Vulcan's Fire [SSI 03]

by Harold

  “We shall have to discuss this situation with the imam, but I believe the plan must proceed, especially with the weather in our favor.” He stopped and turned to his colleague. “And you, brother, will play a most important part.”

  * * * *

  36

  NABATIYEH GOVERNATE

  Imam Sadegh Elham determined that the time was right. Facing the nine selected men he had assembled, he spread his hands wide.

  “My brothers, my warriors, I must beg forgiveness from some of you.” He allowed the sentiment to hang suspended in the evening air. As a priest and an orator he had long since learned the emphatic benefit of silence.

  “I confess before God that I have been required to deceive you as to your true mission. And security requires that all of us keep secret what I am about to reveal, even from the fighters who will attack the Druze villages. But I have consulted with the learned scholars in Tehran, and they tell me that a deception in advancing the jihad is permissible under special circumstances. To do otherwise would have placed our holy mission in serious jeopardy. Nonetheless, I accept whatever judgment God holds against me.”

  Seated in the front row, Esmaili thought: As if there is a way to reject the judgment of Cod!

  Elham unrolled a map of Lebanon and extended it at arm’s length. One of his acolytes accepted the paper and held it for the audience.

  “You have been led to believe that we were planning for a long-range rocket attack against the Zionist state. Much of our work has been seen in that light, without actually saying so. That was part of the plan drafted by our Islamic leaders, commanders, and scientists. Many of you provided security to the surveyors who seemed to be preparing launch sites for rockets to destroy the putrid Jewish nation. Others prepared storage places safe from aerial observation. All of that work was what our Russian friends call ‘disinformation.’ In its own way, it represents as righteous a contribution to the global jihad as the martyrs who carry explosives strapped to their bodies.”

  Esmaili glanced to either side, curious as to how the rhetoric was being received. He noted that more of the youngsters paid strict attention than the older, presumably more cynical men.

  Elham got down to details. “The deception and actual mission were both conducted by the planners in Tehran, blessings and peace be upon them. They felt it advisable to show some degree of activity in this area to justify the effort to secure additional ground. The Zionists and the Americans would inevitably see some activity here, from their airplanes and satellites, and draw the obvious conclusion— we were planning rocket or missile attacks sometime in the future. But all the while, the true mission went forward.

  “The weapon of holy vengeance is not borne upon any rocket, my brothers. In fact, some of you shall have the high honor of escorting the device.” He turned to Modarresi Ka’bi, one of the latecomers from Tehran. He was a slightly built man, apparently in his early thirties. He reached into a large duffel bag and, with difficulty, produced a rectangular shape. Murmurs coursed through the audience—some jihadists knew what they were seeing.

  Ahmad Esmaili had already guessed.

  Elham was speaking again. “This is our weapon, my brothers. It is one of two purchased at considerable cost in blood and treasure, and its useful life is limited. But when it is delivered to its destination, it will destroy the target in an atomic fireball!”

  The room erupted in shouts and barks. Men leapt to their feet, dancing with joyful surprise. They seized one another and embraced excitedly, screaming “Allahu akbar!” Three minutes passed before Elham restored order.

  Ahmad Esmaili played his part, singing the praises of all involved while taking in the scene. He tried hard to appear as elated as the others, but doubted that he convinced any skeptics.

  Elham waved down the celebrants, most of whom now realized they had been selected to die. The couriers from Tehran—Ka’bi and Jannati—already had made that leap of faith.

  The cleric expounded upon the jihadists’ weapon. “A one-kiloton yield can destroy most of an area seven square kilometers. Therefore, your targets have been chosen with that fact in mind. Azizi and I shall brief each team independently to further preserve security. But some things will be obvious to you now: the attacks on the Druze villages will deceive the Zionists into focusing their attention there, while our teams make their way to the frontier.

  “Each weapon has two specialists assigned to it. If something befalls one, the other can still activate it. Though these devices have timers for delayed detonation, we dare not trust them. Therefore, our four technicians have already pledged themselves to die in the certainty that each bomb explodes.”

  Elham turned his gaze to the other five men. “Those of you honored with the task of escorting the weapons to their targets also are known for your devotion to God. You will stand here tonight in the presence of your comrades and pledge your own devotion to the task, as befits a warrior selected for so critical a mission. You are to accompany your assigned specialists to the site selected for destruction, and no doubt most of you also will enter Paradise.”

  The imam pointed to Fida, whom Elham had not seen in weeks. “Fida, my brother, stand.”

  The veteran jihadist quickly stood, hands at his sides.

  “Do you swear before these men and before God that you will ensure the success of this mission with your life?”

  “I do!” The voice was strong and clear. The face bore a tight smile.

  “Esmaili, stand!”

  The Hezbollah veteran rose to his feet, striking a confident pose.

  “Do you swear before these men and before God that you will ensure the success of this mission with your life?”

  “Imam, I swear it!” A decisive nod of the head added emphasis.

  Elham proceeded down the line, man by man.

  Ahmad Esmaili remained standing until the last fighter was sworn. When the ritual was ended, he was pleased. I would almost believe my oath myself!

  He looked outside and noted the lowering gray clouds. It was not hard to interpret the meaning: the attack would come before the weather improved.

  * * * *

  COURTHOUSE METRO STATION

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  Mordecai Baram made no pretense of subtlety. He walked up to Michael Derringer and handed him a newspaper with an article highlighted:

  Reports from reliable sources indicate that Hezbollah has sought Iranian assistance in obtaining “suitcase bombs” capable of producing small nuclear detonations. Speaking anonymously, military spokesmen said that entry into Israel from southern Lebanon is the most likely approach. A well-placed Tel Aviv source stated that the situation is viewed with concern at the cabinet level.

  However, opposition cabinet ministers note that similar, though unfounded, concerns have arisen before, and polling indicates little public enthusiasm for committing Israeli forces to Lebanon again. Observers in Tel Aviv generally believe that further action will await more of a national consensus.

  Derringer looked up from the paper. “Yeah. I’ve heard about this. After the Soviet Union collapsed, apparently a lot of backpack nukes were missing. But what’s SSI’s connection?”

  Baram retrieved the paper and tucked it in his raincoat. He waited until a train rattled by on the opposite track. “Your team might be in danger.”

  Derringer’s gray eyes widened behind his Navy-issue glasses. “You’re saying that there are portable nukes in Lebanon?”

  “We believe so.”

  SSI’s founder looked left and right. No one stood close enough to hear. “Then what do you recommend?”

  “We want you to find them.”

  * * * *

  AMASHA

  Captain Rami Hamadeh hung up the satellite phone and turned to Frank Leopole. “That was Northern Command, General Nadel’s brigade. We are alerted to expect a major Hezbollah effort within twenty-four hours. You should contact the El-Arian team right away.”

  Leopole sorted priorities in his min
d. “All right, I’ll call Chris on the command net. The scrambler should provide the security we need. But what does Northern Command mean by a ‘major effort? And how much support can we expect?”

  Hamadeh stood up and consulted his notes. “Enemy forces: estimated at company strength or better. Intentions: apparently to seize this place and possibly El-Arian. Enemy ability . . .” He looked at the American. “You know that already, Frank. Mortars and probably automatic weapons. They seem to respect our night vision so I’d plan for a dawn attack but be ready for anything.”

  “They probably can’t take both places with a single company, at least not at the strength of about 150 men. So that tells me they’ll concentrate here or there unless they just want to divert our attention from someplace else.” He shrugged. “Too many unknowns, Rami. They could just as well have a battalion out there.”

  The Israeli Druze officer nodded his agreement. “That may be. In any case, the background seems consistent: they’re been surveying and leveling sites in this area, apparently for new missile or rocket batteries. They probably want to control this entire area before their next big barrage, and that means they’ll come at us in whatever force is needed.”

  “Which takes me back to my other question. What kind of support will we get from Nadel’s brigade?”

  “The operations officer says a reaction force is standing by, capable of ground or helicopter transport. Believe me, Solomon Nadel will support us as much as anyone. But he can’t launch a relief effort without approval from the defense ministry because of public concern about more involvement here.”

  “You mean, it’s politics.”

  “Frank, I don’t know about America, but in Israel, everything is politics, and it’s all local.”

  Leopole rubbed his chin, staring at the floor. “I can understand those concerns, Rami, but does the ministry understand our situation? If we get pushed hard—really hard—we can’t survive outside this village. There’s nowhere to go; we’ll get chopped up if we’re driven out in the open.”

  “Well, between you and me, I’m reliably informed that some air support is possible. It depends on weather, of course, and the way things are looking, the attack is likely to come with low cloud ceilings.”

  “What about comm? I mean, somebody to direct air attacks.”

  The Israeli gave a knowing grin. “It so happens that I attended the close air support course when I was promoted to captain. I can direct gunships or jets.”

  “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. And let’s hope these militiamen can do what we’ve trained them to do.”

  Hamadeh folded his arms and leaned against the deck. “Frank, where do you live? In the States, I mean.”

  “Arlington, Virginia. Why?”

  “Well, if a bunch of heavily armed fanatics attacked Arlington, Virginia, wouldn’t your citizens fight like hell to defend their homes?”

  A tiny prickling sensation crept up Frank Leopole’s spine. He thought: Some would and some wouldn’t. Some libs would make excuses for the attackers and then ask why the government didn’t do more.

  Rather than confess his doubts, Leopole said, “Everybody I know sure would.” Especially a redneck, tobacco-chewing ex-gunnery sergeant named Dan Foyte.

  “Well, there you go. It’s the same here, where everybody knows everybody else—and has for four hundred years.”

  * * * *

  SSI OFFICES

  Derringer took Baram back to the office and immediately convened a meeting. Everyone remotely associated with the Lebanon contract was needed, and those not present were summoned.

  Marshall Wilmont shook his head. “This makes no sense, none at all. If the Israelis themselves can’t agree on the suitcase threat, why send us chasing all over Lebanon for something that likely doesn’t exist?”

  Baram permitted himself a chuckle. “Politics, my friend. That is, Israeli domestic politics. Did you see the musical 1776? There’s a funny scene where the New York delegate to Congress is asked why he never votes for or against anything. Finally he throws up his hands and bemoans the workings of the New York legislature. He says that everybody talks very fast and very loud and nobody pays any attention to anyone else so nothing gets done.”

  “You’re saying that sounds like the Israeli government.”

  “No, I am saying that is the Israeli government!”

  Wilmont appreciated the humor. “But it doesn’t take an invasion to deal with some backpack nukes. Why not send some covert spec-ops teams?”

  “Well, let us just say that recent efforts along those lines led to your contract.”

  As SSI’s legal director, Corin Pilong knew about contracts. “Excuse me for interjecting business at this point, but if we’re going to do more than training, it should involve an amendment to the contract.”

  Baram blinked in response. He appeared surprised at the no-nonsense comment from that baby-doll face.

  “Corin’s right,” Derringer interjected. “We have a separate fee scale for training and for operations.”

  Recovering his composure, Baram waved a hand. “Given the very serious nature of the new threat, I cannot imagine that finances will be a problem. I will consult with Tel Aviv today. But I will need more information.”

  “Very well,” Derringer said. “Mordecai, if you’ll consult with Corin, I think the rest of us have a lot to do this afternoon.”

  * * * *

  Down the hall, Sandy Carmichael huddled with Matthew Finch of Personnel and Jack Peters, who usually handled SSI recruiting.

  “If we’re going after nuclear stuff again, we couldn’t do better than Bernie Langevin,” Carmichael began.

  Finch nodded. “Concur. He stuck it out all through the Chad episode and the chase for the Tarabalus Pride.”

  Peters was out of the scientific loop, and did not mind saying so. “I’ve not dealt with him. What’s the story?”

  Carmichael knew the details. “Major Bernard Langevin, PhD, USAF Reserve (Ret), has his feet in three worlds: scientific, military, and diplomatic. He’s been around the block. Got started as an under-grad physics student and went Air Force ROTC to help with tuition. He got a master’s almost for drill and could’ve stayed for twenty. But the Air Force tried to nudge him into weapons design when he was more interested in the operational end, and became a NEST officer.”

  “NEST?” Peters asked.

  “Nuclear Emergency Search Team. Or maybe it’s Support Team. Anyway, the ‘broken arrow’ guys. But there wasn’t much work along those lines so he went with the reserves for longevity and was offered a job with IAEA. Once in a while, if he has enough Merlot, he’ll tell you he wasn’t thrilled about the U.N. but the job got him to interesting places with a chance for some excitement.”

  Peters slowly shook his head. “A nuke who wants excitement? Nooo thank you. I remember a bubblehead friend of mine who said, ‘I don’t want to hear ‘Oops’ around nuclear reactors or submarines.’”

  Finch knew Langevin’s dossier almost by heart, and clearly admired the scientist. “As a onetime IAEA investigator, he’s seen the best and worst of United Nations operations and eventually he left in disgust. As he said late one night, ‘I might as well get better paid for what I know because I’ve already been ignored for it.’”

  Peters accepted his colleagues’ assessment. “Okay by me. But is he available? And what if he’s not?”

  Carmichael’s mouth curled at the edges, producing the dimples that Peters secretly admired. “Oh, Bernie’s available, trust me on that. Whatever he’s doing, he’ll jump at the chance to get his boots dirty.”

  Finch’s Rolodex memory for personnel matters did a quick shuffle. “We don’t have anybody else remotely like him, which is why he’s on retainer. If Bernie can’t go for some reason, we’ll have to get the admiral to call in some DoD markers.”

  “Okay,” Peters replied. “So who else do we need?”

  Carmichael almost hated herself for what she was about to say. “I�
�ve been thinking about the language situation. We don’t have anybody over there who speaks Arabic, Hebrew, and Farsi. But Hezbollah is heavily Iranian.”

  Finch’s eyes widened as realization dawned. “Oh, no . . .”

  “ ‘Fraid so, Matt. I’m going to ask Omar if he’ll go.”

  Peters realized the implication. “Dr. Mohammed? I know he’s a fine training officer, but how would he do in the field? I mean, he’s . . .”

  “Overweight, out of shape, and enjoys restaurants and museums. I know. But he’s the only game in town.”

  Finch shrugged. “Well, all we can do is ask. So, who else?”

  Carmichael thought for a minute. “With the guys we already have over there, probably nobody else. If there’s extra security needed, I don’t know why the Druze couldn’t help.”