Vulcan's Fire

intended to make us look over our shoulders when something’s coming from another direction.”

While the Israeli absorbed that esoterica, Barrkman pursued his own line of thought. “Hezbollah definitely has more than one shooter. This Hazim might be their star but he can’t be everywhere. I wonder if he’s really doing the job or maybe taking credit for everybody who gets lucky.”

Leopole unzipped a wry grin. “Why Mr. Barrkman, you sound downright cynical.”

“Guilty, your honor.” The sniper laughed. “But I was just thinking, there’s examples from history of super snipers who probably didn’t exist. At Stalingrad the top Russian shooter supposedly had a duel with the top German and finally killed him. But it turned out that there was never a German sniper with the supposed name — Thorvald or Koenings. Just Communist propaganda.”

“So how would you like to proceed?”

“Let’s see if this Hazim dude turns up again. If so, Rob and I can whack him.”

Leopole shot a glance toward Hamadeh. “Maybe that’s what they want us to do. Commit our first team.”

“Well, maybe so. But I’d like to talk to Rob, Colonel. He’s the only one we know of who’s tangled with this turkey, and he might have a take on him that only a sniper would know.”

The SSI leader realized the wisdom of Barrkman’s approach, and decided to concede. “All right. You can huddle with Furr, but I do not want both of you operating together without a solid plan. Keep me informed.”

“Gotcha, Boss.”

EL-ARIAN

As a Special Forces NCO, Chris Nissen had become accustomed to losses and to changes in plans. Now he tried to juggle both while working above and below his level of authority.

He pulled Green and Ashcroft off the morning’s training cycle to impart some information and seek advice.

“I just heard from Colonel Leopole. The office back home is sending two standby guys in a few days. Neither of them have language ability that’s useful but they’re experienced operators. So I’ll continue translating here.”

Green chewed his mustache for a moment. “Well, we sure can use some help, but mainly I wonder about the Druze situation. Since Fares got whacked, who’s going to replace him? I mean, obviously we can’t operate very well without a bilingual liaison officer.”

Nissen glanced over the operator’s shoulder. Rob Furr was working with Ayoob Slim’s people thanks to a militiaman who spoke passable English. “We’re about to get more shorthanded. Frank’s pulling Furr out of here to work with Barrkman on some countersniper job. He leaves tomorrow.”

Bob Ashcroft resorted to mental arithmetic. “The way I count it, that leaves us with three and — what? Thirty or thirty-five militia?”

Nissen rubbed the back of his neck, grateful that his African DNA had prepared him for an oppressive, overhead sun. “About that. Slim there says it varies from day to day, depending on duty rotation and personal or family matters.” He shrugged philosophically. “It’s an old story. Goes with the militia lashup.”

“How’s that?” Ashcroft asked.

“Well, that’s the thing about a militia, you know? It’s not a standing force, which means that you go with whoever’s suited up at the kickoff.”

Green chuckled. “Like the Minutemen who’d fire one or two shots and skedaddle when the redcoats approached. Or the Continental militia who went home to harvest in the summer.”

“You got it, bro.”

Ashcroft looked behind him again. “Are these guys ready for prime time?”

Chris Nissen unzipped a toothy smile. “That’s what’s so damned fascinating about this business. You never really know until it’s showtime. And then it’s too late.”

30

NABATIYEH GOVERNATE

The visiting dignitary was known as Akhmed. The Chechen sniper arrived with two packs, a custom rifle case, and a significant reputation. In his travels his score was said to run upward of two hundred Russians, treacherous Afghans, collaborationist Iraqis, invading Americans, and assorted other infidels. It was said that he never missed.

Esmaili did not believe it; neither did Hazim, who now admitted that he missed fairly often.

Nevertheless, Esmaili and Azizi were present to greet Akhmed when he stepped out of the truck. Azizi took the lead. “Brother, welcome! Your presence here honors us all.”

Akhmed bowed his head in deference to the homage paid him. He muttered a perfunctory response that was barely audible and shook hands without conviction. Esmaili would have dismissed him as a dilettante but for the eyes, dark and peering. Many Muslims avoided direct eye contact. Not the Chechen. He looked directly at each Hezbollah officer, as if trying to see what lay behind their own eyes.

The three quickly got down to business.

Settling in a secluded cabin, Azizi and Esmaili briefed the master sniper on their plan. “We know that your time here is limited,” Azizi began. “Therefore, we will make it as useful and… profitable… as possible.”

Esmaili shot a look at his colleague. Nothing had been said about payment for Akhmed’s services. The Iranian looked at the Chechen with surging ambivalence: respect for his record and questions about his motives. Well, he has to eat like the rest of us. But Esmaili wondered how so devout a fighter as Azizi got his philosophical fingers around the notion of a mercenary who was well paid for slaying God’s enemies. Let alone Imam Elham.

Akhmed nodded his appreciation. He was a tall, spare man in his late thirties or early forties. He moved smoothly, confidently, and seemed to expend his words as economically as his ammunition. “I shall want to see the ground as soon as possible. Today, even. After that we can talk again and make more definite plans.”

“Yes, of course,” Azizi replied. “Brother Esmaili is completely familiar with the area around both villages.”

Akhmed turned to Esmaili and focused on him. The Iranian was mildly upset to discover that he found the attention unwelcome. He looks at me as if through a scope. On the other hand, Akhmed the Sniper probably looked at everyone that way. Esmaili tried to envision two hundred kills, or merely two hundred hits. Never a scorekeeper, he acknowledged that most of his victims had been killed at close range from his early days on the firing squads.

Close range — what range does this Akhmed prefer?

“Brother, the terrain around Amasha and El-Arian is similar. We can insert you into favorable positions from two to perhaps six hundred meters.”

“I usually fire from two hundred meters for head shots,” Akhmed responded. “On a standing man, between four and five hundred.”

Is that all? Esmaili hoped that his disappointment was well concealed. “What rifle do you shoot?”

“A modified Dragunov. It is not my first choice, but the British AWC that I prefer was ruined in a recent operation. With that, I was confident out to seven hundred meters.”

Esmaili merely nodded. He knew that the AWC PM was effective well beyond seven hundred. Rather than press the matter, he concluded, “You should have something to eat, then we can examine the terrain.”

Leaving their guest to have lunch, the Hezbollah men stepped well away. “I did not know he shoots for hire,” Esmaili began. The tone in his voice said, As you failed to tell me.

Azizi took no offense. “It is his way, and his services are invaluable. God will know Akhmed’s heart and his worth at the proper time.”

Esmaili was disinclined to discourse on religious matters. “I can understand his concern with the Dragunov, but the British rifle is capable of far more than seven hundred meters. Certainly nine hundred — with a capable marksman.”

“Oh, Akhmed is certainly capable. But he only shoots when he is confident of a kill. That is part of his fee: a