by Harold
“Until I can see something like satellite coverage, the rest is just gossip.” He shot a quick look at the captain. “You’re old enough to know that.”
“But, Colonel. . .”
Livni cut him off with a raised hand. “I’m too old a bunny to believe every report that comes after something like this. There will be ten wrong reports for every accurate one, and later on nobody will be able to say how the ten got started.” He shook his head. “No, I’m going for a walk while I still can. You tell the on-duty staff to sort out what seems to make sense. I’ll look at those reports when I get back, then the others later on.”
Without awaiting a reply, Yakov Livni stepped off in the direction he happened to be facing. He ignored the vehicles speeding past, unconcerned that he might not be seen in the swirling dust.
Teams Gimel and Daleth were likely just dust themselves.
* * * *
47
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
Omar Mohammed asked the obvious question. “What are we up against?”
Bernard Langevin rubbed his chin in concentration. “It’s hard to say for certain, Omar. But we can make certain assumptions. A one-KT ground burst would scoop out a good-sized hole and blow radiated dirt and debris into the atmosphere. How far it would go depends on composition of the soil and current winds.”
“How close can we approach the blast zone?”
“Well, a rule of thumb for a kiloton weapon is near or total devastation within eight hundred meters with radiation extending maybe ten square kilometers. But radiation effects are extremely variable. We can probably enter the obvious blast zone for a way but it’s best to err on the side of caution. At least for a while.”
Phil Green was looking over Rick Barrkman’s shoulder, studying the map. “I have a question. If there’s another team, which way would they go? Maybe they’d go through the blast zone to shake off any pursuers.”
Barrkman looked up. “You know, that makes sense. It’s not like they’d worry about their long-term health.”
Mohammed and Langevin studied the sniper as if seeing him for the first time. The others read their expressions: They don’t expect shooters to think like that.
Finally Mohammed spoke up. “All right. I believe we can have it both ways. We will proceed with our two teams as before. Bernie knows the nuclear effects and can tell when to turn back from the blast zone. I will continue on course more directly for the border.” He looked at the grim-faced men around him. “Any questions?”
Furr asked, “What if nobody finds anything?”
“Then we will remain in radio contact. If we lose communications, we will regroup here at sunset.”
Without awaiting comment, Langevin unlimbered his Geiger counter and started walking toward the detonation site. Barrkman, Green, and Pitney followed at a greater interval than usual.
* * * *
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
They had gone far enough.
“Brothers.” Esmaili’s voice was level, even friendly.
Jannati turned at the sound and saw the muzzle of Esmaili’s AK, aimed at his chest. A single round took him off his feet as his brain registered the most important question in the universe: Why?
For Abbas Jannati, Planet Earth faded to a washed-out pale color, dimmed to gray, blurred into invisibility, and went permanently black.
He barely heard the other shots, one- and two-round sequences.
Esmaili fired deliberately, almost calmly, from the shoulder. He had already decided his engagement sequence: the leader, holding an AK, then the two security men on either side.
Modarresi Ka’bi came last.
The thirty-six-year-old fighter carried no rifle because he packed the weapon. Without time to shed his thirty-kilogram load, he could only make a vain attempt to flee, and he got perhaps ten meters before two rounds knocked the pins from under him. He hit the rocky ground face-first, beginning to feel the pain in both legs. Esmaili ended the torment with an aimed round to the cranium.
Esmaili checked the other bodies, found no signs of life, and reloaded. Then he grabbed a folding shovel, picked up the weapon, and began walking west. He was headed into the blast zone.
* * * *
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
“Did you hear that?” Barrkman asked.
Bernard Langevin stopped in his tracks. “Gunfire?”
Green nodded. “Yeah, four or five rounds.”
Barrkman pointed to his right front. “I think it was over there. Hard to tell how far.”
Langevin pressed the transmit button. “Alpha, this is Bravo. Over.”
“Alpha here.”
“We just heard shots farther into the blast zone. Maybe a klick or so west of us. We’re going to look. Over.”
“Be careful, Bernard.”
“Always. Out.”
* * * *
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
When the grass turned from brown to dead, Esmaili stopped. He set down his burden beside what appeared a hurricane-blasted tree and looked around. He noted a prominent rock fifteen meters away and unlimbered the folding shovel. Digging in the earth beside the rock, he scooped out a hole large enough to accept the backpack and stuffed it in the hole. Then he filled in the hole, spreading the excess dirt far enough away to avoid notice.
Esmaili sat on the rock, sipping water. Then he took three compass bearings and wrote them on a pad, but he felt confident of finding the place again without map references.
Good, he thought. Now I only have to find the Zionists. They will make me a wealthy . . .
The rifle bullet slashed past his right ear. Before the sound subsided, Esmaili was flat on the ground, reaching for his AK.
He squirmed to the edge of the rock, searching for his assailant. He felt the bile rising from his stomach, more from disappointment than fear.
Hazim, you damned fool! I gave you a chance to live!
When no other shots followed, Esmaili sorted the possibilities. He thinks I am dead and has left me for the jackals, which is unlikely. Or he is waiting to see if I move. Or he’s moving to a better position.
The Iranian reckoned that an ambitious, self-confident youth would not sit it out. Patience is not a youthful virtue. Therefore, he is moving, probably to my left where he gains a better view.
Esmaili low-crawled through the ruined grass, back a few meters from the trunk of the tree. In a few minutes a crouching figure approached from the west. He circled farther out than I thought. Good for you, boy. But not good enough.
From his prone position twenty-five meters away, Esmaili identified the rifle before the face. The scoped Galil told him all he needed to know. “Hazim!”
The young marksman spun at the sound of his name. Before he spotted his teacher, he felt the impact of a 7.62 round in his right shoulder. He dropped the trophy rifle and slumped to his knees, crying in anguish and in pain.
“Don’t move!”
Esmaili rose high enough to check his surroundings. Seeing no one else, he swung to his own left and approached Hazim from the right side. The stalker had crumpled to the ground, holding his shoulder with his left hand. He moaned and sobbed, talking unintelligibly.
Esmaili knelt beside his pupil and tossed the Galil away. The Iranian regarded the young Lebanese as if he were a specimen under a microscope. Pale complexion, a sheen of perspiration on the face, eyes wide.
“You were a decent pupil at one time, but you never learned to call your shots. That one went to my right. And you could not have been more than 150 meters away.” His voice carried a tsk-tsk quality.
Hazim raised himself on his left elbow. “Traitor! You murdered the brothers! I saw the bodies!”
Esmaili’s left hand snaked out, quick and hard. The blow stunned the boy for a moment. Before he could react, Esmaili said, “Fool! I gave you a chance to escape. You would have been wise to take another direction. Now . . .”
“Kill me, traitor! You’re going to do it anyway so do it now.”
Esmaili slung his AK and pulled the marksman to his feet. “You damned, stupid young idiot!” He shook the boy roughly, causing a yelp of pain. “You can still get out of here.” He shoved Hazim eastward and retrieved the Galil.
“You’re . . . you’re not going to kill me?”
Esmaili waved violently. “Go! Just go!”
Still disbelieving, Hazim forced himself to walk. Amid the pain and weakness, he tried to sort out the rationale for letting him live. Surely the Teacher knew that if Hazim recovered he would tell what the Iranian had done, where he had buried the weapon. But why send him away? Why . . .
Hazim looked back, saw Esmaili traipsing ten paces behind him. They had gone about two hundred meters and the Lebanese countryside lay before them. Israel was somewhere off to the right. Maybe the Teacher was going there . . .
The round from Esmaili’s AK struck Hazim at the base of the skull.
Accelerating his pace, Esmaili barely looked down. I couldn’t leave a corpse so close to the weapon.
* * * *
48
NABATIYEH GOVERNATE
Ahmad Esmaili saw them before they saw him.
He went prone in the grass, now brown again rather than dead. He looked at them through Hazim’s scope. Four men, all armed, perhaps three hundred meters. He decided to let them approach.
When it was obvious that the searchers would pass barely one hundred meters from him, Esmaili laid down his rifles. He stood up, raised his hands, and began walking. It is worth the risk.
Pitney saw him first. In Arabic he shouted, “Do not move!”
Esmaili froze in his tracks. He recognized the intruders as professionals.
While Barrkman and Green kept watch, Pitney and Langevin talked to the stranger who seemed to wander alone and unarmed in an extremely violent place. But first they searched and cuffed him.
“What was the shooting over there?” Pitney asked.
“Oh, four men were killed. Nobody else was there.”
The cop in Robert Pitney began to surface. “What are you doing out here by yourself?”
Esmaili decided now was the time. “I have knowledge of a nuclear weapon and wish to sell that information to the Israelis.”
Half an hour later Omar Mohammed arrived. He deployed Ashcroft, Brezyinski, and Furr on perimeter security, then looked at the man who gave his name as Ahmad Esmaili. Mohammed took a chance and asked in Farsi, “How is it in Tehran?”
Esmaili smiled, feeling increasingly confident. “There is much nuclear activity, my friend. I was with Dr. Momen recently.” He raised his manacled hands. “I could show you.” Mohammed uncuffed him, explaining, “He says he knows of a weapon.”
Langevin was skeptical. “How can he prove that? And where is it?”
After the translation, Esmaili tore a page from his notebook and handed it over. Langevin recognized a reasonably accurate set of Cyrillic letters and numbers. “This is a serial number of a nuclear demolition device?”
Mohammed confirmed that it was.
“Where is it?”
Esmaili grinned self-confidently. “That information will cost the Zionists a great deal of money.”
* * * *
NORTHERN ISRAEL
“Colonel!” The captain ran to Livni as he entered the operations block. “Colonel, we just heard from the American team. They have a Hezbollah officer who claims he has hidden a suitcase bomb.”
“Where?”
“Eight kilometers over the border, on the fringe of the detonation zone.”
Livni absorbed that message, rubbing his stubbled chin. “Well, he’s not going to give it to us for the asking. What does he want? Money? Asylum?”
The captain nodded. “Correct on both counts. Two million American dollars, a new identity, and a passport to anywhere on the planet.”
“Well, I can’t make that promise, and even if I did, he wouldn’t believe it. So what does this man expect? We can’t have him and the Americans standing around in the dark while Tel Aviv sends diplomats into the Lebanese countryside.”
“The American scientist, Dr. Langevin, suggests that he and the head of the team come here with the Hezbollah man. We can keep them safe until Tel Aviv figures out what to do.”
Livni rubbed his neck. “Meanwhile, what about the weapon? Anybody could find it and take it.”
“Yes sir. That’s why this Esmaili suggests that we make a deal— fast.”
“All right. Bring them in. And see if the other Americans need a flight to El-Arian.”
The aide raised a hand. “But, sir, what about approval to enter Lebanese airspace?”
For once, Livni actually smiled. “When I was in Washington I learned a wonderful philosophy: it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”
* * * *
SSI OFFICES
Derringer took the call from Nissen. “Yes, Chris! Talk to me!”
“Admiral, I figure you could stand some good news. Our guys found a Hezbollah operative who had another bomb. Evidently this guy snuffed his teammates and stashed the nuke. He wants to sell it. Now he’s in Israel with Dr. Mohammed and Dr. Langevin. They’ll stay with him until the Israelis figure what they’re gonna do.”
“Was anybody hurt?”
“Ah, nosir. For a change.”
“What about the rest of the team?
Nissen chuckled. “They’re back here, enjoying some MREs and local wine. Things have calmed down here, but with nukes in the picture, I think the Lebanese Army will kick the Hezzies out of Amasha.”
Derringer forced the nuclear concern to the back of his mind. “So there’s nothing new about Frank and the others?”
“Ah, nosir.” After a pause, Nissen added, “I just don’t think they made it, Admiral.”
“Very well. I want everybody to sit tight. Don’t leave the village, Chris. We’re going to see about terminating the contract and bringing everybody home.”
“Works for me, sir.”
Derringer hung up and turned to the staffers who had been waiting for the call. He focused on Corin Pilong. “What do you think, Corin? Can we get out of the remainder of the contract?”
The Filipina’s huge brown eyes gleamed in response. “Admiral, the first thing I learned is that it takes two willing parties to write a contract but only one of them to end it. Without mutual consent there’s little prospect for getting through the term of the agreement.”
“Barring litigation, of course.”
“Well, ordinarily I would agree. But if ever there were unusual circumstances, this is it, sir. After all, a nuclear device has exploded in our client’s area—the venue, if you will—and there is a clause providing for discussion of termination owing to acts of God and extenuating circumstances and—”
“And yadda-yadda. Et cetera, et cetera.”
The icy brain behind the baby-doll face caught her employer’s mood. “Ditto, ditto. And so on and so on . . .”
Marshall Wilmont could stand only so much sitcom banter. “If I might interject, it seems that with the Lebanese Army and the U.N. and just about everybody else in the region swarming through that area, a temporary peace is about to break out.”
“Concur,” Carmichael added. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? A small nuke goes off, and suddenly everyone wants to get along. Even the Israelis and Iranians are talking, though of course neither side is going to admit it.”
Derringer leaned back in his overstuffed chair, hands behind his head. “You know, it could be that Hezbollah will be the big loser, once the damage is fully assessed and the bodies are buried. Nobody with an ounce of objectivity thinks anyone but Hezbollah was behind the nuke, and those who claim otherwise are just going to look damned silly.”
Wilmont cocked his head. “So you think that Iran and Syria will try to put a happy face on their role in this?”
“Guarandamntee it, Marsh.”
“Well, the Lebanese and the Israelis aren’t going to buy it.” When Derringer made no reply, Wilmont added, �
�Are they?”
The president of SSI abruptly brought both hands down on his desk, loudly. “No, they’re not going to believe it, but I’d bet my retirement that they’re going to pretend that they do.”