CHAPTER 3
Warrior's Reflex
It was one of the reasons that they were valuable, that other worlds paid them, and it was something a Metzadan was supposed to carry with him, inside him. Ari had always known he didn't have it.
His Uncle Tzvi had explained it best, years ago, one night when Ari was guesting at his table. Ari had said something stupid—he didn't remember what—and the Sergeant had just smiled.
"Lesson time," Tzvi Hanavi had said. He was a constant, the Sergeant was: he was always a big man, even after Ari had reached his full growth, always freshly shaven, his cheeks lightly dusted with talc. Always patient when Ari didn't understand. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, tenting stubby fingers in front of his thick lips. His eyes went vague and distant.
"See," he said, slowly, carefully, "when it all hits the fan, most soldiers take cover. Instinct; built-in. Ninety-seven percent of green offworlders are useless as a bucket of warm piss in the first minute of a firefight, and only about ten percent get better in the first five minutes. Some of them don't use their guns at all, some fire blindly. Some freeze in place; most take cover and cower. A few take cover, then get hold of themselves, and then aim, but they're in the minority.
"Blooded troops are better, but not much. Figure fifty percent of their riflemen return fire with any effectiveness—tops. It's instinct.
"Which is why the real firepower from the opposition'll come from their autoguns and mortars. The crew-manned weapons, not their rifles—and for shit's sake, not the officers' pistols. You been taught about priority of fire?"
Ari had nodded.
"Right. The reason you go for their autoguns first isn't that they fire faster or have more ammo than the rifles—it's because the autogunners will usually aim and fire, so that's where their real firepower is.
"We're different. From age eight you've been taught—what? Bap. Bap. Bap. Bap. What do you do, first thing when you're fired on? Quickly, now: Bap—"
"Warrior's reflex: I return fire until—"
"Bap."
"—the weapon is cleared, while—"
"Bap."
"—seeking cover forward, reload and—"
"Bap."
"—empty the second magazine," Ari had said quickly.
"Good boy. Damn straight you do."
The drills and the training routines had driven in the words and the feel of it: of the lock-load-charge-auto-aim-fire if the weapon was unloaded, of the charge-auto-aim-fire if it was loaded, of diving to the ground, the slam of the rifle butt into the ground to break the fall, rolling over onto his side for cover while reloading, finding hasty targets while he emptied his second magazine. Each step had been analyzed, each step had been practiced thousands and thousands of times until it was the most natural thing in the world. And there had been more: the drugs and hypno sessions that he could only dimly recall, all to make the warrior's reflex as automatic and involuntary as the gag reflex.
"It just might keep you alive," the Sergeant had said. "Sure to keep some of your cousins and brothers alive who'd be dead otherwise. Works in a lot of situations, not just charging an ambush. Indirect fire, too. Most of the time—"
"Tzvi—enough. Let the boy eat," Aunt Tabe'in, the Sergeant's new wife, had interrupted. She was a small, dark woman from clan Aroni, mainly of Beta Yisroel stock. With a quick flick of her hand she tried to wave the discussion away.
The Sergeant took her hand, gently but firmly, and put it in her lap. "No," he had said, speaking as patiently but adamantly as he had lectured Ari. "There's nothing more important than Warrior's Reflex."
The bus banked to the right and the whole world skewed as it slipped into the ditch, its hull ringing dully as the bus slammed into the far side of the ditch, bounced once and crashed down hard, slamming Ari against his safety straps.
Hundreds, thousands, millions of guns were going off, most of them in his ears.
"Make it stop, please make it stop," Yitzhak Slepak shrilled.
Ari sagged forward against the straps, unable to move. All he could do was huddle there while the others emptied their weapons, some reloading, some kicking open the emergency exits on the far side of the bus.
The shots were quieter than they should have been, each bang in the stream somehow more distinct than it ought to have been, than it ever had been in practice.
His fingers, white against the stock of his rifle, couldn't move. It was supposed to be: click the fire selector to full auto, his thumb pushing hard on the selector's sharp checkering, then pull the stubby charging bolt back, aim and fire, the muzzle blast putting what was almost a beam of light on the target, but all he could do was huddle there, a dampness at his crotch.
"Okay, everybody," Benyamin's voice said over his headset, calm and level, "out the far side."
"The kid fr—"
"Shut up. Help me with him." Two pairs of rough hands clutched at the shoulders of Ari's tunic, more carrying him than pushing him toward the window.
"All even numbers: I need a quick spray to starboard. Do it now and reload." Shimon Bar-El's voice cut through the gunshots and the smoke and the decreasing whine of the bus's fans. "Everyone: as you exit, spray the bushes and stay down, in the ditch. There'll be claymores on the starboard side and we've got nowhere to run."
Laskov and Lavon half-carried Ari to a window and half-threw him through it.
Now, trained reflexes didn't betray him: when he hit the ground, he let his knees give, falling forward, breaking the fall with the butt of his Barak.
"Where's Orde?" Benyamin asked.
Laskov grunted. "Caught one in the eye."
Ari crouched in the dirt, his rifle still clutched tightly in his hands, with nothing but his chestpack.
That should be enough. It held his ammo and a spare knife and—
"Shit, people, where the fuck are they?"
It was all smoke and fire and sound. From off in the smoke, Baraks stuttered and the wounded screamed.
Ari tried to bring his rifle up. But where should he aim? He couldn't just fire randomly.
As if of its own volition, Ari's rifle jerked and shook, sending lead and flame into the leaves overhead.
Into the ditch, that was what Shimon had said.
But everything was silent on the squad freak; he puffed for the company freak.
Benyamin was talking. "—lev One One Two One. No claymores to the east. Can't be," he said, almost too calmly, too casually.
"Kelev Twenty. You sure?" Galil sounded more placid than Benyamin, if that was possible.
"Kelev One One Two Two," Laskov rasped. "We're all alive, aren't we, asshole?"
"Twenty. It's—"
"He's right, Yitzhak," Shimon Bar-El's quiet voice cut through the shouting, accompanied by a high-pitched hum that announced he was talking in override mode.
"There's no claymores and too many of us are alive—it's a hasty ambush, by no more than a platoon. Kelev One is going to have to take it; the rest aren't operational, won't be for five, ten minutes."
It would be more than that, Ari thought; they'd have to retrieve their weapons from the cargo bays of the buses and somehow arrange themselves into squads.
Bar-El's voice was seething with calm. "Take it, Yitzhak; it's yours," he said quietly, the judge passing a death sentence on God only knew whom.
"Kelev," Galil came back, sharply. "Got it. Nablus Twenty—"
"Nablus. We go north with our fucking handguns, while you cross south?"
"Kelev. Do it, Meir. Grazing fire to keep their heads down—but stay in the ditch, this side. Don't cross; they'll cut you to pieces."
"Nablus."
"Deir Yasin Twenty," Greenberg said. "Autoguns will be up in a minute, maybe less. I've got the two rockets heating up, if you can get me a target."
Thank God that the heavy mortar training detachment traveled with a half dozen autoguns and as many of air-suppression rockets when operational. Their tubes couldn't possibly to do any good, even if they could be brought on line: the enemy, whoever it was, was too close.
"Kelev," Galil said, "negative on a target. I—"
"Tel Aviv Ten. I will spot for the rockets," Peled said, his shout automatically damped.
"Kelev. Do it."
Ari Hanavi huddled in the ditch, trying to press himself into the ground, breathing shallowly to keep his back low.
"—One One Five. Second bus is burning. Gonna blow any minute."
"Listen, I've got one, would you fucking listen—"
"Identify yourself, dammit," Galil snapped.
"—bearing perp to the road, listen to me, perp to the road and right a quarter, one hundred meters, base of big tree, at least two of them, probably more. And I'm, shit, I'm TTD Two One Fifteen, Chaim Goell, and—"
Shimon Bar-El's voice cut through, again override mode. "I spotted what looked like a hiking trail. Crosses the road out beyond the bend, about half a klick back. You might want to try that."
"Kelev. We'll do that, Shimon. Tel Aviv Ten, I'm taking Kelev One around and behind. You form up the rest, and lay down a cover from here."
"Tel Aviv Ten," Peled said. "Got it."
"Kelev Twenty. Okay, Kelev, One to the south; follow me."
"Two prisoners," Shimon Bar-El said.
"Kelev Twenty. Yes, Shimon."
"Ari, come on." It took him a moment to realize that Benyamin was shouting in his ear, not over his 'phones. Benyamin pulled him to his feet.
"He's not worth shit." Lavon had his weapon loaded again and braced against his hip. "Leave him."
Benyamin nodded. "Okay. Ari: you took a blow to the head. Stay here. That's an order."
He couldn't remember taking a blow to the head, and they were all running away, all abandoning him.
He couldn't stop crying, but Ari forced himself to his feet and staggered after them. At least they were running away from the shooting.