Vulcan's Fire

Harold Coyle, Barrett Tillman Vulcan’s Fire

Part 1 VIRGINIA

1

SOUTH GOVERNATE, LEBANON

The stalkers awaited the signal.

It came in the dappled gray light of 5:00 A.M. because delay was as much an enemy as the dedicated men inside the remote building.

Outside the five-room house, the assault leader gave a quick click-click of his tactical headset. The eleven members of his team recognized it as the preparatory signal. Receiving no response, he proceeded with his countdown.

“Ready… ready…”

A long three-second wait allowed anyone to delay the inevitable. No one did. The four men on perimeter guard saw nothing to interfere with the operation. Meanwhile, the two assault teams and the command element were tensed, leg muscles coiled to propel them from the shadows.

The team leader licked his lips. He had extensive experience but it was always like this: an eager dread. He glanced around. Only his radio operator returned his gaze; everyone else was focused on the objective. It looked good: they had probably achieved surprise, but surprise without violence was useless.

“Ready… go!”

Two explosions shattered the Mediterranean air, two seconds apart. The first was a Chinese-made RPG whose high-explosive warhead blew a hole in the brick-and-mortar wall facing the sunrise. The second was another RPG near the opposite corner that smashed through a window and detonated on the interior wall.

Assaulting together, each section was preceded by Rheinmetall flash-bang grenades to compensate for any defenders who escaped the RPG blasts.

A quick two-count, and both teams entered through the holes. It was doctrine: avoid the usual entrances, which could be mined.

The attackers’ mission was simple: kill or capture everyone present. Take no unnecessary chances.

There were no novices on either side of the door.

The raiders held the advantage, exploiting the stunning effects of the grenades and flash-bangs. Moving with fluid rapidity, they “ran the walls,” closing the distance on the defenders, firing short, disciplined bursts. The Egoz reconnaissance unit allowed its members a great deal of latitude: most chose 7.62 Galils but a few carried AK-47s. Both were lethally effective.

Three defenders were shot down in the front room; only one got off a round and it went high. A fragmentation grenade arced through the entrance to the next room. Before it exploded, the men inside opened fire with their AKs. The 150-grain rounds shredded the blanket separating the two rooms, and some were deliberately aimed low. One raider dropped with a Kalashnikov’s bullet through the left thigh.

The grenade fizzled. Too long in storage — the result of clandestine acquisition policies — it exploded in a low-order detonation that inflicted minor wounds. Inside the small room, a close-range firefight erupted. It was fought at near muzzle contact.

One raider was killed, taking a round above the ballistic plate of his tactical vest. Another was clipped in the right bicep.

The defenders were shot down in an ephemeral moment of loud noise, bright muzzle flashes, and icy terror. Each body received one or two rounds to the head before the last brass clattered on the wood floor.

One man escaped the house, fleeing through the back door. The designated marksman with a scoped Galil shot him from sixty meters.

Order, if not quiet, returned to the shattered structure.

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

Without awaiting instructions, the raiders moved through the house according to their individual priorities. Two guarded the bodies on the floor while two others secured the victims’ hands with flex cuffs. The fact that they were dead was irrelevant; some of the raiders had seen dead men kill the living.

The number two man turned to his superior. “No useful prisoners, Chief. Sorry.”

The team leader shrugged philosophically. “I know. It couldn’t be helped.” As papers were gathered, the radioman began taking photos with his digital camera.

Hearing the all-clear, the team medic entered through the door— the only one to do so. He had one immediate case and two lesser. He was experienced and calm; combat triage was nothing new to him.

“Arterial bleeding here,” said one man, leaning over the first casualty. The medic went to work, knowing that his friends would treat other casualties for the moment. He glanced at a green-clad form, not moving. One of the raiders merely shook his head. The decedent’s family would be told that he died in a training accident, body unrecoverable. Knowing it was a lie, the parents would accept the fabrication.

The other killers began tearing the place apart. They searched thoroughly, quickly, indelicately. They opened every cabinet and drawer, spilling the contents, and pulled mattresses off beds. They searched for loose boards and pried at the ceiling. Finally one of them returned to the living room.

“Nothing here, Avri.”

“It has to be here. Look again. Everywhere.”

Abraham pulled the kaffiyeh off his head and allowed it to drape over his tactical vest. “We’ve already looked everywhere. Twice. I’m telling you, it’s not here.”

Avri looked around the house. “God damn it!” For the grandson of a rabbi, he was famously profane.

He grabbed the radioman. “Get me Capri Six. Priority.”

The RTO handed over the instrument. “Scramble mode selected.”

“Capri, this is Purchase. Pass.” The commander released the transmit button, allowing the scrambler to do its work. In an instant the carrier wave was back.

“Purchase, I read you. Pass.”

“The well is dry. Repeat, the well is dry. End.”

The response was decidedly nonregulation, but the transmission from the south drew no comment. After all, this time the offending voice belonged to an agnostic.

SSI OFFICES, ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re in trouble.”

Rear Admiral Michael Derringer had been retired for longer than he cared to remember but he had lost little of his command presence. As founder and CEO of Strategic Solutions, Incorporated, he had conned the company through its early years, building success upon success as the military contractor market expanded. Working around the world, performing often clandestine tasks for the U.S. Government, SSI had become the go-to firm when DoD or State needed something done without official recognition.

But that was then; this was now.

“Still no new contracts?” George Ferraro, SSI vice president and chief financial officer, had no problem guessing the admiral’s intent.

“Correct.” Derringer’s balding head bobbed in assent. “SecDef canceled our electronic warfare project in Arabia and State vetoed us for another African job. Oh, we’re still getting business but it’s paperclip money: security work, training assignments, small-scale jobs. About the only advantage is that they keep some of our regulars on the payroll. But they don’t reduce the red ink, and we can’t operate on our stock portfolio