Hero

by Joel Rosenberg

  CHAPTER 9

  Training

  "Okay, Kelev One One Two Five," Yitzhak Galil, silhouetted in the noonday sun, shouted down from the roof. "Let's see you get up the wall."

  Ari couldn't see him but he knew that the captain was frowning. Officially, of course, he wasn't there at all—in theory, they were the first fireteam to try to get on top of the houses.

  Hot beneath the glare of sun, the narrow street was done up in pastel and plaster, liberally decorated with signs and bullet holes.

  The platoon was halfway down the row of houses that lined the chewed-up street, two fireteams on each side of the street, all except for Ari's watching windows and doors for signs of movement.

  It wasn't really much of a street—it was unpaved, with no suggestion of sewer or tube lines below—and only the six buildings at the foot of it were real: the rest of the street was just false fronts. But the real houses were typical of local manufacture: two-and three-story stucco buildings, some windowed on all four sides, some only on front and back. The one Ari stood next to was a compromise: there was only one window breaking the flat expanse of the wall above. Probably a head—a head needed a ventilation window.

  Ari hefted his grappling hook in his right hand, the loose coils of rope in his left hand as he stood in the lee of the house.

  His first toss went straight up—

  "Incoming," Benyamin shouted.

  —and fell straight down, clattering against the wall as it fell to the dirt.

  Ari picked it up and hefted it again.

  Going in through the top was something that the Sergeant was passionate about—Uncle Tzvi used to embarrass Ari at table by talking about how you take a building like a girl: you start at the top first and work your way down.

  It was easy to get to the top of a building if you were already on top of the building next door: most of the time you could jump, or throw a balance beam or a rope slide across. The trouble was the first building. Even that was no problem if you could count on a helo to drop you on it, or if you had a solid ladder.

  The trouble with a hovering helo, of course, is that it would draw attention, and fire. The trouble with a solid ladder is that you could never find one when you needed one.

  As a last resort in the field, and as a first resort in practice, there was always the grappling hook for the first man, who would secure the rope ladder on top.

  The rest of the platoon, spread out along this side of the street, eyed the windows and doorways with practiced attention.

  This wasn't a live fire exercise, and Galil hated running blank ammunition through the Baraks—he thought it wore the barrels out—so Ari's efforts to throw the grappling hook were accompanied by constant shouts of "Bang, bang" and "ratatatat," interspersed by the occasional laugh.

  Ari's second throw caught on something, but when he started to put his weight on the rope, he could feel the hook tear free and slide.

  "Incoming."

  "Again." Galil's voice was flat and emotionless; Ari could barely tell from the tone that the captain despised him. "This your idea of suppressive fire, people?" Galil shouted. "I can see hundreds of Freiheimers sticking their heads and guns and putzes out the windows, looking at you and shooting at you and pissing all over you. Let's hear some shooting."

  "Bang. Bang. Bang."

  "Bang, bang, bang, bang, click, chick, chick, slide, reload, bang. Bang. Bang."

  "Ratatatatatat, ratatatatatat, ratatatatatat. Five-shot groups okay, Captain, or should I be only ratatat-ing three times?"

  Galil laughed. "Very funny, Skolnick."

  The third throw worked: the grapple caught tightly on something, and even with Benyamin's and Laskov's weight added to Ari's it didn't come loose. Not a great location, but not bad—the rope was just to the right of the third-floor window.

  "Grenade," Benyamin called, and Lavon easily arced a dummy grenade up and in through the window, while Laskov pitched another in through the front door.

  Ari worked his shoulders as he slipped his hands into his climbing gloves.

  "No." Benyamin said. "David."

  "From each according to his ability, eh?" Laskov quickly shrugged out of his packs and tied a coil of light rope to the side of his belt, slinging his assault rifle across his back.

  "Take a strain, now."

  Ari admired the quickness with which Laskov swarmed up the rope: he made the ten-meter climb to the window in well under a minute.

  Just below the window, Laskov freed one hand to toss a dummy grenade into the room, momentarily flattening himself against the wall before following it in.

  One end of the rope dropped out of the window; Ari quickly made it fast to the rope ladder, which Laskov hauled up. In just a few moments, the whole team was inside the room, which did turn out to be a head, the porcelain sink dry and dusty, the bowl half-filled with murky, foul-smelling water.

  "My bladder's going to bust." Laskov jiggled the trip handle, considering. "Think there's a chance the plumbing's hooked up?"

  Benyamin shrugged. "What do you care? Just piss real quiet. If Galil hears you, he'll make us run through the whole thing again."

  "Mm. I'll wait."

  The room had been built for training, not maintained for living: the walls were pocked with bullet holes—the Casas were heavily into live fire exercises, and the door to the hall beyond had been kicked off its hinges once too often.

  Benyamin put his lips against Ari's ear. "Hallway goes about four meters, past a closet, I think, to a room overlooking the next building."

  Ari flattened himself against the wall and pulled a dummy grenade off his belt. He caught the firing pin against the hook on his belt and pulled it out one-handed, then tossed the grenade out into the hall.

  "Three, two, one," Benyamin said. "Bang, the grenade explodes, go."

  Ari came through the doorway, low, and dashed down the hallway, past the closet, and—

  There was a clatter behind him. "Bang, bang, bang, you're dead," sounded from the closet.

  "You're all dead," Yitzhak Galil said, stepping out into the hallway, "because I just threw a grenade into the toilet and blew your assholes up around your necks."

  His right leg was clamped into a walking brace, and beneath the carefully groomed beard his face was pale and sweaty, but his voice was strong, his tone biting.

  The ceiling of the closet had been smashed through and opened to the attic. Galil had entered through the roof, and then silently made his way through the attic and into the closet.

  Benyamin made a fist and banged it against his thigh. "Dammit, Captain, that's a judgment call—"

  "Yeah, and his judgment sucks. So does yours. I've done more house-to-house than you have, and if you don't start listening better, more than you'll ever live through. Believe you me: the opposition will be hiding in every nook, under every desk, in every closet, trunk and suitcase you don't blow away, so you will throw a grenade through each and every window you pass, through each and every door. You let me worry about supply, understood?"

  Benyamin nodded. "Sure. So when we run out of grenades you'll be right there to give us some more?"

  "Count on it. Rappel down and do the next house. I'll get Lipschitz started on this one."

  "That'll make four times today."

  "Right. You count real good. But since we're likely to be clearing out whatever building Shimon chooses for the Tactical Operations Center, I think we may as well do it right. Again, Hanavi, again."

  Benyamin didn't want to go into town after supper, so Ari went with Tetsuo and Shalvi. As the bus hissed to a stop, Shalvi, his trumpet case in hand, was out the door.

  "Been nice traveling with you, Pinhas," Tetsuo said to the empty air. "Where do you want to go, little brother?"

  "Cafe D'Oro. I may have a date."

  Tetsuo was amused. "Hey, it may be the only officers' bar in this part of town, but there's lots more places to drink and, well, whatever," he said. "Or is it just that you like playing officer?"


  Elena D'Ancona sat by herself in a dark corner, hunched over a tall frosted glass. Maybe it was just that when she straightened, it brought her back into the glare of an overhead spot, but her face seemed to light up when she saw Ari.

  Her glossy hair was tied back in a bun, but stray wisps toyed with her cheekbones, framing her face. The set of her full mouth was a bit hard, perhaps, but that went with the mannish cut of her black uniform, tight in the chest, loose in the waist, as though denying that there was a woman's body underneath.

  "Maybe you do have your reasons," Tetsuo said. "Very nice," he muttered, "although packaged like a boy."

  Ari glared at his brother as he slid into a chair beside her. Neither imitation Metzadan officers nor officers in the Distacamento de la Fedeltà fondle each other publicly, but her hand was warm on his thigh beneath the table. He let one of his own hands rest against hers. She stroked it gently.

  Ari tried to keep his voice from cracking—"Elena D'Ancona, I'd like you to meet my brother, Tetsuo."—and succeeded.

  "Delighted," Tetsuo said.

  "Ah," she said with a smile, dismissing Tetsuo's offer of a tabstick with a quick toss of her head. "Another . . . officer in the family?" she asked.

  Tetsuo smiled absently. "Appears so."

  "Perhaps a real one this time?" she murmured.

  "Everything about me is real, lady," Tetsuo said.

  "Please. Sit with us, for a moment."

  As she turned to beckon to the bartender, Tetsuo gave Ari a glare that made it perfectly clear how he felt about unnecessary truthfulness.

  The bartender came over with three short, thick glasses, and set them down, no napkin, on the polished wood.

  Idly, Ari stroked at the water beading the side of his glass.

  "Your good health, Tetsuo," Elena said.

  "Ah. And good evening to you," Tetsuo said, taking it as a dismissal. He dropped a bill on the table, rose, and walked away.

  She smiled. "I hoped he'd leave." She raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

  "Well, what?"

  "Well, what are your plans? Do we have the night, or do you have to be back?"

  He shrugged. "Reveille's and morning formation is at oh-six-hundred."

  "Plenty of time."

  "The long run," she said, reaching across his chest for a tabstick, and puffing it to life. "Tell me about the long run." Her hair, long and glossy and smelling of flowers and sunshine, was smooth against his face as she leaned over him.

  The hotel room was lit by a glowplate next to the bathroom door, and intermittently by the hissing and crackling neon sign outside.

  He took a puff. "Long run. Well, I go out and prove myself, then I go home, eventually—"

  "Soon."

  "—and you get to decide if you want to come with me."

  She laughed. "Ari! We spend two nights together—"

  "One and a half."

  "—and do we now have to decide to get married?" She sat up straighter in bed, sweat-dampened sheets piled about her in some absent attempt at modesty. "Do we?"

  He shrugged. "Maybe. The regiment isn't going to be here forever. We always have some empty spaces going back, and some of those are, sometimes, filled with immigrants."

  Space was on a priority basis, and a shit-listed green private didn't have any priority, but if Ari could prove himself during Triumphant, he wouldn't be a shit-listed green private, not anymore. She brightened, but he put a finger to her lips. "Think about it. There's a lot you don't know about Metzada, a lot you'd have to think through. Just the security problems alone. . . . You'd never be able to leave the rock. Then there's the social problems. . . . You'd have to be a second wife, and that starts to get complicated."

  "Second wife. Oh?" She stabbed her tabstick out in an ugly ceramic ashtray, perhaps too violently.

  "I'm engaged." How would Miriam take his coming home with a war bride? Of course, he could always call off the engagement; multiple wives were not required, after all. Sure. Then he would get to explain to Miriam's brothers why he preferred an offworlder shiksa to their sister. "Does that bother you?"

  As the Sergeant always said, you make your decisions, and then you live with them. He had known Elena for only a little more than a day, and much of that time was blotted out in an alcoholic haze, but there was one simple, basic fact of the universe: he wasn't going to be without her.

  He drew her to him.

  He made it back just in time for morning assembly. While Peled droned on and on about training schedules, Ari was barely able to keep his eyes open.

  "You look tired," Benyamin said, as they walked to breakfast with Laskov and Lavon. "Get enough sleep?"

  Ari nodded. "Yeah."

  "Good boy. Quick, yes-or-no question—can you spend the rest of the nights this week wherever you were last night?"

  "I think—yes."

  "Good. Do it." His big brother left unsaid the obvious, that he wanted Ari invisible and out of the way. "Another thing—Galil took me aside; we're switching from urban assault to OP training. You and Tetsuo hear anything about it?"

  Ari shook his head. "Not me. Tetsuo didn't say anything. What do you think it means?"

  "It means we're going to be running an observation post, and that we'll be told where we're going when we're on the way to it. But you tell your girl even this little and I'll have your balls, understood?"

  "She doesn't ask me about that kind of thing."

  "Good. One other thing," Benyamin said. "About Slepak."

  Ari looked over at his brother. Benyamin's face was flat and impassive; no trace of a smile creasing it.

  "Yes?"

  "He hanged himself in his cell last night."

  CHAPTER 10

  Yitzhak Galil: Pieces in Place

  A hard rain clawed and hammered at the helo's windscreen, but it couldn't touch Yitzhak Galil, not yet.

  The helo shuddered and lurched in flight.

  And then the rain stopped, again. Coming off the ocean far to the southwest, a massive storm had met a cold front moving in from the west. The front had shattered the storm into minor stormlets, spinning them off across the Piano Amiata.

  Yitzhak Galil pulled the cheap plastic lightscreen around his seat, running his fingertips all along the edge of it before he turned the overhead light back on.

  He didn't hear a cry of protest from the helo's pilot, so he pulled out his maps and took off the heavy combination headset/helmet/nightgoggles, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Not good to start an observation post mission tired, not good at all. What passes for rest in an OP isn't.

  Without the headphones clamped on his ears, the din of the helo was deafening. The roar pressed down on him, making his ears ring.

  It was probably worse back in the cabin, although that didn't have anything to do with why Galil was up here. Yitzhak Galil didn't normally insist on the perquisites of rank.

  In garrison, insisting on special treatment was bad practice, an abuse of power. For Metzada, the purpose of rank and the chain of command is to get the job done, not to enforce class distinctions between officer and enlisted.

  In the field, demanding perks was usually a bad idea, often a dangerous one. A company-grade Metzadan commander usually went in first. It was in many ways a safety mechanism—an officer whose troops thought they could live better without him might not come back out.

  Still, this time Yitzhak Galil rode up in the right-hand seat of the helo instead of in back, with the platoon. For one thing, he could prop his bad leg up a bit better, without everybody bumping into it back in the passenger compartment.

  More importantly, he still had to figure out where on the ground to put everybody. He wasn't pleased with himself. Looking at it objectively, as though he were his own rating officer, he decided that he should have done that already. Hell, he had done it already, but he wasn't satisfied with the locations of some of the OPs.

  Reaching into his khakis, he unzipped his exposure suit all the way to his crotch
and scratched at the itch over his belly.

  Enough dawdling, he decided. Back to work. He zipped himself back up and spread the maps across his lap.

  Damn it—being an officer, being in charge, was supposed to get easier. He was supposed to, eventually, be able to look at a map and figure out where to put his people.

  His stomach wobbled with every lurch of the helo.

  Nap of the earth flying or no, there was a fair chance that a Freiheim skywatch was somewhere along their twisting route, and that any second thousands of silcohalcoid wires would be cutting through the hull while the skywatch's computer took an extra couple of milliseconds to lock its 20mm main gun onto the bird.

  His stomach threatened to rebel. Dammit, you were supposed to get used to this after awhile.

  Just didn't work that way. He bent back to his maps.

  It had sounded so simple at the staff meeting.

  "Mopping up," shit.

  Not that he objected to house-to-house fighting, particularly when you had an enemy that had been cut off. It was the only assault situation where technique reigned supreme, and where Galil knew that if everybody did their part by the numbers, one step after another, he could keep casualties low. You cleared a town street by street, entering houses from the top, working your way down, driving those who didn't surrender out into the street to be cut apart by your waiting autoguns.

  He was good at house-to-house. He knew that his platoon was good at house-to-house.

  So, of course, he wasn't fucking getting it. Shimon had given him recon.

  And babysitting.

  Shit.

  "I've got an easy one for you. Foreplay, while the rest of us get fucked." The old bastard hadn't had the grace to blush. "Sit down," he had said. "I know your leg's hurting."

  It was; he sat.

  Shimon had been given a small, windowless office, probably intended for two staff officers to share. The brick walls were covered by an awful yellow paint that looked almost wet in the light of the overhead glowplates, and there was barely enough room for three chairs in front of the desk.