Esmaili continued playing the righteous game. “Surely He does, brother. Surely He does.”
Two-star generals seldom brief former lieutenant colonels, but Moshek Brafman wanted his American colleague to enter Lebanon as well prepared as possible. He had arranged for Leopole to meet Yakov Livni, who knew the lay of the land, both geographical and political.
“Tell me about Rafix Kara,” Leopole said.
Livni shook his head as if recalling a favorite uncle. He stared at the floor, then raised his gaze to the American. “He is probably all that you have heard and more. Flamboyant, charismatic, and maddening to work with. At one time or another he’s fought almost everybody in Lebanon, but when he’s on your side there’s no better ally. The fact that he is still among the living I can only attribute to divine intervention.” He shrugged. “God has use for such people.”
The SSI operative nodded slightly. “Yeah. I heard that he has a talent for walking away from ambushes and assassinations.”
Livni raised his eyes and his hands in a dramatic gesture toward the ceiling. “Oh, the stories I could tell…”
“So you’ve worked with him?”
The Israeli turned serious. “Yes. Yes, I have worked with him.” He decided not to relate that he had also worked against the Druze warlord when Israeli interests diverged from Kara’s.
Leopole stretched his muscular arms behind his head. “Well, the main thing I need to know is if I can trust the guy. That’s job one.”
Livni nodded gravely. “As I said, Colonel, Rafix has been at odds with most of the major factions in the country at one time or another. The one thing I can count on is that he’s totally opposed to the Syrians and Iranians. And the other thing I can count on is his courage. Many people may question his loyalty at a given moment, but never his courage.”
“Okay, so he’s a brave sumbitch who might shove a blade between my ribs. How does that make him worth working with?”
The Israeli operative waved a placating hand. “No, no. Do not misunderstand me. Rafix has a sense of honor to go with his courage. I have never known him to betray anyone. But as conditions change, so does his allegiance.” He paused for emphasis. “Colonel Leopole, the key to understanding Rafix Kara is very simple. He is Druze to the core. As long as your mission benefits his people, he will be a loyal ally. But remember this.” Livni wagged a pudgy finger. “If he ever has reason to doubt
11
Rick Barrkman and Robbie Furr seemed an unlikely pair. The former was athletically built and fond of working out; the latter was not. In fact, Furr claimed that he had been eating at his favorite Mexican restaurant since before he was born, and he could pack away a large platter of tacos and enchiladas with little effort. Nevertheless, after working together for years, each knew the other’s strengths and vices. They had long since passed the point where they were professionally wedded: frequently they could communicate by something approaching mental telepathy. They even shot the same zero to eight hundred yards.
Now they needed to see how their rifles had fared the rigors of international air travel.
Barrkman uncased the Robar SR90, a customized Remington 700 with orthopedic stock and Leupold ten- power scope. Owing to their different physiques, the cheek piece and length of pull were optimized for Barrkman, though Furr could crawl the stock well enough to compensate. His own rifle was an SR60, a near duplicate of Barrkman’s minus the orthopedic furniture.
Furr laid down on his mat, set up the spotting scope, and focused on the hundred-yard target taped to a riddled piece of plywood. He glanced around. “I guess I’ve seen worse ranges but I don’t remember just where.”
Prone behind the rifle, Barrkman thumbed three rounds into the Remington’s magazine. Keeping his right index finger along the stock, he checked the Leupold’s elevation knob and was satisfied with the setting. “Frank says we should be grateful for this place. Nothing else is available.”
“Well, okay. Consider me grateful.” Seated beside his partner, Furr focused the Kowa scope and said, “Spotter on.”
Barrkman snuggled up to the twelve-pound SR90 and adjusted the butt’s elevation with his left hand. Then he looked through the scope. “Sniper on. Upper left.”
The spotter’s attention went to the top row of four black aiming dots. He heard the shooter inhale, then exhale. Three seconds later the 2.5-pound trigger broke cleanly and the shot went. Barrkman cycled the bolt, lifting the knob with the heel of his right hand, rotating the palm, then pushing the bolt back into battery. It appeared one fluid motion. “Center.”
“Six o’clock, low,” Furr replied.
Barrkman ignored the call and fired again. “Center.”
“On top of the other.”
At the third shot, the marksman said, “Center.”
Furr looked over at him. “Center. The cold bore shots are still a quarter to a half minute low.”
“Well, it’s consistent.” He grinned. “Besides, the guy downrange never knows the difference.”
The pair changed positions to verify each shooter’s zero. When Furr was finished, his friend shook his head. “Dude! Three rounds, two holes. What happened?”
Furr pointed downrange. “Right to left mirage. I caught it just as I broke the last shot. Didn’t you see it?”
“Nah, it must’ve been a pretty good gust of wind.” He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Or…”
“No way, man. Dead nuts center call.”
Obligatory bantering concluded, the sniper team repeated the zeroing process with the SR60. Six more rounds of Black Hills.308 snapped downrange at 2,650 feet per second. The result was two ragged groups with one called flyer.
Barrkman asked, “How many rounds through your barrel now?”
Furr entered the latest data in his log. “That’s 2,489.”
“Getting a little high. You gonna rebarrel anytime soon?”
“Not as long as it prints like today,” Furr replied. “Unless you want to spring for a new Schneider tube.”
“In your dreams, amigo.”
“Hey, where’s the snout?”
Barrkman turned around and tapped the third gun case. He withdrew a Robar QR-2, actually a Ruger 77 adapted to accept ten-round M14 magazines with a detachable six-power scope and flip-up iron sights. The combination of sniper and scout rifle yielded the unlikely nickname “snout.”
Furr accepted the precision carbine, handed to him with the bolt open. Nevertheless, he inserted a pinkie finger to be certain. Then he assumed a sitting position, cradling the Ruger’s comfortable weight. He dry-fired three times, running the bolt rapidly each time. “It’s beyond me why the military keeps buying honking big rifles that weigh sixteen or eighteen pounds when this does about eighty percent of the work at ten pounds.”
Barrkman beamed a knowing smile. “Because that’s what the gun club wants, man. That’s the trouble with police and the military: they buy what they think they want instead of what the shooters need. Like the M40A3 the Marines got a couple years ago. The damn thing weighs about nineteen pounds: how’d you like to hump
“Yeah, I know. I trained some recon dudes a while back. They said the Quantico benchrest shooters injected themselves into the process. They like heavy rifles because they only carry them from the jeep to the firing line.”
“So why’d the sniper school go along with it?”
