Hero

by Joel Rosenberg

  Working with Marko Giacobazzi, the lanky Casa FO, Galil put up the vision screen, a strip of black cloth one meter high and four wide. In dim light, the human brain sees movement much better than colors or shapes; as long as they kept quiet, they could move behind it without being spotted from the town, at least for a while.

  Galil consulted his thumbnail watch. They should be able to work behind it for an hour, at most. Not nearly enough time to dig themselves in; they'd have to camouflage themselves as best they could, and then dig in the next night.

  In a few minutes, they had the cover tarp pitched, then covered with quickly chopped leaves. That would do for the day, he hoped.

  He gestured at the others to get themselves and their gear under the tarp, then moved away to get some perspective. Not bad—he could just barely make it out in the dim light, and probably couldn't have spotted it from more than ten meters away.

  That would do, for the time being. They were close enough to the edge of the woods, where the trees gave way to the deeply furrowed ground of a field ready for planting, that the Freiheimers would likely patrol near them—but, with luck, they'd get through the day.

  In any case, there was nothing to be done about it.

  He slipped back to the tent and slipped underneath, into the mass of bodies and Bergens. There was barely room for the six of them to curl up in the rear of the tarp; they had to leave an observation bay in the front.

  Galil cut it too close; it was already getting gray outside, enough light that he didn't have any trouble locating his own Bergen. He pulled out two black boxes, one containing the squash radio, the other the demo charges. The green flash that answered his quick push of the radio's test button told him that the circuitry thought it still could work.

  He unrolled the wires to the pincer-like dead-man switch, then stuck the prongs carefully into the front of his pants before arming it. Galil couldn't guarantee that his OP would not be found. But he could guarantee that they wouldn't be taken.

  Ari Hanavi swallowed; Benyamin Hanavi smiled. "Captain, do me a favor and don't forget to disarm it before you unzip yourself for a quick piss, eh?"

  "Shut up," Galil said. "OP rules—silence. Lavon, first watch. Chamber empty. Wake Benyamin, then Ari, then me."

  "And me?" Giacobazzi snorted.

  "Nothing. You just do what the rest of us are going to do in our offshift: lie still for the next sixteen hours and don't make a sound."

  Clumsily, painfully, awkwardly, he stretched out on his belly atop his sleeping bag, the dead-man switch pressing against the pit of his stomach in a cold reminder.

  CHAPTER 11

  Banked Coals

  1315.

  Shit. Only two minutes since the last time he looked.

  The day was dragging on, Ari was sweating, and time itself was slowing down.

  It was still 1315.

  Ari had thought it was bullshit when the Sergeant used to talk about how he preferred any other kind of work—even urban assault—to covert OP duty. Ari was beginning to understand it. Not agree with it, mind, but understand it.

  Unmoving, they lay under the camo cover like rounds in a clip, waiting. Or maybe more like rolls in an oven.

  Ari always hated being crammed in. His universe had shrunk to the few centimeters from the kipmat under his sleeping bag to the underside of the tarp, maybe twenty centimeters over his face.

  The day was heating up outside, and so was the space under the tarp. He lay in his sleeping bag, which was always unzipped, just in case he had to get out of it quickly. Metzada didn't expect you to be able to survive anything and everything, but the rule was that you were to die trying, their throats in your teeth, and not bagged and ready for delivery to a prisoner camp or a grave.

  Once every fifteen minutes he was permitted to shift position slightly, to let the rocks under his bag and mat press up against a different part of his aching body. There was one sharp rock that kept poking him in the right kidney when he lay on his back, and when he tried to pretzel his body to avoid that, the blunt rock to the right of it pressed hard against his spine, even through the kipmat and bag.

  Once every four hours, at the change of watch, he could take his turn to work his way across the prone bodies to the rear of the OP, slide out of his khakis and exsuit, and stretch out to use the bedpan-shaped toilet, then carefully dump the mess into a plastic bag, tie the bag shut, and spray a neutralizing chemical over the slickened toilet to keep the smell at a minimum. Chemicals or no, the smell never quite went away.

  Living in the OP was living in a fart.

  On his left, Benyamin was asleep, snoring lightly. He'd come off watch a few hours before, and had immediately fallen asleep and stayed that way with a resolution that Ari could only envy.

  Ari had barely been able to sleep at all. A pill from his belt kit would have put him out; on his last turn to sleep, he had asked Galil for permission to take the morphine, and had been told no.

  Ridiculous. A shot of naloxone could bring him out of a morphine nap as quickly as a shaking would waken him from normal sleep.

  He didn't really understand why Galil had said no. It wasn't as if they were expected to defend themselves. If they were surprised, Galil would just blow them all up.

  Ari shuddered. He hadn't really thought about that before. He tried to think about something else, anything else. But he couldn't. No wonder the Sergeant said that OP duty combined "all the thrills you get from spending hours locked in a skipshuttle with all the warm feeling of safety you get in combat."

  It was hot under the tarp, and getting hotter. Ari glanced down at his thumb.

  1317.

  He loosened the waist vents of his exsuit. He couldn't get comfortable no matter what he did: when he kept himself sealed up tight, he got too hot, and began to sweat. When he opened his vents, the ground stole the heat from his body too quickly and he started to freeze. Damned kipmat wasn't any good.

  When he tried to find some way to get comfortable by opening and closing the vents every few minutes, Galil, on watch, reached out and slapped him on the ankle, shaking his head in a definite order.

  It would be Ari's watch next. Then he could at least have something to do while he was miserable.

  1325. Thirty-five minutes to the start of his watch. They staggered it so that there were always two men on duty at a time. In another . . . thirty-four minutes now, Marko Giacobazzi would come off shift and crawl back, Galil would take over the squash radio and Ari would get the observer's slot. At 1500, Benyamin would come on and Ari would get to play with the squash radio, compressing their observations for later retrieval.

  Best to think of something else. He tried to concentrate on Elena D'Ancona, recalling the firm but silken feel of the skin over her hip, the awkward but strangely erotic way her belly creased when she bent forward, very soft and real, not at all like a frozen holo in a pornographic picture book, her long hair streaming down over his face, or brushing against his chest and belly.

  Great. A hard-on in an OP. He rolled over onto his stomach.

  What would the Sergeant do in a situation like this? He tried to remember. That was the big advantage that Metzada had, of course: with a constantly employed military, you were being taught by people who had done it—not just studied it—and had probably done it recently, and at least well enough to live through it.

  "Lesson time," Uncle Tzvi had said—and Ari could almost hear his voice grate, like oiled gravel. "There I was, and I couldn't do anything. Shit, I didn't have anything to do. So I did a mental review of some skill I wasn't going to need on this one. When you don't know what to do next, or now, think about something you can do some other time."

  Tzvi Hanavi had been on Endu, putting down the Kabayle revolts. They were chasing some now-itinerant tribesmen all over the central highlands, and had gotten stretched past their supply line, then pinned down when the natives attacked. The central highlands were rocky, and there were no real roads at all. Overland travel was by foot
or sure-footed mule.

  So Uncle Tzvi had spent the week doing a mental review of vehicle checkpoints, something totally irrelevant there—the locals' idea of a luxury vehicle was a cart with some other asshole pulling it.

  Uncle Tzvi had chuckled as he told the story. "Even did me some good," he had said, "although not on Endu. Next time out, I swear: the captain asked for a squad to run a nice, safe VCP instead of squatting in the mud with the rest of us, and since I'd worked out how damn boring they are, I gave it a pass, and ended up not getting blown up with your cousin Avram and the rest of his fireteam. So, the trick is to think about something that doesn't apply. Got it?"

  Okay, Ari decided. He would try a review of the aims of vehicle checkpoints in a counterinsurgency situation.

  Well, the book said that VCPs could prevent insurgent movement in general, and reinforcement in particular; it could interfere with insurgent logistics, preventing them from moving supplies and arms around; it could provide subjects for interrogation; it could—if done right—impress the local inhabitants that the controlling forces were in control. . .

  Blah, blah, blah. Didn't help.

  Okay. Try visualizing a hasty search—no, a thorough search, just this side of a workshop search.

  The Renault 220 was a common alcohol burner—burned petrochemicals, too, if available.

  Forget setting up. Privates didn't have to decide on the setup, although Ari knew you were supposed to set up a VCP just around a bend, with a light machine gun group in concealment on the other side, just in case the insurgents tried to escape when they saw the checkpoint.

  But never mind that—visualize a Renault 220, a blocky automobile, obeying the traffic sentry's instructions to slow down and stop.

  Ari would approach from one side while his partner approached from the other. Combat conditions—rifles charged, safeties off and fingers the hell off triggers. Keep the rifles pointed to one side, but just barely so.

  Check the registration first. If you're computerized, there may be a flag.

  Then check the driver, make sure he's not wearing anything that passes for body armor, while checking him for weapons. Yes, he's entitled to have a pocketknife—but it'll be given back to him after the search, if he's allowed to go.

  Then start the search, keeping the driver—no. Then Ari would safe his rifle and hand it to the third member of the fireteam before beginning the search. No weapons within reach of the driver, and always keep the driver covered by a good shot, sighting firmly on the driver's center of gravity.

  Ari would start with the outside of the car, and keep the owner with him.

  Then underneath. If they'd had time to prepare the site properly, the driver would have been forced to stop over an improvised lubrication pit.

  Ari would look up, looking for paint; for too much grease—it could cover the scratches of some recent work, and the work might have been hiding a bomb or parts of a gun—for extra pipes in the exhaust system. . . .

  He came awake suddenly, trying to suck in a breath. He couldn't; something was clamped over his mouth. He brought up his hands.

  "Easy," Benyamin whispered, sharply but quietly. "Your stag now. You fell asleep," he said, just a trace of pride in his voice.

  Oh. He glanced down at his thumbnail. 1403. Right.

  He worked his way over to Benyamin and Lavon, stretching out next to Galil as Marko Giacobazzi spidered his way to the rear of the tarp.

  His mouth tasted of salt and dust.

  Galil wore the squash radio's facemask, his jaw muscles working as he dictated, his stylo checking off items on the sketch pad in front of him.

  He scribbled on the pad and showed it to Ari.

  no binocs, no sight. sun bad angle.

  Galil tabbed the note into oblivion when Ari nodded his understanding. They didn't need light flashing off the binoculars or the sight of the sniper rifle in its case to his left. As long as no Freiheimer patrol stepped on it, the OP was effectively invisible—unless they earned some attention.

  He folded his hands and started to crack his knuckles, but stopped himself before Galil could. No. Granted, there wasn't any patrol within range, but on OP duty you don't make any noise that you don't have to.

  He stretched out in front of the viewing port, feeling his muscles unkink.

  Viewing port, hah. That was far too dignified a name for something that was only a camo net covered by grasses.

  It was dark and dank in the OP; Ari drank in the fresh air and golden sunlight that trickled in through the netting.

  Almost a klick beyond, across the rolling, weed-choked fields, the town stood at the junction of two roads—one running east-west, the other north-south—and a rail line that ran from the northwest to the southeast. The town's operational name was Trainville, but the Casas called it Menadito. The locals grew corn and wheat—had grown corn and wheat, until the Freiheimers had punched through almost to the Pecatrice River, leaving Menadito behind enemy lines, its residents sent scurrying as refugees.

  There had been a stand of tall pine trees to the south of the town, but all that remained were even rows of stumps, and logs lying on the ground. Ari wondered if the Casas had done it themselves, to spite the invading Freiheimers, or if the Freiheimers, not finding any use for a pine forest, had cut them down, spoiling what they couldn't use. A real terran robin—Ari stared at it until he was sure; he'd only seen them in textbooks—flitted in and out of the leaves, probably trying to rebuild a shattered nest.

  Ari tried to feel sorry for the Casas—both of his mothers said you were supposed to—but he couldn't muster any real sympathy. When the Casas were driven out of their homes, at least it was into an atmosphere they could breathe. Fuck 'em.

  Ari had enough problems of his own. It looked like he had gotten away with screwing up during the ambush, unlike Slepak, may the poor bastard rest in peace.

  But forget about all that. This should be easier. If only he could do things with the sureness and self-confidence that Galil had, that Benyamin and Lavon had. Hell, even Lieutenant Giacobazzi seemed to fit in here better than Ari did.

  Ari didn't have the style down. Everybody else did. Hell, somebody had made up a range card, just as if they were in an autogun emplacement, and oriented a standard hex overlay over the card's distance and angle coordinates. It was all probably Galil's work—the town was sketched in with almost feminine accuracy and care, down to the trio of dug-in sky watches that guarded the skies overhead.

  The buildings were mainly two-story, of weather-darkened stucco, although a four-story red brick building dominated the middle of what probably was the town square. At the west edge of town stood a tall, white spire topped by an elongated pyramid. Ari thought he saw a flash of light from an opening in the pyramid, but he wasn't sure.

  Ari made a note, flash of light in pyramid at r 030 deg. dx 1200 meters? binocs?

  Galil nodded, and crossed out pyramid, substituting church steeple.

  already noted. Galil added. overt op. what fire priority you give it?

  Ari shrugged. medium, cant move, before assault tho.

  higher, Galil wrote. don't assume not dummy, tho. look for others.

  Ari watched for a long time, but he didn't see anything of importance. They weren't here to see nothing of importance, though. Better look closer.

  Okay. Arbitrarily but reasonably, split the field of view into foreground, middle distance and background. First get rid of the periphery on both sides, then concentrate on the core of the matter.

  Foreground was nothing. From where the forest left off and the fields began, there wasn't anything except plowed ground for two hundred meters at least, broken only by a running wire fence. Mines could be hidden in the ground, of course—mines could be hidden anywhere—but the main purpose of mining was psychological, which was why most minefields were marked. If an assaulting force didn't know it was going over mined ground, it just might charge across it and make it.

  Besides, the Freiheimers wouldn't be e
xpecting an assault from the south, and with good reason—infantry needs armor to defend it, just as armor needs infantry, and armor needs open country or roads to move along and fight on.

  Hmm . . . the fence could be barbed wire, and it might be booby-trapped, but it wouldn't matter if it was; there wasn't going to be an overland assault through—

  There was something at one of the low buildings at the edge of town, off toward the south, something in the window. He stared at the window until spots danced in his eyes, but it was gone. poss. movement in window at -45 dx 850.

  He kept looking, though. Nothing.

  Ari glanced down at his thumb. 1414. This was getting to be as boring as being off stag.

  Back to first principles. The duty of a forward observer is to observe and report. Ari checked the range card. The wire fence was marked, and noted as being barbed. Enough to stop a cow, but nothing that would make troops hesitate.

  In the far distance, Ari couldn't see anything but the brown hills. Hmmm . . . not true. There was a twin contrail near the horizon, stretching out to the east. He noted the time and direction, wondering whose it was.

  The middle ground was where the action should be. The Freiheimers were dug in for defense. Ari could spot two, no, three anti-tank emplacements, and he was suspicious about the hole in the back wall of the garage at the edge of town. This area hadn't been fought over recently, but there was both a man-high hole in the brick and a pile of rubble near it. It could be just an honest bit of construction, or it could be a hole cut in the wall so that the backblast of a recoilless rifle or an anti-tank rocket wouldn't fry the users.

  There were maybe three dozen people moving in the street, most of them in the too-dark green field uniforms of the Freiheimarmee, bulky with their draped body armor.

  For a moment, Ari could make out one of their oversized six-man fireteams crossing the street, the autogunner trying to hold his weapon chest-high, like a rifle, making himself look like just another rifleman. Freiheimer discipline was good, but that could also mean that the defenders feared they were under observation.