In the Valley

by Jason Lambright

  Those guys were a sight. But as Paul knew, and as he was to witness again and again on the following campaign, the Juneau Army soldiers were fighters and killers. He gave their appearance a pass.

  After another hour and a half of bone-jarring travel on the main provincial route, Third Battalion prepared to enter the Baradna Valley. As Paul’s ground-car navigated the pull off from the provincial highway onto the main road leading into Baradna, the air-control bubba in the vehicle started to get busy.

  “Sir,” the guy named Fox said to the colonel, “we have two F-71s inbound to shadow our convoy moving in.”

  “Roger, Fox, that’s good shit—exactly what I requested.”

  The colonel went back to monitoring his micro feed. He had been studying it intently for the last hour, and he had been controlling units with Colonel Fasi via halo link.

  Scanning with his gun, the convoy looked smooth so far to Paul. And it was nice having two death dealers like the F-71s overhead. The colonel had told Paul about that part of the plan last week; Paul had doubted at the time that they would get the air assets.

  Well, Paul thought, that’ll teach me to doubt the colonel. He thought he would have known better by now. The convoy rolled on into the hostile valley.

  For a couple of hours, and about forty kilometers, the convoy’s penetration was pretty quiet and definitely slow. Part of the reason for the slow going was that the convoy was screened by a platoon the team had “borrowed” from the Eighteenth Force Engineers.

  It was all right by Paul to take it slow if it meant the engineers were screening the convoy for bombs. That happened to be exactly the job that they had that day.

  Heck, he thought while scanning his sector, with the navy overhead and the engineers out front, this should be all right—definitely better than riding up Bomb Alley in the Belt, in the back of a Juneau Army ground-car, unsuited and unarmored. That kind of shit was for the birds, in his opinion.

  Of course, no one asked or would care about his opinion. Hell, Mighty Mike rolled out all crazy like that and laughed his balls off. Paul figured Mikey was a better man than him.

  His halo buzzed. “Five…Five, this is Sapper Six.” The engineer’s LT, Sapper Six, was calling the colonel.

  “Sapper Six, this is Five. Send it.”

  “Five, be advised: we have a find up here.” Paul’s juices got going. The day was becoming a bit more interesting. A “find” was usually a bomb.

  “Six, state the nature of the find.” Paul risked a quick look at the colonel’s face. He was a study in calm neutrality.

  “Five, our micro feed is giving us imagery of what appears to be a rocket-assisted 155 mm round, oriented at ground-car–cab height.”

  Oh, Paul thought, that would have been ugly. It seemed that someone in the Baradna Valley wanted to play silly games with Third Battalion. Paul concentrated even more fiercely on his aiming chevron, silently begging the unseen enemy to appear.

  “Roger, Sapper Six,” said the colonel. He paused and thought for a second. “Six, what is your recommended course of action? Be advised: this operation is time critical.” In other words, the battalion, if at all possible, needed to be off the road and have its firebase set up before dark.

  It was already 1335 local. Paul thought it was fine to delay for a bomb—heck, the delay would have been catastrophically worse if the engineers wouldn’t have found the device. A rocket-assisted 155 would have been very bad medicine.

  Essayons, thought Paul. It was the ancient motto of the combat engineers, “Let us try.” As long as the engineers expedited things a little, finding that bomb had been a good thing.

  The engineer officer called back. “Five, this is going to take a little bit. Rocket-assisted munitions can be a little temperamental, and the round is too big to blow in place. It’s too close to those houses.”

  Paul looked in on the micro feed quickly and then was back to scanning. The engineer was right—the bomb was only about seventy-five meters from a nearby civilian compound.

  “Six, roger. What can you tell me about probable initiation of the device?” The colonel was deep in thought, Paul could tell.

  “Five, our sensors tell us it’s a simple radio-initiated bomb. Our jammers have shut it down. We’re coming up with a plan to take this thing out. Stand by.”

  Colonel Fasi chose that moment to chime in. “Colonel, my friend, I think my soldiers can deal with this bomb. We must make it to our camp soon, or we will be attacked with more than a bomb.”

  “Fasi, this is Five; what is your plan?” The colonel was rubbing his face.

  “I have sent some of my soldiers up to this bomb; they will take care of it.”

  Oh boy, thought Paul, the Juneaus were about to pull off some shit. With his eyes wide open, the colonel watched the micro-drone feed. A Juneau ground-car was driving right up to the bomb!

  “Fasi, this is the colonel. What are your people doing?” On the mil-grade halo net, the engineers were freaking out. Paul, peeking at the feed while scanning his sector, couldn’t believe what the Juneaus were doing either.

  Colonel Fasi answered, “This bomb—the engineer soldiers say it is radio controlled and that they jam it. This bomb—it is harmless, yes?” He sounded jolly.

  Paul, the colonel, and everyone else tied into the micro feed saw the Juneau’s actions.

  Viewed from above, a Juneau ground-car had driven up to the bomb. Two soldiers got out. One walked up to the bomb and kicked it over. The other soldier started ripping at wires and stuffing bits into his pockets. He threw something on the ground and stepped on it. Probably the detonator, thought Paul.

  The soldier who had kicked the bomb leaned down—it looked like Monkey-Boy from First Company on the feed. He picked up the 155 round and threw it, none too gently, into the back of the ground-car between the other soldiers sitting in there!

  “Holy shit!” said the colonel.

  “Five, this is Sapper Six. Holy shit! Did you see that?” The engineer sounded like his head was going to explode.

  The colonel came back. “Uh, roger, Sapper Six, I saw it. Be advised: stay away from that ground-car.” The colonel rubbed his face.

  Mike popped up on the net: “Yup, them’s my boys!” He looked positively gleeful. First Company’s wild men had struck again.

  Fasi came back over the halo net. “Do you see, Colonel, my friend? My soldiers have taken away this bomb. Now we can move to our camp.”

  Colonel Fasi was as good as his word. The massive stalled convoy started to move.

  Paul felt as though he had to clean his shorts after watching that little escapade. An hour later Third Battalion rolled into the Chickenfoot and established Firebase Atarab in the heart of the Baradna Valley. That night, the first patrols went out.

  “So tell me about your first patrol, Uncle Jack,” a slightly nonplussed Paul said.

  “Nah, Paul, you know what it’s all about anyway,” the bearded man said.

  Paul had a layover after graduating OCS on Mumbai 3. His next shot at a transport to his new assignment was in about a week and a half, and he had been pinged, much to his surprise, by his long-lost uncle Jack.

  Paul had never met the guy, but it still felt damn good to run into flesh and blood tens of light-years from Old Earth.

  Paul had been kicking back doing nothing much in the barracks one day after graduation when an icon labeled “JACK THOMPSON, MS, RET” came up on Paul’s visual. A very surprised Paul had spoken briefly with his uncle, and they had arranged to meet in Jewel, the capital city of Mumbai 3.

  The two were currently hanging out in a bar called Star-Crossed, lounging on Mughal-style cushions with a bong set in the middle. Paul took a hit off the cherry-flavored near-tobacco pipe and listened to the device bubble away happily. Jack drank from a glass filled with two fingers of Johnny Walker Red, served straight up.

  Paul wasn’t sure what to say to this figure of legend in his life. This was the guy who had “disappeared into the stars,” much
as Paul had done, as a matter of fact.

  “Tell me about your father; tell me about Hopefield. That’s what I really want to know.” Jack’s eyes had an inscrutable look; his gaze flicked from Paul back to the bubbly bong.

  “It’s been fourteen years since I’ve been home,” Paul said. “I’m sure a lot has changed. Father pings me from time to time, but you know how it goes with Glimmer comms: everything is a little random when it does reach you.” Year by year Paul was starting to forget what “home” actually was. The only remembrance he had of it was the quilt, his switchblade, and the scarf from long-lost Amy.

  “Yeah,” said Jack, “Glimmer comms don’t do it for me. Mother pings me from time to time. I should get better about answering her back. Haven’t heard from your father in ages; guess I upset him about something.”

  Jack made a futile, hand-tossing gesture. Paul didn’t know either, so he let that slide. It was none of his business.

  He thought about it. Grandmother had to be past a hundred. It had been a while since he had heard anything about her. Maybe Jack would know more.

  “Have you heard from Grandma? How is she?”

  “Yeah, got a Glimmer ping from her a couple of months ago. From what I saw, she looks good for her age. From what I heard, she’s as cantankerous as ever. Keeps asking me when I’ll come back for good.”

  A force soldier had three potential shots at going back to Old Earth. The first chance was at the end of the initial enlistment. That ticket could only be used upon separation. The second chance was if you were lucky enough to be posted on Earth itself. The last chance was upon retirement: the retiree had one ticket back, to be used at one’s discretion. The retirement ticket had no expiration date.

  Jack had never used his. He claimed to be perfectly satisfied with Mumbai 3, his adopted home and world of separation.

  “Well, will you ever go back, Uncle Jack?”

  “I don’t know. You know how it is, Paul. Once you start travelling around, living out of a duffel bag, things are never quite the same again. I don’t know if I could go back to the valley and live.” Jack sipped at his whiskey. “Maybe I’ll go back to die.”

  He continued, “You know what I miss the most about Home?” Jack cocked an eyebrow and looked sidelong at Paul.

  “No idea, Uncle Jack.”

  “Well, first you can quit calling me ‘Uncle Jack.’ It’s just plain Jack. We’re both veterans, you and I.” Paul gestured his agreement.

  “What I miss most,” he continued, “is the sun—ol’ Sol. I’ve been to a dozen plus worlds, and it seems the suns are never quite what I remember from home, even though Mumbai here comes pretty damn close.”

  Paul agreed; the suns never did look quite right, no matter how one sliced it. But he missed other things.

  “What I miss are the people, Jack. And I miss the trees. I’d give six months’ pay to walk through the forests again with Father.”

  Jack snorted. “Well, you can always walk in the forests via halo. Gotta say, Paul, that’s not something I think about much. There’s plenty of wildlife here.” Jack’s eye followed two teenage girls as they walked through the bar.

  “I wonder how much they cost,” he asked in a low voice, musingly.

  “Dunno, Jack. Whores have never been my cup of tea. I like the thrill of the chase too much.”

  “I getcha, Paul, but I’m tired of all that. It’s cash on the barrelhead for an old lech like me.”

  Paul was a little let down by his long-lost uncle. Yeah, whores had been on every world he had encountered. But Paul was playing it square with his uncle when he said he didn’t like to go to them. The few times he had visited a prostitute, it had been first out of curiosity and then once or twice out of desperation. Usually he had no need, and he felt bad about paying women money for what was better freely given.

  Of course, at least with a whore you were with an actual woman.

  “Maybe they’re pleasure bots, Jack.”

  “Nah, I can tell those in a heartbeat. Those are real women. Besides, this bar doesn’t have pleasure bots; it’s not that kind of place.” Jack cocked his eyebrow again. “Do you really think I’d bring my long-lost nephew into a place like that? Hell, we’re just having a nice meal and catching up a little.” He glanced at the menu. “This is, after all, the first time in over thirty years I’ve seen a relative. It’s a red-banner occasion.”

  Paul was frightened a little; he saw himself in Jack.

  “You’ve never run into anyone else?”

  Paul had had other relatives go to the stars, of course. Everyone on Earth seemed to lose half of their families to the colonies.

  “Nope. You’re it.” Jack shook his head. “Anyone ever tell you that you look a little like Alfred?” Alfred: Jack’s younger brother, Paul’s father.

  “Hell, I don’t need anyone to tell me that, Jack. I’ve got a mirror. Our hair’s different, though.”

  “Yeah, there is that.” Jack looked at the menu in satisfaction. “Try the Trilobite à la Mumbai, Paul; it’s delicious. And snapping the shells off is a breeze.”

  What the hell, thought Paul. Trilobites it is; the rest of the menu confused him anyway. He was too used to force standard chow halls, where the food was all the same.

  Paul and his uncle chatted some more and drank while waiting on the steaming trilobites. The delicacies finally arrived: they were fiery red in color and the size of a child’s hand.

  The trilobites smelled delicious. As Jack had promised, they were easy to peel and tasted a little like a cross between Old Earth cod and lobster. There was a buttery sauce to dip them in, and Paul and Jack dug in. After dinner, Paul brought Jack a little up-to-date on some relatives he had heard from, and Jack regaled Paul with some pretty good war stories. It turned out they had both been stationed on Rio for a while, and in sister units.

  They drank some more and finally found some dance partners. They had a pretty good time and hit all the fleshpots along Montgomery Street.

  Paul ended up staying at Jack’s place for a couple of days while he waited on his shuttle off-world. When the two men finally had to take leave of each other, they parted as friends—not bad for two strangers who happened to share genes.

  Killing is in these people’s genes, thought Paul. Third Battalion had moved into the Baradna Valley a couple of days before and set up a firebase. Paul had gone on a couple of short patrols in the time since, but this was the first battalion-sized operation.

  Today, Third Battalion was engaged in sweeping the village of Pashto Khel, rumored to be the hometown of a certain Commander Mohammed. The Juneau Army had targeted Mohammed after a meeting with the local elders, who had fingered him as one of the chief shitheads in the area.

  Therefore, Third Battalion was going on a sweep through his hometown. The immediate objective was for Second Company to search Mohammed’s house while First Company went on the ridgeline overlooking the village.

  Apparently, Commander Mohammed and his boys had set up a bunker on the ridge and had been firing on the provincial police from up there. The bunker and Mohammed had to go, as a first step toward the pacification of the Baradna Valley.

  Paul walked through the extensive marijuana fields of the area. His company was going to set a cordon around the village with a couple of platoons while headquarters platoon searched Mohammed’s residence. Second Company was making the move in broad daylight, with F-71s overhead as overwatch. Word had it that Mohammed had taken off with his boys, so no opposition was expected.

  However, everyone was on his toes. Paul sure as hell was. He was moving unarmored in a column with the colonel, Fox (the air-control guy), and Z-man. Paul walked on dikes through the rice and pot fields. He also walked along the Baradna River, which was chuckling and gurgling invitingly next to the column of men.

  Bashir was immediately ahead of Paul with a rotating crew of Juneau Army platoon leaders. It was Bashir’s technique to periodically summon his lieutenants for off-halo conferences. The
security of the Juneau Army halos was questionable, at best.

  Looking around, Paul was surprised these people had any halos at all. The fields were tilled by oxen and wooden plows—for Pete’s sake, you couldn’t get much more primitive than that.

  Paul stumbled and fell painfully in some dirt clods. Time to pull my head out of my ass, he thought. The colonel gave him a hand up.

  Paul checked the micro feed on his visual. First Company had gone along the southern side of the village, and elements were already heading up the ridge, to the supposedly empty bunker on the hill.

  I’ll bet there’s some pucker factor there, thought Paul. Yeah, the halo feed said no one was home, but you never knew.

  After much walking along the Baradna River, Second Company had reached the ford point directly across from Pashto Khel. The Juneaus started across—some of them fell, sputtering, into the rapidly moving water. It would have been funny except for the fact that this was an operation into a hostile village with a known dissident presence. Paul crossed slowly, feeling naked as a jaybird the whole time.

  His eyes were on the walls around the village; he peered into the dinosaur trees. He felt his way with his feet among the rocks of the creek, praying no one would start shooting while he was midway in the coursing river. He held his rifle at port arms, sloped upward across his body from right to left. “Oh Lord, which art in heaven,” went through his mind. His heart raced; his mouth was dry.

  He reached the opposite shore, found a low wall, and started scanning the area in front of him, smelling the pungent aroma of marijuana everywhere. A few seconds later, Z-man joined him.

  Paul looked over his shoulder; the colonel was midway through the stream. Paul checked his halo micro feed again, alternating between using his own eyes and the drones. There was no hostile activity.

  Paul started to calm down a little. The colonel was across, and Second Company had a toehold in Pashto Khel.