Next in were the squad radios. Each man carried his own personal radio set and Madonna, while each assistant team leader—Nir, Chaim, and Itzak—carried a larger more powerful squad unit which had to be stowed separately. The assistant team leaders also carried 40mm grenade launchers slung under their Tavors. In this way they were the team leader’s communication and fire support center all in one. Extra cases of 40mm grenades followed the radios. It was highly unlikely the unit would need them, but Feldhander permitted the extra grenandes so Yatom took them.
Sergeant Ilan Gvir’s SR-25 sniper rifle also had to be separately stowed. Like most snipers, llan didn’t like strangers handling his weapon, but with the extra sights, camouflage and ammo that accompanied the weapon, Feldhandler insisted it be loaded as extra gear. Ilan winched as a technician bumped the gun case against the side of the capsule. Mike Bolander, standing next to him, shoved an elbow into the sniper’s ribs.
“At least you get a real sniper rifle” groused Bolander. “I only get this.” He patted the Tavor STAR hanging at his hip. STAR stood for Sharpshooting Tavor Assault Rifle, and was assigned to the unit’s designated marksman, second fiddle to the sniper. The STAR didn’t have to be loaded separately but was still an impressive weapon. A Tavor with a lengthened barrel, bipod and improved sights, it was a deadly and accurate rifle out to 500 meters. Beyond that, Ilan handled things.
“Don’t cry baby” said Ilan mockingly in English. Ilan spoke excellent English, having attended the U.S. Marine Corps sniper school the year before, a fact that he hardly ever let Bolander—who had dual American citizenship—forget. Though both men had attended the IDF sniper academy, the Israeli school was considered much less demanding than the Marine Corps course. Instead of a challenging course staffed by experienced snipers as in the Marines, the IDF offered a decent, but relatively easy course on advanced marksmanship—not true sniping. Like many IDF courses, the trainers were mostly female soldiers who were smart and motivated, but not actual infantry snipers. As a result the instruction was well organized, efficient and theoretical—just not very taxing or practical. After the 2006 Lebanon War, where the Israeli sniping proved less than impressive, the IDF increasingly sought to get their most talented marksmen coveted billets in the Marine sniper course.
Ilan most impressive achievement was the assassination of Syrian General Mohammed Suleiman in 2008. llan had been detached from Sayeret Matkal to the Mossad for the mission. Suleiman, who ran arms to Hezbollah, liked to relax at his vacation home near the Syrian coastal city of Tartus, a fact that Israeli intelligence had picked up.
Mossad agents posing as wealthy Gulf Arabs chartered a fast pleasure yacht in Cyprus. The boat met an Israeli submarine en route to Syria and llan transferred to the yacht with a suppressed SR—25 rifle. The agents plied the yacht nonchalantly along the coast, a few hundred meters off shore until Suleiman, as was his habit, entered his garden for a siesta. Ilan put a single bullet into his head, following the one-shot one-kill mantra of the Marine school. That exploit, unknown to everybody in the sayeret but Yatom, Mofaz and Shapira, got Ilan into the unit. llan wanted badly to tell Bolander—who got into the sayeret based on his own heroics, but kept his mouth shut.
“I’m still waiting for personnel to approve me for the Marine course” complained Bolander.
“They are not going to let you go, Bo” said Ilan, continuing in English. “You’re a U.S. citizen. They figure you’ll get to the States and never come back.”
“C’mon—I’m in Israel since I was nine! I’m as Israeli as you are—and a fucking hero to hoot.”
Ilan nodded and laughed because Bolander really was a flicking hero, and everybody knew it. A couple of years before Bolander joined the sayeret, like many conscripts, he was pulling guard duty on the Lebanon border. One night, while working as a designated marksman in support of an outpost of lazy reservists, he spotted a Hezbollah kidnap squad preparing to launch an assault. That was as far as the Hezbollah got. He gunned down the entire five man squad before the terrorists, or the reservists, knew what had hit them. That performance Bolander into Matkal, despite the fact he was American born—but Ilan knew that they’d never send him to the Marine sniper school.
Bolander was about to continue the argument when Roskovsky came over. Of all the stuff being crammed into the capsule, his was treated the most gingerly. In his various packs were claymore mines, EFPs—explosively formed projectiles capable of destroying main battle tanks—chunks of plastique, transmitters, detonators and priming cords.
“Careful with that!” called Ilan playfully as a technician hoisted a sack firll of two kilo blocks of C-4. The man almost tripped and Roskovsky shot Ilan a dirty look. “Sorry bro” said Ilan in English again. Roskovsky, almost a head taller than the diminutive sniper, gave him a wink and walked away.
Ido’s extra medical packs went in easily enough including the IDF’s unique folding stretcher assembly. Israeli troops practiced evacuating casualties religiously, and carrying those loaded stretchers caused no end of pain during training marches.
The last extra weapon was also the unit’s biggest, a B-300 rocket launcher. Yatom decided to take the B-300 instead of a more powerful anti-tank rocket or missile launcher because of its simplicity and versatility. Israel made the world’s most sophisticated portable anti-tank missile, called the GiI—marketed as the Spike—but it was a large two man piece of equipment. The IDF also had a simplier one man rocket that was somewhat more advanced than the B-300 called the Shipon. But the Shipon was heavy and disposable, which meant to get three shots you had to carry three launchers—also too much for the capsule. The B-300 was small, light and reusable. A B-300 with three rounds was more manageable than either a Gil or Shipon—and plenty deadly. Israeli-made, it was used by the U.S. Marines where it was called the SMAW—for Shoulder-launched Multi-purpose Assault Weapon. It could knock out most tanks or fortifications depending on the round fired.
It took a good hour to properly stow all the gear, with Feldhandler’s technicians firssing and measuring their work along the way. When they were done Yatom told Mofaz to round up the rest of the men and give them a tour of the loaded capsule, so every man knew where and how his gear had been stowed. Then Yatom set off towards the canteen for more coffee.
Before Yatom had taken three steps Feldhandler popped out from behind the capsule and waved at him. “I don’t need this” thought the tired commando, but he walked over to the scientist like he was on the parade ground and clapped the smaller man hard on the shoulder.
“That capsule is crammed tighter virgin’s twat” snapped Yatom, hoping to embarrass the diffident scientist and make him go away. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Tov!” said the scientist, ignoring the commando’s profanity and the awkward metaphor. “If you and the men are up to it, I would like to run some more drills tomorrow.”
“Beseder,” said Yatom. “We’re just scratching our dicks anyway.” Feldhandler blanched and the colonel walked off.
Feldhandler hung around while the rest of the sayeret did their walk-through of the capsule, the officers and men studiously avoiding him. After they finished and went off to rest or eat, Feldhandler grabbed one of the internal telephone lines near the capsule bay. He called for Mina to join him. She arrived a few minutes later and entered the capsule while Feldhandler waited outside. Mina worked at the computer terminals for about an hour, reconfiguring the software, while he sat in the capsule doorway playing with his Blackberry. That was enough to keep unwanted visitors away. Finally she completed her task.