Peace World (2 page)

Despite the headache and the continued wrenching in his stomach, Grant was content.  While most men would be miserable, the weight of his pack, the view of his fellow soldier's back in front, and the feel of the rifle in his hands comforted the young soldier.  He was part of something larger than himself.  The men weren't his friends—he had not known them long enough for that—but in some strange way, they were his family.  Without exception, they would look out for him if the shit hit the fan. 

In return, he would give his best for them.

An hour into the trek, Grant's back burned with the familiar ache that accompanied toting sixty pounds of gear.  Numbness would not set in for at least another couple of hours.  His feet and legs felt good, strong.  Experience and training told him he should be able to maintain this pace, with this weight, for a dozen or more hours without a break.

Unfortunately, his guts told him something else entirely. 

He would have to stop and relieve himself again. 

Soon.

Grant gathered up his courage and closed the distance between himself and the man ahead of him, PFC John Lyons.  Although they were technically the same rank, Lyons had been with the team for six months and had seen other missions and was due for a promotion soon.

"Yo, John.  I gotta drop out for a minute."

"Dude.  We just started," Lyons threw back over his shoulder.

"Not tired.  Gotta go again."

"Dude, didn't you just go back at the drop point?"

"Yeah," Grant conceded.  "Doesn't matter.  I've gotta drop out for a minute."

"What the hell is going on, you two?" Sergeant Burns demanded from behind. He had closed the gap between them.  "Keep your mouths shut and maintain your intervals."

Burns was not pleased and Grant could not blame him. 

"Sorry, Sergeant," Grant explained.  "I gotta fall out for a minute."

"Another crap?" Burns asked knowingly.  "You sick, Justice?" 

"I guess so, Sergeant," Grant admitted.  "Headache.  Stomach pains." 

The contentment he felt at the start of the march was evaporating into embarrassment over his inability to meet the team's expectations.

"You got the runs, or is this a one-stop deal, Justice?"

Grant understood the question but didn't know how to answer it.  He'd have a better idea in a few minutes.

"Dunno.  Sorry, Sergeant."

"Damn, troop.  Not a good time," Burns said.  "Lyons, stay with Justice.  If you two don't catch up in ten, I'll halt the line and wait for you."

"Yes, Sergeant," Lyons replied.  He shook his head and watched as Burns passed him.  The displeasure on his face was evident.  Grant knew he'd catch grief from the team later on, but it couldn't be helped.

Lyons stopped, put a hand on Grant's shoulder, and pointed behind him. 

"Do your business on the trail back there.  Just hurry."

Grant immediately dropped his pack and headed back along the trail.  Within a few yards he could not see Lyons, so he stopped and fumbled with his gear.  The need to take care of Mother Nature was more urgent than ever.  The situation reminded him of something his father used to say on his way to the bathroom. 

"When Mother Nature calls, you don't put her on hold."

It was a strange time to recall his dad, who had died when he was thirteen, but it was good advice.  He just wished that Mother Nature hadn't put him on hold for the past three days. 

Grant finished the job properly this time.  It took longer than he hoped, and if Lyon's constant calls to "Hurry up, Justice," were any indication, it took too long for him as well.  Even double-timing, Grant knew they would not reach their place in line before Burns halted the team. 

Staff Sergeant Coleman was going to be pissed.

"It's about damn time," Lyons protested when Grant finally reappeared.  "Grab your stuff and let's go."

Grant was reaching for his rucksack when the
rat-a-tat-tat-tat
of numerous automatic weapons cut through the jungle from the east.  The din of fire was not the familiar sound Grant had come to expect from the team's new M-26 assault rifles. 

As soon as Grant realized the weapons being fired were not those of his fellow soldiers, the familiar sound of the M-26s joined the din.  His team was taking and returning fire.  And he and Lyons were half a kilometer away. 

So much for stealth.

Without conscious thought, he found himself sprinting behind the other man.  His rucksack had somehow made it onto his back.  It did not slow him down.

  Grant listened to the firefight being waged as they hauled ass toward it.  The enemy was firing from his left, his team from the right.  The number of enemy weapons was not significant.  He put the size of the force at no more than eight or ten, which meant the two sides were evenly matched when the battle started. 

The number of 26s returning fire seemed to have decreased, and Grant hoped it was due to them maneuvering to better positions and not by casualties.  If the drop in return fire was a result of casualties, it was likely the team had walked into an ambush.  In a fight involving equal numbers, Sergeant Coleman's team would be more than a match for anyone they encountered in this jungle. 

These thoughts were running through Grant's head when the closeness of the trail suddenly opened up to a narrow gorge on their right.  Breaking out of the jungle into sunshine was a shock, but Lyons did not slow down.  He continued along the path at full speed. 

Grant took in the small stream running east to west a hundred feet below the trail on his right.  He also recognized that the jungle rose up sharply on the left side of the trail. 

Jungle rising up on the left. 

Drop off to the stream on the right. 

Firefight a hundred meters ahead.

His team had either surprised the enemy or walked into an ambush.  Either way, the enemy had the high ground and the advantage of cover.

Damn
.

"Lyons!"  Grant slowed to a walk.

Lyons kept running. 

Grant was tempted to follow his teammate but his instincts told him to wait, assess, and then act. 

More than anything else, he wanted to enter the jungle on his left and move up, toward the attackers.  Proceeding along the path toward the firefight did not offer any advantage besides adding another weapon against the ambush.  And while that option was not without benefit, it did not seem to offer the best odds of eventual success. 

At least, not to Grant.

After an agonizing few seconds, he made his decision.

He sprinted along the path for another twenty meters, dropped his rucksack, then cut sharply to the left.  The jungle was not as thick on the hillside as it had been next to the trail behind them, but Grant still struggled to break through the vines and plants.

As he fought the growth, he ran through a mental inventory of his weapons and ammunition.  He carried six magazines, in addition to the one already loaded into his M-26, for a total of two-hundred and eighty rounds.  The newly issued Mission Master sidearm he carried held fifteen rounds.  With luck, he would not need it, since that would mean he was out of ammunition for the M-26. 

Besides the two guns, he carried a ten-inch battle knife, three stun grenades, and three of the newly manufactured sleep-agent grenades.  The stun and sleep grenades were the Army's way of compromising with the doves that seemed to be cropping up in every country.  They incapacitated the enemy without killing or leaving long-term damage.  The grenades did not exactly jive with the very lethal M-26 or the deadly Mission Master, but Grant carried what he was told to carry.

It took Grant five minutes to crest the top of the hill.  At the top, he found another trail.  This one was slightly larger than the one they had been following and appeared to be more heavily used. 

Grant turned right and loped cautiously toward the firefight.  The two sides seemed to have reached an impasse, with each side firing only every few seconds.  This fact, while good for the team in the short-term, favored the enemy in the long term.  They could receive reinforcements at any time.  Sergeant Coleman would have to radio for support and then wait for it to arrive. 

If he was still capable.

The firing from the enemy was coming from beneath Grant now, which meant the ambushers were between him and the rest of the team.  The idea of being shot by his own side went through his head.  It was just as quickly dismissed.  He would do whatever he needed to do to help his team. 

Grant followed his ears and his instincts.  Although he was above the enemy, the sound of the firing indicated they were placed along a ten-meter line in the jungle below.  He knew they could not be too far above the path where his team was pinned because of the lack of visibility.  He elected to begin on the left side of the line.

As quickly as he could, he made his way back down the slope.  Although the growth still hindered his movement to some degree, trekking down the hill was much quicker than the trek up.  Within two minutes, he saw the first of the enemy soldiers.

From his view above, he could see several of them lying prone, their weapons trained on the path twenty meters beneath them. 

He also spied three of his own team lying motionless on the path.  One was Lyons.  One was the lieutenant.  He could not quite make out the third
.
 

Grant had a new decision to make.  He could use stealth and try to take the ambushers out one at a time, or he could pick off the ones he could see and hope for the best.  With luck, he could take out half the enemy before the rest could turn their weapons back on him. 

Grant took out his battle knife, moved left.

The first three never heard him coming. 

The fourth man must have realized something was up when the firing from his left stopped and did not start back up.  He looked around just as Grant was stepping from behind a tree, his knife ready for the strike.

"¡A la chingada
!"  He called out as Grant rushed forward, hoping to close the distance between them before the enemy soldier could swing his weapon around.

He almost made it. 

*     *     *

"I woke as they were dumping me into a helicopter."  The crowd inside the mess hall had grown to forty or fifty.  All were focused on the story Grant told.  "I had three bullet holes in my left arm.  Another bullet lodged in my left leg, and another in my chest."

"Whoa.  How did the team escape?" Conway asked. 

"According to Sergeant Burns, they saw me take out the fourth soldier, and then—"

"I thought he shot you."

"He did shoot me, Conway.  But apparently I got him just a little bit better than he got me," Grant explained.  "Anyway, that was enough to turn the tide of the fight.  Burns led the rest of the team up the hill.

"The mission was blown at that point, so he called in a pickup and we got out of there.  Of the ten of us, three died and three were wounded."

One of the fighter pilots in the room raised a hand.  Grant pointed at him.

"General, you said that nations rarely fight other nations," he reminded Grant.  "What did you mean?"

"Ah, yes.  That was the point of the story, wasn't it?"

He received several nods in return.

"Here's what I mean," he began.

"When we got back to our base, the doctors patched me up.  Made sure I wasn't going to die.  Then gave me thirty days of leave while I healed."

Grant paused to collect his thoughts.  This was an important message, and they needed to hear it and understand it in the event they made it back to Earth.

"My country had been at war for three years when I got sent back.  Three of my team members had just been killed.  I was in a wheelchair.

"I don't know what I was expecting to see when I got off the plane.  I wasn't expecting bands to be playing, or crowds of people welcoming me home." Grant shook his head.  Tried to convey his sense of confusion at the time.  "None of that. But what I found was… surprising, I guess.

"No one I met that day, or for the entire thirty-day leave, ever discussed the war.  Most people I met never gave it any thought at all—it was almost like it didn't really exist.  It was a news story in the paper or on the television.  It was something that happened to other people, in another place.  Definitely no one knew that three of my team—three of my family—had been killed in a far-away country.  Except for the families of the soldiers, and the soldiers who lived through it, no one else seemed to care.

"That's what I mean," Grant said.  "With few exceptions, the country as a whole was rarely engaged.  For most, it was nothing more than a mild distraction."

Grant paused while the message settled, then drove home the point he needed to make.

"If we make it back to Earth, it will be the same for each of you," he explained.  "You will know what it was like to fight on a foreign planet.  But those who aren't here fighting with you? They will know that you were here.  They will know that you put your life on the line for them and that some of you sacrificed your lives.  There's no way they cannot know that.

"But they won't know what you know.  They won't know the soldier standing next to you didn't make it home.  They won't know what that means to you.  They won't know how it has scarred you or how it will affect you for the rest of your lives.

"To most of them, it will just be a distraction."

CHAPTER 1

Four days.

That's how long it took for Grant and his forces to pack up the mothership and be on their way.  They had defeated the Minith on the planet and it was time to move on to the next mission.  Telgora's winds, the frigid cold of the northern hemisphere, and the languid movements of the Telgorans themselves slowed the process to a crawl.  Grant had expected the wind and the cold.  He had not expected to be bombarded with demands from the locals.

He had certainly not expected to agree to the demand that fifty of their best
dindin
fighters on Telgora be allowed to join them.  But when Patahbay, the top fighter and informal leader of the Telgorans, learned that they were headed to the planet Waa, he had insisted—and Grant knew that when a Telgoran insisted, nothing short of war would change their mind.