Vulcan's Fire [SSI 03] Read online

  “Very well,” Derringer interjected. “However, I’ll arrange for Frank and Sandy to meet with our Israeli liaison. He’s the one who contacted me, and in fact he expects to coordinate with our operations officers in drafting a presentation for the people we’ll use. It will probably be a few days.”

  “Sir, who is the contact?” Leopold asked.

  “Mordecai Baram. Officially he’s their embassy rep for science and agriculture but obviously he does other things as well.”

  Sandy Carmichael leaned her elbows on the table. “Frankly, sir, that makes me nervous. We relied on one major contact with the yellow cake mission and we got hammered as a result. I’d feel better if we had broader support, from their embassy and maybe some military folks. Later we’ll need more . . .”

  “Yes, that’s been arranged,” Derringer replied. He looked around the room. “Remember, everyone, this is a fairly large operation, requiring detailed coordination as well as secrecy. If you’re thinking that’s a tall order, you’re right. There are multiple layers with multiple players, including third-party nationals. But we are not—I repeat not—going into this project with our eyes half open. I’ve had a couple of frank discussions with Mr. Baram, who seems to understand our concerns. He’ll be here in person in a few days and I think you’ll find him open and knowledgeable.” He paused, sensing the mood in the room. It came to him as a mixture of anticipation leavened with skepticism.

  “All right, then. Sandy, Frank, you’re authorized to start compiling a preliminary list of operators. Matt Finch already has a heads-up, combing the data bank for those with instructor backgrounds, Mideast experience, and Arabic language. As usual, we’ll go with Omar on a training program.”

  As the meeting broke up, Leopole and Carmichael retreated to a far corner. “Whatchutink?” he asked.

  “I think, better the devil you know than the one you don’t.”

  “Well, we know this one,” Leopole replied, “and that’s the devil we’re dancing with.”

  * * * *

  SOUTH GOVERNATE, LEBANON

  “There they are.”

  The Hezbollah scout was twenty-two years old and had nearly seven years of experience. He knew the area intimately, from the days he played hide-and-seek with his two brothers and five cousins.

  Of those seven playmates, two cousins were still living; one remained addled after a miraculous survival from an Israeli shelling several years ago.

  The scout had noticed the Israeli-Druze team taking a night defensive position just below the crest of a hummock. It was well chosen, for though the position was only about eight meters above the surrounding terrain, it afforded an excellent view of most approaches. If not for a metallic glint in the slanting light, the Zionists might have gone undetected.

  Ahmad Esmaili squatted beside his Lebanese colleague and squinted into the sunset. He detected nothing—no reflection, no movement. “You are certain?”

  Tawfiq merely nodded, keeping his eyes on the rock pile that was his reference point.

  “What is on the reverse slope?”

  “More rocks, a little steeper. They will have one or two men watching that side.”

  Esmaili thought for a moment. This was a rare opportunity and he wanted to optimize it. “Do you think these are the ones who have been hunting us?”

  Another nod. Tawfiq was a man of deeds, not words.

  Esmaili patted the scout on the shoulder. “Keep looking.” Then the Iranian slid sideways, rejoining the rest of his patrol in the brush. Gathering his fighters around him, he sketched the situation in the dirt. “The Jews are on this small hill about seventy meters ahead. They are positioned to watch all approaches so we will wait.”

  “How long, Teacher?” Sarif was new; devout beyond all question and eager to learn but also too eager to act.

  An orange-yellow wolf’s grin shone on the evening’s face. “Until they come to us.”

  “Why will they do that?”

  “Because they must.”

  * * * *

  3

  SOUTH GOVERNATE, LEBANON

  Dawn’s gray hues stretched themselves across the landscape, revealing the eastern slopes of Al Janub’s hummocks and hills. Well concealed within the shadows, the Hezbollah fighters had been deployed for nearly an hour before they saw movement on the hill.

  Ahmed Esmaili had considerable knowledge of ambushes, and he was well enough educated to share the Christian sentiment that ‘tis more blessed to give than receive. He was confident that the Zionists descending the higher terrain were unaware of the ballistic gifts he intended to dispense.

  * * * *

  A whisper slid through the dawn. “Avri, I’ve got something.” Golem lowered the Galil with a Litton generation III thermal sight and compared the green image he had just seen with his unaided vision.

  “What is it?”

  The designated marksman leaned forward from his sitting position beside a Joshua tree. “About 120 to 150 meters or so, on the far side of that gully. It’s not moving but there’s some kind of heat source.”

  Avrim Edrim knelt beside the shooter. “Could it be an animal?”

  The rifle was back on Golem’s shoulder, his master eye scrutinizing the object. “Maybe. It’s an irregular shape. Probably behind a shrub or something.”

  “Take your time. See if there’s anything else out there.” Then Edrim emitted a low whistle, catching the attention of the other eight men. The nearest pair saw him gesture palm down and passed the word. In seconds the team disappeared behind rocks and foliage.

  Two minutes passed in the gathering light. At length, Golem lowered his Galil. “There’s another source maybe one hundred meters northeast. The first target still has not moved.”

  The captain leaned close. “Go back to the top and scan the other side. If there’s no sign, we’ll leave that way. Use your radio.”

  Golem cradled his Galil and, taking care to guard the expensive optic, crawled toward the crest.

  The radio operator snaked his way to the team leader. “Avri, how long can we stay here? If we don’t get going we’ll . . .”

  “I know that!” The words snapped out, harsher than intended. But the youngster was right. If the team did not get off the hummock before long, the Israelis risked being trapped by the stalkers who might be waiting in the brush. Still, that was far better than getting caught in the open.

  The carrier wave crackled in Edrim’s headset. “Avri, there’s nothing in the scope. But that doesn’t mean nothing’s there.”

  Edrim turned to his Druze guide. “Hamzah, you know this area.”

  The militiaman nodded gravely. “Surely. My family has—”

  “What’s the terrain west of here for three hundred meters?”

  The Lebanese glanced over his shoulder, toward the dawn. “Just like that. Maybe more foliage, some trees . . .”

  “Lots of places for an ambush.”

  Hamzah permitted himself an ironic grin. “Captain, this is Lebanon.”

  The officer rolled onto his stomach and pulled out his map. Using a red-lensed flashlight, he studied the geometry of the situation. His objective was a cluster of buildings four kilometers away. Intelligence—for whatever that was worth—thought that a Hezbollah cell led by a competent Iranian would be there sometime this morning. Deciding to enter the area on foot, Edrim had shunned helo and ground transport in an effort to surprise his quarry. Now he had to consider that his men were the target, afoot deep in hostile territory.

  The shadows slowly receded on the hummock, forcing the Israeli into a decision. We’re running out of time. Rising to a crouch, he signaled his men. With a motion of his left hand he indicated an exit over the crest, into the darkness to the west.

  * * * *

  Less than 150 meters away, another radio carried a terse message. “They are moving. As you expected.”

  Esmaili almost smiled to himself.

  The Iranian pressed his transmit button. “Wait my command.”
/>   * * * *

  Avrim Edrim glanced around him. His team was deployed properly— a small wedge-shaped formation that provided both frontal and flank protection, though it was difficult keeping alignment in the broken ground. He wished yet again for his missing three men: they would have provided another maneuver element besides additional firepower. But as he had told Uncle Yakov, one had to accept risks, and the need was deemed urgent. If only . . .

  Automatic fire. Both sides, under twenty meters. Muzzle flashes sparkling in the growing dawn. Men down. No time to stop. Choke down the bile rising in the throat, ride the adrenaline spike, focus it. Use it. Assault out of the kill zone.

  Booted feet pounding over the rocks and scrub brush. Hosing short, ill-aimed bursts at the enemy muzzles. Nearly there, almost to the thicket.

  Hammer blows to thigh and pelvis. Something awful happening down there. Legs not responding. Sudden realization of one’s face in the brambles. Arms still work but fingers have lost fine motor function. Pull the rifle forward from belt level. Bolt locked back: reload. Hands fumble for a spare magazine.

  It’s so quiet!

  That means it’s over. They’ve killed us.

  “Three men: I should have waited for three men.” Coppery taste in the mouth, energy draining away ... so ... so tired.

  * * * *

  “What did he say?” Esmaili spoke little Hebrew.

  Tawfiq had some difficulty understanding the Jew’s words, choked as they were. “Something about more men. Three men.”

  Two gunshots snapped out behind the Iranian. He did not bother to look back; his men were experienced and did what needed doing.

  “This one was the leader,” Tawfiq added. He leaned down and picked up the officer by the hair. “He will not last.” He retrieved the officer’s map case and handed it over.

  Esmaili accepted the documents but wasted no time. He could examine them at leisure in more secure surroundings. Finally he took in the scene: it was much as the aftermath of most ambushes. He had been on the receiving end himself on two occasions. “None left to question?”

  Hazim trotted up. “No, Teacher. Most were already dead. The others . . .”

  The youngster had picked up a Galil with an impressive optic. Other Hezbollah fighters were slinging additional Israeli rifles and satchels over their shoulders.

  Hazim saw a chance to ingratiate himself with his mentor. “An excellent plan, Teacher. Leaving two men to be seen by the night-vision device sent the Jews off the hummock, into the trap.” He smiled in the fresh daylight. “They came to us, as you said.”

  The Iranian ignored the sycophancy but noticed that the boy had done reasonably well during the brief episode. He had even remembered to reload when it was over.

  “Teacher, I wonder . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Hazim hefted the scoped Galil. “How did you know they would have night vision?”

  Esmaili shrugged dismissively. “The Americans provide the Jews with everything they want. This time was no different.”

  “Ah, I see.” Obviously he did not, but it mattered little. “But if they did not have the device?”

  “Then I would have followed the alternate plan, of course.” The Iranian found the youth’s manner consistently irritating. Without elaboration, the leader formed up his team. “This position soon will be untenable so we are rejoining the others. But you all did well, brothers. We are one step closer to our goal in this area.”

  With that, Esmaili turned and began walking southeasterly. He could not admit to his men that he had not been told the nature of that goal.

  * * * *

  SSI OFFICES

  Marshall Wilmont opened the meeting. “So, who do we need for this job? And who’s available?” He addressed the question to the room but intended it for Jack Peters.

  As a former Army officer with experience in two other private military contractors, Peters was valued as SSI’s human resources chief. However, he cordially detested the title, which Wilmont insisted upon for Beltway reasons. “I was a freaking S-1 in the Army,” Peters insisted, “and I’m a freaking S-1 now, whatever the letterhead says.”

  Everyone present knew that Peters enjoyed minimizing his military record. He had been hired partly on the strength of his Special Forces background, and had been lured away from another successful PMC where he demonstrated a knack for scouting fresh talent.

  Peters responded to Wilmont’s rhetorical question with some specifics. “Well, sir, it’s much as we expected. The contract calls for training experience, preferably with Arabic speakers. We’re always short of those, but I’m reaching out to Dave Main again.” He smiled to himself. “After he raided the gene pool at Fort Bragg for the last job, he probably has to grow a mustache and carry a broom to get near anybody down there anymore.”

  Even Wilmont appreciated the humor. As the firm’s DoD liaison, Colonel Main was not above dipping his PMC ladle into sensitive waters when SecDef wanted something done quickly and quietly. “Well, he certainly delivered the goods for the Chad operation,” Wilmont conceded. “I just wonder how many more Arabic linguists we can pilfer . . . er, recruit. . . who can also perform as weapons and tactics instructors.”

  Peters shuffled his briefing papers. “Well, sir, we have commitments from most of the Chad team except Gunny Foyte.” He glanced at Frank Leopole. “I understand that Gunny has a redheaded priority these days.”

  Leopole did not try to suppress a grin. “That’s affirm. Besides, he didn’t relate real well to the Africans. Kept lapsing into his redneck mind-set and calling them ‘boys.’ He didn’t mean it as ‘house boys’ or anything—he just meant ‘guys’ but you can imagine how that went over.”

  “In that case, it’s just as well we won’t have him calling Lebanese militiamen ‘ragheads’ or worse,” Peters replied. He returned to his roster. “We can count on Bosco and Breezy, of course—they’re always willing to add to their IRAs—plus Chris Nissen and Josh Wallender. Chris is golden: small-arms instructor and Arabic speaker. Josh is a good man, mostly a commo guy, who speaks French.” Peters looked up. “Some of our clients are likely to be French speakers so that can help.”

  “What about Johnson?” Leopole asked.

  “I have a call in to him. Some of you know that J. J. has, well, issues about going into the field again. I can’t blame him after the way al Qaeda tortured him in Afghanistan. Frankly, I was surprised he went to Chad, but of course that also was a training mission.”

  “I’d like to have him if we could,” Leopole replied. The former Foreign Legion veteran was not only fluent in French, but an excellent instructor who spoke a smattering of Arabic.

  “Hey,” Leopole exclaimed. “What about Vic Pope? He outdid himself in the Chadian maritime op.”

  Peters shook his head. “I already asked. He’s not interested in most jobs above the high tide mark these days.”

  The former Marine was clearly disappointed. “I’d feel better if he were with our people. I never knew a better man in a tight spot.” He grimaced as much to himself as anyone. “But I guess SEALs like to keep their feet wet.”

  “Who else, Jack?” Wilmont wanted to keep things on track.

  “Several other operators we’ve used before, but none with language skills. Ashcroft, Barrkman, Furr, Green, Jacobs, Olson, a couple of new guys. Then there’s . . .” He flipped through his papers again.

  “Pitney. Robert Pitney. Former cop, been to Lebanon and speaks good Arabic.”

  Leopole leaned forward on his elbows. “But what’s his military background?”

  Peters shook his head. “None. Main heard about him through shooting circles. He’s a nationally ranked action pistol shooter, won the Bianchi Cup two years ago.”

  “How’s a guy like that speak Arabic?”

  “He married a Jordanian gal and learned the language to please her family. Ah ... he also converted to Islam.”

  Wilmont rubbed his chin. “He converted to marry this lady?”

>   “Affirmative. They have two children.”

  Leopole drummed his fingers on the table. The cadence was a tattoo accompanying the silent strains of John Philip Sousa. For the Eighth and I parade ground Marine at HQ in D.C., “The Thunderer” beats “Stars and Stripes Forever” every time. “Sounds like a great catch, especially knowing the culture and the language. But. . .”

  “Yeah,” Wilmont interjected. “How’s he going to fit in with the others?”