Vulcan's Fire [SSI 03]

by Harold

  Several minutes later Bosco and Breezy consulted with Rick Barrkman. The sniper said, “It’s not as hard to find an observer as it seems. At least you can narrow down the area. I mean, he needs a good view of the target and that usually means elevation. Now, most people would assume he’s somewhere in line between the tube and target but that’s only for amateurs. I think these Hezzies probably have some experience, so let’s scope out the geography.”

  The trio adjourned to the roof of the Yousef family and surveyed the terrain within three-quarters of a mile.

  At length Barrkman said, “If I was an FO, I’d take my radio to that bluff to the northeast. It has a decent view of this place, it’s off axis from the tube, and it’s far enough out to discourage intruders.” He looked at Bosco.

  Jason Boscombe looked back. “Let’s intrude, dude.” He smiled broadly.

  Frank Leopole was skeptical. “If I let you three yahoos go traipsing through the boondocks, I’m not likely to get all of you back, and I need you.” He thought for a moment. “Brezyinski, you stay here. Barrkman, you and Boscombe take two Druze who really know the terrain. Check with Hamadeh for his recommendations.” He paused for emphasis. “In no case will you return later than sunset. Even with night vision, when you’re on the move after dark the advantage goes to the home team. Got it?”

  Barrkman nodded. “Got it. Sir.”

  As the sniper and the former mortar man strode off in search of the militia leader, Brezyinski entered a visible sulk. Leopole was tempted to ignore the youngster’s pout but decided to humor him. “Relax, Breezy. You’re staying here because I can’t spare you.”

  “Well, sir, I dunno. Like, does that mean that you can spare them?”

  “Don’t push it, son.” Leopole unzipped a patented Marine O-5 type of smile. “Look, it’s a big-picture situation.” Seeing that he had made no dent, he tried a different approach. “It’s like this, Brezyinski. I’m the forest. You’re a tree. You receiving me, son?”

  “Five by, Colonel. Five by.”

  * * * *

  OUTSIDE AMASHA

  “I can’t believe they’re that dumb.”

  Barrkman rubbed his stubbled chin and pondered the situation. The Hezbollah mortar team had fired six rounds in the past forty minutes, almost inviting retaliation.

  “Maybe they’re moving between shots,” Bosco suggested. “There’s several minutes’ delay after every couple of rounds.”

  “Yeah. Or maybe the FO is moving. They wouldn’t expect us to go deep, looking for the tube.”

  Bosco nodded. “Well, I sure don’t want to go tromping around out here a mile or more looking for something that’s bound to be guarded. Now, the observer . . .”

  “He could move fast. He’d only have one or two guys with him.”

  Barrkman turned to Rami Hamadeh, who had insisted on going with the Americans. “Rami, like we discussed: we can ignore the most obvious spots and back off from there. Since the observer probably is not on top of the nearest hill, where would be the next best place?”

  The Druze chieftain pointed to the southeast. “Next hill, farther away but still good look at my village.”

  “Okay. That makes sense. We’ll try it.” Before Barrkman could say anything else, Hamadeh and his friend took the lead, moving fast and low. The SSI men trailed at a decent interval.

  Twenty-five minutes later Hamadeh held up a fist. The group went to cover, having flanked the far hill. Hamadeh had his compact binoculars out, scanning the terrain. Barrkman was using his Bushnell while Bosco and the other Druze maintained a 360-degree search.

  Another 82mm round arced overhead, inbound to Amasha. It exploded near the village square.

  Hamadeh stopped his sweep, lowered his glasses, and stared at the hillside. Then he raised the optic again. Moments later he turned to Barrkman. “Two men, moving this way. Maybe three hundred meters.”

  Barrkman looked hard at the area indicated. He shook his head. “I don’t see them, Rami.”

  “They are in grass. You see gray rock?”

  The sniper quickly found a four-foot boulder sunk into the slope. “Yes, a little over three hundred meters.”

  “Watch that. Get ready.”

  In the two-foot grass Barrkman assumed a sitting position. He steadied the Robar QR-2 with his ankles crossed, elbows braced inside his knees. Satisfied, he removed the cap from the elevation dial and added three minutes of angle from his two-hundred setting.

  Bosco took the shooter’s Bushnell and assumed a spotter’s position behind him, ready to call the shot.

  “Wind’s quartering from the left,” Barrkman whispered. “Not enough to worry about.” He thought: Shooting uphill so the round will go a little high. Torso hit will be no problem.

  He chambered the first cartridge from the ten-round M14 magazine.

  Minutes passed. Barrkman felt a cramp building in his right leg but willed it into submission. He had held the same position for longer periods.

  “Tango,” Bosco said. “Make it two.”

  Two camouflaged forms appeared from the left edge of Barrkman’s scope. Both had AKs; one carried a field radio. They settled behind the boulder as if conversing.

  “Which one you gonna dump?” Bosco asked in a hushed voice.

  “Maybe both. Otherwise the guy with the radio, of course.”

  “Hey, the FO could be the one without the pack. He’d be senior.”

  Bosco’s logic made sense. Especially in the rank-conscious Muslim world, the lesser man would likely be the mule. It was contrary to Soviet doctrine when platoon leaders often carried their own radios for better command and control. Even if it marked them as priority targets.

  Barrkman looked to Hamadeh. “Rami, what do you think?”

  “Shoot radio man, the other no can talk.”

  Barrkman acknowledged the logic but realized that if he only got one shot, the observer could escape to ply his skills another day. Finally he set his mental trigger. I’ll take the first one that gives me a decent shot.

  He inhaled deeply, expelled the breath, and repeated the process.

  In the slanting evening sunlight, the two forms reappeared. One clambered atop the rock, allowing him to peer over the crest of the hill, looking toward Amasha. The man with the radio stood nearby.

  Barrkman crosshaired the man atop the rock. Hello, Mr. FO.

  He thumbed the tang safety forward, then settled into the physical-mental condition that he called “The Zone.”

  The world went quiet around him, narrowing to the crosshairs and the pressure of his right index finger. A life balanced precariously upon the thin edge of the sear.

  The trigger broke cleanly, the firing pin snapped forward, and the round went.

  The ten-pound rifle recoiled straight back. Center left! As the barrel came level again Barrkman had cycled the bolt and resumed his hold. The rock was barren but the radioman was stooped over, looking at something in the grass.

  Barrkman did a compressed breath, held it, and put the crosshairs on the second Hezbollah fighter. The round went before he was ready. Damn it! Low left!

  By the time he ran the bolt again, the second target had disappeared.

  “Tango two ran downhill,” Bosco reported. “Nice job on the first one, though. He dropped like a sack of wheat.”

  Barrkman realized that his pulse was elevated. “Damn it to hell! I got on the trigger too soon.” He lowered the QR-2. “That’s the first time I wish I had a semiauto. Just a smidgen faster and I could’ve got him too.”

  Rami Hamadeh smiled broadly. “You do well. You shoot the one who calls down the bombs. We go look.”

  Bosco glanced at Barrkman, who rose to his feet. “I don’t know, Rami. There could be other gooners out there.”

  The Druze shook his head. “Gooners?”

  How do I explain Comers and gooners? “Like, bad guys. Hezzies.”

  “No, it is okay, yes? You go back. We get dead man’s papers, maps, yes?”

  Barrkm
an nodded his consent. “Okay, but don’t take too long. It’s getting dark.”

  Walking back to the village, Jason Boscombe shot a glance at his newfound partner. I just want to get back to town but maybe he doesn’t want to look at the corpse.

  Returning with a confirmed kill, verified by three witnesses, Rick Barrkman felt no need to score and paste the target.

  When they reached the village Leopole asked, “How’d it go?”

  Barrkman nodded toward Hamadeh. “Rami called it right, Boss. He figured where they’d be and they walked right into the scope.”

  Hamadeh and his partner came around the corner, carrying a satchel and some Hezbollah equipment. The Druze leader hefted the satchel. “Maps and military papers. Radio fre . . . freq . . . channels. Yes? I translate them soon.”

  “That’s excellent, Rami,” Leopole replied. “What else did you see?”

  Hamadeh turned to Barrkman. “You not miss second shot, Meestair Barrkman. Blood on the ground, yes. We followed south to southeast.” He patted a leg. “You must hit him low. Dragging one foot, yes.

  Bosco gave Barrkman a comradely hoo-ah punch on one arm.

  * * * *

  26

  EL-ARIAN

  “And the Ranger’s aim was deadly with the big iron on his hip. Big iron on his hiiiip . . .” Phil Green was an Arizonan down to his boots. Though something less of a singer, he mouthed the lyrics to the classic gunfighter ballad.

  “Marty Robbins sang about six-guns but this is my idea of Big Iron!” He ran an admiring hand along the barrel of the 12.7mm DShK machine gun. Ironically, the Dashika had become an icon both of the Soviet Army and the Afghan mujahadeen who ousted the Russians from their country.

  Captain Salah-Hassan Fares of the IDF Druze contingent was pleased with his coup. But no more so than Ayoob Slim, whose militia benefited from the acquisition. His men had unloaded the seventy-five-pound weapon from the truck and set it on its tripod mount.

  “Wish we had another one,” Nissen said. “Cross fire’s the best way to prevent trespassing.” He smiled broadly, pleased with his down-home wisdom.

  Wallender was unconvinced. “It’s an old design from the 1930s, isn’t it?”

  “Hell yes, it’s an old design,” Green replied, “even with the postwar mods. But so’s the 1911 pistol and the Ma Deuce .50 cal. Let me tell you, friend: if something’s still being used seventy or eighty years later, there’s a good reason for it!”

  Nissen stood back and scrutinized the Dashika. “I’d like to get one or two of these on wheels. You know, like the Russians used. I wouldn’t care so much about the shield. But if we have to defend this place, it’d be nice to have some mobility for our heavy weapons.” He tapped the antiaircraft sight. “We don’t need all the baroque accessories, but we can keep the recoil damper.”

  While the militiamen set up the gun under Slim’s direction, Fares pointed out the features. “This weapon is fed by a fifty-round belt at six hundred rounds per minute. There is a three-position gas regulator, and we will find the best setting according to what ammunition we receive. The muzzle velocity is 850 meters per second, a little less than your .50 caliber.”

  Nissen turned from the DShK to the surrounding terrain. “Captain, where do you recommend placing this gun?”

  The Israeli Druze looked around. “Your idea of a wheel mount makes sense. We should be able to move it quickly depending on where an attack comes from.” He rubbed his chin as if pondering a philosophical point, which in a manner of speaking was the case. Then he looked up and behind him. “There.” He pointed to a flat-roofed building. “Best field of fire for a fixed position.”

  The American gauged the geometry and agreed. “Okay, that looks good. Assuming the home owners don’t mind.”

  Fares gave an ironic grin. “Believe me, Mr. Nissen. They will not object.”

  Green wondered where the conversation was headed. “If we’re going to defend this place, shouldn’t we be building more walls and clearing better fields of fire?” His blue eyes took in the surrounding terrain, which included a goodly amount of scrub brush.

  Fares called to Slim, who trotted over to the group. After some fast Arabic, the militia leader nodded and turned to his men, talking animatedly.

  “What’d he say?” Nissen asked.

  “He is asking for volunteers to cut the brush and carry stones to build a new wall on this side of the village.”

  Green folded his arms and looked skeptical. “Who’s gonna volunteer for work like that?”

  Fares suppressed another smile. “Mr. Green, these people know that if they want to keep their homes they must be willing to defend them. The Druze have a long history of fighting to protect their culture.” He inclined his head toward the town. “If the militia want it done, it will be accomplished. The only question is how soon.”

  “Outstanding,” Nissen exclaimed. “Now if we could find another machine gun.”

  Fares replied, “This one is Russian but I know of another from China. Or maybe Pakistan. Either will do.”

  Nissen clapped Green on one arm. “Hey, bro, don’t you love it when a plan comes together?”

  * * * *

  NABATIYEH GOVERNATE

  Azizi convened a meeting with Esmaili and the leader of the mortar section, another Iranian known as Abbasali Rezvani. Esmaili was experienced enough to know that the man probably was born with another name.

  “We have made a good beginning,” Azizi opened. “Now is the time to increase pressure on the enemy.”

  Rezvani seemed immune to concern. He was a spare, slender jihadist in his late thirties. Not the type of man accustomed to lugging a forty-kilogram tube and base plate around the countryside, though it was a near certainty that he seldom conducted such exertions himself. “We can operate both day and night,” he replied. “But it will be necessary to provide more security to my teams.”

  Azizi nodded. “Yes, brother. It is advisable to alter our attacks in order to prevent the militias from recognizing a pattern. As for more security . . .” He looked to Esmaili.

  “Some of my men can accompany the mortar teams, but that will mean fewer snipers to harass both villages.”

  “We still have work for your snipers, my brother. But Rezvani lost an experienced observer who was killed by an enemy sniper. The radioman was fortunate to escape with a wound.”

  Esmaili rubbed his chin, mentally allotting assets. “If you begin shelling the Druze at night, you might escape the first two times or so. After that, the Jews and the Americans will supply them with night vision. In fact, they probably have such equipment now.”

  He decided not to mention that Hazim had inherited just such an item from the Israeli marksman killed in what now seemed a long-ago ambush. Instead, he changed the subject.

  “What information is available on the Zionist mercenaries working with the militias?”

  Azizi was prepared. “They have established training programs in both Amasha and El-Arian. Their facilities are meager but evidently adequate. So far the emphasis seems to be on small arms and defensive measures.”

  “What about heavy weapons?” Esmaili thought that surely the defenders would upgrade their defenses in the face of the new threat.

  “There is no information as yet. But we should expect that they will add more as the situation develops.”

  Esmaili fidgeted and eyed Rezvani. The man seemed capable enough but he spoke little and asked no questions. Apparently he was willing to conduct operations exactly as ordered—the perfect soldier to some minds. “My brother, I ask about the militia’s weapons because I believe we need to plan ahead of events. For example, if we are expected to seize one or both villages, we will need more information. And more men.”

  The statement carried implicit questions that Azizi recognized, even if he was unwilling to answer them. “At present we have no such intentions. Our part in the overall plan is to occupy the defenders of both places while our brothers expand their control over the surr
ounding territory. Meanwhile, we continue as directed. We will keep the Druze occupied with sniping and mortar attacks, day and night.” He paused, seemingly pondering whether he should elaborate. Then he stood. “I leave you both to continue your work.”

  Ahmad Esmaili knew when he had been dismissed. He returned to his subordinates, musing whom he should next send within range of the sharp-shooting mercenaries.

  * * * *

  AMASHA