something about threat levels it’s too early to say whether H-46s or 53s would be able to operate in that environment.”
“Oh, how’s that?”
“Well, sir, the situation might not be very permissive, at least not for helos. I understand that SA-7s are about as common as RPGs in that area. Likely even some double-digit SAMs…”
Derringer cut off the explanation. “Who has the ‘phib gru out there?”
Carmichael congratulated herself on her prescience. “Rear Admiral Millikin. He’s…”
“Bill Millikin,” Derringer interrupted. “Good man. He has experience in dustoffs on a hot LZ.” He paused, as if lost in reverie. “Evil Hyphen…” The statement brought uncomprehending looks from the other staffers so Derringer added, “A covert op in Africa about fifteen years ago.”
Marsh Wilmont had kept a low profile after his previous showing, but Lieutenant General Varlowe was blessedly absent today. “Mike, are you thinking of going back-channel to talk to Millikin?”
Derringer drummed his fingers on the table. Finally he said, “Actually, I hadn’t thought about that. But if neither we nor Mr. Baram can get some commitments from State or the Pentagon, I’m not averse to it.”
Before Wilmont could reply, Derringer nodded to Omar Mohammed. “Omar is here because he consulted on the training syllabus for the Druze militias. I think we should hear from him about prospects for fulfilling the contract in case we have to withdraw some or all of our people.”
Mohammed stroked his immaculate goatee. “It remains to be seen whether we would collect full payment for a good-faith effort to train the militias in that area. Our legal department would have to make a judgment, and Ms. Pilong is out today. But as far as the operational end, at the very least we have provided a detailed training program that the IDF liaison teams could follow.”
Carmichael had a thought. “What if we were able to continue training Druze cadres someplace else? Maybe even in the Beirut area?”
Mohammed cocked an eyebrow and looked at Derringer. “That is an excellent suggestion. I think we should pursue it.”
Derringer scribbled some notes to himself. “Very well, then. I’ll see about the old boy network in the Med and you folks coordinate with a fallback plan for returning to the Beirut area.” He jabbed his notepad with his pen and smiled. “Nice to have options, isn’t it?”
The El-Arian militia was reasonably well organized and possessed a degree of experience. The group leader, Salah Al Atrash, had placed his newest members on sentry duty, a compromise between breaking them in as quickly as possible with minimal risk. He had found that issuing automatic weapons to earnest young men eager to prove themselves before their neighbors and kinsmen yielded one of two results: early maturity or premature death.
The sentinel called Talea was twenty-three years old, generally popular with some promise as a potential leader. As he paced beside the stone wall leading to the village entrance, he paused to scan the surrounding terrain. Al Atrash had worked his men diligently in recent days, clearing away tree trunks and debris, and clipping grass that could conceal anyone trying to approach unseen within 250 meters.
Talea had just turned to resume his patrol when a ballistic crack rent the morning air. Fifty meters away, a youngster going about his chores looked up at the unexpected sound in time to see the guard collapse in the road.
A pair of finches broke cover at the noise, but otherwise the area remained calm. Several moments passed before concerned citizens ran to the spot and turned over the sentry’s body.
Some 315 meters away, Ahmad Esmaili patted Hazim on the shoulder and motioned backward. They eased away, keeping low to avoid profiling themselves against the skyline.
Hazim reached out and retrieved the expended 7.62x54mm cartridge case. Feeling as good as he could ever remember, he wanted a souvenir of his first kill.
Frank Leopole surveyed the topography around Amasha. As a professional infantryman, he had never looked at ground the same way after Basic School. Where most humans saw rolling terrain or picturesque hills, he saw dead ground, defiles, and crests. Danger, safety, opportunity.
Major Fahed Ayash and militia leader Rami Hamadeh accompanied the SSI man on his tour of the village. He noted that two hills provided an overlook of perhaps twenty meters advantage. “I wonder why the founders of this place located here rather than over on the high ground.”
The two Druze exchanged knowing looks. “Colonel Leopole,” Ayash explained, “four hundred years ago, access to water was more important than military concerns.” He pointed to the stream a long pistol shot away.
Leopole felt his cheeks redden. “Well, that’s as good a reason as any and better than most.” He laughed self-consciously. Then, seeking to retrieve the situation, he observed, “Either of those hummocks would be useful for forward observers or some decent snipers.” He gauged the distance. “Must be five to six hundred meters.”
Hamadeh chuckled. “It is 560 meters to the nearest and 620 to the other. I have paced it myself. You have a good eye, Colonel.”
The American grinned self-consciously. “Well, I spent a lot more time on rifle ranges than looking for water.” Seeking to change the subject, he asked, “What are your security arrangements for those hills?”
Hamadeh spoke French-accented English. “We patrol the area and one time had guard, ah, post, there. But not enough men to keep on there so we did some nights.” He paused, seeking the words. “Then Hezbollah took two men and killed another. We never see them no more so we cannot put men on hills after dark.”
Leopole turned to Ayash. “Couldn’t the Lebanese army help with some people?”
The Israeli Druze shook his head. “This is a small place, Colonel. The national army is occupied all over the country. That’s why the militia receives as much support as it does.”
“Well, we’ll do everything we can to help make up the difference.” He turned to Hamadeh, speaking slowly. “In our briefings we were told that you do not have facilities such as shooting ranges. Is there someplace we could use for that purpose? Maybe with a backstop?”
The commander nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes. Old quarry behind town. Maybe seventy-eighty meters.”
“All right, we’ll make do with that.” He began walking. “Gentlemen, let’s get started.”
24
“How are they doing?” Leopole asked.
Bosco was inhaling half a bottle of water. He nodded while swishing out his mouth, then swallowed. “Pretty good, Boss. Pitney really helps.”
Leopole stood behind the firing line, watching the former policeman with some of the militiamen. Robert Pitney was leaning over a shooter who had assumed a rough sitting position, demonstrating where knees and elbows belonged. The American was speaking animatedly, with apparent authority.
Bosco wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I don’t know how you say ‘cheek weld’ or ‘sight picture’ in Druze talk, but Robert seems to have it dialed in.”
“Well, it’s preferable to have a native speaker, of course. But you guys seem to do okay working with translators.”
“Yeah. Rami and Hamdam speak enough English for us to get the point across, but something’s gotta be lost in translation. Like, you and I know what we mean when we talk about seating the butt in the pocket of the shoulder, but imagine how that comes out in Arabic!”
Leopole allowed himself an appreciative grin. “Hey, if it works, it works. The groups are tightening up at twenty-five meters and some of the militia are getting faster hits.”
Bosco set his bottle down and prepared to return to the line. “Boss, it’s not my call, but you might tell Robert not to shoot up to speed when he’s doing drills by himself. Some of these studs see him rip off six aimed rounds in a
