Hero by Joel Rosenberg

can't get enough helos—"
    "Which we can. The Al ba tro," he said, pronouncing the foreign word with careful correctness, "can carry thirty. A Casa division is supposed to have twenty of them integral. Figure we'll have the rest of the regiment at Camp Ramorino by sundown tomorrow. Which gives you a short while to get your head out of your ass and into business, General." Benyamin's eyes went all distant and vague, just like the Sergeant's would when he was lecturing. "This was some sort of ratfuck, and the old man doesn't like ratfucks. Which means he's going to try to get some of our own back.
    "It's not a matter of revenge, although maybe there's a bit of that, too. But it's pretty clear that the Freiheimers just spent a whole squad of deep-cover saboteurs trying to kill some of us." His voice, in contrast to his words, was tired and flat, almost uninfected. "They must have thought that was worth the price, and Shimon's going to prove them right, one way or another. Just business, mind, nothing at all personal: the rule is that you don't fuck with Metzada." There was no smile on Benyamin's face, and none in his eyes. "Get your shit together, little brother. Two weeks, and we're back in it; you get another chance to prove yourself. If you're lucky."
    "And if I'm not?" He didn't mean that. He meant, And if I can't?
    Benyamin looked him in the eye and answered the unvoiced question. "Then you're no son of my father, brother."

CHAPTER 7

    Yitzhak Galil: Staff Meeting

    A Casa private held the door as Skolnick wheeled Galil into the back of the conference room, behind the last line of tables.
    Outside, a triphammer pounded like a well-drilled mortar team: Wham. Wham. Wham. A long pause. Then: Wham. Wham. Wham. The sound was somehow reassuring.
    Galil's right leg throbbed redly, painfully with every pulsebeat, which didn't worry him: Local trauma techniques were good, although Casa cosmetic surgery was for shit.
    A fair deal: a week to ten days, maybe, until Galil would be back on his feet, and he would have two more puckered scars to add to his collection. The right leg seemed to attract fire for some reason or other. That and his left arm. Why was that? Some sort of cosmic coincidence. Nah. If it had been his head that attracted fire, it would only have happened once.
    The aftermath of a night in the hospital was like a medium hangover: his teeth tasted of slime and ashes, a headache sawed at his skull, his stomach would rebel at anything except the blandest food, and an irregular, painful twinge had taken up residence in the back of his neck.
    But he was alive, and that was what counted.
    "I guess we should have come in the other way," Skolnick said. The other early arrivals were at the bottom of the banked conference room.
    Too far away—the room was large enough to be a refectory, back home. Wasteful for a staff meeting.
    No, it wasn't. This wasn't Metzada; space wasn't at such a premium.
    Galil started to lever himself out of the wheelchair, preparatory to hopping down the stairs, but desisted at Skolnick's grunt.
    "Sit tight, Yitzhak." Skolnick took the rifle off Galil's lap and slung it across his back, then picked up one side of the wheelchair while Meir Gevat took the other.
    The two of them carried him down three landings to the bottom level; Support/Transport/Medical Command's David Pinsky pulling out a chair so they could slide his wheelchair up to the edge of a table.
    "Ever think of going on a diet? You're fucking heavy, Captain," Gevat said as he lowered the wheelchair to the tile floor, although the full-breathed ease with which he spoke proclaimed his words a lie.
    Imposing on them didn't bother Galil; it wasn't much of an imposition. Nueva's point ninety-one standard gee was only seventy-six percent of Metzada's one point two; with the two of them splitting the load, Gevat and Skolnick were barely carrying more total weight here than they did at home, stark naked.
    While Gevat took his seat next to Asher