Hero Page 4

  His Uncle Tzvi had explained it best, years ago, one night when Ari was guesting at his table. Ari had said something stupid—he didn't remember what—and the Sergeant had just smiled.

  "Lesson time," Tzvi Hanavi had said. He was a constant, the Sergeant was: he was always a big man, even after Ari had reached his full growth, always freshly shaven, his cheeks lightly dusted with talc. Always patient when Ari didn't understand. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, tenting stubby fingers in front of his thick lips. His eyes went vague and distant.

  "See," he said, slowly, carefully, "when it all hits the fan, most soldiers take cover. Instinct; built-in. Ninety-seven percent of green offworlders are useless as a bucket of warm piss in the first minute of a firefight, and only about ten percent get better in the first five minutes. Some of them don't use their guns at all, some fire blindly. Some freeze in place; most take cover and cower. A few take cover, then get hold of themselves, and then aim, but they're in the minority.

  "Blooded troops are better, but not much. Figure fifty percent of their riflemen return fire with any effectiveness—tops. It's instinct.

  "Which is why the real firepower from the opposition'll come from their autoguns and mortars. The crew-manned weapons, not their rifles—and for shit's sake, not the officers' pistols. You been taught about priority of fire?"

  Ari had nodded.

  "Right. The reason you go for their autoguns first isn't that they fire faster or have more ammo than the rifles—it's because the autogunners will usually aim and fire, so that's where their real firepower is.

  "We're different. From age eight you've been taught—what? Bap. Bap. Bap. Bap. What do you do, first thing when you're fired on? Quickly, now: Bap—"

  "Warrior's reflex: I return fire until—"

  "Bap."

  "—the weapon is cleared, while—"

  "Bap."

  "—seeking cover forward, reload and—"

  "Bap."

  "—empty the second magazine," Ari had said quickly.

  "Good boy. Damn straight you do."

  The drills and the training routines had driven in the words and the feel of it: of the lock-load-charge-auto-aim-fire if the weapon was unloaded, of the charge-auto-aim-fire if it was loaded, of diving to the ground, the slam of the rifle butt into the ground to break the fall, rolling over onto his side for cover while reloading, finding hasty targets while he emptied his second magazine. Each step had been analyzed, each step had been practiced thousands and thousands of times until it was the most natural thing in the world. And there had been more: the drugs and hypno sessions that he could only dimly recall, all to make the warrior's reflex as automatic and involuntary as the gag reflex.

  "It just might keep you alive," the Sergeant had said. "Sure to keep some of your cousins and brothers alive who'd be dead otherwise. Works in a lot of situations, not just charging an ambush. Indirect fire, too. Most of the time—"

  "Tzvi—enough. Let the boy eat," Aunt Tabe'in, the Sergeant's new wife, had interrupted. She was a small, dark woman from clan Aroni, mainly of Beta Yisroel stock. With a quick flick of her hand she tried to wave the discussion away.

  The Sergeant took her hand, gently but firmly, and put it in her lap. "No," he had said, speaking as patiently but adamantly as he had lectured Ari. "There's nothing more important than Warrior's Reflex."

  The bus banked to the right and the whole world skewed as it slipped into the ditch, its hull ringing dully as the bus slammed into the far side of the ditch, bounced once and crashed down hard, slamming Ari against his safety straps.

  Hundreds, thousands, millions of guns were going off, most of them in his ears.

  "Make it stop, please make it stop," Yitzhak Slepak shrilled.

  Ari sagged forward against the straps, unable to move. All he could do was huddle there while the others emptied their weapons, some reloading, some kicking open the emergency exits on the far side of the bus.

  The shots were quieter than they should have been, each bang in the stream somehow more distinct than it ought to have been, than it ever had been in practice.

  His fingers, white against the stock of his rifle, couldn't move. It was supposed to be: click the fire selector to full auto, his thumb pushing hard on the selector's sharp checkering, then pull the stubby charging bolt back, aim and fire, the muzzle blast putting what was almost a beam of light on the target, but all he could do was huddle there, a dampness at his crotch.

  "Okay, everybody," Benyamin's voice said over his headset, calm and level, "out the far side."

  "The kid fr—"

  "Shut up. Help me with him." Two pairs of rough hands clutched at the shoulders of Ari's tunic, more carrying him than pushing him toward the window.

  "All even numbers: I need a quick spray to starboard. Do it now and reload." Shimon Bar-El's voice cut through the gunshots and the smoke and the decreasing whine of the bus's fans. "Everyone: as you exit, spray the bushes and stay down, in the ditch. There'll be claymores on the starboard side and we've got nowhere to run."

  Laskov and Lavon half-carried Ari to a window and half-threw him through it.

  Now, trained reflexes didn't betray him: when he hit the ground, he let his knees give, falling forward, breaking the fall with the butt of his Barak.

  "Where's Orde?" Benyamin asked.

  Laskov grunted. "Caught one in the eye."

  Ari crouched in the dirt, his rifle still clutched tightly in his hands, with nothing but his chestpack.

  That should be enough. It held his ammo and a spare knife and—

  "Shit, people, where the fuck are they?"

  It was all smoke and fire and sound. From off in the smoke, Baraks stuttered and the wounded screamed.

  Ari tried to bring his rifle up. But where should he aim? He couldn't just fire randomly.

  As if of its own volition, Ari's rifle jerked and shook, sending lead and flame into the leaves overhead.

  Into the ditch, that was what Shimon had said.

  But everything was silent on the squad freak; he puffed for the company freak.

  Benyamin was talking. "—lev One One Two One. No claymores to the east. Can't be," he said, almost too calmly, too casually.

  "Kelev Twenty. You sure?" Galil sounded more placid than Benyamin, if that was possible.

  "Kelev One One Two Two," Laskov rasped. "We're all alive, aren't we, asshole?"

  "Twenty. It's—"

  "He's right, Yitzhak," Shimon Bar-El's quiet voice cut through the shouting, accompanied by a high-pitched hum that announced he was talking in override mode.

  "There's no claymores and too many of us are alive—it's a hasty ambush, by no more than a platoon. Kelev One is going to have to take it; the rest aren't operational, won't be for five, ten minutes."

  It would be more than that, Ari thought; they'd have to retrieve their weapons from the cargo bays of the buses and somehow arrange themselves into squads.

  Bar-El's voice was seething with calm. "Take it, Yitzhak; it's yours," he said quietly, the judge passing a death sentence on God only knew whom.

  "Kelev," Galil came back, sharply. "Got it. Nablus Twenty—"

  "Nablus. We go north with our fucking handguns, while you cross south?"

  "Kelev. Do it, Meir. Grazing fire to keep their heads down—but stay in the ditch, this side. Don't cross; they'll cut you to pieces."

  "Nablus."

  "Deir Yasin Twenty," Greenberg said. "Autoguns will be up in a minute, maybe less. I've got the two rockets heating up, if you can get me a target."

  Thank God that the heavy mortar training detachment traveled with a half dozen autoguns and as many of air-suppression rockets when operational. Their tubes couldn't possibly to do any good, even if they could be brought on line: the enemy, whoever it was, was too close.

  "Kelev," Galil said, "negative on a target. I—"

  "Tel Aviv Ten. I will spot for the rockets," Peled said, his shout automatically damped.

  "Ke
lev. Do it."

  Ari Hanavi huddled in the ditch, trying to press himself into the ground, breathing shallowly to keep his back low.

  "—One One Five. Second bus is burning. Gonna blow any minute."

  "Listen, I've got one, would you fucking listen—"

  "Identify yourself, dammit," Galil snapped.

  "—bearing perp to the road, listen to me, perp to the road and right a quarter, one hundred meters, base of big tree, at least two of them, probably more. And I'm, shit, I'm TTD Two One Fifteen, Chaim Goell, and—"

  Shimon Bar-El's voice cut through, again override mode. "I spotted what looked like a hiking trail. Crosses the road out beyond the bend, about half a klick back. You might want to try that."

  "Kelev. We'll do that, Shimon. Tel Aviv Ten, I'm taking Kelev One around and behind. You form up the rest, and lay down a cover from here."

  "Tel Aviv Ten," Peled said. "Got it."

  "Kelev Twenty. Okay, Kelev, One to the south; follow me."

  "Two prisoners," Shimon Bar-El said.

  "Kelev Twenty. Yes, Shimon."

  "Ari, come on." It took him a moment to realize that Benyamin was shouting in his ear, not over his 'phones. Benyamin pulled him to his feet.

  "He's not worth shit." Lavon had his weapon loaded again and braced against his hip. "Leave him."

  Benyamin nodded. "Okay. Ari: you took a blow to the head. Stay here. That's an order."

  He couldn't remember taking a blow to the head, and they were all running away, all abandoning him.

  He couldn't stop crying, but Ari forced himself to his feet and staggered after them. At least they were running away from the shooting.

  CHAPTER 4

  Yitzhak Galil: Moving the Pieces

  "Follow me," Yitzhak Galil said, charging across the wide dirt road, his rifle held chest-high, smashing through the brush on the other side.

  Two dozen men followed him at a dead run, although when he glanced behind him to check his quick count, he could see Ari Hanavi, staggering down off the road, slipping, falling far behind.

  Forget him, Galil decided. Save it for later. On the chessboard or in the field, it was all the same: pieces don't do a lot of good until they're developed, deployed. Shimon and the rest of the company were castled across the road. Galil moved his men out.

  As always, it was the little things that tripped you up. The dominant vegetation in the forest was a ten-meter-tall dull green plant, its bifurcated trunk smooth, topped with an explosion of long strings of leaves that never came within a man-height of the ground.

  Those were spaced widely enough not to be a problem. It was their younger versions that littered the floor of the forest, clawing at Galil, smashing at his faceplate as he pushed on.

  The ground was covered with humus and a plant called melfoglia—slimy gray leaves, ranging in from a few centimeters to half a meter across—interspersed with cadapommidor—vaguely cubical white fungi the size of a man's head. It looked like bleached cheese and smelled like death when you kicked it open. Galil had to fight to keep on his feet.

  Radio discipline on the multi-person channels was always among the first things to go to hell, particularly when everyone hadn't smelled real gunsmoke for awhile; the company freak quickly became a buzz of noise.

  He puffed for the private line to his first section leader. "Yosef. Drop off a fireteam on this side of the road. One that's already got casualties—I only need two or three effectives."

  "Will do."

  He wasn't about to waste a complete team on guarding their rear, but he wasn't going to run through the woods with both his flank and his ass hanging out, either.

  Keep pieces protecting other pieces, that was the idea. It was just another chess game, but it was always a chess game in the fog, played by a crazy drunkard: you never really knew the value of the pieces, and never knew for sure which ones you were risking.

  He should have had his exec and top sergeant at his side, but both were down, probably dead. Had to move the pieces around the board by himself.

  So be it.

  He puffed back to the company freak.

  "—can't see any of them," somebody said, "there's got to be a hundred of them, a hundred—"

  "Shut the fuck up, Isenstein."

  "Shit, shit, they're all around us."

  "Oh, God, Mother, I'm hit."

  He puffed for override mode. "Kelev Twenty," he said. "Tighten up, chaverim." His voice felt tight and squeaky in his throat, but it sounded almost too calm in his ears. "Company freak and platoon freak is for orders down to all and for information everybody needs going up. Keep the bullshit and the chatter on your squad freaks, or better yet, shut the fuck up."

  Damn, but that sounded good. It sounded like he knew what he was doing.

  He hoped the feeling was contagious—he might catch it.

  He was out of shape, he decided, as he paused in the lee of a huge tree. He squatted, trying to catch his breath while he got himself oriented.

  They were about a hundred meters down the road from the ambush, and maybe fifty beyond the road. Time to organize things.

  He puffed for his private line to the general. "Kelev Twenty here; I need a sitrep."

  "Stable, but shitty. Hang on." Shimon Bar-El was back in a moment. "Colonel Chiabrera's on the line to Division Ops; they had two flights of helos on the pad; getting them up. Estimate five minutes over target. You want any help?" he asked drily.

  "Fuck, no. Keep them clear." The last thing he needed was a bunch of locals overhead firing down at God-knew-what. "Get them opconned to us quick, eh?"

  "I'll try."

  As the old saying goes: Friendly fire isn't.

  He had to get this company organized fast or there were going to be a lot of his people dying—because Yitzhak Galil hadn't done his job. Unacceptable.

  He stood and puffed his mike off. "Okay, everybody," he shouted, "over here. Take a bearing on me. Move it, move it," he said, raising his rifle over his head.

  Kelev One carried twenty-four men on the books; he counted eighteen, including himself, and at least a half dozen of them were men from Support/Transport/ Medical who had picked up fallen men's weapons.

  Not too pretty for an elite security and assault platoon of the best military force in the Thousand Worlds, but everything was always a mess. You practice and you train and you plan, and you learn to do it by the numbers, and then you find yourself improvising your way across a wooded ridgeline, never quite knowing what the hell to do next, your scrotum so tight your balls hurt.

  But never mind that; just move the pieces.

  The piece with the three bars on its shoulder was to be in front, with its fireteam, but most of his HQ fireteam—his platoon sergeant, the mechanic and one of his driver/gunners—were out of it. That left him and Moshe Bar-El, the driver/gunner/medic. It could be worse.

  Two of the squads were mostly intact; he'd move them out and fill in with the remnants of the others.

  He pointed at Skolnick. "We move out in a wedge. You take the left flank," he said. "Improvise another squad."

  He turned to solid, rooklike Benyamin Hanavi. Lipschitz's fireteam was intact, but Hanavi was saltier. Shit, though, it looked like he was down to himself and two others.

  "You got two down?"

  Hanavi hesitated, then nodded. "Lavinksy's dead; Ari took a knock on the head."

  "Then why—save it." It didn't matter that he didn't like Benyamin Hanavi a whole lot, and Hanavi liked him even less. The chessmaster needed a rook, not a hug. "Your squad's on the left—your fireteam and these five," Galil said, gesturing at five more men. "You're designated Red section. Rest of you with me, you're Green section, arrowhead to my left flank—Moshe and I are the spur. Let's go, quick and quiet. Moving overwatch—twenty-meter interval. We don't have time for run-and-cover."

  They moved quickly, boots crashing through the slimeleaf plants littering the floor of the forest.

  "Autogun one is up," Shimon reported over their pri
vate line, his voice drowned out by a crash. "But the second bus just blew, and I don't think these people are running out of ammo." His voice was distant, dreamy. "Any chance you can hurry things up?"

  "On my way." Galil didn't alter his pace. Yes, you hurry. But you don't hurry things so much that you blunder blindly into a rain of bullets.

  Rifle fire beyond the next knoll caused him to stop for a moment. He puffed for the platoon freak.

  "Kelev Twenty to all Kelev One units. Green section hold in place; cover my advance."

  Near the base of a tree, his foot slipped on something and he almost fell headfirst into one of the corpse-white fungi.

  "Shit." Which is what it was. Human shit. It had to be. While terrestrial fauna had long been turned loose successfully on Nueva, it was small stuff. Galil didn't think that was the end product of a rabbit. This didn't make any sense, not at all. The ambusher had to have been hit by an elite assault group, but basic field sanitation was something that elite field soldiers would long have gotten down pat.

  He was trying to figure out the implications of all that when two rifles to his left opened up.

  "Got 'em. Two men in Casa utilities. The fucking Casas—"

  "Shit, David, don't be an asshole—he was shouting in German. They're fucking Freiheimers in Casa uniforms."

  Galil grinned tightly. The rules of the game were very specific about what you could do to pieces caught in a war zone while showing false colors: anything. They'd be captives of war, not civil detainees, prisoners, prisoners of war or criminal detainees—not even capital criminals awaiting execution.

  Captives of war had no rights. None.

  He puffed for Shimon. "Kelev Twenty. We're about two points south of west of you, three hundred meters out. Moving in for—"

  A helo roared overhead. What the fuck?

  Gunfire rained down through the leaves. Pain lanced through his right leg, knocking him to the ground.

  "Go, go, go," he shouted. Sometimes if you shout, you can manage not to scream. "Two prisoners. Do it." He waved the rest on.

  Half blind in pain, he pulled an injector of valda oil out of his belt pouch. His fingers trembled and shook as he scrabbled uselessly at the release tab, then swore and bit the package open, slid the injector out and jammed it into his leg, just above the knee.