time he wondered whether he would tell SSI the truth of Steve Lee’s death, or whether he would put the best possible mask on an ugly face and say that the operator died before Breezy left that awful place.
He got up, looked around, and seeing nothing, began walking in the general direction of El-Arian, still rubbing the moistness in his eyes.
He had gone about a klick when he heard something that froze him in midstride. A vehicle, fast approaching. Breezy looked around, seeking a hiding spot, and found none. In desperation he sprinted downslope toward a tree but it was too far. He dived into the grass, flattening himself, rifle shouldered.
The engine sound came from a Nissan pickup with a Dashika mounted in the bed — a “technical” in Third World terms. The truck screeched to a stop about eighty meters away, off the road, with the engine idling. Two armed men dismounted. Breezy glimpsed at least two others in the cab.
The two men — surely Hezbollah — went to opposite sides of the tailgate and opened their flies.
When finished, the pair climbed back in the bed. The driver engaged the clutch and began to add throttle when the assistant gunner pounded on the cab.
He was looking directly at Brezyinski.
Amid excited jabbering and animated gestures, the jihadists focused their attention on the strange form. The primary gunner swung the snout toward Breezy and tugged on the charging handle.
Breezy shot him off the mount.
When the A-gunner stepped behind the weapon, Breezy got off two fast rounds, one of which connected. The gunner sagged into the bed, screaming in pain.
The driver accelerated, leaving one motionless body in the dirt. Breezy tracked the vehicle as best he could, but the grass blocked his view. For a moment he allowed himself to believe he was safe.
The pickup came back, stopped fifty meters away, and the passenger opened fire with the Dashika. The first burst went high. The second chewed up the grass and dirt around Breezy. He crawfished right, getting off snap shots that did no good.
Now the driver had his AK out and was firing semiauto.
Breezy rolled away again, knowing that the Hezzies had achieved fire superiority. He could not stop and take aim without giving them a better target.
He tasted raw heart, felt his urgent bladder. He had no choice— keep moving.
The next burst straddled him — rounds impacting left and right.
Abrupt silence.
Breezy moved again, saw the Nissan still there but no shooters in sight. He rose to one knee, rifle ready.
Three men appeared from behind the tree he had tried to reach. They advanced at a jog, spreading out, moving professionally.
Breezy waved a joyous wave, breathing the air of the saved. One of the men waved back.
Rick Barrkman had a huge grin on his face. Breezy leapt on him and hugged his neck, pounding his tactical vest, almost crying in relief. “Man, I thought… I was dead.” He choked down a sob, rubbed his eyes that were wet again.
Rob Furr and the militiaman checked the vehicle. There was one gunshot, which told Breezy all he needed to know. After loading the bodies, the Druze got in the cab and drove the truck downslope.
Furr walked up to Breezy and placed both hands on his shoulders. “You lucky bastard! If we’d been thirty seconds later they would’ve toasted you.”
“Shit, tell me about it!” He wiped his face, gleaming with perspiration and tears. “Where’d you guys come from?”
Barrkman turned and waved to the Druze, who was bringing the Land Rover. Then he said, “We holed up for a while this morning when we saw the attacks on both villes. We waited till things quieted down and came back to the truck, then saw you. We barely had time to get our scopes on these guys.”
Breezy sucked in more air, aware that his heart was still surging. “I never even heard you shoot.”
“Not surprising.” Furr laughed. “With all that belt-fed noise.”
Barrkman cocked his head. “Breeze, if you’re out here all alone, what’s happening in Amasha?”
Breezy opened his mouth twice. Finally, he told them.
“It’s a mess over there.” Chris Nissen raised his hands in frustration. “Brezyinski’s version is probably the most recent, but we’ve had Druze reports that the place is still holding out.”
The erstwhile NCO paced in the room, rubbing his chin in concentration. The other SSI operators sat or stood, according to their state of fatigue. Nissen surveyed them for their current utility:
Ashcroft and Green appeared strong. Delmore talked a good game but he moved stiffly, slowly. Barrkman was composed; Furr obviously worried about his friends in Amasha. Breezy had definitely changed. The puckish, surfer dude persona was gone, probably forever. He sat against the wall, obviously brooding.
Pitney was outside, coordinating the defenses with Ayoob Slim.
With seven men plus himself, Nissen had to make a decision shortly, and there was no point delaying it.
“Listen up,” he said. “I’ve been talking to Captain Hamadeh. He’s hoping for aerial surveillance to look at Amasha later today, if the weather lifts. The fact that the Hezzies haven’t hit us again leads us to think this morning’s attack was a delaying action. Apparently they didn’t want us to reinforce Frank’s garrison, and now that they probably own it, they may be satisfied. Or they might come back to pick up the pieces.”
“So what do we do, Boss?” Delmore’s voice was lighter than his back felt.
“Hamadeh hopes that some of the Amasha militia will be able to get here, like Breezy did. If so, that’s great. If not, we have to arrange contingencies on our own.”
Barrkman asked, “What sort of contingencies?”
Chris Nissen inhaled, then blew out his breath. “Okay, here it comes.
“Hamadeh has heard from his special operations liaison with Northern Command. There’s intel, considered good, that the opposition has one or more backpack nukes.”
The NCO waited for the inevitable chatter to abate. “This is not, repeat, not for distribution. But there are clandestine spec-ops teams on this side of the border, looking for infiltrators who could have the nukes. We’ve been asked to deploy one or two teams, assuming we can spare the manpower. If so, Hamadeh will notify his people to look out for us.”
Green raised a hand. “Chris, that’s not what we signed on for. The contract is training and…”
“Yeah, I know. I’m going to discuss that with Arlington as soon as I can. It’s still pretty early there — about 0300.” He paused, looking at the far wall. “Besides, they need to know about Frank and… the others.”
“There’s lots of people out wandering around, you know.” Breezy’s voice caught most of the operators by surprise. He had hardly said a word since relating the news about Amasha. “I think the Hezzies want a lot of civilians in the countryside.”
“Why’s that?”
“Cover. If there’s backpack nukes out there, it’d be easier to sneak ‘em to the border with a bunch of refugees.”
Nissen looked at Green, who nodded. “That’s a good point, Breeze. I’ll talk to Hamadeh about it.”
“Meanwhile, we’re getting some help from headquarters. There was an encrypted e-mail last night that Dr. Mohammed is flying to Beirut with a physicist. They’ll join us ASAP.”
Ashcroft perked up. “That must be Bernie Langevin! Phil and I worked with him on the yellow cake smuggling.”
Green’s mouth curled at the edges, elevating his mustache. “Only PhD that I ever met who can strip a Beretta.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s not his main credentials,” Nissen replied. “Anyway, Dr. Mohammed is coming because he speaks Farsi as well as Arabic and Hebrew. He can be a big help, especially if we tangle with some
