Gordon Eklund - Falling Toward Forever

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2024-12-23 0 0 656.73KB 167 页 5.9玖币
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Falling Toward Forever
by Gordon Eklund
CHAPTER ONE
Despite the brutal, bristling heat that infected the savannah
from dawn to dusk, the nights often turned rapidly chilly. A cold
wind whipped gently across the flat, desolate plain, as Calvin
Waller patiently waited for the campfire to spring sufficiently to
life before joining the other men crouched around the orange
flames. Waller sat with his arms hugging his chest, trying not to
shake or shiver. The moon, a thin crescent, hung low in the sky,
while the stars burned with a splendor impossible to equal in any
of the supposedly civilized centers of the world. The nearest
significant human habitation was a hundred miles from here.
"Would you care for something more to eat?" asked the stout,
heavily muscled black man who crouched nearest to Waller. He
offered his tin plate.
"No, not me, thanks."
"The reason I ask," said the black man, "is because I wonder.
Does it affect you the same as it does me? Each time, before I
enter battle, my stomach grows very nervous, tense."
Waller did not recognize this man. He wore the tattered
combat fatigues and the high filthy boots of all of them. He could
just as easily have been another. "I'm not afraid, if that's what
you mean."
"Oh, no, not afraid. Just tension. I meant nothing else."
"I'm just not hungry"
"The colonel, once when I talked to him, he says you are never
used to it."
"He may be right."
"Especially the killing. We are never used to that, are we?"
"I don't know why not." Waller felt himself growing angry.
Why wouldn't this man shut up? "Isn't it what we're here for?
Look at that gun you're wearing. What's it for? Killing, isn't it?"
"I'm sorry if I have offended you," said the man, but he
sounded more amused than apologetic.
"I'm not offended." Waller started to turn away, but the man
came with him. His spoken English was excellent, if stilted. Most
of the guerillas spoke French, if anything.
"The reason I ask these questions is not wholly for myself.
Your presence here is an enigma to all of us."
"I'm not the only white man who's ever fought with you."
"No, but the others were here for one of two reasons. It was
either the money or it was the ideology. Tell me, then. Which is it
with you?"
"Neither."
The man smiled, his teeth made bright by the reflecting
firelight. "Then you must see why it is so difficult for us to accept
your presence."
"The colonel seems satisfied. Shouldn't he know?" The colonel,
in fact, sat among them tonight. With the other officers, he
squatted beside another, somewhat larger fire.
"The colonel is an excellent soldier."
"I never said otherwise."
"But neither have you said why you are here."
"For one reason," said Waller. "I'm a soldier. When I was
eighteen, my country sent me to fight in a war. I'm twenty-six
now but fighting is all I know. I tried other things and couldn't
do it. So I came here. It's the only war available. It keeps me
busy."
"And our beliefs—they mean nothing."
"No."
"But why choose our side? The insurgent side? Wouldn't you
be safer fighting for the government?"
"I decided a long time ago that I don't like governments."
"Not even your own? They are not supporting us, you know."
"Most especially my own." In spite of the cold, Waller stood
and backed away from the fire. "You'll have to excuse me. I'm
tired."
"Of course." By his smile the man clearly indicated he didn't
believe a word of it. "Perhaps we can talk some other time."
"I hope so." Clutching his rifle, Waller went away, stepping
cautiously across the dark land to the place where his bedroll
was waiting. A few of the other men had also retired but Waller
would have bet—considering what was to occur tomorrow—that
nobody was sleeping yet. He crawled between the blankets,
covering himself from neck to toes. The wind continued to pour
across his exposed face. He uncovered his hands and quickly lit a
cigarette. The smoke failed either to calm or warm him. Maybe
the man was right. Maybe he didn't like the fighting—or the
killing. He wasn't afraid—he had never been that—but he didn't
much like it, either. There were times when he wouldn't have
minded waking up at home in bed.
Not that he had a home. Not unless you wanted to call it
simply the United States of America and get no more specific
than that. He had been born there—years and years ago. He
remembered nothing of the place, except that it was a long way
from here. Home was a place, when they talked of Africa, you
envisioned Tarzan and his apes, a wet jungle, raging charging
lions, frenzied native dancers. It was nothing like this: a flat,
arid, bleak stretch of savannah waste. Or the dreadful dry heat
that sucked the water whole from your body. Or the tall,
handsome natives—devout Moslems, all of them. Or— a sight he
would never forget—the naked, big-bellied, starving children
standing in front of their empty, death-ridden huts. No, home
was a place where some people owned more food than any one
man could eat in a lifetime. Home was a place to be
avoided—and despised. The six months he had spent there last
year—the first such months in seven years—had been plenty
enough to last him a lifetime. He would never go back.
And if he ever did, they would surely jail him. He was a traitor
now.
And he liked it better here. The men respected him— even the
one who had questioned him tonight—and he respected them.
What else mattered?
A jagged shadow loomed over him. Instinctively, he reached
for his rifle.
"It's me!" cried a voice.
"Oh." Waller relaxed. "It's you."
"Yes." The shadow crouched down, becoming a man. "I
wished to say I regretted offending you before."
"I told you I wasn't offended."
"May I have one of your cigarettes, then?"
"Sure." Waller flipped a cigarette at the man. "By the way,
what's your name? You forgot to tell me."
"It is Ahmad. One of my grandfathers was once a king of
Songhai." He said this last as though it was a necessary part of
introducing himself.
"Then is that why you're here? You want to regain the lost
throne?"
"Oh, no," Ahmad said hastily. "My country is done with kings
for all time."
"I hope you're right."
"But that is not what I came to tell you."
"I thought you wanted to apologize."
"Yes, that—but also I wished to warn you."
"Warn me? Of what?"
"Of the fact that, tomorrow when we fight, I will be assigned
to lead my squad upon your right flank. I wanted you to know I
intend to avoid you as much as possible. If I see you coming
near, I will choose to run. If you are in trouble, I will not help."
Waller ground the smoldering stub of his cigarette against the
dry earth. "I seem to have turned you off."
"It is because I feel you are a dangerous man, Waller. If you do
not fear death, then I fear you. You are seeking death; you wish
for it to come.
"That's ridiculous. Who do you think you are?"
"I have received university training in the science of
psychology. In Paris."
"I think you ought to take some graduate studies." Waller said
weakly.
"I just wanted you to know. You are a fascinating man,
Waller, but a very dangerous man. I will see you again when we
have won the battle."
"I hope so," Waller said.
"As do I," Ahmad agreed.
CHAPTER TWO
Before morning the colonel slipped away to rejoin the main
regiment near a small insurgent village some twenty miles
distant. So it was Captain Malik, a good officer, who would be
leading them into battle today.
On the surface, their mission seemed little more than routine.
It was Waller's first action since joining the company but that
didn't make it any different. Addressing his men shortly after
dawn, Captain Malik, speaking good French, called it just that:
routine. The outpost they were hitting was an old walled village,
once a French fortress. The present occupying force of
government troops was not a large one and, for the most part,
they had always stayed safely hidden behind the shelter of their
stone wall. The colonel had let them alone in the past. Now he
needed their weapons. Various rumors claimed the outpost had
recently received a large shipment of modern American
automatic rifles. The only conceivable obstacle, said Captain
Malik, to a smoothly functioning mission was that stone wall
circling the village. It was eight feet high and kept in a state of
good repair. But the element of surprise would work against
that, Captain Malik believed. It would even the odds or tip them
slightly in favor of the insurgents. Waller wasn't so sure. The
element of surprise, he thought, was just another way of trusting
to good luck.
He was given a squad of six men to lead. Captain Malik took
each squad leader aside and explained in careful detail exactly
what would be expected once the wall was scaled. Waller listened
carefully, preferring to leave nothing to chance. Then they
marched, moving swiftly and neatly across the flat, parched
landscape. Three hours passed while they walked. The sun rose
hurtling through the empty sky, burning the life from everything
it touched. Waller noticed Ahmad at the head of the squad to his
right. They nodded once to each other but did not speak.
As soon as the first faint glimpse of the fortress village
appeared at the northern horizon, Captain Mahk ordered
everyone to get down. Now he spoke more re-vealingly of their
mission. Among the troops stationed inside the village, the
insurgents had a friend. At exactly noon, this man would open
the rear gates. Four squads would attack through there, while
the remaining four would wait in front. Once the government
force went to protect its exposed rear, these men would scale the
front wall.
The squad Waller led was one of those assigned to the front.
He knew it would be tough here, though maybe not so tough as
at the rear. Waller and his men crawled forward. The landscape
failed to provide the most meager protection. They crawled on
their bellies till the front wall of the village was less than a
hundred yards away. Waller could see men moving up on the
wall. He took two of his men, the most proficient marksmen, and
told them to train their rifles on the wall. "As soon as we move, I
want you to start shooting. Don't let them stand up if you can
help it. If they do, we may be gone."
It seemed like a half-hour, but was probably much less, when
the sound of a single rifle shot reached his ears. It came from the
back of the village. He signaled his marksmen to be ready. He
assumed a crouching position himself. Another shot
sounded—then another—then a massive burst. Waller waved at
his men. The other squad leaders were doing the same. In a
mass, the men rushed the hopefully vulnerable wall.
Gunfire greeted them the moment they showed themselves,
but it was sporadic and not well aimed. Waller lost only one of
the men behind him. He ran cautiously, not eager to be the first
to reach the wall. The man, when he did arrive, died swiftly. So
did the two men following. But the next went up and over the
wall. Waller jumped, too. He had his rifle strapped to his
shoulder and both hands free. He gripped the top of the wall and
pulled. The soft rock crumbled beneath his grasping fingers. He
kicked, leaped, rolled. A narrow walkway caught him on the
opposite side of the wall. Below in a courtyard lay a half-dozen
dead men. Only one was an insurgent. Cheered by this, Waller
drew his rifle and began firing. By this time, more than a dozen
insurgents had scaled the wall. With Waller, they crouched upon
the walkway, firing below. The noise of answering gunfire was
fierce but Waller noticed few bullets striking near. He guessed
that much of the apparent clamor was actually emanating from
the rear of the village. He could see high, black puffs of smoke
rising from there. He thought it was time to move.
Jumping down from the walkway, he urged the remainder of
his squad to follow. They crossed the open courtyard quickly and
then began edging carefully forward through a host of scattered
wooden huts. His assigned task was to reach the store of
weapons and guard them from deliberate sabotage until the
fortress could be secured. The weapons were kept in a stone hut
near the middle of the village. The closer he brought his men to
this point, the more sniper fire they met. He lost a second man
and a third. Many of the huts seemed occupied now. He tried to
stay clear of the windows.
There wasn't time to flush them out. All he could do was hurry
and hope.
He lost another man.
At last he thought sure he had found it. The hut was made of
stone and the door was a thick metal barrier. He stationed his
remaining two men one on each side of the door. Then he fired
at the lock. He pumped a dozen bullets into the door, clanging
and ringing, without the least effect. Suddenly, the door sprang
open. "Get down!" he shouted flopping into the dust.
But the two men with him were eager. While bullets rattled
the dust near his head, the men dashed through the door. Waller
shrugged, stood up, and followed them cautiously.
By the time he passed through the door, the room directly
behind was empty of any life. There was a dead man—one of his.
From a second dim room in the back, the sound of gunfire
continued. Waller darted forward and threw himself against the
wall beside the open door. He dropped his rifle and raised his
pistol, peeping around the corner.
It was too dark in there to see well after the bright sun
outside. He thought he saw a body—no, two—upon the floor.
More clearly, he made out, stacked against the rear wall, piles of
crates and boxes. The weapons. So he had found the right place.
But could he go in to claim them? Unable to see, he tried
listening. He thought of other places, other times, acquiring
patience. He watched the door behind him but no one entered. If
there was anyone in that room, he wanted to lure them out. Pop
them off one at a time. It was the only way.
But no one came out.
Finally, Waller sensed that it was past time to move. Until the
very end, he kept his ears poised for any disturbing noise. He
went around the corner and darted through the doorway.
Inside the room, he glimpsed a man. Soldier. He was armed,
aiming. Without forethought, Waller lifted his pistol, dropped to
a knee, and fired. The man screamed and his gun flew up.
Something hit Waller from behind. A bullet cracked his arm.
Clutching the pistol, he spun around.
Crouched in a corner he discovered his assailant. A woman. A
young white woman with blond hair and a pretty face. She wore
khaki desert garb but was not anything like a soldier.
From the look in her eyes, he guessed she was as surprised to
see him as he was to see her.
She was pointing a pistol right at his face.
"Don't shoot," he said, aiming at her chest. "Move a muscle
and I'll have to kill you."
She frowned and made an ugly sound deep in her throat. He
saw her hands tighten around the gun. He didn't want to shoot
but neither did he want to die. Someone was shouting his name
from behind. "Waller, don't! Waller, drop—!"
Startled, the woman fired. Her bullet went wide, piercing the
wall and ricocheting wildly.
He got ready to shoot himself.
But he never did. What happened next he didn't understand
at all. The world jumped. It was as if someone had jerked a rug
out from under it. The world jumped and he fell. Down, down.
Down into forever.
CHAPTER THREE
Calvin Waller first awoke to a sight he had last seen so many
weeks before that he wouldn't believe his eyes. He shut them.
Blinking rapidly, shaking his head, he finally dared to look again.
The sight hadn't changed. There above his head, drifting gently
in the breeze, hung a bright patch of thick greenery. No, no, this
just couldn't be. A green tree in the savannah—impossible.
He sat up and saw, standing beside him, a massive green pine
tree.
Nor was that all. He turned his head. There was another tree,
and another, and another. This was a forest. The heavy green
foliage nearly hid the sun and sky from view. The ground was
covered everywhere with fallen needles and leaves. He had
awakened in the middle of a forest. But that just could not be.
Then the pain struck him. Wincing, he glanced down, seeing
the jagged hole torn in his shirt, the bloody wound exposed
beneath. Tenderly, he examined his arm. The blood had dried.
He must have been out cold for some time. The wound itself did
not appear too dangerous, a hole in the flesh. He would have to
have it tended to. But where? Was there a doctor in this forest?
Or anyone?
He made himself stand. His legs wobbled but finally held him.
Trying to walk, he staggered like a drunk. He reached the trunk
of the big pine tree and dropped there. The pain swept over him.
Moaning gently, he waited for it to subside.
He decided to survey his present situation. Wherever he was,
he definitely seemed to be alone. His ammunition belt was full
and that was a good sign but his guns—both the pistol and the
rifle—were nowhere to be seen. His canteen was full. He took a
drink. The water was warm and flat but not unbearable. He
poured a few drops on his wound but chose not to waste any
more. He didn't have any food. The company's supplies had been
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ScannedbyHighroller.Proofedby.MadeprettierbyuseofEBookDesignGroupStylesheet.FallingTowardForeverbyGordonEklundCHAPTERONEDespitethebrutal,bristlingheatthatinfectedthesavannahfromdawntodusk,thenightsoftenturnedrapidlychilly.Acoldwindwhippedgentlyacrosstheflat,desolateplain,asCalvinWallerpatientlywaite...

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