11

 

HAIFA, ISRAEL

 

 

Rick Barrkman and Robbie Furr seemed an unlikely pair. The former was athletically built and fond of working out; the latter was not. In fact, Furr claimed that he had been eating at his favorite Mexican restaurant since before he was born, and he could pack away a large platter of tacos and enchiladas with little effort. Nevertheless, after working together for years, each knew the other’s strengths and vices. They had long since passed the point where they were professionally wedded: frequently they could communicate by something approaching mental telepathy. They even shot the same zero to eight hundred yards.

 

Now they needed to see how their rifles had fared the rigors of international air travel.

 

Barrkman uncased the Robar SR90, a customized Remington 700 with orthopedic stock and Leupold ten-power scope. Owing to their different physiques, the cheek piece and length of pull were optimized for Barrkman, though Furr could crawl the stock well enough to compensate. His own rifle was an SR60, a near duplicate of Barrkman’s minus the orthopedic furniture.

 

Furr laid down on his mat, set up the spotting scope, and focused on the hundred-yard target taped to a riddled piece of plywood. He glanced around. “I guess I’ve seen worse ranges but I don’t remember just where.”

 

Prone behind the rifle, Barrkman thumbed three rounds into the Remington’s magazine. Keeping his right index finger along the stock, he checked the Leupold’s elevation knob and was satisfied with the setting. “Frank says we should be grateful for this place. Nothing else is available.”

 

“Well, okay. Consider me grateful.” Seated beside his partner, Furr focused the Kowa scope and said, “Spotter on.”

 

Barrkman snuggled up to the twelve-pound SR90 and adjusted the butt’s elevation with his left hand. Then he looked through the scope. “Sniper on. Upper left.”

 

The spotter’s attention went to the top row of four black aiming dots. He heard the shooter inhale, then exhale. Three seconds later the 2.5-pound trigger broke cleanly and the shot went. Barrkman cycled the bolt, lifting the knob with the heel of his right hand, rotating the palm, then pushing the bolt back into battery. It appeared one fluid motion. “Center.”

 

“Six o’clock, low,” Furr replied.

 

Barrkman ignored the call and fired again. “Center.”

 

“On top of the other.”

 

At the third shot, the marksman said, “Center.”

 

Furr looked over at him. “Center. The cold bore shots are still a quarter to a half minute low.”

 

“Well, it’s consistent.” He grinned. “Besides, the guy downrange never knows the difference.”

 

The pair changed positions to verify each shooter’s zero. When Furr was finished, his friend shook his head. “Dude! Three rounds, two holes. What happened?”

 

Furr pointed downrange. “Right to left mirage. I caught it just as I broke the last shot. Didn’t you see it?”

 

“Nah, it must’ve been a pretty good gust of wind.” He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Or . . .”

 

“No way, man. Dead nuts center call.”

 

Obligatory bantering concluded, the sniper team repeated the zeroing process with the SR60. Six more rounds of Black Hills .308 snapped downrange at 2,650 feet per second. The result was two ragged groups with one called flyer.

 

Barrkman asked, “How many rounds through your barrel now?”

 

Furr entered the latest data in his log. “That’s 2,489.”

 

“Getting a little high. You gonna rebarrel anytime soon?”

 

“Not as long as it prints like today,” Furr replied. “Unless you want to spring for a new Schneider tube.”

 

“In your dreams, amigo.”

 

“Hey, where’s the snout?”

 

Barrkman turned around and tapped the third gun case. He withdrew a Robar QR-2, actually a Ruger 77 adapted to accept ten-round M14 magazines with a detachable six-power scope and flip-up iron sights. The combination of sniper and scout rifle yielded the unlikely nickname “snout.”

 

Furr accepted the precision carbine, handed to him with the bolt open. Nevertheless, he inserted a pinkie finger to be certain. Then he assumed a sitting position, cradling the Ruger’s comfortable weight. He dry-fired three times, running the bolt rapidly each time. “It’s beyond me why the military keeps buying honking big rifles that weigh sixteen or eighteen pounds when this does about eighty percent of the work at ten pounds.”

 

Barrkman beamed a knowing smile. “Because that’s what the gun club wants, man. That’s the trouble with police and the military: they buy what they think they want instead of what the shooters need. Like the M40A3 the Marines got a couple years ago. The damn thing weighs about nineteen pounds: how’d you like to hump that piece of iron in Afghanistan where it’s uphill in both directions?”

 

“Yeah, I know. I trained some recon dudes a while back. They said the Quantico benchrest shooters injected themselves into the process. They like heavy rifles because they only carry them from the jeep to the firing line.”

 

“So why’d the sniper school go along with it?”

 

Furr shrugged. “Go along to get along, I guess.”

 

“Well, let’s shoot snout before we draw a crowd. If there’s time left over I want to do some position shooting.”

 

“Six-pack of beer on the best offhand group?”

 

Barrkman responded, “Sure. Are you buying Maccabee or Goldstar?”

 

“No way. You’re buying me Heineken. They import it here, you know.”

 

“Now how’n hell did you know that?”

 

Rob Furr enjoyed the gotcha. “Somebody once said, ‘Time spent on Google is seldom wasted.’”

 

Barrkman tossed his partner a box of Black Hills. “You gonna talk or shoot?”

 

Inserting a magazine, Furr quipped, “I’m gonna shoot, then I’m gonna drink your beer.”

 

“Well, all I can say is you’d better enjoy it while you can. Where we’re going there’s probably not much liquor.”

 

“Hey, Lebanon’s national beer is Almaza. It’s considered an excellent pilsener. Most people drink it with salt.”

 

“Google?”

 

“Pitney,” Furr replied.

 

“Say what?”

 

“Robert Pitney, the new guy. His wife’s family used to do business in Lebanon so I asked him about the culture and food and stuff.”

 

Barrkman nodded quietly. “He doesn’t seem the drinking kind.”

 

“Well, neither do you. But he’s not. In fact, he’s Muslim.”

 

“Muslim? You gotta be . . .”

 

“Hey, you gonna talk or shoot?”

 

* * * *

 

NABATIYEH GOVERNATE

 

Hazim was a dutiful student in most aspects of his Hezbollah training, but none more so than his desire to become a sniper. He heeded Tawfiq’s advice about not removing the scope too often, but he lavished considerable care on the action and the optics.

 

Esmaili nurtured the youngster’s ambition, providing encouragement with some practical assistance. Returning from a supply run, the Iranian diverted to the practice range before delivering his goods to the warehouse. As expected, he found Hazim playing with his daytime scope. Esmaili dropped a canister beside the young Lebanese.

 

Hazim looked up, surprised. “Teacher! I did not see you.” He leapt to his feet, almost stepping on the metal can.

 

“Stealthiness is a virtue for most warriors, but especially snipers.” Esmaili almost smiled. “I admire your diligence, boy. Accept this gift.”

 

Hazim forgot himself and bowed reverentially, as if to an imam. Then he knelt to examine the container. It was dark green with yellow stencils in the Jewish alphabet. Opening the tin, he withdrew a rectangular cardboard container. Though ignorant of Hebrew, he was adept at numbers. “7.62 NATO” held significance for him.

 

“Ammunition for the rifle!”

 

“Two hundred fifty rounds. Use it sparingly. I do not know when I may have more.”

 

As Hazim all but genuflected, Esmaili returned to his vehicle. Tawfiq was waiting with a knowing smile. “You are spoiling that boy, you know.”

 

The commander returned the grin. “Yes, I know.” He glanced over his shoulder, observing the Lebanese fighter declaring God’s bounty to his friends. “He will be useful one day. Or night—depending on how long the batteries last.”

 

Esmaili stopped to ponder whether his manipulation of the youngster was much removed from the late ayatollah’s exploitation of children in the Iraq war. Without reaching a conclusion, he asked, “How is he progressing?”

 

Tawfiq almost chuckled. That was significant, as he was a man who seldom laughed—or had reason to. “Actually he shows some promise. He has read the sniping manual repeatedly and I believe he could recite long passages. I have worked with him on the mil scale, and since it is based on meters there is not much room for confusion.”

 

“How is his marksmanship?”

 

“Well, not remarkable but he shows ability inside three hundred meters. He can hit a half silhouette about half the time, depending on wind. Beyond that, he might be useful for harassing fire . . .”

 

Tawfiq cocked his head at his colleague’s sudden silence. “Yes?”

 

“I was just thinking. Do you remember our second trip to Iraq, supporting the resistance fighters?”

 

“Yes, yes. Two years ago, more or less.”

 

“There were reports of an Iraqi sniper called Juba. He was said to use a Tabuk, the Iraqi version of the Yugoslavian rifle.”

 

“I thought he was a fiction. A ghost to scare the crusaders.”

 

Esmaili shook his head. “I believe he was genuine—for a while. If he was killed or went away it mattered little. Other successful snipers could continue shooting in his name, and spread the fear.” He gave a grim, tight smile. “We may have our own Juba growing right here.”

 

Tawfiq was unaccustomed to guile beyond the tactical variety. The psychological aspect was new to him but he recognized the potential benefit. And the risk. “He may not last long.”

 

“True.” He paused for an ephemeral moment of self-examination. Then he asked, “What word is there about the next supply shipment?”

 

* * * *

 

SAFED, ISRAEL

 

Colonel Yakov Livni was a man with many irons in the same fire. The fire was the impending clash in southern Lebanon, and few but his immediate colleagues knew how badly he had been burned. The loss of his nephew was seldom far behind his brown eyes, and alternately he rebuked himself for previous errors while striving to avoid making others.

 

Fahed Ayash was part of that plan.

 

Livni made the introductions, a quick turnaround since he himself had only met Leopole at their original briefing with Brafman. By way of explanation, Livni said, “Mr. Leopole, Major Ayash will be your primary liaison with the Druze militias. He has worked with some of them before, and he has as much experience as anyone I know in that area.” Livni nodded to Ayash as if to say, “You’re on.”

 

Ayash spoke passable English, telling Leopole, “In Beirut you will meet a man named Rafix Kara. He is very important to our ... ah, the mission.” The Druze officer grinned self-consciously. “His influence alone could be enough to produce success, let alone his contacts and his support.”

 

“Yes, Mr. Baram mentioned him during the planning sessions in Arlington. I trust that Mr. Kara knows we’re coming.”

 

Ayash nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes. In fact, we have arranged for you to meet him, as you say, one to one. That is how he prefers to operate, on an individual basis. He believes it is the best way to measure a man, especially someone he does not. . .”

 

“Trust?”

 

“Oh, no, Colonel. I was going to say, ‘someone he does not know.’” The IDF man smiled, as much in satisfaction at his quick recovery as at the American’s justified skepticism.

 

Leopole stood up and stretched. His lower back was cramped again; he wondered if it were occupational tension or the aging process. Maybe both, he told himself. “Major Ayash, I’ll level with you. I’ve now dealt with six or seven people and I still haven’t even set foot in Lebanon. Just how are we supposed to maintain security with all the people who’ve been involved in our meetings?”

 

The Druze seemed taken aback. He blinked twice, moved his lips, and then found the words. “We are all working together in the IDF: Jews, Druze, Army, special operations. I do not know your, ah, grasp of my people’s culture but we Druze are all of the same blood. Family, you know? Nobody would do anything to risk hurt to others.”

 

The SSI operator noted Ayash’s heightened color, which could only be embarrassment or anger. It was obvious which was the more likely. Waving a placating hand, Leopole replied, “Oh, no, Major. Please do not think that I question anybody’s loyalty. But I’ve been involved in ops that. . . er, operations . . . that were compromised because of a careless comment made without harmful intent. That’s all I meant.”

 

Ayash squinted at Leopole, as if assessing the American’s honesty. Evidently satisfied, he concluded, “Mr. Leopole, we are all of the same boat, as you say. If anything goes wrong, I will be sinking with you.”

 

“Fair enough, Major. Fair enough.”

 

* * * *