Vulcan's Fire [SSI 03] Read online

  The Israeli had anticipated the question. “Officially, no. Besides, none of our attachés have been on the ground there. However . . .”

  “Unofficially?”

  The shrug again. “Maybe I know somebody who knows somebody.”

  “Well, for the present, how about a general perspective?”

  Baram thought carefully, wondering how much to reveal. Finally he decided to open up. “Frankly, we’re lost a lot of good men in South Lebanon in recent weeks. Not so much in actual numbers, which have to be kept pretty small, but in terms of percentages. One team was wiped out and a couple of others were badly hurt. I shouldn’t be too specific, you understand, but I think it’s only fair that you know something of what you’re up against.”

  Baram acknowledged to himself that he was gilding the Lebanese lily. One team had two survivors, only one of whom would ever return to duty. He had seen some of the classified debriefings and recognized a few names.

  “It’s not just our own people who are taking hits. We work with some Druze militias because we just don’t have the strength to conduct such operations ourselves. Actually, the whole situation turns on the Druze. It’s their territory, and many of them are fighting for their homes, their own land. They’ve been badly mauled in several actions but they keep fighting.” A frown. “They have no choice, really. Fight or leave.”

  * * * *

  APPROACHING TEHRAN

  The flight from Damascus to Tehran covered fifteen hundred kilometers and a little over two hours. Finally Esmaili decided to risk a question of his escort.

  “You have not said why Dr. Momen wants to see me.”

  Azizi kept his face turned toward the window of the Airbus A320. The Syrianair flight was on schedule, descending toward Mehrabad International, and Esmaili’s curiosity finally had overcome his usual caution. He did not want to learn the reason for his trek at the last moment, when it might be difficult or impossible to decline whatever honor was headed his way.

  Mohammad Azizi spoke in a subdued voice, even though he had requested two seats well removed from other passengers. “That is correct. I have not said.” He finally turned from the window, a wry smile on his face.

  Before Esmaili could respond, Azizi interjected. “It speaks well of you that you have not pressed for more information until now. The doctor will be pleased at your patience.” The smile vanished. “But in truth, it would speak better for you had you not asked at all.”

  The Hezbollah leader had not survived decades in the field without developing mental agility. Without blinking he replied, “The doctor knows my record, brother. Otherwise he would not have requested me. And he knew that I would not refuse him. Therefore, I believe that my time over the past few days could have been well spent in considering whatever he has in mind.”

  Azizi regarded his new companion through objective eyes. He is much as the doctor said. After a moment he said, “When you meet the doctor day after tomorrow, much will be revealed. For now, I can say that patience remains a virtue, brother.” The grim smile was back. “As it always has been.”

  While Azizi dealt with customs—there was precious little baggage—Esmaili looked around the terminal. He had not been in Tehran for almost three years, but the sights and smells came rushing back at him. A city of more than seven million residents, home of half of the nation’s industry including military, textiles, chemical, construction, and electronics.

  But the expansion brought problems. Esmaili had seen the most evident example during the landing approach—a heavy layer of dirty air. The pollution was inescapable—it was said that two dozen people died there every day from respiratory diseases.

  On the other hand, Tehran had a large cultural community with mosques, museums, art galleries—and even synagogues. There’s an irony for you, Esmaili thought.

  Taking a taxi from the airport, Esmaili saw the Azadi Tower’s formidable bulk. There was no ignoring it. Built in 1971 to honor the 2,500th anniversary of the Persian empire, its fifty meters of gleaming white marble had originally been dubbed the king’s tower, but the Islamic revolution led to renaming it Azadi—freedom.

  Pondering the drastic changes in Iranian life since 1979, Esmaili reflected on yet another irony: how much freedom ensued from toppling the despot who called himself Shah?

  He kept such thoughts strictly to himself.

  The cab turned onto the Ashrafi Esfahani Highway, then north to Iran Pars Highway. There the driver made a right turn, heading east. It was apparent that he knew the address Azizi had given, as he asked no questions en route.

  At length the cab stopped at an undistinguished building in the Evin district in the north of town. Azizi paid the driver and led Esmaili into the entrance. It proved to be an apartment complex with a dining area, evidently at one time for upscale patrons. Now, based on Azizi’s easy mastery of the layout, it seemed to be owned or at least controlled by Dr. Momen’s organization.

  Esmaili was quickly shown to a small, well-appointed room with a bath and was instructed to make himself comfortable. Azizi said, “I will call for you tomorrow after lunch. We will see the doctor then. Meanwhile, talk to no one about your work. No one. But other than that, enjoy the area.” He indicated the view from the window.

  The Evin district was composed of the older section featuring orchards and gardens and the newer section with modern skyscrapers. Esmaili already knew that it lay near Shahid Beheshti University and Evin Prison with its notorious political prisoner’s wing. SAVAK used it before 1979 and the Ayatollah’s minions ever since.

  After his guide left, Esmaili took a walk to familiarize himself with the building and the area. It was an acquired habit of long standing: he was unable to relax until he felt comfortable with his surroundings.

  Strolling in the afternoon sunlight filtered through the perpetual smog, Ahmad Esmaili allowed himself to wonder what one of his nation’s most prominent scientists wanted with him.

  * * * *

  7

  SSI OFFICES

  Frank Leopole had no idea how many briefings he had delivered in his time at Strategic Solutions, but he was comfortable with his audience, and increasingly with his subject. Like any good O-5, he had done his homework.

  “Gentlemen, as you know, our mission involves working with Druze militias in central and southern Lebanon. There’s increasing Hezbollah pressure in the area, trying to expand the territory where Iranian-backed groups can train and equip for operations against Israel. As you probably know, the Beirut government is largely unable to defend its own interests in some provinces. So we’ve been asked to step in, providing training and actual defense of specific villages and tribal areas.

  “The primary Druze area is southeast of Beirut, fifty or sixty miles from the Israeli border. But the region has excellent defensive terrain, and the Druze control some of the best artillery positions in the country, including hills east of Beirut. The Hezzies would like to grab some of it for artillery positions and observation.

  “The fly in the ointment is the Israeli concern with appearances in the international arena. Tel Aviv does not want to be seen backing the Druze in any overt manner, even though it’s an open secret that the IDF works inside Lebanon, especially since there are Druze in the Israeli Army.

  “Basically this is another training mission. But to maintain the charade we’ll be working with Israeli Druze who will provide liaison and translator services. However, I’m hoping to assign at least a couple of our Arabic speakers to this operation.”

  Jason Boscombe raised a hand in the second row. “Sir, if we’re going to work with the Druze, shouldn’t we know more about them?”

  “Odd you asked,” Leopole replied. He turned and said, “Dr. Mohammed?”

  Omar Mohammed was SSI’s resident Middle East expert. The Iranian native had been hired for his reputation as a training officer but with a PhD in international relations, fluent in most Muslim languages plus French and Russian, he was as Frank Leopole said, “A one-stop
shopping center.”

  Typically elegant, Mohammed smoothed his Brooks Brothers suit coat as he stepped to the lectern.

  “Most of you are familiar with Lebanon’s recent history, which briefly stated is one of internal conflict, frequent foreign occupation, and government disintegration. As an aside, I can say that in my youth, Beirut was called the Paris of the Mediterranean. A beautiful, cosmopolitan city that has since been destroyed in repeated fighting among the Syrians, Israelis, and Lebanese themselves.”

  Mohammed opened his PowerPoint presentation with a map of Lebanon on the screen.

  “Lebanon is smaller than Connecticut with about 3.8 million people. More than ninety percent are of Arabic ancestry though roughly forty percent are Christians who do not identify with the Muslim culture.

  “The nation is divided into six mohafazah, or governates, including Beirut. Those are in turn composed of districts or what we would know as counties . . .”

  “Excuse me, Doctor,” Leopole interjected. “I was looking at the CIA World Book, and it says there’s eight provinces.”

  Mohammed gave an eloquent shrug. He stroked his salt and pepper beard, then ventured, “Well, that’s the agency for you.” He waited for the laughter to abate, then proceeded.

  “The country is geographically divided along religious lines. The Shia are concentrated in the south, Sunnis in the north and east, and Christians in the center. The Druze are mostly between the Shia and Christians in the south-central region around Beirut.

  “For a moment I want to address the two southern governates bordering with Israel. They are the main source of conflict at present.”

  Using a laser pointer, Mohammed sketched the boundaries of both areas. “South Governate, or Al Janub on some maps, lies here along the coast and Nabatiyeh farther inland. These are the areas of most military activity. Hezbollah, with strong Iranian backing, has established enclaves in several districts in both provinces, and obviously intends to stay. In fact, it is making overt efforts to expand its control in the region with the obvious intent of increasing attacks on northern Israel.

  “Now, the United Nations maintains a so-called peacekeeping mission called UNIFIL, for U.N. Interim Force in Lebanon. ‘Interim’ calls for some perspective, since UNIFIL has been there since 1978. It varies but has run as high as twelve thousand troops from several member nations. I would imagine that you will have some dealings with U.N. officials, but they are far more observers than enforcers. You will have liaison officers to meet with UNIFIL and other agencies, so don’t be overly concerned.”

  “Don’t worry, Doc. I’m not.” Breezy’s off-the-cuff response prompted chuckles in the audience and a smack on the head from Bosco.

  Mohammed, who nursed a quiet fondness for the brash paratrooper, ignored the lad’s flippancy.

  “As far as the Druze themselves, they are an Islamic reformist sect, mainly in Lebanon but with adherents in Jordan, Syria, and Israel. I can explain the religious aspects, but few Druze consider themselves Muslims. They’re actually monotheists.”

  Breezy turned to Bosco. “Monotheists?”

  The erstwhile Ranger nodded. “Like, they believe in one God.”

  Mark Brezyinski wrinkled his forehead. “Well, so do we, dude. So what’s the diff?”

  “About that much.” Bosco rubbed a thumb and forefinger together as if dispensing salt.

  Mohammed was speaking again. “They have been in the region for about a thousand years but since they’re neither Muslims nor Christians they’re mistrusted by both. Most Americans never heard of them until their militia became a factor in the Lebanese Civil War of 1975-90 when they defeated the Christian Phalangist militia. Later an accord was reached, and the two parties became nominal allies.

  “In Lebanon the Druze are seen as a separate religious community with its own courts. In Israel the Druze are loyal to the government. Many serve in the armed forces and even in the Knesset. Others along the Golan identify with Syria.”

  Bosco raised a hand. “I’ve heard of them but not much in a long time. If they’re involved in all these different countries, why don’t we know more about them? I mean, like Hezbollah or Hamas?”

  “Well, remember,” Mohammed replied. “They’re not Muslims and they have nothing in common with Hezbollah or Hamas. But mainly we don’t hear much about them because secrecy is a large part of their culture. The Druze seldom accept converts, owing to a long history of persecution.”

  “So can we trust them?”

  Mohammed shrugged. “That depends upon the individuals. It’s like Christianity: everybody quotes the Golden Rule but how many Christians actually practice it?” He permitted himself an ironic smile.

  “If you deal with serious Druze, you are likely in good hands. The tenets of the faith include belief in one God, honesty, protecting the family and homeland, helping those in need, and respect for the aged. They disapprove of alcohol or tobacco, usually don’t eat pork, and reject polygamy. They do not marry outside the faith. As a rule, they reject materialism though some are successful businessmen.”

  The Iranian-American felt himself warming to his subject. Though he realized that most of the door-kickers in the audience were only marginally interested in such things, he felt that he owed the operators the benefit of his knowledge.

  “There are two main groups: al-Juhhal or The Ignorant are denied secret holy literature. They form the political-military leadership, about ninety percent of all Druze. Those are the ones you’ll be working with.”

  “What about the others, Doctor?” Leopole asked.

  “Well, the inner group is al-Uqqal or The Knowledgeable Initiates. They are entirely unlike Muslims since women are considered spiritually preferable to men. Female al-Uqqal often wear a loose white veil to cover their hair and long skirts to the ankles. Men usually grow mustaches, shave their heads, and wear dark clothes and white turbans.”

  Breezy enjoyed playing the hey-dude surf bum to the Oxford educated lecturer. “So, Doc. Does that mean, like, we can ID most of the Druze by their clothes?”

  The lecturer squinted his brown eyes in concentration. “It means you can tell the Druze by their clothes if they want you to identify them.” He paused for effect. “Or it means they are someone else who wishes to appear as a Druze.

  “Now,” Mohammed concluded. “The Druze have fought just about everybody at one point or another. In the 1860s they massacred a lot of Christians, leading to French intervention about the time that Maximilian was engaged in Mexico. Since then the Druze have been allied with Christians and Jews and various Islamic groups.” He looked up. “In short, gentlemen, you should remember one thing. The Druze are expert survivors.”

  * * * *

  NORTHERN ISRAEL

  Brigadier Solomon Nadel dismounted from a Merkava Mark III and tugged a shop cloth from his cargo pocket. Wiping some errant diesel fuel from his hands, he greeted his guest with a smile. “Yakov, I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.” He nodded over his shoulder. “Sometimes even a brigade commander needs to get his hands dirty.”

  Colonel Yakov Livni recognized the flippant tone for what it was. “General, you don’t fool anybody. You can’t stay away from your Chariots.”

  Nadel grimaced dramatically. “You found me out. Once a charioteer, always a charioteer.”

  “Well, let’s just hope that we don’t need these Chariots north of the border.” Livni gave his superior a penetrating look. “You know, Sol, the days of battle tanks may be coming to an end.”

  Pausing in midstride, Nadel turned to look at the Merkava. It was a tanker’s tank: designed for survivability with severely angled armor to protect the four-man crew; a twelve-hundred-horsepower engine for speed and acceleration; and a 120mm smoothbore as main armament. There was even a 60mm mortar carried internally. Finally the veteran tanker replied, “Well, it’s no secret anymore. We lost six Chariots in Lebanon in 2006 but one hundred crewmen were killed or wounded. That’s four times what we would expect just based
on tanks destroyed.” He shrugged philosophically. “ATGMs are becoming more effective.”

  Nadel quickened the pace. “But come on. You don’t want to talk about tanks when there’s covert operations to support in Lebanon.”

  The two officers adjourned to Nadel’s office and closed the door. The general tossed his shop rag and his beret onto a file cabinet, showing no concern when the headgear missed the basket and fell to the floor. “All right, Yakov. What do you have for me?”

  Livni eased his left buttock onto the edge of the desk and unfolded a map. “Solly, this is confidential for now, but you can tell your chief of staff. Formal notice will arrive in a few days, and there will be a planning conference with brigade and division commanders as well as my people and . . . others.”