Hero

by Joel Rosenberg

  "Do it."

  The idiot started to poke the rifle through the grasses covering the observation port.

  "No," Galil whispered. "Move back a bit."

  Ari Hanavi complied, then started fiddling with the rifle.

  "Get on with it, get on with it."

  "Shut up, Captain," Ari Hanavi said.

  Benyamin Hanavi grumbled something behind him.

  "Everybody, wake up," Galil said, unnecessarily. "It's on. Marko, it's yours as of 0900." He took a stim from his belt pouch, slipping it and some grit under his tongue. Galil had held off on the drugs until now; he'd had to. Taken over too long a time, they could screw up your judgment.

  It didn't matter which. They all lied to you: morphine told you the world was all cozy and warm and safe. Amphetamines and cocaine only told you that you could do anything. Right now that was a harmless lie. His head cleared and the pain in his swollen hand became a distant ache.

  There was no need to be stalling. It was a tough shot, but it wasn't going to get easier. The wind was blowing almost right in their faces and it kept the leaves and grasses in near constant motion. "Wind at 12:30," Galil said. "Light—maybe four klicks per hour."

  Fire, asshole. Fire the fucking rifle.

  No—it made sense. Maybe the asshole wasn't such an asshole after all; he was aiming a bit to the left, to the crossroads where the chewed-up ground showed that the tanks tended to leave the tarmac for the fields. They'd have to pause for a moment, and unless they buttoned up before they did, it might give Hanavi a decent headshot.

  The tanks slowed.

  If this worked, it would be a good idea to give the Freiheimers something else to think of. In addition to bossing the regimental mortars, Asher Greenberg was theoretically liasing for division artillery. Only liasing, not commanding—but if Galil knew the squat little man as well as he thought he did, Greenberg would have already built some shortcuts into the relationship.

  Galil punched for the RHQ freak and thumbed the squash radio to live. "Kelev One Twenty for Deir Yasin Twenty," he said.

  Greenberg must have been guarding the freak himself. "Deir Yasin Twenty," he said.

  "Fire mission, target moving tanks." Galil said, looking down at the map, confirming the numbers he already knew.

  "I have you on map Zayin Twelve Eleven."

  "Confirmed. Crossroads at eight-six, seven-five."

  "Crossroads at eight-six, seven-five."

  "Confirmed. ASAP, fire."

  "Battery one, fire. On the way." Even radio protocol couldn't hide the sense of self-satisfaction in Asher Greenberg's voice that he not only could get the Casa arty commander to fire off six rounds of anti-tank without passing it along as a request, but that he could do so immediately. "Spot for me, Kelev."

  Galil already had the binocs up against his face as Ari Hanavi pulled the trigger, the crisp snap of the rifle loud in his ears, the expelled shell clicking against Galil's helmet as it bounced away. Galil waited for the company commander to slump down in the hatch, but nothing happened. He didn't even duck down at the sound of a bullet hissing by, or the high ringing of it ricocheting off the tank's armor.

  Hanavi fired again, and again nothing happened.

  "Hit the bastard, asshole."

  "You said two shots—"

  "One more, and this time make it count."

  Galil turned to look at Ari Hanavi. His rifle was fitted to his shoulder with perfect form, his grip and cheek weld were classic.

  But Ari Hanavi was shooting with his eyes closed.

  "Relieved, asshole." Yitzhak Galil reached out his good hand for the rifle, but it was no use. Damn, damn, damn Yitzhak, son of Moshe, for not having forced the issue with Shimon.

  It was too late, anyway; the tanks were hightailing across the fields, buttoning up at the scream of the incoming rounds.

  Something had come over the radio, but Galil hadn't heard it.

  "Anybody catch that?" Galil said.

  Benyamin Hanavi was grinning, but it didn't mean anything. The ugly man always grinned. "Message begins: 'Shimon to Yitzhak. End of foreplay. Time to fuck them. Careful linking up.' Message ends." He was reassembling his own oily Barak as he spoke, his hands moving swiftly but surely.

  Shells screamed downward toward the town, terminating in a flash of smoke and flame. The Casas had overshot the tanks, but that didn't matter. There were men to kill in the town, too. And everyone that the artillery killed now was one more that Bar-El's regiment wouldn't have to kill in clearing the town.

  Beyond a low rise, a triple fork of fire lanced into the blue sky, leaving a cloud of smoke behind.

  "In case you missed it, Hanavi," Galil said. "That was three Freiheimer tanks firing off rounds toward the line of departure, toward where our brothers and cousins are. You—"

  He stopped himself. There was work to do and no time for recriminations, not now. Galil punched for the local freak on the squash radio. "FO's, over to you. Sharpshooters, exit the OP; continue mission as snipers. One man to remain in OP as guard. Acknowledge, no voice," he said, then squeezed the transmit button.

  One by one, three green lights flickered on.

  Marko Giacobazzi had poked the antenna of his own radio up through the tarp and was stretched out next to Galil, muttering something into his microphone. He raised his head.

  "Spot fired," Giacobazzi said. His dirty face was smiling.

  "Good," Galil kicked Hanavi. "Get out of Lieutenant Giacobazzi's way—he's got work to do." He turned to the Casa. "Over to—"

  Ari Hanavi's face was white. "I tried, I—"

  "Shut up." Galil helped Giacobazzi forward. The Casa had his own clipboard ready, and was checking off targets with a grease pencil.

  "The church first, you think?" he asked.

  "Your call, sir," Galil said. It wasn't Galil's observation post, not anymore. All the data he had gathered had been sucked out of the squash radio and was being digested at RHQ for presentation to the Casas. Now it was Giacobazzi's turn to spot targets for the artillery, and the Metzadans were just along for the ride.

  Moving around would be dangerous, but there was zero, zip, no chance that the Freiheimers would be out patrolling in the shrapnel rain.

  "Well," Galil said, finally letting himself speak with a full voice, "it looks like we made it, so far. Noise discipline is lifted. With your permission, sir," he said to the Casa.

  "Permission granted, sir." Giacobazzi produced a canteen and took a swig, then passed it to Galil before turning back to his binoculars, charts and radio.

  Galil took a swallow. It was a strong red wine, tannic enough to clear the slime from his teeth. He passed the canteen back to Benyamin Hanavi. Yitzhak Galil was tempted to explain to Ari Hanavi how much trouble he was in, but if Ari Hanavi had known how much trouble he was in, he would have stuck the barrel of the sniper rifle in his mouth and saved everybody the trouble.

  Benyamin Hanavi drank, but he had stopped smiling.

  Galil was in no hurry to try linking up; it was close to dusk before his reassembled platoon staggered into the town.

  Trainville made him feel the way a freshly liberated town always did: why bother?

  Thick smoke hung in the air. The burning wood wasn't bad, but occasionally he would get a reek of charred flesh. The streets were scattered with rubble and bodies, mainly Freiheimers, leavened with some Casas. No Metzadans, but that didn't mean anything. The regiment wouldn't leave its dead on the same ground as the Frei.

  What walls hadn't been smashed were decorated with bullet holes. The smoldering hulks of two tanks stood squared off in the main street, the Casa tank turretless, the charred mass in the open hatch of the Freiheimer tank only recognizable because Galil had seen bodies burned that badly before.

  The Casa armor had already stomped through the center of Trainville and continued onward, leaving the major defenses smashed, but the town was by no means secured: off in the distance, Baraks stuttered, punctuated by the occasional higher-pitched cra
ck of Freiheimer rifles on single-shot.

  "I get the impression," Skolnick said, "that the Freiheimers aren't going to make this easy on us."

  Lavon chuckled. "Gee, that's unusual."

  Shimon Bar-El had set up his tactical operations center in an abandoned slaughterhouse and had established his command group two blocks away, in the train station on the edge of town. Outside, a battered tank stood guard, mounted on a pair of field jacks while a Casa team changed a broken set of treads. The tank was wounded, yes, but it was not dead—the engine still chugged and spat, and the turret swung quickly in their general direction as they approached, stopping well before it lined up on them as they were recognized.

  The train station was a good place for a command group, Galil decided. The stone building was whole enough and the walls thick enough to offer some concealment and cover.

  Then again, nobody was asking his goddamn opinion.

  "Take ten, people," he said. "I'll see where we're billeted."

  The rest of the men slumped to the ground, but Benyamin Hanavi didn't. "I'll help you, Captain."

  Skolnick started to say something, but Galil waved him to silence.

  As they walked up the steps, past the guards and into the building, Galil scratched uncomfortably at an itch under his armpit. He didn't like being with the command group. His usual place was in the tactical operations center, keeping things running. The TOC was the usual babble of talk and rattling typers; here, only a half dozen clerks sorted through flimsies coming off the printers, prioritizing them for the general's attention; only three communicators spoke into their masks while their fingers flew across typers.

  Somebody had nailed a map of Trainville up on the far wall. While Dov Ginsberg watched the room unceasingly, Shimon was going over the map with Natan Horowitz, Tetsuo Hanavi and Chiabrera.

  That was about right, Galil decided. The commander ought to have the liaison officer and the ops officer near him, and maybe the S3's assistant, but it made sense to keep the deputy commander and the chief of staff in the TOC.

  Galil would have added the intelligence officer to the command group, but again, nobody was asking him. Nobody was asking him much of anything on this one.

  "My guess," Shimon was saying, "is that the Frei are going to counterstrike, somewhere around here. Figure, oh, forty-eight to seventy-two hours."

  "Which makes securing this town even more important, eh?" Horowitz was clean and rested and bright-eyed. Hell, he was even freshly shaved, his smooth chin marked by two red nicks.

  "Exactly," Bar-El said. He took a good look at Galil, then turned back to Horowitz.

  Horowitz nodded. "I should be able to handle things for a minute."

  Shimon Bar-El jerked his head toward a doorway, gesturing at Tetsuo to come along. "Then handle things, Natan," Bar-El said, leading Galil and the rest through the doorway into what had been the kitchen of the station.

  It wouldn't be good as a kitchen, not soon; strikers had blown two mouseholes in the walls, and followed it with grenades that had shattered every plate and glass in the place, as well as puncturing bags and jars of staples, scattering flour and rice and beans on the floor. The bodies had been carried out, but their smell remained.

  Dov Ginsberg followed without asking, standing next to rather than leaning on a wall, his shotgun clutched in his good hand.

  "How's your hand, Yitzhak?" Shimon asked.

  Galil held it up. Where it wasn't dirty, it was red; the hand had swollen to half again its normal size, and was missing the three outer fingernails.

  "You'd better see the medician."

  "Never mind that—I want Ari Hanavi out, Shimon," Galil said. "Don't give a shit how good he looks on paper—he froze on me twice. Two out of two. He's gone, General, and I don't care who he's related to."

  "You don't think he'll snap out of it?"

  Galil scowled. "I—"

  "Shh." Shimon touched an index finger to his earphone with one hand while he pulled his microphone down in front of his lips. "No, Hebron Twenty," he said, his eyes vague and unfocused. "You are not, repeat not, to engage in clearing operations, not until 08:00 at the earliest.

  "Slow it down, Ebi, slow it down. Get at least two companies bedded down—dammit, I've already got Sidney covering just that possibility. I want your battalion rested in the morning; smashing down and in through the roofs isn't something for sleepy soldiers. Sidney is going to give them harassing and intermittent fire through the night. You get to take them in the morning, when they're tired out.

  "You can do a company-sized reconnaissance in force to the granary, but don't pull a stone soup on me. If you meet any serious resistance, fall back. Yes, you can have five minutes to make your case—but in five minutes. I've got to finish something here." He lifted his gaze. "I'm sorry, Yitzhak, but it turns out I don't have a lot of time for this. I've got a town to secure, and then I've got to duck out for a meeting in the morning. You were saying?"

  "I'm not risking anything on Ari Hanavi again. Ever. Non-negotiable, Shimon."

  "Everything's negotiable, Captain," Tetsuo Hanavi said, his voice studiously level as he squared off in front of Galil.

  "Shut up, Tetsuo," Benyamin Hanavi said, setting a hand against his brother's chest, pushing him back. "But please, Uncle, don't write Ari off."

  "There's another option." Shimon Bar-El's thin lips quirked into a smile. "I've got a friend, a brigade commander, who's been having a spot of trouble on the northern flank. Way I read the situation, he needs either one," Shimon held up a finger, "a hell of a good company commander, or, two," another finger, "a sacrificial lamb wearing captain's bars."

  Galil kept the disgust off his face. You don't solve a problem by sending the messenger out to get shot up. That's been out of fashion since King David.

  "I don't know if you've noticed, Shimon, but I'm worn to all hell," Galil said. "What I don't need is a foreign command; what I do need is a hot shower and about three days in a bed that isn't made of stones, shit and dirt. And I swear we'd better settle the Ari matter before you reassign me."

  Bar-El allowed himself a brief chuckle. "You're missing the point. Effective five minutes from now, I want you back in charge of RHQ company and straightening out the mess at the TOC. Yeah, you're a good company commander, but I don't have any spare good company commanders—so we give him a sacrificial lamb: Ari."

  "You're getting tricky again—" Galil started to say.

  "I want the family to have a hero," Tetsuo said. "Live or dead."

  "Who's going to make sure he doesn't fuck up?"

  "I will," Tetsuo Hanavi said quietly. "Family matter, Yitzhak."

  Galil believed him, but he couldn't help adding, "No deal. I don't trust you not to cover for him. I want somebody else in on it, somebody I trust."

  Natan Horowitz walked in. "He's right, Shimon. You need somebody trustworthy."

  "How long have you been listening?" Shimon Bar-El asked.

  Horowitz shrugged. "Long enough to know that Yitzhak's right. You need to send somebody with Ari, to make sure he doesn't fuck up—not successfully fuck up, if you catch my meaning."

  Galil decided that he was too damn tired; he hadn't even heard Horowitz walk in.

  "You?" Bar-El raised an eyebrow.

  Horowitz shook his head. "I've got to figure out how we clear this town for you, and in case you didn't notice, cleaning out a town is tricky. Speaking of which, you're needed—Sidney's on the line again."

  "Three minutes?"

  "Don't make it four." Horowitz turned and walked away.

  "Me, I'll make sure Ari doesn't fuck up," Benyamin Hanavi said quietly. "I talked you into giving him a second chance."

  Shimon Bar-El snorted. "It doesn't matter what you talked me into. It's my regiment, Benyamin, and my responsibility."

  "Not you, Sergeant." Galil shook his head. "You're too soft on him."

  Bar-El nodded. "I'm not about to send out two Hanavi brothers to watch over a third. And if not you, Beny
amin, then who?" He glanced down at his thumbnail watch. "You've got thirty seconds, and then I have to get back to work."

  "Let it be Dov," Benyamin said, his face grim as though he'd just passed a death sentence.

  Dov's broad face was impassive. He might almost have not been there.

  Shimon Bar-El raised an eyebrow. "Done. Now, the two of you, get the hell out of here; I've got work to do. Tetsuo, you explain the swindle to Ari."

  "You want to reconsider that, Uncle?" Tetsuo asked. "You're going to be part of it anyway—this is Giacometti, remember? He's not going to do any favors for me or anybody else."

  "Right." Bar-El frowned. "There's no shooting going on around Jocko's CP—so that asshole Zuchelli will be sticking his nose in it. Okay, give me an hour to get this regiment set up for the night, then bring the poor bastard in and I'll give him the bad news. We'll deliver him to Jocko in the morning. That is all, gentlemen."

  Shimon Bar-El walked out of the kitchen, Dov falling into place behind him.

  PART THREE

  ASSAULT

  CHAPTER 13

  Promotion

  It was the only time that Ari had ever been alone with his Uncle Shimon.

  "It's very simple," Shimon Bar-El said. "I need to swap favors with an old friend of mine, and you're it." He idly sketched a map in the dust on what probably had been a baker's table. "Main assault is along here, but the Casas are expecting a . . . Freiheimer counter-stroke anywhere along here. Doesn't much matter where. If they can have the lines fluid and choppy when the truce starts, they can dicker with the TW busies and win by negotiation what they can't by force.

  "Minor sore spot is here. The town, call it Anchorville, sits just on our side of the military crest of this ridgeline, which means that it'll be a nice place to put some arty—if we can own it. What with other commitments, though, there just aren't enough free forces in that sector to stomp in and take it, which is why an old friend of mine has been reduced to sending the same company up against it, again and again."