No Other Gods

by John Koetsier

  There was no pursuit.

  Late that night, tired as I had never been tired before, I staggered through the narrow entrance to our new camp, breaking a few branches on my way in. I had kept to the valley floor most of the way, using the path beaten by the reds on their trip north a couple days ago as a guide, then broken off just opposite our second shelter. Now I was tired and hungry. I’d be happy just to never walk the length of this valley ever again.

  Chewing roast venison by an almost smokeless dry wood fire deep in the hollow of one of the cliff faces, I looked around at my eight remaining companions. They had heard the news of Drago’s death with disappointment. One less warrior to complete our mission, after all. But we looked forward to ribbing him about his carelessness in a few days, at most.

  “Is everything ready? All the preparations are made?”

  “It’s all done,” said Livia. “Everything is prepared. Let them come!”

  Then there was only one piece left in the puzzle … but it would have to wait until tomorrow. Barely finishing the morsel in my mouth, I staggered to the wall and found a pad of moss and reeds. I was sleeping before I had time to roll and find the most comfortable spot.

  The sun was already hot when my eyes opened in the morning. I still had that brief moment of disorientation while my brain got up to speed, wondering where the pod was. Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I sat up and warmed myself where a sunbeam or two trickled through the trees on the rim of the canyon.

  The plan was good, but it had one potential flaw. I needed an insurance policy that would guarantee success, and since the first casualty of battle is usually the plan, we needed to be prepared for multiple possibilities: those that led to success, and those that led to failure. So in a quick morning meeting we made a few alterations to the plan. Nothing guaranteed success, I reminded myself. We just play the odds.

  “I expect them about mid-day, people. Let’s get our runner out there.”

  In spite of possibly the worst sentry in the history of armies, the reds had definitely, finally seen me yesterday — their first confirmed enemy contact. And they would naturally have found the bodies of their two soldiers who ambushed us. In addition, they had seen the direction I left. They would be both happy, excited, and eager. Finally, they had contact. Finally, they could anticipate the start of battle. Some of the strangeness, the craziness of this particular mission compared to all our others would have cleared up. The length, the hunger, the Sleeplessness, and the uncertainty would now seem only temporary. And the enemy in their minds was now not some imagined, mysterious, and dangerous other; it was the blues. Us. Known, simple, obvious, and familiar. And now they knew roughly where we were. They would have started the long march down the valley early this morning, and they would be arriving in our vicinity soon.

  Our job was simply to get them in the right place, and not give them any time for second thoughts. To keep their minds happy, content, and settled. To keep them believing that they were now in control.

  One of our scouts would go down to the valley floor. Kin would be our “hunter,” and carried the skin of the deer we had killed a day or so ago, stuffed with straw and slung over his back.

  “Make sure that you are completely and totally hidden when you cross the valley from north to south. You cannot allow anyone to see you. When you cross south to north, be a little clumsier. Not a lot, just a little. We need them to see you, but they should have to work for it. If it’s too easy, they won’t trust it.”

  Another scout, Tonia, would remain high on the slope, visible southward so Kin could see him, but hidden from the east so she would remain invisible to any approaching reds. As soon as she saw the main body of the approaching reds, she would signal Kin that it was time to start making his return passage north. The timing was critical. The rest of us would be near the treed north edge of the valley bottom.

  “Let them come,” I said.

  We found positions in and around a few huge trees and did our best to become invisible, smearing our faces with dirt and covering up with moss and leaves. Then we settled in to wait in the increasingly hot day. Sweat trickled down our faces, but we made no sudden moves, knowing that red scouts as good as ours were likely about.

  I licked my lips. Dry. Was I a little nervous? Not about fighting, of course — that was standard and normal — I had done that all my life. But this was different — we were about to attempt the most difficult military maneuver of my career. And it was still nine against hundreds — not good odds.

  The die had been cast. The roll on the other hand … that was up to the gods.

  Perhaps.

  Jaca was actually in the tree that I was beneath, and had a view up the slope to Tonia on the hill. He signaled that red scouts had been sighted. Following his fingers, I got the message: two on the north side, two on the south. I nodded. Good tactics, I thought — two for support, and two so that one could return to the main body. Rast wasn’t a complete idiot.

  We sunk even deeper, if possible, into the wood and earth and green that surrounded us. Our breathing was slow, shallow, and silent, and our lips stayed down as much as possible to minimize any white flashes of teeth. Soon we could hear them — quiet, but not silent. Moving silently across the land is not possible, but these reds were skilled at minimizing noise and blending into the background layer of wind and birdsong. I held my breath as the nearest scout came close to my position. He passed, then paused, looking at the tree I was concealed by. Coming closer.

  I tensed, ready to spring, mentally rehearsing the move in my mind: feet under, leap up, right hand down, grab knife, left hand up, cover mouth, slice throat. The red walked right up to the tree. I was just about to leap when he lowered his trousers and relieved himself against the trunk. Vile-smelling liquid splashed and pooled, then ran down to the mud near me. I gritted my teeth, silently, and maintained position. Then he zipped up and walked away, and I let out a long breath releasing all the tension, and rolled away from the still-approaching fluid.

  I looked up at Jaca and saw that he had been ready to fall on the scout as well, saw the smile of relief on his face. We were still undiscovered, and the red scouts were now past our positions. Our spotter on the hills could now release the hunter, Kin.

  We watched.

  Our eyes were first glued to the opposite side of the valley floor, searching for a soldier in blue with a deer, then looking up-valley for any signs of the main body of the reds. Would they all come, or would it just be a raiding party, just a third or half of their numbers? Our plan didn’t change either way … but the answer would determine if success today meant finishing the battle, or just starting it.

  Jaca had a better view than most of us, from the tree. He signaled: Tonia had spotted the reds. I asked for a count, and he signed back: three hundreds, more or less. So they had brought their full strength. Good. Finally, Kin started to cross the valley floor. Perhaps the red scouts on his side of the valley had been behind those on this side.

  The next fifteen minutes were agony. So close to action, and yet so necessary to remain patient, still, and silent. Slowly Kin made his way across the grass toward our position, being careful not to be spotted easily. Gradually the reds came closer and closer, their progress announced by regular signals from Tonia, relayed by Jaca above me in the tree. I locked gazes with Jaca and the others I could see, raising my fist and seeing theirs rise in response. We were ready.

  The red army became audible. Three hundred men do not move silently. Jaca could see them himself now, and he could also see our scout with the “deer,” more than halfway across and picking up speed. At any moment now he would be discovered. Now even I could see them from the base of the tree. Don’t let them be as blind as yesterday’s sentry, I prayed. Discovery too late would be as bad as too early.

  Then it happened.

  One of the leading reds yelled and pointed. Kin turned where he was crouched in the taller grasses near the edge of the valley floor, saw the gazes of t
he leading soldiers, and opened up with his automatic rifle. He emptied a magazine into the reds, then abandoning stealth, turned and ran the last few fifteen or twenty meters into the forested edge. Past our positions — well past. He would return, slower, with Tonia. We would need all our guns for the next stage.

  The reds were in an uproar. Maybe ten or so were down; the rest eager for blood. But there was some discipline to them — they did not all immediately charge off in pursuit, perfectly according to military protocol: they had no idea how many of us were here. And perfectly according to my plan: an instant charge by all three hundred would have overwhelmed us swiftly. Instead, Rast detached about fifty reds, sending them our way. The rest of them set up a hasty perimeter — for all they knew, the bulk of our forces were north of them. In any case, I was happy: they’d be occupied, engaged, but only just started when the next stage began … and just in the right aggressive mindset, I thought, to follow.

  A sergeant shouted and the fifty headed in our direction, fast. Now timing was critical again, and discipline. We could not start firing until all of us — including our scout and spotter, were in position. And I did not want to fire until they were right upon us. If we didn’t destroy this entire detachment, some of them in close contact would notice our numbers — or lack thereof — and report it back. That would be fatal: the reds would no longer fear us, knowing they could overwhelm us quickly in any type of pitched battle.

  They stepped closer, still moving quickly, rifles at the ready. Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes, some ancient warrior had said. (How did I know that, I wondered, then shook my head and focused on the present.) Personally, I wanted to hold fire until I smelled their nasty, rancid, slept-on-the-ground-last-night-in-the-dirt breath. The sergeant paused for half a moment, hand raised, at the first tree, almost right upon my position. Then he made a decision and left the valley floor, and triggered Armageddon.

  Well, perhaps not quite. But at least a personal Armageddon for him and his fifty. How true that was, of course, I didn’t know until later.

  Each of us had two long guns and plenty of ammo, and most were using both: one in each hand. Almost as one as soon the first red stepped under the first tree we opened fire on full auto, creating an instant miniature hell on the edge of the beautiful valley.

  An avalanche of noise from sixteen submachine guns on full auto filled the air. Hundreds and then thousands of metallic projectiles immediately filled the space in front of us and around us. Moving at high speed. Impacting with the body of the red force. Impacting with the bodies of the red soldiers.

  They were torn to pieces. In the first few seconds, half went down, their chests ripped apart, femurs smashed, faces torn. A giant scythe cut some virtually in two, their twisted torsos shattering to the ground bearing only a vague relationship with their former limbs. The rest of the detachment were cut down within fifteen seconds, and the avalanche stuttered to a stop.

  War is hell, I suppose. A hell of a lot of fun, too, when you’re winning, and when you think death is just a temporary inconvenience.

  I turned my eyes up to the main force of the reds. Now was a critical time for my plan. Would they turn and run? Hunker down? Both were equally fatal for my plan. They’d been thinking about us for days ... and nights. They’d been blooded by us previously, and marching to meet us all day. And now they’d just watched forty of their number get cut down. Would they attack?

  I didn’t want to leave it to chance. We opened fire at long range, a hundred meters or so. They were in the open and exposed, and if they wanted to run, they’d bleed. Maybe not shatter, but definitely bleed. I was counting on Rast to think. He knew he had at least some kind of numbers advantage. He knew he had no good cover in the flat. He knew that the trees would give him cover, if he could just get there. And he knew where we were. It was too good to pass up, and the reds formed up for an assault.

  “Get ready!” I shouted, and any blues with me who were in trees dropped down. We emptied the magazines in our spare guns toward the reds, then dropped them and ran. Or, most of us ran. I had a little errand to take care of first. Thirty seconds later I joined the others.

  The next half hour was thirty long minutes of sweat and terror. We were forced to pause and pour fire behind us every couple of minutes, then turn and run. Maintaining the illusion that we were a small, defeated, retreating force on the run was paramount. And at least two of those descriptions were accurate.

  We whipped up the slope, coming up the short rise just before the box canyon at a dead run. I saw that the opening was now wider — the brush had been cleared away — and ordered everyone to their positions. Two sprinted to the far end. Two melted into the undergrowth just outside the canyon. The rest scrambled up the canyon wall. Everyone would find fresh ammo pre-positioned at their designated spots. Except me, of course.

  Every stage in this battle had been critical — when the enemy can more afford to lose fifty than you one, there’s not a lot of margin for error. But the coming decision was the most critical. It would determine whether we would win now, or die slowly over the next days and weeks. Again, timing was paramount. The first reds into the canyon had to see our group disappearing at the far end. Had to. They needed to know that the chase was almost over. Then the rest of the reds needed to follow them in. I had a plan for that.

  The hill rising from the valley floor now far beneath us sloped up steeply. Before the canyon it peaked and then descended gently down, while the walls of the canyon, first gently and then swiftly rose higher into the mountain above. The sloping hill and the ground around the canyon lip was treed, but not thickly. The canyon itself was bare of trees – a grassy plain almost mirroring in miniature the valley floor far below, with only a few boulders breaking the skin of the mountain, poking up through the grass.

  What we had discovered on our second visit to this canyon is that the east end had a left hook. A deadly left hook. The trail seemed to continue, and we’d tramped up and down the visible portion to pound a well-worn and presumably often-used path there … but it dead-ended within forty feet.

  Two were now positioned near the far end of the canyon, seventy or so meters from the opening. Without being obvious about it, they were waiting until the reds came. One of us on the canyon rim was scouting — his signal would start them off their short trip.

  We heard the reds coming. A few became visible through the scrubby trees. They were advancing quickly, but not too quickly. We had taught them some caution. I wanted the front elements to bunch up, so that most, if not all of the reds were in the same place at the same time. So, from near the mouth of the canyon in good cover just as the hill’s rise started to peak, I gave them a little fire. I waited a couple of minutes while they hit dirt and more of the main body arrived. Then I quick-crawled up over the rise and down the short, gentle slope into the canyon entrance. Still keeping low, I scurried into position behind a boulder near the middle of the canyon floor, my back to the advancing reds, peering around at the two companions still waiting, poised, at the left hook by the east end. And waited.

  A spotter already in position on the canyon rim kept us informed. Perhaps two hundred reds were now in close formation near the lip of the canyon. They were starting to come, inching over the incline. Any moment now they would pop into sight. It was time.

  On my signal, the blues at the left hook opened fire. Bullets whined off the boulder in front of me as I cursed their verisimilitude. Creating the appearance of firing on me was necessary. Coming within inches of putting holes in my skin — I wasn’t sure that was needed. I was sure they were enjoying firing on me far too much.

  I lifted my submachine gun over the rock and didn’t aim, blowing a wild burst off into the sky, then glanced up at the spotter. He was urgently signaling: all the reds were coming.

  Just as they poured over the rim of the canyon floor I finally broke cover and sprinted deeper, east, toward the left hook and the two blues. They potted a couple of shots in
my direction that peppered the ground at my feet and I hit the dirt. Then they turned and disappeared down the left hook, and the mass of reds started opening fire at them from behind me. I got back to my feet when the reds had nothing more to shoot at, waved at the them with a “come one” gesture, and yelled “Let’s go!”

  Then I took off with all the speed at my disposal, which is considerable. Twenty seconds later I was at the left hook myself. I advanced in at speed, firing into the rock walls and floor, putting on a good show. Once glance behind me told me the reds were streaming into the canyon floor. They had almost reached the rock where I had taken cover from the blue fire. I gestured again, and they continued. Then I tore down the left hook, reached the rope that we had pre-hung, and climbed hand-over-hand up to the canyon rim. Finally, panting, I took cover behind a tree, and, shucking off all my gear, stripped. I put on my old uniform, waiting on the ground for me. Then I squirmed into my battle position — a perfect little shooting spot with cover, spare ammo, and line-of-sight to the blue spotter on the far side of the canyon rim.

  The blood-red jacket and pants I had been wearing — the ones I had stripped from a still-warm corpse in the valley floor just minutes ago — I left on the ground.

  After a quick check of the canyon floor, which seemed to hold at least 150 reds already, I signaled to the spotter, and he motioned to our two blues left outside the canyon mouth. On his signal they opened fire from behind the reds. This was the last tactic: each was about 30 degrees out from their respective sides of the canyon opening. It gave them great enfilading fire on the reds, but more importantly, it gave any lingering, thinking, cautious reds a very good reason to get over the lip, down the short slope, and into the main canyon. Which they very gratifyingly did promptly.

  As the last ones trickled in (I could just make out Rast among them, the fearless leader bringing up the rear) we engaged the last stage of the plan.