“Well, how far does that thing shoot? It’s gotta be pretty close if we can hear it.”
“The M224 is good for over three thousand meters, but this one’s closer.
“Well, 82s got more range.”
“I know, Breeze. But most all the ammo is three-four pounds. You can only chuck one of those so far.”
“Well, if it’s only fifteen hundred meters out, that’s a hell of a hike in injun country.”
Bosco shook his head. “No, man. You don’t gotta find the tube. All you do is find the FO and pop him.”
“Man, that’s a needle in a Lebanese haystack.” Breezy swept his hand generally eastward. “How’n hell do you find somebody in all that territory?”
“I think we should talk to the sniper dudes. They know about skulking and snooping and stuff.”
As if to emphasize the urgency, another round topped out of its parabolic arc and descended toward the village. Bosco jumped left as Breezy dived right. The projectile landed thirty meters away, dropping rocks and debris in the area. Breezy poked his head up, cocking a wary eye at the sky, and scrambled on hands and knees to his partner. “That does it, man. If our snipers are going after that FO, then I’m goin’ with ‘em.”
Several minutes later Bosco and Breezy consulted with Rick Barrkman. The sniper said, “It’s not as hard to find an observer as it seems. At least you can narrow down the area. I mean, he needs a good view of the target and that usually means elevation. Now, most people would assume he’s somewhere in line between the tube and target but that’s only for amateurs. I think these Hezzies probably have some experience, so let’s scope out the geography.”
The trio adjourned to the roof of the Yousef family and surveyed the terrain within three-quarters of a mile.
At length Barrkman said, “If I was an FO, I’d take my radio to that bluff to the northeast. It has a decent view of this place, it’s off axis from the tube, and it’s far enough out to discourage intruders.” He looked at Bosco.
Jason Boscombe looked back. “Let’s intrude, dude.” He smiled broadly.
Frank Leopole was skeptical. “If I let you three yahoos go traipsing through the boondocks, I’m not likely to get all of you back, and I need you.” He thought for a moment. “Brezyinski, you stay here. Barrkman, you and Boscombe take two Druze who really know the terrain. Check with Hamadeh for his recommendations.” He paused for emphasis. “In no case will you return later than sunset. Even with night vision, when you’re on the move after dark the advantage goes to the home team. Got it?”
Barrkman nodded. “Got it. Sir.”
As the sniper and the former mortar man strode off in search of the militia leader, Brezyinski entered a visible sulk. Leopole was tempted to ignore the youngster’s pout but decided to humor him. “Relax, Breezy. You’re staying here because I can’t spare you.”
“Well, sir, I dunno. Like, does that mean that you
“Don’t push it, son.” Leopole unzipped a patented Marine O-5 type of smile. “Look, it’s a big-picture situation.” Seeing that he had made no dent, he tried a different approach. “It’s like this, Brezyinski. I’m the forest. You’re a tree. You receiving me, son?”
“Five by, Colonel. Five by.”
“I can’t believe they’re that dumb.”
Barrkman rubbed his stubbled chin and pondered the situation. The Hezbollah mortar team had fired six rounds in the past forty minutes, almost inviting retaliation.
“Maybe they’re moving between shots,” Bosco suggested. “There’s several minutes’ delay after every couple of rounds.”
“Yeah. Or maybe the FO is moving. They wouldn’t expect us to go deep, looking for the tube.”
Bosco nodded. “Well, I sure don’t want to go tromping around out here a mile or more looking for something that’s bound to be guarded. Now, the observer…”
“He could move fast. He’d only have one or two guys with him.”
Barrkman turned to Rami Hamadeh, who had insisted on going with the Americans. “Rami, like we discussed: we can ignore the most obvious spots and back off from there. Since the observer probably is not on top of the nearest hill, where would be the next best place?”
The Druze chieftain pointed to the southeast. “Next hill, farther away but still good look at my village.”
“Okay. That makes sense. We’ll try it.” Before Barrkman could say anything else, Hamadeh and his friend took the lead, moving fast and low. The SSI men trailed at a decent interval.
Twenty-five minutes later Hamadeh held up a fist. The group went to cover, having flanked the far hill. Hamadeh had his compact binoculars out, scanning the terrain. Barrkman was using his Bushnell while Bosco and the other Druze maintained a 360-degree search.
Another 82mm round arced overhead, inbound to Amasha. It exploded near the village square.
Hamadeh stopped his sweep, lowered his glasses, and stared at the hillside. Then he raised the optic again. Moments later he turned to Barrkman. “Two men, moving this way. Maybe three hundred meters.”
Barrkman looked hard at the area indicated. He shook his head. “I don’t see them, Rami.”
“They are in grass. You see gray rock?”
The sniper quickly found a four-foot boulder sunk into the slope. “Yes, a little over three hundred meters.”
“Watch that. Get ready.”
In the two-foot grass Barrkman assumed a sitting position. He steadied the Robar QR-2 with his ankles crossed, elbows braced inside his knees. Satisfied, he removed the cap from the elevation dial and added three minutes of angle from his two-hundred setting.
Bosco took the shooter’s Bushnell and assumed a spotter’s position behind him, ready to call the shot.
“Wind’s quartering from the left,” Barrkman whispered. “Not enough to worry about.” He thought:
He chambered the first cartridge from the ten-round M14 magazine.
Minutes passed. Barrkman felt a cramp building in his right leg but willed it into submission. He had held the same position for longer periods.
“Tango,” Bosco said. “Make it two.”
Two camouflaged forms appeared from the left edge of Barrkman’s scope. Both had AKs; one carried a field radio. They settled behind the boulder as if conversing.
“Which one you gonna dump?” Bosco asked in a hushed voice.
“Maybe both. Otherwise the guy with the radio, of course.”
“Hey, the FO could be the one without the pack. He’d be senior.”
Bosco’s logic made sense. Especially in the rank-conscious Muslim world, the lesser man would likely be the mule. It was contrary to Soviet doctrine when platoon leaders often carried their own radios for better command and control. Even if it marked them as priority targets.
Barrkman looked to Hamadeh. “Rami, what do you think?”
“Shoot radio man, the other no can talk.”
Barrkman acknowledged the logic but realized that if he only got one shot, the observer could escape to ply his skills another day. Finally he set his mental trigger.
He inhaled deeply, expelled the breath, and repeated the process.
In the slanting evening sunlight, the two forms reappeared. One clambered atop the rock, allowing him to peer over the crest of the hill, looking toward Amasha. The man with the radio stood nearby.
Barrkman crosshaired the man atop the rock.
He thumbed the tang safety forward, then settled into the physical-mental condition that he called “The Zone.”
The world went quiet around him, narrowing to the crosshairs and the pressure of his right index finger. A life balanced precariously upon the thin edge of the sear.
The trigger broke cleanly, the firing pin snapped forward, and the round went.
The ten-pound rifle recoiled straight back.
