“That’s it. Now, just lean back a little and try to relax. He’ll be just fine on the descent,” she reassured the soldier as she nodded him onward and brought her mount, Athena, to a stop next to Scout. The whinnies glanced at each other and purred.
“Miss Turan,” Bo said. He touched the brim of his boonie hat and nodded politely. “Nice day for a ride.”
“Why aren’t we on the north side of the pass? That area is almost entirely unexplored.” She stared holes through him. “We should look there for the medicinals the indigs taught us to identify and collect.”
Bo forced a smile onto his lips. “The terrain over there is much steeper than here. It would take us twice the time to descend it and four times as much to climb back up. We don’t have that kind of time today.”
“But those medicinals are valuable. Some of them are priceless in this culture.”
“So is water, Miss Turan. That’s what we’re scouting for until the patrol gets back.”
She scoffed. “You’re not trying to find anything. You’re just hoping the whinnies do it for you.”
“This is a migration route for them. I’m not sure if you understand how game trails work, but they often connect to water sources.” Bo looked over the passing formation again. Sergeant Whittaker and the rear element were in sight now. “You should get moving.”
“Fine.” She shook her head. “But I’m guessing there’s no water source down there close enough for our use.”
“Maybe so.” Bo removed his hat and wiped his brow with his left sleeve. “But I know for a fact there’re no medicinals along this side of the valley for the next ten kilometers. You can stop looking for them and keep coaching the newbies, Miss Turan.”
“And you’ll be doing what, exactly?”
Bo leaned forward in the saddle and nudged Scout forward. The whinnie moved as if he wanted nothing more than to get away from the woman. Bo knew how he felt. “We’re meeting an indig guide at the bottom of the trail. He’s taking us south, along the base of the rim. It’s a path we’ve never ridden before that skirts the outside edge of sector four.”
“You’re taking us out of our sector? And you won’t search for medicinals in a brand-new area?”
“Yes, I am. And no, I won’t.” Bo turned his back on her. “We’ve patrolled out here for three weeks now. The river valley is our best shot for a water source, even if it’s an aquifer.”
“Searching the same area repeatedly and expecting a different result sounds very much like insanity, Captain Moorefield.” Her voice rose as she added, “Just because it’s steep doesn’t mean there’s nothing of value out there.”
Bo pointed with his right hand, “Get back in line and keep your interval.”
Damn that woman.
* * *
Aliza clenched her jaw and pressed her tongue against the back of her front teeth to bite back a reply even as what she’d said dawned on her. For a moment, she heard Ben Mazza’s voice across the dark desert north of Jerusalem.
Just because it’s steep doesn’t mean there’s nothing out there.
He’d said the same words in the moments before her memory stopped, and she’d woken in this distant future and impossibly far from home.
Except she really hadn’t had a home in years, not since the Nazis forced her onto the train to Dachau. After liberation, she knew that her town was not her home, anymore. Germany wasn’t either. The few Germans she saw soon after the Americans freed them wouldn’t even look at her in their shame.
Amongst the other emaciated survivors, she’d found very few women and no one younger than herself. While the Americans nursed them back to life, she’d found Ben gnawing on an American chocolate ration bar as he sat against a low stone wall. They’d looked at each other for a few seconds before he held up the candy and waved her over. She’d sat down next to him, nibbled on the chocolate, and spoke her first words in over three months.
From there, they’d been fast friends and looked out for each other. As her color returned and her ribs disappeared back inside her skin, there’d been more than one occasion where she’d caught the attention of American soldiers only to have Ben step in front of them. One day, an American officer saw several of his men approach and circle her. He’d stepped to her side with a level of anger which surprised and shocked her. He raged at them for even thinking about her, or any of the other women in the compound, sexually. If they didn’t remember that they were here as rescuers, they were no better than the Nazis. The men had averted their eyes in shame and apologized, but the officer had not let it go, swearing that he would be watching them. Every day.
That officer had worn the gold oak leaf of a major, as she learned later, but she’d never learned his name. The only other thing she remembered about him was the screaming eagle patch he wore on his shoulder. The same one that Major Murphy wore, along with the same gold oak leaf. She doubted that she could have made herself trust the men who awakened her into this strange future had she not seen those two symbols and felt the faintest pulse of trust, of safety, that they quickened in her heart.
A day after waking, she’d eaten a full breakfast and reported to a small room for an interview. There were only two chairs in the tiny space. One was empty and Major Murphy sat in the other. He’d smiled at her.
“What’s your name?”
She’d told him and immediately asked, “Where am I? Where is Ben Mazza?”
Murphy shook his head. “There’s no Ben Mazza here, Miss Turan.”
“I was with him before…” Her words trailed off. “Am I dead?”
“What is the last memory you have?” Murphy asked quietly. “Before waking up here?”
“Ben went down the hill toward the railroad tracks.” She blinked and shook her head. “He went to check the explosives.”
Murphy sat a little straighter in the chair. “Explosives?”
She nodded. “We’d emplaced them on the end of a bridge.”
“Why?” Murphy frowned. “Was this during the war?”
She snapped her eyes back toward his. “After.”
“When? What was the date?”
“The 16th of June 1946,” Aliza replied. “Our target was a railway bridge over the Nahal Kziv in Lebanon.”
Murphy said nothing for a moment, instead consulting a small, glass device in his hands. “The Night of the Bridges.”
Aliza shrugged. “Those were the targets, yes.”
“That’s what the operation was called, Miss Turan.”
“We called it Operation Markolet.”
Murphy shrugged. “History seems to change when the victors write it. The attack on the railway bridge was by the Palmach. Were you working with them?”
Aliza nodded. “My friend Ben Mazza and I were scouts for them. The bridge was heavily guarded, and the Palmach came under fire as they laid the explosives. We were atop a hill with rifles, providing covering fire. Ben saw something on the steep terrain below and went to check. I tried to follow him and found only a man with dark glasses. Then I woke here.”
Murphy nodded again, his face straight and open. “You were fighting against the British, yes?”
“Their policies stopped Jewish immigration to Palestine. For those…like me, there was no home to return to, so we chose Palestine. When we tried to go there, the British detained us and put us into camps. It was almost as if we’d never left the Nazis, that they had simply passed us along to another captor,” Aliza replied, her voice thick with emotion pent up for far too long. “All we wanted was a home.”
“Well,” Murphy said and placed his palms on his knees. “This is your home now, Miss Turan. You are part of what we call the Lost Soldiers.”
“I’m no soldier. I will be of no use here with you.”
He laughed. “And yet there you were, atop a hill providing covering fire during an insurgent combat operation. I think we’ll find something you’re both good at and willing to do.”
And despite her silent certainty that he was
wrong, within two weeks, she was putting her first saddle on a whinaalani. Working with them, first as pack animals and then as mounts brought her horsemanship skills back. She relished the opportunity to ride almost any animal, and the whinnies were agile and graceful despite their size. Teaching the soldiers to ride hadn’t been easy, at first. There was a familiar gleam in some of their eyes, but like the nameless officer at Dachau, Major Murphy quickly ended any predatory ideas by ordering her trained with the M1911 pistol and allowing her to carry one at all times, if she wished. After a week on the ground, she’d eschewed doing so, especially after meeting Sergeant First Class Whittaker. The no-nonsense sergeant made sure everyone knew she was not only good at what she did, but he considered her to be one of them.
Whittaker’s gruff voice shook the memories away and brought her back to the present. “Everything okay, Aliza?” Like Murphy, Whittaker wore the screaming eagle patch on his right shoulder.
She let her eyes linger on the patch for a long second before she smiled and met his eyes. “I asked the captain about our route. I’d hoped to search the high ground to the north for medicinals. Not areas where you’ve patrolled before.”
Whittaker nodded, and there was a hint of a frown at the corner of his mouth. “There’ll be time for that.”
“Not today, though. Right?” She smiled, hoped that the older sergeant would reciprocate.
He did not; the radio headset attached to the shoulder of his load-bearing straps crackled to life. “Saber Nine, this is Oscar Papa Two, relay follows. Over.”
Whittaker grabbed the headset and spun the round microphone of the radio they called a prick seven. She’d had to learn so many things quickly. Whittaker depressed the transmit button. “Oscar Papa Two, send it. Over.”
“Saber Nine, relay from Glass Palace. Seeker Six established brief uplink. They report significant mechanical issues on the patrol. Recovery requested. They do not have Class Nine and Class Three is critical. Position two decimal five clicks from bottom of Charlie Papa Five. Enemy recon assets may be converging on the area. Quantity and type unknown. Over.”
The military discussed everything in an abbreviated fashion, including supply and materiel. Class three referred to fuel and petroleum products. Class nine were repair parts.
“OP Two, how do we know OpFor elements are coming if they can’t identify them?”
“Saber Nine, they’re reporting biologics scattering behind them. Probably due to fast approach of OpFor, over.”
Whittaker’s face went from a frown to a scowl. “Good copy, Oscar Papa Two. Relaying to Saber Six. Standby. Saber Nine, out.”
Aliza looked him in the eye. “Is everything okay?”
Whittaker shook his head. “I knew being under the command of a guy named Murphy was a bad omen.”
“What do you mean?” Aliza asked and then mentally slapped herself. “Oh, I’ve heard you all talk about Murphy’s Law. ‘Everything that can go wrong will go wrong.’ Yes?”
Whittaker grunted and nudged his mount toward the trail at the top of the rim. “That’s about it.”
“And things just went wrong?”
He looked over his shoulder. “Things just went to shit, Aliza. There are only two options and neither of them are good.”
* * * * *
Chapter Three
“Halt!” Bo called as soon as he handed the radio handset back to his RTO, Specialist Sublete. He frowned at the wide-eyed young man before turning to the patrol and making eye contact with his leading two section leaders. “Set a coil. Leaders on me.”
The riders and their whinnies formed a circular position with their noses pointing out in all directions for security. No one raised a weapon and there was no threat identified, but the simple action kept everyone involved in the patrol’s security. All eyes were alert and everyone quiet enough to listen to the surrounding environment. All Bo heard was the blood rushing through his ears in anticipation.
There were two options. The first was the most dangerous—rush the patrol down the trail to the bottom of the pass to rendezvous with Seeker Six’s raiding party ASAP to determine how bad things were. But if the enemy came swooping down on them, his small cavalry force wouldn’t be able to hold off the attack long enough for reinforcements to arrive.
The second option was the least palatable. Remaining on the high ground gave Bo the freedom of communications with the observation posts and the ability to see and command the field. Staying in place, however, didn’t provide security or covering fire to the friendlies limping through the valley toward them. He’d seen far too many soldiers die outside the protection of their nearby units, but the risk to his small force was great. Probably too great.
For a split second, he remembered watching Somalis scampering through alleys with their assault rifles and RPGs to swarm the next convoy from behind. Frantic radio calls to speed up went unheeded or unheard. The leaders of that second convoy had never known why, thirty seconds later and on the block Bo’s convoy had just passed through without issue, the vehicles from their nonprofit medical organization were destroyed. With no survivors.
Bo’s leaders—the four section leaders, Whittaker, and Turan—gathered. He met Whittaker’s questioning eyes. “We move further down, to the next overlook. Set a hasty defensive perimeter. We need to see what the enemy forces are doing. If they’re really coming or not.”
Whittaker nodded and his facial expression didn’t change. “Yes, sir. How are you intending to figure out what the enemy might do?”
“Observation,” Bo replied. “And we’ll be in radio contact with our guys soon.”
“But they’re at least a terrain feature away.” Sergeant Cook from the first section blurted. “They may be out of sight when an attack comes, sir.”
“Noted,” Bo frowned. “Look, I’m not happy about this situation either and—”
“We need to go down there,” Turan said. “You’re leaving them out in the open. Abandoning them.”
Jaw clenched, Bo tried to hold back the comment that burst through his lips. “And what would you know about protecting friends in combat, Miss Turan?”
Her eyebrows rose. “What do you mean?”
“How about you leave military operations to those familiar with them? I don’t need any advice drawn from your experience as a terrorist,” Bo snapped.
Turan stepped forward, her eyes blazing. “You have no idea what I went through, Captain Moorefield!”
“Keep your voice down,” Bo replied.
“I will do no such thing. You know nothing about why I did what I did. You cannot imagine what I lost.” Her arm shot out and pointed down the hill. “We must go get them!”
Bo wasn’t listening. The bluish numbers tattooed on the inside of her arm stunned him silent. He’d not known she was a Holocaust survivor, only that she’d tried to emigrate to Palestine after the war and violently resisted the British authority. His mouth dropped open, and he closed it before looking up at her eyes.
“I had no idea.”
“You don’t care,” she snarled. “Like you don’t care for those men out there. You sit here and wait, doing nothing when we should search for water. Medicinals, too. You preach about gathering your—your ‘intelligence requirements,’ but now, when your men are in great danger, you will not make them the first priority? You will not help them?”
Impatience flashed into anger. Bo stood. The woman took a step back as his hand came up and pointed at her chin. “Make no mistake, Miss Turan, I know there are soldiers down there who need our help, and that supersedes any other mission on this godforsaken planet in this future we didn’t want. I’m prepared to do whatever it takes for my friends, and while it might seem contradictory that I am not presently doing so, you are still on this patrol and under my orders. The simple fact is that I can’t order this patrol to the bottom of the pass until I know more about what we’re facing.”
She blinked. “But you said that helping them is your priority, that it supersedes—�
��
“I know!” Bo blurted. “You’re missing my point.”
Aliza flinched back. “Does this ‘point’ mean we must sit up here and wait, instead of—?”
“Yes, damn it: that is exactly what my point is. I can’t risk something catastrophic happening to this untrained and lightly armed unit.” It was the truth, but it sounded—and felt—weak; he pushed harder. “Hell, we’re little more than a bunch of trainees on mounts with pistols and rifles. If we’re going to remain a functional unit, there is no other tactical choice. We set a defense, care for the whinnies, and let the situation develop. Let’s make it happen.”
The group broke up. Bo turned back toward Scout and prepared to climb into the saddle. The feeling of a stare burning two holes in his back was so strong that he turned around. Aliza Turan’s flashing eyes followed his every move. But the voice in his head was not hers.
You said you cared, and you wanted to make things work, but your actions never showed it. You were too busy waiting for the right time.
Bo Moorefield sighed and shook off the memory as best he could. He turned and mounted Scout, then moved down the trail with Specialist Sublete to reconnoiter the immediate surroundings. He didn’t see Aliza Turan do the same.
* * *
The descent proved more difficult than Aliza first thought. The white and brown scrabble reminded her of the rocky hills of Palestine, although much steeper. The loose rock made Athena rumble with discomfort as they made their way carefully down the slope and kept a good fifty meters distance from Moorefield and Sublete. Athena shuffled gracefully as the rocks slid out from under her feet before springing to solid rock in a fluid movement that almost took Aliza’s breath away.
“Easy, girl,” Aliza cooed and patted the lizard-like creature’s neck. “Easy.”
Reins in hand, she gently guided the whinnie back into the center of the trail while keeping her eyes on Moorefield’s back as he made his way down the hill. The whinnie responded like the best dressage horses she’d ridden as a child. The big animal wasted no energy. Every step was fluid and sure. It made every movement with purpose and intent—strong and agile. While a whinnie would never win a dressage competition, there was something about the animal that filled her with joy, and not merely because she had never known so wonderful and exhilarating a riding experience. Mounted on a whinnie’s flowing, almost serpentine, back drove away the memories and salved the loss and pain she fought to overcome during every waking moment.
Obligations Page 4
