by Harold
Standing behind the crowd, Esmaili permitted himself a sardonic smile. He recalled the debriefing after Hazim returned without Tawfiq.
“How many rounds did you fire?”
“Ah, five or six.”
“And how many hits did you gain?”
“Ah . . . I do not know, Teacher. It happened so ...”
“A good sniper knows where the sights are when the bullet fires. That tells him whether he hit or missed.”
Now all that was suppressed, never to arise.
Azizi waved down the cheering fighters. Esmaili actually thought that the man seemed to believe everything he was declaring. “Hazim has spilled the blood of our enemies before, and now he adds to the count even at night. He should be the model for us all, and I promise you, brothers—he will have every chance to do so again!”
More cheers erupted from the crowd. Even Ebrahim Larijani joined in the chorus, seemingly recovered from his lesser notoriety at surviving the Beirut mission.
“Learn the lesson, O my brothers!” Azizi’s voice rose in pitch as the spirit came upon him. Or, as Esmaili cynically surmised, as the manipulator arose in him. “The product of slaying the infidel is not merely reducing his numbers. It is instilling fear in the black hearts of the survivors. We shall multiply that fear by making known the names of our finest warriors. I promise you, the name of Hazim is being known and feared by our enemies!”
* * * *
AMASHA
Frank Leopole convened his team members on short notice. “There’s been some developments that you guys need to know about. Rather than recycle the intel, I’ll have Captain Hamadeh fill you in.”
The Israeli Druze officer stepped to the head of the room. “You know of the incident a few nights ago when Captain Fares was killed and Mr. Wallender was wounded. We are hearing from believable sources that it was the work of a particular sniper with a Hezbollah unit in this area. He is called Hazim. We do not know much about him, other than he is young and apparently experienced. The fact that his name has been released indicates that Hezbollah places considerable faith in him. It is not entirely unknown for particular fighters to receive such attention, but often it turns to a propaganda ploy.”
Rick Barrkman took a special interest in his opposite number. “Captain, you say that he’s young and experienced. How do we know that?”
“There have been two radio broadcasts extolling this Hazim. They were monitored by our signals intelligence.”
“So we really don’t know how authentic the info is.”
“No. As I said, it could be propaganda, but the details of the latest incident indicate otherwise. My special operations contacts treat Hazim as a genuine threat.”
The other Americans were serious, silent, and focused. Leopole took them in: Bosco and Breezy plus Robert Pitney. At length Breezy asked, “So are we gonna hunt for this guy or what?”
Leopole interjected. “We are not. It’s possible that’s what they want us to do. Otherwise there’s not much reason to put some shooter in the spotlight—-distract us with a stalking horse.”
Hamadeh cocked his head. “Stalking horse?”
“It’s a deception. Goes way back to the early days of hunting when animals were scared off by humans but a horse or cattle distracted the game’s attention from the hunter. In this case, Hazim or whoever he is could be intended to make us look over our shoulders when something’s coming from another direction.”
While the Israeli absorbed that esoterica, Barrkman pursued his own line of thought. “Hezbollah definitely has more than one shooter. This Hazim might be their star but he can’t be everywhere. I wonder if he’s really doing the job or maybe taking credit for everybody who gets lucky.”
Leopole unzipped a wry grin. “Why Mr. Barrkman, you sound downright cynical.”
“Guilty, your honor.” The sniper laughed. “But I was just thinking, there’s examples from history of super snipers who probably didn’t exist. At Stalingrad the top Russian shooter supposedly had a duel with the top German and finally killed him. But it turned out that there was never a German sniper with the supposed name—Thorvald or Koenings. Just Communist propaganda.”
“So how would you like to proceed?”
“Let’s see if this Hazim dude turns up again. If so, Rob and I can whack him.”
Leopole shot a glance toward Hamadeh. “Maybe that’s what they want us to do. Commit our first team.”
“Well, maybe so. But I’d like to talk to Rob, Colonel. He’s the only one we know of who’s tangled with this turkey, and he might have a take on him that only a sniper would know.”
The SSI leader realized the wisdom of Barrkman’s approach, and decided to concede. “All right. You can huddle with Furr, but I do not want both of you operating together without a solid plan. Keep me informed.”
“Gotcha, Boss.”
* * * *
EL-ARIAN
As a Special Forces NCO, Chris Nissen had become accustomed to losses and to changes in plans. Now he tried to juggle both while working above and below his level of authority.
He pulled Green and Ashcroft off the morning’s training cycle to impart some information and seek advice.
“I just heard from Colonel Leopole. The office back home is sending two standby guys in a few days. Neither of them have language ability that’s useful but they’re experienced operators. So I’ll continue translating here.”
Green chewed his mustache for a moment. “Well, we sure can use some help, but mainly I wonder about the Druze situation. Since Fares got whacked, who’s going to replace him? I mean, obviously we can’t operate very well without a bilingual liaison officer.”
Nissen glanced over the operator’s shoulder. Rob Furr was working with Ayoob Slim’s people thanks to a militiaman who spoke passable English. “We’re about to get more shorthanded. Frank’s pulling Furr out of here to work with Barrkman on some countersniper job. He leaves tomorrow.”
Bob Ashcroft resorted to mental arithmetic. “The way I count it, that leaves us with three and—what? Thirty or thirty-five militia?”
Nissen rubbed the back of his neck, grateful that his African DNA had prepared him for an oppressive, overhead sun. “About that. Slim there says it varies from day to day, depending on duty rotation and personal or family matters.” He shrugged philosophically. “It’s an old story. Goes with the militia lashup.”
“How’s that?” Ashcroft asked.
“Well, that’s the thing about a militia, you know? It’s not a standing force, which means that you go with whoever’s suited up at the kickoff.”
Green chuckled. “Like the Minutemen who’d fire one or two shots and skedaddle when the redcoats approached. Or the Continental militia who went home to harvest in the summer.”
“You got it, bro.”
Ashcroft looked behind him again. “Are these guys ready for prime time?”
Chris Nissen unzipped a toothy smile. “That’s what’s so damned fascinating about this business. You never really know until it’s showtime. And then it’s too late.”
* * * *
30
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
The visiting dignitary was known as Akhmed. The Chechen sniper arrived with two packs, a custom rifle case, and a significant reputation. In his travels his score was said to run upward of two hundred Russians, treacherous Afghans, collaborationist Iraqis, invading Americans, and assorted other infidels. It was said that he never missed.
Esmaili did not believe it; neither did Hazim, who now admitted that he missed fairly often.
Nevertheless, Esmaili and Azizi were present to greet Akhmed when he stepped out of the truck. Azizi took the lead. “Brother, welcome! Your presence here honors us all.”
Akhmed bowed his head in deference to the homage paid him. He muttered a perfunctory response that was barely audible and shook hands without conviction. Esmaili would have dismissed him as a dilettante but for the eyes, dark and peering. Many Muslims avoided direct eye c
ontact. Not the Chechen. He looked directly at each Hezbollah officer, as if trying to see what lay behind their own eyes.
The three quickly got down to business.
Settling in a secluded cabin, Azizi and Esmaili briefed the master sniper on their plan. “We know that your time here is limited,” Azizi began. “Therefore, we will make it as useful and . . . profitable ... as possible.”
Esmaili shot a look at his colleague. Nothing had been said about payment for Akhmed’s services. The Iranian looked at the Chechen with surging ambivalence: respect for his record and questions about his motives. Well, he has to eat like the rest of us. But Esmaili wondered how so devout a fighter as Azizi got his philosophical fingers around the notion of a mercenary who was well paid for slaying God’s enemies. Let alone Imam Elham.
Akhmed nodded his appreciation. He was a tall, spare man in his late thirties or early forties. He moved smoothly, confidently, and seemed to expend his words as economically as his ammunition. “I shall want to see the ground as soon as possible. Today, even. After that we can talk again and make more definite plans.”
“Yes, of course,” Azizi replied. “Brother Esmaili is completely familiar with the area around both villages.”
Akhmed turned to Esmaili and focused on him. The Iranian was mildly upset to discover that he found the attention unwelcome. He looks at me as if through a scope. On the other hand, Akhmed the Sniper probably looked at everyone that way. Esmaili tried to envision two hundred kills, or merely two hundred hits. Never a scorekeeper, he acknowledged that most of his victims had been killed at close range from his early days on the firing squads.
Close range—what range does this Akhmed prefer?
“Brother, the terrain around Amasha and El-Arian is similar. We can insert you into favorable positions from two to perhaps six hundred meters.”
“I usually fire from two hundred meters for head shots,” Akhmed responded. “On a standing man, between four and five hundred.”
Is that all? Esmaili hoped that his disappointment was well concealed. “What rifle do you shoot?”
“A modified Dragunov. It is not my first choice, but the British AWC that I prefer was ruined in a recent operation. With that, I was confident out to seven hundred meters.”
Esmaili merely nodded. He knew that the AWC PM was effective well beyond seven hundred. Rather than press the matter, he concluded, “You should have something to eat, then we can examine the terrain.”
Leaving their guest to have lunch, the Hezbollah men stepped well away. “I did not know he shoots for hire,” Esmaili began. The tone in his voice said, As you failed to tell me.
Azizi took no offense. “It is his way, and his services are invaluable. God will know Akhmed’s heart and his worth at the proper time.”
Esmaili was disinclined to discourse on religious matters. “I can understand his concern with the Dragunov, but the British rifle is capable of far more than seven hundred meters. Certainly nine hundred—with a capable marksman.”
“Oh, Akhmed is certainly capable. But he only shoots when he is confident of a kill. That is part of his fee: a bonus for every observed hit. Therefore, he seldom works with a regular spotter. Whomever we assign to him will also serve as . . . how would you say it? A tabulator?”
Esmaili folded his arms, assuming a petulant posture. “And our man? What does he receive for his services?”
“Let us hope he does not receive a bullet through his head. But to answer your question, brother, our man will have the knowledge that he serves Allah.”
“Of course, my brother. Of course.”
* * * *
AMASHA
“Your mission is this Hazim character. He’s out there. Find him, shoot him, and don’t get hurt.”
Rob Furr and Rick Barrkman absorbed Frank Leopole’s directive. But their pleasure at being reunited was marred by the onerous chore of locating an elusive shooter who devoutly wished to remain hidden. Both snipers knew how tediously dangerous their job could become.
Furr was smart and capable but also cautious. “Colonel, isn’t it possible that the Hezzies want us to go looking for this guy? They probably know there’s only two of us with this training team.”
“Rick and I have already discussed that. In fact, we talked to Captain Hamadeh about it. So, yes, this Hazim or whoever he is might be a stalking horse to draw us out. But apart from the Hezzies’ propaganda, we know that somebody out there is a decent shot, and I believe in preventive medicine rather than trauma treatment.”
Barrkman had studied the area topographic maps and narrowed the likely hides near both villages. “Skipper, we’d double our chances of tapping this guy if we split up and work with other spotters. Rob and I might be willing to do that, but there’s no reason to think Hazim works alone. If it comes to a real sniper duel, it could be more of a tag team event than one on one.”
Leopole’s square jaw was thrust outward. “Concur. That’s why I brought you guys together again. We’ll go with our strength for starters and see what turns up. If there’s no definite results after a few days, we can split up.”
Furr squirmed slightly, shifting his feet. “So, how do we know if we bag this bird? I mean, even if we get the body he probably won’t have ID on him. It’s not like there’ll be a big sign saying, ‘Congratulations, you just snuffed Hazim.’”
“Good point. I guess we’ll know if their sniper activity falls off. If not, it means it’s not him or they have other talent. In either case, we’re ahead if you whack one of their shooters.”
Furr and Barrkman gave each other approving glances. The personal nature of the contest appealed to their competitive spirits.
“Another thing,” Leopole added. “This isn’t like the usual sniper or even countersniper operation. Basically, we’ve been called out and it’s high noon on Main Street in Dodge City. In other words, it’s a duel. But there’s more riding on this than just who walks away. Hezbollah will learn something about us depending on whether we accept the challenge or not. So the fact that you guys are out there hunting Hazim tells the opposition that we’re not playing safe. We’re here and we mean to stay.”
“Don’t worry, Skipper,” Barrkman chirped. “If we find him, we’ll kill him.”
Leopole tipped his cap back on his head and rubbed his chin. He thought for a moment, then looked both shooters full in the face. “That’s the way to think of it, you’re the hunters, but you’re hunting other predators. They may have more experience than you do, and presumably they know the land better. But I’m confident that you’re both more proficient, and I think you’re smarter.” He grinned. “Guys, just don’t get wrapped around your egos. Keep your heads in the game without worrying about what the Druze or I or anybody else thinks. At the same time, realize that you’re going up against a specific individual who’s proven that he’s dangerous, day or night.”
Furr recited something he had heard long ago. “Colonel, I respect my enemy but I don’t fear him.”
“Who said that?”
“Me!”
Leopole snorted. “Like hell you did!”
Furr toed the ground, glancing into the dirt. Finally he conceded, “I think it’s from an old samurai movie.”
“Well, you don’t look like any samurai I ever saw. But forget that bushido bullshit. There’s no warrior’s code out there, guys. There’s only winners and losers.”
* * * *
31
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
The imam was back from Tehran. He beckoned, and Esmaili resented the gesture to the core of his soul. The Hezbollah commander also detested the sentiment behind the come-hither motion, for it screamed a tacit message: / command and you obey. Or else.
Esmaili approached the cleric, who turned and walked into the house that served as the cell’s headquarters. With a dismissive flick of the hand, Elham ordered the building emptied. In seconds Azizi appeared and the three sat down around the wooden table.
“I have received ou
r final orders,” Elham began.
Esmaili and Azizi locked eyes for an ephemeral moment. Our final orders. Not only did the phrase have the ring of finality, but it implied that all three jihadists were about to set foot upon their final venture. Esmaili knew from experience and a well-honed skepticism that wherever the trail led, Sadegh Elham would remain alive to tell the tale.
“We are to launch simultaneous attacks on the villages of Amasha and El-Arian. It is a maximum effort, without concern for casualties.”
Esmaili’s glance at Azizi said it all: I told you so! He wondered how long the liaison man’s devotion and enthusiasm would remain intact.