Hero

by Joel Rosenberg

  Dov eyed Ari carefully, so he kept his hand well away from the open flap of his holster. Wouldn't want the big man to think he was threatening Shimon.

  Elena beamed.

  Matteotti, sweaty and grim, threw him a quick salute as he jogged up, an assault rifle slung over one shoulder. "B Street cleared, sir." He looked at Shimon and then back to Ari. It was hard to read his expression: his face was still mottled with brown and green camouflage paint. "Permission to speak frankly, sir?"

  "Granted. And don't wait to ask permission next time."

  "That was a fucking mean trick, Captain," he said, his face somber.

  And what am I supposed to say to that? It was a mean trick but—

  "Fuck it—it worked, didn't it? You didn't think you had any more in you. I proved you wrong, First," he said, as Shimon smiled.

  He didn't have any choice. They were, if only for another two days, his men and his responsibility. If there were going to be any repercussions from the men, he was the proper target.

  My responsibility. Not anyone else's.

  Matteotti's paint-darkened face broke into a broad smile. "That you did, sir. That you did."

  As the smoke from the latest grenade cleared, Zuchelli and his five DF troopers walked out of the nearest safe house. Zuchelli gave Elena a quick glare for God-knew-what. The major had a sheaf of blue personnel flimsies in one hand and a grim smile on his face, as he turned to the nearest of his bullyboys. "Sergeant, bring me that drunk Stuarti—"

  "Major," Shimon said quietly. "He's under Metzadan command."

  "General—"

  "Peace, Major," Shimon said, holding up a hand. "Ari, would you be kind enough to send for Lieutenant Stuarti? Please."

  Matteotti's face was ashen under the paint and dirt. Last night, Lieutenant Stuarti had calmly shot through the head a Freiheimer who had at the time been busy sweeping an autogun toward Matteotti.

  "Please," Shimon said.

  Stuarti and his team had worked their way down the dusty street.

  Ari called for Stuarti's group to hold in position, then called out, "Paulo. Now." Ari made a fist and pumped his arm.

  Paulo Stuarti gestured at the squad to keep moving on, then trotted over, his face grim.

  "I understand," Zuchelli said to Ari, "that one of your officers has been drinking on duty. A lieutenant named Stuarti, I believe?"

  Ari looked at Shimon, who spread his hands, almost helplessly. "Rumors spread, Captain."

  Matteotti started to open his mouth; Ari gestured at him to shut up.

  "Major Zuchelli says you've been drinking, Paulo," he said. "I'm about to tell him that that's none of his damn concern, that what an officer in a Metzadan company does isn't any of the Distacamento de la Fedeltà's fucking business."

  Stuarti pulled the flask out of his sling and smiled crookedly. "Figured you might, Captain."

  "Although," Ari said, holding out his hand for the flask, "I don't approve of drinking on duty. And that's to stop. Understood?" Stuarti handed over the bottle. He tucked the flask into his hip pocket as he turned to the DF major. "Can we just forget about all this?"

  "Not near good enough." Zuchelli shrugged. "Although I won't push it now. They'll all be back in the Casalingpaesesercito in three days, Hanavi. Then I'll see him hang."

  "You're being silly, Major," Tetsuo said, but they were just words thrown into the air. "The war's almost over. The truce will—"

  "What of it? We haven't finished things with the Frei. There will be another war and then, perhaps, the officers and men will know that they must do their duty, by the rules. Being unfit for duty in a combat zone? Unacceptable, Captain Hanavi." Zuchelli smiled. "You must trust me on these things, Captain."

  Ari didn't like the way Zuchelli smiled, or how his DF troopers looked as though they were some sort of superior breed, able to execute brave men at their own discretion.

  He didn't even like the way Elena looked at him now, like he was some sort of alien creature. Didn't she understand?

  The phrase from the orders echoed in his mind: ". . . the company is attached to the MMC and is therefore to be considered as though it is a part of the MMC.

  "It is your responsibility to conduct yourself and your company accordingly."

  He couldn't tolerate it. You don't let foreigners discipline your people; you don't let them hang your men. It's bad for morale; it's against the rules.

  There was a technical way out. He could just freeze—he could just ignore it for now, he could just close his eyes for the moment and maybe try to reason with Zuchelli later. But there wouldn't be any way to stop Zuchelli in a few days; then, Company F would be Casalingpaesesercito troops once again, and both technically and practically under DF control.

  Yeah. He could freeze again.

  Protecting your people isn't just a technicality. There's nothing more real. But his pistol was in his holster, and it might as well have been a light-year away.

  He was cornered, again. As he always would be, one way or the other.

  He looked over at his brother. Tetsuo's blue eyes had gone vague; he deliberately didn't meet Ari's gaze. Tetsuo wasn't going to fire off a green flare, not this time.

  Elena's brow was wrinkled. She should have been white-faced, terrified. She didn't get it, either.

  Look, he wanted to say, I can't let him get away with it. It doesn't matter how I feel about Stuarti. It's irrelevant. But I can't let the idiot you work for threaten my family, and for the time being he's family. We take care of our own. We have to.

  It should be so simple. All he would have to do was stop Zuchelli. But he knew that while he could start things, stopping them was something else entirely.

  "Look!" Ari shouted, pointing with his left hand while he reached for his pistol with the other. "A green flare!"

  It barely fooled anyone as the Distacamento de la Fedeltà soldiers went for their weapons. All but one was looking at him, not at where he was pointing.

  But Shimon stepped back while Tetsuo and Dov stepped forward, and Stuarti and Matteotti brought their weapons up.

  Tetsuo reached for one of the DFs while he booted another into Matteotti's line of fire. He only seemed to touch the DF he'd grabbed, but there was a bone-crack in sharp counterpoint to the rrrip of Matteotti's rifle.

  "Dov," Ari shouted, clawing for the pistol that seemed glued in its holster, "leave Elena alone. Don't hurt her."

  Stuarti shot Zuchelli in the chest and then turned to help Dov, but it was too late: the big man's three opponents were already down, broken like discarded dolls.

  Ari had managed to thumb his safety off, work the slide and get a shot off, but he missed, as usual.

  And then there were six bloody DF corpses dirtying the road, and a crowd of dirty, tired soldiers crowding around, panic written across their faces, looking at him . . . wanting something.

  Elena lay crumpled on the ground with the rest of them.

  Ari dropped to the dirt and knelt by her, feeling for a pulse. But her slim neck was bent at an impossible angle; Dov had gotten to her.

  "Dov," Shimon said, "he told you to leave her alone."

  "Maybe he should have told her not to go for her pistol," Dov said, kicking at her hand, toeing the automatic away from her dead fingers.

  "Good point. Good boy."

  Maybe Elena had been reaching for her pistol to help them, or maybe she had been reaching for her pistol to help Zuchelli, or maybe she had just been reaching for her pistol because everybody else was. Why didn't matter now. It would never matter.

  What was the point, Elena? Why?

  Ari wanted to shout at her, to lift her up and slap her awake, to make her tell him why, to make her take it back, but he couldn't. Not even the best commander nor the most convincing phony can breathe life back into the dead.

  It hurt, but there was a cure for the hurt. It would have been so simple, so easy to bring up his pistol, point it at Dov and pull the trigger. Either he would kill the ugly bastard or Dov would
kill him, and it would be all over.

  No, that was silly. He had no chance of moving fast enough to kill Dov.

  "No, you couldn't beat Dov." Shimon Bar-El's eyes could see everything. "I'm not going to make it that easy." Bar-El's eyes never left Ari's as he said, "You are not to harm Ari, Dov. No matter what he does. It's an order."

  "Yes, Uncle Shimon."

  Just at the edge of Ari's vision, Matteotti and Stuarti had squared off opposite Tetsuo.

  "Ari, dammit," Paulo Stuarti said, "you'd better tell me what to do."

  Shimon Bar-El smiled, "So, Ari, what will it be?" he whispered.

  Kill Dov, kill Shimon, kill his brother, kill everybody in the whole damn universe, and it wouldn't breathe life back into Elena's chest. Throw everybody he knew on the pyre of his anger, and her breath would never be warm in his ear again, her mouth would never be wet and alive against his.

  But, damn, killing that simian psychopath of Shimon's would feel good.

  "Ari."

  A real commander would tell his people to stand easy, would cut all their losses now.

  Ari Hanavi let his gun hand drop down to the side. "Stand easy, the two of you. Matt—go make sure we're not interrupted. I need a minute to think."

  "Captain—"

  "Go."

  Reluctantly, his eyes never leaving Dov, Matteotti backed away, then turned, broke into a trot.

  "This isn't a problem for junior officers," Shimon Bar-El said. "I'll handle it."

  "Zuchelli's alive, Uncle Shimon," Dov said. "Want me to fix it?"

  "Well, maybe—"

  "It's Ari's command," Tetsuo said softly, and there was a grim note in his voice that brooked no argument. "This is my brother's command. You will wait for him—I swear, you will wait for him."

  Stuarti grunted. "Count on it."

  Zuchelli was still breathing as Ari knelt beside him. The Casa's chest pumped blood in a slow, idle fountain. His eyes were wide and filled with pain. His mouth worked in a silent plea.

  This wasn't the same thing as charging through a town, shooting at vague shapes in the dark. You didn't have to look at their faces.

  Bar-El towered over Ari and Zuchelli. "Friendly fire, Maggiore Zuchelli. Remember what you told me once? 'These things happen, as well you know,' " he said, his face a grim mask. "Well, Ari?"

  "You leave my people alone," Ari said dully. He tried to bring up the pistol, but all the eyes stared down at him and he couldn't move. The Desert Eagle was a heavy pistol, but it wasn't supposed to be this heavy. He swallowed. "You leave my people alone."

  "It was snipers," Shimon Bar-El said. "I'll fix it, Ari. We'll find some bodies. Giacometti will be here in a while, and he and I will set it all up. You just tell your men to keep their mouths shut; everything will be fine. You don't have to do this."

  "Nobody will say anything, General," Paulo Stuarti said. "Nobody saw anything."

  Ari couldn't move.

  "Ari," Tetsuo said, gently, "it's a hard thing. You can let me do it. Or Dov."

  "Captain Hanavi," Dov said, "I don't mind. Cold blood doesn't bother me."

  No. He wouldn't leave it to Dov. A real commander wouldn't leave it to Dov, not when he could do it so easily himself.

  "I take care of my own," Ari said, lifting the heavy pistol, putting the barrel against Zuchelli's head.

  He wasn't sure whether he was talking to Bar-El, Tetsuo, Dov—or to Zuchelli. Or to Stuarti. Or himself.

  He hoped he was talking to Shimon, Tetsuo and Dov, though. Talking to yourself never does any good; and there wasn't any more point in talking to Zuchelli than there would have been in talking to Elena.

  The pistol kicked hard against his hand.

  PART FOUR

  STAFF

  CHAPTER 19

  Hero

  Ari turned over command to Paulo Stuarti—Captain Paulo Stuarti, thanks to High Colonel Giacometti—a few hours later.

  "A bit of free advice, Paulo, if you don't mind," he said as they walked down the street, past the rows of battered buildings, shattered windows open to the dust and air. The bodies of two Freiheimers lay in a dark puddle on the ground over by a doorway, the larger of the two reaching out toward the smaller, as though trying to protect him even in death.

  "I'll take any advice I can get, Ari." Stuarti's hand reached for his shirt pocket, then clenched itself into a fist and dropped down to his side.

  "Assume they're going to counterattack, and be more ready for them than they were for us."

  Elena was dead, and that death was a sharp coldness inside him, but a real commander didn't wear his emotions on his face, so Ari Hanavi didn't wear his emotions on his face either.

  "Nobody's ready for Company F." Paulo Stuarti grinned. The big blond man was stone cold sober now, and there was something of a strut in his walk.

  Ari chuckled. He wasn't amused, not really, but a real officer would have chuckled.

  Matteotti and Rienzi kept a discrete ten paces behind them while, ahead, a pair of fireteams from Romano's platoon kept watch. The bandage covering the right side of Rienzi's head was brown with caked blood, but he seemed alert. There were probably no Freiheimers left, at least along the eastern edge of Anchorville, but taking chances wasn't the order of the day.

  What Ari Hanavi felt simply didn't matter. Fake it, Tetsuo had said, and it was that simple. A real commander would say something about taking care of the company.

  "They're good men, Paulo. Not too long until the cease-fire—you take care of them, understood?"

  He eyed Stuarti levelly, while the Casa decided whether or not to take offense at that. That didn't matter, either. Not a damn thing mattered.

  "Of course." Stuarti's expression softened. "Understood, Ari."

  "Good."

  He looked down the street, at the rubble and the bodies, the shattered homes and lives. "You know," Ari said, "there's something I never thought to ask—what the hell is this war all about?"

  Stuarti stopped. "You mean you don't know?"

  "Nah." He shrugged. "It's never a big deal to Metzada."

  "Well, it started when. . . ." Stuarti stopped himself. "Shit, Ari, do you care?"

  Ari thought about it for a moment. "Not really. We do it for money, like all the other whores. How about you?"

  "Well, yes, I do." Stuarti caught himself. "Well, no, I don't. Not at the moment. All I care about is getting the company through the next two weeks."

  "Good answer."

  Two skimmers were waiting up ahead, engines idling; as they approached, the first of the skimmers—Giacometti's—lifted up on its skirts and slid away in a cloud of dust.

  "This soldiering stuff pays you people real well, I take it," Stuarti said.

  "That's not my department," Ari said. "Covers the bills, so they tell me."

  Tetsuo stood in the door of the other skimmer. "Let's move it, little brother."

  "Take care, Paulo." Ari turned to Matteotti and Rienzi. "Goodbye, the two of you."

  "Take care of yourself, Captain," Rienzi said, clasping his hand for a moment.

  "Damn mean trick, sir," Matteotti said, still smiling. His grip was firm.

  "Well, I'm away." Ari turned and returned the salutes of Stuarti, Rienzi and Matteotti. "Well done, Company F," he said in a measured sort of way, the way a real commander would have.

  He stepped into the passenger compartment and the door closed behind him, leaving him alone with Tetsuo, Dov and Shimon. Ari staggered to a seat and belted himself in as the skimmer lifted.

  Beyond the dirty glass, he could see Stuarti waving goodbye, then beckoning to Matteotti, but then the skimmer turned and moved away and he couldn't see them anymore.

  Ari looked over at Dov Ginsberg. The big, ugly man didn't look any different. Maybe he didn't know what it was like to love somebody, or maybe he didn't care.

  Shimon Bar-El was eyeing him curiously over a lit tabstick. "There's all kinds of warrior's reflex," he said without any preamble. "Seems you got one, eh? T
rouble is, that I don't quite know what to do with you. I can't read you out after this—you played it just right and took the town. Can't fault you for that.

  "On the other hand," he went on, flicking ashes onto the floor, "you fucked up twice as an enlisted striker, so even if your head is on straight, you've got a problem reputation. Can't put you back in the ranks."

  Tetsuo lit a tabstick and picked up the theme. "He sure as hell can't let you keep your commission and give you a company, or even a platoon—same reason. An officer has to have earned his command, and the consensus among Metzadans is that you haven't." Tetsuo smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile, and it wasn't a report. "You would have made it easier on all of us if you'd gotten yourself killed, you know."

  Ari looked from Tetsuo to Dov. "I suppose that still could be arranged." His hands were loose and empty on his lap, but if Shimon ordered Dov to kill him now, just maybe Ari could get his gun out and a bullet into the bastard. He would surely try.

  "That's always a possibility." Shimon considered the glowing coal of his tabstick. "There's another choice. Since Avram Stein was killed, I find myself minus an aide-de-camp. The TO calls for a captain in that slot. Now," he said, holding up a hand, "don't speak too soon. You'll be on probation; all this will mean is just another chance.

  "Or chances. Operation Triumphant is still running, and Generale Prezzolini has a real interesting job for the regiment. In another forty-eight hours, you'll be back in combat, right beside me. And Dov.

  "Now, assuming you do get through the next couple of weeks alive, and we get our asses off this dirtball, you're still not safe. Next time we get an opportunity, you'll be presented as our specialist in commanding foreign troops, and get another chance to either build up a reputation. . . ."