Hero by Joel Rosenberg Page A

Greenberg of Regimental Heavy Weapons, Skolnick flipped Galil's rifle to safe, popped the magazine out, then opened the bolt, showing Galil that it was empty.
    All the other early arrivals were armed, too, although nothing had been said about that in the meeting announcement. The regiment had made up its collective mind that all of Casalingpaesa—or perhaps all of Nueva Terra—was a war zone.
    Skolnick slammed the bolt home, then inserted the magazine and laid the weapon across Galil's lap. "Loaded; chamber clear," he said, as though Galil hadn't been watching.
    "I have eyes."
    "Shit, Captain, don't try that on me. I been around for awhile." Skolnick chuckled. "If I hadn't reported, you know damn well you'd have complained about my weapons discipline."
    "Who ever said life was fair?"
    "Not me." Skolnick tapped at his earphone, then brought his thumb up to his lips, miming puffing for a freak.
    Galil nodded; he would call when the meeting was over. Skolnick left, bounding lightly up the steps.
    Across the aisle from Galil, Meir Ben David sat stropping his Fairbairn dagger. He was unshaved, but he looked rested.
    At his glance, Ben David set down his honing leather and rubbed a thumb against his stubbled cheek. It sounded like sandpaper. "Well," the sapper said, picking up the leather again, "the choice was another ten fucking minutes of sleep, or a shower and shave. I'm happy with the choice." He considered the edge of the dagger. "Nice call yesterday, by the way."
    "The helo?" Galil asked.
    "Yeah."
    "Thanks."
    "Your people did pretty good, too."
    "True enough," Galil said.
    Kelev One was shaping up nicely, Galil decided, and the platoon seemed to think that Galil was doing acceptably. You couldn't tell—and it didn't matter—whether or not the troopies liked the CO, but it was easy to know when they thought he was good at his job. There was an informal network that got Galil's bed made, took care of his laundry and meals, and now made sure that he didn't have to push himself anywhere.
    But that wasn't an expression of affection, any more than was Ben David's careful treatment of his Fairbairn knife. It was respect for a piece that did its job: a knight that always jumped one down and two across; a rook that moved squarely along the ranks and files. The consensus was that Galil had better things to do with his time than worry about making his bed and doing his laundry.
    A bit of a compliment. A suggestion that he was doing his job well.
    Which, with some reservations, Galil decided he was. Better than he'd done in Third Platoon of A Company in the Sixth, Galil thought, shaking his head. It was five years ago, but a day didn't go by without him remembering how badly he had screwed that one up.
    Not this time, though. He'd played the last game fine; best to figure out what the next game was.
    The conference room held ten tiers of three tables each, a theater apparently intended to hold a battalion comfortably, although Galil had never seen any need for a lot of battalion meetings. A commander couldn't micromanage anything even the size of a company, much less a battalion, and while green platoon leaders and company commanders usually kept their fingers in too many kettles, no good battalion commander was stupid enough to try. Metzada didn't give battalions to anybody who hadn't outgrown a psychological need to bog himself down in detail, the sort of idiot who would busy himself with minutiae instead of looking at the big picture.
    But, of course, this conference room hadn't been built to a Metzadan design. The locals were fuckups, as usual, and from the foundations up.
    Galil snorted. Then again, if the locals weren't always fuckups, they could fight their own damn wars by their own damn selves, and Yitzhak Galil's children would have to learn how to eat rock.
    Others wandered in and took their seats: Peled and most of his instant battalion staff; Lieutenant Colonel Horem Bar Yosef, the adjutant and liaison officer; wiry,