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pieces."
    "Nablus."
    "Deir Yasin Twenty," Greenberg said. "Autoguns will be up in a minute, maybe less. I've got the two rockets heating up, if you can get me a target."
    Thank God that the heavy mortar training detachment traveled with a half dozen autoguns and as many of air-suppression rockets when operational. Their tubes couldn't possibly to do any good, even if they could be brought on line: the enemy, whoever it was, was too close.
    "Kelev," Galil said, "negative on a target. I—"
    "Tel Aviv Ten. I will spot for the rockets," Peled said, his shout automatically damped.
    "Kelev. Do it."
    Ari Hanavi huddled in the ditch, trying to press himself into the ground, breathing shallowly to keep his back low.
    "—One One Five. Second bus is burning. Gonna blow any minute."
    "Listen, I've got one, would you fucking listen—"
    "Identify yourself, dammit," Galil snapped.
    "—bearing perp to the road, listen to me, perp to the road and right a quarter, one hundred meters, base of big tree, at least two of them, probably more. And I'm, shit, I'm TTD Two One Fifteen, Chaim Goell, and—"
    Shimon Bar-El's voice cut through, again override mode. "I spotted what looked like a hiking trail. Crosses the road out beyond the bend, about half a klick back. You might want to try that."
    "Kelev. We'll do that, Shimon. Tel Aviv Ten, I'm taking Kelev One around and behind. You form up the rest, and lay down a cover from here."
    "Tel Aviv Ten," Peled said. " Got it."
    "Kelev Twenty. Okay, Kelev, One to the south; follow me."
    "Two prisoners," Shimon Bar-El said.
    "Kelev Twenty. Yes, Shimon."
    "Ari, come on." It took him a moment to realize that Benyamin was shouting in his ear, not over his 'phones. Benyamin pulled him to his feet.
    "He's not worth shit." Lavon had his weapon loaded again and braced against his hip. "Leave him."
    Benyamin nodded. "Okay. Ari: you took a blow to the head. Stay here. That's an order."
    He couldn't remember taking a blow to the head, and they were all running away, all abandoning him.
    He couldn't stop crying, but Ari forced himself to his feet and staggered after them. At least they were running away from the shooting.

CHAPTER 4

    Yitzhak Galil: Moving the Pieces

    "Follow me," Yitzhak Galil said, charging across the wide dirt road, his rifle held chest-high, smashing through the brush on the other side.
    Two dozen men followed him at a dead run, although when he glanced behind him to check his quick count, he could see Ari Hanavi, staggering down off the road, slipping, falling far behind.
    Forget him, Galil decided. Save it for later. On the chessboard or in the field, it was all the same: pieces don't do a lot of good until they're developed, deployed. Shimon and the rest of the company were castled across the road. Galil moved his men out.
    As always, it was the little things that tripped you up. The dominant vegetation in the forest was a ten-meter-tall dull green plant, its bifurcated trunk smooth, topped with an explosion of long strings of leaves that never came within a man-height of the ground.
    Those were spaced widely enough not to be a problem. It was their younger versions that littered the floor of the forest, clawing at Galil, smashing at his faceplate as he pushed on.
    The ground was covered with humus and a plant called melfoglia—slimy gray leaves, ranging in from a few centimeters to half a meter across—interspersed with cadapommidor—vaguely cubical white fungi the size of a man's head. It looked like bleached cheese and smelled like death when you kicked it open. Galil had to fight to keep on his feet.
    Radio discipline on the multi-person channels was always among the first things to go to hell, particularly when everyone hadn't smelled real gunsmoke for awhile; the company freak quickly became a buzz of noise.
    He puffed for the private line to his first section leader. "Yosef. Drop off a fireteam on this side of the road. One that's already got casualties—I only need two or three