diversionary actions.”
“And the special equipment?”
“It will be provided at the appropriate time. There will be technicians to deal with it, so that aspect should not worry you.”
Esmaili rolled his shoulders, evidence of the strain he felt building inside. But as long as the commanders were talking, he decided to risk further questions. “As you wish, brother. But again: I am concerned about proper execution of the full mission. If I am to lead the main effort, who will direct the attacks on the villages?”
Azizi unzipped a smug grin. “I will. Therefore, your more important role will not be burdened with other concerns.”
Esmaili felt himself blanch. Now he knew: the “main attack” would almost certainly be a suicide mission, leaving Mohammad Azizi to supervise the covering forces in relative safety.
Esmaili heard his voice say, “As you wish, brother. I am yours to command.”
“Okay, here’s how it shakes out,” Nissen began. Phil Green and Bob Ashcroft paid close attention: their ex- cop antennae had sensed the atmosphere and picked up the growing tension.
“HQ is sending Steve Lee and Ken Delmore. They’ll be here in a couple of days. We’re getting Delmore directly and Frank will send us Pitney.”
Green’s blue eyes lit up. “I know Ken. We worked with him in Afghanistan.”
Ashcroft laughed. “Yeah, he looks like Mr. Clean on steroids. Bald as a billiard ball with twenty-inch biceps. He can prob’ly bench-press a Yugo without breaking a sweat.”
Nissen almost laughed. “Well, that’s fine, but I don’t know him. What’s his background?”
“Eighty-second all the way. Jumped into Grenada and landed on the runway. Says he was flat on the concrete with blue tracers flashing overhead and he thought, ‘I spent all that time building myself up and now I just want to get small!’”
Nissen chewed on that information and was pleased with the taste. “Well, nobody mentioned any language ability but apparently he has instructor credentials.”
“Sure does,” Ashcroft replied. “He’s been to a bunch of armorers schools and prob’ly knows more about the M16 and M4 than anybody I’ve ever met.”
“Okay, that’s fine. I’m really glad to get Pitney because of his Arabic ability because I can’t do it all.”
“So what’s with Lee?” Green asked.
Nissen shifted his feet. “He’s going to work with Frank. Nobody said so but I think the front office thought it’d be awkward to have somebody senior to me move in here. Personally, I can work under anyone who’s competent but Lee will be brand-new in-country and things might pop pretty soon.”
Ashcroft nodded his agreement. “We worked with Steve in Afghanistan and Pakistan, too. In fact, he led one of our teams hunting the al Qaeda cell that was spreading that virus. He did a good job.”
Chris Nissen was increasingly aware that he was relatively junior with SSI, leading men who had served together on other contracts in other climes. “Well then, Frank and headquarters called it right. I’m used to working with local indigenous personnel because that’s what green beanies do. Apparently Lee’s a door-kicker at heart, and his admin experience can be useful at Amasha.”
“Okay,” Green replied. “How do you want to work Pitney into our band of bros?”
Nissen laughed aloud. “Hell, it looks like I’m gonna be the El-Arian chief of police! With three ex-cops on the job here maybe I can even sleep in once in a while.”
“I’ve talked with Robert a few times,” Ashcroft said. “Obviously he’s a tremendous shooter, and evidently he does well as an instructor, speaking the lingo and all. Personally, I’d rather work through him than most of the militia dudes who sort of speak English.”
“Concur,” Nissen responded. “But let’s keep pushing these guys on the basics. The first time a round cracks past their ears they’re likely to dump half of what they ever learned.”
Green smiled. “Makes ‘em a member of a real big club, don’t it, Staff Sergeant?”
32
Rob Furr fidgeted again. Finally he whispered, “Damn, I gotta piss.”
Rick Barrkman barely turned his head. “You should’ve thought of that before we crawled clear out here.”
“I did, damn it! I drank more water tryin’ to stay hydrated.” Another rifle round cracked across the rocky terrain. Barrkman’s scan went to his left front. “That was about three, maybe four hundred yards. This gomer must not be Hazim because he hasn’t moved much the last three shots.”
“Well, maybe Hazim isn’t the sniper stud he’s supposed to be.” Furr temporarily forgot about his bladder. “What’s he shooting at now?”
Barrkman glanced to his right, squinting in the sunlight toward the village a quarter mile away. “Can’t tell. It’s probably just more harassing fire. I think they’re trying to draw us out.”
“Yeah. Nissen said there’s no activity over at El-Arian so maybe they’re setting us up for a fall there by decoying here.”
Furr nodded. “Makes no sense to telegraph their punches here. Unless maybe they just want our attention in this area to cover something bigger.”
“Well, that’s strategy and we’re tactics. Take another look, will you?”
Furr raised himself slightly from his position directly behind Barrkman, clearing the grass while glassing the open ground. Both men were sweating beneath their ghillie suits in the midday sun. They had chosen a shaded position partially covered by flat rocks that broke up the terrain and rendered them less visible to a knowledgeable observer.
“Nada.” Furr looked upward through his veil. “Sun angle’s changing, amigo. We should think about moving before we lose the shadows of the trees.”
“Okay. You back out. Give a bird call when you’re set and cover me while I move.”
While Furr retrenched, Barrkman kept his eye to his bipoded rifle. He continued scanning slowly, methodically, hoping for a glimpse of movement or a careless reflection. Nothing emerged.
Two minutes later Furr’s call chirped out, a two-tone baritone warble. Barrkman folded his bipod and began inching back. In a few meters his left foot wedged between two rocks and he tried to dislodge them. Unsuccessful, he raised up for better leverage and kicked with his right foot.
A gunshot split the air, impacting two meters in front of him.
Barrkman ducked reflexively. “Damn! That was close!” He kicked hard, felt one rock move, and scampered backward on hands and knees.
Another round split the air, passing overhead.
Furr edged laterally eight to ten meters, then risked a quick peek over the weeds. “Nothing out there much closer than four hundred yards.”
Barrkman brushed the sand from his face. “What did it sound like to you?”
The spotter thought for a moment. “It sorta sounded like the ballistic crack you hear in the pits during a five-hundred-yard string in a high power match.” He shrugged. “It’s sure not that two-hundred-yard
“I’ve got an idea.”
Furr shook his head. “Uh-oh. That means you want me to get shot at.”
A knowing smile creased Barrkman’s tanned face. “Not this time. I’m going to move off to the left and poke my hat over the top with my binoculars to catch some sunlight.”
“Those are real nice glasses, Rick.” He eyed the Steiners covetously.
Barrkman grinned again. “Hey, if that raghead can put a round through my optic, it’s a lot better than through my head.” He motioned his partner into position. “You do two things: watch for something, and notice the interval between the impact and the sound.”
