way. Use your radio.”
Golem cradled his Galil and, taking care to guard the expensive optic, crawled toward the crest.
The radio operator snaked his way to the team leader. “Avri, how long can we stay here? If we don’t get going we’ll…”
“I know that!” The words snapped out, harsher than intended. But the youngster was right. If the team did not get off the hummock before long, the Israelis risked being trapped by the stalkers who might be waiting in the brush. Still, that was far better than getting caught in the open.
The carrier wave crackled in Edrim’s headset. “Avri, there’s nothing in the scope. But that doesn’t mean nothing’s there.”
Edrim turned to his Druze guide. “Hamzah, you know this area.”
The militiaman nodded gravely. “Surely. My family has—”
“What’s the terrain west of here for three hundred meters?”
The Lebanese glanced over his shoulder, toward the dawn. “Just like that. Maybe more foliage, some trees…”
“Lots of places for an ambush.”
Hamzah permitted himself an ironic grin. “Captain, this is Lebanon.”
The officer rolled onto his stomach and pulled out his map. Using a red-lensed flashlight, he studied the geometry of the situation. His objective was a cluster of buildings four kilometers away. Intelligence — for whatever that was worth — thought that a Hezbollah cell led by a competent Iranian would be there sometime this morning. Deciding to enter the area on foot, Edrim had shunned helo and ground transport in an effort to surprise his quarry. Now he had to consider that his men were the target, afoot deep in hostile territory.
The shadows slowly receded on the hummock, forcing the Israeli into a decision.
Less than 150 meters away, another radio carried a terse message. “They are moving. As you expected.”
Esmaili almost smiled to himself.
The Iranian pressed his transmit button. “Wait my command.”
Avrim Edrim glanced around him. His team was deployed properly— a small wedge-shaped formation that provided both frontal and flank protection, though it was difficult keeping alignment in the broken ground. He wished yet again for his missing three men: they would have provided another maneuver element besides additional firepower. But as he had told Uncle Yakov, one had to accept risks, and the need was deemed urgent. If only…
Automatic fire. Both sides, under twenty meters. Muzzle flashes sparkling in the growing dawn. Men down. No time to stop. Choke down the bile rising in the throat, ride the adrenaline spike, focus it. Use it. Assault out of the kill zone.
Booted feet pounding over the rocks and scrub brush. Hosing short, ill-aimed bursts at the enemy muzzles. Nearly there, almost to the thicket.
Hammer blows to thigh and pelvis. Something awful happening down there. Legs not responding. Sudden realization of one’s face in the brambles. Arms still work but fingers have lost fine motor function. Pull the rifle forward from belt level. Bolt locked back: reload. Hands fumble for a spare magazine.
It’s so quiet!
“Three men: I should have waited for three men.” Coppery taste in the mouth, energy draining away… so… so tired.
“What did he say?” Esmaili spoke little Hebrew.
Tawfiq had some difficulty understanding the Jew’s words, choked as they were. “Something about more men. Three men.”
Two gunshots snapped out behind the Iranian. He did not bother to look back; his men were experienced and did what needed doing.
“This one was the leader,” Tawfiq added. He leaned down and picked up the officer by the hair. “He will not last.” He retrieved the officer’s map case and handed it over.
Esmaili accepted the documents but wasted no time. He could examine them at leisure in more secure surroundings. Finally he took in the scene: it was much as the aftermath of most ambushes. He had been on the receiving end himself on two occasions. “None left to question?”
Hazim trotted up. “No, Teacher. Most were already dead. The others…”
The youngster had picked up a Galil with an impressive optic. Other Hezbollah fighters were slinging additional Israeli rifles and satchels over their shoulders.
Hazim saw a chance to ingratiate himself with his mentor. “An excellent plan, Teacher. Leaving two men to be seen by the night-vision device sent the Jews off the hummock, into the trap.” He smiled in the fresh daylight. “They came to us, as you said.”
The Iranian ignored the sycophancy but noticed that the boy had done reasonably well during the brief episode. He had even remembered to reload when it was over.
“Teacher, I wonder…”
“Yes?”
Hazim hefted the scoped Galil. “How did you know they would have night vision?”
Esmaili shrugged dismissively. “The Americans provide the Jews with everything they want. This time was no different.”
“Ah, I see.” Obviously he did not, but it mattered little. “But if they did not have the device?”
“Then I would have followed the alternate plan, of course.” The Iranian found the youth’s manner consistently irritating. Without elaboration, the leader formed up his team. “This position soon will be untenable so we are rejoining the others. But you all did well, brothers. We are one step closer to our goal in this area.”
With that, Esmaili turned and began walking southeasterly. He could not admit to his men that he had not been told the nature of that goal.
Marshall Wilmont opened the meeting. “So, who do we need for this job? And who’s available?” He addressed the question to the room but intended it for Jack Peters.
As a former Army officer with experience in two other private military contractors, Peters was valued as SSI’s human resources chief. However, he cordially detested the title, which Wilmont insisted upon for Beltway reasons. “I was a freaking S-1 in the Army,” Peters insisted, “and I’m a freaking S-1 now, whatever the letterhead says.”
Everyone present knew that Peters enjoyed minimizing his military record. He had been hired partly on the strength of his Special Forces background, and had been lured away from another successful PMC where he demonstrated a knack for scouting fresh talent.
Peters responded to Wilmont’s rhetorical question with some specifics. “Well, sir, it’s much as we expected. The contract calls for training experience, preferably with Arabic speakers. We’re always short of those, but I’m reaching out to Dave Main again.” He smiled to himself. “After he raided the gene pool at Fort Bragg for the last job, he probably has to grow a mustache and carry a broom to get near anybody down there anymore.”
Even Wilmont appreciated the humor. As the firm’s DoD liaison, Colonel Main was not above dipping his PMC ladle into sensitive waters when SecDef wanted something done quickly and quietly. “Well, he certainly delivered the goods for the Chad operation,” Wilmont conceded. “I just wonder how many more Arabic linguists we can pilfer… er, recruit… who can also perform as weapons and tactics instructors.”
Peters shuffled his briefing papers. “Well, sir, we have commitments from most of the Chad team except Gunny Foyte.” He glanced at Frank Leopole. “I understand that Gunny has a redheaded priority these days.”
Leopole did not try to suppress a grin. “That’s affirm. Besides, he didn’t relate real well to the Africans. Kept lapsing into his redneck mind-set and calling them ‘boys.’ He didn’t mean it as ‘house boys’ or anything — he just meant ‘guys’ but you can imagine how that went over.”
