Vulcan's Fire [SSI 03] Read online

  As Hazim laid his weapon on the tarp—muzzle pointed away from the group—the boy looked around, obviously pleased with himself. He accepted his leader’s tacit praise, expressed by a nod of the head and the faintest of smiles. It had been a very good day for the neophyte fighter. He had claimed two of the Israelis, being certain of at least one, proven his worth to his fellow jihadists, and won the quiet approval of the man he most respected.

  And something more. Hazim reached behind him and produced his prize, the Galil with side-mounted dovetail base to accept the weight of the American night scope. Nobody else had tried to usurp the treasure, but neither had Esmaili nor Tawfiq pronounced that he might keep it. Rather than delay the resolution, he ventured a question.

  “Teacher, what shall we do with this?”

  The Iranian extended a hand, and noticed the boy’s ephemeral delay in passing it over. When the weapon was relinquished, Esmaili made a point of grunting at the nine-kilogram weight. Some of the other men laughed in appreciation, exchanging knowing glances. One whispered to a friend, “Perhaps now Hazim knows why none of us wanted it!”

  Esmaili removed the magazine and locked the bolt open. The muzzle incident moments before had happened to someone else. This latest breach had occurred to the leader. “Did I fail to teach you proper manners, boy? I believe that I did when you joined us. But that was weeks ago, and my dimming memory serves me poorly these days.”

  Hazim blushed beneath his tan. His eyes lowered to the tarp as he muttered a muted apology.

  Tawfiq shot a mirthful glance at his friend and colleague. He always enjoys times like this. Now he will regain the young fool’s devotion.

  The leader made a point of visibly checking the chamber, then pretended to look through the Litton optic. With a dissatisfied grunt he handed the Galil back, followed by the magazine. “For your lapse in weapon handling, your punishment shall be to carry this burden for as long as it remains workable.”

  Hazim’s carpenter hands wrapped around the scarred stock, then cradled the captured rifle in a gesture more befitting a parent with a child. “Thank you, Teacher! I promise my best efforts to learn this rifle’s proper use.”

  The Iranian waved a cautionary finger. “That means you will have to find a source of American ammunition for it and suitable batteries for the scope.”

  Hazim’s smile faded at the realization of the challenge he now faced. He did not even know the designation of the 7.62x51 NATO cartridges remaining in the magazine. As for batteries . . . where did they fit in the scope?

  Esmaili and Tawfiq smiled broadly at one another. Each knew that the Iranian possessed both ammunition and batteries, but would reveal neither until the boy had worked himself into a quandary trying to solve the problem he had just brought upon himself.

  * * * *

  5

  SSI OFFICES

  The Lebanon team was taking shape.

  Frank Leopole and Omar Mohammed presided over the first assemblage, Leopole as operations officer and Mohammed in charge of training.

  “Now,” Leopole began. “Since I have no other pressing commitments, I’ll take the lead with our in-country team, at least in the beginning.”

  Some knowing glances were exchanged in the audience. The message was tacitly clear: since SSI lacked meaningful employment with the U.S. Government, the firm’s operations officer had nothing to keep him home. Besides, he had not smelled gunpowder since the Afghanistan contract and was between significant others. In short, the timing and circumstances were favorable.

  Sitting near the back of the room, Lieutenant Colonel Sandra Carmichael folded her arms and feigned indifference. Alternating with Leopole as the company’s director of international operations, by rights the option to take a foreign-deployed team should be hers. But not even a West Point ring and “U.S. Army (Ret)” behind her name could overcome most cultural barriers. Not for the first time she regretted that so many SSI contracts involved Islamic nations, where a white American female would not be well received. She let her notepad slide to the seat beside her, musing that while Leopole got the potential for some trigger time, she was obliged to produce some additional overseas business.

  The dozen men occupying the chairs in the briefing room were mostly known to one another but Leopole wanted everyone familiar with their teammates. He began by introducing most of the regulars.

  “I think all of you know Jason Boscombe and Breezy Brezyinski. But Bob Ashcroft, Phil Green, Jack Jacobs, and Jeff Malten also are among our old hands. More recently we’ve acquired the services of two of Fort Bragg’s finest, Chris Nissen and Josh Wallender, who have deployed with us to Africa. They’re well qualified in small-arms and small-unit tactics and are cross-trained as medics or communicators.

  “Our snipers are Rick Barrkman and Robbie Furr. They sort of lurk in the background and don’t talk very much, except to themselves.” Since the pair had in fact sat in the rear row, the observation drew the chuckles he expected. “They deployed with us to Afghanistan a while back, and they’ll introduce our clients to precision rifles in Lebanon.”

  Leopole glanced around, taking stock of the audience. His gaze came to rest on the newest acquisition. “Also, I want to recognize Robert Pitney, who’s probably known to you who follow the shooting sports. Robert, would you introduce yourself?”

  Pitney briefly stood and faced the audience. “I’m Robert Pitney, Reading, Pennsylvania. Former police training officer, full-time firearms instructor and competition shooter.” With that brief statement, he sat down.

  Leopole interjected. “Robert’s being modest. In case any of you don’t know, he’s one of the best pistol shooters in the country. He’s won the Bianchi Cup and he’s also a top-ranked competitor in three-gun matches. He’s married to a Jordanian lady and speaks pretty good Arabic.” For the moment Leopole decided to omit Pitney’s religious preference.

  Chris Nissen raised a hand. “Excuse me, sir. What’s the Bianchi Cup?”

  Leopole nodded to Pitney, who obviously did not want to be seen blowing his own horn. “It’s the national action pistol championship. There’s categories for iron sights or red dots.” He grinned. “I finally put it all together and won the open category.”

  Two rows away, Breezy leaned over to Bosco. “Man. If that guy can shoot with Leatham and Koenig, he’s gotta be some talent.”

  Bosco was unconvinced. “Dude, shooting falling plates ain’t the same as whacking bad guys who want to whack you.” He looked at Pitney from behind, noting the former cop’s well-developed shoulders. “I wonder if he ever capped anybody.”

  Marc Brezyinski regarded his partner and saw an opportunity for mischief. “Why don’t you, like, ask him?”

  Jason Boscombe shrugged off the suggestion. Both operators knew The Code: you never asked another shooter if he had ever scored. It was just plain rude, like asking someone his bank balance. Besides, eventually the word got out, either by professional reputation or in the course of relating war stories.

  Privately, Bosco considered himself a superior trigger man. He prided himself on his marksmanship, but it had nothing to do with his expert rifleman badge. He knew that he was better than Breezy, who was generally unconcerned with interpersonal rivalries. Among those present, only Barrkman and Furr were acknowledged better riflemen but they plied the sniper’s arcane art, which was distinct from the stand-up kind of combat that Bosco practiced.

  Leopole was speaking again. “As usual, we’re short of language specialists. Pitney and Nissen speak passable Arabic while Wallender is qualified in French, but Mr. Baram assures me that there’ll be English speakers on the other end.”

  “Hey, speaking of French, any word from J. J.?” Boscombe seldom was reluctant to interrupt anyone. His partner Breezy said, “You know Bosco: never an unspoken thought.”

  “No, it looks like Johnson’s sitting this one out.” Leopole decided that he did not need to elaborate. The former Foreign Legionnaire had endured a brutally brief time in al Qa
eda captivity in Pakistan, accepted a subsequent training job in Chad, then returned to Idaho. “But he’s still available for domestic work.”

  The former Marine officer resumed his personnel rundown. “Malten and Brezyinski have combat medic ratings, and we’ll have them update everybody before we leave.”

  Chris Nissen’s baritone rose out of the second row. Sandy Carmichael would never admit it, but she always enjoyed the Special Forces sergeant’s Barry White voice. “Colonel, I realize this is a preliminary briefing, but I’m wondering how much we can expect to get shot at.”

  “Well, I’d put the odds at better than fifty percent. That’s why you’re getting the hazardous duty bonus in addition to the overseas base pay.”

  * * * *

  SOUTH GOVERNATE, LEBANON

  “Teacher, you have a visitor.”

  At the sound of Hazim’s voice, Ahmad Esmaili was immediately alert. The Iranian had hoped for an afternoon nap, an ambition that was as rare as his ability to accomplish it. Ordinarily he kept going, remaining focused on each task as it arose. He had not lived through the previous thirty years by taking anything for granted. Multitasking was fine for those who could do it, but inevitably most of them overlooked something. Therefore, Esmaili had taken to making lists. At least he did not yet require spectacles to read them.

  The Hezbollah leader slid his feet into his sandals and arose from the cot. “Who is it?” He tasted the morning taste and wanted something to rinse out his mouth—neither tea nor water. Banish such thoughts, he told himself.

  “He calls himself Mohammad. He said to give you this.”

  Esmaili accepted the business card. The Farsi inscription was as simple as an ice pick through the eye. “Dr. Gholamhossein Momen, Tehran.” Below the printed name was a handwritten line: My son, Please come with Mohammad Azizi. Dr. Momen.

  Hazim saw the expression on his master’s face and felt a tiny shiver somewhere inside. In all the time the youngster had worked with Esmaili, never had the Iranian betrayed any emotion other than mild satisfaction or icy anger. The fact that Esmaili was obviously impressed with the obscure name on the card was in itself—impressive.

  “Bring him in,” Esmaili said. His voice was quiet, respectful.

  Hazim and one of Esmaili’s bodyguards returned with the visitor, who regarded the Hezbollah operative with a calm demeanor and steady eyes. He introduced himself as Mohammad Azizi, also of Tehran. Esmaili made a quick assessment and determined that it might even be the man’s true name.

  “Assalamu Alikum we Rahmatulah wa Barakatu.” Esmaili spoke Arabic for the benefit of his Lebanese colleagues.

  “And peace and the mercy, and blessings of Allah be upon you,” the guest returned, shaking hands. He accepted a seat at the table in the small kitchen while Hazim poured tea and produced a plate of thin wafers. After the perfunctory formalities were concluded, Esmaili dismissed his acolytes with a flick of his head.

  He faced Azizi, mindful that whatever the courier knew about Dr. Momen, it could be a ruse. Therefore, Esmaili kept the table between them, his right hand on his belt with the holstered Sig. He noted that the visitor kept both hands flat on the tabletop, apparently as a sign of good faith.

  Azizi spoke first. “I believe that you are familiar with Dr. Momen.”

  Esmaili nodded slowly, gravely. “Yes. I worked for him several years ago. As part of his security detail.”

  “At the research institute.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Correct.”

  The courier drummed his fingers briefly. “He remembers you, brother. And your devotion to the cause of Islam.”

  There was only one response. “I am honored. May the blessings of Allah be upon him.”

  Azizi felt more confident, or at least more comfortable. He crossed his arms and leaned toward his host. “The doctor would speak with you again, in person. If you are willing . . .”

  Ahmad Esmaili knew an order even when couched as an invitation. “Certainly I am willing. But obviously it will not be here.”

  “No, no. In Tehran.” Azizi glanced around, as if ensuring there were no eavesdroppers. Esmaili suspected that the gesture was more for effect than for real. “You will understand the need for caution. Even our most secure radio links can be compromised, so I was sent to, ah, invite you to return home for a visit.” He smiled knowingly. “It must be some time since you saw your family.”

  “When would I leave, and for how long?”

  Azizi leaned back, fully at ease now. “If you can arrange matters here, in perhaps two days. We would be in Tehran for three or four days, then return.” He ran the numbers in his head. “Say, ten days in all.”

  “Then we can leave day after tomorrow.”

  “That is excellent,” the messenger replied. “But you will not be coming back here. The plan calls for your group to move to an area closer to the Syrian border, so make arrangements before you leave.”

  Esmaili did not enjoy receiving orders from a stranger, but if Azizi spoke for Dr. Momen, there was no arguing. The Hezbollah chief heard his voice say, “It will be done.”

  * * * *

  6

  SSI OFFICES

  “In your American phrase, I’m not going to blow smoke at you,” Mordecai Baram began. “This will be hard, dangerous work. You can expect to take casualties.”

  Baram’s words had the desired effect. His audience—mainly composed of SSI operators—was focused, quiet, attentive. The Israeli had their full attention in the first of a series of Lebanon briefings.

  “What’s the opposition really like, sir?” Chris Nissen spoke the question on each American’s mind.

  “You have all heard about Hezbollah, the main Islamic force in Lebanon. Well, that’s what you’re up against. It’s a Shiite organization with strong ties to Iran, which is almost ninety percent Shiite itself. There’s also significant logistic support from Syria, which is mainly Sunni.”

  Breezy squirmed in his seat. “Sir, I gotta admit I don’t understand the whole Sunni and Shiite thing. What’s the story?”

  Baram knew the answer, chapter and verse. But he did not want to be distracted from his main topic. “I will be glad to explain that after the briefing, Mr. . . .”

  “Brezyinski. But just call me Breezy.”

  Baram grinned in appreciation. “Thank you, Mr. Breezy. For the moment I will just say that to you gentlemen, the difference is largely irrelevant. It has to do with the leadership of Islam, whether by bloodline from Mohammad or by popular acclaim. Not unlike the difference between Protestant and Catholic, with the role of the pope. But in some cases, it assumes so much relevance that people kill each other over relatively minor differences.”

  “Oh. Gotcha.” Mark Brezyinski was very much a lapsed Catholic, to the lasting consternation of his Polish family. By his grandmother’s reckoning, young Mark Casimir had broken at least five Commandments (depending upon one’s distinction between killing and murder], as he was blatantly guilty on Honoring Thy Parents, Keeping the Sabbath, Blasphemy, and what he called the “Coveting Thing.” Though he did not care to discuss Adultery, he felt safe on the matters of Other Gods, Graven Images, Stealing, and False Witness.

  Baram resumed his briefing, focusing on SSI’s major concerns. “Hezbollah is wholly of Lebanese origin, formed in response to the Israeli invasion in ‘82. The name means ‘Party of God’ and that can be taken literally. Besides its terrorist and paramilitary activities, it’s increasingly involved in the Lebanese government as a political party. In 2005 Hezbollah won fourteen seats in parliament, and there are some cabinet ministers, too.

  “Now, Hezbollah has gained battlefield credibility as well. In the 2006 fight it surprised a lot of people in the region and impressed others around the world.” The diplomat gave an eloquent shrug. “Some were ready to be impressed, I admit, but still it pays to be objective. My advice is, don’t take anything for granted.”

  Baram thought for a moment, barely referencing his notes. �
��Another thing to consider. Though it’s heavily Lebanese and Iranian, Hezbollah recruits internationally. There have been reports as far afield as Singapore, and of course Indonesia is the world’s largest Muslim nation.” He looked at Frank Leopole in the front row. “Your linguists will, of course, have to speak Arabic but you might plan on Farsi as well.”

  Leopole shot a sideways glance at Omar Mohammed. SSI’s training officer caught the motion and chose to ignore it. Having been operationally involved in Pakistan and Afghanistan, the Iranian-born Mohammed had seen quite enough of fieldwork, thank you very much.

  Sandy Carmichael generally was a low-key presence but as one of two senior operations officers she had an iron in the fire. “Mr. Baram, could you maybe bring in somebody who’s operated in Lebanon recently?”