Countdown: The Liberators-ARC (39 page)

"It would mean more, this ‘parole' of which you speak, if I had the faintest idea how I might escape," Adam said. "I don't, not that I haven't thought about it."

"I'm sure you have," Labaan agreed. "Be unworthy of you not to at least try to think of a way. Allah knows, I've spent enough time, both before and after your capture, thinking about how to prevent it." The older man's hand swept around, indicating, so Adam thought, not merely the building in which he was held but the entire abandoned city. "So will you give me your parole? You word as a man of honor that you will not try to escape?"

"It wouldn't matter," Adam replied. "With or without my word, I can't leave here. I can't leave the girl. You knew that would happen when you gave her to me, I'm sure. But for what it's worth, fine, you have my ‘parole.' Such as it is."

Labaan nodded, more relieved than happy. "I'll give the orders not to shackle you anymore," he said. "And I'll pull the guards back out of earshot from your door. Who knows; maybe without us listening you'll get that girl with child. Then I'll have a better hold on you even than she is."

"Do you have children, Labaan?" Adam asked. The guard scowled; Adam had no idea why.

For a time Labaan was silent. Then he said, sadly and perhaps a bit distantly, "I had. Two girls. And a wife, of course."

"Had?"

"Dead. Killed."

Adam suddenly felt sick. Sure, Labaan was his kidnapper. But even in that he was only doing his duty as he saw it. In every particular, otherwise, he'd been as kind as he could be.

"I'm so sorry," Adam replied. "Was it my . . . " He let the question trail off.

Labaan shook his head. "Your people? No. No, I don't know who killed them. It was during the troubles that attended the breakup of what used to be a country. But I am sure of two things. One is that the Marehan had nothing to do with it; my family was nowhere near any place your people inhabit."

"And the other?" Adam asked.

Again Labaan went silent for some time. "And the other," he finally answered, sighing, "and the other is that whoever did it, they were not of my people. Which is how I learned that one can only have faith in one's own blood."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Oral delivery aims at persuasion and

making the listener believe they are converted.

Few persons are capable of being convinced;

the majority allow themselves to be persuaded.

-Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

D-42, Assembly Area Alpha-Base Camp, Amazonia, Brazil

The twice-weekly marches had gradually been worked up from six miles at a fairly slow place and minimal equipment (barring the heavy mortars, which were always brought along for pain's sake) to twelve at a near killing pace. It was hard on the old men's knees, in itself, but their weight was dropping and that helped a bit. Maybe more importantly, they'd gotten used to regular pain again, pain in the back, pain in the knees, pain in the feet, and pain in all the muscles in between.

From the "street" outside of his darkened tent, Reilly heard the first sergeant giving the orders, "Foot inspection in thirty minutes. Platoon sergeants take charge of your platoons." This was followed by Platoon Sergeant, ex-Sergeant Major, Schetrompf shouting, "You pussies don't need thirty minutes. Besides, the sun-such as it is-will be down by then. Squad leaders, you have ten to get 'em ready. Snap and pop, assholes, snap and pop." Epolito added, "The same goes for you, Third Herd."

Reilly made his way to his cot and sat down at the foot of it, wearily and heavily. "Oh, God," he moaned, softly, "my feet hurt."

Lana came in, dropped her rucksack down, plopped her shapely posterior on the ground, and leaned her back against the tent's center pole. She was wearing a green T-shirt that stuck to her body in all the best places. "You know," she said, "there's a lot to be said for just being a girl . . . pampered . . . soft . . . protected . . . spoiled. Maybe this whole feminist thing is a bad mistake."

Reilly knew she wasn't serious, or not entirely serious. "You heard Top. Get your boots off."

"I can't," she replied. "It hurts too much even to think about."

That much he did believe. He flipped the shoulder straps off of his rucksack and lay back, then rolled off the cot to the tent's dirt floor. On all fours he crawled toward her until he'd reached her feet.

"You don't have . . . "

"Shut up," Reilly said, as he began unlacing her boots. He undid the laces on both before pulling off first the left one, then the right. Thickly cushioned but now wet boot socks followed. These, smelly things that they were, he stuffed into the boots. There was just barely enough light to see by, filtering through the tent's roof, walls, and door. At least there was now that his eyes were accustomed to it.

He examined her feet with a critical eye. "Tsk," he said, on seeing the prominent blisters. "You don't march much in Tzahal"-the Israeli Army-"do you?"

"Not so much," she admitted. "Not since the fifties when we went almost completely mechanized. Oh, sure, there's some in initial training and then rarely after that." She thought about that last statement and amended it, "Really rarely."

"It shows. How long have they been like this?"

"Couple of weeks."

"And you didn't see the medics?" His voice was full of reproach, even as his mind thought, Good girl. Tough girl. You make me proud of you.

"I'm not a whiner." And besides, I didn't want to disappoint you.

"I guess not," he agreed. "Wait here while I go get Sergeant Coffee."

He started to rise but her hand shot up and pulled him back to the ground, considerably nearer to her than he'd been. "Wait," she said. "It can wait."

"For what?"

"For this." She used both hands to grab him on either side of his head and pulled his lips to hers. He resisted, at first, but she had powers-God-given ones-far beyond his merely mortal ability to resist. One hand, his left, intertwined itself in the great auburn waterfall of her hair while the right, operating entirely on genetic autopilot, sought its way under her T-shirt, behind to her back, and then to the clasp that held her bra. A pinch of the clasp, a twitch of the finger and thumb, and it was loose, her breasts free. That hand then moved to cup the left breast softly but firmly.

She broke the kiss and moved her mouth to his ear. "Would you prefer to fuck me or to make love to me?" she sighed, breathless. "You can have it any way you want, any place you want it."

The spell she had him in wasn't broken, but it had been weakened by the breaking of the kiss. He backed off slightly and answered. "I'd prefer it when this is over."

She stiffened. "Damn! It's your wife, isn't it? I don't care if you're married. I want you now!"

He smiled, more than a trifle sadly. Untangling his hand from her hair and holding it up, he wagged his fingers and asked, "You mean this? I'm not married; I'm a widower. I wear it in memory." And because it made me feel a little less alone. I think it did, anyway. Though maybe sometimes it reminded me of how alone I was.

"But the men . . . ?"

He shrugged. "They don't know, except for a couple of them. No reason to tell them."

"Bu' . . . oh, never mind. You don't want to make love until the mission is over?"

"Bad policy, I think."

Her hand went to his trousers, grasping him through the fabric. She looked around. Yes, it was fully dark by now. "We'll compromise," she said.

"Huh?"

"Just relax," she answered, pushing him back. She twisted her body and began to bend her head, even while her fingers worked at the belt and buttons of his trousers. She was perhaps less expert in this than he had been with her bra clasp. Still, enthusiasm counts for much. Her hand felt around softly. "Ah, good," she said, in a husky voice. "I'm not orthodox but for some things I prefer kosher." As she bent her head over him, she added, "This isn't sex; that's what everyone says. But at least it's intimate, and emotionally satisfying, if not physically. And don't worry; I'll be the best little trooper you ever saw after this; no favoritism for me. But you will fuck me immediately after the mission is complete. Immediately!"

After that he wasn't in any mental position to argue the point, his brain being much deprived of blood and oxygen.

Oxygen deprived or not, Reilly wasn't nearly finished before he pulled Lana off and said, "Ah, screw it. Let's fuck."

"What the fuck do you want, George?" Joshua asked irritably.

Framed in the door of the sergeant major's, the light illuminating his features beatifically, George smiled, stuck out one hand, palm up, and answered, just softly enough not to be heard outside the tent, "I want my pound of flesh. He did her. Hah!"

"He fucked her?"

George hesitated. His hand dropped slightly. "Well . . . not exactly. She blew him though. I heard it. Most of it. I came back to collect before he actually finished."

"Thought so. You're an eavesdropping piece of shit, George. Besides, it doesn't count; ask the former President of the United States. For that matter, ask any fifteen year old; not that there's much difference between the two. He's got to fuck her-and before the mission-if you want your money back, First Sergeant; that was the deal."

George turned on his heel and stormed off without another voiced word, thinking, Bastard.

D-38, Assembly Area Alpha-Base Camp, Amazonia, Brazil

The Eland moved cautiously up the trail, its turret moving left-right, left-right, under Dani Viljoen's deft spinning of the wheel. Beside him sat Lana, her eyes scanning for threats-targets, in other words-and one hand resting on the ready rack of training rounds. Up front, Dumisani drove. He'd come to driving late in life, a byproduct of South Africa's former policy of oppression and suppression of its black population. He'd never quite gotten the hang of civilized driving. For a combat vehicle, this was no detriment but quite the opposite; Dumi could and would do things with a vehicle that had no place in civilized driving but were entirely appropriate in combat.

All three wore helmets on their heads, with boom microphones and cushioned speakers surrounding their ears. With these they communicated through the intercom system when the roar of the engine didn't permit normal conversation.

"Our girl here seems pretty happy, wouldn't you say, Dumi?" Viljoen asked. His manipulation of the traversing crank was automatic, leaving his brain and mouth free to tease the woman.

"Leave her alone, Dani," the driver said, with just a trace of menace.

"Not a chance," Viljoen responded. "How many times has it been now, Lana? Seems like every day since the last foot march you've disappeared for an hour or two."

"Fuck off, Boer," the Israeli woman replied. Then, "Gunner, HEAT, Tank!"

"Identified," Viljoen said. "Target."

"Fire."

The muzzle flashed. The .50 caliber subcal wasn't nearly enough to rock the armored car. They still felt the blast on their skin. Downrange, a plywood target shuddered. Lana was already slinging another round into the breech as Viljoen announced hit.

"Repeat. Fire."

"On the way . . . hit."

"Driver, move out."

"So how many times has it been, Lana?" Viljoen asked again.

"Has what been?" she asked.

He pulled his face away from his gunner's sight and said, "Don't be silly."

She shrugged. "Do multiples count? If so . . . ummm . . . eight . . . .no, nine. But you can't tell anybody."

"Wouldn't dream of it. I would, however, suggest that you make sure to wipe your chin before you leave his tent. And take off your shirt beforehand, too, because semen on mostly green camouflage cloth is pretty noticeable."

"I didn't!" she exclaimed.

"Actually, Lana," Dumi said from down at the driver's station, "you did. At least twice."

"Oh, God, did anybody else notice?"

Dumi answered, "Just Schiebel and Sergeant James, I think. Don't worry; they won't mention it. But eventually . . . "

"It would be simpler if he'd just screw me all the time," she said. "No muss, no fuss. But he's so worried about being caught . . . " Then, "Driver halt. Back up. Back up!"

"Gunner, HEAT, tank!"

A very confused and conflicted Reilly watched the half of the armored car platoon for which he had vehicles maneuver through the bare floored jungle. He realized he had eyes only for Lana's Eland and so forced those eyes away. When, after a moment, they went back of their own accord he physically turned away and began the walk back to camp, head toward the ground.

Not far from the armored vehicle training area began the ranges. At the first of these, the Marine company worked their PUS-7 simulators for the their Victor-supplied RPG-7s. Cazz, standing behind the firing line, waved. Reilly returned the wave, politely, then looked down again, continuing on.

Past the antitank range, he came to a square, marked-off open area where one of Sergeant Peters' mortarmen ran from spot to spot, a radio on his back, dropping simulators to mark rounds called in by forward observers.

Nothing I can do there that Peters can't do as well or better, he thought, then continued his trek.

He stopped to let a Ferret pass him by, the scout car dragging behind it an empty container on log rollers. Some of Nagy's engineers took turns moving the rollers to the front of the container as they were rolled forward. The engineers dripped sweat in the equatorial heat.

And that's where we're going to hide the vehicles, the military ones, anyway, when we leave. Who knows; maybe we can recover them some day. And, if not, they'll make some interesting matters of conjecture for some future archeologists.

On the other side of the container Reilly saw Stauer, deep in conversation with Chaplain Wilson.

Guilt, Reilly thought. What I've got is a bad case of conscience. I mean, when you fail to meet even the very low standards you set for yourself . . .

On the other hand, between having a company again and having a worthwhile woman again my life is pretty much complete again. And so, of course, I feel guilty over that, too.

He walked over and said, first to Wilson, "I wish you were a Catholic. Since you're not," he turned to face Stauer, "Boss, can I have a private word with you?"