The operations officer mentally ticked off the topics he intended to cover. “Now then, as for our Druze contacts, you should know a couple of things. They’re Israeli military personnel but obviously they have an interest in the welfare of their cousins in Lebanon. I have no reason to think that any of them are other than what they seem, but I’m not taking anything for granted. I want our relationship to be polite and professional, but there’s no need to tell them everything we know. General Brafman was pretty plainspoken with me: we’re under Israeli command and we’ll act in accordance with their best interests, not ours. While I appreciate his candor, I think we could become expendable if things go south. But don’t worry too much: as usual, SSI has a Plan Alpha and a Bravo to extract us.”
Chris Nissen, though relatively new to the firm, was not timid. “Care to share that with us, sir?”
Phil Green added, “Yeah, I might sleep a little better.”
Leopole did not want to reveal that neither plan was finalized: too many political and bureaucratic hoops still remained. So he said, “One is by land, the other by air. That’s all I can say for now.”
Seated in the back, Robert Pitney congratulated himself for his foresight. While he had no reason to doubt his new employer’s concern for his welfare, he had a list of names, addresses, and phone numbers based on his in- laws’ business contacts. None were located in the likely operating area, but he knew that if he made enough calls, somebody would come for him — either from devotion, greed, or both.
Breezy always asked the obvious questions. “Colonel, how do we get to our AO? I take it that we’re supposed to keep a low profile.”
“Lower than a snake’s navel, son.” Leopole allowed the laughter to abate, then added, “We’ll address that when we meet with our IDF folks in a day or so.
“Now,” Leopole continued. “Before you left, you had the standard in-country brief about local culture and customs. I’m going to add something else.” He placed his hands on his hips and inclined his torso slightly forward, as if imparting physical emphasis to his words. “I am reliably informed that Lebanon produces some of the finest- looking women in the Middle East. Maybe
He lanced Jason Boscombe with a D.I. stare, and was rewarded when that worthy slid lower in his chair. Both personally and professionally Leopole believed the mantra “Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted.” His efforts had shown that celebrities of Lebanese descent included entertainers Yasmine Bleeth, Salma Hayek, Shakira, and supermodel Yamila Diaz. Bosco, however, being a leg man, was disappointed to find divided opinion on Paula Abdul’s heritage but otherwise he was suitably impressed.
Leopole knew that Bosco and Breezy had enjoyed themselves immensely during some downtime in Haifa before the previous operation, which climaxed in a sea chase across the Mediterranean. While none of the local or visiting fillies had complained — in fact, a few were downright complimentary — the duo’s antics had brought unwelcome attention.
“Now hear this,” Leopole intoned. “What you do on your own time with consenting females is
Breezy turned to Bosco. “Boobacious? Did Lieutenant Colonel Leopole just say ‘boobacious’?”
“Fershure, dude. I heard him five by five.”
Omar Razlavi stalked the dreamscape of Ahmad Esmaili. Ferretlike in his speed and agility, the Iranian teenager had become noted for his ability to snake in and out of barbed wire, finding and marking Iraqi mines. Nobody seemed to know exactly where Omar came from or the circumstances that placed him in the front lines in 1981. But the boy’s innate ability to find mines buried beneath dirt or sand, in the dark, grew to near legendary status. As a
Armed with his faith, a green headband, and a sack full of white flags, Razlavi probed the enemy ground with a hard plastic knife. Thousands of Saddam’s mines — many of foreign manufacture— were avoided by the Ayatollah’s soldiers during the long war. In an endeavor where survival often was measured in hours, Omar Razlavi thrived for seven years. And then some.
The next morning, Esmaili awoke with the beginning of a plan. He went in search of Fida and found him after breakfast. “I want to talk with you.”
Fida recognized the statement as more a command than a desire. They walked a safe distance from the aspiring jihadists and sat on a stone wall.
“I had a dream last night. Usually I do not remember my dreams, but this was different. It dealt with reality.”
Fida squirmed on the uncomfortable rocks. “Yes?”
“During the Iraq war, I knew a young mine hunter. Omar Razlavi.”
“Yes, yes. I remember the name.”
“I became acquainted with him late in the war, and served with him during operations with Hamas in Palestine. I learned then that Omar was an orphan. Thousands like him were taken into the army and fed into the war. We had no choice: we were fighting for our survival and full mobilization was required. But those boys, those young boys…” His voice trailed off.
Finally Esmaili spoke again. “Most of them went willingly. They were filled with revolutionary spirit and the excitement of serving the nation. And God,” he hastened to add. “They had never known anything else.
“Sometime late in the war, when it was clear that there could be no winner, I began to wonder. How did a teenaged boy like Omar find his calling? He was by far the best at what he did; I never heard of anyone who came close to matching him. It was as if he was born to hunt mines. But what else might he have accomplished? Was mine clearing the only thing he was meant to do? What if…”
The what-if remained moot. But Fida grew wary; his well-honed sense of survival began twitching at the back of his cranium. He would not betray any doubt to his superiors, who were notably unsentimental about living heroes, but neither would he bare his professional neck, let alone the personal variety.
“What if? Do you mean, what if he had another calling?”
Esmaili nodded quietly. Then he turned to his colleague. “Something other than war.”
Fida shifted his AK; he was seldom without it. “He was born into a time of war, brother. As you say, he served the revolution and he served God in the best way he could.” When that comment drew no response, Fida prompted, “What became of him?”
“A few years after the truce, some of our commandos began passing their knowledge to Palestinian fighters. That was his end.”
Fida grasped the essential facts. The traditional religious rivalry was set aside as Iranian Shiites worked with Hamas Sunnis against the common Zionist enemy. He could guess the rest.
One dark night, along the Gaza Strip, Ahmed Esmaili had seen the fatal explosion from well behind the mine hunter’s position. It was not difficult to interpret the events: an Israeli sentry glimpsed movement through his thermal imager and flipped a switch. The command-detonated mine erupted six meters from the Iranian instructor, sending him directly to the right hand of God.
“You saw Razlavi in your dream?”
Esmaili nodded. “It gave me an idea.” He licked his lips. “Obviously we have an important operation coming fairly soon. I think there is a way to create a diversion that will not deprive us of many men.”
Fida was interested. “Brother, in God’s holy ledger the loss of one man may benefit hundreds of others.”
“So you approve of a sacrifice?”
“Certainly, if it yields a profitable return.”
Esmaili accepted the assessment. No doubt their scientific sponsor would approve it as well.
“By the way,” Fida added, “when do you expect Dr. Momen’s colleague to join us?”
“I have not been told exactly, due to security concerns. But Azizi said he should return with the man in a few days.”
“If God wills it.”
