looking at something in the grass.
Barrkman did a compressed breath, held it, and put the crosshairs on the second Hezbollah fighter. The round went before he was ready.
By the time he ran the bolt again, the second target had disappeared.
“Tango two ran downhill,” Bosco reported. “Nice job on the first one, though. He dropped like a sack of wheat.”
Barrkman realized that his pulse was elevated. “Damn it to hell! I got on the trigger too soon.” He lowered the QR-2. “That’s the first time I wish I had a semiauto. Just a smidgen faster and I could’ve got him too.”
Rami Hamadeh smiled broadly. “You do well. You shoot the one who calls down the bombs. We go look.”
Bosco glanced at Barrkman, who rose to his feet. “I don’t know, Rami. There could be other gooners out there.”
The Druze shook his head. “Gooners?”
“No, it is okay, yes? You go back. We get dead man’s papers, maps, yes?”
Barrkman nodded his consent. “Okay, but don’t take too long. It’s getting dark.”
Walking back to the village, Jason Boscombe shot a glance at his newfound partner.
Returning with a confirmed kill, verified by three witnesses, Rick Barrkman felt no need to score and paste the target.
When they reached the village Leopole asked, “How’d it go?”
Barrkman nodded toward Hamadeh. “Rami called it right, Boss. He figured where they’d be and they walked right into the scope.”
Hamadeh and his partner came around the corner, carrying a satchel and some Hezbollah equipment. The Druze leader hefted the satchel. “Maps and military papers. Radio fre… freq… channels. Yes? I translate them soon.”
“That’s excellent, Rami,” Leopole replied. “What else did you see?”
Hamadeh turned to Barrkman. “You not miss second shot, Meestair Barrkman. Blood on the ground, yes. We followed south to southeast.” He patted a leg. “You must hit him low. Dragging one foot, yes.
Bosco gave Barrkman a comradely hoo-ah punch on one arm.
26
“And the Ranger’s aim was deadly with the big iron on his hip. Big iron on his hiiiip…” Phil Green was an Arizonan down to his boots. Though something less of a singer, he mouthed the lyrics to the classic gunfighter ballad.
“Marty Robbins sang about six-guns but
Captain Salah-Hassan Fares of the IDF Druze contingent was pleased with his coup. But no more so than Ayoob Slim, whose militia benefited from the acquisition. His men had unloaded the seventy-five-pound weapon from the truck and set it on its tripod mount.
“Wish we had another one,” Nissen said. “Cross fire’s the best way to prevent trespassing.” He smiled broadly, pleased with his down-home wisdom.
Wallender was unconvinced. “It’s an old design from the 1930s, isn’t it?”
“Hell yes, it’s an old design,” Green replied, “even with the postwar mods. But so’s the 1911 pistol and the Ma Deuce .50 cal. Let me tell you, friend: if something’s still being used seventy or eighty years later, there’s a good reason for it!”
Nissen stood back and scrutinized the Dashika. “I’d like to get one or two of these on wheels. You know, like the Russians used. I wouldn’t care so much about the shield. But if we have to defend this place, it’d be nice to have some mobility for our heavy weapons.” He tapped the antiaircraft sight. “We don’t need all the baroque accessories, but we can keep the recoil damper.”
While the militiamen set up the gun under Slim’s direction, Fares pointed out the features. “This weapon is fed by a fifty-round belt at six hundred rounds per minute. There is a three-position gas regulator, and we will find the best setting according to what ammunition we receive. The muzzle velocity is 850 meters per second, a little less than your .50 caliber.”
Nissen turned from the DShK to the surrounding terrain. “Captain, where do you recommend placing this gun?”
The Israeli Druze looked around. “Your idea of a wheel mount makes sense. We should be able to move it quickly depending on where an attack comes from.” He rubbed his chin as if pondering a philosophical point, which in a manner of speaking was the case. Then he looked up and behind him. “There.” He pointed to a flat-roofed building. “Best field of fire for a fixed position.”
The American gauged the geometry and agreed. “Okay, that looks good. Assuming the home owners don’t mind.”
Fares gave an ironic grin. “Believe me, Mr. Nissen. They will not object.”
Green wondered where the conversation was headed. “If we’re going to defend this place, shouldn’t we be building more walls and clearing better fields of fire?” His blue eyes took in the surrounding terrain, which included a goodly amount of scrub brush.
Fares called to Slim, who trotted over to the group. After some fast Arabic, the militia leader nodded and turned to his men, talking animatedly.
“What’d he say?” Nissen asked.
“He is asking for volunteers to cut the brush and carry stones to build a new wall on this side of the village.”
Green folded his arms and looked skeptical. “Who’s gonna volunteer for work like that?”
Fares suppressed another smile. “Mr. Green, these people know that if they want to keep their homes they must be willing to defend them. The Druze have a long history of fighting to protect their culture.” He inclined his head toward the town. “If the militia want it done, it will be accomplished. The only question is how soon.”
“Outstanding,” Nissen exclaimed. “Now if we could find another machine gun.”
Fares replied, “This one is Russian but I know of another from China. Or maybe Pakistan. Either will do.”
Nissen clapped Green on one arm. “Hey, bro, don’t you love it when a plan comes together?”
Azizi convened a meeting with Esmaili and the leader of the mortar section, another Iranian known as Abbasali Rezvani. Esmaili was experienced enough to know that the man probably was born with another name.
“We have made a good beginning,” Azizi opened. “Now is the time to increase pressure on the enemy.”
Rezvani seemed immune to concern. He was a spare, slender jihadist in his late thirties. Not the type of man accustomed to lugging a forty-kilogram tube and base plate around the countryside, though it was a near certainty that he seldom conducted such exertions himself. “We can operate both day and night,” he replied. “But it will be necessary to provide more security to my teams.”
Azizi nodded. “Yes, brother. It is advisable to alter our attacks in order to prevent the militias from recognizing a pattern. As for more security…” He looked to Esmaili.
“Some of my men can accompany the mortar teams, but that will mean fewer snipers to harass both villages.”
“We still have work for your snipers, my brother. But Rezvani lost an experienced observer who was killed by an enemy sniper. The radioman was fortunate to escape with a wound.”
