Esmaili rubbed his chin, mentally allotting assets. “If you begin shelling the Druze at night, you might escape the first two times or so. After that, the Jews and the Americans will supply them with night vision. In fact, they probably have such equipment now.”
He decided not to mention that Hazim had inherited just such an item from the Israeli marksman killed in what now seemed a long-ago ambush. Instead, he changed the subject.
“What information is available on the Zionist mercenaries working with the militias?”
Azizi was prepared. “They have established training programs in both Amasha and El-Arian. Their facilities are meager but evidently adequate. So far the emphasis seems to be on small arms and defensive measures.”
“What about heavy weapons?” Esmaili thought that surely the defenders would upgrade their defenses in the face of the new threat.
“There is no information as yet. But we should expect that they will add more as the situation develops.”
Esmaili fidgeted and eyed Rezvani. The man seemed capable enough but he spoke little and asked no questions. Apparently he was willing to conduct operations exactly as ordered — the perfect soldier to some minds. “My brother, I ask about the militia’s weapons because I believe we need to plan ahead of events. For example, if we are expected to seize one or both villages, we will need more information. And more men.”
The statement carried implicit questions that Azizi recognized, even if he was unwilling to answer them. “At present we have no such intentions. Our part in the overall plan is to occupy the defenders of both places while our brothers expand their control over the surrounding territory. Meanwhile, we continue as directed. We will keep the Druze occupied with sniping and mortar attacks, day and night.” He paused, seemingly pondering whether he should elaborate. Then he stood. “I leave you both to continue your work.”
Ahmad Esmaili knew when he had been dismissed. He returned to his subordinates, musing whom he should next send within range of the sharp-shooting mercenaries.
The rock exploded with abrupt violence, sending shattered stones in all directions.
Everybody hit the deck.
Breezy found himself cheek by jowl with Rami Hamadeh, the IDF liaison officer for the Amasha militia. The American raised his face from the sandy soil. “Welcome to the war, Lieutenant.”
Hamadeh crayfished several meters along the base of the rock wall, then raised his head for a quick look. Breezy was quick to offer an opinion. “Nothin’ to see out there?”
“The sniper could be anywhere. He will keep up a harassing fire until he tires of the game.”
“Or until we nail his sorry ass.” Breezy looked around for Leopole or Barrkman. “That’s the trouble with countersnipers. They’re like cops. Never one around when you want one.”
Lacking an appreciation for American humor, Hamadeh ignored the flippant statement. Instead, he rolled onto his back, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted to the Dashika crew atop the nearby house. The gunner replied with a question while his loader and spotter seemed awestruck. In moments it was apparent why.
Pointing to their right, Hamadeh said, “Go there, ten-fifteen meters and watch for snipers. Anywhere that looks possible.”
Once Breezy was in position, the Druze officer stood and pulled his binoculars from their case. He began scanning the terrain, seemingly looking for the offending Hezbollah shooter or shooters. In a few seconds he lowered the glasses and began walking along the wall.
Mark Brezyinski had seen enough displays of bravado in his life to recognize genuine courage when he saw it. He thought:
Hamadeh stopped, turned around, and jogged back. He passed behind Breezy and went several more paces in a long, slow lope, then halted again.
Another rifle shot split the air. It passed somewhere above the living decoy.
Hamadeh remained in place, peering through his binoculars again. He remained until another round snapped out, apparently from a different location. The IDF man went to his knees and turned toward the elevated machine gun. At that moment the Russian weapon pounded out an authoritative tattoo: six- and eight-round bursts traversing a couple of likely spots.
Breezy crawled on hands and knees to join the officer. “I couldn’t see anything. But, Lieutenant, you’re gonna check into a Dragunov round one of these times.”
Hamadeh unzipped an ironic grin. “Ah, yes, yes. Your special forces men say, ‘Rami, you will swallow a 7.62 pill.’”
“Fershure, dude.”
“Pardon?”
Breezy returned the smile. “It means, my green beanie colleagues knew what they were talkin’ about.”
Hamadeh shook his head decisively. “No, no. I will die in bed many many years away. My mother’s mother read my hand when I was born. She was never wrong.”
The former paratrooper absorbed the serious sentiment from the officer who appeared so supremely confident. “Well, I loved my grandma but I wouldn’t let her place a bet in Vegas for me, let alone set the odds on a freaking sniper!”
“Well, yes, Mr. B. Your grandmother, she was not a Druze!”
27
Essam Tawfiq was an experienced fighter but he had little knowledge of mortars. Consequently, Esmaili sent him to learn by observing so he watched closely while Rezvani’s number-two team set up its 2B14 weapon. The four men worked quickly, obviously well drilled in the process. The gunner and his assistant had established a prominent tree stump on the near horizon as their marker stake, and they could shift aim from there.
The A-gunner was friendly, apparently proud of his weapon and his role. “We can traverse a total of eight degrees, which is adequate for our need. The elevation varies between forty-five and eighty-five degrees.”
“Why is this called the Todnos?”
“I am told that it is the Russian word for ‘tray.’” The man pointed to the base plate which in fact resembled a circular serving tray.
In the gathering dusk the crew set out a pile of 3.1-kilogram shells. Meanwhile, the lead gunner consulted his compass and a topographical map of the area. He was satisfied that he had identified his firing position within several meters and felt confident of putting the first round close enough to hit with the second or third. After that he would fire three for effect, dismount the tube, plate, and tripod, and be gone in the Toyota “technical” in a matter of minutes.
As leader of the security element, Tawfiq was responsible for getting his flankers and the forward observer back to base. It was not a cheery prospect. He sidled up to Hazim. “Be prepared to move as soon as the weapon is loaded in the vehicle.”
The youngster nodded silently, fondling the case containing the dead Israeli’s night scope. The sky was still too light for the specialized optic, and much as he relished the thought of using it on a genuine target, he did not want to use up valuable tube life unnecessarily.
Yakov Livni was about as grumpy as a colonel can be in a general’s office. After twice insisting to Solomon Nadel’s chief of staff that a meeting was urgently required, the visitor from special operations was politely invited to cool his heels until the staff meeting was over.
Ninety-five minutes later the officers began filing out of the inner sanctum, bringing Livni to his feet. Since he outranked most of the conferees, Livni felt little reluctance in bulling his way past the juniors and barely excusing himself when he collided with other colonels. He reached the door of Nadel’s office to find the brigade commander engaged in conversation with a lieutenant colonel and a major, neither of whom took much notice of the interloper.
