Vulcan's Fire [SSI 03]

by Harold

  There was no shortage of targets. Ashcroft estimated eighty to one hundred Hezbollah fighters advancing on the village, and not many were taking fire. He reminded himself to breathe, settled down behind his FN-FAL, and began firing at attackers perhaps 150 meters out. He was jarred by occasional mortar rounds, and once ducked to avoid automatic fire, but he selected individual targets and shot at each until it fell. He was counting rounds rather than hits, and at eighteen he decided to reload.

  Something nudged his shoulder. Phil Green’s blue eyes twinkled in the gray light. “Is this a private party or can anybody play?”

  Ashcroft completed the reload and stuffed the previous magazine inside his vest. “I’m just playin’ through. Nissen wants some cover for the militia who’re pulling back to the inner line.”

  Green pointed a thumb down the wall. “If you’ll notice, you’re practically the last one here.” With that he leaned into the wall and shot the two nearest assailants, forty yards out.

  Ashcroft glanced left and right. How’s he stay so calm? He tugged on his new magazine to ensure it was seated, then looked at Green. “Set?”

  “Set!” Green shouted.

  “Go!”

  Beneath a volume of covering fire, the two Americans scrambled across the open ground between the inner and outer stone walls. They heard the Dashika’s distinctive chug-chug-chug pounding from atop the nearest building. Green had to jump two militia bodies but scooped up one of the men’s AKs en route.

  As Ashcroft and Green leapt the inner wall, the militia’s Dashika rattled out a long burst, perhaps fifteen rounds. Ken Delmore, an automatic weapons aficionado, looked up in disdain. “They’re wasting ammo. And I don’t think they’re hitting very much.”

  The big man turned and made for the external steps leading to the balcony where the Russian weapon was mounted. He was halfway up when an RPG round impacted near the top of the landing. The two Dashika gunners were wounded and Delmore was blown off the steps. He fell eight feet onto his back, landing with a discernible thud. He didn’t move.

  Pitney was first to reach him. The ex-cop ran the A-B-C assessment, then shouted, “He’s breathing!” He looked back at Delmore. “Can you hear me?”

  Delmore opened his eyes, trying to focus on something. “My back.” It came out as a croak.

  “Okay, don’t move.” Pitney called in Arabic, summoning a militiaman who spoke some English. He said, “Stay with him. I’ll be back. But don’t let him move.”

  Pitney scrambled along the wall until he found Nissen. “Delmore’s down and I think the heavy MG is knocked out. But most of the guys seem to be shooting.”

  “All right. Keep directing their fire, Robert. I don’t know why the Hezzies haven’t flanked us but they seem set on keeping up the frontal assault.”

  Pitney almost smiled. “Suits me.” He found a good position amid the Druze and began firing. Nissen watched for a moment, curious how the hottest shooter in Lebanon would handle the situation. He noted that Pitney appeared almost calm, certainly deliberate. He shot quickly but not fast. Undoubtedly the Hezbollah unit scaling the first stone wall was taking serious casualties.

  Hussain Halabi ran up to Nissen, hunched over amid the gunfire. “I think we need more men here. Let me bring half of those from the south side. They have almost nothing to shoot at.”

  “Okay, go ahead. I still don’t understand why they’re not flanking us.” Nissen patted the liaison officer on the shoulder and Halabi scampered off. He went twenty meters and fell flat. At first Nissen thought he had tripped, but when the Israeli didn’t move, the American suspected the worst. “Oh, no.” He grabbed Ashcroft again. “Help me!”

  The SSI operators ran to Halabi, and without speaking, each grabbed an arm. They pulled him into the lee of a bullet-pocked building and knelt down. Nissen turned Halabi’s head toward him. One look was enough for Nissen. “He’s had it. Must be AP ammo through the vest.”

  Ashcroft turned to resume shooting when Nissen caught him. “Tell Pitney to go to the south wall and bring half those guys back here. Hurry!”

  Nissen ensured that Pitney dashed away on his mission, then walked along the wall, stooped over to reduce his silhouette. Occasionally he stopped to double-tap an attacker but mainly he kept moving, watching for gaps, lending encouragement. When he turned back to retrace his steps he ran into Ken Delmore.

  Nissen’s brown eyes widened in astonishment. “They said you were a hard down.”

  Delmore leaned close amid the noise. “I was. Back hurts like hell.” At that, he pivoted, shouldered his custom AR-15, and looked for targets.

  Moments later Pitney reappeared with several militiamen in tow. He distributed them along the wall, but the firing had dropped off. Nissen waved to Ayoob Slim, hailing the militia commander. With Pitney on hand to smooth over linguistic difficulties, the SSI leader and the Druze chieftain reached an agreement.

  “Okay,” Nissen concluded. “We’ll keep this layout but I want the reaction force to move closer to this position. They’ve been trying to push us from the east all morning.”

  “About time for a change, don’t you think?” asked Pitney.

  “No, I don’t. These blockheads get something in mind and they stick with it. That’s why I want the reaction force closer to us than to the south.”

  “Well, okay, Chris. But it’s not much more than a squad.”

  Nissen nodded. “Yeah, I know. But we can’t stay nose to nose with these bastards indefinitely. If they throw another human wave at us, some might get through. So we need to plug the gap right away.”

  Pitney exchanged a few words with Slim, who said something and nodded vigorously. “Ayoob says he understands.”

  “All right. You and him get things sorted out. And run an ammo check. We may have to redistribute magazines between the lookers and the shooters.”

  “Okay.” Pitney thought for a moment. “The Hezzies took a beating. You really think they’ll try again?”

  Nissen grinned. “Not a doubt in my military mind. But I’m gonna check with Frank to see what’s doing at Amasha.”

  * * * *

  41

  OUTSIDE AMASHA

  Mohammad Azizi lowered his binoculars and rubbed his chin. Sprawled on a hummock half a kilometer from the village, he judged that the attack was progressing tolerably well. He accepted the handset from his radio operator and called his subordinate commander.

  “Ameen, this is Baahir. Reply.”

  The RO glanced at the leader of the security element. They exchanged knowing glances. Trust Azizi to select a grandiose call sign. Baahir meant “dazzling” or “brilliant” while Ameen was merely “trustworthy.”

  The assault commander took ten seconds to respond. “We are heavily engaged in . . .” The sound of gunfire crackled behind the voice, which faded out. Azizi waited for clarification, and when it did not come he tried again.

  “Ameen, this is Baahir. Reply.”

  “I am here.”

  “This is Baahir. Listen, I can see people fleeing the opposite side of the village. Keep up the pressure but do not prevent anyone from leaving. Acknowledge.”

  The carrier wave snapped and sputtered. Something high-pitched assailed Azizi’s ear, ending in a screech. Nearly a minute passed. Then the voice was back. “Ameen speaking. My radio operator has been killed. But I am advancing. Reply.”

  Azizi pressed the transmit button. “Baahir responding.” Long seconds passed. He tried again.

  After two more attempts Azizi passed the handset to his RO. The operator shrugged. “It seems that he can transmit but not receive.”

  “Well, there’s nothing more to be done here.” Azizi levered himself out of the prone position. He picked up his rifle and began walking downhill. “We should get closer, anyway.” When the radioman caught up with him, he added almost as an afterthought: “Try to contact the El-Arian commander. I want to know the situation over there.”

  * * * *

  AMASHA

&
nbsp; Breezy didn’t know how he got under cover. He only remembered looking into Bosco’s dead face. He was hardly aware of the gunfire around him: it was nearly constant, almost atmospheric. Just part of the landscape. Becoming aware, he remembered to run a system check on his rifle: half-empty magazine, round chambered, safety engaged. One full mag remaining.

  Steve Lee rapped on Breezy’s helmet. “You okay? We can’t stay here.”

  Breezy stared into the retired major’s face. Lee. Steve Lee. You pulled me away from . . . Bosco. He nodded. “We . . .” We what?

  Lee slapped the operator upside the head, hard. “Damn it, Brezyinski, snap out of it! We’re in deep serious here. Get your damned head back in the game!”

  The sharp blow got results. Breezy’s grief-numbed brain defaulted to shock, then anger. He opened his mouth to scream at his tormentor, then something settled in the back of his mind. He’s right. Gotta stay in the fight.

  He blinked, hard. “Okay, Major. I’m all right now.”

  “Hoo-ah!” Lee hefted Leopole’s satellite phone. “I hope to hell this battery’s good. Wasn’t time looking for another.” He glanced left and right before leaving cover, noting the growing confusion around him. Some militiamen were withdrawing slowly, firing and leap-frogging back upon each other as they had been trained. Others were scampering for cover, though none had abandoned their weapons.

  Lee inhaled, blew out the breath, and said, “With me.”

  He lunged upright, driving forward with his weight lifter’s thighs, and pivoted to cover the far end of the block. Breezy was close behind, swinging his muzzle to cover the opposite side of the street. They went ten or twelve paces when Breezy saw the projectile smoking toward them. He only had time to scream “RPG!”

  The warhead exploded within feet of Steve Lee, and he went down in a tumble. He was screaming in pain and rage, holding his ruined right leg with both hands.

  Breezy stopped, entertaining an ephemeral question: Is he done? Should I run?

  He slung his rifle and grasped the stitched cloth handle on the back of Lee’s ballistic vest. Hardly noticing the 240 pounds of man and gear, Breezy pulled Lee through an open door.

  “The radio!” Lee yelled. “Get the radio!”

  Breezy looked outside and saw the precious lifeline in the street. He glanced at Lee’s bloody leg—what was left of it—and hesitated.

  “Go, God damn it!” Lee shoved at him with one hand.

  Breezy dashed into the street, scooped up the sat phone, and dashed back inside. He unslung his medic’s kit and pulled out a tourniquet. He worked fast, almost glad to have something to occupy his mind.

  He knew that he was feeling the rising tide of panic. With an effort of will he choked it down. “It’s bad, Maje, but I can handle it.”

  Lee allowed his head to rest on the floor, not wanting to look at his severed limb. He was surprised at how little pain he felt so far. But it’ll come.

  Breezy finished tending the traumatic amputation and pulled Lee farther inside the room. Some family’s breakfast had been violently interrupted. Looking around, he saw Lee’s carbine and fetched it for him.

  “Jim Bowie,” Lee rasped.

  “What?”

  “That’s me. Jim Bowie, propped up in bed at the Alamo.” Lee emitted a giggle. “Mexicans over the wall. Gooks in the wire.”

  Breezy feared that Lee was descending into shock. In the dim light, it was possible to see his eyes dilating.

  “Major, can you stand? I can help you outside and maybe we can get help.”

  Lee shook his head violently. “No ... no. Wouldn’t make it.” He fumbled at his vest, seeking his notebook. As he patiently, deliberately wrote something, he said, “Gimme a shot.”

  Breezy reached into his bag. “You want morphine?”

  Lee clinched his teeth, biting down the rising pain. “All you got.”

  Brezyinski recoiled at the implication. “I can’t do that. You know . . .”

  Lee’s left hand was on Breezy’s throat. “Listen! I’m not gonna make it. An’ you can’t get out with me. But we can’t let them get the sat phone. Here.” He shoved the paper into Breezy’s hand. The ruled lines were crudely scrawled in black ink smudged with blood not quite dried.

  Breezy focused hard to read the words. Fatal wound, can’t move. Ordering B out with radio. Love to family. Lee.

  “Now, gimme enough morphine!”

  On by far the worst day of his life, before or after, Mark Brezyinski rolled up Stephen Lee’s sleeve, found the vein, and complied with his friend’s wish. Then the onetime happy-go-lucky paratrooper picked up the sat phone, walked through the door, and went over the wall.

  * * * *

  42

  NABATIYEH GOVERNATE

  Something was different about Imam Elham. He looked pleased for a change, standing before Hezbollah’s yellow and green flag.

  Greeting Esmaili, Jannati, and the others, he almost smiled. “I have just received a message from Brother Azizi. The operation against Amasha appears successful. Our fighters should completely occupy the village before long. Many people are fleeing.”

  Esmaili asked, “What of the attack on El-Arian?”

  “That too is successful, even with lesser goals. Our forces have prevented any reinforcement of Amasha, and the defenders are reported staying in place. Some residents also are leaving there.”

  Jannati, who listened closely and seldom spoke, ventured a question. “Imam, then when will we leave on our mission?”

  “Tonight, when there is more confusion in the dark. With refugees spreading across the countryside, it will be easier for our two teams to conceal themselves among the rabble.”

  “God is great!” Ka’bi, Jannati’s partner from Tehran, leapt to his feet. He led the others in the familiar chant. Esmaili was among the first to rise in response, mouthing the words with the others.

  We are the nation of Hezbollah!

  I shall sacrifice my life for Allah.

  I am proud.

  I am ready to sacrifice all the others in the same way.

  As the meeting broke up, Elham made that same infuriating come-to-me gesture to Esmaili. “I want to add a man to your team. He may be useful in holding any pursuers at bay.”

  “Yes?”

  “Your young marksman, Hazim.”

  Esmaili blinked in surprise, measuring his words. Hazim may fit your plans, but not mine, old man. “With respect, I prefer to leave him here with the security force. He is still learning the business of sniping and he could slow us down.”

  “Brother, his mission is to slow down those who might learn of your presence. After that, he can make his own way. If he survives.”

  Esmaili thought: Another man thrown away. For an ephemeral moment he wondered why he suddenly cared about preserving one life when he had willingly led so many others to their fate. Maybe because the firing squad dream had returned again recently.

  “As you wish, Imam.”

  Elham rewarded the chieftain with a rare pat on the shoulder. “We all serve God in our own way. You more than most.”

  * * * *

  NABATIYEH GOVERNATE

  Breezy found a depression in the ground and sat down, rifle cradled across his knees. He tried to prompt more water from his Camelbak but it was empty. He leaned back against a rock and closed his eyes, inhaling slowly, deeply.

  He saw Steve Lee lying on the floor of that house, calmly waiting for the morphine to do its merciful work.

  Breezy’s eyes snapped open. His brain began to churn. Why’d he make me do that? He could have shot himself. Maybe he’s Catholic or something. Hell, I’m Catholic—sort of—and I would have done it. Everybody knows what happens to prisoners. Your family gets to watch your head being cut off on TV.

  Mark Brezyinski was not given to rationalization. Before Amasha, his world had been ordered, if frequently violent. He had relatives whom he saw on occasion, but mostly he had SSI and his work. And Bosco. Now there was nobody to fill t
hat void, the once-in-a-lifetime friendship. Breezy knew instinctively that there would never be another, and he allowed himself to cry a little more, as much for himself as for his dead friends.

  There’s a reason I’m alive. It’s not just a crapshoot. But what is it?

  On an impulse, Breezy pulled the crumpled, bloody paper from his pocket. He looked at Steve Lee’s dying declaration. Fatal wound, can’t move. Ordering B out with radio. Love to family.