by Harold
“Well, sir, the situation might not be very permissive, at least not for helos. I understand that SA-7s are about as common as RPGs in that area. Likely even some double-digit SAMs . . .”
Derringer cut off the explanation. “Who has the ‘phib gru out there?”
Carmichael congratulated herself on her prescience. “Rear Admiral Millikin. He’s . . .”
“Bill Millikin,” Derringer interrupted. “Good man. He has experience in dustoffs on a hot LZ.” He paused, as if lost in reverie. “Evil Hyphen . . .” The statement brought uncomprehending looks from the other staffers so Derringer added, “A covert op in Africa about fifteen years ago.”
Marsh Wilmont had kept a low profile after his previous showing, but Lieutenant General Varlowe was blessedly absent today. “Mike, are you thinking of going back-channel to talk to Millikin?”
Derringer drummed his fingers on the table. Finally he said, “Actually, I hadn’t thought about that. But if neither we nor Mr. Baram can get some commitments from State or the Pentagon, I’m not averse to it.”
Before Wilmont could reply, Derringer nodded to Omar Mohammed. “Omar is here because he consulted on the training syllabus for the Druze militias. I think we should hear from him about prospects for fulfilling the contract in case we have to withdraw some or all of our people.”
Mohammed stroked his immaculate goatee. “It remains to be seen whether we would collect full payment for a good-faith effort to train the militias in that area. Our legal department would have to make a judgment, and Ms. Pilong is out today. But as far as the operational end, at the very least we have provided a detailed training program that the IDF liaison teams could follow.”
Carmichael had a thought. “What if we were able to continue training Druze cadres someplace else? Maybe even in the Beirut area?”
Mohammed cocked an eyebrow and looked at Derringer. “That is an excellent suggestion. I think we should pursue it.”
Derringer scribbled some notes to himself. “Very well, then. I’ll see about the old boy network in the Med and you folks coordinate with a fallback plan for returning to the Beirut area.” He jabbed his notepad with his pen and smiled. “Nice to have options, isn’t it?”
* * * *
EL-ARIAN, NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
The El-Arian militia was reasonably well organized and possessed a degree of experience. The group leader, Salah Al Atrash, had placed his newest members on sentry duty, a compromise between breaking them in as quickly as possible with minimal risk. He had found that issuing automatic weapons to earnest young men eager to prove themselves before their neighbors and kinsmen yielded one of two results: early maturity or premature death.
The sentinel called Talea was twenty-three years old, generally popular with some promise as a potential leader. As he paced beside the stone wall leading to the village entrance, he paused to scan the surrounding terrain. Al Atrash had worked his men diligently in recent days, clearing away tree trunks and debris, and clipping grass that could conceal anyone trying to approach unseen within 250 meters.
Talea had just turned to resume his patrol when a ballistic crack rent the morning air. Fifty meters away, a youngster going about his chores looked up at the unexpected sound in time to see the guard collapse in the road.
A pair of finches broke cover at the noise, but otherwise the area remained calm. Several moments passed before concerned citizens ran to the spot and turned over the sentry’s body.
Some 315 meters away, Ahmad Esmaili patted Hazim on the shoulder and motioned backward. They eased away, keeping low to avoid profiling themselves against the skyline.
Hazim reached out and retrieved the expended 7.62x54mm cartridge case. Feeling as good as he could ever remember, he wanted a souvenir of his first kill.
* * * *
AMASHA
Frank Leopole surveyed the topography around Amasha. As a professional infantryman, he had never looked at ground the same way after Basic School. Where most humans saw rolling terrain or picturesque hills, he saw dead ground, defiles, and crests. Danger, safety, opportunity.
Major Fahed Ayash and militia leader Rami Hamadeh accompanied the SSI man on his tour of the village. He noted that two hills provided an overlook of perhaps twenty meters advantage. “I wonder why the founders of this place located here rather than over on the high ground.”
The two Druze exchanged knowing looks. “Colonel Leopole,” Ayash explained, “four hundred years ago, access to water was more important than military concerns.” He pointed to the stream a long pistol shot away.
Leopole felt his cheeks redden. “Well, that’s as good a reason as any and better than most.” He laughed self-consciously. Then, seeking to retrieve the situation, he observed, “Either of those hummocks would be useful for forward observers or some decent snipers.” He gauged the distance. “Must be five to six hundred meters.”
Hamadeh chuckled. “It is 560 meters to the nearest and 620 to the other. I have paced it myself. You have a good eye, Colonel.”
The American grinned self-consciously. “Well, I spent a lot more time on rifle ranges than looking for water.” Seeking to change the subject, he asked, “What are your security arrangements for those hills?”
Hamadeh spoke French-accented English. “We patrol the area and one time had guard, ah, post, there. But not enough men to keep on there so we did some nights.” He paused, seeking the words. “Then Hezbollah took two men and killed another. We never see them no more so we cannot put men on hills after dark.”
Leopole turned to Ayash. “Couldn’t the Lebanese army help with some people?”
The Israeli Druze shook his head. “This is a small place, Colonel. The national army is occupied all over the country. That’s why the militia receives as much support as it does.”
“Well, we’ll do everything we can to help make up the difference.” He turned to Hamadeh, speaking slowly. “In our briefings we were told that you do not have facilities such as shooting ranges. Is there someplace we could use for that purpose? Maybe with a backstop?”
The commander nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes. Old quarry behind town. Maybe seventy-eighty meters.”
“All right, we’ll make do with that.” He began walking. “Gentlemen, let’s get started.”
* * * *
24
AMASHA
“How are they doing?” Leopole asked.
Bosco was inhaling half a bottle of water. He nodded while swishing out his mouth, then swallowed. “Pretty good, Boss. Pitney really helps.”
Leopole stood behind the firing line, watching the former policeman with some of the militiamen. Robert Pitney was leaning over a shooter who had assumed a rough sitting position, demonstrating where knees and elbows belonged. The American was speaking animatedly, with apparent authority.
Bosco wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I don’t know how you say ‘cheek weld’ or ‘sight picture’ in Druze talk, but Robert seems to have it dialed in.”
“Well, it’s preferable to have a native speaker, of course. But you guys seem to do okay working with translators.”
“Yeah. Rami and Hamdam speak enough English for us to get the point across, but something’s gotta be lost in translation. Like, you and I know what we mean when we talk about seating the butt in the pocket of the shoulder, but imagine how that comes out in Arabic!”
Leopole allowed himself an appreciative grin. “Hey, if it works, it works. The groups are tightening up at twenty-five meters and some of the militia are getting faster hits.”
Bosco set his bottle down and prepared to return to the line. “Boss, it’s not my call, but you might tell Robert not to shoot up to speed when he’s doing drills by himself. Some of these studs see him rip off six aimed rounds in a second and want to shoot as fast as he does. It don’t occur to them that he shoots like this”—he cupped his fingers into a two-inch circle—”and they shoot like this.” He raised his hands in an expansive gesture.
“Like J
eff Cooper always said: slow is smooth and smooth is fast. Keep ‘em smooth, Bosco.”
As Bosco resumed his duties, Pitney came off the line for some water. He removed his ball cap and wiped his forehead. “Kind of hard to stay hydrated in this heat, Colonel. But these guys need all the trigger time they can get.”
“Well, as soon as they’re safe in daylight we’ll introduce them to twilight and then full dark. But that’s likely to be a slow process because we’ll have to do a lot of dry runs before I’ll trust them with loaded weapons at night.”
“Yes, sir. I think we can do better if we keep the night relays smaller. It’ll mean more range time, of course, but we’ll have better control of them.”
Leopole considered the suggestion and found it had merit. “That’s not a bad idea, Robert. Have you done that before?”
Pitney raised a bottle from the ice chest and took a long pull. His Camelbak had gone dry fifteen minutes earlier. “Yeah. But that was with a group smaller than this so it wasn’t as hard. Besides, it was an indoor range where we could control the lights. Worked really well.” He chuckled. “Besides, those were cops and some of them actually could look at the sights and press the trigger. These guys . . .” He shook his head. “On the first day I just about bought myself a ticket home. The gun handling was . . .”
“Atrocious?”
Pitney laughed again. “I don’t know. What’s worse than atrocious? Awful isn’t bad enough.”
“Abysmal?”
“Somewhere in the first part of the alphabet. But you know, it’s odd. The main problem was muzzle awareness. Everybody sweeping everybody else. It’s hard getting across to these guys that you’re supposed to treat every gun as if it’s loaded, even if you just unloaded it. Some of them just don’t get that. But then I noticed that nearly all of them followed Rule Three.”
“Finger off the trigger?”
“Right. Rule One and Two went out the door but I guess the militia have seen enough movies and news reports that they kept their fingers alongside the frame.”
Leopole conjured up his recent discussion with Bosco. “How’s the language situation?”
Pitney shucked his Camelbak and began refilling it. “Oh, not bad. My basic Arabic is still pretty good. It took me a little while to get used to Druze pronunciation. They speak kind of an archaic Arabic with what we’d call a soft D and a strong, throaty K. But if they slow down just a little I don’t have much problem.”
“Good job, Robert. Keep it up and maybe we can go home early.”
“As Breezy would say, ‘Hoo-ah that, sir.’”
* * * *
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
Esmaili saw Azizi conferring with some new arrivals but kept his distance. The strangers were unloading mortar tubes and base plates from a truck with Syrian markings and seemed intent on talking only to the man from Tehran. The imam was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was either plotting or praying.
At length Azizi left his friends to their own devices. Esmaili intercepted him.
“Brother, may I ask what do your mortar men have?”
“Oh, mostly old Soviet equipment, the 2B14 Podnos and M31/M68. Both are 82mm. We find that it is a good compromise between the 60 and 120mm weapons. The Podnos fires a three-kilogram bomb with a range of four kilometers. They weigh only forty kilograms so we can move them and some ammunition with four men.”
“They have experience in operations?”
A faint smile. “Oh, yes. Considerable experience.”
Esmaili conceded the advantage of portability but recognized the limitations. “I only ask because it may be difficult to displace from the firing position once the Druze learn to estimate the location. Their Zionist friends may provide aerial drones for surveillance.”
“Yes, that is always a possibility. The aircraft also may have thermal imagers once our night attacks become evident. It is also thus, brother. The tide comes in and the tide flows out. But Islam’s tide is inevitable.”
Esmaili thought: You have been spending too much time with Elham, brother. Then he said, “So it always has been. And so it shall be here, God grant us the strength to do our part.”
“Our strength is in our arms and in our hearts. And the greatest of these is our hearts, for there faith abides.”
Esmaili inclined his torso in a slight bow. “Truly said.”
Walking away, Esmaili felt a spasm in his shoulder muscles. Azizi used to be halfway rational. Now he has absorbed the imam’s zeal, and that bodes ill for anyone involved with him.
With a start, Esmaili realized that Azizi must have some additional information that he had not yet shared. The cell leader quickened his pace, seeking a solitary place where he could sit down and think before afternoon prayers.
* * * *
EL-ARIAN
In his Special Forces career, former Staff Sergeant Chris Nissen had seldom dealt with snipers, either incoming or outgoing, but now he was faced with both.
The SSI team had barely arrived when the local militia explained the situation. The Druze leader, with the unlikely name of Ayoob Slim, had been taken aback when he met the American, apparently surprised that a black man would command the training team. But Slim, an intense individual of some forty years, seemed capable of objectivity. Upon consulting with his IDF liaison, Captain Salah-Hassan Fares, he quickly got down to specifics.
Fares translated. “Sergeant, there are Hezbollah snipers here. They have come before but mainly just to shoot at the village. This new one, he hits what he sees.”
Nissen thought for a moment. “Are you sure there’s just one?”
After some back and forthing with Slim, Fares raised his hands. “I am not certain. The local men seem convinced because there is usually just one shot. But they cannot say where it comes from, so there could be more than one, or perhaps just one who moves and shoots again.”
“Well, we can’t let one gomer with a rifle stop us from training. Let’s have my team meet with Mr. Slim and his folks and explain the lesson plans. Then I’ll have a word with my precision rifleman.”
Robbie Furr had a goodly opinion of his professional abilities but he did not relish odds of two or three to one.
“I’ll see what I can do, Chris, but I’ll need a spotter. I mean, somebody who knows what he’s doing.”
“You’d like to have Barrkman back.”
Furr nodded, rubbing his balding head. “He’s about the only game in town. I could work with Green or Ashcroft because Wallender has some language ability that you need. But Phil and Bob aren’t sniper-trained. If I’m going up against some semipros, I want the best I can get.”
Nissen appreciated the shooter’s sentiment, having had to go to a couple of bad places with goody-good people on occasion. He knew that Leopole would be reluctant to place all his sniper eggs in one basket but saw no harm in asking. He looked at Furr and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
* * * *
25
AMASHA
The sound was distinctive: a hollow, metallic plunk. The mortar shell landed well short of the village but the defenders knew there would be more.
Bosco perked up. “That sounds like an 81-mm tube.”
“How’n hell can you tell, man?” The paratrooper in Breezy was skeptical of anything that a soldier could not hump on his own.
“Hey, dude, Rangers use mortars, you know? I was A-gunner on a 60mm for a while. Got so I could hit Pierce County. Thing is, I don’t think the Hezzies would have 81s. Prob’ly 82s.”
“Well, how far does that thing shoot? It’s gotta be pretty close if we can hear it.”
“The M224 is good for over three thousand meters, but this one’s closer.
“Well, 82s got more range.”
“I know, Breeze. But most all the ammo is three-four pounds. You can only chuck one of those so far.”
“Well, if it’s only fifteen hundred meters out, that’s a hell of a hike in injun country.”
Bosco shook his head. “
No, man. You don’t gotta find the tube. All you do is find the FO and pop him.”
“Man, that’s a needle in a Lebanese haystack.” Breezy swept his hand generally eastward. “How’n hell do you find somebody in all that territory?”
“I think we should talk to the sniper dudes. They know about skulking and snooping and stuff.”
As if to emphasize the urgency, another round topped out of its parabolic arc and descended toward the village. Bosco jumped left as Breezy dived right. The projectile landed thirty meters away, dropping rocks and debris in the area. Breezy poked his head up, cocking a wary eye at the sky, and scrambled on hands and knees to his partner. “That does it, man. If our snipers are going after that FO, then I’m goin’ with ‘em.”