An ephemeral eruption burst near the gray horizon, followed three seconds later by a faint
“That’s prob’ly mortars,” Furr declared.
“Yeah, and El-Arian’s catching ‘em.”
The Americans paused to consider their options. In that short interval, two more
Furr stuck his head out the window, looking around. “If so, we sure as hell can’t stay out here. We gotta find someplace to hole up. Or go back.”
Barrkman rubbed his chin in thought. “But Frank said if the Hezzies hit one ville they’ll probably hit both.” He turned to the driver. “Bahjat, where can we hide this thing around here?”
Bahjat Hanifes spoke passable English but required time and patience. “Hide? This thing?”
“Yeah.” Barrkman patted the dashboard. “This vehicle. Where can we keep it out of sight. From the road.” He remembered to speak slowly and distinctly.
“Ah. Not many places.” He swiveled his head left and right. Then, without further comment, he put the gearshift in reverse and began backing up.
At length Hanifes stopped and cranked the wheel hard over. He let out the clutch with a jerk and the tires slithered through some mud puddles. The Druze maneuvered onto some grass, then eased the Land Rover down a slight incline. He backed under a small stand of trees, set the parking brake, and switched off.
Barrkman climbed out, surveying the terrain. “Well, we’re out of direct view of the road and I guess we can cut some foliage to cover the windshield. Other than that, I’m out of ideas.”
Furr unlimbered himself from the rear and tugged at some bags. “We can’t stay near the car. If the Hezzies see it, they’ll come for a look.” He set aside the custom AR-15 he had carried across his knees and picked up the drag bag with his precision rifle. “I have a coupla days’ worth of MREs and some water but that’s it.”
Barrkman set aside his AK-47 and withdrew his own sniper rifle. He began taking inventory. “Bahjat, what do you have?”
Hanifes hoisted his personal weapon, a Romanian AK, and a chest pack full of loaded magazines. From his knapsack he withdrew some bread, grapes, and bottled water.
Barrkman looked at Furr. “I don’t suppose you brought your night vision, did you?”
“I thought I’d be back by this afternoon.”
“Well, I’ve got mine but it won’t be much good for anything but surveillance. A fight’s a losing proposition with just three of us. Best thing we can do is lay low and see how things go.”
Furr walked over to the Druze. “Bahjat, do you have a radio? Contact with Captain Hamadeh or Mr. Hamdam?”
“No, sir. No radio. I never need.”
Barrkman walked several yards from the trees and looked around. “There’s plenty of daylight, maybe more. We could walk cross-country toward Amasha and see what’s doing there. It’s better than getting caught on the road.”
Furr pulled his Glock 19 from its shoulder holster and chambered a round before replacing the pistol. “But if we get there and it’s under attack, then what? We’d be on the outside looking in. Maybe between the Hezzies and town.”
Barrkman returned to the vehicle, withdrew his rifle case, and faced northwest. “Like I said, we should find us a hole and sit tight. But someplace that’s not obvious — no hilltops but with a good field of view.”
Pondering his partner’s suggestion, Furr saw no alternative. Without speaking, he pulled a roll of electrical tape from the glove compartment and tore off two thin strips. He applied one to the inside of each partly open door, the other end attached to the frame. Then he shut the doors. “What’s that?” Barrkman asked.
“If somebody checks this rig before we return, the tape will be pulled off.”
“You are one sneaky bastard, you know that?” Barrkman grinned appreciatively. Then he added, “But what if they booby trap the truck?”
Furr grinned back. “Then we’ll know for sure somebody was here.”
The senior sniper laughed at the gallows humor. “Okay, then. All we need now is someplace to hide.”
Bahjat Hanifes was a quietly competent militiaman. “I know place. You come we go.” He stepped off with a purposeful stride, and lacking options, the Americans followed at six-meter intervals.
40
Chris Nissen had a problem. Or, more accurately, he had one problem that outweighed all the others.
Ducking another mortar round, Nissen grabbed Robert Pitney by the flak jacket. “Listen! We can’t hold the eastern perimeter. There’s too many Hezzies. We’re gonna have to pull back to the inner perimeter…” He turned his head to avoid more dirt and rocks thrown up by another 82mm shell. “I think we can hold there.”
Pitney nodded amid the noise. “Gotcha. I’ll start on it.” With that, he was on the way, shouting in Arabic, pulling every second man off the firing line.
Nissen gestured to Bob Ashcroft. “Pitney’s pulling the Druze back to the interior perimeter. You get with Lieutenant Halabi and establish those guys as a base of fire to cover the others when they pull back.”
Before Ashcroft had sprinted twenty meters he saw Halabi consulting with Ayoob Slim, the militia leader. They went in opposite directions: Slim to the firing line and Halabi to the fallback position. Obviously they had a handle on things so Ashcroft went to a gap in the line and looked for somebody to shoot.
There was no shortage of targets. Ashcroft estimated eighty to one hundred Hezbollah fighters advancing on the village, and not many were taking fire. He reminded himself to breathe, settled down behind his FN-FAL, and began firing at attackers perhaps 150 meters out. He was jarred by occasional mortar rounds, and once ducked to avoid automatic fire, but he selected individual targets and shot at each until it fell. He was counting rounds rather than hits, and at eighteen he decided to reload.
Something nudged his shoulder. Phil Green’s blue eyes twinkled in the gray light. “Is this a private party or can anybody play?”
Ashcroft completed the reload and stuffed the previous magazine inside his vest. “I’m just playin’ through. Nissen wants some cover for the militia who’re pulling back to the inner line.”
Green pointed a thumb down the wall. “If you’ll notice, you’re practically the last one here.” With that he leaned into the wall and shot the two nearest assailants, forty yards out.
Ashcroft glanced left and right.
“Set!” Green shouted.
“Go!”
Beneath a volume of covering fire, the two Americans scrambled across the open ground between the inner and outer stone walls. They heard the Dashika’s distinctive
As Ashcroft and Green leapt the inner wall, the militia’s Dashika rattled out a long burst, perhaps fifteen rounds. Ken Delmore, an automatic weapons aficionado, looked up in disdain. “They’re wasting ammo. And I don’t think they’re hitting very much.”
The big man turned and made for the external steps leading to the balcony where the Russian weapon was mounted. He was halfway up when an RPG round impacted near the top of the landing. The two Dashika gunners were wounded and Delmore was blown off the steps. He fell eight feet onto his back, landing with a discernible
Pitney was first to reach him. The ex-cop ran the A-B-C assessment, then shouted, “He’s breathing!” He looked back at Delmore. “Can you hear me?”
Delmore opened his eyes, trying to focus on something. “My back.” It came out as a croak.
“Okay, don’t move.” Pitney called in Arabic, summoning a militiaman who spoke some English. He said, “Stay
