tactics for all the obvious reasons. And a double-column .40 or .45 gives me twelve to fifteen rounds, which should be plenty. If not, I carry my first reload at the front of my tactical belt. I can swap magazines in less than two seconds.
“I brought a compensated Springfield XD with me. It’s loud, but like Mr. Brezyinski just said, we’ll have ear protection. The integral compensator keeps the muzzle steady, and at typical distances you can do ‘hammers’ with both rounds inside two inches.
“The red dot or laser sight is a big advantage in dim light and against multiple opponents. At room-clearing distances — inside twenty-five feet — you can engage several targets very quickly.”
Nissen was impressed. “Okay, that makes sense to me. But you’re not going to carry a specialized weapon like that for everyday use.”
“No, sir, I’m not. It’s a special tool for special circumstances.”
“What if the BGs have body armor that your ammo won’t handle?”
Pitney shrugged. “Inside a room with a bunch of hostiles, I wouldn’t rely on torso shots anyway. I’d shoot for the eyes.”
The retired noncom frowned. “That’s a
“Yes it is, Sergeant Nissen. It certainly is.”
Marshall Wilmot was overweight to the point of being fat. His goal was to remain shy of obese, and recently he would not have claimed victory in that campaign, for it was more than a battle. Privately, he envied the hell out of Michael Derringer, who in his mid-sixties tipped the scales barely twenty pounds more than his Annapolis weight.
On the other hand, Wilmont retained most of his hair and needed glasses only for newsprint.
Wilmont stopped at the top of the stairs, regaining his breath. At that moment Matt Finch dashed past, taking the steps two at a time. “Hey, Marsh,” the personnel officer chirped. “Still avoiding the elevator? Good for you. Keep it up, man!” On that cheerful note, the slender forty-something was gone.
SSI’s chief operating officer watched him disappear.
At length Wilmot reached the second-floor landing and opened the door. Aside from his physical bulk, he felt as if he carried an equally onerous burden — a load to be shared with Mike Derringer.
Wilmot nodded to Peggy Singer, who broadcast a contralto “Good morning,” ending on an upscale that bespoke cheerfulness. It also alerted her boss in the inner office that a visitor was inbound.
Derringer swiveled his high-backed chair, turning away from his computer console. “Good morning, Marsh.” He stopped to scrutinize his partner more closely. “You look like yesterday’s chow, if I may say so.”
Wilmot plopped his bulk into the visitor’s chair. “You may, and you did.” He emitted a short wheeze and realized that he had left his handkerchief at home again. His marriage remained on the downhill slope, and tending hubby’s laundry had never been a priority for Jocelyn Brashears Wilmot. He contented himself with extracting a partial tissue from his coat pocket and dabbed his mouth.
Derringer wondered if Sandy Carmichael or Frank Ferraro in the operations division maintained their emergency responder certification.
Finally Wilmot regained his breath and his voice. “Mike, I saw Brian Cottle last Friday night. He was at the club with some of his Foggy Bottom friends.”
“Is he still running scared over State’s embarrassment after our African outing?”
Wilmot nodded. “But he’s only frightened, not terrified like he was a couple of months ago. I arrived late for happy hour and Brian was working on his third drink. So I eased him over to an empty table and bought him another round.”
Derringer approved. “You sly dog, you.”
“Actually, I don’t know how much slipped out and how much he actually wanted me to know. But he pretty much laid it out. State and CIA are still red-faced over the way the Israelis snookered them, and sending us chasing all over Africa and the Med and the Atlantic after that yellow cake. So I laid it on a little thick, you know? I said, ‘Jeez, Brian, we did exactly what you guys wanted us to do and now we’re the bastard cousin at the wedding.’”
“I hope he absorbed a boatload of guilt.”
Wilmot shrugged his burly shoulders. “Well, he didn’t argue. He just sort of acknowledged that maybe we’d got a raw deal, being denied other contracts because our team did the work that we’d been hired to do.” Wilmot paused, trying to recall the conversation. “The fact that the yellow cake sank with that ship our guys took was all to the good. I mean, State understands that the cake never reached Iran. But once they realized that Mossad had been calling the shots through third parties and cutouts, there was some, ah, unwelcome scrutiny on the hill.”
Derringer leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. “Yes, I know. So what’s the point of Mr. Cottle’s unhappy hour?”
“Well, since I had him alone I pushed the man-to-man thing, you know? I said, ‘Look, Brian. We’re forced to do business with the damned Israelis, the same people who used us and got a couple of our guys killed. So when the hell are you,’ and I emphasized
“Good lad. So what’d he say?”
“Well, then he did get defensive. His voice went up a couple of octaves and basically he said, ‘Shit, Marsh. I’m the one who approved SSI for the current Israeli job. If it’d gone to somebody else, the foreign contracts desk probably would’ve turned you down. Then you’d really be stuck.’”
“Is that true?”
Wilmont coughed again. While regaining his composure, he nodded. “Yeah, I think so. I mean, he’s the deputy undersecretary for international security so he can direct traffic pretty much where he wants. I think that his boss rubber-stamps most of Brian’s recommendations unless it’s high visibility.”
Derringer laughed. “Like Radar on
“Well, maybe not quite like that. But I felt better after pumping Brian. He’s a decent guy down deep — just has trouble showing it sometimes.”
“So, does that mean that we might be considered for some U.S. Government contracts anytime soon?”
Wilmont squirmed his weight against the seat. “I’ll know more on Wednesday. But I think things are easing up because when I left, Brian promised to stand me to a three-martooni lunch.”
Derringer chuckled aloud. “Well, he might welch on a business deal, but a promise made when drunk is sacred.”
“You got it, Mike.”
13
In a rare moment to himself, Ahmad Esmaili sat with his back against a tree and allowed his mind to wander. He could not remember the last time he had indulged in nonprofessional musings.
As the leader of a notably successful Hezbollah unit, Esmaili had grown accustomed to a degree of latitude in accomplishing his missions. But now, apparently entrusted with a more important operation than ever before, he was tacitly reduced to second in command to a zealous cleric possessing little military experience.
“Commissar” was the word that Esmaili attached to Imam Elham. Essentially a political appointee, the priest nonetheless wielded full authority over the fighters — and their commander. It would not be wise to question his orders, which meant that operational worries would have to be couched in diplomatic terms.
Esmaili was astute enough to know that he lacked diplomacy. He achieved results by force of personality and the threat of draconian enforcement for the few jihadists who resisted him. In recent years he had only been forced to execute two men: proof of the French concept
The Hezbollah chief reflected that almost immediately Imam Sadegh Elham began assuming de facto leadership of the unit. After barely asking permission, the priest convened a meeting and announced his intention of
