against a file cabinet. The general’s personal weapon reminded him that Solomon Nadel had not always been a map reader or logistics pervader. Not so long ago he was an enthusiastic shooter, and he still kept dust on his boots most of the time.
“All right, Solly. All right. We’ll continue doing what we can, but hear this: I refuse to commit any more understrength teams to an operation. You hear me? I absolutely refuse! If we cannot accomplish a mission with the men on hand, then I’ll pull in others to get the job done and let the other mission wait. But Ari was…”
Livni choked off a sob. He swallowed hard, looking around for a glass. Nadel read the signs and handed his colleague a plastic bottle. The colonel thanked the general with a quiet nod, drank deeply, and handed back the water. When he looked up at his superior, he could not think of anything else to say.
Nadel pulled another chair across the wood floor and sat beside the veteran commando. “Yakov, listen. The word
Livni stared at the floor, nodding again. At length he looked at Nadel and trusted himself to speak. “You know, Solly, I was just thinking what old Colonel Baharof used to say in command and staff school.”
“Yes? What’s that?”
“We operate on incomplete information, and things are seldom as good or as bad as they seem.”
Ahmad Esmaili believed in thoroughness. It was one of the many reasons he was still walking the earth, praise be to Allah. Secretly he admitted to himself that he had been fortunate on several occasions, but far be it for a holy warrior to doubt that Fortune often represented the Will of God.
At least that is what he told his superiors, let alone the occasional imam who crossed his path. The revolution had taught him nothing if not the utility of carrying a Koran and quoting it at opportune moments.
Unlike many Hezbollah leaders, Esmaili believed in marksmanship and weapon maintenance. The former had just been put to good use, though admittedly the element of superior firepower at close range had been a major factor in slaying the Zionists. But now, after the excitement his men felt in the wake of the successful ambush, the Iranian insisted that they disassemble and clean their weapons. Properly.
Essam Tawfiq was reassembling his RPK faster than the others manipulated their AK-47s. But then Tawfiq was Esmaili’s most experienced man, one of the few who seemed genuinely enthusiastic about small arms. That was why the Iranian had designated him the machine gunner.
Leaning against the wall of the command building, Esmaili inserted a loaded magazine in his own rifle. Then he began refilling the one magazine he had used in the ambush. Loose rounds rolled on the tarp serving the five men nearest him. He noted that young Hazim was the next fastest in pounding his receiver cover into place, cycling the bolt twice, and tripping the trigger. True, the newcomer’s muzzle was pointed at Abdullah’s foot, but if the latter was unaware of the indignity, Esmaili was not inclined to make an issue of it. He thought,
As Hazim laid his weapon on the tarp — muzzle pointed away from the group — the boy looked around, obviously pleased with himself. He accepted his leader’s tacit praise, expressed by a nod of the head and the faintest of smiles. It had been a very good day for the neophyte fighter. He had claimed two of the Israelis, being certain of at least one, proven his worth to his fellow jihadists, and won the quiet approval of the man he most respected.
And something more. Hazim reached behind him and produced his prize, the Galil with side-mounted dovetail base to accept the weight of the American night scope. Nobody else had tried to usurp the treasure, but neither had Esmaili nor Tawfiq pronounced that he might keep it. Rather than delay the resolution, he ventured a question.
“Teacher, what shall we do with this?”
The Iranian extended a hand, and noticed the boy’s ephemeral delay in passing it over. When the weapon was relinquished, Esmaili made a point of grunting at the nine-kilogram weight. Some of the other men laughed in appreciation, exchanging knowing glances. One whispered to a friend, “Perhaps now Hazim knows why none of us wanted it!”
Esmaili removed the magazine and locked the bolt open. The muzzle incident moments before had happened to someone else. This latest breach had occurred to the leader. “Did I fail to teach you proper manners, boy? I believe that I did when you joined us. But that was weeks ago, and my dimming memory serves me poorly these days.”
Hazim blushed beneath his tan. His eyes lowered to the tarp as he muttered a muted apology.
Tawfiq shot a mirthful glance at his friend and colleague.
The leader made a point of visibly checking the chamber, then pretended to look through the Litton optic. With a dissatisfied grunt he handed the Galil back, followed by the magazine. “For your lapse in weapon handling, your punishment shall be to carry this burden for as long as it remains workable.”
Hazim’s carpenter hands wrapped around the scarred stock, then cradled the captured rifle in a gesture more befitting a parent with a child. “Thank you, Teacher! I promise my best efforts to learn this rifle’s proper use.”
The Iranian waved a cautionary finger. “That means you will have to find a source of American ammunition for it and suitable batteries for the scope.”
Hazim’s smile faded at the realization of the challenge he now faced. He did not even know the designation of the 7.62x51 NATO cartridges remaining in the magazine. As for batteries… where did they fit in the scope?
Esmaili and Tawfiq smiled broadly at one another. Each knew that the Iranian possessed both ammunition and batteries, but would reveal neither until the boy had worked himself into a quandary trying to solve the problem he had just brought upon himself.
5
The Lebanon team was taking shape.
Frank Leopole and Omar Mohammed presided over the first assemblage, Leopole as operations officer and Mohammed in charge of training.
“Now,” Leopole began. “Since I have no other pressing commitments, I’ll take the lead with our in-country team, at least in the beginning.”
Some knowing glances were exchanged in the audience. The message was tacitly clear: since SSI lacked meaningful employment with the U.S. Government, the firm’s operations officer had nothing to keep him home. Besides, he had not smelled gunpowder since the Afghanistan contract and was between significant others. In short, the timing and circumstances were favorable.
Sitting near the back of the room, Lieutenant Colonel Sandra Carmichael folded her arms and feigned indifference. Alternating with Leopole as the company’s director of international operations, by rights the option to take a foreign-deployed team should be hers. But not even a West Point ring and “U.S. Army (Ret)” behind her name could overcome most cultural barriers. Not for the first time she regretted that so many SSI contracts involved Islamic nations, where a white American female would not be well received. She let her notepad slide to the seat beside her, musing that while Leopole got the potential for some trigger time, she was obliged to produce some additional overseas business.
The dozen men occupying the chairs in the briefing room were mostly known to one another but Leopole wanted everyone familiar with their teammates. He began by introducing most of the regulars.
“I think all of you know Jason Boscombe and Breezy Brezyinski. But Bob Ashcroft, Phil Green, Jack Jacobs, and Jeff Malten also are among our old hands. More recently we’ve acquired the services of two of Fort Bragg’s finest, Chris Nissen and Josh Wallender, who have deployed with us to Africa. They’re well qualified in small-arms and small-unit tactics and are cross-trained as medics or communicators.
“Our snipers are Rick Barrkman and Robbie Furr. They sort of lurk in the background and don’t talk very
