Free In the Valley by Jason Lambright

straitjacket.
    He knew his father was waiting on him, but he had to walk over to the chain bar in the terminal and order his first ever legal beer. Much to the disgruntlement of the trainees, they had been authorized no beer during their two brief passes into Lawton. The recruit halo had kept them honest. Boy—was Paul ever glad to turn in that treacherous device when he out-processed at Fort Sill!
    Usually, alcohol was not sold to persons under the age of twenty-five, but Paul was on active duty and in uniform, so he was entitled. He had to do this. He walked up to the counter. An older man was busy polishing glasses. Paul was sure he was doing that just to look busy; there had to be a sanitizer under the counter. The fellow looked up. He had a prizefighter’s broken nose. That was pretty unusual: most people would have gone to the autodoc to have the defect fixed.
    “What’ll ya have, trooper?” It was exactly the time-honored question Paul had been expecting.
    “I think I’ll have a Yuengling,” Paul squeaked. How typical, at such a moment of triumph, that his voice would break. The bartender pretended notto notice and poured him one. He made a thick head on the top and handed it over.
    Paul reached out and took it like it was the nectar of the gods. He took a long pull and sighed with delight. The yeasty deliciousness was so thick he swore he could taste the brew with his nose alone. This day was getting better and better.
    The bartender eyed Paul up knowingly. “What outfit are you with?” he asked.
    Feeling heady and magnanimous with the brew, Paul shot back with what was on his orders: “H Co, 2/18 Infantry, Armored,” he said. He figured he’d impress the keep with that one. Everyone knew about the armored infantry—they were on all the cool videos.
    But the bartender surprised him instead. “Bayonet soldiers, huh? I worked with them some years ago.” He had an odd look in his eyes. Paul noticed that he shook himself a little and found a spot on the spotless bar that he really needed to wipe.
    Bayonet soldiers? Huh? How come this civvy apparently knew more about his unit than he did? Oh yeah, duh, he must be a veteran, Paul thought. There weren’t many of them, but they were around. Maybe he could pump him for some info.
    He took another gulp of his beer and started off. “Well, sir, I’m going off-world next month, and that’s my new unit. Could you tell me something about them? No one at Sill seemed to know anything about my new outfit.” No surprise, that—with units spread over three hundred light-years in all directions.
    The keep stopped what he was doing, gave a little smile, and drawled, “You’ll be sorrrry!”
    Paul didn’t know how to react to that. So he swallowed his beer down fast, scuttled away, and went to meet his father on the other side of security.

R iding in the armored ground-car to the village of Buree, Pathan Province, Paul was sorry he had ever accepted the assignment as an advisor to the Juneau 3 Army. He was in the company of his new advisees, led by a certain madman named Bashir. Paul had been on-planet for about a month.
    So far, this whole business was looking fatally dangerous. Paul had come to the realization that, unlike a line unit, he couldn’t trust the guys he was operating with: Second Company, Third Battalion, 215th Juneau Army Infantry Brigade.
    About one Earth-constant year ago, he had linked up with the soldiers who would become Forces Military Assistance Team 1.69. The team would be known as an FMAT, in the acronym-crazed parlance of the force. The team had been brought together by Force HQ on Canton 2. The soldiers selected for the team came from wildly differing units and backgrounds. When the force’s manning cloud had crunched the backgrounds of a bunch of soldiers for a team, they had spat out the names of twelve guys.
    Just guys? Where were the ladies?
    It turned out that for a mission to Juneau 3 the requirement was for an all-male team. The