by Harold
Then Elham added, “That is, except for a handful of faithful fighters.”
Azizi did not seem overly relieved or concerned. He merely mouthed the expected phrase, “However we may serve, Imam.”
Unfolding a map, the priest spread it on the table. “Our instructions from Tehran require attacks on the villages mentioned. But they are diversions, which is why heavy losses are acceptable. The main attack will be directed elsewhere, and you will be informed when the time is right. The time will depend upon weather to cover us from enemy aircraft.”
Esmaili realized that the explanation was intended for him. Apparently Azizi already knew the full plan, and that perspective did not sit well with Ahmad Esmaili. They are close—at least far closer than I am to either of them. Therefore, I am likely expendable.
“Imam, if I may point out something. If the main attack goes in another direction, we will have to know its strength to allocate men and supplies. Otherwise the two diversions could soak up assets that will be needed elsewhere.”
Elham cocked his head slightly, scrutinizing the Hezbollah leader. The cleric’s steady gaze made Esmaili infuriatingly uncomfortable. At length Elham said, “Brother, you state the obvious. Of course the main mission will require men and . . . special equipment. That goes without saying. You should give us credit for competent planning.” Before Esmaili could respond, the priest added, “All has been considered long before now, my brother. I ask only that you place your trust in us, as you would in Allah.”
Esmaili’s mind raced. They are mad: they equate their own judgment with God’s! But then he remembered his childhood instruction: certain imams were especially beloved of God, as evidenced through religious scholarship and good works. Though not equal to a caliph, whose word could not be questioned, the leaders of a defensive jihad possessed special status in The Faith.
Esmaili inclined his head. “Imam, my apologies if I seemed doubtful. But you will understand my concern for seeing to the success of whatever my part of the mission may involve.” A nice recovery, he told himself.
Azizi sought to defuse the tension. “Brother Esmaili, it can be stated that you will have an important, even a crucial, role in the main attack. The unit you lead will be small, and therefore will not detract from either of the diversionary actions.”
“And the special equipment?”
“It will be provided at the appropriate time. There will be technicians to deal with it, so that aspect should not worry you.”
Esmaili rolled his shoulders, evidence of the strain he felt building inside. But as long as the commanders were talking, he decided to risk further questions. “As you wish, brother. But again: I am concerned about proper execution of the full mission. If I am to lead the main effort, who will direct the attacks on the villages?”
Azizi unzipped a smug grin. “I will. Therefore, your more important role will not be burdened with other concerns.”
Esmaili felt himself blanch. Now he knew: the “main attack” would almost certainly be a suicide mission, leaving Mohammad Azizi to supervise the covering forces in relative safety.
Esmaili heard his voice say, “As you wish, brother. I am yours to command.”
* * * *
EL-ARIAN
“Okay, here’s how it shakes out,” Nissen began. Phil Green and Bob Ashcroft paid close attention: their ex-cop antennae had sensed the atmosphere and picked up the growing tension.
“HQ is sending Steve Lee and Ken Delmore. They’ll be here in a couple of days. We’re getting Delmore directly and Frank will send us Pitney.”
Green’s blue eyes lit up. “I know Ken. We worked with him in Afghanistan.”
Ashcroft laughed. “Yeah, he looks like Mr. Clean on steroids. Bald as a billiard ball with twenty-inch biceps. He can prob’ly bench-press a Yugo without breaking a sweat.”
Nissen almost laughed. “Well, that’s fine, but I don’t know him. What’s his background?”
“Eighty-second all the way. Jumped into Grenada and landed on the runway. Says he was flat on the concrete with blue tracers flashing overhead and he thought, ‘I spent all that time building myself up and now I just want to get small!’”
Nissen chewed on that information and was pleased with the taste. “Well, nobody mentioned any language ability but apparently he has instructor credentials.”
“Sure does,” Ashcroft replied. “He’s been to a bunch of armorers schools and prob’ly knows more about the M16 and M4 than anybody I’ve ever met.”
“Okay, that’s fine. I’m really glad to get Pitney because of his Arabic ability because I can’t do it all.”
“So what’s with Lee?” Green asked.
Nissen shifted his feet. “He’s going to work with Frank. Nobody said so but I think the front office thought it’d be awkward to have somebody senior to me move in here. Personally, I can work under anyone who’s competent but Lee will be brand-new in-country and things might pop pretty soon.”
Ashcroft nodded his agreement. “We worked with Steve in Afghanistan and Pakistan, too. In fact, he led one of our teams hunting the al Qaeda cell that was spreading that virus. He did a good job.”
Chris Nissen was increasingly aware that he was relatively junior with SSI, leading men who had served together on other contracts in other climes. “Well then, Frank and headquarters called it right. I’m used to working with local indigenous personnel because that’s what green beanies do. Apparently Lee’s a door-kicker at heart, and his admin experience can be useful at Amasha.”
“Okay,” Green replied. “How do you want to work Pitney into our band of bros?”
Nissen laughed aloud. “Hell, it looks like I’m gonna be the El-Arian chief of police! With three ex-cops on the job here maybe I can even sleep in once in a while.”
“I’ve talked with Robert a few times,” Ashcroft said. “Obviously he’s a tremendous shooter, and evidently he does well as an instructor, speaking the lingo and all. Personally, I’d rather work through him than most of the militia dudes who sort of speak English.”
“Concur,” Nissen responded. “But let’s keep pushing these guys on the basics. The first time a round cracks past their ears they’re likely to dump half of what they ever learned.”
Green smiled. “Makes ‘em a member of a real big club, don’t it, Staff Sergeant?”
* * * *
32
NEAR AMASHA
Rob Furr fidgeted again. Finally he whispered, “Damn, I gotta piss.”
Rick Barrkman barely turned his head. “You should’ve thought of that before we crawled clear out here.”
“I did, damn it! I drank more water tryin’ to stay hydrated.” Another rifle round cracked across the rocky terrain. Barrkman’s scan went to his left front. “That was about three, maybe four hundred yards. This gomer must not be Hazim because he hasn’t moved much the last three shots.”
“Well, maybe Hazim isn’t the sniper stud he’s supposed to be.” Furr temporarily forgot about his bladder. “What’s he shooting at now?”
Barrkman glanced to his right, squinting in the sunlight toward the village a quarter mile away. “Can’t tell. It’s probably just more harassing fire. I think they’re trying to draw us out.”
“Yeah. Nissen said there’s no activity over at El-Arian so maybe they’re setting us up for a fall there by decoying here.”
Furr nodded. “Makes no sense to telegraph their punches here. Unless maybe they just want our attention in this area to cover something bigger.”
“Well, that’s strategy and we’re tactics. Take another look, will you?”
Furr raised himself slightly from his position directly behind Barrkman, clearing the grass while glassing the open ground. Both men were sweating beneath their ghillie suits in the midday sun. They had chosen a shaded position partially covered by flat rocks that broke up the terrain and rendered them less visible to a knowledgeable observer.
“Nada.” Furr looked upward through his veil. “Sun angle’s chang
ing, amigo. We should think about moving before we lose the shadows of the trees.”
“Okay. You back out. Give a bird call when you’re set and cover me while I move.”
While Furr retrenched, Barrkman kept his eye to his bipoded rifle. He continued scanning slowly, methodically, hoping for a glimpse of movement or a careless reflection. Nothing emerged.
Two minutes later Furr’s call chirped out, a two-tone baritone warble. Barrkman folded his bipod and began inching back. In a few meters his left foot wedged between two rocks and he tried to dislodge them. Unsuccessful, he raised up for better leverage and kicked with his right foot.
A gunshot split the air, impacting two meters in front of him.
Barrkman ducked reflexively. “Damn! That was close!” He kicked hard, felt one rock move, and scampered backward on hands and knees.
Another round split the air, passing overhead.
Furr edged laterally eight to ten meters, then risked a quick peek over the weeds. “Nothing out there much closer than four hundred yards.”
Barrkman brushed the sand from his face. “What did it sound like to you?”
The spotter thought for a moment. “It sorta sounded like the ballistic crack you hear in the pits during a five-hundred-yard string in a high power match.” He shrugged. “It’s sure not that two-hundred-yard snap.”
“I’ve got an idea.”
Furr shook his head. “Uh-oh. That means you want me to get shot at.”
A knowing smile creased Barrkman’s tanned face. “Not this time. I’m going to move off to the left and poke my hat over the top with my binoculars to catch some sunlight.”
“Those are real nice glasses, Rick.” He eyed the Steiners covetously.
Barrkman grinned again. “Hey, if that raghead can put a round through my optic, it’s a lot better than through my head.” He motioned his partner into position. “You do two things: watch for something, and notice the interval between the impact and the sound.”
“You know if he’s smart he won’t shoot again. Not for a while, anyway.”
“Hey, dude, just ‘cause he’s accurate don’t mean he’s smart.”
* * * *
Ebrahim Larijani allowed his adrenaline to peak, then remembered to control his breathing. He turned to his spotter, Fahed. “Well?”
“I saw dirt from the bullet strike. It was short of the camouflaged form.”
Larijani frowned, visibly unsettled. “Surely it was a hit. I had a steady rest.”
“The first shot was low. I could not observe the second.”
“Well then, it must be a hit.”
Fahed had been warned about Larijani’s ego. Esmaili had confided that Larijani was eager to redeem himself after the Beirut episode. “It could have gone high, Ebrahim. Now come, we must displace.”
Larijani shook his head, returning to his Dragunov’s scope. “No. This is a good position. If we displace we will lose sight of them.” He thought for a moment. “Besides, the Chechen said if we locate them we should stay to keep them pinned down.”
They will certainly move by now! Fahed laid a hand on his partner’s arm. “Brother, remember what the teacher always says. Once you have taken a shot, you must move.”
Larijani shot a glance at the spotter. “Enough! I command here, and we will stay!”
Suit yourself, Fahed said to himself. He began inching away from the sniper, conceding that survival had just trumped teamwork. As he rolled onto his back, he was unaware that his binoculars caught the slanting sun.
* * * *
“Target! Left front, eleven o’clock, maybe four hundred.” Furr’s voice carried an edge of excitement.
“What’ve you got?”
“Reflection under those trees. Stand by.” Furr raised the Swarovsky rangefinder and lased the suspicious area. He checked the digital readout. “Three sixty, Rick.”
“Yards or meters, damn it!”
“Yards of course!”
“Just checking.” Barrkman thought about the situation. “Okay, get on your rifle. I’m going to try the hat and glasses trick. You shoot whatever shows.”
Furr slid the Robar Snout Rifle into position, resting it on his drag bag laid across a rock. He cycled the bolt, adjusted the elevation dial, placed his eye to the scope, and nodded. “Sniper on.”
* * * *
“There! Farther back,” Larijani exulted. He looked to his right, expecting to see his spotter close by. Instead the wretch had moved two or three meters away. “You cannot see anything from there!”
“I can see what I need to, brother.”
Disgusted, Larijani returned to his scope. If he was low before, he needed to hold a little higher this time, and settled the aiming point on top of the hat.
He took up the slack in the trigger, held his breath, and pressed.
When he came down out of recoil he regained the target’s position in time to feel a sledgehammer blow at the base of his neck.
Fahed heard the unmistakable sound of a nearby bullet strike, then realized that the report of the shot followed it. Larijani was on his back, gurgling loudly and holding his throat with both hands. Bright arterial blood pulsed between clasped fingers. The shooter’s mouth gaped wide, trying to suck in air but the esophagus was clogged with a hot, thick liquid.
Fahed was tempted to say, “I warned you,” but there was no point. He edged around the dying man’s feet, retrieved the valuable rifle, and made his way to safety.
* * * *
Before the sound of Furr’s shot had died away, an inbound round overwhelmed it. The ballistic shock of the 7.62 bullet was enough to tell the Americans all they needed to know; the impact on the rock merely confirmed it.
Furr and Barrkman dropped to the earth, their heads nearly colliding. They performed an unintended chorus: “Holy shit!”
Barrkman looked at his partner, both men wide-eyed. “We were set up!”
“No shit, Charlie!” Furr wiped some dirt off his face. “Damn, that guy’s fast on the trigger.”
“Yeah. That must be Hazim!”
* * * *
Hazim lowered his binoculars and turned to Akhmed. “It was very close.”
The shooter returned to his scope and scanned the area. “The crosshairs were steady and the trigger released cleanly. It should have been a hit.”
The spotter knew that other variables affected the end result but recognized this was neither the time nor the place to argue the niceties. “Well, we must assume they know we are here. We should displace.”
“Yes,” Akhmed replied. “Unlike young Larijani, I fear.” Pulling his rifle off the improvised rest he said, “But at least he served his purpose.”
* * * *
AMASHA
“Okay,” Leopole said. “Now give it to me again, without the poetry.”
Furr took another pull from his water bottle and wiped his balding head. Barrkman sipped from something that was not water and smacked his lips.
“Like we said,” Furr began. “We staked out a good place east of town. Not too obvious but it had a decent field of view and we were in shadow most of the morning. We heard the harassing fire from time to time but couldn’t spot the shooter or shooters.” He squinted in concentration.
“I was on the scope and Rick was on the trigger at that time because we’d been trading off every half hour. We’d just pulled back into more shade when they sent one our way.”
“How’d they spot you?” Leopole asked.
Barrkman owned up. “I was crayfishing backward and caught a foot between two rocks. I reared up to pull free and they saw me. The first round was just short. The second went high.”
“How much wind?”
“What?”
Leopole inhaled, then expelled his breath. “How much wind was there?”
Barrkman fidgeted again, a sign of agitation. “Hell, I don’t know, Frank. What’s it matter?”
“My point is, gentlemen, if there was a decent wind, that was a good shooter to
get the deflection right and the range so close.”
The two snipers looked at each other. Finally Furr said, “I was checking for mirage. There was hardly any. The trees were barely moving. Maybe five miles per hour.”
“Okay, go on.”
Barrkman took up the tale. “We got settled farther back in the shadows and let things settle down. Then we thought about the sonic crack and figured the shooter was inside five hundred yards. Then Rob caught a glint. So I edged off to one side and did the old hat and binoculars trick.”