Hero (19 page)

"Fire mission, target moving tanks." Galil said. He rapped out a series of coordinates and then listened. "Confirmed. ASAP, fire."

At two hundred meters, even with sight as acute as Ari's, the face of the tank commander should have been only a blur, a fleshy blob in the sights.

But all of a sudden it was the face of a person, a man of perhaps twenty or twenty-five standard years, his remarkably ordinary face streaked with sweat and dirt, and while it wasn't at all possible that the Freiheimer could see him, he was just at that moment looking directly at Ari.

Ari couldn't shoot him in the face. He couldn't. His fingers trembled, and the Freiheimer's face jerked out of his sights.

But he pulled the trigger anyway.

CHAPTER 12

Yitzhak Galil: Green light

Three shells blew on the edge of town.
Blam. Blam. Blam.

And then there was silence.

"You'll have two shots, at most," Yitzhak Galil whispered. "I want the armor company CO. Do it." There was no time; Galil had to use the asshole as the sniper. Galil couldn't shoot, not with his hand swollen and useless, like a pregnant woman's belly; and he couldn't get either Benyamin Hanavi or Lavon up and ready for a shot, not in a minute or two.

Ari Hanavi looked at Galil as if Galil were crazy, but it didn't matter what Ari Hanavi thought. Things were about to get too hot in Trainville for the defenders to be worrying about a stray sniper. It would make the division's job of crashing through easier if the tank company were leaderless. Advancing toward an attacking enemy—even in a tank, even if you were only moving into prepared defensive positions—was difficult to get soldiers to do, and they might fall apart if the leader were gone.

And for sure it would inhibit at least one tank if its commander were dead in the hatch, bleeding out and emptying his sphincters on everything and everybody underneath him.

And, besides, in a half an hour, this would stop being Galil's command and become Marko Giacobazzi's forward observer post. Galil, Lavon and the two Hanavis would just be along for the ride, just to keep Giacobazzi from being bothered or killed while the Casa spotted for the artillery. Yitzhak Galil hated the idea of turning over his command without having drawn blood.

"Do it."

The idiot started to poke the rifle through the grasses covering the observation port.

"No," Galil whispered. "Move back a bit."

Ari Hanavi complied, then started fiddling with the rifle.

"Get on with it, get on with it."

"Shut up, Captain," Ari Hanavi said.

Benyamin Hanavi grumbled something behind him.

"Everybody, wake up," Galil said, unnecessarily. "It's on. Marko, it's yours as of 0900." He took a stim from his belt pouch, slipping it and some grit under his tongue. Galil had held off on the drugs until now; he'd had to. Taken over too long a time, they could screw up your judgment.

It didn't matter which. They all lied to you: morphine told you the world was all cozy and warm and safe. Amphetamines and cocaine only told you that you could do anything. Right now that was a harmless lie. His head cleared and the pain in his swollen hand became a distant ache.

There was no need to be stalling. It was a tough shot, but it wasn't going to get easier. The wind was blowing almost right in their faces and it kept the leaves and grasses in near constant motion. "Wind at 12:30," Galil said. "Light—maybe four klicks per hour."

Fire, asshole. Fire the fucking rifle.

No—it made sense. Maybe the asshole wasn't such an asshole after all; he was aiming a bit to the left, to the crossroads where the chewed-up ground showed that the tanks tended to leave the tarmac for the fields. They'd have to pause for a moment, and unless they buttoned up before they did, it might give Hanavi a decent headshot.

The tanks slowed.

If this worked, it would be a good idea to give the Freiheimers something else to think of. In addition to bossing the regimental mortars, Asher Greenberg was theoretically liasing for division artillery. Only liasing, not commanding—but if Galil knew the squat little man as well as he thought he did, Greenberg would have already built some shortcuts into the relationship.

Galil punched for the RHQ freak and thumbed the squash radio to
live
.
"Kelev One Twenty for Deir Yasin Twenty," he said.

Greenberg must have been guarding the freak himself. "Deir Yasin Twenty," he said.

"Fire mission, target moving tanks." Galil said, looking down at the map, confirming the numbers he already knew.

"I have you on map Zayin Twelve Eleven."

"Confirmed. Crossroads at eight-six, seven-five."

"Crossroads at eight-six, seven-five."

"Confirmed. ASAP, fire."

"Battery one, fire.
On
the way." Even radio protocol couldn't hide the sense of self-satisfaction in Asher Greenberg's voice that he not only could get the Casa arty commander to fire off six rounds of anti-tank without passing it along as a request, but that he could do so immediately. "Spot for me, Kelev."

Galil already had the binocs up against his face as Ari Hanavi pulled the trigger, the crisp snap of the rifle loud in his ears, the expelled shell clicking against Galil's helmet as it bounced away. Galil waited for the company commander to slump down in the hatch, but nothing happened. He didn't even duck down at the sound of a bullet hissing by, or the high ringing of it ricocheting off the tank's armor.

Hanavi fired again, and again nothing happened.

"Hit the bastard, asshole."

"You said two shots—"

"One more, and this time make it count."

Galil turned to look at Ari Hanavi. His rifle was fitted to his shoulder with perfect form, his grip and cheek weld were classic.

But Ari Hanavi was shooting with his eyes closed.

"Relieved, asshole." Yitzhak Galil reached out his good hand for the rifle, but it was no use. Damn, damn, damn Yitzhak, son of Moshe, for not having forced the issue with Shimon.

It was too late, anyway; the tanks were hightailing across the fields, buttoning up at the scream of the incoming rounds.

Something had come over the radio, but Galil hadn't heard it.

"Anybody catch that?" Galil said.

Benyamin Hanavi was grinning, but it didn't mean anything. The ugly man always grinned. "Message begins: 'Shimon to Yitzhak. End of foreplay. Time to fuck them. Careful linking up.' Message ends." He was reassembling his own oily Barak as he spoke, his hands moving swiftly but surely.

Shells screamed downward toward the town, terminating in a flash of smoke and flame. The Casas had overshot the tanks, but that didn't matter. There were men to kill in the town, too. And everyone that the artillery killed now was one more that Bar-El's regiment wouldn't have to kill in clearing the town.

Beyond a low rise, a triple fork of fire lanced into the blue sky, leaving a cloud of smoke behind.

"In case you missed it, Hanavi," Galil said. "That was three Freiheimer tanks firing off rounds toward the line of departure, toward where our brothers and cousins are. You—"

He stopped himself. There was work to do and no time for recriminations, not now. Galil punched for the local freak on the squash radio. "FO's, over to you. Sharpshooters, exit the OP; continue mission as snipers. One man to remain in OP as guard. Acknowledge, no voice," he said, then squeezed the transmit button.

One by one, three green lights flickered on.

Marko Giacobazzi had poked the antenna of his own radio up through the tarp and was stretched out next to Galil, muttering something into his microphone. He raised his head.

"Spot fired," Giacobazzi said. His dirty face was smiling.

"Good," Galil kicked Hanavi. "Get out of Lieutenant Giacobazzi's way—he's got work to do." He turned to the Casa. "Over to—"

Ari Hanavi's face was white. "I tried, I—"

"Shut
up
." Galil helped Giacobazzi forward. The Casa had his own clipboard ready, and was checking off targets with a grease pencil.

"The church first, you think?" he asked.

"Your call, sir," Galil said. It wasn't Galil's observation post, not anymore. All the data he had gathered had been sucked out of the squash radio and was being digested at RHQ for presentation to the Casas. Now it was Giacobazzi's turn to spot targets for the artillery, and the Metzadans were just along for the ride.

Moving around would be dangerous, but there was zero, zip, no chance that the Freiheimers would be out patrolling in the shrapnel rain.

"Well," Galil said, finally letting himself speak with a full voice, "it looks like we made it, so far. Noise discipline is lifted. With your permission, sir," he said to the Casa.

"Permission granted, sir." Giacobazzi produced a canteen and took a swig, then passed it to Galil before turning back to his binoculars, charts and radio.

Galil took a swallow. It was a strong red wine, tannic enough to clear the slime from his teeth. He passed the canteen back to Benyamin Hanavi. Yitzhak Galil was tempted to explain to Ari Hanavi how much trouble he was in, but if Ari Hanavi had known how much trouble he was in, he would have stuck the barrel of the sniper rifle in his mouth and saved everybody the trouble.

Benyamin Hanavi drank, but he had stopped smiling.

Galil was in no hurry to try linking up; it was close to dusk before his reassembled platoon staggered into the town.

Trainville made him feel the way a freshly liberated town always did: why bother?

Thick smoke hung in the air. The burning wood wasn't bad, but occasionally he would get a reek of charred flesh. The streets were scattered with rubble and bodies, mainly Freiheimers, leavened with some Casas. No Metzadans, but that didn't mean anything. The regiment wouldn't leave its dead on the same ground as the Frei.

What walls hadn't been smashed were decorated with bullet holes. The smoldering hulks of two tanks stood squared off in the main street, the Casa tank turretless, the charred mass in the open hatch of the Freiheimer tank only recognizable because Galil had seen bodies burned that badly before.

The Casa armor had already stomped through the center of Trainville and continued onward, leaving the major defenses smashed, but the town was by no means secured: off in the distance, Baraks stuttered, punctuated by the occasional higher-pitched
crack
of Freiheimer rifles on single-shot.

"I get the impression," Skolnick said, "that the Freiheimers aren't going to make this easy on us."

Lavon chuckled. "Gee, that's unusual."

Shimon Bar-El had set up his tactical operations center in an abandoned slaughterhouse and had established his command group two blocks away, in the train station on the edge of town. Outside, a battered tank stood guard, mounted on a pair of field jacks while a Casa team changed a broken set of treads. The tank was wounded, yes, but it was not dead—the engine still chugged and spat, and the turret swung quickly in their general direction as they approached, stopping well before it lined up on them as they were recognized.

The train station was a good place for a command group, Galil decided. The stone building was whole enough and the walls thick enough to offer some concealment and cover.

Then again, nobody was asking his goddamn opinion.

"Take ten, people," he said. "I'll see where we're billeted."

The rest of the men slumped to the ground, but Benyamin Hanavi didn't. "I'll help you, Captain."

Skolnick started to say something, but Galil waved him to silence.

As they walked up the steps, past the guards and into the building, Galil scratched uncomfortably at an itch under his armpit. He didn't like being with the command group. His usual place was in the tactical operations center, keeping things running. The TOC was the usual babble of talk and rattling typers; here, only a half dozen clerks sorted through flimsies coming off the printers, prioritizing them for the general's attention; only three communicators spoke into their masks while their fingers flew across typers.

Somebody had nailed a map of Trainville up on the far wall. While Dov Ginsberg watched the room unceasingly, Shimon was going over the map with Natan Horowitz, Tetsuo Hanavi and Chiabrera.

That was about right, Galil decided. The commander ought to have the liaison officer and the ops officer near him, and maybe the S3's assistant, but it made sense to keep the deputy commander and the chief of staff in the TOC.

Galil would have added the intelligence officer to the command group, but again, nobody was asking him. Nobody was asking him much of anything on this one.

"My guess," Shimon was saying, "is that the Frei are going to counterstrike, somewhere around here. Figure, oh, forty-eight to seventy-two hours."

"Which makes securing this town even more important, eh?" Horowitz was clean and rested and bright-eyed. Hell, he was even freshly shaved, his smooth chin marked by two red nicks.

"Exactly," Bar-El said. He took a good look at Galil, then turned back to Horowitz.

Horowitz nodded. "I should be able to handle things for a minute."

Shimon Bar-El jerked his head toward a doorway, gesturing at Tetsuo to come along. "Then handle things, Natan," Bar-El said, leading Galil and the rest through the doorway into what had been the kitchen of the station.

It wouldn't be good as a kitchen, not soon; strikers had blown two mouseholes in the walls, and followed it with grenades that had shattered every plate and glass in the place, as well as puncturing bags and jars of staples, scattering flour and rice and beans on the floor. The bodies had been carried out, but their smell remained.

Dov Ginsberg followed without asking, standing next to rather than leaning on a wall, his shotgun clutched in his good hand.

"How's your hand, Yitzhak?" Shimon asked.

Galil held it up. Where it wasn't dirty, it was red; the hand had swollen to half again its normal size, and was missing the three outer fingernails.

"You'd better see the medician."

"Never mind that—I want Ari Hanavi out, Shimon," Galil said. "Don't give a shit how good he looks on paper—he froze on me twice. Two out of two. He's gone, General, and I don't care who he's related to."