by Harold
Leopole smiled despite himself. “The statue of liberty play!”
“Well, obviously these guys don’t watch much football because Rob nailed him.”
The SSI leader turned to Furr. “Tell me.”
“I pegged the range at 360 and got on the gun.” Furr raised his right hand alongside his cheek, left hand extended in front of his chin. “When Rick raised his hat and glasses, the gomer fired. I had a good sight picture and lit him up.”
“You know you hit him?”
“Well, Rick couldn’t actually spot for me, but believe me, Boss. That’s a mort.” He took another swig. “But before I could run the bolt another round hit the rock I was resting on. Scared the hell out of me. We both hit the dirt.”
“Where’d that round come from?”
Barrkman thought about the geometry. “I think it was about 2:00 or 2:30 from us. Obviously they’d been waiting for us to shoot their buddy.”
A polite knock of the door was followed by Ayoob Slim and his English-speaking aide. “Excuse, please.”
“Yes, sir,” Leopole said. “Come in.”
Slim and the militiaman entered. The latter laid a knapsack on the table. It was half covered with dried blood. “We find this where you say,” the acolyte explained.
Leopole looked in the bag and found nothing of interest. He grinned at Furr. “Like you said, Rob. That’s a mort.”
Barrkman punched his partner in the arm. “Way to go, pard.”
Furr merely took another drink.
“Was there a body?” Leopole asked the Druze.
“No, sir. But much blood on ground. Dragged marks in grass. Two hours no more.”
“Thank you, gentlemen.”
When the militiamen had left, Leopole resumed the debriefing. “Okay, you nailed one because they sacrificed him for a chance at you. This Hazim character is smart and patient. That’s worth knowing. So how do you want to proceed?”
The shooters exchanged knowing looks. Barrkman said, “Let us sleep on it, Boss. We’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“All right.” Leopole clapped Barrkman on the shoulder and left.
As the door closed, Furr regarded his friend. “Man! How you gonna sleep after that?”
* * * *
33
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
Imam Elham convened a small select audience to hear the message from Tehran. “The moment has arrived,” he announced. “We will begin in three days or less.”
Elham glanced around the room. The other cell leaders were focused, attentive. Mohammad Azizi appeared to possess an excess of nervous energy. Clearly he was eager to demonstrate his influence.
“This mission has no code name,” Azizi added. “It is simply ‘The Operation.’”
Esmaili assessed the fighters’ collective mood. Generally it was relaxed, though some of the men fidgeted. Perhaps they knew that The Operation would lead to their rendezvous in Paradise.
“We have received detailed instructions by messenger,” Elham continued. “Radio communication has been kept to a minimum, and little information has been passed that way, even in cipher.”
Esmaili felt a faint prickling between his shoulder blades, as if he sensed a sniper’s crosshairs settling there. “Excuse me, Imam, but that seems to indicate that some information has been radioed. The Jews and their American lackeys undoubtedly can break any code.”
Azizi was not pleased with the outspoken cell leader. While Elham had been away, coordinating other aspects of the forthcoming venture, Azizi became responsible for defending the operation’s planning and execution.
Elham interjected, concerned about any possible rift in the organization. “Yes, my brother. Given the opportunity to retrieve two or three very brief messages from hundreds or thousands sent on our net, and given enough time, any coded message can be broken, especially with computer analysis. But rest assured, brothers, that our benefactors in Tehran have taken every precaution.” He smiled indulgently, as if assuaging a classroom full of worried children. “Without going into unnecessary detail, I can say that what messages are sent by radio are done so in what is called a onetime pad. That means—”
“That the encryption method is used only for that message, never to be repeated.” Esmaili felt testy enough and worried enough to commit a breach of decorum.
Azizi suppressed a scowl at his Hezbollah colleague, aware that some men in the room were astute enough to interpret the building tension. “Quite so. Your experience does you honor, my brother. And therefore, you will understand that even if our enemies should overhear one of our messages, they will have a very difficult time reading it and an even harder time making sense of it.” He morphed his frown into a smile. “By then, it will be far too late for them.”
Elham took charge again, returning focus to the overall plan. Using a map pinned to the wall, he said, “The attacks on the villages will provide cover for the special operations teams infiltrating the Jewish border and proceeding to specially selected targets.” He pointed to the crossing points within a few kilometers of each other.
“And the method of attack?” Esmaili asked.
Sadegh Elham raised his stony gaze from the map to the questioner’s eyes. “Dr. Momen has provided us with the greatest possible weapon. Carrying it to Paradise represents the greatest possible honor.”
Esmaili grunted. “A suicide mission.”
“Oh, no, brother. Not a typical suicide bombing. Rather, each weapon is the greatest suicide bomb yet available to us.” He leaned back and actually smiled. It was a chilly, predatory smile with ice around the edges.
“We have two nuclear devices. Each of them can be carried by one man, and each bomber shall have at least three escorts. Their mission is to get him to his assigned target—at the cost of their lives.”
* * * *
EL-ARIAN
Phil Green stuck his head inside Nissen’s small office. “Newbies are here.”
Nissen laid down the map he was examining with the new Druze liaison officer, Hussain Halabi. The former NCO tapped the Israeli on the arm. “Come on, Lieutenant, let’s meet the troops.”
Outside, two men dismounted from the Land Rover. Robert Pitney was accompanied by a very large individual wearing green fatigues and a boonie hat that appeared half a size too small. Green exclaimed, “Ken, my man! You still using VWs for barbells?”
The two mercenaries exchanged comradely hugs and back slaps. Ken Delmore tweaked Green’s mustache. “You’re getting gray, amigo. Or did you just stop using Grecian Formula after Pakistan?”
Green reached up—it was a bit of a stretch—and pulled off Delmore’s hat. “At least I still have hair!”
Delmore, a determinedly cheerful giant, retrieved the hat and looked around. “Colonel Leopole said that Bob A. is here. Where’d he get off to?”
“Oh, he’s like, you know. Working.” Green shrugged philosophically. “Some people insist on doing that.” Sensing Nissen’s presence, he made the introductions. “Chris Nissen, Ken Delmore.”
The two shook, Nissen wincing slightly at Delmore’s crushing grip. “Welcome to our humble AO,” Nissen began. “You come well recommended.”
“Well, thank you, Sergeant. I’m really looking forward to working with you guys. Just show me the area, let me check my zero, and put me where you need me.”
“All right.” Nissen looked at Pitney. “Robert, you’re probably familiar with the general situation from your time at Amasha, but you might as well tag along while we show Ken around.”
Before Pitney could reply Nissen gestured to the IDF delegate. “Gentlemen, this is Lieutenant Halabi. He’s our ... ah, new . . . Druze liaison officer.”
Halabi took three brisk steps forward and shook hands with the two Americans. “You are much needed here, gentlemen. Thank you for coming.”
Delmore grinned hugely. “My pleasure, sir.” Nissen and Green grinned at each other, and Pitney caught the meaning. The money’s better than good, which always d
oubled the pleasure.
Nissen turned from the informal meeting and led the way down the main road running through the village. “As you can see, this is a defensible position, especially with the open areas on most sides. The militia has been working to improve the perimeter, and we have people on guard twenty-four/seven.”
Delmore stopped abruptly and stood in his size twelve boots. “Good field of fire on this side of town, and it looked pretty much the same on the way in. Nearest cover must be—what? Three hundred meters?”
Halabi stood with arms akimbo. “It is 320 from here to that stand of trees. I suggested that we plant command-detonated mines in there but the militia lacks expertise and equipment in that area. I hope for some improvement before long.”
Pitney usually was content to stand back and absorb information. But the Israeli’s comment left an obvious opening. “Excuse me, Lieutenant. But just how long do your sources indicate we have until Hezbollah makes a move?”
Halabi arched an eyebrow. “My sources are no better than anyone else’s most of the time. But I understand that some unusual measures are being taken for our benefit.” His concluding smile said that no further details were forthcoming.
* * * *
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The Lincoln Memorial was always crowded in the summer, which was exactly why Mordecai Baram chose that spot to meet Michael Derringer.
SSI’s founder arrived a few minutes early and took the rare opportunity to study the monument. As a lifelong, rock-ribbed Republican, Derringer had been educated to revere The Great Emancipator, but some libertarian doubts nudged the usual GOP dogma out of alignment. Having read Lincoln’s first inaugural, Derringer concluded that “Honest” Abe had been just as slick a politician as Bill Clinton—enforcing the Fugitive Slave Law while declaring secession illegal while conceding the people’s right to amend their government or overthrow it.
Derringer turned from the pale icon—ironically, the marble had been quarried in Georgia—and scanned the crowd.
There was Mordecai Baram.
Stepping around a crowd of poorly supervised children— apparently the only kind America produced anymore—the Israeli made eye contact with his SSI colleague. They avoided shaking hands and gave only a modest indication of recognizing one another. They stood side by side, looking up at the nineteen-foot statue as if it were the subject of an impromptu discussion.
“What’ve you got, Mordecai?”
“This is close hold, Michael, for obvious reasons.” The diplomat paused, looking left and right. “Intelligence sources have turned up something of possible concern for your people in Lebanon.”
“Your sources or ours?”
“There’s not much to go on, but decrypts mention three citations of something merely called ‘the operation.’ From context it appears to be aimed at southern Lebanon.”
Derringer turned to face Baram. “Your sources or ours?”
“Michael, please. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Isn’t that how it goes?”
Two boys scrambled past the men, brushing the adults’ suit coats. Derringer resisted the impulse to snag one of the offenders by the collar. “Very well. What else?”
“That’s all, at least for now.”
The retired admiral shook his head. “That’s it? Come on, there has to be more. This . . . operation . . . could be anything. Hell, it might be a surgery!”
“Michael, believe me. That’s all there is just now. You can make whatever you like of it. Tell your people or don’t concern them, as you wish. But I thought you should be informed.”
Derringer inhaled, held his breath, then expelled it. He found himself staring at the base of one of the thirty-six pillars supporting the Doric temple. “Very well, then. Thanks, Mordecai.” He turned to go, then paused and looked back. “You’ll tell me if . . .”
“I promise.”
* * * *
34
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
The courier took a wrong turn in the dark. By the time he realized his error, it was too late.
Rounding the curve on the rutted pathway, the Toyota pickup lurched to a stop as the driver stomped on the brake. The fact that he was on that seldom traveled route was suspicious enough; running blackout lights was a giveaway to the militia manning the checkpoint.
A short firefight erupted at the junction of the Amasha-El Arian road.
While the driver lurched the battered vehicle into reverse, his passenger and the two escorts in the back opened fire. But they lacked a stable platform whereas the Druze sentries stood their ground, aimed just above the slitted headlights, and began shooting. At thirty meters most of the rounds went home.
The windshield erupted in a small blizzard of glass chips, turning darkly red on the inside. Struck by four rounds, the driver died almost immediately, and his foot slipped off the accelerator. The passenger, the most important man aboard, took two hits in the upper torso. He dropped his folding-stock AK and collapsed beside the driver.
One of the shooters standing in the back quickly recognized a no-win situation and bailed out. He sustained a grazing hit to one hip and staggered into the dark. His partner, more motivated or less experienced, braced himself against the rear of the cab. He lived long enough to empty his magazine and was gamely attempting to reload when unintentionally shot through the head.
Twelve seconds after it began, it ended.
Two of the militiamen approached the perforated pickup from each side, unaware that if either had to shoot, his partner would stand downrange. The third guard stood out of the subdued glare of the remaining headlight, covering their approach.
Leading with his muzzle, the left-hand searcher saw that the driver was dead, as was the gunner in the bed. Then the Druze leaned inside to turn off the engine. His colleague on the opposite side opened the door and allowed the passenger to slump partway out. The man was inhaling fast, shallow breaths. He muttered something unintelligible.
“What did he say?” asked the first militiaman.
“I do not know,” his partner replied. “I think it’s Farsi.”
* * * *
NORTHERN ISRAEL
The knock on the bedroom door came at an unseemly hour. Nevertheless, Yakov Livni had a standing order: far better to lose a little sleep than to snore through something important. As a military history buff he knew that Hitler’s generals had deemed Der Fuhrer’s rest more important than Operation Overlord, and at Leyte Gulf, Bull Halsey’s staff had allowed the admiral to sleep rather than inform him that Kurita was reported eastbound through San Bernardino Strait.
“What is it?” Livni called through the door.
“A priority radio report from Halabi,” came the reply.
“Bring it in.” Livni snapped on the bedside light and sat up on his cot.
The watch officer, an earnest captain wearing a yarmulke, stepped inside. He handed the scribbled note to the special operations chief, knowing that this time of day—or night—Colonel Livni would require an interpreter.
Playing an optical trombone, Livni extended the message form back and forth, seeking the best focal distance. He squinted, cocked his head, and gave up. “Something about an operation and special packages.” He looked up at the messenger. “Read it for me.”
The captain retrieved the form. “Lieutenant Halabi says one of his militia outposts intercepted a vehicle about 0215.” He checked his watch. “That was about fifty minutes ago. There was shooting, two Hezbollah dead and one wounded. The wounded man seems to be a messenger with an important dispatch for the cells operating around Hasbaya. Halabi attributes that to security concerns about transmitting messages by radio.”
Livni was fully awake now. “What else?”
“Well, the medics at Amasha treated the man, who is Iranian. They got someone to speak Farsi to him and evidently they overmedicated him. He began talking in random phrases. The one that kept recurring has to do with ‘the operation’ and something called ‘momen.’
“
The colonel leaned back against the wall, deep in thought. At length he asked, “Were there any documents?”
“Yes, sir. But Halabi says none have any bearing on special operations or this ‘momen’ reference.”
Livni rubbed his face, felt the stubble, and decided to ignore it. He threw off the blanket and swung his feet onto the floor. “All right. I’m awake so I might as well get up. I want to talk to Halabi in ten minutes. Then I need to see Sol Nadel. Call his chief of staff.”