranian leader watched his digital display tick down the remaining seconds.