just this side of the fence and you come get us in the morning?"
The Commerce Department busies wouldn't like that, but they weren't likely to make a big fuss about it; there was room on the reservation for a dozen battalions to camp.
Peled pulled his maps out of his chestpack and found the one covering the TW reservation. "Tel Aviv Ten. Tentatively, sounds good; I'll check with Shimon. Coordinate with the local CD Inspector's office; Map Gimel One, Hex Oh Eight Two Three. I'll see about getting rats out to you. Anything more?"
"Not to worry—I'll send Meyer Kaplan out to the Commerce Department company store. I've got some tweecie vouchers."
"Tel Aviv Ten. Fine. Out?"
"Out."
That would do, for a start. Maybe it was locking the barn after the horse was stolen, sure, but damned if Mordecai Peled was going to let any more of his brothers and cousins die administrative, not here. Maybe the locals didn't like foreign troops going operational this far behind the front lines, and maybe that was in the contract, but Peled would be perfectly happy to explain to even a TW observer why he should overlook the violation: he'd stick the observer's ass in the front seat of a bus going from the port to Camp Ramorino.
"Mordecai," Shimon said over their private channel. "If you're done playing soldier, I've got some work for you. Minor problem of prisoner custody. Need a light touch."
Not too fucking light. He clapped his hands together to get the attention of the soldiers in the clearing. An improvised five-squad commando was about right. He pointed out five squad leaders one by one, spread and closed his fingers, then pumped his arm up and down.
By squads, form on me, it said.
He reclaimed his rifle from his clerk and led his commando back up the slope, the butt of his rifle braced against his hip, like a trapshooter out for a few clay pigeons. His finger was away from the trigger, but the safety was off.
Shimon was supervising the final loading of the last of the wounded under the watchful eye of the rest of the Casa DF squad.
A platoon of Casa regulars stood watch a couple of hundred meters down the road at either end of what had been an ambush, but was now a roadblock.
There were a lot of white knuckles among the neatly uniformed Casas, as they looked over the somewhat scraggly Metzadans.
Hey, c'mon, boys, haven't you seen combat soldiers before? Actually, it was possible that they hadn't, not soldiers with fresh blood on their hands. They all made Peled's hands itch—the Casas were wearing the same kind, the same shade of uniforms as the Freiheimer attackers had.
The line of halted trucks and buses was up to about half a dozen on either side, watched over by twin merkavot riding low on their air cushions. Despite their Hebrew name, the merkavot were of local manufacture from local plans—the name had caught on here, too—but each of the lightly armed air-cushion vehicles had a Metzadan gunner in the lefthand seat.
"Tel Aviv Ten for Haifa C Twenty," he said into his microphone, even though Reuven Zucker was only thirty or so meters away. "You're sure that this is it?"
"Haifa C Twenty. Affirmative. Last of the criticals." Zucker didn't waste words as he and a junior medician helped Private Yonaton Shapir onto the helo. Shapir didn't look too bad—his left eye and right hand were heavily bandaged, but he held onto his own assault rifle and ammo kit, and accepted help with his pack reluctantly.
Either the local medical teams understood triage, or Zucker had managed to have Metzadans run the evacuation, Peled decided with satisfaction.
Accompanied by the whine of the engine, the slowly turning rotor picked up speed. Peled snapped down his faceplate and turned away as the helo lifted into the air.
There were only two helos left, and it was getting to be time to clear out.
But first, there were the Casas to deal with. And the fucking Commerce Department observer.
He—well, it could be a she, but most of them were
The Commerce Department busies wouldn't like that, but they weren't likely to make a big fuss about it; there was room on the reservation for a dozen battalions to camp.
Peled pulled his maps out of his chestpack and found the one covering the TW reservation. "Tel Aviv Ten. Tentatively, sounds good; I'll check with Shimon. Coordinate with the local CD Inspector's office; Map Gimel One, Hex Oh Eight Two Three. I'll see about getting rats out to you. Anything more?"
"Not to worry—I'll send Meyer Kaplan out to the Commerce Department company store. I've got some tweecie vouchers."
"Tel Aviv Ten. Fine. Out?"
"Out."
That would do, for a start. Maybe it was locking the barn after the horse was stolen, sure, but damned if Mordecai Peled was going to let any more of his brothers and cousins die administrative, not here. Maybe the locals didn't like foreign troops going operational this far behind the front lines, and maybe that was in the contract, but Peled would be perfectly happy to explain to even a TW observer why he should overlook the violation: he'd stick the observer's ass in the front seat of a bus going from the port to Camp Ramorino.
"Mordecai," Shimon said over their private channel. "If you're done playing soldier, I've got some work for you. Minor problem of prisoner custody. Need a light touch."
Not too fucking light. He clapped his hands together to get the attention of the soldiers in the clearing. An improvised five-squad commando was about right. He pointed out five squad leaders one by one, spread and closed his fingers, then pumped his arm up and down.
By squads, form on me, it said.
He reclaimed his rifle from his clerk and led his commando back up the slope, the butt of his rifle braced against his hip, like a trapshooter out for a few clay pigeons. His finger was away from the trigger, but the safety was off.
Shimon was supervising the final loading of the last of the wounded under the watchful eye of the rest of the Casa DF squad.
A platoon of Casa regulars stood watch a couple of hundred meters down the road at either end of what had been an ambush, but was now a roadblock.
There were a lot of white knuckles among the neatly uniformed Casas, as they looked over the somewhat scraggly Metzadans.
Hey, c'mon, boys, haven't you seen combat soldiers before? Actually, it was possible that they hadn't, not soldiers with fresh blood on their hands. They all made Peled's hands itch—the Casas were wearing the same kind, the same shade of uniforms as the Freiheimer attackers had.
The line of halted trucks and buses was up to about half a dozen on either side, watched over by twin merkavot riding low on their air cushions. Despite their Hebrew name, the merkavot were of local manufacture from local plans—the name had caught on here, too—but each of the lightly armed air-cushion vehicles had a Metzadan gunner in the lefthand seat.
"Tel Aviv Ten for Haifa C Twenty," he said into his microphone, even though Reuven Zucker was only thirty or so meters away. "You're sure that this is it?"
"Haifa C Twenty. Affirmative. Last of the criticals." Zucker didn't waste words as he and a junior medician helped Private Yonaton Shapir onto the helo. Shapir didn't look too bad—his left eye and right hand were heavily bandaged, but he held onto his own assault rifle and ammo kit, and accepted help with his pack reluctantly.
Either the local medical teams understood triage, or Zucker had managed to have Metzadans run the evacuation, Peled decided with satisfaction.
Accompanied by the whine of the engine, the slowly turning rotor picked up speed. Peled snapped down his faceplate and turned away as the helo lifted into the air.
There were only two helos left, and it was getting to be time to clear out.
But first, there were the Casas to deal with. And the fucking Commerce Department observer.
He—well, it could be a she, but most of them were
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