The Gods of War

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Isn't it great? We have a club symbol."

  The words seemed incongruous and distant. Assailed by guilt, terror, and the certainty of a friend's death narrowly averted, Jon could find nothing to say. He felt as if he had discovered a third world between Eric's and Skirnir's, and little of sense came from either of the other two. Unable to speak, he turned his attention to the book near his knee. A new page fell beneath his scrutiny, and he read with no conscious attempt or desire to know:

  The words inscribed spoken,

  A stranger killed,

  The favor you need

  Shall be fulfilled.

  There was no doubt in Jon's mind that, next time, the book would demand a human sacrifice. The thought ached through his belly until just the effort of breathing shot agony through him. "Promise me," he managed. "Promise me we'll never ever ever use this book for anything again."

  Eric laughed. "Sure, he was kind of awful, but he did give me . . ."

  Jon lunged, grasping Eric by the front of his shirt, the need desperate within him. "Promise . . . me!"

  Finally, Eric's expression grew appropriately serious. "Hey, I thought it was cool. But if it means that much to you, fine. No more using the book." He twirled the pewter sword between his fingers.

  Saturday March 20, 1969

  Pleiku, Vietnam

  The drab walls of the military hospital seemed to close in on Spec. 4 Jon Skell, but the medicinal odor that eternally permeated the hallways wafted to him like perfume. He walked the bleak hallways in silence, ears only half-tuned to the rush of stretchers and the moans of the injured. Soon enough, a chopper would rush him and several other medics to the hills surrounding Kontum to tend the wounded there. Soon enough, Jon Skell might find himself as one of the patients on the hospital stretchers.

  The thought sent a chill shuddering through Jon. It would not be his first experience with death. Once, in high school, when cars had been the end all and be all of masculine cool, he had skidded off the road during an impromptu race. His memory of lying in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit remained vivid. He had seen the tunnel of light that so many who experience near-death experiences described. He recalled the sensation of utter tranquility, unlike anything he had experienced in life, a feeling he believed he would never find the words to describe. He had embraced death, needing to escape the pain that was all life could promise.

  Jon could never forget what had happened next. A woman had come to him then, her figure more perfect than any model. His mind told him that her face had matched the flawless precision of her body, yet he could not recall the features. She had seemed more picture concept than reality, and she had admonished on that his time had not come. Still, despite her beauty and gentleness, Jon's mind had rebelled against her. There was an alien impropriety about her that made her seem more a tool of the devil than of God, yet nothing about her seemed servile. For some time, he had hovered, uncertain whether to fight for or to stifle his last breaths. Then, she had taken him by the hand and ripped him back to the world he had known. Alive, against all medical odds.

  Jon continued through the hospital corridors, remembering how he had taken a vow to help others near death. From the moment of his awakening, he knew he was destined to become a doctor. And, that ambition had rescued him from a choice. When Eric had enlisted to fight the war in Vietnam after two years of college ROTC, Jon had remained behind to finish his studies. And, until recently, he had never regretted that decision.

  Irony lashed through Jon, relentlessly pursuing his thoughts. His medical school acceptance and his draft letter had come on the same day. A medic. A fucking infantry medic, at the front, if this war could be said to have a front at all. Outrage dribbled through him, unable to spark to anger. It was no man's fault. Another few years, and I'd be the one in that operating room sewing the wounded back together, helping the injured return to their loving families intact. Jon knew he would have put his all into the schooling. And he would have become a good doctor if the effort killed him.

  Jon Skell raised a fist to pound the wall, just as a pair of doctors rounded curve into the hallway lie pulled the blow, though they seemed not to not see him. Engaged in conversation, they passed without a glance, and their words wafted clearly to him.

  "Well, I don't care what anyone says. There's some thing funny going on. That's the third guy today with knife wounds, and they're all from the same damned platoon."

  "Self-inflicted?"

  "No way. That one guy can't wait to get back. Says God's fighting on his lieutenant's side. And there's been too much fire action. Guys don't stab themselves in the middle of a firelight and certainly not in the groin like that medic. In fact, guys don't stab themselves at all when there's perfectly good guns . . ."

  Jon listened until the doctors' footfalls obscured their conversation. Fear winched down on him, its source uncertain. He knew that he had only heard a partial conversation, that he had no reason to make assumptions about identifications or facts. Yet, his mind grasped the certainty that the mentioned platoon was the 1st platoon of C company, 2nd battalion, 503rd infantry, the one led by Second Lieutenant Eric Skulason. There's only one way to find out. The doctors had mentioned that the medic had come in injured, and Eric's letters to Fort Sam had detailed that man with a description Jon believed he could pick out of a crowd in New York City.

  Jon spun, retracing his steps through the corridor, his mind racing. He scarcely noticed the dank, sterile hallways, did not bother to acknowledge the few others he passed in the halls. At length, he found the open ward serviced by the physicians he had passed. Quickly, Jon scanned the ranks of the injured, his gaze drawn to a shirt thrown over a blanket that covered a sleeping soldier. It bore the insignia of the 4th Infantry Division. Jon followed the lines of the sleeping man, discovering a rugged, black face topped by curly, dark hair. A long-healed, zigzagging scar lay, deeply etched, on his left cheek.

  Jon resisted the urge to run to Spec. 4 Coby Tackson's side. Instead, he matched his gait to the brisk pace set by the nurses and orderlies. It seemed like an eternity before he stood at the medic's bedside. He knelt at the head. "Jackson," he whispered.

  The man did not stir.

  Jon hesitated, afraid he had chosen the wrong patient. Final identification would require the medic to open his eyes. Or I could just look at the name on his chart or tags. He fingered his own tags through his shirt, feeling the reassuring contour of the long-familiar, pewter sword through the fabric. This time, he used the nickname he knew Eric used for the medic. "Cobra."

  The medic's eyes flared open, as huge and blue as Eric had described them. An expression of welcome wilted in confusion. "Who are you?"

  "My name's Jon. Jon Skell."

  The congenial look returned, then broadened into a smile. "Jon the wolf?" He looked Skell over. "Cool. Feels like I know you already. The Ragin' Raven says you're the best. Says you're a mean man with a sword."

  "With a sword?" Jon recalled the days when he and Eric had bought every Kendo and fencing book in existence and learned to bat at one another with sticks. In college, they had topped their fencing class, though Eric had always proven the more competent of the two. "Yeah, well whatever ability he attributed to me, double it and stick it back on him. At least he translated that skill to guns, too. If I shot into a herd of cows, I'd be lucky to hit the ground. And what's this Ragin' Raven stuff? Sounds like a college football team."

  Coby Jackson rolled to his side to meet Jon's gaze more directly. "He came up with the Raven thing. Said it made him sound like a thinker. The Ragin' just fit."

  "Knowing Eric, I don't doubt it." Jon laughed "Excuse me getting right down to business, but I hear things down your way have been kind of strange What's going on?"

  Jackson 's eyes narrowed, and his smile disappeared. "You some kind of shrink?"

  "Spec. 4. Medic. Just like you." Jon tapped a shoulder patch, showing the yellow eagle on its olive green background.

  Jackson made a wordless noi
se that indicated mistrust to Jon.

  "Look, I'm just worried about Eric. You can understand that. His letters told me you were his best buddy out there."

  "Never took your place, though." Jackson warmed slightly to the compliment. "Look, if you're really Raven's Jon, show me the thing."

  "What . . ." Jon started, then caught himself. Professing ignorance would lose him what little of the medic s trust remained. "Eric and I grew up together. We shared lots of things. Give me a small hint."

  Jackson considered."There's a thing he carries. Says you got one just like it. Says you had yours first. Says you'd carry it on you."

  This description clinched the thing's identity in Jon's mind. He thrust his hand into his shirt, pulling free the tags and the pewter sword hanging amid them.

  Coby Jackson relaxed visibly.

  Jon tucked the tags away. "Now tell me what happened out there. Between you and me."

  Jackson lay back, blue eyes scanning the ceiling, as if to find the answer written there. "We were on a night ambush and got hit. Lead and shrapnel spraying everywhere. I saw six guys go down in about a minute, and I knew we were in trouble. I was patching one guy, my back to the gooks, protecting him from fire like I'm taught to. Then, this guy in front of me goes down." Jackson paused, finger tracing angles, apparently considering trajectory.

  Jon nodded his encouragement. The idea of walking out into this land of action chilled him to the marrow. He, too, had been told to shield his patients during his advanced individual training at Fort Sam, yet the logic of the maneuver was lost on him. What good's it going to do a platoon to have its medic killed guarding one wounded man when there's others who need tending?

  Jackson continued. "Looking later, I can't see how that round didn't pass through me before him. Perfect shot, too. Through the neck. He went down dead, and I didn't bother with him. Then, all a sudden, all the sound went away. I figured I'd gotten hit and went deaf. Then, I noticed the guys all hiding there, so still, looking up. I hadn't heard no choppers, so I looked too. And there's this giant of a guy flying round through the sky, a gleaming sword clutched in his fist. And he's leaping right for them gooks!"

  Jackson stopped, studying Jon to read his mood and decide whether he should bother to continue.

  Jon imagined he looked as frozen and stupefied as the soldiers Jackson had described. Logic hammered him with the only possible answer, yet loyalty forced him to believe that Eric had kept his promise, that he had not dared to use the "book." Then, another thought drove his mouth and eyes to stinging dryness, and panic charged through him. Of course Jackson didn't feel the shot that killed his buddy. Because that shot came from behind. That man was Eric's sacrifice. A deeper part of Jon's conscience rebelled. No! Impossible! Eric is a commander and a good one. He wouldn't shoot one of his own men. The evil inherent in such an action went beyond Jon's imagination. Not Eric, damn it! Not Eric. The image of the smashed mouse filled his memory and the sequence of events that had allowed Jon, himself, to slaughter a friend's dog. "Oh my god," he said softly.

  Assuming Jon's words were a response to Ills story, Jackson nodded. "That was my first thought. Course, I never pictured God like that. Too young. Too white. He was as blond as you." The medic laughed. "Gun fire and grenades didn't seem to touch him. He hacked through those gooks like nothing, bloody sword weaving, his glowing presence like something out of a horror movie. Except on our side. A bit overzealous though. He cut a couple of ours, though I don't think he actually killed anyone. Caught me a good blow. In a bad place. I'm out for the duration, and I'm almost kind of sorry. Always liked living life on the edge. Liked Raven, too. And I think we could really kick some butt with God on our side."

  Terror lashed Jon to a desperate need for action. What's this war done to Eric? I have to stop him. He caught one of Jackson 's huge hands. "Where's the platoon now? Exactly."

  "As of this morning they were on Hill 796, seven klicks southwest of Ben Het in the Ngok Kom Leat Mountains. Why? You're not planning to go there."

  "Not as far as you know."

  Jackson lowered his voice to a bare whisper. "You can get in deep shit."

  "Yeah, well let 'em find me. I'll be the first guy in history to go AWOL into combat. They can court martial my corpse." Jon stood, keeping his voice as low as Jackson's. "But you didn't hear it from me. I didn't tell you anything." He turned to go.

  Jackson touched Jon's hand. "Wolf?"

  Jon glanced back over his shoulder.

  "Say 'hi' to Raven for me. Be careful, man, okay?"

  Jon nodded. "Yeah, all right. As a favor to my best friend's friend." He strode from the Ward, headed for the orderly room of the aviation unit. He had never heard of DCS bothering to ask for authorization for a liftoff to the front.

  Twilight found Jon Skell standing in a field of trampled elephant grass beside two seasoned privates, patched and ready to return to war. Dust kicked up by the rotors covered his fatigues, and he watched the medevac's retreating form, the red crosses glaring through the surrounding camouflage paint. The pitch of the helicopter changed as it rose higher, then disappeared beneath the voices of nearby men. Jon's eyes it across the ready field of fire to the higher grasses beyond it and the distant horizon of jungle. Finally, he let his gaze settle on the hastily assembled camp. Strands of concertina wire surrounded a myriad of dug and half-dug bunkers. Beyond the wire, men scuttled, finishing the preparations.

  "Let's go," said Don Millson, a tall, lanky redhead that Jon had met on the flight.

  "This feels wrong," the other private, Ken Kittilano said. He hunched his small, broad form, his discomfort stabbing fear through Jon.

  "Let's go," Jon repeated, wishing he could do anything to get his non-bullet-riddled butt back on the medevac. The company's camp did not look strong enough to keep out an old woman on horseback, let alone an army with artillery. I can't believe I'm doing this.

  The three men headed toward camp quickly, even as the sun settled below the horizon. At the lead, Millson hailed C Company from a distance. Kittilano's uneasiness pervaded his every movement, and it became infectious. Jon caught himself shivering uncontrollably.

  Kittilano whispered, "This area's hot. Something's about to happen."

  "Shut up," Millson returned.

  The darkness caught them still a hundred yards from the perimeter. As if it were a signal, mortar fire blazed through the darkness behind them, covering a charging wave of NVA troopers. AK fire rattled through the night.

  All three men collapsed to the ground. Machine gun fire answered from the camp, and Jon lost control of his bladder. "You all right?" Kittilano whispered.

  The words sounded ludicrous and misplaced. "Untouched," Millson answered "We gotta get inside. Let's move it. Quick."

  "Inside," it appeared, was a relative term. Jon lelt paralyzed, and it took him several heartbeats longer than the others to make his move. Lights flashed and howled around him, a blaring cacophony he did not dare try to decipher. Placing his life in luck's grip, he hunched and ran for the perimeter, dropping to a crawl as he watched the shadowy forms of Millson and Kittilano skitter for entrance beneath the wire.

  A muzzle flash broke the blackness around them, from inside the perimeter. Something warm and liquid splashed Jon's face. Kittilano went still. Millson screamed. "I'm hit! I'm hit!" He flopped and writhed, moaning something about friendly fire. The urge to run seized Jon, and it took all the effort of his being to remain in place. The crossfire whizzed and buzzed above his head, and he had little choice but take his chances. He crawled faster, calling with every movement. "Don't shoot me; I'm with you." He could not hear himself over the pop of gun fire, but he could not stop shouting.

  Once through the concertina wire, Jon found himself staring down the barrel of an M-16. I'm dead. "Don't shoot me . . . !" The cycle of his screaming continued as he awaited the final blast.

  The barrel dipped. "Jon?" It was Eric's voice.

  Jon felt certain he had died. He could not fatho
m the odds against some man recognizing him before pulling the trigger nor the chances that that man would be Eric Skulason. Yet fate made him certain it could have happened no other way. He looked up into the other's face, past the sweat-spangled cammo paint to his friend's familiar features.

  "Eric. Christ, don't shoot me."

  "I'm not gonna shoot you. I'm gonna hug you." Despite the sentiment, he drew Jon deeper into the camp before daring to fulfill his promise. Then, he enwrapped Jon into an embrace that crushed the breath from him. Tears soaked through the shoulder of Jon's fatigues, yet he denied them. Humidity. It has to be humidity. Eric's done this too long to cry. "Buddy, I don't know what brought you here now, but it was obviously meant to be."

  Despite the slamming echo of explosions, Jon heard Eric clearly. Yet the words seemed to make little sense. "I don't know what you're talking about. What brought me here was the book."

  A strange expression appeared on Eric's face, one Jon did not recognize. It terrified him. The grease paint only magnified its evil foreignness. "Yes," he said. "The book."

  "You do have it here."

  Eric nodded. His blue eyes fixed on Jon.

  "You promised never to use it again."

  "That was before your accident."

  "What?" The words seemed like a non sequitur. Jon scarcely noticed the rush and noise of the men around him. Radios blasted their messages through the camp, yet Jon heard none of it.

  "Your car accident. Remember? I called Sif then. Without her, you would have died. I couldn't let you die then."

  Something about the pronunciation of the word "then" sent a chill through Jon. Still, he managed to focus on the more significant parts of Eric's explanation. Now, he understood that Eric had spoken the truth, and that that truth should have seemed obvious from the day a goddess had ripped Jon from the arms of death. Yet denial had allowed him to disbelieve. "You killed someone to save my life?"