Vulcan's Fire [SSI 03] Read online

  “Well, I figure he’ll fit in because that’s his job, if nothing else.”

  Wilmont asked, “You mean he’s officially on board?”

  “No, sir. He’s officially interested. So far we haven’t formally signed anyone to this job.”

  Wilmont, who knew that elemental fact, cleared his throat. He recovered his poise by changing the subject. “Dr. Mohammed, I think we should hear your thoughts on the training angle. After all, that’s what the contract is about.”

  The director of training was, as always, prepared for questions. “Based on Mr. Baram’s information, this is a straightforward assignment. We are to help improve the standard of readiness and training for selected Druze militia units and villages in southern Lebanon. We will receive covert logistic support from the Israelis, and our team will be broken into smaller units depending on where our services are needed.

  “As of now, it looks like a bread and butter operation, the kind we have done so often before: small-arms use and maintenance, basic infantry tactics, and undoubtedly defensive measures. Hezbollah is active and often aggressive in the area, trying to expand its influence and seeking fresh advantages. It is especially interested in gaining more high ground, either for launching rockets into northern Israel or for spotting purposes.”

  Sandra Carmichael interjected, being one of the senior operations officers. “Doctor, one thing troubles me. Given the tactical and political situation on the ground, how can we reasonably expect our people to remain uninvolved? I mean, any of them could come under attack almost anytime.”

  “Quite so. That is the nature of the work, especially in Lebanon. Obviously, it is also why we have been offered so lucrative a contract.” He thought for a moment. “In their own way, the Israelis are being generous to us. After all, they could have—as you might say—low-balled us, knowing our financial situation.”

  Wilmont expressed the dominant sentiment in the room. “Let’s be thankful for small favors.”

  * * * *

  NORTHERN ISRAEL

  “It’s better you don’t look, Yakov.” The words were nearly lost in the dust and noise of the departing UH-60 Owl helicopter.

  Colonel Livni stared at the shrouded bodies laid in a row. It did not occur to him that perhaps only in the Israeli Army would a first sergeant address a field-grade officer by his given name.

  But Rav samál rishón Maier Boim was more than a fellow soldier, let alone merely a subordinate. They had first served together when Livni was a ségen, the executive officer of an infantry company. They had shared much over the years, including loss. But seldom like this.

  Livni knelt beside the longest shroud, knowing intuitively that it contained the body of his nephew. His mother will never forgive me, he told himself. Even if it wasn’t my fault, she would never forgive me. But it is my fault. I gave him the latitude to continue, knowing he would take it.

  In his mind’s eye, Yakov Livni saw the face of his sister. Even in her youth, Esther had been no beauty, and neither was her brother. But her son and his nephew was beautiful. In so many ways.

  Captain Avrim Edrim had lived by IDF law codified in the Purity of Arms. With a quiet, fierce pride, Livni recalled the time when Avri had risked censure or worse to abide by the code, protecting an obviously guilty Palestinian gunman from an outraged crowd of armed Israelis demanding street justice.

  Livni braced a hand on his knee and levered himself upright. Maier Boim moved to help his friend, then stopped in midreach. The colonel looked at the sergeant and merely nodded. “You are right, Maier.” He even allowed himself a public gesture by patting his comrade on the shoulder. “I do not need to see him like this. I should remember him as ... he was.”

  “We’ll take good care of him, Yakov. The battalion’s rabbi is on the way.”

  The pudgy old soldier straightened up, squared his shoulders, and looked around. He knew that Avri and the others would be laid in Israeli soil within the prescribed time. Taking in the ancient, disputed hills to the north, he forced his mind back to the present and the recent past. Anything to get Esther off my mind.

  “Tell me, Maier. How did it happen?”

  The first sergeant recalled the scene. It was terrible, ugly. Years had passed since he had seen nine dead Israeli soldiers.

  “It was an ambush. The boys had left a night defensive position on a small hill, apparently intending to complete their mission. We had intelligence that the Iranian . . .”

  “Yes, yes. I remember.”

  “Well, they got about 150 meters before they entered the trap. Apparently two died immediately. The others assaulted through the kill zone but didn’t get very far. Avri . . . got the farthest.”

  Livni nodded silently, slowly, knowingly, still facing south. “Was he . . .” The officer’s voice trailed off.

  “Tortured? No. Multiple hits. He didn’t last long.”

  The colonel was in control of his voice now. “What of the other boys?” He reminded himself that eight other families were about to be aggrieved.

  “Two were finished off. Head shots.”

  Yakov Livni turned in the midday sun to face the veteran NCO. “All right, Maier. You have told me what happened. Now I need to know why it happened. How did Hezbollah track Avri’s team and force it into a trap? He was too old a soldier, too smart an officer, to fall for a simple trick.”

  Boim spread his hands in a futile gesture. “Colonel, that is above my pay grade. I think you should ask the special operations branch.”

  “I intend to, First Sergeant. I intend to.”

  * * * *

  4

  SSI OFFICES

  Robert Pitney was on trial, and he knew it.

  While driving the 120 miles from Reading, Pennsylvania, to Arlington, Virginia, the prospective Lebanon team member had time to contemplate his interview with Frank Leopole and Jack Peters. Making his way to SSI’s office took some doing in the D.C. area traffic, but he parked his Nissan Xterra in the employees’ lot as directed and entered the lobby eighteen minutes beyond his ETA.

  Pitney introduced himself at the front desk and waited for his hosts to appear. It was immediately apparent who was whom: the former Marine O-5 with the high and tight haircut and the ex-Navy officer who looked completely at home in a three-piece suit.

  “Colonel Leopole, I’m Robert Pitney.” The erstwhile cop extended his hand and exchanged grips with the operations officer, hard and fast. Peters’s handshake was equally firm without the same testosterone dose. “I apologize for being late,” Pitney hastened to add. “I hope you got my cell phone message.”

  “Not a problem,” Leopole replied. “The receptionist passed your call while we were meeting with Admiral Derringer.”

  Peters was aware that the two shooters were sizing up one another. He sought to ease the atmosphere, which was neither tense nor warm. “You did well to get here when you did . . . Robert?”

  Pitney nodded. “Yes, sir. My father was Bob and I didn’t like ‘Bobby’ so I’ve always been Robert.” He grinned self-consciously. “Some people think it sounds pretentious but it’s better than ‘Hey kid.’ “

  Leopole showed the way past the desk into the office spaces. “How long did it take, Robert?”

  “I allowed three hours. I took Thirty to East York, then Eighty-three to Baltimore and Ninety-five on down, but there’s more construction and delays than I expected between here and 495.”

  “Always is,” Leopole replied. “But I don’t suppose it would’ve been much of a saving if you’d flown.”

  “No, sir. Besides, I don’t fly anymore unless I have to. The security bothers me, and it can be tedious traveling with a gun.”

  “Ah, do you have one on you?” Peters asked.

  “In the car. I figured I shouldn’t wear one in here without permission.”

  Leopole felt himself warming a bit. “Well, don’t sweat it, Robert. We’re a gun-friendly outfit. Besides, you still carry a badge, don’t you?”

  “Actua
lly, Colonel, I do not. I left my department in Massachusetts after a couple of disagreements with the chief.” He paused, testing whether the SSI men were interested in the details. He took their silence as curiosity and ventured a brief explanation. “I’m a gun guy, but most law enforcement officers, LEOs, aren’t. When I became our training sergeant I requested a bigger budget, more than just qualification. The chief wanted to put the money into surveillance gear and radios. Well, we had a couple of, ah, marginal shootings, and I told the investigators what I thought.” He shrugged. “It cost the city some money and my services were no longer required. So I moved my family to Pennsylvania.”

  “What do you carry?” Leopole asked.

  “I have two Springfield XDs in the car. A .40 and a .45.”

  Peters was puzzled. “Why two?”

  “Well, sir, if I have to use one I still have the other to get me home.”

  Frank Leopole appreciated the practical aspects of Robert Pitney’s philosophy. “I’m a 1911 man myself, but it’s not about gear. It’s about training, which is what we’d like to discuss with you.” He motioned toward a chair in the conference room and the three men settled down to business.

  Peters took the lead, as he expected. “Robert, as you know we’re forming a training team to work in Lebanon. Frankly, we’re quite enthused about your background, especially since you’re well qualified on weapons and you speak Arabic.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Peters. But I should say up front that I’m a pistol shooter and rifleman, mainly from IPSC three-gun competition. I don’t know much about belt-fed weapons and nothing about explosives. But I do have a lot of experience as an instructor, and you have the references from my police and military clients. As for the language, well, it’s mainly conversational. I’d have to study some to get up to speed in terminology for weapons and tactics.”

  Peters said, “We’ll introduce you to Omar Mohammed, our head training officer. He speaks all the major Muslim languages and can brief you on some of the technical aspects we’re addressing.”

  Leopole threw out a toss-up question. “Have you been to Lebanon?”

  Pitney’s green eyes narrowed slightly. He’s testing me to see how I think on my feet. “Twice. My wife’s family used to have business there and I’ve seen Beirut, Tyre, and Sidon.”

  “May I ask what kind of business?” Peters interjected.

  “Import-export. Last time was in 2002, but I’m not involved in that.”

  Leopole decided to cut to the religious chase. “Robert, I understand that you converted to Islam. Is that correct?”

  Pitney gave the SSI man a three-count before answering. “Colonel, Shareefa’s family is Sunni, like ninety percent of Jordanians. So that’s my affiliation, and our children’s. But if you’re wondering about me because I’m officially a Muslim, well, you already mentioned your Mr. Mohammed . . .” He allowed the sentiment to dangle in midair.

  Leopole shifted in his seat. “No, no, nothing like that, Robert. You’re right about Dr. Mohammed. He’s invaluable here. But he was born a Muslim, and I just want to clarify things. You understand that some of the operators you’d be working with might wonder why an American would convert to Islam in . . . times like these.”

  Pitney leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. “Colonel Leopole, I married Shari nine years ago. Some of my fellow policemen wondered the same thing, before 9-11. Most of them saw I was the same guy, doing the same job to the same standards as before. I was still Sergeant Pitney, not Sergeant Abdullah. The ones who let it interfere with their work got transferred to other divisions.

  “Now, my daughters inherited a tough situation. They’re growing up with kids who’ve never known anything about Islam but the war on terror. Their knowledge of Muslims is limited to suicide bombers and religious zealots. But my little girls were born in this country and they’re going to be raised as loyal Americans.” He leaned back, fingers drumming on the table. “Next question.”

  Leopole looked at Peters, who looked back at Leopole. Finally Peters asked, “Mr. Pitney, when can you start?”

  * * * *

  NORTHERN ISRAEL

  Colonel Yakov Livni brushed a topographical map with the fingers of one hand. “Solly, we need to reassess our operations in Lebanon. We’re already overextended, and it’s . . . costing us good men.”

  Brigadier General Solomon Nadel knew exactly what Livni meant. The brigade commander had attended the burial, then put it behind him. Though two years younger than his subordinate, he had more than a year in seniority, and was connected besides. Not that it mattered: they were both professionals who respected one another’s opinions, however infrequently they meshed.

  Nadel scratched his head, habitually sunburned beneath his thinning hair. He often wore his beret stuffed in an epaulette rather than wearing the ridiculous cap. Away from the troops he preferred an American boonie hat, which at least afforded some protection to the face and neck, but a Tat alúf had to set an example.

  “Yakov, I do not disagree with you. My God, you know the situation in Northern Command as well as I. The whole brigade is overextended, guarding its assigned area and supporting your Egoz boys across the border. For that matter, so is most of the Ninety-sixth Division.” He spread his hands in frustration. “I have made two requests through channels for more assets or fewer operations. The division commander supports me but Mossad and the cabinet want to keep the pressure on Hezbollah, and supporting the Lebanese is the best way to do that.”

  Livni turned away from the chart table and slumped into a camp chair. He almost upset the Galil rifle leaning against a file cabinet. The general’s personal weapon reminded him that Solomon Nadel had not always been a map reader or logistics pervader. Not so long ago he was an enthusiastic shooter, and he still kept dust on his boots most of the time.

  “All right, Solly. All right. We’ll continue doing what we can, but hear this: I refuse to commit any more understrength teams to an operation. You hear me? I absolutely refuse! If we cannot accomplish a mission with the men on hand, then I’ll pull in others to get the job done and let the other mission wait. But Ari was . . .”

  Livni choked off a sob. He swallowed hard, looking around for a glass. Nadel read the signs and handed his colleague a plastic bottle. The colonel thanked the general with a quiet nod, drank deeply, and handed back the water. When he looked up at his superior, he could not think of anything else to say.

  Nadel pulled another chair across the wood floor and sat beside the veteran commando. “Yakov, listen. The word is getting through at cabinet level. There is more support for covert operations with friendly Lebanese, especially the Druze. In fact, there’s a growing Druze presence outside the traditional areas around Beirut. I know of a couple of areas along the Syrian border. As far as I’m concerned, you’re already eligible for distribution of that intelligence, so come back tomorrow and we’ll talk again.”

  Livni stared at the floor, nodding again. At length he looked at Nadel and trusted himself to speak. “You know, Solly, I was just thinking what old Colonel Baharof used to say in command and staff school.”

  “Yes? What’s that?”

  “We operate on incomplete information, and things are seldom as good or as bad as they seem.”

  * * * *

  SOUTH GOVERNATE, LEBANON

  Ahmad Esmaili believed in thoroughness. It was one of the many reasons he was still walking the earth, praise be to Allah. Secretly he admitted to himself that he had been fortunate on several occasions, but far be it for a holy warrior to doubt that Fortune often represented the Will of God.

  At least that is what he told his superiors, let alone the occasional imam who crossed his path. The revolution had taught him nothing if not the utility of carrying a Koran and quoting it at opportune moments.

  Unlike many Hezbollah leaders, Esmaili believed in marksmanship and weapon maintenance. The former had just been put to good use, though admittedly the element of superior firepower at close ra
nge had been a major factor in slaying the Zionists. But now, after the excitement his men felt in the wake of the successful ambush, the Iranian insisted that they disassemble and clean their weapons. Properly.

  Essam Tawfiq was reassembling his RPK faster than the others manipulated their AK-47s. But then Tawfiq was Esmaili’s most experienced man, one of the few who seemed genuinely enthusiastic about small arms. That was why the Iranian had designated him the machine gunner.

  Leaning against the wall of the command building, Esmaili inserted a loaded magazine in his own rifle. Then he began refilling the one magazine he had used in the ambush. Loose rounds rolled on the tarp serving the five men nearest him. He noted that young Hazim was the next fastest in pounding his receiver cover into place, cycling the bolt twice, and tripping the trigger. True, the newcomer’s muzzle was pointed at Abdullah’s foot, but if the latter was unaware of the indignity, Esmaili was not inclined to make an issue of it. He thought, One accidental discharge now and then serves to focus the men’s attention.