In the Valley (32 page)

Paul hurt. He hurt really bad. But there was a job to do. “Roger, sir.”

It was a long trip back from Kanaghat. The experience was arguably one of the worst experiences in Paul’s military career. At one point, Z freaked out over the driving; he had almost rolled the truck into the river. The colonel had to take over. At another point, a Juneau vehicle got stuck, and a force vehicle got stuck pulling out the stuck vehicle.

Mike had to sort out the mess. He demonstrated again why he was called Mighty Mike: he rigged up a triangular tow setup and finally got the vehicles out of the predicament they were in. The process was exhausting to watch. Paul couldn’t imagine how Mike did what he did in getting the convoy back on the road.

Darkness had descended long ago, and the convoy finally limped back into Firebase Atarab at 0100 hours, the day after they had set out. Paul unsuited, got out of his wrecked vehicle, and collapsed on the ground, fully asleep.

The Battle of Kanaghat, as the team would later call it, was over.

P
aul woke up with a dry, funky taste in his mouth. His head felt like an alligator was being born in his skull; his body hurt in more places than he could imagine. He lay there for a while, wondering why the colonel hadn’t called him out on another mission. He had done a mission a day since coming to the Baradna Valley; he couldn’t see why this day would be different.

But for some reason, he hadn’t gone out on a mission. Things were different today. The colonel hadn’t woken him up. He lay there, trying to stretch. The sun beat down on his poncho; he was starting to sweat. With a disgusted sweep of his hand, he beat the poncho aside. The camp was already in motion; vehicles were moving, and men were talking in low tones.

Paul’s bet was that they were all discussing the events of the previous day. It wasn’t every day, after all, that an entire battalion went on the attack and annihilated a large and violent nest of dissidents.

Images and moments from the day before went through Paul’s head.
Combat
was an ugly word. Its stamp was in Paul’s memories and all over his body. He rubbed his face and breathed deeply.

He didn’t remember going to his cot, but here he was. How it had happened, he didn’t know. He felt like he had been at a wild party he only half remembered and had had too much to drink. He even felt nauseated, though he hadn’t had a drop. Hooray.

He swung his feet over the side of the cot and sat up, slowly. The sky seemed to be spinning, ever so slightly. Was he sure he hadn’t been drinking? He was sure—no alcohol for him. He figured he had taken a rap on the head or two, and the effects were catching up with him. Oh well, he’d live for now anyway.

His pistol was still in the chest holster on his battle harness; he reached down, unclipped it, and slid it into his hip holster. His rifle was propped neatly upon the end of his cot. He was sure of it now. He had had help going to bed.

Fuck, he thought, what a day. The sun was too bright. He looked under his cot for his civvy halo, found it, and put it on. There were no messages waiting for him, so he clicked off his icons, especially the one called
MEDICAL
.

Paul hoped he still had some Fortunates. He groped at his sleeve and felt the lump the near-cigs made in his pocket. Reassuring lumps, he thought, as he plucked a wrinkled smoke out of the pack and lit it. Speaking of reassuring lumps, he was lucky he hadn’t had his dick shot off yesterday.

The scene by the wall of the house replayed itself—the whine of the bullets, the woman falling down the stairs. The look of shock on her face as Paul pushed her. Better not to think of those things, Paul thought. He willed the thought away.

He dragged hard on his near-cig and brought Z-man’s icon up—he was still sleeping. Paul figured he’d let him sleep as long as he wanted to; he had done good work yesterday.

He stood up and walked over to the mechanics’ tent; maybe they would have some coffee. As he walked in, he smelled the brew.

“Hey, Red,” he said to the kid with red hair, “can I score some brew?”

“Sure, sir, take what you want.”

Paul reached into his lower pants-leg pocket, took out his foldable cup, and poured himself some of the heavenly joe. He thanked Red, turned around, and headed back outside. He walked over to the lip of the crater and sat down, careful not to spill his drink. He took a sip and then set down his cup. He pulled out another near-cig and lit up. He alternated drags off the cig with sips from his coffee. He looked into the distance, down the hill from the firebase.

It was a perfect morning, he decided. He had survived a major dustup, and he had hot coffee and smokes. As far as he was concerned, the only thing that would make the morning better would be to see Amy Brown again. But that was pie in the sky—she was over a hundred light-years away, back on Old Earth. Paul figured after he was done with the coffee, he would take the time to check over his battered suit and clean his weapons. That was, of course, unless a mission came up.

He had come to see missions like a farmer views thunderstorms—unavoidable and potentially catastrophic. The bullets were like the rain. Sometimes you were going to get hit; there was nothing you could do about it.

In his mind’s eye, he saw the tracer streak past, a white gleam of light, thin as a pencil. With an act of will, he brought himself back to the present. He heard Mike, jocular and hale as usual, messing around with someone behind him.

Paul finished his coffee and decided he needed to use the field latrine. The latrine was, as usual, a filthy affair. Here at the firebase, they had stuck a piece of wood in the ground as a privacy screen. Behind the screen was the foldable chair with a hole cut in the center of the seat, placed over a deep hole. Paul dropped his pants, did his thing, and smoked a near-cig while he watched a curious scene unfold.

Mike had captured a donkey. Donkeys frequently walked onto the firebase; they would come up from the village below for unknown reasons. Maybe they wanted someone to give them a treat. It was hard to tell what went on in the minds of donkeys.

Mike hopped on the donkey and started to ride it around the camp. He was grinning and looking generally silly, astride the beast and with his muffin hat on. Involuntarily, Paul caught Mike’s infectious smile. This was the first genuinely funny event Paul had seen in a long time. Mike controlled the animal like the Juneaus did, with a slap to the rump in the direction he wanted to go. Mike rode the donkey back and forth. Then he got a mischievous look on his face.

Paul knew he was about to go off of the reservation, so he finished up his business on the latrine and walked over to him.

“What the fuck are you doing, wild man?”

“I’m getting my morning ride in. Why?” Mike had that cat-eyed look. He had half of a beard growing, and he looked like he could roll out with a posse hunting for desperadoes or something—except for his ridiculous steed, that is. Mike turned the sad-looking donkey with a series of slaps and rode off to the mechanics’ tent. Paul was pretty sure no good would come of this.

After a bit of hesitation, Mike got the donkey to ride into the tent. Paul heard a chorus from within.

“Man, what the fuck!”

“Fuckin’ donkey!”

“Goddamn, Mike, get that thing the fuck outta here!”

Over it all was Mike’s cackle; he was having a grand time.

Paul was dying with laughter. But the show wasn’t over, yet. Mike rode the donkey back out of the tent and looked for new prey, his eyes casting from side to side. He looked over by Paul’s crater and saw the sleeping forms of Fox and Butter, the air-control dudes, racked out on cots. Mike got that look again, the one that his victims had learned to fear. He spurred the donkey to action, riding over to the two
dead-to-the-world men. He neared them and then paused, as if considering his next move. Paul watched the proverbial light bulb go on over his head.

Coaxing the donkey over to the nearest guy, Butter, Mighty Mike positioned the donkey so that his muzzle was against Butter’s face. Butter woke up, whether from the velvety touch of the muzzle or its donkey breath, Paul didn’t know.

Butter jumped back on his cot and yelled, “Get that fuckin’ thing away from me!” His expression was one of horror, mixed with surprise and disgust.

Mike roared with laughter. In a falsetto voice, he exclaimed, “You told me you loved me, Butter!”

About a dozen guys were watching; everyone laughed and laughed. Mike bowed from his seat on the donkey. Paul laughed so hard he cried. He had heard that the only relief from misery is humor, professionally applied. Mike was a pro, and this was one of his finest moments.

Right afterward, Paul went back into the mechanics’ tent and got some more coffee. Miraculously, the donkey had managed not to upset the pot. Paul was outside, enjoying another steamy cup of deliciousness, when some ground-cars rolled up.

The colonel hopped out of the back of one. Paul shook his head. That was a strong man—rolling out before dawn on another mission after the day they had had yesterday. The colonel walked up.

Paul said, “Hey, sir, where ya been?”

He stripped off his harness and helmet before replying. “There was a mission with Third Company this morning to the eastern toe of the Chickenfoot. I wanted to be in on it, so I went.”

Paul offered him his cup. The colonel took it, sipped it, and then handed it back. Paul offered him a Fortunate; the colonel took it with thanks. He lit up and dragged and then continued.

“Yeah, a ground-car broke down, and we had to tow it in. It ended the mission early, but I ain’t complainin’ one bit.”

Paul saw the exhaustion in his eyes, in the way he held his body. But he’d still gone out.

Z-man walked up. “Mornin’, fellas.”

A trash pile was burning behind them. Some idiot had thrown a plastic bottle in there. When it burned and popped, the bottle made a noise that sounded a lot like a bullet going past. All three men ducked.

The Baradna valley was getting to them, but the fun wasn’t over yet—not by a long shot.

I
n his dream, Paul was having fun at a family barbecue or something. The sun was shining. A refreshing breeze blew through the honest-to-God green deciduous trees of Old Earth. Kids were splashing in a nearby pool, and there was the delicious odor of slightly burned meat coming from a grill. Father was saying something to Paul, and Amy was seated across from him at a picnic table, smiling an enigmatic smile. Life was good. Paul saw the old hound dog on his run out in the yard; he was growling at something. Incongruously, a machine gun barked in the distance. Men were yelling; someone was screaming.

No one at the barbecue reacted at all. The rhododendron tree next to the deck was in full, beautiful bloom. The sky was a beautiful blue with only a few wispy cirrus clouds stretching overhead.

Amy’s smile had disappeared. She was looking at him with sadness in her eyes. “Must you leave again, Paul?” There was a wistful note to her voice.

The dog started barking furiously. The sound of gunfire and the double boom of an antiarmor rocket sounded on the cool breeze.

Paul awoke with a start. He heard the insane chatter of a machine gun sounding fairly close by. Damn, he thought, all this good food will go to waste. With the fighting and all, he wouldn’t have time for a delicious cheeseburger. The fighting—that meant
combat
.

His eyes popped wide open. His heart raced; his hand sought for his pistol. He wasn’t at a barbecue; he was in the Baradna Valley; it was a dreadful place where men went to die.

He rolled off his cot instantly and put on his battle harness in one motion. He grabbed his rifle and stood up, all the while missing the feast at his father’s house, at his long-lost home. As he put on his battle harness with one quick, practiced motion, he felt a dreadful yearning in his breast.

The gunfire continued, with the cheery popcorn noise Paul had grown to hate. All the commotion was coming from the hill where First Company had set up their camp; nothing was really close by. Paul detected none of the characteristic whispers of incoming bullets, felt no blasts from mortar rounds or rockets.