87

SOUTHERN LEBANON—MAY 4

“No, not yet—shut it and get back to your posts.”

Abdel Rahman was furious. When he had news for them, the twenty-four-year-old Radwan fighter told the other men in the compound, they would be the first to know. Until then, he was sick of hearing them ask. No, the phone in his pocket had not rung. No, it had not vibrated. No, it had not chirped. And true to his word, he had resisted the temptation to call or text anyone.

Their mission was simple: wait for instructions and do not move until they got them. Why, then, had so much time passed?

They had all expected to get the word to move out within hours of the rest of the team’s departure, which had been just before breakfast early the previous morning. By lunchtime, the men in his charge had been growing antsy. By dinner, they had become worried. Now it was well past midnight.

Abdel could not believe it was already Monday morning. There still had been no word, and the men, unable to sleep, were about to go ballistic. Since they dared not blame al-Masri, they were aiming their attacks at Abdel, outright accusing him of either screwing up or refusing to share with them critical operational details. The problem was compounded by the fact that while Colonel al-Masri had put him in charge of these men, Abdel did not actually outrank them. Thus, he really had no authority over them, and they knew it. As the hours ticked by, Abdel feared a mutiny was building.

For the moment, his outburst had quieted them. But they would be back, and he needed answers. Had something gone wrong? Had al-Masri and Zayan been captured? Killed? Had the others? If so, by whom? He had no answers. The taxi and the jeep had not headed south, closer to enemy territory, deeper into the war zone. They had been heading north, into the arms of friendly forces.

None of it made sense, but suddenly Abdel heard explosions. Then machine-gun fire. As he and his men tried to pinpoint the direction it was coming from, one thing became clear—whoever was doing the shooting was getting closer. Taking a page from al-Masri’s playbook, Abdel grabbed a pair of binoculars, sprinted through the courtyard, and leaped up onto a table and then onto the roof of a storage shed. This was the highest vantage point in the compound and allowed him to look over the stone wall and out toward the Med. The rest of his team quickly joined him.

With no lights on in the compound, a full moon, clear skies, and calm seas, Abdel spotted two speedboats, maybe a kilometer south of them, in a high-speed chase toward the shore. In the lead was a small rubber craft with a half-dozen or so Hezbollah commandos aboard. Behind it was an Israeli Shaldag-class fast patrol boat. Abdel estimated their speed at close to fifty knots on the open water, and the Israelis were rapidly gaining ground. They were also unleashing their 20mm cannon on their prey. Whoever was in the lead craft was returning fire, but they were in grave danger of being blown entirely out of the water.

Abdel adjusted the focus on the binoculars and zeroed in on the commandos. They were all wearing black masks. Black scuba gear. Doing their best to stay low. And putting up a good fight. But they needed help, and they needed it now. Abdel knew his orders. They were supposed to stay quiet and out of sight until they received word from al-Masri to move north to the safe house. But there was no way he and his men could stand by and watch while the criminal Zionists slaughtered their Hezbollah brothers who were obviously retreating from some operation near the border, probably in or around the Israeli port of Haifa, or perhaps the city of Nahariya.

Abdel had to make a split-second decision. If he ordered his colleagues to train their mortars on the Israeli Navy vessel and open fire, they would undoubtedly draw an air strike. But there was nothing sacred about staying in this compound. They could be in their trucks and on the move in less than a minute, well before the IDF Northern Command could give their F-16s the proper coordinates. And if Abdel could buy his fellow warriors some precious time, it would all be worth it.

He gave the order. His colleagues were under no compulsion to comply, but they erupted in cheers. He was finally giving them something to do, and they moved like lightning. A moment later, mortar rounds began erupting from the courtyard. Abdel stayed on the roof, watching through the binoculars where the rounds landed and calling out adjustments on the fly. One by one, the rounds were exploding closer and closer to the Israeli craft. Abdel was just about to call out another adjustment when a massive explosion rocked their world.

The force of the blast threw Abdel off the roof, and he landed hard in the dust. Then came a second explosion, followed almost immediately by a third. By the time he caught his breath and climbed to his feet, he could see the buildings on the other side of the courtyard consumed by fire. The dormitory was gone. So was the industrial kitchen and the walk-in freezer where their prisoners had once been held. Abdel stumbled forward amid the leaping flames and the billowing smoke. He was calling out to his friends by name, hoping some of them—any of them—were still alive.