Vulcan's Fire Harold Coyle's Strategic Solutions, Inc.

by Coyle, Harold; Tillman, Barrett

• ISBN13: 9780765352378
• ISBN10: 0765352370
• Edition: Reprint
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2009-11-03
• Publisher: Forge Books

Summary

In this explosive series from New York Times bestseller Harold Coyle and noted military author Barrett Tillman, a new type of war is being fought by private paramilitary companies at the beck and call of the highest bidder. With its military and intelligence agencies spread thin, the United States constantly calls upon the services of these organizations-and Strategic Solutions, Inc. is among the best. After a few bloodyand unprofitable contracts, SSI is faced with a financial crisis. Forced to takecontracts from less than reputable clients, the upper management and field agents find themselves in a labor dispute. When theIsraeli government offersSSI an opportunityto help Druze militias in southern Lebanon fend off encroachment by Hezbollah, they know it's a fragile situation. If the truth were known, the international outcry againstIsrael would be deafening. Forced to work with a government whose ultimate motives are unclear, SSI takes the job and descends into a shadowy no-man's-land of tangled alliances and hostilities. Meanwhile, Hezbollah elements are planning their most audacious strike yet, assembling teams to detonate suitcase nukes in contested areas of Lebanon, hoping to destabilize the entire country.Caught between two elements of an age-old conflict, the battles the SSI fights may be a diversion...

Author Biography

New York Times bestselling author HAROLD COYLE is a graduate of the Virginia Military Institute.  He spent fourteen years on active duty with the US Army. He lives in Leavenworth, Kansas.

BARRETT TILLMAN is the author of many fiction and nonfiction books including Clash of the Carriers and Hellcats. He lives in Mesa, Arizona.

Table of Contents

1
SOUTH GOVERNATE, LEBANON
The stalkers awaited the signal.
It came in the dappled gray light of 5:00 a.m. because delay was as much an enemy as the dedicated men inside the remote building.
Outside the  .ve- room  house, the assault leader gave a quick click- click of his tactical headset. The eleven mem­bers of his team recognized it as the preparatory signal. Receiving no response, he proceeded with his countdown.
“Ready... ready...”
A long three- second wait allowed anyone to delay the inevitable. No one did. The four men on perimeter guard saw nothing to interfere with the operation. Meanwhile, the two assault teams and the command element  were tensed, leg muscles coiled to propel them from the shadows.
The team leader licked his lips. He had extensive experi­ence but it was always like this: an eager dread. He glanced around. Only his radio operator returned his gaze; every­one else was focused on the objective. It looked good: they had probably achieved surprise, but surprise without vio­lence was useless.
“Ready... go!”
Two explosions shattered the Mediterranean air, two seconds apart. The .rst was a  Chinese- made RPG whose high- explosive warhead blew a hole in the brick- and-mortar wall facing the sunrise. The second was another RPG near the opposite corner that smashed through a win­dow and detonated on the interior wall.
Assaulting together, each section was preceded by Rheinmetall .ash- bang grenades to compensate for any defenders who escaped the RPG blasts.
A quick two- count, and both teams entered through the holes. It was doctrine: avoid the usual entrances, which could be mined.
The attackers’ mission was simple: kill or capture everyone present. Take no unnecessary chances.
There  were no novices on either side of the door.
The raiders held the advantage, exploiting the stunning effects of the grenades and  .ash- bangs. Moving with .uid rapidity, they “ran the walls,” closing the distance on the defenders, .ring short, disciplined bursts. The Egoz recon­naissance unit allowed its members a great deal of latitude: most chose 7.62 Galils but a few carried AK-47s. Both  were lethally effective.
Three defenders  were shot down in the front room; only one got off a round and it went high. A fragmentation grenade arced through the entrance to the next room. Be­fore it exploded, the men inside opened .re with their AKs. The  150- grain rounds shredded the blanket separat­ing the two rooms, and some  were deliberately aimed low. One raider dropped with a Kalashnikov’s bullet through the left thigh.
The grenade .zzled. Too long in  storage— the result of clandestine acquisition  policies— it exploded in a  low-order detonation that in.icted minor wounds. Inside the small room, a close- range .re.ght erupted. It was fought at near muzzle contact.
One raider was killed, taking a round above the ballis­tic plate of his tactical vest. Another was clipped in the right bicep.
The defenders  were shot down in an ephemeral mo­ment of loud noise, bright muzzle .ashes, and icy terror. Each body received one or two rounds to the head before the last brass clattered on the wood .oor.
One man escaped the house, .eeing through the back door. The designated marksman with a scoped Galil shot him from sixty meters.
Order, if not quiet, returned to the shattered structure.
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
Without awaiting instructions, the raiders moved through the  house according to their individual priorities. Two guarded the bodies on the .oor while two others se­cured the victims’ hands with .ex cuffs. The fact that they were dead was irrelevant; some of the raiders had seen dead men kill the living.
The number two man turned to his superior. “No useful prisoners, Chief. Sorry.”
The team leader shrugged philosophically. “I know. It couldn’t be helped.” As papers  were gathered, the radioman began taking photos with his digital camera.
Hearing the  all- clear, the team medic entered through the door— the only one to do so. He had one immediate case and two lesser. He was experienced and calm; com­bat triage was nothing new to him.
“Arterial bleeding  here,” said one man, leaning over the .rst casualty. The medic went to work, knowing that his friends would treat other casualties for the moment. He glanced at a green- clad form, not moving. One of the raiders merely shook his head. The decedent’s family would be told that he died in a training accident, body unrecoverable. Knowing it was a lie, the parents would accept the fabrication.
The other killers began tearing the place apart. They searched thoroughly, quickly, indelicately. They opened every cabinet and drawer, spilling the contents, and pulled mattresses off beds. They searched for loose boards and pried at the ceiling. Finally one of them returned to the liv­ing room.
“Nothing here, Avri.”
“It has to be here. Look again. Everywhere.”
Abraham pulled the kaf.yeh off his head and allowed it to drape over his tactical vest. “We’ve already looked everywhere. Twice. I’m telling you, it’s not  here.”
Avri looked around the  house. “God damn it!” For the grandson of a rabbi, he was famously profane.
He grabbed the radioman. “Get me Capri Six. Priority.”
The RTO handed over the instrument. “Scramble mode selected.”
“Capri, this is Purchase. Pass.” The commander re­leased the transmit button, allowing the scrambler to do its work. In an instant the carrier wave was back.
“Purchase, I read you. Pass.”
“The well is dry. Repeat, the well is dry. End.”
The response was decidedly nonregulation, but the transmission from the south drew no comment. After all, this time the offending voice belonged to an agnostic.

SSI OFFICES, ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re in trouble.”
Rear Admiral Michael Derringer had been retired for longer than he cared to remember but he had lost little of his command presence. As found er and CEO of Strategic Solutions, Incorporated, he had conned the company through its early years, building success upon success as the military contractor market expanded. Working around the world, performing often clandestine tasks for the U.S. Gov­ernment, SSI had become the  go- to .rm when DoD or State needed something done without of.cial recognition.
But that was then; this was now.
“Still no new contracts?” George Ferraro, SSI vice pres­ident and chief .nancial of.cer, had no problem guessing the admiral’s intent.
“Correct.” Derringer’s balding head bobbed in assent. “SecDef canceled our electronic warfare project in Ara­bia and State vetoed us for another African job. Oh,  we’re still getting business but it’s  paper-clip money: security work, training assignments,  small- scale jobs. About the only advantage is that they keep some of our regulars on the payroll. But they don’t reduce the red ink, and we can’t operate on our stock portfolio inde.nitely.”
Among the nine people sitting around the polished table was Lieutenant General Thomas Varlowe, U.S. Army (Retired), the gray presence who never quite shed the three stars he once wore. As chairman of SSI’s advisory board, he had little .nancial stake in the .rm but remained inter­ested in the fascinating projects that came down the Belt­way. Though he seldom spoke up in board meetings, the situation called for an exception.
“Ahem.” Heads turned toward the former West Point track star. “I wanted to talk to Admiral Derringer before the meeting but I didn’t get the chance. In case there’s any doubt about the company’s lack of work, I can elaborate.”
Derringer barely managed to suppress a tight smile. The two retirees  were “Admiral” and “General” to one an­other in SSI meetings but friendly rivals named Mike and Tom the rest of the  time—especially in November for the Army- Navy game.
“Go ahead, General.” The Navy man knew what was coming.
Varlowe shoved back from the table. “It’s that job with the Israelis. Damned poor situation to get into...” He came within an inch of adding, As I tried to tell all of you. Instead, he pushed ahead. “I’ve snooped around and found that new business dried up almost before that ship sank... what was it? Three or four months ago? Sure, our people prevented the uranium ore from reaching Iran, but that hardly matters.”
“I’ve been traveling in Eu rope, General. What does matter?” Beverly Ann Shumard, with a PhD in interna­tional relations, was one of two women on the board of directors, and among the most outspoken of all.
Derringer interjected. “Dr. Shumard, the mission sum­mary is still being prepared owing to, ah, security con­cerns. But the short version is, our training team in Chad got involved in a double play set up by the Israelis, pre­sumably against the Ira ni ans. Col o nel Leopole can pro­vide some operational details, but basically our tasking changed from instruction to interdiction, preventing a load of yellow cake from being shipped to Iran.”
Shumard shook her head. “I’m sorry, Admiral. As I said, I’ve been away and didn’t know the particulars. But why would Iran want ore from Chad? I mean, Iran has its own mines.”
Derringer nodded to the chief of operations.
Lieutenant Col o nel Frank Leopole looked, talked, and acted as Central Casting would expect of a Marine Corps of.cer. He was tall, lean, and hard with a high and tight haircut that screamed “jarhead” to the Army and Navy men in the of.ce. His tenure with SSI had been marked by some notable successes and few failures.
“Deniability,  ma’am. At least that’s what our intel said. Presumably Tehran wanted foreign yellow cake to use in a weapon and avoid the nuclear .ngerprints of its own ore. So our team went chasing off across Chad and Libya, then through the Med and down the west coast of Africa to overhaul the shipment. All the time we were working with the Israelis, who provided most of the information and logistics. We caught the ship, which was scuttled with its cargo, so presumably everybody was happy.”
“But I take it nobody really is happy.”
“Nobody but the Israelis,” Varlowe added. It was an un­characteristic interjection from the normally taciturn sol­dier. “As I was going to say, our  team— this  .rm— was stiffed by Mossad. The Israelis concocted the plot in the .rst place to distract  us— the  U.S.— from their genuine concern. They had their own operation going against Iran’s nuclear program but were afraid we would learn about it and bring pressure to bear. Apparently their real plan failed but what matters is, they tossed us a straw man: something credible that we could pursue and leave them alone.” He gave an eloquent shrug. “It worked.”
George Ferraro spoke up. “See, that’s what I don’t un­derstand. We did what the government and the adminis­tration wanted done. So why are we the heavies now?”
“There are several major players,” Derringer replied. “Not least of which is the CIA. The agency accepted the Israelis’ ploy, apparently almost at face value. Our own sources— mainly David  Dare— sniffed out the facts but too late to affect the operation.”
Shumard accepted that explanation without reserva­tion. Though not involved in intelligence or operations, she and everyone connected with the .rm knew the  eye-watering reputation of the former NSA spook. It was said that if you wanted to know what Japanese porn .lm Kim Jong Il watched last night, ask Dave Dare.
“So Langley’s embarrassed that SSI .gured out what was going on, and wants to cover its hindquarters.”
Derringer spoke again. “It’s bigger than that, Doctor. We’ve taken hits before from various agencies, and I ad­mit that a few  were justi.ed. But usually when some agency tries to stiff us, it’s as you say: embarrassment or jealousy or some sort of perceived rivalry. In this case, we’re criticized by State and Langley and to an extent by DoD.” He grimaced, then adjusted his glasses. “In a way I can understand it. Considering the high stakes involved in any  Israeli- Iranian con.ict, nobody this side of the pond wants to be blamed if something goes wrong.”
Marshall Wilmont spoke up for the .rst time. As SSI president and chief operating of.cer, he had a .nger in most of the company pies. “So much for the reason for our drought. What I want to know is, what can we do about it?”
The question hung suspended above the polished table, lurking in brooding silence.

SOUTH GOVERNATE, LEBANON
The dream returned again.
“Afrad mosallah!”
At the command, the executioners assumed their posi­tions: squatting or kneeling with their ri.es aimed at the condemned men’s chests.
The sequence usually resembled a grainy black and white newsreel, for the sleeper was one of those who sel­dom dreamed in color. When awake, in the rare moments when he had nothing else in mind, Ahmad Esmaili some­times pondered the odd situation. As a participant in the event that stalked his nights, he expected to relive the glo­rious, dreadful moments from behind the sights of a Heckler & Koch ri.e. But more often his perspective was that of an observer, seeing himself and his colleagues from several meters away.
In 1979, at eigh teen, Esmaili’s .rst  full- time job had been on a revolutionary .ring squad. The .rst day had been dreadful, and if anything the second day was worse. But by the end of the week it was tolerable. After a while, to display his revolutionary fervor, he notched the wood stock of his G3 for each of the Shah’s vermin he shot. How­ever, as the imams noted, hell was reserved for  in.dels— those who rejected Islam. Presumably even Muslims who oppressed others of The Faith had a chance to achieve Paradise.
Apart from former government of.cials and Savak po­licemen, Esmaili also had dispatched evildoers such as drug addicts, perverts, and Kurds.
Esmaili had to admit that most of the dictator’s men had died reasonably well, some with the Koran in hand. Resigned to their fate, they had stood their ground, eyes bound but hands free, and accepted the ayatollah’s jus­tice delivered almost from  powder-burn distance. But the former revolutionary guard seldom alluded to that aspect of the pro cess. A few early attempts from twenty meters or more had resulted in some messy episodes, and eventually the range was diminished almost to muzzle contact.
“Atesh!”
Esmaili felt the heavy trigger pull, then somebody was shaking him awake. It was two hours before dawn.
Forcing his consciousness to swim upward through the haze of REM sleep, he surfaced to think: No good news arrives in darkness.
He was right.
Esmaili sat upright on his cot, rubbing his eyes and sti­.ing a yawn. He merely said, “Tell me.”
“It is Malik’s team.” The tone of the messenger’s voice told Ahmad Esmaili as much as the words. “They are all with God.”
The Ira ni an was fully awake now. He focused on the face of his colleague, a young man from Tyre who called himself Hazim: Resolute. He was more enthusiastic than capable but occasionally he showed promise. Esmaili had decided to cultivate him.
“All of them?”
Hazim nodded gravely.
Esmaili swung his bare feet onto the .oor of the small house. His toes found his sandals and slid into them, ris­ing in the pro cess. Otherwise he was already dressed. “When?”
“Early this morning. We only got word a little while ago.”
The se nior man shook his head. “They could not have been more than forty kilometers from  here. Why the de­lay?”
Hazim defaulted to his passive setting. “I do not know, Teacher. I only pass the message from the courier.”
“Then I need to speak with him, not an errand boy.” The words  were selected to cut, to hurt. To teach. He stalked from the  house, making for the larger building that served as headquarters for a few days.
Hazim trailed in his master’s wake, biting down the pain. Belatedly he realized that he should have informed himself of more details before awaking the Ira ni an. Or I could have brought the messenger with me.
He was learning.
In the main building Esmaili found the courier drinking thick tea and devouring some biscuits. Showing deference to the Ira ni an, the Lebanese .ghter stood and inclined his head. “Teacher . . .”
Esmaili waved a placating hand. “Please sit, brother. You are a guest  here.”
The two men  were within three years of one another’s age, both in their mid- forties, both dedicated and compe­tent. But few Hezbollah operatives possessed Ahmad Es­maili’s depth of experience. From the revolution onward, through the nightmare of the Iraq war of the 1980s and what the Zionist lackeys called the present “terror” war, the Ira ni an liaison of.cer had been constantly engaged. His masters in Tehran knew his  worth— and so did his acolytes in The Lebanon.

Excerpted from Vulcan's Fire by Harold Coyle.
Copyright © 2008 by Harold Coyle.
Published in November 2009 by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and
reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in
any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.

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Excerpts

1
SOUTH GOVERNATE, LEBANON
The stalkers awaited the signal.
It came in the dappled gray light of 5:00 a.m. because delay was as much an enemy as the dedicated men inside the remote building.
Outside the  .ve- room  house, the assault leader gave a quick click- click of his tactical headset. The eleven mem­bers of his team recognized it as the preparatory signal. Receiving no response, he proceeded with his countdown.
“Ready... ready...”
A long three- second wait allowed anyone to delay the inevitable. No one did. The four men on perimeter guard saw nothing to interfere with the operation. Meanwhile, the two assault teams and the command element  were tensed, leg muscles coiled to propel them from the shadows.
The team leader licked his lips. He had extensive experi­ence but it was always like this: an eager dread. He glanced around. Only his radio operator returned his gaze; every­one else was focused on the objective. It looked good: they had probably achieved surprise, but surprise without vio­lence was useless.
“Ready... go!”
Two explosions shattered the Mediterranean air, two seconds apart. The .rst was a  Chinese- made RPG whose high- explosive warhead blew a hole in the brick- and-mortar wall facing the sunrise. The second was another RPG near the opposite corner that smashed through a win­dow and detonated on the interior wall.
Assaulting together, each section was preceded by Rheinmetall .ash- bang grenades to compensate for any defenders who escaped the RPG blasts.
A quick two- count, and both teams entered through the holes. It was doctrine: avoid the usual entrances, which could be mined.
The attackers’ mission was simple: kill or capture everyone present. Take no unnecessary chances.
There  were no novices on either side of the door.
The raiders held the advantage, exploiting the stunning effects of the grenades and  .ash- bangs. Moving with .uid rapidity, they “ran the walls,” closing the distance on the defenders, .ring short, disciplined bursts. The Egoz recon­naissance unit allowed its members a great deal of latitude: most chose 7.62 Galils but a few carried AK-47s. Both  were lethally effective.
Three defenders  were shot down in the front room; only one got off a round and it went high. A fragmentation grenade arced through the entrance to the next room. Be­fore it exploded, the men inside opened .re with their AKs. The  150- grain rounds shredded the blanket separat­ing the two rooms, and some  were deliberately aimed low. One raider dropped with a Kalashnikov’s bullet through the left thigh.
The grenade .zzled. Too long in  storage— the result of clandestine acquisition  policies— it exploded in a  low-order detonation that in.icted minor wounds. Inside the small room, a close- range .re.ght erupted. It was fought at near muzzle contact.
One raider was killed, taking a round above the ballis­tic plate of his tactical vest. Another was clipped in the right bicep.
The defenders  were shot down in an ephemeral mo­ment of loud noise, bright muzzle .ashes, and icy terror. Each body received one or two rounds to the head before the last brass clattered on the wood .oor.
One man escaped the house, .eeing through the back door. The designated marksman with a scoped Galil shot him from sixty meters.
Order, if not quiet, returned to the shattered structure.
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
Without awaiting instructions, the raiders moved through the  house according to their individual priorities. Two guarded the bodies on the .oor while two others se­cured the victims’ hands with .ex cuffs. The fact that they were dead was irrelevant; some of the raiders had seen dead men kill the living.
The number two man turned to his superior. “No useful prisoners, Chief. Sorry.”
The team leader shrugged philosophically. “I know. It couldn’t be helped.” As papers  were gathered, the radioman began taking photos with his digital camera.
Hearing the  all- clear, the team medic entered through the door— the only one to do so. He had one immediate case and two lesser. He was experienced and calm; com­bat triage was nothing new to him.
“Arterial bleeding  here,” said one man, leaning over the .rst casualty. The medic went to work, knowing that his friends would treat other casualties for the moment. He glanced at a green- clad form, not moving. One of the raiders merely shook his head. The decedent’s family would be told that he died in a training accident, body unrecoverable. Knowing it was a lie, the parents would accept the fabrication.
The other killers began tearing the place apart. They searched thoroughly, quickly, indelicately. They opened every cabinet and drawer, spilling the contents, and pulled mattresses off beds. They searched for loose boards and pried at the ceiling. Finally one of them returned to the liv­ing room.
“Nothing here, Avri.”
“It has to be here. Look again. Everywhere.”
Abraham pulled the kaf.yeh off his head and allowed it to drape over his tactical vest. “We’ve already looked everywhere. Twice. I’m telling you, it’s not  here.”
Avri looked around the  house. “God damn it!” For the grandson of a rabbi, he was famously profane.
He grabbed the radioman. “Get me Capri Six. Priority.”
The RTO handed over the instrument. “Scramble mode selected.”
“Capri, this is Purchase. Pass.” The commander re­leased the transmit button, allowing the scrambler to do its work. In an instant the carrier wave was back.
“Purchase, I read you. Pass.”
“The well is dry. Repeat, the well is dry. End.”
The response was decidedly nonregulation, but the transmission from the south drew no comment. After all, this time the offending voice belonged to an agnostic.

SSI OFFICES, ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re in trouble.”
Rear Admiral Michael Derringer had been retired for longer than he cared to remember but he had lost little of his command presence. As found er and CEO of Strategic Solutions, Incorporated, he had conned the company through its early years, building success upon success as the military contractor market expanded. Working around the world, performing often clandestine tasks for the U.S. Gov­ernment, SSI had become the  go- to .rm when DoD or State needed something done without of.cial recognition.
But that was then; this was now.
“Still no new contracts?” George Ferraro, SSI vice pres­ident and chief .nancial of.cer, had no problem guessing the admiral’s intent.
“Correct.” Derringer’s balding head bobbed in assent. “SecDef canceled our electronic warfare project in Ara­bia and State vetoed us for another African job. Oh,  we’re still getting business but it’s  paper-clip money: security work, training assignments,  small- scale jobs. About the only advantage is that they keep some of our regulars on the payroll. But they don’t reduce the red ink, and we can’t operate on our stock portfolio inde.nitely.”
Among the nine people sitting around the polished table was Lieutenant General Thomas Varlowe, U.S. Army (Retired), the gray presence who never quite shed the three stars he once wore. As chairman of SSI’s advisory board, he had little .nancial stake in the .rm but remained inter­ested in the fascinating projects that came down the Belt­way. Though he seldom spoke up in board meetings, the situation called for an exception.
“Ahem.” Heads turned toward the former West Point track star. “I wanted to talk to Admiral Derringer before the meeting but I didn’t get the chance. In case there’s any doubt about the company’s lack of work, I can elaborate.”
Derringer barely managed to suppress a tight smile. The two retirees  were “Admiral” and “General” to one an­other in SSI meetings but friendly rivals named Mike and Tom the rest of the  time—especially in November for the Army- Navy game.
“Go ahead, General.” The Navy man knew what was coming.
Varlowe shoved back from the table. “It’s that job with the Israelis. Damned poor situation to get into...” He came within an inch of adding, As I tried to tell all of you. Instead, he pushed ahead. “I’ve snooped around and found that new business dried up almost before that ship sank... what was it? Three or four months ago? Sure, our people prevented the uranium ore from reaching Iran, but that hardly matters.”
“I’ve been traveling in Eu rope, General. What does matter?” Beverly Ann Shumard, with a PhD in interna­tional relations, was one of two women on the board of directors, and among the most outspoken of all.
Derringer interjected. “Dr. Shumard, the mission sum­mary is still being prepared owing to, ah, security con­cerns. But the short version is, our training team in Chad got involved in a double play set up by the Israelis, pre­sumably against the Ira ni ans. Col o nel Leopole can pro­vide some operational details, but basically our tasking changed from instruction to interdiction, preventing a load of yellow cake from being shipped to Iran.”
Shumard shook her head. “I’m sorry, Admiral. As I said, I’ve been away and didn’t know the particulars. But why would Iran want ore from Chad? I mean, Iran has its own mines.”
Derringer nodded to the chief of operations.
Lieutenant Col o nel Frank Leopole looked, talked, and acted as Central Casting would expect of a Marine Corps of.cer. He was tall, lean, and hard with a high and tight haircut that screamed “jarhead” to the Army and Navy men in the of.ce. His tenure with SSI had been marked by some notable successes and few failures.
“Deniability,  ma’am. At least that’s what our intel said. Presumably Tehran wanted foreign yellow cake to use in a weapon and avoid the nuclear .ngerprints of its own ore. So our team went chasing off across Chad and Libya, then through the Med and down the west coast of Africa to overhaul the shipment. All the time we were working with the Israelis, who provided most of the information and logistics. We caught the ship, which was scuttled with its cargo, so presumably everybody was happy.”
“But I take it nobody really is happy.”
“Nobody but the Israelis,” Varlowe added. It was an un­characteristic interjection from the normally taciturn sol­dier. “As I was going to say, our  team— this  .rm— was stiffed by Mossad. The Israelis concocted the plot in the .rst place to distract  us— the  U.S.— from their genuine concern. They had their own operation going against Iran’s nuclear program but were afraid we would learn about it and bring pressure to bear. Apparently their real plan failed but what matters is, they tossed us a straw man: something credible that we could pursue and leave them alone.” He gave an eloquent shrug. “It worked.”
George Ferraro spoke up. “See, that’s what I don’t un­derstand. We did what the government and the adminis­tration wanted done. So why are we the heavies now?”
“There are several major players,” Derringer replied. “Not least of which is the CIA. The agency accepted the Israelis’ ploy, apparently almost at face value. Our own sources— mainly David  Dare— sniffed out the facts but too late to affect the operation.”
Shumard accepted that explanation without reserva­tion. Though not involved in intelligence or operations, she and everyone connected with the .rm knew the  eye-watering reputation of the former NSA spook. It was said that if you wanted to know what Japanese porn .lm Kim Jong Il watched last night, ask Dave Dare.
“So Langley’s embarrassed that SSI .gured out what was going on, and wants to cover its hindquarters.”
Derringer spoke again. “It’s bigger than that, Doctor. We’ve taken hits before from various agencies, and I ad­mit that a few  were justi.ed. But usually when some agency tries to stiff us, it’s as you say: embarrassment or jealousy or some sort of perceived rivalry. In this case, we’re criticized by State and Langley and to an extent by DoD.” He grimaced, then adjusted his glasses. “In a way I can understand it. Considering the high stakes involved in any  Israeli- Iranian con.ict, nobody this side of the pond wants to be blamed if something goes wrong.”
Marshall Wilmont spoke up for the .rst time. As SSI president and chief operating of.cer, he had a .nger in most of the company pies. “So much for the reason for our drought. What I want to know is, what can we do about it?”
The question hung suspended above the polished table, lurking in brooding silence.

SOUTH GOVERNATE, LEBANON
The dream returned again.
“Afrad mosallah!”
At the command, the executioners assumed their posi­tions: squatting or kneeling with their ri.es aimed at the condemned men’s chests.
The sequence usually resembled a grainy black and white newsreel, for the sleeper was one of those who sel­dom dreamed in color. When awake, in the rare moments when he had nothing else in mind, Ahmad Esmaili some­times pondered the odd situation. As a participant in the event that stalked his nights, he expected to relive the glo­rious, dreadful moments from behind the sights of a Heckler & Koch ri.e. But more often his perspective was that of an observer, seeing himself and his colleagues from several meters away.
In 1979, at eigh teen, Esmaili’s .rst  full- time job had been on a revolutionary .ring squad. The .rst day had been dreadful, and if anything the second day was worse. But by the end of the week it was tolerable. After a while, to display his revolutionary fervor, he notched the wood stock of his G3 for each of the Shah’s vermin he shot. How­ever, as the imams noted, hell was reserved for  in.dels— those who rejected Islam. Presumably even Muslims who oppressed others of The Faith had a chance to achieve Paradise.
Apart from former government of.cials and Savak po­licemen, Esmaili also had dispatched evildoers such as drug addicts, perverts, and Kurds.
Esmaili had to admit that most of the dictator’s men had died reasonably well, some with the Koran in hand. Resigned to their fate, they had stood their ground, eyes bound but hands free, and accepted the ayatollah’s jus­tice delivered almost from  powder-burn distance. But the former revolutionary guard seldom alluded to that aspect of the pro cess. A few early attempts from twenty meters or more had resulted in some messy episodes, and eventually the range was diminished almost to muzzle contact.
“Atesh!”
Esmaili felt the heavy trigger pull, then somebody was shaking him awake. It was two hours before dawn.
Forcing his consciousness to swim upward through the haze of REM sleep, he surfaced to think: No good news arrives in darkness.
He was right.
Esmaili sat upright on his cot, rubbing his eyes and sti­.ing a yawn. He merely said, “Tell me.”
“It is Malik’s team.” The tone of the messenger’s voice told Ahmad Esmaili as much as the words. “They are all with God.”
The Ira ni an was fully awake now. He focused on the face of his colleague, a young man from Tyre who called himself Hazim: Resolute. He was more enthusiastic than capable but occasionally he showed promise. Esmaili had decided to cultivate him.
“All of them?”
Hazim nodded gravely.
Esmaili swung his bare feet onto the .oor of the small house. His toes found his sandals and slid into them, ris­ing in the pro cess. Otherwise he was already dressed. “When?”
“Early this morning. We only got word a little while ago.”
The se nior man shook his head. “They could not have been more than forty kilometers from  here. Why the de­lay?”
Hazim defaulted to his passive setting. “I do not know, Teacher. I only pass the message from the courier.”
“Then I need to speak with him, not an errand boy.” The words  were selected to cut, to hurt. To teach. He stalked from the  house, making for the larger building that served as headquarters for a few days.
Hazim trailed in his master’s wake, biting down the pain. Belatedly he realized that he should have informed himself of more details before awaking the Ira ni an. Or I could have brought the messenger with me.
He was learning.
In the main building Esmaili found the courier drinking thick tea and devouring some biscuits. Showing deference to the Ira ni an, the Lebanese .ghter stood and inclined his head. “Teacher . . .”
Esmaili waved a placating hand. “Please sit, brother. You are a guest  here.”
The two men  were within three years of one another’s age, both in their mid- forties, both dedicated and compe­tent. But few Hezbollah operatives possessed Ahmad Es­maili’s depth of experience. From the revolution onward, through the nightmare of the Iraq war of the 1980s and what the Zionist lackeys called the present “terror” war, the Ira ni an liaison of.cer had been constantly engaged. His masters in Tehran knew his  worth— and so did his acolytes in The Lebanon.

Excerpted from Vulcan's Fire by Harold Coyle.
Copyright © 2008 by Harold Coyle.
Published in November 2009 by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and
reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in
any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.

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