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the sound of these weapons was different from the characteristic stutter of the Kalashnikovs that the invaders were using and that he himself used, preferring a weapon whose report would blend with that of the type Israel’s enemies favored. No, the rifles that now joined the fight had the distinctive crackle of M-16s, the available weapon that Saul had taught the teenagers of the village to shoot.
    An invader fell, blood erupting from his back. The five remaining terrorists on Saul’s side of the village directed their aim toward a corrugated-metal shed from which the volley had come. The shed quivered, dozens of holes appearing along its side. The M-16 became silent.
    But others, from different buildings, sought vengeance. Another invader spurted blood, falling. Saul eased his finger onto the trigger, smoothly absorbed the recoil, and disintegrated an invader’s spine. He switched his aim, hit another target, this time in the skull, and scrambled from the pile of rocks, firing as he ran.
    Another enemy fell. Caught in a cross fire, the remaining Arab glanced backward and forward, sprinted toward a low stone wall, and halted in astonishment as Saul’s favorite student popped up, firing at point-blank range, blowing his enemy’s face apart. A mist of blood hovered over the falling body.
    Using the cover of ditches and walls that he and his students had constructed to provide defensive positions, Saul charged toward the opposite side of the village. At the corners of his vision, he noticed his students spreading out and heard the crackle of other M-16s, the answering stutter of more Kalashnikovs. A second grenade exploded within the building already partially destroyed by the first. This time, as a wall erupted, Saul heard no shrieks. With doubled fury, he completed the semicircle that brought him to the other group of invaders. He emptied his magazine, grabbed a Kalashnikov that a retreating Arab had dropped, emptied it, picked up an M-16 that his second-favorite studenthad dropped when dying, emptied it, and outraced a terrorist whose hand-to-hand combat skills were no match for the killer-instinct training that Saul had received twenty years ago. Using the palm of one hand, then the other, lunging with all his force, he drove the enemy’s rib cage into his heart and lungs.
    The gunfire stopped. Saul squinted toward the enemy at his feet. His students, excited by victory, gathered around him.
    “No! Don’t form a crowd! Split up! Take cover! We don’t know if we got them all!”
    He followed his own directive and dove toward a ditch. But he cursed himself for being so right. He told himself that his soul was doomed for being professional. He tried to remind himself that the good of the village came first. In a culture barely hanging on, individuals had to come second. Here, sacrifice was the norm. But he desperately wanted to know about Erika and his son.
    Forced to set a good example, he divided his students into small groups and methodically scoured the village. Cautiously, he approached and checked every enemy corpse. Despising himself for being responsible, he supervised the search of intact buildings, verifying that no invader hid within them. He organized assessment teams—ten villagers dead, fifteen wounded.
    “Where’s the medic squad? Communications, did you radio an SOS to the base at Beersheeba?”
    Only when every emergency procedure had been followed, when every precaution had been taken, did he allow his humanity to assert itself. And knew again that he was doomed. His former life had intruded, controlling him. Responding to the rote with which he’d been trained, he’d behaved correctly. And from another perspective, completely, absolutely, the correctness was wrong. He’d allowed his public duties to overwhelm his private needs.
    The building that had received the most gunfire, that had erupted from two grenade blasts, was his own. As villagers and students surrounded him, in awe of his control,