by Harold
“But, Admiral, the guys’ collective dander is up. There’s a lot of sentiment for payback, especially once we get to the Hezbollah op areas. I know: that’s not a good mind-set, and I’m riding herd on them with Chris Nissen. We’re reminding everybody that we’re here as trainers, not shooters.”
Derringer thought of Fred Dalton Thompson’s line as Admiral Painter in The Hunt for Red October. “This business will get out of control.”
“All right, Frank. You know the situation, and I’ll back whatever you have to do.” He squirmed in his seat. “Now look. It’s almost closing time here but I’m calling an executive session of the board for tomorrow morning. We’ll discuss options and our legal obligations in case it’s desirable to reduce our training operation or even cancel the contract. You’ll be hearing from me with a preliminary report by tomorrow evening, your time.”
“Thanks, Admiral. I appreciate that, and so do the guys. But honestly, I think we can proceed with the contract as things stand now.”
“You watch your back, Frank. That’s an order.”
“Aye aye, sir!”
The line went dead but Michael Derringer was still looking at his phone twenty seconds later.
* * * *
20
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
“Tell me what happened.”
Imam Sadegh Elham had never been accused of subtlety. Though Esmaili thought that Azizi would have provided a preliminary report, the cleric demanded an immediate debrief. In fact, he was waiting when the truck arrived at the Hezbollah cell’s headquarters.
Esmaili’s feet had barely touched the ground. He was sore and tired, more focused on addressing his sniper trainees than dealing with the priestly commissar from Tehran. “Imam, I can only say that the attack went as planned. I do not have direct information on the results but surely Brother Azizi can provide that for you.” He turned to go.
A bony hand extended from the white robe, clutching Esmaili’s arm. “I have heard from Azizi. I would hear from you. Brother.”
Esmaili shot a glance at Larijani. The boy was being hailed as a hero by his classmates, including Hazim, who apparently had recovered from his snit at not being chosen. They need a dose of reality.
The grip tightened on Esmaili’s arm. He looked down, then raised his gaze to Elham’s face. The imam saw the emotion there and released his grip. “Come, let us talk briefly.”
Accepting the situation, Esmaili ordered his thoughts. “The coordination with Azizi’s fighters was good. The timing went well, based on the information the Beirut organization provided. Our two snipers opened fire on schedule and Yazdi was killed. I do not know if they hit any of the Zionists.”
“No matter. They did well enough.” Thus did Sadegh Elham write the epitaph of Moshen Yazdi. Esmaili thought: It is always so with these priests. They are willing to send others to Paradise soon enough, but remain here on earth to die naturally.
“I did not expect Larijani to survive,” Esmaili replied. Somehow, he felt a growing urgency in putting a name if not a face on those who made the sacrifices. No, those who are sacrificed.
Elham ignored the sentiment. “Your report taken with Azizi’s pleases me, brother. The coordination between two units that had never worked together speaks well for everyone concerned.” He almost smiled. “Tehran will be pleased as well.”
Esmaili read between the lines. Dr. Momen will be pleased. It was all Esmaili could do to ask what relevance the recent operation had to whatever was forthcoming.
“May I provide anything else, Imam?”
Elham waved dismissively. “You may go.”
* * * *
SSI OFFICES
Derringer gaveled the meeting to order. It was a rarity, as SSI’s directors normally maintained boardroom decorum, but the news from Beirut had goaded most of the attendees into unaccustomed excitement.
As the chatter abated, Derringer remained standing. He wanted to exercise some command authority, though a couple of the people in the room had outranked him.
“I will summarize,” he began. “Last night an attack was made against the Kara compound in Beirut, presumably by Hezbollah operatives. Rafix Kara’s vehicle was rammed by a suicide car, resulting in the death of his wife, one son, and two other people. A second car smashed through the gate and unloaded four assassins armed with small arms and explosives. They were all killed but they killed some of Kara’s people and inflicted damage on the compound. One of our team members was seriously wounded.”
Derringer looked around the room. The short-notice meeting had barely drawn a quorum but that was sufficient. “The question before us is how this attack will affect our training team’s contract with the Israelis and the Druze militia. Our people were about ready to leave for the Hasbaya region but now they’re forted up, consulting with the IDF liaison officers.”
Marshall Wilmont spoke for many of those present. “Admiral, it seems this attack was aimed specifically at our team. I mean, as I understand it, there hasn’t been an attack on Kara’s facility in recent months. The timing just doesn’t look coincidental.”
“Yes, that’s right. I’m in touch with Mr. Baram of the Israeli embassy, and he’s trying to get more information for us. But I don’t think we can expect any hard intel right away. Meanwhile, I promised Frank that we’d discuss the situation and let him know of any decisions sometime today.” He looked around again. “Any thoughts? Corin?”
Corin Pilong was SSI’s contracting officer. She was so slightly built that she barely qualified as petite, though her intellect more than offset her Filipina physique. “Admiral, it’s as I expected when we talked last night. This was accepted as a high-risk assignment, to the extent that we acknowledged the chance of fatalities. In fact, we took out higher insurance premiums for that very reason.” She paused a moment to consult her notes, then continued in her silky voice. “There is nothing in the contract that allows us to withdraw for . . . well, really, for any reason.”
Derringer nodded. “Yes, that’s what we expected. After all, it reflects the circumstances that pertained when we agreed to work with the Israelis. Now, George Ferraro isn’t here—he’s in Spain with his wife—but I contacted him. As VP and chief financial officer he says that we cannot afford to violate the contract.” Derringer gave an ironic smile. “That’s not exactly news to anybody in this room, but I’d like the record to show that George’s input was received.”
Wilmont wriggled his ample bottom in his chair, a sure sign that he wanted to speak. Derringer took note. “Yes, Marsh.”
Addressing the board members, Wilmont revealed what Derringer already knew. “A few days ago I talked with Brian Cottle, who basically approved us for this job when others in State didn’t want to hear the letters SSI. He indicated that since things have changed in Lebanon, there’s more, shall I say, appreciation for what we do. He didn’t come right out and say that we’re off the hook for the Iranian yellow cake scam that the Israelis ran on Foggy Bottom and Langley, but that seems to be the way it’s going.”
Samuel Small, an erstwhile Air Force colonel, wrinkled his brow. “So how does that affect our Druze contract, Marsh?”
“Well, I mention it because if we’re getting out of detention with State, maybe we don’t have to rely on this contract for our corporate survival.”
Small drummed his fingers on the table. “So are you saying that maybe we should pull out and let the chips fall?”
Wilmont sensed that he was being made the heavy: someone who would violate a contract and hope for better offers. “No, damn it! That’s not what I’m saying!” He glanced around, realized that his voice had risen, and people were staring at him. “I just think that we’re obligated to consider whether the increased risk to our people is worth the penalty for withdrawing unilaterally.”
Derringer sought to retrieve the situation. “I concur with Marsh that we owe our loyalty to the men we send in harm’s way. But I talked with Frank late yesterday and he says they want to s
tick to the mission, at least for now.” He glanced at Sandra Carmichael. She was not a board member but she attended most meetings to provide information. “Sandy? Any thoughts?”
Carmichael raised a manicured hand to brush a blond curl. “From the operations side, Admiral, I don’t have much to add. Frank’s the one with his boots on the ground, and the guys trust him. If they want to continue with the job, it’s their call.”
“Very well.” Derringer caught a gesture from Thomas Varlowe, chairman of the advisory board. “Yes, General.”
The former three-star leaned forward, his chiseled features and gunmetal gray hair emphasizing his demeanor. “It seems that there’s a consensus that we will proceed with the contract. That is as it should be, but I want to emphasize the point. If this firm is to retain its credibility, and therefore its future, it must complete any contract that it accepts. Now, everyone here is understandably concerned with the safety of our people. But if I must state the obvious, I will. Our operators are well-paid professionals. Very well paid. They understand the risk and they accept it. The day we forget that fact is the day we close the door on ourselves.”
Michael Derringer declared, “This meeting is adjourned.” He felt a tug at his heart as Marshall Wilmont slumped in his chair.
* * * *
KARA COMPOUND
“We’re staying,” Leopole declared.
The SSI operators gathered in the lounge area murmured their approval. In the second row, Bosco and Breezy tapped fists in a hoo-ah sentiment.
Rob Furr and Rick Barrkman clearly approved of the news. Though he envied his partner’s opportunity during the raid, Barrkman had kept his opinion under control. “You lucky SOB” was all he had said.
Furr shrugged it off. “Luck of the draw, man. Coulda been you as easy as me.”
In the back row, Robert Pitney bit his lip. He was disappointed in himself more than he let on. He had allowed himself to relax behind the guarded walls of the compound and lacked a weapon when general quarters sounded. He vowed that it would never happen again. Never.
Leopole elaborated upon what he learned from headquarters. “The board of directors met this morning and decided that our contract does not allow us to pull out of this assignment. There was, however, some sentiment for releasing anybody who wants to go.” He paused to allow that information to settle. When nobody spoke up, he continued.
“The fact that we apparently were targeted rather than Mr. Kara’s people has been noted by the board. But there’s no provision for extra hazard pay since we’re already drawing hazardous duty and overseas bonuses.” He shrugged. “Sorry, guys. The pot of gold is maxed out.”
Chris Nissen’s Barry White tones rose from the first row. “Colonel, I don’t know about the rest of the guys but I’d sure like to get off the bull’s-eye here. When do we go to our op area?”
Leopole shifted his feet and folded his arms. “Well, Staff Sergeant, you know the old saying: ‘Be careful what you want because you might get it.’ We’re probably headed for the Hasbaya area day after tomorrow. But remember that if the Hezzies could pick us out of the crowd here in Beirut, they won’t have much trouble IDing us in the villages where the militias operate. So keep that in mind.
“As we mentioned before, we’ll try to blend in as much as possible, especially regarding clothes. I do not recommend carrying anything but AKs or Galils because that’s what the locals are packing.” He shifted his gaze to the snipers. “You guys with the precision rifles should keep them out of sight as much as possible.”
Phil Green raised a hand. “Colonel, now that Mr. Kara’s laid up, who’s the Druze honcho?”
“Well, Mr. Kara never intended to operate with us in the field so nothing’s changed in that regard. Major Ayash remains the senior IDF liaison officer, and we’ll be working with him and his subordinates.”
Wallender asked the obvious question. “Colonel, how is Mr. Kara? I mean, is there any solid info on his condition?”
“Well, he wants to talk to me so I’m going to see him before we leave.” Leopole did not bother expressing the sentiment, but it was one visit he was not going to enjoy.
* * * *
21
BEIRUT
The ward was well guarded. Kara’s people appeared at least as professional as the police officers and possessed more daunting hardware. Frank Leopole had never seen an automatic weapon in a hospital before, but as Kara himself was fond of saying, “This is Beirut.”
Pausing outside Kara’s door, Ayash turned to Leopole. “He may still be sedated but he insisted on seeing you before you go. I have arranged for a doctor to interrupt us in about five minutes.”
The American nodded. Then Ayash rapped a tattoo on the door—three fast, two slow—and called something in French. “J’ai voyagé loin.” Leopole knew nothing about traveling far, but followed him inside.
Rafix Kara lay propped up in bed, an oxygen tube to his nose. Leopole noted that it was a double room with the other bed removed. A Druze occupied a chair in the far corner, and with a start Leopole realized that it was Walid, the surviving son, wearing a ballistic vest. He cradled his MP-5 across his knees, a suppressor screwed onto the barrel.
Makes sense, Leopole thought. Don’t want too much noise in a hospital!
Rafix Kara turned his head and focused on the visitors. The light of recognition illuminated his dark eyes. He raised his right hand, as his left had an IV inserted.
Ayash approached the bed and grasped the extended hand. Speaking slowly and clearly, he said, “Mr. Kara, Lieutenant Colonel Leopole is here to see you.”
“My friend Frank.” The voice was a croak, the words slightly slurred. Leopole stepped beside Ayash and laid a hand on Kara’s arm.
“I’m here, Mr. Kara. I’m so glad that you escaped . . . and I am so sorry for the loss of your family.”
With a start, Leopole realized that he may have insulted Walid but the young man gave no hint of resentment. Rather, he continued watching the door.
“Frank, listen.” Kara managed a grip on Leopole’s arm. It was surprisingly firm. “My family ... it is the Druze people. You came to help them.” He inhaled deeply, sucking in oxygen. “You can do it, Frank. Do not think about me. Just do your job with . . .” He licked his lips. “With the militias.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what we’re going to do.”
Kara inhaled again. “Promise me.”
“Of course, Rafix. Of course I promise.” An awkward silence fell across the room. Leopole was conscious of every passing second. Finally Ayash took advantage of the lull.
“Mr. Kara, I think that we should go. There is still. . .”
“Good-bye my friend Frank.” Kara gave another squeeze. “I will not be seeing you again, but thank you for all you have done. And what you will do.”
“Rafix, I am going to come back and see you before long. I’ll give you a full report. . .”
“No. No, that won’t happen, Frank. I’ll be gone by then. I’ll be gone.” He looked up, directly into Leopole’s eyes. “I deserve to die.”
Frank Leopole, former lieutenant colonel of Marines, could not think of a response. He sought for the words and, finding none, conceded defeat. “Good-bye, sir.”
In the hallway Ayash suddenly stopped. He turned and said, “Rafix Kara is a great man. But like all great men, he is flawed. In his case, it was not hubris but physical weakness that affected his judgment. The wounds he suffered over the years finally caught up with him, and he needed more and more pain relief. The morphine clouded his mind, and he unknowingly gave his enemies the information they needed to try to kill him. He survived the initial attack, but in losing his wife and one son he lost his will to live. So you see, Frank, they did kill him after all.”
* * * *
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
Esmaili had a problem.
Ebrahim Larijani had left for Beirut as a subdued, visibly frightened young man. He returned with the aura of a blooded veteran despite the fact
that there was no indication he had spilled any blood at all. Nevertheless, his colleagues accorded him deferential treatment that had been notably lacking before. After all, his rank in the class pecking order had only been superior to the departed Yazdi, blessings be upon him.
The exception, Esmaili noted, was Hazim. Still the best shooter in the class, he had welcomed Larijani upon return from Beirut but otherwise maintained coolly cordial relations.
Esmaili decided on a cell meeting in the truest Marxist sense.