The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

and accepting treatment only after making his report. He had a decoration for
that, and his battalion commander had made life a little easier for him, giving
him some money to start his little shop, making sure that local officials knew
that he was to be treated with respect. The colonel had given him the money, but
his father had given him the courage. If only he would now accept a little help.
'My son, I need your advice.'
That was something new. 'Certainly, father.'
'Come I will show you.' He led his son into the garden, where the carrots were.
With his foot, he scraped dirt off the –
'Stop!' the son nearly screamed. He took his father by the arm and pulled him
back. 'My God, how long has that been there?'
'Since the day you were hurt,' the farmer answered.
The son's right hand went to his eye patch, and for one horrid moment the terror
of the day came back to him. The blinding flash, flying through the air, his
dead comrades screaming as they burned to death. The Israelis had done that. One
of their cannons had killed his mother, and now – this?
What was it? He commanded his father to stay put and walked back to see. He
moved very carefully, as though he were traversing a minefield. His assignment
in the army had been with the combat engineers; though his unit had been
committed to battle with the infantry, their job was supposed to have been
laying a minefield. It was big, it looked like a thousand-kilo bomb. It had to
be Israeli; he knew that from the color. He turned to look at his father.
'This has been here since then?'
'Yes. It made its own hole, and I filled it in. The frost must have brought it
up. Is there danger? It is broken, no?'
'Father, these things never truly die. It is very dangerous. Big as it is, if it
goes off it could destroy the house and you in it!'
The farmer gestured contempt for the thing. 'If it wanted to explode, it would
have done so when it fell.'
'That is not true! You will listen to me on this. You will not come close to
this cursed thing!'
'And what of my garden?' the farmer asked simply.
'I will find a way to have this removed. Then you can garden.' The son
considered that. it would be a problem. Not a small problem, either. The Syrian
army did not have a pool of skilled people to disarm unexploded bombs. Their
method was to detonate them in place, which was eminently sensible, but his
father would not long survive the destruction of his house. His wife would not
easily tolerate having him in their own home, and he could not help his father
rebuild, not with only one hand. The bomb had to be removed, but who would do
that?
'You must promise me that you will not enter the garden!' the son announced
sternly.
'As you say,' the farmer replied. He had no intention of following his son's
orders. 'When can you have it removed?'
'I don't know. I need a few days to see what I can do.'
The farmer nodded. Perhaps he'd follow his son's instructions after all, at
least about not approaching this dead bomb. It had to be dead, of course,