allied, not subordinate—but if it was determined that a helo and crew was lost because somebody didn't listen to Chiabrera's request that they stay out of it, somebody would hang. Literally."
"Assholes." Rabinowitz shook his head. "Asinine to require hypocrisy."
"Yeah." Bar-El smiled. "We get enough of that anyway. Ezer, did you get anything else out of Fleiss?"
"Some data, but not much." Laskov shook his head. "He was ready to confess to the murder of Abel, and every crime since. I didn't see any point in keeping him around any more." He held his fists out in front of his chest and mimed wringing a neck.
"Fine," Shimon Bar-El said. "And may he rot in hell. Next—Meir, how did you mess up on the grazing fire?"
"Shit. Well, maybe I didn't do too bad, although I probably ought to be fucking shot for not having had a pistol drill for the past two thousand hours. We lost Pinhas Cohen when he tried firing over a fallen tree when there was plenty of room under it."
"He should have remembered that from Basic. Assume we're going into action in a week—how do you want to spend your time? Small arms work?"
"With what? You giving me a 260-man sapper team to take into the field?"
Bar-El scowled. "Don't ask silly questions. Two ten-man squads per battalion—integral to battalion. You put them together, you train them, but you don't own them. You get a sapper section attached to Regiment. The rest of your training detachment gets to be infantrymen—and we'll have too many three-man fireteams as it is. Now, you going to spend the next week at the Known Distance Range?"
Meir Ben David didn't pick up on it. "Fuck, no. One week, eh? Okay—twenty hours of classroom; forty or fifty of field time, half of that with the locals—"
"—and on the seventh day they rested," Ebi Goren said dryly.
"—and if we're going to have to depend on them for logistical support and replacement groceries, we'd sure as shit better be up on local methods and equipment. I'm real suspicious of some of the handling characteristics of that Ciottoloso plastique they like so much. I think it might—"
"Later." Shimon cut him off with a wave of the hand. "What you're telling me is that you really don't think that you need that much pistol training."
"You want my fucking recommendation, you've got it."
Shimon Bar-El smiled. "So I do. Recommendation accepted." He turned to Peled. "Still got to finish the critique, but put gambling next on the agenda. Minor thing, but I don't want it getting away from us.
"Now, on to the cleanup part of the operation. . ."
It was a long morning.
PART TWO
RECON
CHAPTER 8
Night Life
Ari was lying on his bunk when his brothers came into the barracks, each in turn snapping the rain from his slicker with a practiced flip of the wrist before hanging it up. Tetsuo didn't seem to see the poker game, while Benyamin stopped for a moment to exchange a few words with the players at the north end of the barracks.
They were both in khakis, wearing the short, plain field jacket over their uniform shirts. Tetsuo had one of his swords stuck crosswise in the nonstandard leather pistol belt that he wore tight across his hips, but at least it was only the short stabbing sword instead of the whole daisho. Ari had always thought it was just one of his brother's affectations, although Tetsuo claimed that he only carried them because the Nagamitsu blades were a thousand years old. He had the certificates to prove it, and he was always able to get them onplanet—a thousand-year-old sword couldn't be kept out on a Proscribed Tech regulation.
The x-shaped barracks was quiet, mostly empty. Down at the south end, salted troopers slept soundly under their blankets, oblivious to the overhead lights, while the never-ending barracks poker game was going on down at the opposite end. Ari's bunk was near the center of the x, just meters from the central arms locker; he knew that if he got up off his bed and peeked around the corner, he would
"Assholes." Rabinowitz shook his head. "Asinine to require hypocrisy."
"Yeah." Bar-El smiled. "We get enough of that anyway. Ezer, did you get anything else out of Fleiss?"
"Some data, but not much." Laskov shook his head. "He was ready to confess to the murder of Abel, and every crime since. I didn't see any point in keeping him around any more." He held his fists out in front of his chest and mimed wringing a neck.
"Fine," Shimon Bar-El said. "And may he rot in hell. Next—Meir, how did you mess up on the grazing fire?"
"Shit. Well, maybe I didn't do too bad, although I probably ought to be fucking shot for not having had a pistol drill for the past two thousand hours. We lost Pinhas Cohen when he tried firing over a fallen tree when there was plenty of room under it."
"He should have remembered that from Basic. Assume we're going into action in a week—how do you want to spend your time? Small arms work?"
"With what? You giving me a 260-man sapper team to take into the field?"
Bar-El scowled. "Don't ask silly questions. Two ten-man squads per battalion—integral to battalion. You put them together, you train them, but you don't own them. You get a sapper section attached to Regiment. The rest of your training detachment gets to be infantrymen—and we'll have too many three-man fireteams as it is. Now, you going to spend the next week at the Known Distance Range?"
Meir Ben David didn't pick up on it. "Fuck, no. One week, eh? Okay—twenty hours of classroom; forty or fifty of field time, half of that with the locals—"
"—and on the seventh day they rested," Ebi Goren said dryly.
"—and if we're going to have to depend on them for logistical support and replacement groceries, we'd sure as shit better be up on local methods and equipment. I'm real suspicious of some of the handling characteristics of that Ciottoloso plastique they like so much. I think it might—"
"Later." Shimon cut him off with a wave of the hand. "What you're telling me is that you really don't think that you need that much pistol training."
"You want my fucking recommendation, you've got it."
Shimon Bar-El smiled. "So I do. Recommendation accepted." He turned to Peled. "Still got to finish the critique, but put gambling next on the agenda. Minor thing, but I don't want it getting away from us.
"Now, on to the cleanup part of the operation. . ."
It was a long morning.
PART TWO
RECON
CHAPTER 8
Night Life
Ari was lying on his bunk when his brothers came into the barracks, each in turn snapping the rain from his slicker with a practiced flip of the wrist before hanging it up. Tetsuo didn't seem to see the poker game, while Benyamin stopped for a moment to exchange a few words with the players at the north end of the barracks.
They were both in khakis, wearing the short, plain field jacket over their uniform shirts. Tetsuo had one of his swords stuck crosswise in the nonstandard leather pistol belt that he wore tight across his hips, but at least it was only the short stabbing sword instead of the whole daisho. Ari had always thought it was just one of his brother's affectations, although Tetsuo claimed that he only carried them because the Nagamitsu blades were a thousand years old. He had the certificates to prove it, and he was always able to get them onplanet—a thousand-year-old sword couldn't be kept out on a Proscribed Tech regulation.
The x-shaped barracks was quiet, mostly empty. Down at the south end, salted troopers slept soundly under their blankets, oblivious to the overhead lights, while the never-ending barracks poker game was going on down at the opposite end. Ari's bunk was near the center of the x, just meters from the central arms locker; he knew that if he got up off his bed and peeked around the corner, he would
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