In the Valley (40 page)

T
he operation was over, and Paul’s combat harness had become an unbearable burden. While Second Company filed out of Pashto Khel, Paul and Z sat by a low wall and relaxed. Paul sat in such a way that the wall took the weight of the harness off his shoulders; it relieved the pain somewhat.

All of the tension of the past hours was draining from Paul like water through a sluice; he reached into his pouch and produced yet another near-cig. He lit up and watched the troopers walk by. Bashir was standing with his platoon leaders; they were discussing the day’s events.

Z had finally sent the wounded packing back to the firebase; a number of Juneau soldiers had been detailed to get them there. Apparently, the shuttles overhead, with Mighty Mike aboard, would provide the battalion with medevac once the operation was completely wrapped up and all of Third Battalion was back at Firebase Atarab, safe and mostly sound.

Paul’s hand started to get the shakes. He grabbed his cig out of that hand and held it at his side. He didn’t want the medic to see it. Z might start looking really closely at his combat-stress table in his halo.

He wanted to finish his tour with the team, no matter what it took. If he were lying in some combat-stress recovery ward in Jade, he would feel like he was letting everyone down. Also, he knew someone, probably Green, would have to take up his slack.

He would do whatever was in his power not to let that happen. He could fall apart when he got to a safe area, not here, not in combat. He knew that was probably a counterproductive attitude, but it was no less true.

Z-man spoke up. “Hey, sir, you know what I saw when we were back at Kill-a-Guy?”

Paul took a drag and exhaled. “Don’t keep me waitin’, Z.”

“I caught a news feed out of Jade, and they were sayin’ they found some kinda intelligent life artifact on some world called Brasilia 4.” Z had said “intelligent life artifact” with caution, as if he was trying to get his head wrapped around the concept.

Paul snorted. “Sure as fuck ain’t no intelligent life artifacts around here, Z.”

“Well, don’t that change a lot of things? Don’t that turn what we know about these worlds we been settlin’ on its head?

Paul took another drag, tired beyond words. “Don’t know, Z, and I don’t fuckin’ care. We ain’t leavin’ here alive, anyhow, so what’s it matter?”

Z looked hurt. He mumbled, “Well, I thought it was a big deal.”

It was a big deal, thought Paul. He wondered briefly what Amy would say about that, and then he forced himself not to think of her. All he could do was focus on the present—shit that happened in far-off star systems wouldn’t keep him from catching a slug in the face in the here and now. And he was never going back to Old Earth—he was deathly certain of that. He couldn’t see surviving till tomorrow, actually.

Bashir came over. With a grunt, Paul made himself stand up to talk.

“What’s up, Bashir, my friend?”

“We are pulling out now. Third Battalion has defeated its enemies in battle; now we will leave.” He sounded subdued, drained.

That sounded good to Paul. He turned around and gave Z-man a helping hand up. Second Company and Third Battalion started to pull out of Pashto Khel for the last time. Paul turned his back on the accursed village and never looked back.

His delight in leaving the village only carried him so far, of course, before his combat harness started to kill his shoulders again. With each step, the misery sank deeper and deeper into his bones.

His rifle wouldn’t sit right. It felt as if it was made of lead. His helmet’s straps seemed to wear holes in his face. His arm and head ached. In short, everything about the trip out of the village really, really sucked.

He kept turning his head, expecting the shooting to start again at any time. The motion only made his collar chafe his neck. The stark light from the sun, already well up into the sky, bored into his eyes; he had a fierce headache from the light. He was slightly dizzy and wondered whether he had had enough to drink.

Each new rice dike he came across was a fresh torture; each dirt clod threatened to turn his ankle. And he wasn’t even to the cliff yet. That was going to be a pack of fun. Seeing the cliff in the daylight made him wonder how anyone had gotten up it in the pitch dark. The toeholds that the village women used were ridiculous, and they were made for bare feet, not a heavily loaded soldier wearing boots. Finally, he reached the bottom of the cliff and headed for the bridge, Z in tow.

Green awaited him there. He had a spacey look in his eyes. He seemed not to be firing on all cylinders.

“Hey, Green. Ready to get out of here?”

Green looked at him, his eyes bloodshot. With difficulty, he spoke. “They shot at me.” He looked off into the distance.

Paul spoke softly. “Yeah, that happens sometimes. Come on, bud; let’s get out of here.”

Green fell in with him and Z-man, and they climbed the rickety bridge over the Baradna River. Paul looked down at midstream; the water rushed along the edges, but here in the middle, it was peaceful and blue. Paul felt like jumping in.

I must be a little slaphappy, he thought. If he went for a swim, he would miss his ride. Apparently, up ahead they would be riding back in the Juneaus’ ground-cars; they only had to travel another two kilometers.

The journey seemed to take forever to Paul. Everything hurt—everything. Finally, when they reached sight of the road, Paul felt like singing hosannas. The soldiers made the final few hundred meters in silence, each one suffering in his own way.

They climbed one last steep embankment to get to the road. Paul’s muscles strained to make it up the grade. He was covered in sweat. When he got to the top of the embankment, Paul checked the time. It was 1015 local. The day had just begun, and it had seemed to stretch out forever.

Paul set some Juneaus and Z in a small perimeter, so they had local security; he plopped down next to a boulder and lit up a cig. He had made another mission—and a decent one at that.

An ancient-tech loudspeaker sounded in the local language. It called for able-bodied men to attend funerals for the fallen. The speaker called for them to help bury the dead.

Attending to corpses was one thing they were damn good at on Juneau 3. In Paul’s opinion, it was the only virtue the place had.

He watched a line of ground-cars arrive. Paul, Green, and Z got into one. They rode in exhausted silence back to Firebase Atarab.

On the bridge by the turnoff leading onto the firebase, the colonel was standing there with Fox and Butter in suits. The Juneau ground-car rolled to a halt next to the three men.

The colonel slid up his visor. “Welcome back, fellas.”

Green spoke up. “Glad to be back.” Those were the first words he had spoken since the little bridge over the river.

Fox spoke next. “Good fuckin’ job, guys!”

Z-man said thanks. Paul had nothing to say. All he could think about was the look on the little girl’s face by the village whose father he had killed. He felt zero pride.

The truck pulled up to the little camp and let the men off. Paul walked over to his miserable cot and dropped his trash on the ground. He tossed his battle rifle on his cot and unfastened the helmet and let it drop. He really had to crap again, so he ran his fingers through his hair and made his way over to the field latrine. The sun beat down on his head. He was alive, again.

As he sat on the folding-chair toilet, a shuttle came in. It was taking away the wounded and the dead.

Z walked over; his face was beaming. The word had come down. Its enemies defeated, Third Battalion was pulling out of the valley.

T
hird Battalion may have pulled out of the valley, but the valley would never leave Paul. As he stood at the position of attention in the windswept motor pool, gray clouds slid across the sky. They hinted at the winter to come. The breeze tugged at Paul’s cams; the aches in his soul and body meshed together into a kind of blood pudding, rich and malodorous.

The new rank of captain sat upon his chest, freshly placed by the colonel’s own hand. The colonel was addressing the assembled men, telling of Paul’s deeds. Paul listened to him as images scrolled through his mind. He thought of a woman falling down a set of steps, the impact of a recoilless rifle round, and the screams of children. He heard the chatter of a machine gun, the muezzin’s call to prayer.

Combat. They were the memories of the fights the team had faced together, and Paul loved his teammates like brothers. He felt a fierce pride in what they had accomplished and pain about what he as a soldier had wrought.

This was his finest hour. A man who was honorable was honoring Paul. He had successfully concluded his tour of duty on Juneau 3 with Team 1.69. As Paul stood in front of the little formation, he looked at the faces before him without moving his eyes.

He would miss the soldiers of the assembled team, and he would forget none of them. Paul knew that the force’s medical corps wanted to talk with him; their pings had become a little too insistent. If this was his last mission, then so be it. Paul and Team 1.69 had done their best. Their spaceship off of godforsaken Juneau awaited them.

His words concluded, formalities met, the colonel dismissed the formation. The job was done.

J
ason Lambright is a retired combat veteran of the US Army. He lives with his wife and children in the Ohio Valley. Every day is a blessing to him, and he likes to sit on his porch and watch the sun go down. He is a lifelong science fiction fan who one day decided to write a book;
In the Valley
is the result. The author has done his best to write a realistic, unvarnished work of military science fiction from the mudfoot’s view. The combat arms, after all, bear the burden of their country’s political choices. Throughout the centuries, that fact has not and will not change. This book is their tale.