Vulcan's Fire

“In that case, it’s just as well we won’t have him calling Lebanese militiamen ‘ragheads’ or worse,” Peters replied. He returned to his roster. “We can count on Bosco and Breezy, of course — they’re always willing to add to their IRAs — plus Chris Nissen and Josh Wallender. Chris is golden: small-arms instructor and Arabic speaker. Josh is a good man, mostly a commo guy, who speaks French.” Peters looked up. “Some of our clients are likely to be French speakers so that can help.”

“What about Johnson?” Leopole asked.

“I have a call in to him. Some of you know that J. J. has, well, issues about going into the field again. I can’t blame him after the way al Qaeda tortured him in Afghanistan. Frankly, I was surprised he went to Chad, but of course that also was a training mission.”

“I’d like to have him if we could,” Leopole replied. The former Foreign Legion veteran was not only fluent in French, but an excellent instructor who spoke a smattering of Arabic.

“Hey,” Leopole exclaimed. “What about Vic Pope? He outdid himself in the Chadian maritime op.”

Peters shook his head. “I already asked. He’s not interested in most jobs above the high tide mark these days.”

The former Marine was clearly disappointed. “I’d feel better if he were with our people. I never knew a better man in a tight spot.” He grimaced as much to himself as anyone. “But I guess SEALs like to keep their feet wet.”

“Who else, Jack?” Wilmont wanted to keep things on track.

“Several other operators we’ve used before, but none with language skills. Ashcroft, Barrkman, Furr, Green, Jacobs, Olson, a couple of new guys. Then there’s…” He flipped through his papers again.

“Pitney. Robert Pitney. Former cop, been to Lebanon and speaks good Arabic.”

Leopole leaned forward on his elbows. “But what’s his military background?”

Peters shook his head. “None. Main heard about him through shooting circles. He’s a nationally ranked action pistol shooter, won the Bianchi Cup two years ago.”

“How’s a guy like that speak Arabic?”

“He married a Jordanian gal and learned the language to please her family. Ah… he also converted to Islam.”

Wilmont rubbed his chin. “He converted to marry this lady?”

“Affirmative. They have two children.”

Leopole drummed his fingers on the table. The cadence was a tattoo accompanying the silent strains of John Philip Sousa. For the Eighth and I parade ground Marine at HQ in D.C., “The Thunderer” beats “Stars and Stripes Forever” every time. “Sounds like a great catch, especially knowing the culture and the language. But…”

“Yeah,” Wilmont interjected. “How’s he going to fit in with the others?”

“Well, I figure he’ll fit in because that’s his job, if nothing else.”

Wilmont asked, “You mean he’s officially on board?”

“No, sir. He’s officially interested. So far we haven’t formally signed anyone to this job.”

Wilmont, who knew that elemental fact, cleared his throat. He recovered his poise by changing the subject. “Dr. Mohammed, I think we should hear your thoughts on the training angle. After all, that’s what the contract is about.”

The director of training was, as always, prepared for questions. “Based on Mr. Baram’s information, this is a straightforward assignment. We are to help improve the standard of readiness and training for selected Druze militia units and villages in southern Lebanon. We will receive covert logistic support from the Israelis, and our team will be broken into smaller units depending on where our services are needed.

“As of now, it looks like a bread and butter operation, the kind we have done so often before: small-arms use and maintenance, basic infantry tactics, and undoubtedly defensive measures. Hezbollah is active and often aggressive in the area, trying to expand its influence and seeking fresh advantages. It is especially interested in gaining more high ground, either for launching rockets into northern Israel or for spotting purposes.”

Sandra Carmichael interjected, being one of the senior operations officers. “Doctor, one thing troubles me. Given the tactical and political situation on the ground, how can we reasonably expect our people to remain uninvolved? I mean, any of them could come under attack almost anytime.”

“Quite so. That is the nature of the work, especially in Lebanon. Obviously, it is also why we have been offered so lucrative a contract.” He thought for a moment. “In their own way, the Israelis are being generous to us. After all, they could have — as you might say — low-balled us, knowing our financial situation.”

Wilmont expressed the dominant sentiment in the room. “Let’s be thankful for small favors.”

NORTHERN ISRAEL

“It’s better you don’t look, Yakov.” The words were nearly lost in the dust and noise of the departing UH-60 Owl helicopter.

Colonel Livni stared at the shrouded bodies laid in a row. It did not occur to him that perhaps only in the Israeli Army would a first sergeant address a field-grade officer by his given name.

But Rav samal rishon Maier Boim was more than a fellow soldier, let alone merely a subordinate. They had first served together when Livni was a segen, the executive officer of an infantry company. They had shared much over the years, including loss. But seldom like this.

Livni knelt beside the longest shroud, knowing intuitively that it contained the body of his nephew. His mother will never forgive me, he told himself. Even if it wasn’t my fault, she would never forgive me. But it is my fault. I gave him the latitude to continue, knowing he would take it.

In his mind’s eye, Yakov Livni saw the face of his sister. Even in her youth, Esther had been no beauty, and neither was her brother. But her son and his nephew was beautiful. In so many ways.

Captain Avrim Edrim had lived by IDF law codified in the Purity of Arms. With a quiet, fierce pride, Livni recalled the time when Avri had risked censure or worse to abide by the code, protecting an obviously guilty Palestinian gunman from an outraged crowd of armed Israelis demanding street justice.

Livni braced a hand on his knee and levered himself upright. Maier Boim moved to help his friend, then stopped in midreach. The colonel looked at the sergeant and merely nodded. “You are right, Maier.” He even allowed himself a public gesture by patting his comrade on the shoulder. “I do not need to see him like this. I should remember him as… he was.”

“We’ll take good care of him, Yakov. The battalion’s rabbi is on the way.”

The pudgy old soldier straightened up, squared his shoulders, and looked around. He knew that Avri and the others would be laid in Israeli soil within the prescribed time. Taking in the ancient, disputed hills to the north, he forced his mind back to the present and the recent past. Anything to get Esther off my mind.

“Tell me, Maier. How did it happen?”

The first sergeant recalled the scene. It was terrible, ugly. Years had passed since he had seen nine dead Israeli soldiers.

“It was an ambush. The boys had left a night defensive position on a small hill, apparently intending to complete their mission. We had intelligence that the Iranian…”

“Yes, yes. I remember.”

“Well, they got about 150 meters before they entered the trap. Apparently two died immediately. The others assaulted through the kill zone but didn’t get very far. Avri… got the farthest.”

Livni nodded silently, slowly, knowingly, still facing south. “Was he…” The officer’s voice trailed off.

“Tortured? No. Multiple hits. He didn’t last long.”

The colonel was in control of his voice now. “What of the other boys?” He reminded himself that eight other families were about to be aggrieved.

“Two were finished off. Head shots.”

Yakov Livni turned in the midday sun to face the veteran NCO. “All right, Maier. You have told me what happened. Now I need to know why it happened. How did Hezbollah track Avri’s team and force it into a trap? He was too old a soldier, too smart an officer, to fall for a simple trick.”

Boim spread his hands in a futile gesture. “Colonel, that is above my pay grade. I think you should ask the special operations branch.”