No Other Gods (7 page)

              We whipped up the slope, coming up the short rise just before the box canyon at a dead run. I saw that the opening was now wider — the brush had been cleared away — and ordered everyone to their positions. Two sprinted to the far end. Two melted into the undergrowth just outside the canyon. The rest scrambled up the canyon wall. Everyone would find fresh ammo pre-positioned at their designated spots. Except me, of course.

              Every stage in this battle had been critical — when the enemy can more afford to lose fifty than you one, there’s not a lot of margin for error. But the coming decision was the most critical. It would determine whether we would win now, or die slowly over the next days and weeks. Again, timing was paramount. The first reds into the canyon had to see our group disappearing at the far end. Had to. They needed to
know
that the chase was almost over. Then the rest of the reds needed to follow them in. I had a plan for that.

             
The hill rising from the valley floor now far beneath us sloped up steeply. Before the canyon it peaked and then descended gently down, while the walls of the canyon, first gently and then swiftly rose higher into the mountain above. The sloping hill and the ground around the canyon lip was treed, but not thickly. The canyon itself was bare of trees – a grassy plain almost mirroring in miniature the valley floor far below, with only a few boulders breaking the skin of the mountain, poking up through the grass.

             
What we had discovered on our second visit to this canyon is that the east end had a left hook. A deadly left hook. The trail seemed to continue, and we’d tramped up and down the visible portion to pound a well-worn and presumably often-used path there … but it dead-ended within forty feet.

              Two were now positioned near the far end of the canyon, seventy or so meters from the opening. Without being obvious about it, they were waiting until the reds came. One of us on the canyon rim was scouting — his signal would start them off their short trip.

              We heard the reds coming. A few became visible through the scrubby trees. They were advancing quickly, but not too quickly. We had taught them some caution. I wanted the front elements to bunch up, so that most, if not all of the reds were in the same place at the same time. So, from near the mouth of the canyon in good cover just as the hill’s rise started to peak, I gave them a little fire. I waited a couple of minutes while they hit dirt and more of the main body arrived. Then I quick-crawled up over the rise and down the short, gentle slope into the canyon entrance. Still keeping low, I scurried into position behind a boulder near the middle of the canyon floor, my back to the advancing reds, peering around at the two companions still waiting, poised, at the left hook by the east end. And waited.

             
A spotter already in position on the canyon rim kept us informed. Perhaps two hundred reds were now in close formation near the lip of the canyon. They were starting to come, inching over the incline. Any moment now they would pop into sight. It was time.

             
On my signal, the blues at the left hook opened fire. Bullets whined off the boulder in front of me as I cursed their verisimilitude. Creating the appearance of firing on me was necessary. Coming within inches of putting holes in my skin — I wasn’t sure that was needed. I was sure they were enjoying firing on me far too much.

             
I lifted my submachine gun over the rock and didn’t aim, blowing a wild burst off into the sky, then glanced up at the spotter. He was urgently signaling: all the reds were coming.

             
Just as they poured over the rim of the canyon floor I finally broke cover and sprinted deeper, east, toward the left hook and the two blues. They potted a couple of shots in my direction that peppered the ground at my feet and I hit the dirt. Then they turned and disappeared down the left hook, and the mass of reds started opening fire at them from behind me. I got back to my feet when the reds had nothing more to shoot at, waved at the them with a “come one” gesture, and yelled “Let’s go!”

             
Then I took off with all the speed at my disposal, which is considerable. Twenty seconds later I was at the left hook myself. I advanced in at speed, firing into the rock walls and floor, putting on a good show. Once glance behind me told me the reds were streaming into the canyon floor. They had almost reached the rock where I had taken cover from the blue fire. I gestured again, and they continued. Then I tore down the left hook, reached the rope that we had pre-hung, and climbed hand-over-hand up to the canyon rim. Finally, panting, I took cover behind a tree, and, shucking off all my gear, stripped. I put on my old uniform, waiting on the ground for me. Then I squirmed into my battle position — a perfect little shooting spot with cover, spare ammo, and line-of-sight to the blue spotter on the far side of the canyon rim.

             
The blood-red jacket and pants I had been wearing — the ones I had stripped from a still-warm corpse in the valley floor just minutes ago — I left on the ground.

             
After a quick check of the canyon floor, which seemed to hold at least 150 reds already, I signaled to the spotter, and he motioned to our two blues left outside the canyon mouth. On his signal they opened fire from behind the reds. This was the last tactic: each was about 30 degrees out from their respective sides of the canyon opening. It gave them great enfilading fire on the reds, but more importantly, it gave any lingering, thinking, cautious reds a very good reason to get over the lip, down the short slope, and into the main canyon. Which they very gratifyingly did promptly.

             
As the last ones trickled in (I could just make out Rast among them, the fearless leader bringing up the rear) we engaged the last stage of the plan.

             
The two blues on the canyon rim closest to the mouth triggered the deadfalls on each side of the canyon mouth, and all the logs and boulders we had been able to rig in the previous day’s feverish work rumbled down into the opening, sealing the trap.

             
Immediately we opened fire on the massed men below: seven soldiers with automatic weapons firing at can’t-miss range into an unbelievably dense target-rich environment. We kept pouring metal into red, switching mags as fast as possible. They ran farther down the canyon, seeking the illusory safety of the left hook, dying as they moved, and ran smack into the sheer walls at its end. They looked for cover at the slight overhang where we had prepared a meal and slept, and were picked off from the opposing rim. They put their backs to the occasional boulder on the grassy floor, and ate steel from the two outside blues, who now moved up to and took positions on the jagged new canyon wall created by our mini landslide. A few stood and raised their weapons, aiming fire blindly around the canyon rim, but we were dug into too well to be thrown off by a little covering fire.

             
It could not go on, and it did not. Reds began throwing away their weapons and raising their arms. Perhaps a hundred and twenty remained. Our fire slackened, then stuttered to a halt. Silence louder than the cascade of noise filled the hillside.

             
“Everyone in the center,” I shouted. “Weapons on the ground, all of them. Rifles, knives, whatever you’ve got. Butts on the dirt.”

             
All our blues around the canyon rim called off a report from their position. Each could see best into the canyon floor opposite their position, and I wanted to make sure we cleared the entire area. If we didn’t, they could still overwhelm us just with the force of numbers. Most critical were our two outside soldiers, who I now called inside the jagged wall. If there were reds remaining in any numbers outside, they could be a problem for my tiny force. We held positions for long minutes.

             
It seemed that we had gotten them all. But before breaking positions, I sent a few scouts around to ensure we had. Once we jumped down in the canyon with the red prisoners, we would be picked off just as easily as they had been. No reds were in sight, and a rough count of the bodies plus the living told me that if any were still on the loose, they were very, very few indeed. Finally, we dropped down from the rim. I left two lookouts above, with orders to shoot on any suspicion of red malfeasance.

             
I walked toward the reds, avoiding twisted corpses with faces in the dirt, and others with no recognizable faces at all, covering our prisoners with the gun on full auto, fresh magazine in place, spare mags at the ready. Old-fashioned metal slugs tear a big hole, and no-one wanted a piece of that. A couple of my men policed up the dropped weapons, dumping them in a big pile.

             
The reds started muttering as we closed in, seeing how few we were. Angry at us for tricking them, and more angry at themselves for being tricked, and for surrendering when they might have had a chance to storm the barrier and escape, or turn along the canyon rim and roll us up one by one. One was angrier than the rest.

             
Rast jumped to his feet and picked his way through the mass of seated soldiers, then took a couple steps toward me. I walked to within about ten paces, covering him with my rifle. He was struggling to control himself: hatred, anger, shame, and resolve strobed over his face. Finally, quietly vicious, he spoke.

             
“Fight me, G. Fight me. Hand-to-hand, right now, right here.”

             
I paused, considering. There was, of course, no reason to. We had won, we had the upper hand, they had surrendered. Simple, and final. But … it would be a nice closure to the strangest battle I’d ever been involved in. And it might shut him up a little in the feasting hall.

             
Before he could go into the same old tired bully routine of questioning my courage and honor and integrity and everything else but my hair color, I nodded.

             
“Nothing I’d like better. Come on out.”

             
He stepped further toward me, away from the tight group of unarmed red soldiers still sitting on the ground. I stepped toward him, ground my rifle in his chest, and shoved him to the grass. He looked up, astonished and angry.

             
“But first, some ground rules,” I addressed the reds.

             
“As you’ve probably seen, there’s a lot of you and not many of us. That might give some of you some bright ideas about turning the tables here. Anyone who’s thinking that, stop now. It isn’t healthy.”

             
“First of all, I want you all against the canyon wall. Just scrabble along on your butts and hands, that’ll do. Right up against the wall.” They moved, and we covered them all — not forgetting Rast — and pushed them back in a big semicircle right up against the stone cliff.

             
I pointed to my other blues.

             
“I said thinking about rushing us was unhealthy. Here’s why. If we see a disturbance, we won’t come and ask questions. We’ll shoot. If we see a fight, we won’t try to break it up — we’ll shoot. If we see rocks being lifted or thrown, we won’t duck — we’ll shoot. If we see a look we don’t like, or a bunch of guys whispering -”

             
“We get it, we get it … you’ll shoot,” one of the reds interrupted.

             
“Right. Quick learner, gold star for you. And just a little FYI, we won’t be too particular about picking out which guy either. We’ll just hose the general area. And if you’re thinking, no big deal, s.Leep is coming tonight anyways, well, maybe we’ll just hit your legs, or your gut. You’ll have bought yourself three-four hours of bloody shits and giggles. Your choice, not mine.”

             
I looked around at the reds, ensuring everyone got the message. Then I looked at each of our blues. All of us were down on the valley floor now, except two scouts on the rim, just in case there were any more red stragglers. Seven men covering about a hundred fifty. But, those seven could put out a few thousand rounds a minute. It was as safe as it was going to get.

             
“OK, friend,” I said to Rast. ”You wanted this. Let’s dance.”

             
I dropped my rifle and sidearm, stripped off my jacket, and kicked him a combat knife while drawing my own. He picked his up, tested the edge, and stood with exaggerated slowness, then bull-rushed me from a half-kneeling, half-standing position about seven feet away. I had expected nothing less, and spun away easily, not even attempting to slice him on the way past.

             
He straightened and stood, a dozen paces away. Now he took the time to stretch and loosen a little, rolling his neck and swinging his arms. Every eye was on us as Rast started to close, slowly and carefully. We circled and watched, a few paces separated, each ready to pounce on any offered opening.

             
Now I was a little worried. Rast charging in knife first and brain second was one thing. Rast thinking about what he was doing and doing it patiently was entirely another — dozens of gutted corpses on the practice hall floor were evidence he was, in fact, a skilled knife fighter. And eager. Rast loved knife fighting, and considered himself an artist with a blade.