with him. I’ll be back. But don’t let him move.”
Pitney scrambled along the wall until he found Nissen. “Delmore’s down and I think the heavy MG is knocked out. But most of the guys seem to be shooting.”
“All right. Keep directing their fire, Robert. I don’t know why the Hezzies haven’t flanked us but they seem set on keeping up the frontal assault.”
Pitney almost smiled. “Suits me.” He found a good position amid the Druze and began firing. Nissen watched for a moment, curious how the hottest shooter in Lebanon would handle the situation. He noted that Pitney appeared almost calm, certainly deliberate. He shot quickly but not fast. Undoubtedly the Hezbollah unit scaling the first stone wall was taking serious casualties.
Hussain Halabi ran up to Nissen, hunched over amid the gunfire. “I think we need more men here. Let me bring half of those from the south side. They have almost nothing to shoot at.”
“Okay, go ahead. I still don’t understand why they’re not flanking us.” Nissen patted the liaison officer on the shoulder and Halabi scampered off. He went twenty meters and fell flat. At first Nissen thought he had tripped, but when the Israeli didn’t move, the American suspected the worst. “Oh, no.” He grabbed Ashcroft again. “Help me!”
The SSI operators ran to Halabi, and without speaking, each grabbed an arm. They pulled him into the lee of a bullet-pocked building and knelt down. Nissen turned Halabi’s head toward him. One look was enough for Nissen. “He’s had it. Must be AP ammo through the vest.”
Ashcroft turned to resume shooting when Nissen caught him. “Tell Pitney to go to the south wall and bring half those guys back here. Hurry!”
Nissen ensured that Pitney dashed away on his mission, then walked along the wall, stooped over to reduce his silhouette. Occasionally he stopped to double-tap an attacker but mainly he kept moving, watching for gaps, lending encouragement. When he turned back to retrace his steps he ran into Ken Delmore.
Nissen’s brown eyes widened in astonishment. “They said you were a hard down.”
Delmore leaned close amid the noise. “I was. Back hurts like hell.” At that, he pivoted, shouldered his custom AR-15, and looked for targets.
Moments later Pitney reappeared with several militiamen in tow. He distributed them along the wall, but the firing had dropped off. Nissen waved to Ayoob Slim, hailing the militia commander. With Pitney on hand to smooth over linguistic difficulties, the SSI leader and the Druze chieftain reached an agreement.
“Okay,” Nissen concluded. “We’ll keep this layout but I want the reaction force to move closer to this position. They’ve been trying to push us from the east all morning.”
“About time for a change, don’t you think?” asked Pitney.
“No, I don’t. These blockheads get something in mind and they stick with it. That’s why I want the reaction force closer to us than to the south.”
“Well, okay, Chris. But it’s not much more than a squad.”
Nissen nodded. “Yeah, I know. But we can’t stay nose to nose with these bastards indefinitely. If they throw another human wave at us, some might get through. So we need to plug the gap right away.”
Pitney exchanged a few words with Slim, who said something and nodded vigorously. “Ayoob says he understands.”
“All right. You and him get things sorted out. And run an ammo check. We may have to redistribute magazines between the lookers and the shooters.”
“Okay.” Pitney thought for a moment. “The Hezzies took a beating. You really think they’ll try again?”
Nissen grinned. “Not a doubt in my military mind. But I’m gonna check with Frank to see what’s doing at Amasha.”
41
Mohammad Azizi lowered his binoculars and rubbed his chin. Sprawled on a hummock half a kilometer from the village, he judged that the attack was progressing tolerably well. He accepted the handset from his radio operator and called his subordinate commander.
“Ameen, this is Baahir. Reply.”
The RO glanced at the leader of the security element. They exchanged knowing glances.
The assault commander took ten seconds to respond. “We are heavily engaged in…” The sound of gunfire crackled behind the voice, which faded out. Azizi waited for clarification, and when it did not come he tried again.
“Ameen, this is Baahir. Reply.”
“I am here.”
“This is Baahir. Listen, I can see people fleeing the opposite side of the village. Keep up the pressure but do not prevent anyone from leaving. Acknowledge.”
The carrier wave snapped and sputtered. Something high-pitched assailed Azizi’s ear, ending in a screech. Nearly a minute passed. Then the voice was back. “Ameen speaking. My radio operator has been killed. But I am advancing. Reply.”
Azizi pressed the transmit button. “Baahir responding.” Long seconds passed. He tried again.
After two more attempts Azizi passed the handset to his RO. The operator shrugged. “It seems that he can transmit but not receive.”
“Well, there’s nothing more to be done here.” Azizi levered himself out of the prone position. He picked up his rifle and began walking downhill. “We should get closer, anyway.” When the radioman caught up with him, he added almost as an afterthought: “Try to contact the El-Arian commander. I want to know the situation over there.”
Breezy didn’t know how he got under cover. He only remembered looking into Bosco’s dead face. He was hardly aware of the gunfire around him: it was nearly constant, almost atmospheric. Just part of the landscape. Becoming aware, he remembered to run a system check on his rifle: half-empty magazine, round chambered, safety engaged. One full mag remaining.
Steve Lee rapped on Breezy’s helmet. “You okay? We can’t stay here.”
Breezy stared into the retired major’s face.
Lee slapped the operator upside the head, hard. “Damn it, Brezyinski, snap out of it! We’re in deep serious here. Get your damned head back in the game!”
The sharp blow got results. Breezy’s grief-numbed brain defaulted to shock, then anger. He opened his mouth to scream at his tormentor, then something settled in the back of his mind.
He blinked, hard. “Okay, Major. I’m all right now.”
“Hoo-ah!” Lee hefted Leopole’s satellite phone. “I hope to hell this battery’s good. Wasn’t time looking for another.” He glanced left and right before leaving cover, noting the growing confusion around him. Some militiamen were withdrawing slowly, firing and leap-frogging back upon each other as they had been trained. Others were scampering for cover, though none had abandoned their weapons.
Lee inhaled, blew out the breath, and said, “With me.”
He lunged upright, driving forward with his weight lifter’s thighs, and pivoted to cover the far end of the block. Breezy was close behind, swinging his muzzle to cover the opposite side of the street. They went ten or twelve paces when Breezy saw the projectile smoking toward them. He only had time to scream “RPG!”
The warhead exploded within feet of Steve Lee, and he went down in a tumble. He was screaming in pain and rage, holding his ruined right leg with both hands.
Breezy stopped, entertaining an ephemeral question:
