From the murmured conversation, Livni inferred that the subject was less important than his own, so he barged ahead.
“General, thank you for seeing me on such short notice!” Livni stomped into the room, displacing the light colonel en route, and plunked a manila folder onto the desk with a resounding thud. “Since we both know that time is short, I’ll get right to the point.” He helped himself to the nearest chair, still warm from recent occupancy, and flipped the folder.
The major craned his neck, trying to assess the import of so rude an entry, but Livni slapped the folder shut. Looking up, he declared, “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but you will have to excuse us. This material is for Sol’s eyes only.”
Nadel’s expression turned from displeasure to indulgence as he nodded to the officers. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, boys.”
When the major closed the door behind him, Nadel leaned across the desk. “Yakov, what in the hell is so damned important that you have to…”
Livni held up a reconnaissance photograph. Nadel took it, examined it, and handed it back. “Where was that taken?”
“Twelve kilometers south of Hasbaya. You recognize the layout.”
“It looks like an excavation for a missile site.”
The smile was back on Livni’s moon face. “You missed your calling, Solly. You should have been a photo interpreter instead of a general.”
Nadel tapped the folder. “What else do you have in there? And where did you get this material, anyway? That sort of intelligence is supposed to come…”
“Oh, never mind. You would see this information eventually, but because of my uncommon intellect and special connections, sometimes I get interesting items ahead of some important people. Even generals.”
Nadel sat down and opened the folder. It contained other photos and some intelligence summaries. At length he looked up. “Yakov, you’re not telling me something. This is all very interesting — even important. But it’s beyond my area of operations unless we’re about to invade Nabatiyeh Governate. And unless you just got a huge promotion, you don’t give that order.”
“Sol, let me tell you what I think.”
“As if I have a choice.”
Livni ignored the good-natured quip. “These recon images show at least two sites within several kilometers of Hasbaya with evidence of surveying a third. Now, of course Hezbollah has long-range missiles, and certainly is willing to use them. But to what purpose? I mean, unless they’re content just to lob some occasional rockets at your headquarters and the surrounding area, what’s the point? They know it will invite retaliation.”
Nadel frowned in concentration. “Well, depending on the type of missiles, basing them there, they could hit as far south as—”
“A Fajr 5 wouldn’t reach Haifa but a Zelzal could hit Nablus, or even farther depending on the model.”
The general stood up and began pacing, as he often did when he wanted to think. “Yakov, it just doesn’t make much sense. Hezbollah doesn’t telegraph its blows like this. There’s not even any attempt at camouflage.”
“Correct.”
Nadel pulled up short. “Well then?”
“Well then, I think your boys should be more worried about what’s not evident in these pictures than what is.”
“You believe this is a deception? Something to move our focus elsewhere?”
Livni slapped the desk. “General, you show real promise. Remind me to recommend you for a promotion the next time I dine with my cousin, the deputy defense minister.”
“All right, all right. I’ll put the brigade on enhanced alert. We’ll increase patrols, looking for more infiltrators, that sort of thing.”
“It’s a good start, Sol.”
“Sure, but it’s only a start considering I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
Yakov Livni picked up the folder and prepared to leave. “That makes you a member of a big club, my friend.”
Two groups of men hunted through the Lebanese night, each seeking its prey without full knowledge of the other.
Using a commercial GPS unit purchased in Beirut, Tawfiq directed Rezvani’s mortar team to its predetermined firing position almost three kilometers from the village. The experienced crew needed only minutes to set up and prepare to fire, but establishing radio contact with the forward observer took longer. That vital member of the team had carefully selected his vantage point well away from the weapon site.
After ensuring that his security element was properly positioned, Tawfiq hastened back to the firing point. He found Rezvani on the radio to his FO.
“Jinn, this is Dancer. Reply.” Rezvani double-clicked the transmit button to ensure that the listener knew the message was ended. He pressed his earphones with his left hand, as if squeezing more performance from the set. Finally he looked at Tawfiq. “He was preparing himself just a moment ago.”
Two kilometers to the west, a Litton night-vision scope was put to use. The image glowed greenly on the CRT, showing a human form via infrared heat. The viewer tweaked the focus knob. Finally Josh Wallender turned to Captain Fares. “They came where you said they would. Confirmed hostile. He has a radio and a guard.”
The Israeli Druze nodded in silent acceptance of the compliment. In truth, however, he did not consider his coup a significant achievement. Once it was known where FOs had operated previously, it was a safe bet that they would not return to those spots very often. Then it was a matter of deducing which new vantages were most useful and assigning the other two teams accordingly.
“We will wait a little,” Fares whispered. “Ayoob Slim’s team might find something as well, and we could take two observers.”
The American rolled his shoulders to ease the muscular tension. He was accustomed to hunting humans in the dark, but the stationary position led to cramps. “It’s up to you, Captain, but the longer we wait the more likely they’ll drop some rounds on the town.”
“Yes. But the first shells are almost always off target. That gives time to decide the best course.”
“But how do we know where the first rounds hit? We can’t see what the observer does because he’s always in position to do just that.”
A gunshot shattered the night. Wallender’s pulse spiked at the sonic blast. Its piercing decibels startled everyone in the group, all of whom would have dived for cover if they were not already prone.
Fares turned, immediately grasping what had happened. He asked if anybody were injured. Receiving negative replies, he loosened a stream of heartfelt invective at the militiaman who had carried a rifle with a round chambered, safety off, and finger on the trigger.
The offender was simultaneously appalled at his slovenliness and the humiliation heaped upon him. Belatedly he complied with the Israeli’s order to lay down the AK and step back. Despite the darkness, in one fluid motion Fares scooped it up, pulled the magazine, and cycled the bolt. A cartridge was ejected from the chamber, tumbling to the ground.
Fares handed the empty rifle to another Druze, then turned to Wallender. “We cannot stay here very long. Do you still see the men?”
Wallender returned his attention to the Hezbollah team’s previous position. He scanned left and right. “Nothing. They’re gone.”
Three hundred meters away, Rob Furr and his companions heard the shot. He knew the hunter’s conventional wisdom: One shot, meat. Two shots, maybe. Three shots, none. He thought:
In moments Wallender’s baritone was on the tactical frequency. “Trigger, this is Scope, over.”
Furr keyed his mike. “Scope, Trigger. Go.”
