by Harold
An electric tingle ran down Breezy’s spine. It wasn’t fatal. He could have survived. He just couldn’t move. So ... he was, like, saving. . . me!
In the pale gray atmosphere of midday, Breezy saw the dawn’s reality. I don’t really understand the sat phone, and probably he knew it. He could have destroyed it. But he gave me a reason to go.
So he wasn’t in shock. He was thinking clearly right up to the end.
Breezy raised his hands to his head, grasping the paper that would prove he behaved decently. For the first time he wondered whether he would tell SSI the truth of Steve Lee’s death, or whether he would put the best possible mask on an ugly face and say that the operator died before Breezy left that awful place.
He got up, looked around, and seeing nothing, began walking in the general direction of El-Arian, still rubbing the moistness in his eyes.
He had gone about a klick when he heard something that froze him in midstride. A vehicle, fast approaching. Breezy looked around, seeking a hiding spot, and found none. In desperation he sprinted downslope toward a tree but it was too far. He dived into the grass, flattening himself, rifle shouldered.
The engine sound came from a Nissan pickup with a Dashika mounted in the bed—a “technical” in Third World terms. The truck screeched to a stop about eighty meters away, off the road, with the engine idling. Two armed men dismounted. Breezy glimpsed at least two others in the cab.
The two men—surely Hezbollah—went to opposite sides of the tailgate and opened their flies. Pit stop, Breezy thought. He moved his front sight from the dismounted men to the seated occupants. He disengaged the safety, keeping his finger off the trigger.
When finished, the pair climbed back in the bed. The driver engaged the clutch and began to add throttle when the assistant gunner pounded on the cab.
He was looking directly at Brezyinski.
Amid excited jabbering and animated gestures, the jihadists focused their attention on the strange form. The primary gunner swung the snout toward Breezy and tugged on the charging handle.
Breezy shot him off the mount.
When the A-gunner stepped behind the weapon, Breezy got off two fast rounds, one of which connected. The gunner sagged into the bed, screaming in pain.
The driver accelerated, leaving one motionless body in the dirt. Breezy tracked the vehicle as best he could, but the grass blocked his view. For a moment he allowed himself to believe he was safe.
The pickup came back, stopped fifty meters away, and the passenger opened fire with the Dashika. The first burst went high. The second chewed up the grass and dirt around Breezy. He crawfished right, getting off snap shots that did no good.
Now the driver had his AK out and was firing semiauto.
Breezy rolled away again, knowing that the Hezzies had achieved fire superiority. He could not stop and take aim without giving them a better target.
He tasted raw heart, felt his urgent bladder. He had no choice— keep moving.
The next burst straddled him—rounds impacting left and right. God, God. I’m gonna die!
Abrupt silence.
Breezy moved again, saw the Nissan still there but no shooters in sight. He rose to one knee, rifle ready. What the . . . ?
Three men appeared from behind the tree he had tried to reach. They advanced at a jog, spreading out, moving professionally.
Breezy waved a joyous wave, breathing the air of the saved. One of the men waved back.
Rick Barrkman had a huge grin on his face. Breezy leapt on him and hugged his neck, pounding his tactical vest, almost crying in relief. “Man, I thought... I was dead.” He choked down a sob, rubbed his eyes that were wet again.
Rob Furr and the militiaman checked the vehicle. There was one gunshot, which told Breezy all he needed to know. After loading the bodies, the Druze got in the cab and drove the truck downslope.
Furr walked up to Breezy and placed both hands on his shoulders. “You lucky bastard! If we’d been thirty seconds later they would’ve toasted you.”
“Shit, tell me about it!” He wiped his face, gleaming with perspiration and tears. “Where’d you guys come from?”
Barrkman turned and waved to the Druze, who was bringing the Land Rover. Then he said, “We holed up for a while this morning when we saw the attacks on both villes. We waited till things quieted down and came back to the truck, then saw you. We barely had time to get our scopes on these guys.”
Breezy sucked in more air, aware that his heart was still surging. “I never even heard you shoot.”
“Not surprising.” Furr laughed. “With all that belt-fed noise.”
Barrkman cocked his head. “Breeze, if you’re out here all alone, what’s happening in Amasha?”
Breezy opened his mouth twice. Finally, he told them.
* * * *
EL-ARIAN
“It’s a mess over there.” Chris Nissen raised his hands in frustration. “Brezyinski’s version is probably the most recent, but we’ve had Druze reports that the place is still holding out.”
The erstwhile NCO paced in the room, rubbing his chin in concentration. The other SSI operators sat or stood, according to their state of fatigue. Nissen surveyed them for their current utility:
Ashcroft and Green appeared strong. Delmore talked a good game but he moved stiffly, slowly. Barrkman was composed; Furr obviously worried about his friends in Amasha. Breezy had definitely changed. The puckish, surfer dude persona was gone, probably forever. He sat against the wall, obviously brooding.
Pitney was outside, coordinating the defenses with Ayoob Slim. He’s doing good, Nissen conceded.
With seven men plus himself, Nissen had to make a decision shortly, and there was no point delaying it.
“Listen up,” he said. “I’ve been talking to Captain Hamadeh. He’s hoping for aerial surveillance to look at Amasha later today, if the weather lifts. The fact that the Hezzies haven’t hit us again leads us to think this morning’s attack was a delaying action. Apparently they didn’t want us to reinforce Frank’s garrison, and now that they probably own it, they may be satisfied. Or they might come back to pick up the pieces.”
“So what do we do, Boss?” Delmore’s voice was lighter than his back felt.
“Hamadeh hopes that some of the Amasha militia will be able to get here, like Breezy did. If so, that’s great. If not, we have to arrange contingencies on our own.”
Barrkman asked, “What sort of contingencies?”
Chris Nissen inhaled, then blew out his breath. “Okay, here it comes.
“Hamadeh has heard from his special operations liaison with Northern Command. There’s intel, considered good, that the opposition has one or more backpack nukes.”
The NCO waited for the inevitable chatter to abate. “This is not, repeat, not for distribution. But there are clandestine spec-ops teams on this side of the border, looking for infiltrators who could have the nukes. We’ve been asked to deploy one or two teams, assuming we can spare the manpower. If so, Hamadeh will notify his people to look out for us.”
Green raised a hand. “Chris, that’s not what we signed on for. The contract is training and . . .”
“Yeah, I know. I’m going to discuss that with Arlington as soon as I can. It’s still pretty early there—about 0300.” He paused, looking at the far wall. “Besides, they need to know about Frank and . . . the others.”
“There’s lots of people out wandering around, you know.” Breezy’s voice caught most of the operators by surprise. He had hardly said a word since relating the news about Amasha. “I think the Hezzies want a lot of civilians in the countryside.”
“Why’s that?”
“Cover. If there’s backpack nukes out there, it’d be easier to sneak ‘em to the border with a bunch of refugees.”
Nissen looked at Green, who nodded. “That’s a good point, Breeze. I’ll talk to Hamadeh about it.” Maybe he’s getting his edge back.
“Meanwhile, we’re getting some help from headquart
ers. There was an encrypted e-mail last night that Dr. Mohammed is flying to Beirut with a physicist. They’ll join us ASAP.”
Ashcroft perked up. “That must be Bernie Langevin! Phil and I worked with him on the yellow cake smuggling.”
Green’s mouth curled at the edges, elevating his mustache. “Only PhD that I ever met who can strip a Beretta.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s not his main credentials,” Nissen replied. “Anyway, Dr. Mohammed is coming because he speaks Farsi as well as Arabic and Hebrew. He can be a big help, especially if we tangle with some Iranians.”
Furr roused himself and made a point. “Chris, if we send teams out chasing nukes, how many guys would stay here?”
“I don’t know yet. But I think we want three or four men per team, which means no more than two teams.”
When nobody else commented, he put his hands on his hips. “Okay, that’s it for now. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear more.”
As the shooters filed out, Breezy held back. Finally he walked up to Nissen. “Sergeant, I have one thing to say.”
“Yeah?”
“If you send out a team, I’m on it.”
Before Nissen could reply, Breezy was headed for the door.
* * * *
43
SSI OFFICES
Sandy Carmichael set down the phone and sat in stunned silence. Then she removed her reading glasses, laid her head on the desk, and allowed herself to cry.
Marshall Wilmont found her that way four minutes later.
The burly, unkempt chief operating officer felt even more useless than most males in dealing with weeping women. He patted Carmichael’s back, awkwardly slipping an arm around her shoulder, and asked, “Sandy, hon. Please . . . what’s wrong?” The only reply was more sobs.
At length she raised her blond head, eyes streaming tears, and croaked out the words. “Oh, God, Marsh. They’re dead. I think they’re all dead!”
Wilmont reached over his operations officer and flipped the intercom. “Mike, you there?”
When no response came, Wilmont buzzed Derringer’s secretary. “Peggy, where’s the admiral?”
“I think he was going to see you, sir. I can . . .”
“My God, Marsh, what is it?”
Derringer appeared at Carmichael’s door. He took in the scene and reached the desk in four brisk strides. Leaning over, he grasped Carmichael by both shoulders. “Sandy! Come on, what is it?”
Retired Lieutenant Colonel Sandra Carmichael raised herself upright. She reached for a Kleenex and applied it to her ruined makeup. After blowing her nose, she found her voice.
“I just heard from Chris Nissen. He says the attack on El-Arian was a deception.” She stopped, inhaled, and exhaled. “His guys wanted to reinforce Frank’s team but couldn’t get out. They found Breezy in the countryside and . . . and . . .”
Derringer motioned for Wilmont to fetch some water.
“Go on, Sandy.”
She wiped another tear from her cheek. “Breezy said . . .” She looked into Derringer’s face. “Oh, Mike. He said they’re gone. They’re all dead!”
Wilmont set down a paper cup, which Carmichael sipped.
“Who’s gone?” Derringer demanded. “Who was with Frank?” He looked at Wilmont.
“Steve Lee went to work with Frank and one of the others moved to Nissen’s team.”
Carmichael swallowed carefully. “Amasha was Frank’s job with Steve and Bosco and Breezy. Pitney went to El-Arian with the new man, Delmore. There were one or two snipers with Frank, too.”
Derringer pulled up a chair and sat opposite Carmichael. He realized that he was into Shock, the first stage of grief, and began allowing himself to expect the worst. For the moment he would skip Denial, touch upon Anger, and default to Acceptance. Depression undoubtedly would come in its own time.
“If Nissen couldn’t get out, it sounds like Hezbollah not only took Amasha but they’re holding it.”
“What’s that matter?” Carmichael’s Alabama accent was sharp, angry.
Derringer touched her forearm. “Sandy, we still don’t know for sure if Breezy’s report is accurate. But we can’t start dealing with it until we know the local situation.” He looked at Wilmont. “Marsh, see if you can get Nissen on the satellite phone. We need more hard intel.”
As Wilmont ambled out, Carmichael eyed her boss. “That’s my department, Admiral. I can still function, you know.” Her voice was flat, accusatory.
“Not right now you can’t, Sandy. You take a little while to compose yourself, then we’ll get down to business.”
She nodded and walked from the office, headed for the ladies’ room.
Derringer watched her leave. Not so long ago she killed two men in a shootout and it hardly fazed her. But now she’s probably lost two or three friends and she can’t shoot anybody.
* * * *
HASBAYA
Bernard Langevin looked out of place in the company of Type A door-kickers. Slim and balding, he stood five feet seven and tipped the scales at 136 pounds regardless of what he ate. The fact that he held an intermediate certificate from a cordon bleu school put him in rare company for a physicist. But for the moment he deferred to SSI’s training officer.
Omar Mohammed began briefing the field team. “Gentlemen, I know that we have arrived at the worst possible time. It’s especially hard for me since I knew and worked with Frank Leopole for several years. I also knew Steve Lee and Jason Boscombe, as we deployed to Afghanistan. But we are professionals, and I know that we will continue doing a professional job.
“First: organization. Sergeant Nissen remains in charge at El-Arian, with Delmore who has a back injury. It’s a risk, but our priority is finding the backpack weapons. Chris and I talked by phone and agreed to field the most operators possible while the militia continues defending the village. Since there’s been no further attacks, that looks fairly safe.
“Now, we’re deploying two teams, each with a linguist. I’ll have one with Ashcroft, Brezyinski, and Furr. Dr. Langevin goes with Barrkman, Green, and Pitney, who of course speaks Arabic. We will be in radio contact, and if one team makes contact, we hope the other can join up. But we cannot count on secure communications, so keep that in mind.
“A couple of you know Dr. Langevin from pursuit of the Iranian yellow cake last year. For the rest of you, let me say that Bernard has a superb reputation both as a scientist and an operator.” The training director injected a wry smile into his introduction. “He is the only physicist I’ve ever known who understands the principle of the double tap and the elegance of the Mozambique Drill.”
Getting the response he desired, Mohammed continued. “With his arms control background, Dr. Langevin is of obvious help in our search for the backpack weapons. Assuming we make contact with the Hezbollah agents, he will decide how best to proceed. Since I speak Farsi, I will provide any language help required.
“Now, I’d like to ask Dr. Langevin to tell us about what we’re after.”
Aware that he was subject to testosterone-fueled scrutiny, the lithe physicist held up a photo.
“The item of interest is the RA-115 special atomic demolition munition, better known as a backpack nuke or suitcase bomb. There are other models like the 155 with different weights and yields. We might find something that nobody even knows about. But functionally they’re similar to the American Mark 54, both capable of yielding about one kiloton. The Mark 54 weighed 163 pounds while reportedly the Russian weapons are a lot less.”
Phil Green asked, “Doctor, how many nukes are we talking about?”
“Well, that’s the sixty-four-million-dollar question. Open sources are pretty consistent at about eighty 115s but I’ve seen estimates as high as two hundred fifty. When the USSR collapsed in 1990, tactical weapons were pulled back to Russia from all but three of the former republics: Ukraine, Kazakhstan, and Belarus. There’s been reports that renegade KGB agents sold some backpacks, and that’s possible because apparently some
of the weapons were kept by the KGB’s own commandos.”
“So you’re saying that both the KGB and the military had backpacks?”
“That’s how it appears. You have to appreciate how bureaucratic things were in the Soviet Union. It’s as if everybody wanted a finger in every pie: basically empire building. The main agency was called the 12th GUMO, the ministry of defense office that oversaw nuclear weapons. So you had both KGB and military Spetsnaz units capable of delivering backpacks, but the actual control and distribution of the nukes was fairly complex. I think that some were kept near operational units while others were in special depots for inventory and maintenance.”