39

 

AMASHA

 

 

The mortars began at dawn, falling on the perimeter defenses.

 

Frank Leopole was already up, supervising the dispersal of the militiamen. He warned two groups to spread out, but had language problems. Finally he grabbed Rami Hamadeh and shouted over the explosions. “Tell them to keep their interval! One round could take out four or five of ‘em!”

 

The Druze officer nodded, already having noted the problem. It was understandable, really. New troops—or at least men unaccustomed to combat—tended to bunch up for moral support. It was just what artillerymen and machine gunners counted on.

 

With low clouds hanging in almost a ground cover, the sun was obscured in its effort to break through from the east. Leopole conceded that even if he got approval for helicopter gunships, they would not be available until later in the morning. By then the issue was likely to be decided.

 

He sprinted back to the command center and picked up the satellite phone. After an interminable wait—it must have been twenty seconds—-he heard the voice he wanted. “Nissen.”

 

“Chris, it’s started here.”

 

“Yeah, here too, Frank. Harassing fire so far but our recce team reports large movement on the reverse slope.”

 

“All right. I’m coordinating with Captain Hamadeh. He’ll see about getting some choppers but with the clouds on the ground it’ll be a while.”

 

“Affirm. Good luck, Frank.”

 

“You, too, guy.”

 

Leopole scooped up his AK and walked briskly from the HQ building, then stopped. He realized that he had left his helmet inside.

 

An 82mm round exploded twelve meters in front of him.

 

* * * *

 

Buckets of cold water in the face and all down his front. That’s what it felt like. He could see nothing, and hoped that it merely meant he had blood in his eyes. He needed to swallow but had difficulty. Something was tightening in his chest and he opened his mouth wide, sucking in as much air as possible.

 

It was the damndest thing: he smelled brownies in the oven after school.

 

Someone was calling his name, as if from far off.

 

It sounded just like his mother.

 

* * * *

 

“Frank!” Breezy shook his CO by the collar, trying to get a response. “Frank! Damn it!”

 

Mark Brezyinski pulled his medic’s kit closer and grasped for . . . what? What do I need? Frank’s so messed up. “Oh, my GOD!”

 

Another round landed thirty meters away, dropping dirt and stones all around. Breezy hardly was aware.

 

A, B, C. Airway, breathing, and circulation. He leaned over Leopole, feeling for a pulse and finding none. He lifted an eyelid, seeking life . . . and found none.

 

Brezyinski realized that he was crying. Bawling like a damned kid. Almost, anyway. The hot tears left tracks down his cheeks, creasing the grime. He wiped his sleeve across his face, smudging the tears and the dirt. He forced himself to look around, regaining control. C’mon, man. Ruck up. Stay in the fight.

 

Steve Lee was alongside. He took one look and nudged Breezy. “He’s gone, Breeze. Come on, there’s others who need help.”

 

“Hos-tiles to the front!”

 

Bosco was on the wall, shoving militiamen to better firing points as the Hezbollah infantry advanced. The fighters came on in two waves, dodging and weaving, a few firing ineffectively from almost three hundred meters. For a moment he thought, Sure wish we had the snipers, but they’re on the way to El-Arian.

 

In the next moment he was shouting. “Pick your targets, hold and squeeze!” Bosco knew that only a few Druze could understand him, but he made the effort anyway. Finding a good rest, he set both elbows atop the rocky wall, stared a hole in his rifle’s front sight, and began squeezing off aimed rounds in the subdued light.

 

Mortar rounds continued falling, adding noise and confusion— and cover—for the attackers. Some militiamen ducked behind the wall, avoiding the worst of the fragments. Hamadeh sent their leader, Azzam Hamdam, to kick them back into position. Meanwhile, the Israeli officer went in the other direction, ensuring that the active shooters—which were most of them—spread their fire across the frontal assault.

 

* * * *

 

On the way back, Hamadeh saw a militiaman blown off the wall by a mortar round. The Druze landed with a thud, rolled over two or three times, and tried to get up. The IDF officer knelt beside him, ran a quick assessment, and saw that he could be saved. Hamadeh waved to Breezy. “Over here!”

 

Though previously trained as a medic, Breezy was a shooter by choice. But in a curious way he welcomed the chance to work on somebody. He forced the image of Frank Leopole from his mind, examined the Druze, and exclaimed, “Dude! Don’t you know a sucking chest wound is nature’s way of telling you to slow down?”

 

With the help of another Druze, Breezy dragged the casualty around a corner, temporarily out of harm’s way. He leaned down, ear to the man’s chest.

 

“Can you help him?” the militiaman asked.

 

Breezy nodded. “It’s a pneumothorax—air in the pleural cavity. His right lung collapsed. I can hear the air whistling through the hole.” He found the medical terminology oddly comforting; never mind that his impromptu aide could not understand the argot. He grabbed the casualty’s right hand and laid it on the wound. Then he had the other Druze press down with his own hands. “Keep pressure on the bleeding, okay?”

 

While the second Druze did as ordered, Breezy pulled a dressing from his kit. He tore it open with his teeth and pulled off the plastic wrapper. He talked himself through the process. “The wrapper of a field dressing is great, but you can use cellophane like from a cigarette pack or aluminum foil, or even duct tape. You want a big enough patch to keep the material from getting sucked inside, so make it, like, two or three inches around the hole.”

 

The militiaman looked down at his fellow citizen, who seemed surprisingly calm. “Yes, yes. Is good!”

 

Breezy taped three sides of the patch, explaining, “That lets him breathe better. Now roll him onto his wounded side if you can. The extra pressure can help prevent more bleeding. Okay?”

 

Again the nod, accompanied by almost a smile. “Yes, good. Thank you, American. Thank you!”

 

Breezy patted the man on the shoulder, wiped more tears from his eyes, and returned to the wall.

 

* * * *

 

The volume of fire increased. With the attackers inside one hundred meters, and the mortar shells beginning to abate, it became more a rifle fight. Breezy heard the clatter of full-auto fire and looked to his right. Damn it! Wasting ammo! He ran in that direction.

 

He almost tripped over a body.

 

Looking down, he became immobilized. “No, man, nooooo . . .”

 

The body belonged to Jason Boscombe, formerly of the United States Army Rangers. He had taken a round through the neck: more likely from blind luck than skill. But it had severed the spine and Bosco was just as dead.

 

Brezyinski sank to his knees. He felt numb, empty, and drained of emotion. He was still kneeling like that when the Hezbollah fighters reached the wall.

 

* * * *

 

NABATIYEH GOVERNATE

 

“Hold it!” Barrkman held up a hand. The Druze driver did not understand American English but recognized the stop signal.

 

The Land Rover braked to a halt on the two-lane road, engine idling. Barrkman cocked an ear to the southeast. “I saw something. A light, kind of like an explosion.”

 

Furr leaned forward from the rear seat. “Maybe it’s just. . .”

 

An ephemeral eruption burst near the gray horizon, followed three seconds later by a faint carrumph.

 

“That’s prob’ly mortars,” Furr declared.

 

“Yeah, and El-Arian’s catching ‘em.”

 

The Americans paused to consider their options. In that short interval, two more Rash-carrumphs occurred. “That’s not harassing fire,” Barrkman said. “I think it’s the real deal.”

 

Furr stuck his head out the window, looking around. “If so, we sure as hell can’t stay out here. We gotta find someplace to hole up. Or go back.”

 

Barrkman rubbed his chin in thought. “But Frank said if the Hezzies hit one ville they’ll probably hit both.” He turned to the driver. “Bahjat, where can we hide this thing around here?”

 

Bahjat Hanifes spoke passable English but required time and patience. “Hide? This thing?”

 

“Yeah.” Barrkman patted the dashboard. “This vehicle. Where can we keep it out of sight. From the road.” He remembered to speak slowly and distinctly.

 

“Ah. Not many places.” He swiveled his head left and right. Then, without further comment, he put the gearshift in reverse and began backing up.

 

At length Hanifes stopped and cranked the wheel hard over. He let out the clutch with a jerk and the tires slithered through some mud puddles. The Druze maneuvered onto some grass, then eased the Land Rover down a slight incline. He backed under a small stand of trees, set the parking brake, and switched off.

 

Barrkman climbed out, surveying the terrain. “Well, we’re out of direct view of the road and I guess we can cut some foliage to cover the windshield. Other than that, I’m out of ideas.”

 

Furr unlimbered himself from the rear and tugged at some bags. “We can’t stay near the car. If the Hezzies see it, they’ll come for a look.” He set aside the custom AR-15 he had carried across his knees and picked up the drag bag with his precision rifle. “I have a coupla days’ worth of MREs and some water but that’s it.”

 

Barrkman set aside his AK-47 and withdrew his own sniper rifle. He began taking inventory. “Bahjat, what do you have?”

 

Hanifes hoisted his personal weapon, a Romanian AK, and a chest pack full of loaded magazines. From his knapsack he withdrew some bread, grapes, and bottled water.

 

Barrkman looked at Furr. “I don’t suppose you brought your night vision, did you?”

 

“I thought I’d be back by this afternoon.”

 

“Well, I’ve got mine but it won’t be much good for anything but surveillance. A fight’s a losing proposition with just three of us. Best thing we can do is lay low and see how things go.”

 

Furr walked over to the Druze. “Bahjat, do you have a radio? Contact with Captain Hamadeh or Mr. Hamdam?”

 

“No, sir. No radio. I never need.”

 

Barrkman walked several yards from the trees and looked around. “There’s plenty of daylight, maybe more. We could walk cross-country toward Amasha and see what’s doing there. It’s better than getting caught on the road.”

 

Furr pulled his Glock 19 from its shoulder holster and chambered a round before replacing the pistol. “But if we get there and it’s under attack, then what? We’d be on the outside looking in. Maybe between the Hezzies and town.”

 

Barrkman returned to the vehicle, withdrew his rifle case, and faced northwest. “Like I said, we should find us a hole and sit tight. But someplace that’s not obvious—no hilltops but with a good field of view.”

 

Pondering his partner’s suggestion, Furr saw no alternative. Without speaking, he pulled a roll of electrical tape from the glove compartment and tore off two thin strips. He applied one to the inside of each partly open door, the other end attached to the frame. Then he shut the doors. “What’s that?” Barrkman asked.

 

“If somebody checks this rig before we return, the tape will be pulled off.”

 

“You are one sneaky bastard, you know that?” Barrkman grinned appreciatively. Then he added, “But what if they booby trap the truck?”

 

Furr grinned back. “Then we’ll know for sure somebody was here.”

 

The senior sniper laughed at the gallows humor. “Okay, then. All we need now is someplace to hide.”

 

Bahjat Hanifes was a quietly competent militiaman. “I know place. You come we go.” He stepped off with a purposeful stride, and lacking options, the Americans followed at six-meter intervals.

 

* * * *