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"Why'd you enlist?" she asked, sounding like a convict asking him what he was in for.
Caleb touched the photo tags hanging from his neck, then shrugged. "'Cause I felt like it."
The bus lurched. All the young recruits were thrown forward.
A lean, dark-haired young woman seated two up from Caleb shouted, "Jesus, driver, this damned heat is gonna kill us. We don't need any help from you."
Caleb glanced out the window, then once more regarded the young woman seated next to him. She had a kind of sandy look to her, hair that had many shades of brown, and brown eyes to match. She seemed about to say something, then pursed her lips.
Not quite in the mood to be friendly, but not wanting to put her off, Caleb extended his hand. "I'm Caleb."
"Shalom. Laura Levenberg."
They exchanged a polite grin, shook hands, then she wiped the perspiration from her forehead.
"Hot."
"Of course. This is the Middle East, remember?"
The guy who had shouted to the bus driver took Caleb's and Laura's cue and reached across the aisle to a young Negro woman. "Michael Gieger."
Taking his hand, she replied, "Trystan Cross. Originally from South Africa, I have recently settled here in Israel."
"Hmm. Funny name for a Black African. How'd you get it?"
She lifted her shoulders. "By no means that should concern you."
Gieger chuckled over that. "They call me 'Counter'---get it? Gieger Counter!"
She grinned. "Greetings---Counter."
"Hey, I know it's just the first day," Counter began, raising his voice for all to hear, "but any guess as to when we get our planes?"
A few of the recruits murmured their guesses, but nobody spoke up with any certainty.
Caleb resumed staring through the window. They were approaching the base, and set into the lawn to the right of the main gates was a steel sign that boldly proclaimed, in large, white letters:
238Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIMn2sCDbbY
ISRAEL DEFENSE FORCE AVIATOR CAVALRY
RAHAT, ISRAEL
238Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ145fKZc43F
The gates opened automatically, and the bus driver saluted the two MPs posted before the sentry gate inside the fenced perimeter.
From his present angle, Caleb could see what appeared to be a main complex surrounded by several support structures. Off to the far left was a group of long, rectangular buildings that were presumably barracks. To the immediate right was a string of more than 20 small aircraft hangars. Behind them were many more rows of hangars, some so big that Caleb thought they could house a Tammuz launch vehicle.
The driver turned down a road that gave them a clear view of the tarmac before the smaller hangars.
Abruptly, Laura leaned over Caleb and pointed to something outside. "That's why I joined."
A group of soldiers marched in formation. Caleb had seen formations around the colonial complex while he was in training, but this group was unlike any of those. Even with a fast glance, it was clear to him that they were elite. They spotted tight, high-tech flight suits of a design Caleb had never seen before. Black boots and matching berets completed the indomitable look. On the backs was a design that suggested a shark fin.
"Very cool," Caleb found himself saying.
"That's the 238th Squadron," Laura said. "The Sharks. The best there is...or ever will be."
"They lack one thing," Caleb said.
Laura looked at him and frowned. "What?"
He grinned. "Us."
She returned a grin and nodded, then focused her attention back on the Sharks. "That'll be me, someday."
Caleb wondered if he or Laura would become part of the Sharks, then considered whether they'd ever achieve the more immediate and realistic goal of just becoming pilots. Looking at the 238th made it all seem parsecs away. But some of the men and women did not look that old or inexperienced. They only marginally intimidated him.
But there was one who stood out among the Sharks, a man built as sleek and rugged as an Israeli Spacewind or Starbrute fighter plane. Caleb guessed him to be in his late 30s. There was a mix to the man, a blend of wisdom, machismo, and mystery. Caleb read somewhere that for centuries, soldiers with battle experience wore a gaze known as the "thousand-yard stare." It was a look that this guy seemed to have, but Caleb would never know for sure until he'd had some battle experience of his own. It was safe to say that the pilot had been there. Probably had seen a lot of action in the Bionics War.
"Why are you looking at him?" Laura asked.
"Well, he's got that look that suggests he's been around, really around," Caleb replied softly.
"My parents were soldiers."
"Career officers?"
She nodded.
"They retired?"
"They're dead."
Caleb swallowed. "Wow."
The bus's brakes squeaked as it came to a halt. The young Indian man seated across from Caleb and Laura stood up and squinted at the windshield. "They're gonna yell a lot, aren't they? I hope they don't yell as much as I've heard they do."
He saw Laura take note of the recruit. "He's fucked," she whispered to Caleb.
The bus door opened. A drill instructor's beret appeared at the front of the bus and rose to reveal the man under it. Stocky and mustachioed, the black man with dark eyes like the muzzle of a shotgun looked more than capable of dealing out enough death to satisfy his superiors. He frowned and shook his head as he eyeballed the recruits. If he had spoken, he would have said, "You are one sorry bunch of cherries."
But he had probably said that to more than enough recruits in his day, Caleb speculated, so maybe he was keeping his derision to himself.
There would, of course, be plenty of time for that later.
"All right, herd. Listen up," he began without introducing himself and having decided that browbeating could not wait. "You are now at the IDF Space Aviator recruit depot, Rahat. When you left home, you were under Mama and Papa's care. You are now under mine. From now on, you will NOT eat, speak, sleep, or take a crap until you are ordered to do so, and the first and last word out of your slimy holes will be sir. Do you maggots understand me?"
Caleb, Laura, and the rest of the recruits answered, "Sir, yes, sir."
"LOUDER!"
Caleb stole a look at the Indian guy, who flinched.
"SIR, YES SIR!"
"Very good. And here's something else you'd better get used to. You are not going to like it here. You are not going to have fun. Some of you came here to fly. Most of you will never do that. Most of you will flunk out or freak out or cut your wrists. It is my duty and the duty of my fellow DIs to reach down into your guts and see what the hell we get there. Will we get IDF Space Aviator, or will we get a shivering shit sack? So far, I see shit." The drill instructor held his nose and marched down the aisle, using his fist to pound any recruit who strayed too far out of his or her seat. After returning to the front, he released his nose and said, "Upon the command, you will have approximately 30 seconds to fall out of this bus. Any questions?"
The guy named Counter raised his hand. "Sir, when do we get our planes, sir?"
"EVERYONE OFF THE BUS!" The drill instructor pointed at Counter. "NOT YOU! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!"
Caleb fell in behind Laura as they hustled towards the front of the bus. The Indian recruit was in front of Laura, and as he crossed from the steps of the bus to the tarmac, he slipped and fell into Cross.
She cocked her head. "Hey, watch it!"
"Uh, sorry."
Outside, two more thuggish DIs stood and barked, "GO! GO! GO!" at everyone. Caleb observed the painted shoe prints on the tarmac. He found a set and stood at attention next to Laura. Then he remembered his photo tags and tucked them quickly into his shirt. No need to have them out to be scrutinized by the DIs.
In a minute, Counter assumed a position on the other side of Caleb, having survived his 1-on-1 ordeal with the drill instructor on the bus. "I don't believe this crap," he said under his breath."
"You're lucky you don't have any bruises," Caleb said, hoping his voice had been muted enough by the shuffle of other recruits so that the DIs hadn't heard him.
"Just my ego, thus far."
Another drill instructor, the 4th, paraded in front of the line of recruits. On the planet for some 40-odd years, the guy had probably spent at least 22 of them with the IDF. The scowl he wore looked permanently hatcheted into shape on his face. Caleb tried to find the man's eyes, but all he had were two thin slits of leathery skin. Of course, his uniform looked painted on and perfect, creases so sharp they could cut glass. "I am Samal (Sergeant) Steinberger. That is Steinberger, not Hamburger. Spell it wrong on any of your paperwork and lose a day's leave. I will unfortunately be your senior drill instructor. I am here to turn you disgusting feces into Israeli Space Aviators, capable of invoking bowel-wrenching terror in the hearts of your enemy."
Thus far, the DIs had spoken a whole lot about shit, twice labeling the recruits as the smelly, sticky stuff. Training for a colonial expedition had been much more reserved, conducted by soft-spoken geniuses instead of loudmouthed bulldogs.
Steinberger moved nose-to-nose with Levenberg, intentionally invading her personal space. She drew back a little. "WHY ARE YOU HERE?" he barked.
"Sir, to find a direction, sir!"
"A direction? Are you lost?"
"Sir, I, uh, I suffer from a sense of disconnection and..."
"ANSWER ME, BITCH!"
SIR, YES, I AM, SIR. LOST, SIR."
Steinberger took a step back, then raised a thumb and stuck it to his chest. "Am I a road map?"
"SIR, NO SIR!"
"WRONG, BITCH! I AM A ROAD MAP! YOURS!"
Turning away from Levenberg, Steinberger continued to move down the line. "I will guide you and you will learn. If you fucks manage by some miracle to leave my school, you will be weapons, focused and full of purpose. You will welcome war. You will be proud, hot-rod rocket jocks of precision and strength, tear-assing across the cosmos, huntin' for heaven."
Caleb saw the young Indian recruit stiffen as Steinberger passed in front of him. The DI moved on, and the recruit emitted a sigh of relief.
Just then, Steinberger stopped, spun, and rushed into the Indian recruit's face. "YOU GOT A NAME, GOY?"
For a moment it seemed the young man had forgotten. Then, in a squeaky voice, he managed, "Batra, Ram Batra, Officer."
Steinberger drew back as if Batra had a disease. "OFFICER? I AM NOT AN OFFICER! I WORK FOR A LIVING." Suddenly, Steinberger swiped his beret from his head and slapped it down onto Batra's. "Mr. Batra, do you have a cranial-rectal inversion?"
"Uh, a what, sir?"
"A CRANIAL-RECTAL INVERSION. I THINK YOU DO. I THINK YOU'RE SHITTING IN MY HAT RIGHT NOW. IS THAT RIGHT, MIS-TER BATRA?"
"SIR, NO, SIR!"
Steinberger ripped his hat from Batra and replaced it on his head. Batra made a tiny sound, a remote, high-pitched, and extremely short squeal that betrayed his terror.
"Did I hear a sound outta you, Batra?"
Hyperventilating, Batra vehemently shook his head no.
"Yes, I did. I did hear a sound outta you." Steinberger put his lips just inches away from the young man's ear. "I bet it was your war cry. Lemme hear your war cry, Private."
"Ahhhhh....."
Half of the recruits, including Caleb and Levenberg, broke into laughter.
"SHUT YOUR HOLES!" Steinberger directed his attention to the black DI from the bus. "Samal Rudolph. Let this pantywaist hear an IDF battle cry."
Rudolph, who stood at parade rest some 6 meters away from the recruits, suddenly charged wild-eyed at Batra. "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Steinberger crossed to face Batra. "NOW LEMME HEAR YOUR WAR CRY!"
If Jews believed in Hell, all of the recruits would have sworn Batra was there. "Ahhhhhhhh.....'
Then Steinberger and Rudolph added their voices to Batra's. Batra reacted to this, intensifying his scream to the volume and pitch of the DIs. Finally, the trio broke off.
Caleb looked at Laura, who rolled her eyes.
Steinberger gave Batra his deadpan. "In space, no one can hear a scream, unless it's the war cry of an Israeli soldier."
Laura shook her head slightly.
Steinberger moved to her. "Why'd you join up?"
"Sir, to defend the final hope of the Jewish people, sir."
Steinberger smiled, and his teeth were white. "What year are you livin' in, bitch? 1967? 1973? It's 2174! We have no enemies now! YOU'VE MADE A BIIIIIIIIIG MISTAKE!"
To Caleb's surprise, Laura held her ground, undaunted. "Sir, no I have not, sir."
"ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR?"
"Sir, the best way to maintain peace is to maintain a strong defense, sir."
"Are you running for the Knesset?"
Caleb blurted out a snicker, then quickly composed himself.
Too late!
Steinberger regarded him. "Do you think that's funny?"
"SIR, NO, SIR."
"Why not?"
"SIR, I DON'T KNOW, SIR."
"DO YOU BELIEVE IF YOU SAY IT IS FUNNY YOU WILL PISS ME THE HELL OFF?"
"SIR, YES, SIR."
"YOUR PRESENCE HAS ALREADY PISSED ME THE HELL OFF. AND NOW YOU HAVE TOLD ME THAT MY WIT IS NO GOOD. I THOUGHT I AMUSED YOU." He softened. "Come on, tell Uncle Abe the truth. I'm funny, ain't I?"
Caleb knew Steinberger was baiting him. But any answer at this point would surely get him in trouble. "SIR, YES, SIR!"
"I don't want YOU to be the only one laughing. Amuse ME with 25!"
Beside him, Caleb heard Laura stifle a giggle, and then, from the corner of his eye, he saw her cringe.
Samal Steinberger, still wielding a near-full stockpile of verbal missiles, aimed his gaze at Laura. "I'm glad we're having such a good time! You, too, kiss the ground. ONE.....TWO...THREE.....FOUR....."
As Caleb did his push-ups with Laura, the two of them counting in unison, he listened to Steinberger and Rudolph.
"Are these desert rats accounted for?" Steinberger asked.
"We're short one man. The tank."
Caleb hesitated, then remembered his punishment. Just what he needed, a tank. He'd joined the IDF on the possibility that somehow, sometime, he would get to Tammuz and see Zara again. Now he would have to serve with a living reminder of why he wasn't with Zara to start with.
He hadn't met the tank yet, and already he hated the bastard.
"22.....23......24....25." Caleb rested his stomach on the warm blacktop a moment before hauling himself to his feet. His arms and shoulders were sore, his palms full of grit. Wiping sweat from his temple, he turned to Laura. They both were breathing too heavily to speak, not that they would've wanted to with the DIs hovering nearby.
A military jeep came from around the corner of the main complex and pulled up to the line of recruits. The MP driving got out and shuffled to the passenger's side to let out a lanky man with chestnut-colored hair. The prisoner's hands were locked behind his back. After withdrawing a remote from his belt, the MP aimed it at the young man's hands. Freed, the prisoner slipped the magnetic ringlets from his wrists and tossed them back to the MP.
"All yours," the MP told Steinberger, then laughed over some private joke as he headed back to the jeep.
Steinberger was not a great judge of character, but based on the new arrival's escort, his appearance, the smirk on his face, he looked like an edge-walker who projected a serious air of rebellion.
Steinberger approached the prisoner, then stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him, staring at the horizon. "I know all about you, Mr. Jonas Berkson. The judge thought it would be----cute---to sentence a tank to the military."
Berkson bowed his head.
"I want you to know," Steinberger continued, "that I fought alongside your people. So, I know."
Caleb couldn't believe what he was hearing. It sounded as if Steinberger had suddenly found a kindred spirit in the tank. Berkson's people were veterans, so now the recruit would share that special relationship, one reserved solely for veterans, with the DI. It was bad enough serving with a tank. But to serve with a tank who was the teacher's pet?
"Yeah, I know all about tanks," Steinberger restated. "They're lazy and they don't give a shit about anything or anybody."
Caleb could not repress his grin. Steinberger sounded wonderfully malevolent. And then the DI crossed in front of Berkson, challenging the tank to respond.
"I won't let you down," Berkson said.
If he were not in uniform, not a DI, not standing on the tarmac of an IDF base, the proximity of Steinberger's face to Berkson's could have been taken for the prelude to a....? A what? A kiss, maybe? "The only thing you're gonna let down is your face on the deck. Gimme 50, right now!"
Steinberger swung away, and the DIs swarmed around the tank to enforce Steinberger's order. Berkson dropped to his knees and began.
Without warning, Steinberger steered straight for Caleb. "What are you doing standing up?"
"SIR, I HAVE FINISHED THE 25 PUSHUPS, SIR."
"I DIDN'T SEE NO TWENTY-FIVE FROM YOU OR HERE. GET YOUR ASS HOLD BACK DOWN ON THIS DECK."
"SIR, PERHAPS ONE OF THE OTHER DRILL INSTRUCTORS SAW, SIR." Caleb looked to them; they shook their heads negatively.
"DOWN!"
Caleb and Laura complied, and as they counted off, Caleb saw Berkson look up at Laura and wink. She reacted with disgust. Caleb stared at the tank, kindling the fire in his gaze.238Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0gIcfZGN5N
