Til Valhalla Read online

  “It is, sir. My soldier. My responsibility…my failure.”

  “If you think you can lead men to war and bring them all home without a scratch, you’re fooling yourself. The Lord determines our fate. It is up to us to live up to his expectations and act in faith,” Carius said.

  “I don’t believe—our faith is different in this, sir. Valhalla awaits the worthy. For warriors. Battle provides the proof,” Sigmund said.

  “Why does death take some and spare others? It is pointless to worry. Our fate is determined. And if it was meant for Roy to die, then it was his time. We are Armor. We cannot trade blows with the enemy. Attrition will defeat us. As such, I have trained us all to close with and destroy the enemy as quickly as possible. Shock. Awe. Into the enemy. Soldiers fearing for their safety lack this aggression. Give up your fear of death and victory comes faster and with less cost. Trust in the Lord.” Carius’ steel-gray eyes stared at Sigmund.

  “I can’t explain what Roy was feeling in that fight,” Sigmund said. “I know how I felt. Failure. Another soldier lost, one I could have saved if I’d done a better job.”

  “What happened in Alaska wasn’t your fault. We’re trained to not cross the Red Line. But don’t count young Roy out just yet. The Australians found him.”

  “They—wait, what?”

  “Levies recovered him. He’s on his feet and walking home. I trust he’ll be back with a better appreciation of his Armor.”

  Sigmund put a hand to the railing and steadied himself.

  “You see, Sigmund? The Lord had more for him to do,” Carius said. “Have faith. But do remember that faith without deeds is worthless. We must act with the full confidence that God is with us, and that we are the vessel for his will. As such, we do not leave things up to fate, but fight to bring the world to a better state.”

  “It’s the same if I do my best to kill Chi-com and prove myself worthy of Valhalla, isn’t it, sir?”

  “True faith always points to the same truth, even if you are a filthy pagan,” Carius said. “Now, the Australians. What is their quality?”

  “There’s some…friction.” Sigmund frowned. “Their suits are barely functional, but the soldiers inside are warriors. They hate the Chi-com—though they don’t seem to like us much better. The lance commander I’m partnered with, this ‘Digger.’ I think she’s warming up to me. Keeps calling me ‘seppo.’”

  Carius snorted. “Ah, the local tongue,” the colonel said. “Australian lineage carries a good deal of rhyming slang. They think everyone in the Atlantic Union is an American. A ‘Yankee.’ Or just ‘Yank.’ And ‘tank’ rhymes with that, and there’s the connection to septic tank. Or ‘seppo’ for short.”

  “Wait…” Sigmund’s eyes darted from side to side. “Then that means—”

  “Digger thinks you’re full of shit.” Carius patted him on the shoulder. “But the more the Atlantic Union comes to Australia’s aid, the more she and the rest should appreciate us. Unless our being here does bring Damocles down on their cities and kills thousands. Then it’s a very long swim back to the Union. I have faith the good Lord did not bring us all the way out here for something so humiliating. Now let’s go speak with our hosts.”

  ****

  Digger, leaning against an Armor leg, drained the last of a beer bottle and tossed it into a trash bin. Her gaze was on a curled-up form at the feet of another suit a few yards away, wrapped in a camouflage blanket.

  She went over to the sleeping Payne and tapped her foot against his feet. He startled awake, a pistol in his grip.

  “Don’t you take my woobie!” he shouted, his half-conscious words slurred.

  “No worries, mate,” she said. “It’s just me.”

  Payne propped himself up, squinting at her. She sat beside him and he put his head into her lap.

  “What’ve I told you about being out here?” she asked.

  “Don’t have the dream when I’m with my Armor.” He snuggled against her and tucked the pistol into the folds of his blanket.

  “You need to take better care of yourself, mate. Turn your head and let me…yup, your plugs are dirty again.” Digger turned his head to one side and removed a small pack of cotton swabs from a breast pocket. She scraped the white tips against the metal rings on the back of his head. “You know what you’re supposed to do,” she said, clicking her tongue.

  “Just forgot. Just forgot is all, ma’am.”

  “Did you eat?”

  Payne shook his head quickly.

  “Come on, mate.” She reached an arm around him and gave him a quick hug. “You know what the brass will do if you can’t suit up anymore. They’ll take you away from me. Is that what you want?”

  “I have to get you to the ship,” Payne said.

  “You got me there, remember? We’re home now. Taiwan’s over. But I still need you. Need you to take care of yourself. Like we’ve talked. Here…have a bite to eat while I get your plugs right.”

  “No apricots. They’re bad luck.”

  Removing a plastic pouch from a pocket on her shoulder, she rustled an already open end against itself then took out a small chocolate-covered cookie and pressed it against Payne’s lips. He munched quickly, then swallowed hard.

  “You put my pills in the Tim Tams again?” he asked.

  “No, mate. Who’d do such a thing?” She rolled her eyes.

  “You. You’re the only one that’d do that to me. Or for me. Another?”

  She handed him the pack and went back to cleaning his plugs.

  “More seppos here?” he asked between bites. “Saw them out in the supply yard.”

  “Yeah, more showed up,” she said, rolling her eyes again. “They think a couple more of their tin cans are going to turn the tide we’ve been fighting for years. Bunch of tall poppies think they can kick the Chi-com out of Alaska and that doing the same thing in Oz will be just as easy. That Rupert learned the hard way, didn’t he?”

  “I liked him. Good lad.”

  “Least he’s alive. No Union blood spilled on our soil for me to mourn. Yet.”

  “You think they’ll stay through? Not like last time,” Payne said.

  “Last time was Taiwan. The Chi-com broke the lines around Taipei and what did the Americans do? Ran off. Saved themselves. It was our boys that paid the price so they could leave. Our entire expeditionary force…lost for a country that wasn’t ours in a war we didn’t start. The Union’s going to learn Australia’s done dying for anyone but ourselves. We sent our best to die at Gallipoli, Borneo, Korea, Vietnam, the Mideast. Add Taiwan and Okinawa to the long list of tragedies,” Digger said, tucking a dirty swab into a pocket.

  “Old wars…kept the fight away from home,” Payne said.

  “And this last one brought it right to our doorstep,” she said. “Chi-com didn’t take kindly to us trying to keep Taiwan out of their control. Politicians in Canberra said we were going to war beside our foreign allies, like we’d been doing since the early 1900s, and that royally screwed us when we lost the plot, didn’t it?”

  “Chi-com want it all.” Payne crunched the wrapper into a ball and stuffed it into his shirt. “Same as the Japanese way back when.”

  “The Japanese never had the manpower to do what the Chi-com have done. The Japanese bombed Darwin…the Chi-com captured it. Devastated it.”

  “Union’s here now. Different from last time.”

  “They ran from Taiwan when it got bad. The Union can run from Australia if it gets like that again. And they just put a big ‘kick me’ sign on us for the Chi-com. We’ve got nowhere to go, mate. We’re going to take the hits no matter what.”

  “They’re fighting the dragons with us,” Payne said. “They…maybe they feel bad about leaving so many of us behind. Time to make things right.”

  The cemetery bay doors opened, and techs in Atlantic Union uniforms wheeled in carts of equipment. They went to the half-repaired suit and began examining it, unaware of the two warriors watching them.

  “
That’s not enough for me,” Digger said. “Not enough by far. I just need you, mate. Promise you’ll do right by yourself from here on out, yeah?”

  With his head in her lap, Payne relaxed and went to sleep. Digger stayed with him, one hand stroking his hair.

  Chapter 7

  Roy dropped the pack and fell to his hands and knees, chest heaving. Black spots danced across his vision and he lay on one side next to a bush.

  Bailey and the rest of her squad had formed a perimeter around a small pond. They were tired, but nowhere near as spent as Roy.

  “Thanks for carrying this, mate,” she said, giving the pack a pat. “Much appreciated.”

  “You know what’s in there and you gave it to the seppo?” Monaro tossed a canteen to Roy, who unscrewed it and took gulps of the warm water.

  “The Rupert carries the heavy stuff. Ain’t that the rule?” she asked.

  “Someone…” Roy began then paused to take another drag before tossing the canteen back to the Aborigine, “…someone want to get me up to speed? What’s in there? Some sort of active camo?”

  “He gets it,” Monaro said. “We were on patrol, looking for Chi-com stragglers that made it out of that dustup in Toowoomba. Ancestors guided us to a hideout of theirs.”

  “Wasn’t ancestors, mate,” Bailey said. “We went to a water hole and stumbled over their position while they were sleeping. They got lazy. Should’ve set up farther away from it.”

  “That business was stretched over their setup.” Monaro pointed to the pack. “Never seen it before.”

  “Temperature control, light mimicking,” Roy said, rubbing his sore legs. “Bet it can’t be picked up by radar or infrared either.”

  “Fair dinkum guess,” Monaro said. “Secret-squirrel types will want it back in civilization. Guess they’ll want you too, eh?”

  “Not that we want to stay in the bush forever,” Bailey said, wiping a sleeve across her brow.

  Roy looked at the sandals on his feet. They were simple leather pads with cord for a toe catch.

  “I don’t exactly feel value-added out here,” he said.

  “You keep right on lugging that hunk of shit for me, much appreciated,” Bailey said.

  Roy looked over at the pack and saw a rustle in the leaves to one side of it. “What’s that?” He frowned.

  The rustle traced back around a tree, then a brown snake with a tan jaw reared up off the ground, striking toward Roy’s arm. Its jaws snapped shut just shy of his flesh as the animal jerked back.

  Monaro had it by the tail and danced backwards as the snake swayed in his grasp.

  “We got us a cheeky one?” the Aborigine asked, one arm up to one side, the other holding the snake’s tail as far away as he could stretch. The snake hissed and struck at him, unable to close the gap.

  “Right cheeky, yeah.” Monaro swayed the snake’s tail gently and its belly lowered to the ground, still aiming its head at him. “No worries, mate. No worries at all, yeah?”

  The snake seemed to relax, then tugged at Monaro’s grip.

  “No one’s going to hurt you…there ya go.” He dragged it away from the pond, then turned it away from the water. He let the tail go and it slithered away.

  “Why didn’t you kill it?” Roy asked, his eyes locked on the last place he saw the animal.

  “It was just a brown. Only poisonous if it bites you. Let it live so it can bite any Chi-com it finds.” Monaro’s eyes darted behind Roy. “That little beauty’s nowhere near as bad as a drop bear.”

  The tree at Roy’s back shook suddenly.

  Roy yelped and rolled forward. He landed on his haunches and crab-walked back into the pond.

  The tree branches waggled furiously, then Bailey peeked out from around the trunk. Laughter broke out around the pond.

  “But…” Roy pointed to the branches, then to the brush where the snake had vanished. “Wait a minute…there’s nothing up there.”

  “Must’ve been a drop bear.” Monaro put his hands on his hips and nodded furiously. “They’re all over the place.”

  “You were a second away from cactus,” Bailey said, pointing at Roy as she tried—and failed—to keep a smile off her face.

  “You guys are funny. Real funny.” Roy looked over his shoulder to the pond. “What about crocodiles?”

  “Nah,” said Monaro. “Too far south—” Bailey whacked him in the arm. “I mean…yeah. Crocs all over.”

  A tall soldier in a slouch hat emerged from the brush. The upper-left side of his face was an ugly mass of scar tissue around a milky eye. There was a tattoo in the same spot as Digger’s, but the Chinese symbol was different.

  “You all done messing with him?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Bailey’s gaze dropped.

  “Roy, is it?” he asked. “I’m Paulus. We’re almost to Woleebee. Don’t get bit. Let’s get moving.” He nodded at the Armor soldier then slipped back into the brush. “Bailey, pack’s yours.”

  “Bugger,” the girl said as she slipped her arms into the straps and stood up.

  Roy reached for her sniper rifle, but she slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch my Bloke. And when Paulus says ‘almost,’ he means fifteen klicks. On foot. We’ll be there by dark.”

  Roy flexed his already sore feet. “Anyone have a rifle or a side arm?” He looked around as the Home Guard soldiers moved past him. “Feel kind of useless right now.”

  “Here.” Monaro handed him a Bowie knife in a sheath.

  “That’s a…knife, all right. Aren’t we more likely to get in a gunfight?”

  “Left foot, right foot, seppo,” Bailey sneered at him and started walking.

  ****

  Roy squatted in tall grass, a barbed-wire fence between him and Bailey and a small settlement. Night took most of the sky, as the last rays of sunset were behind the Armor soldiers and the Home Guard.

  “What’re we waiting for?” Roy whispered.

  “Donners are good people,” Bailey said. “They keep an eye out for Chi-com. Any risk for us and they’ll hang up a Victoria beer bottle wind chime. No worries and they’ll put up something else.”

  A man with a decent belly and wearing only a pair of shorts came out onto the porch. He scratched himself, then opened a wicker basket next to the door. He brought out a stick with spent shell casings attached by varied lengths of fishing line, turning it into a scale. He hung it up on the overhang, farted, and went back inside. A gas lamp turned on from a windowsill.

  “Simple folk, the Donners,” Bailey said, “but they’re ridgy-didge.”

  Paulus hurried to the house in a half crouch.

  “Now we wait a bit.” Bailey sat down, using the pack to prop her up. “Another day in the fresh air. Your dogs barking, seppo?”

  “My feet are killing me, yeah.” Roy rubbed the flesh where the strap had rubbed his skin raw.

  “Why’d you go for the reverse lobotomy? You not good enough for the Union’s Strike Marines?” she asked.

  “Armor Corps has a much higher dropout rate than the space jarheads, thank you. Service is still mandatory for men when they turn eighteen…figured I’d shoot for the moon, managed to not fail out during all the trials.”

  Bailey sniffed then touched the side of her nose. “Don’t bullshit me, seppo. You could’ve done those high-altitude, low-orbit drops in that shiny power armor the Strike Marines have. Poster child for everything good and perfect for the Union. Bet the Strike Marines get all the sheilas when they’re on leave, eh?”

  “Tell you one thing about Armor—you don’t have to walk everywhere.”

  “Or do you?” She winked at him. “Heard the Strike Marines are fielding new rail rifles for the snipers. That true?”

  A tsk tsk sound carried from soldier to soldier.

  “And we’re in.” Bailey rolled to her knees and stood up slowly. “The barn,” she said, stepping through a gap in the fence and leading Roy inside. The barn was lit by a single lamp in the middle, the windows blackened, gaps in the wo
oden boards covered up with tar. The place smelled of horses, but none were there.

  Home Guard soldiers dropped their gear and stretched out. When Bailey swung off the pack, Roy saw that her back was inundated with sweat. She sat on it and gave Roy a thumbs-up.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “Outhouse.” She pointed to the door. “Doubt they’ve got shit paper. Grab some grass before you go in. Monaro will get some food going in a bit. You want a brew?”

  “Alcohol?”

  “Nah, mate. The black stuff. Coffee. Doubt you’ll need help getting to sleep, but we’ve got to boil everything we drink. Might as well put some flavor to it.” She wiggled a foot from a boot and frowned at a bloody blister.

  “I’ll pass. How…old are you?” He sat next to her, back to the wall.

  “Fifteen. Almost. You?”

  “Twenty…also almost.” He kicked off the sandals.

  “An old man,” she said, touching a side pocket on her pack. “The lamp on?” she asked loudly.

  “Go for it,” came from the shadows.

  She took out a pack of cigarettes and stuck one in her mouth, then pressed the tip to a black square on the bottom of the pack. She took a long drag, then offered it to Roy.

  “What? No, thanks.” He wrinkled his nose at the smoke.

  “These are Panda brand, got them off a Chi-com major,” she said. “He wouldn’t smoke the knockoffs.”

  “I don’t smoke…you ‘got them off’ how? Trade?”

  “He’d just quit smoking.” She exhaled out her nose. “Didn’t need his boots, ammo, or his pistol anymore either.”

  “Seppo,” Monaro said as he waved a set of tongs with a square clasp at the end from a campfire in the middle of the barn, “what you want for chow? We’ve got jaffles and jaffles.”

  “Chef’s choice,” Roy said, then leaned toward Bailey. “Jaffles?”

  “They’re hot. Don’t complain.” She took three dark-green plastic pouches from her pack and tossed them to the cook. “I’m feeding you, might as well tell me why you went for the tin cans. Not ‘no’ but ‘hell no’ would I let someone poke inside my noodle.”