26

 

EL-ARIAN

 

 

“And the Ranger’s aim was deadly with the big iron on his hip. Big iron on his hiiiip . . .” Phil Green was an Arizonan down to his boots. Though something less of a singer, he mouthed the lyrics to the classic gunfighter ballad.

 

“Marty Robbins sang about six-guns but this is my idea of Big Iron!” He ran an admiring hand along the barrel of the 12.7mm DShK machine gun. Ironically, the Dashika had become an icon both of the Soviet Army and the Afghan mujahadeen who ousted the Russians from their country.

 

Captain Salah-Hassan Fares of the IDF Druze contingent was pleased with his coup. But no more so than Ayoob Slim, whose militia benefited from the acquisition. His men had unloaded the seventy-five-pound weapon from the truck and set it on its tripod mount.

 

“Wish we had another one,” Nissen said. “Cross fire’s the best way to prevent trespassing.” He smiled broadly, pleased with his down-home wisdom.

 

Wallender was unconvinced. “It’s an old design from the 1930s, isn’t it?”

 

“Hell yes, it’s an old design,” Green replied, “even with the postwar mods. But so’s the 1911 pistol and the Ma Deuce .50 cal. Let me tell you, friend: if something’s still being used seventy or eighty years later, there’s a good reason for it!”

 

Nissen stood back and scrutinized the Dashika. “I’d like to get one or two of these on wheels. You know, like the Russians used. I wouldn’t care so much about the shield. But if we have to defend this place, it’d be nice to have some mobility for our heavy weapons.” He tapped the antiaircraft sight. “We don’t need all the baroque accessories, but we can keep the recoil damper.”

 

While the militiamen set up the gun under Slim’s direction, Fares pointed out the features. “This weapon is fed by a fifty-round belt at six hundred rounds per minute. There is a three-position gas regulator, and we will find the best setting according to what ammunition we receive. The muzzle velocity is 850 meters per second, a little less than your .50 caliber.”

 

Nissen turned from the DShK to the surrounding terrain. “Captain, where do you recommend placing this gun?”

 

The Israeli Druze looked around. “Your idea of a wheel mount makes sense. We should be able to move it quickly depending on where an attack comes from.” He rubbed his chin as if pondering a philosophical point, which in a manner of speaking was the case. Then he looked up and behind him. “There.” He pointed to a flat-roofed building. “Best field of fire for a fixed position.”

 

The American gauged the geometry and agreed. “Okay, that looks good. Assuming the home owners don’t mind.”

 

Fares gave an ironic grin. “Believe me, Mr. Nissen. They will not object.”

 

Green wondered where the conversation was headed. “If we’re going to defend this place, shouldn’t we be building more walls and clearing better fields of fire?” His blue eyes took in the surrounding terrain, which included a goodly amount of scrub brush.

 

Fares called to Slim, who trotted over to the group. After some fast Arabic, the militia leader nodded and turned to his men, talking animatedly.

 

“What’d he say?” Nissen asked.

 

“He is asking for volunteers to cut the brush and carry stones to build a new wall on this side of the village.”

 

Green folded his arms and looked skeptical. “Who’s gonna volunteer for work like that?”

 

Fares suppressed another smile. “Mr. Green, these people know that if they want to keep their homes they must be willing to defend them. The Druze have a long history of fighting to protect their culture.” He inclined his head toward the town. “If the militia want it done, it will be accomplished. The only question is how soon.”

 

“Outstanding,” Nissen exclaimed. “Now if we could find another machine gun.”

 

Fares replied, “This one is Russian but I know of another from China. Or maybe Pakistan. Either will do.”

 

Nissen clapped Green on one arm. “Hey, bro, don’t you love it when a plan comes together?”

 

* * * *

 

NABATIYEH GOVERNATE

 

Azizi convened a meeting with Esmaili and the leader of the mortar section, another Iranian known as Abbasali Rezvani. Esmaili was experienced enough to know that the man probably was born with another name.

 

“We have made a good beginning,” Azizi opened. “Now is the time to increase pressure on the enemy.”

 

Rezvani seemed immune to concern. He was a spare, slender jihadist in his late thirties. Not the type of man accustomed to lugging a forty-kilogram tube and base plate around the countryside, though it was a near certainty that he seldom conducted such exertions himself. “We can operate both day and night,” he replied. “But it will be necessary to provide more security to my teams.”

 

Azizi nodded. “Yes, brother. It is advisable to alter our attacks in order to prevent the militias from recognizing a pattern. As for more security . . .” He looked to Esmaili.

 

“Some of my men can accompany the mortar teams, but that will mean fewer snipers to harass both villages.”

 

“We still have work for your snipers, my brother. But Rezvani lost an experienced observer who was killed by an enemy sniper. The radioman was fortunate to escape with a wound.”

 

Esmaili rubbed his chin, mentally allotting assets. “If you begin shelling the Druze at night, you might escape the first two times or so. After that, the Jews and the Americans will supply them with night vision. In fact, they probably have such equipment now.”

 

He decided not to mention that Hazim had inherited just such an item from the Israeli marksman killed in what now seemed a long-ago ambush. Instead, he changed the subject.

 

“What information is available on the Zionist mercenaries working with the militias?”

 

Azizi was prepared. “They have established training programs in both Amasha and El-Arian. Their facilities are meager but evidently adequate. So far the emphasis seems to be on small arms and defensive measures.”

 

“What about heavy weapons?” Esmaili thought that surely the defenders would upgrade their defenses in the face of the new threat.

 

“There is no information as yet. But we should expect that they will add more as the situation develops.”

 

Esmaili fidgeted and eyed Rezvani. The man seemed capable enough but he spoke little and asked no questions. Apparently he was willing to conduct operations exactly as ordered—the perfect soldier to some minds. “My brother, I ask about the militia’s weapons because I believe we need to plan ahead of events. For example, if we are expected to seize one or both villages, we will need more information. And more men.”

 

The statement carried implicit questions that Azizi recognized, even if he was unwilling to answer them. “At present we have no such intentions. Our part in the overall plan is to occupy the defenders of both places while our brothers expand their control over the surrounding territory. Meanwhile, we continue as directed. We will keep the Druze occupied with sniping and mortar attacks, day and night.” He paused, seemingly pondering whether he should elaborate. Then he stood. “I leave you both to continue your work.”

 

Ahmad Esmaili knew when he had been dismissed. He returned to his subordinates, musing whom he should next send within range of the sharp-shooting mercenaries.

 

* * * *

 

AMASHA

 

The rock exploded with abrupt violence, sending shattered stones in all directions.

 

Everybody hit the deck.

 

Breezy found himself cheek by jowl with Rami Hamadeh, the IDF liaison officer for the Amasha militia. The American raised his face from the sandy soil. “Welcome to the war, Lieutenant.”

 

Hamadeh crayfished several meters along the base of the rock wall, then raised his head for a quick look. Breezy was quick to offer an opinion. “Nothin’ to see out there?”

 

“The sniper could be anywhere. He will keep up a harassing fire until he tires of the game.”

 

“Or until we nail his sorry ass.” Breezy looked around for Leopole or Barrkman. “That’s the trouble with countersnipers. They’re like cops. Never one around when you want one.”

 

Lacking an appreciation for American humor, Hamadeh ignored the flippant statement. Instead, he rolled onto his back, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted to the Dashika crew atop the nearby house. The gunner replied with a question while his loader and spotter seemed awestruck. In moments it was apparent why.

 

Pointing to their right, Hamadeh said, “Go there, ten-fifteen meters and watch for snipers. Anywhere that looks possible.”

 

Once Breezy was in position, the Druze officer stood and pulled his binoculars from their case. He began scanning the terrain, seemingly looking for the offending Hezbollah shooter or shooters. In a few seconds he lowered the glasses and began walking along the wall.

 

Mark Brezyinski had seen enough displays of bravado in his life to recognize genuine courage when he saw it. He thought: Great big brass ones. Those gomers got the windage dialed in. All they need is a little elevation and this guy’s bore-sighted. Then he returned his scan to the surrounding terrain.

 

Hamadeh stopped, turned around, and jogged back. He passed behind Breezy and went several more paces in a long, slow lope, then halted again.

 

Another rifle shot split the air. It passed somewhere above the living decoy.

 

Hamadeh remained in place, peering through his binoculars again. He remained until another round snapped out, apparently from a different location. The IDF man went to his knees and turned toward the elevated machine gun. At that moment the Russian weapon pounded out an authoritative tattoo: six- and eight-round bursts traversing a couple of likely spots.

 

Breezy crawled on hands and knees to join the officer. “I couldn’t see anything. But, Lieutenant, you’re gonna check into a Dragunov round one of these times.”

 

Hamadeh unzipped an ironic grin. “Ah, yes, yes. Your special forces men say, ‘Rami, you will swallow a 7.62 pill.’”

 

“Fershure, dude.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

Breezy returned the smile. “It means, my green beanie colleagues knew what they were talkin’ about.”

 

Hamadeh shook his head decisively. “No, no. I will die in bed many many years away. My mother’s mother read my hand when I was born. She was never wrong.”

 

The former paratrooper absorbed the serious sentiment from the officer who appeared so supremely confident. “Well, I loved my grandma but I wouldn’t let her place a bet in Vegas for me, let alone set the odds on a freaking sniper!”

 

“Well, yes, Mr. B. Your grandmother, she was not a Druze!”

 

* * * *