Hero (23 page)

There was a tradition in the clan for officers to carry old weapons instead of modern ones, which went against the standard Metzadan notion that an officer's personal weapon is a device intended to be used in assault and defense, and not the equivalent of a swagger stick. There was Grandfather Yitzhak's 1911 Colt, and Shlomo's bowie knife that supposedly had been used by Jim Bridger himself, and which somebody in the family had looted from a museum during the suppression of the NAF Rebellion. There was also Tetsuo's penchant for his ancient daisho, but that was different, he decided. He was quite good with the paired swords. They weren't for show.

But, mostly, the clan's officers' weapons were for style rather than effect: for serious work, most of them had no problem picking up an assault rifle—and using it to good effect.

In Ari's case it didn't matter, not if he couldn't even make a decent shot with a sniper rifle. So he carried an expert's weapon. A bit of a bluff.

And a bit of style, Tetsuo had to admit.

Again, Zuchelli smiled his approval. "I was on our Olympic team, myself, back before the war started." He sighed. "I was getting ready for the trip to Old Greece when the war broke out. Perhaps, if we have a bit of free time, we could shoot for fun."

"Perhaps," Ari said noncommittally.

Tetsuo didn't like the DF officer, and he didn't think much of Zuchelli's coarse attempts to ingratiate himself with him and Ari. He guessed that Zuchelli figured that he couldn't manipulate them with fear. With Dov and Tetsuo unofficially guarding Ari's body, and with Shimon's protection against the official wrath of the DF, they were immune to his displeasure.

And since fear wasn't available, perhaps a bit of camaraderie might work.

Or maybe nothing would work.

Ari held out his hand for the pistol, slid the clip in, then holstered the weapon with the chamber empty. Tetsuo approved. Some people carry pistols with a round chambered, but anybody as clumsy as Ari was more likely to shoot himself in the leg than be able to take advantage of the slight reduction in alert-to-first-shot.

Dammit, little brother, you do everything right except fight when you're supposed to.

Finally, the pitch of the skimmer's engine slowed and the vehicle ground to a sluggish halt. The other skimmer—the one carrying the DF squad—stopped behind them.

Tetsuo clapped a hand to Ari's shoulder. "You're on, little one."

Ari shoved his hand away.

"Fuck you, too, brother," he said. He swung the door open, vaulted to the ground and walked around to the cargo compartment.

"Captain Tetsuo Hanavi. Private Ginsberg. Get out here."

Dov visibly considered it for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, sir," he said, exiting the compartment, not quite slouching.

"I know what your job for Shimon, is," Ari said in a low voice that couldn't have carried further than a few meters. "I'm not quite as stupid as you think I am. It's was obvious: Captain Ari Hanavi is either going to fight bravely and effectively, or he is going to die bravely in combat. No problem. But until those orders of his apply, you obey mine. Understood?"

"Captain . . ." Dov started slowly.

"I'll handle this." Tetsuo hitched at his rifle's sling. "If you'll remember, Ari, Dov is under my command, not yours. Understand me?"

Ari smiled as he turned to Tetsuo. It was Shimon's arrogant smile. "And if you'll remember, Captain, I am a line officer. You are staff. And this is my area of operations, not yours. You will release Dov to my service, now. Do you understand me?"

Zuchelli and his bodyguards had been watching the discussion with interest, and a few dozen grimy, weary soldiers had gathered, clearly preferring to watch an argument between officers to unloading the supplies that still stood stacked in the skimmer's cargo compartment.

Tetsuo looked at Ari, and then at the crowd, and then back at Ari. Officially, Ari had no right to make any sort of demand like this; Tetsuo wasn't under his command, wasn't subject to his orders. Maybe Tetsuo could make him back down—he'd always been able to do that when they were younger—but he couldn't make him back down publicly and then expect him to lead the company.

Tetsuo let a thin smile spread across his face. He nodded. "As you will. You're working for Ari, Dov."

"Yes, sir." It didn't really matter to Dov. He would do what Shimon had ordered him to do, and when he ordered him to do it, and it didn't matter who pretended to command him until then.

"Try again, Tetsuo," Ari said. "I'm the commanding officer hereabouts. You're not, Captain," he said. "That makes me senior, regardless of time-in-rank, no?"

Tetsuo was getting irritated, but this wasn't the time to show it. "Yes, sir. As you will, sir."

It's just form, Ari, and it doesn't make any difference. Just remember to shout, "Follow me,"
Tetsuo thought.

Please.

CHAPTER 16

Flares

"Try again, Tetsuo," Ari said. "I'm the commanding officer hereabouts. You're not, Captain," he said. "That makes me senior, regardless of time-in-rank, no?"

Ari Hanavi considered the soldiers crowding around the skimmers. They were all dirty, and he couldn't see among them a set of shoulders that wasn't stooped. Some of them, staring blankly, were just too far gone to do anything without orders. For the others, it was probably more tired fun to see if they could spot the new company commander as a fraud than it would be to unload some cargo.

"Yes, sir," Tetsuo said. "As you will, sir."

The skimmers had stopped on what probably had been a helo landing zone—a fifty-meter clearing in the slimy forest, hidden from observation on either side by rises in the gently rolling ground. Ari looked around for watch posts on the rises, but couldn't see any. Which meant that either they were well-concealed or that they weren't there.

That a new commanding officer has to establish himself as being in command was something Ari had learned in school. Needling his big brother came naturally.

"Better." Ari turned to the nearest of the Casalinguese soldiers, a ragged private whose long face was stubbled with beard and caked with dirt. "Your name and unit, soldier."

At that moment, Zuchelli and two DF storm troopers stepped into sight, their uniforms clean, their brass sparkling.

The soldier was silent for a long, long moment. "De Sanctis," he said, slowly. "Private Rafael . . . De Sanctis. First . . . Platoon." He passed a tired hand across the deep black pits of his eyes.

"Easy, Ari," Tetsuo muttered. "Burn-out case."

"Hey, Captain, you got a problem with Rafe?" A scraggle-bearded corporal interposed himself between Ari and De Sanctis.

"You are?"

The corporal tapped at the nametag over his heart. "Rienzi, Dominic. Fireteam B, Second Section, First Platoon. What's it to you, Captain?"

"Corporal—" Zuchelli started.

"I'll handle this, Major," Ari said. He wasn't a real officer, but a real officer wouldn't let somebody else discipline his men. He turned back to Rienzi. "Fair question, Corporal. My name is Hanavi; I'm the new CO. Three things, Corporal Rienzi. Number one, except in a combat situation, every dog gets one bite. You've just had yours. Dov."

He had heard that tone in Shimon's voice a couple of times; he wanted to try it on for size.

Rienzi started as he heard the
chick-chick
of Dov's shotgun being pumped.

"As you were, Private Ginsberg. Number two, Corporal: you keep your eyes on me when I'm talking to you."

Actually, number two had been intended to be something about sirring and saluting an officer, but Ari was improvising. It was more important right now that he seem to know what he was doing than anything else.

"Number three, and last: while I'm in command of this company, you don't have to worry about Major Zuchelli and the Distacamento de la Fedeltà having you hanged. You don't have to worry about protecting your friend De Sanctis from them. That's an order. Understood?"

He didn't know whether Rienzi's smile came from relief or exhaustion. "Yes, sir."

"The reason for that, Corporal, is that dead men don't get hanged. If anyone gives me any trouble," he said, drawing the Desert Eagle and working the slide, pumping a round into the chamber, "I'll burn him down where he stands."

The 10mm Desert Eagle had more of a maw than a bore. Although Ari kept it carefully pointed to the side, it got Rienzi's attention. So did the flat tone with which he delivered the threat.

If I can't really be an officer, I can at least fake it,
he decided. It didn't matter that his heart pounded in his chest, and that his palms were slick with sweat, not as long as he kept his voice level, not as long as he didn't wipe his hands. "I can't hear you, Rienzi. You understand me?"

"Yessir."

Ari raised his voice. "Pass the word. The Metzadan bastard is here, he knows what he's doing, and he's in charge."

One, maybe two out of three wasn't bad. He turned to one of the open-mouthed NCOs. "You, sergeant . . . Adatzi, is it? Good. Senior NCO call in ninety minutes—section leaders and up. I want to see the officers half an hour before. Tell the first sergeant and the exec that they're to find me on the double; I'll be looking over the camp. And tell the cooks three things: first, that they'll be in the assault. Second, if the food—anyone's food—is as badly prepared as everything else around here seems to be, they'll be part of the force
leading
the assault, right behind me. Third, tell them if I don't see a bunch of well-fed soldiers by nightfall, they'll be wearing day-glo orange rompers while leading the assault,"

This sergeant broke into a broad smile. "Yes, sir. Do you want those calls in the mess tent, sir? Or—"

"Mess tent. Move out. Rienzi, don't you have anything better to do than stand there with your thumb up your ass? Enlist some volunteers and get those skimmers unloaded."

He turned and started to walk away, Zuchelli and his men walking with him. "Dov, stay close by. Tetsuo, you go find Major Zuchelli and his men a place to pitch their tents. I'll see them and you after the staff meeting."

Zuchelli opened his mouth to protest. But Ari turned his back and walked away, opening the chamber of the Desert Eagle, ejecting the round. He stooped to pick the cartridge up, then removed the clip and thumbed the round back in. 10mm ammunition wasn't easy to get hold of, but that wasn't why he was going to the trouble.

It gave him something to do with his hands. Besides trembling.

He slammed the clip home and holstered the pistol. This hadn't meant anything. He knew he could handle himself in bivouac. That had never been an issue. There was only one real question: was he going to freeze in the face of the enemy?

No, that wasn't the real question: when he froze, how long was it going to be before Dov burned him down?

Nobody was looking, but he didn't wipe his sweaty palms on his khakis.

Aaron Leumi's
Commanding Foreign Troops
has a long chapter on how a Metzadan officer often has to lower his expectations and standards when commanding foreign troops. Metzadan officers are all too used to Metzadan soldiers, who are not only better-trained than all but elite offworld troops, but who are usually contractually protected from being on active status for more than five hundred consecutive hours.

Downtime is just as important for men as it is for machines. More important: men are more valuable than machines. On Metzada, it takes about nine months plus an additional seventeen years to make a soldier. Machines can be made much more quickly.

But the Casalinguese army was not giving time off, at least not on the north part of the front. Casalingpaesa had been in a war with Freiheim for better than two years, Giacometti's brigade had been engaged for almost a year, and Company F hadn't been out of contact with the enemy for better than a hundred of the overlong local days, and they looked it. There is a kind of impenetrable dirtiness that a worn-out soldier gets, where the grit seems permanently bonded to the flesh and the soul. Maybe that was it. It wasn't just the stubbled faces, the lukewarm food, the clothes in rags. It was the lack of hope in the faces, the conviction that all they had to do was go on for a while, for just a little bit longer, just stumble for a few more hours, until they met the only real rest they would find, in the grave.

He didn't really have a company. What he had was a collection of the walking dead.

There were some exceptions. The first sergeant was one.

While the Casalingpaesesercito was a people's army, with all its flaws, First Sergeant Luigi Matteotti was the kind of professional NCO that the Sergeant used to talk about.

"You'll see them in a lot of places," he'd said. "Mainly around the sort of gentleman officer setup like they have in New Britain, over on Thellonee. Make no mistake—their NCOs are one of the main reasons the New Brits consistently kick the shit out of the 'Zbaallah: if you're going to handicap your army by effectively restricting your officer selection to unblooded members of your upper class, you'd damned well better have superb company-level NCOs."

Like Matteotti. Not that he looked like much, unless you looked close. He was a pudgy little man, round-faced under a hairline that was racing for the back of his neck. His camouflage-mottled ODs wouldn't have looked particularly neat when new; he was the sort that could wrinkle a brand-new formal mess uniform just by looking at it.

But there was something in his eyes as he drew himself up straight and threw a measured salute, holding it until Ari returned it.

No, it wasn't that bullshit "look of eagles" Ari had read about. He didn't know what that look was. What he saw in Matteotti was an absence of panic, worry, desperation.

It was the way his brother Benyamin used to look at him.

"First Sergeant Luigi Matteotti reporting to the commanding officer, sir," he said, handing him a clipboard with a flimsy on it. It was a standard assumption-of-command-and-acceptance-of-responsibility form. Ari scribbled the usual subject-to-subsequent-sight-inventory codicil, signed his name and handed it back, trying to look as though he had done it a thousand times before.