As soon as the door closed to the office, Kacey shook her head.
"That man is insane," she muttered. "Totally, completely and utterly insane."
"Yep," Tammie said, still in that strange voice. "So insane that he'd swim ashore on an island overrun by terrorists, kill them all and still come rescue us and the Marines with a boat. Even though he looked like a colander at the time."
"Sure, but that doesn't mean I want to attach myself to his coat-strings," Kacey said, biting her lip. "I mean, he survives but what about the body count around him. Doing this sort of shit for SAR, with FAST, that's one thing. God and country and all that. But we're doing it for money, Tams. Is that worth getting our ass shot off?"
"Okay, great," Tammie said. "We say 'No thanks' take our showing up bonus and head back to the States. Wait on one of our many solicitous phone calls. Eat high until the money runs out and then get a job at the 7/11. What are we waiting for? Sounds great. Get a cat."
"Very funny." Kacey was allergic. "I'm serious, Tammie. This is serious. I mean, so we don't get a flying job. We're both Naval Academy graduates. We don't have to work at the 7/11."
"Sure," Tammie said, her eyes wide. "You've got a creative writing degree, I've got one in English lit. You write them and I'll critique them and we'll make a mint."
"Oh, God," Kacey groaned. "The guy's obviously American military of some sort, although you notice he didn't mention what sort. But if he's got a harem, he's bound to have a bar. We'll find it. You get drunk. I'll watch."
"I'd rather check this place out," Tammie said. "It's really cool."
"You're in love," Kacey said. "Mystery and romance and castles in the sky. As always, I've got to keep you grounded."
"Which is just what we're both going to be if we don't take the gig," Tammie pointed out, walking down the corridor. "First we find the harem girls. They'll lead us to somebody who speaks English. I mean, they've been taking classes."
"Pillow classes," Kacey snorted but she followed.
When they got to the front room, though, the cluster of girls had disappeared. Tammie was standing with her hands on her hips when the front door opened and a big bald guy in digicam, clearly directly off the range from the smell, stepped into the area and paused, looking them over.
"Oh, Christ, not more harem girls," the man muttered in an annoyed tone. "That boy's got a serious problem."
"Fuck you, asshole," Kacey snapped back.
"We're not harem girls," Tammie replied at the same time. "We're pilots."
"Pilots?" the man said, his eyes flying wide in joy. "We've got pilots? Halle-fucking-leuia! We've got PILOTS!"
"Not yet," Kacey said, angrily. She was still pissed about the Harem Girl crack. She also wanted to know more about the "harem." She was hoping, at a certain level, that it was a joke but she suspected it wasn't. "We're still considering it. Carefully."
"Oh, well, in that case you definitely want the job," the guy said, fulsomely. "The living conditions are great, the food's excellent, the beer's outstanding and the pay is awesome. What more could you ask?"
"I don't drink," Kacey said. "And a guarantee that we'll survive would be nice."
"Nope, can't do that one," the guy admitted. "Can't guarantee I'll survive. But the missions are worth it and the people are top-notch. If you end up taking the Valkyrie ride you'll be in plenty of bad company. We will guarantee that."
As he said that a side door opened and an absolutely beautiful woman walked into the foyer. Kacey wasn't kinked that way but she knew fucking beautiful when she saw it. Neither she nor Tammie were slouches in the looks department, but this lady put them both to shame. She looked like a supermodel. Blonde, blue eyes, low to mid-twenties, stacked and an absolutely gorgeous face. She was wearing a lot of make-up but so artfully applied it looked almost as if she wasn't wearing any. Blue, probably silk again, pant-suit that looked as if it was a Paris original. And graceful as hell. Probably Russian at a guess, definitely not American. She reminded Kacey of a young duchess character in an old movie. The lady had that look about her, like Zha Zha Gabor when she was young.
"Master Chief," the woman said, nodding. "I see you have met our visitors." Her English was impeccable but there was a definite Slavic accent. "I zee you haff met our vizeetors."
"Christ, I hope they're not just visitors," the "master chief" grunted. "We are screwed without pilots."
"We're still considering," Tammie said, much more gently than Kacey. "And we haven't been introduced."
"Ah, this is my fault," the woman replied. "I was supposed to be your tour guide but I expected your meeting to be longer. I am Anastasia Rakovich, the Kildar's administrative manager. This is Master Chief Adams, late of the United States Navy Sea Air and Land commandoes, the Kildar's field tactical manager. Master Chief Adams, Captains Bathlick and Wilson, late of the United States Marine Corps."
"Who's the Kildar?" Tammie said at the same time as Kacey said: "SEALs?" and Adams said: "You're Marines?"
"I am given to understand that they have combat experience with the United States Marine Corps," Anastasia said, answering the Master Chief first. "The Kildar is Mr. Jenkins. It is his title. I will explain. And, yes, Master Chief Adams is a former SEAL as they say. I understand that 'ex' is looked upon poorly."
"Yeah, we've got experience," Tammie said with a snort. "We pulled your boss out of the drink one time. Or... Well, he sort of pulled us... It's complicated."
"You're the two that crashed that helo in the Carib," Adams said with a snort. "Oh. Great. I take it all back."
"We took a short range EMP blast you moron," Kacey snapped. "What the fuck were we supposed to do without God damned engines? We were lucky to set it down light enough most of the FAST made it off!"
"I was yanking your chain," Adams said evenly. "Anybody that's willing to fly towards an LZ that has an active nuke on it gets my vote. You guys want a beer?"
"I'd prefer tequila," Tammie said, happily. "But I'll settle for beer."
"This isn't beer you settle for," Adams said. "This is beer you kill for."
"I was going to show them around, first," Anastasia pointed out.
"I'd say take the cook's tour," Adams admitted. "This is a pretty interesting place. And I really need a shower. To answer your unspoken question, Anastasia, no, it is not going well. I think that Shota's mother dropped him on his head as a baby. I asked her, point blank, if she had and she said she had not. But apparently he had a hard time finding his way out when he was birthed, so maybe it's pre-natal."
"You asked a woman if she'd dropped her son on his head?" Tammie asked, amazed.
"Yeah, but you'd have to understand the set-up here," Adams said. "It wasn't even a particularly unexpected question. Shota's well known among the Keldara. Big as an ox and just about as dumb. Really good shot with a Carl Gustav, though. I think I need to just switch him out but if I can get him to learn to count as high as five he'll be awesome for door-kicking. I mean, he'd kick down a bank vault. But, God, he's dumb."
"Well, we'll go take the cook's tour," Tammie said, "while you're having a shower. Then I'll get you drunk and pry all your secrets out of you."
"The day a woman can out-drink me I'll turn in my trident," Adams said, chuckling but then his face cleared. "Except this one bartender at Danny's. But that girl was a fucking pro. I saw her drink a whole platoon under the table one time. That's a professional. Admittedly, one without a functioning liver, but a pro nonetheless. You guys go take the cook's tour, I'm gonna go grab a shower and try to figure out a way to teach Shota to count as high as five. I mean, if they can teach monkeys sign language, I should be able to teach him to count to five for fuck's sake. Maybe a little rhyme or an advertising jingle..."
The former SEAL wandered off, muttering.
"Where would you like to start?" Anastasia asked, lightly. "Or are you fatigued from your trip? You could rest. Jet lag is very debilitating."
"I don't, honestly, know what time my body thinks it is," Tammie replied. "This is an interesting place. Ottoman?"
"The caravanserai was extensively renovated by the Ottomans, yes," Anastasia said, walking over to one of the carved buttresses that held up the ceiling of the room. "But the original work is believed to be from the period of the Byzantine Empire. These buttresses have faint markings that are indicative of Byzantine construction. You see here the faint indications of lacework patterning which is a Byzantine motif and the gouged out portions were probably crosses which the Ottomans, or other Islamics, removed. And much of the lower stone-work shows similar signs in that it is very similar to Roman construction, which the Byzantines used extensively for their castellation. The serai was probably rebuilt at least once under the Byzantines. The next clear work is Ottoman but the period between those two holders, probably close to a thousand years, is unclear."
"Oh," Kacey said, looking at the patterns. Lace did seem to fit the bill. She'd have to take the manager's word on that being "indicative of Byzantine construction." She knew about zero about architecture and not much more about the Byzantine empire. "I've got one question. No, I've got a billion questions. Could you start at the beginning?"
"In the beginning was the Word," Anastasia said, lightly. "But I think you mean something closer in time. Let us sit, this will be somewhat long."
"Good," Tammie said. "I could do with some ground-work here. I'm pretty confused."
"A moment," Anastasia said and disappeared through the door she'd entered by. After a moment she came back out with another young lady who walked off in the opposite direction. This one was really young, 14 if she was a day and wearing the same "school-girl" outfit as the harem girls. Which raised other questions. The earlier girls had been... okay, "old enough." Not old enough in the States to be fucking a guy in his thirties, but "old enough" for a developing country, whatever the liberals at home would wish. That one looked as if she should be playing with dolls. "Martya will bring some drinks. I wasn't sure what you'd like so we'll have tea and if that doesn't suit your tastes there are others."
"We can get it ourselves," Tammie protested.
"You could and in some conditions you will," Anastasia said, nodding. "But there are servants in the house for a reason. I will try to inform you, brief you, sufficiently that you can have a firm overview of what you are potentially joining. That will take time. If you are fetching drinks that interferes. When you are entirely free with your time you can choose to fetch or be fetched. But the servants are there for a reason. The Kildar does not have time to get drinks for himself, cook for himself, do his laundry. His time is much better spent managing the resources of the Valley or, as he puts it, 'killing people and breaking things.' This is, among other things, what pays for our surroundings. The girls are in free-study at the moment and, thus, not particularly busy. I asked which of them was least busy and Martya said she was. Given that she is intelligent and quick at her studies, she could be bored trying to act like she was studying or fetch us a drink. Which is the better use of her time?"
"You just used up more time explaining that than I would have getting myself a Coke," Tammie pointed out as Martya reappeared, accompanied by an older woman, bearing a couple of trays.
"Yes, but it is part of your briefing," Anastasia replied. "I hope you enjoy tea. Since we were taking this time to be acquainted I asked Mother Griffina to prepare tea."
"Tea" turned out to be in the English manner, which mean a hearty snack as well as the drink. There were croissants, scones and various other baked delicacies to accompany. The total covered the table.
"Pour, Martya," Anastasia said, sitting back in her chair.
"Miss Bathlick? Cream or sugar?" Martya said, carefully but clearly.
"Sugar," Kacey said, blinking. She'd been practically dragged to the airport, cleared customs without a visa, thrown into a Blackhawk piloted by a local and now she was having an English tea in an Ottoman caravanserai, complete with harem. It was a bit much to take. "Two lumps."
Martya picked up the lumps with a pair of silver tongs, placed them in the cup then poured tea in, placed a small spoon on the saucer and handed the whole collection to Kacey. The movements had been as smooth as a dance, clearly practiced.
"Miss Wilson? Cream or sugar?"
"Sugar," Tammie answered, smiling. "Two lumps." She paused and then glanced at Kacey before blurting. "And cream!"
Kacey tried not to chuckle. Tammie was the health nut of the two of them, at least in certain ways. Kacey didn't drink and Tammie did which was one divergence. The other was that it was Tammie who had the big sweet tooth, not to mention things like cream in her coffee and tea. At least in part to make up for it, Tammie was always pushing vitamins and, otherwise, healthy eating.
"Miss Rakovich? Cream or sugar?"
"Both, please," Anastasia said. It was clear that Martya knew her preferences, she'd already been reaching for the tongs, but just as clear that you weren't permitted to assume in this particular dance. Kacey suspected that at a later time, Anastasia was going to grade Martya on her performance.
Kacey realized as she watched that Anastasia never wasted a chance. Martya, who was "intelligent and quick at her studies" was being given an opportunity to hear English being used in casual dialogue and practice her social skills. And she and Tammie were being presented by a remarkably calm and well balanced teenager who was, nonetheless, a member of a fucking harem. Two birds, maybe more, with one stone. Talk about a fucking pro.
Then she really thought about it. Adams was the classic SEAL master chief, a total pro at "killing people and breaking things." They didn't have to "ooh-rah!" about their time in service; they just had to say "I'm a SEAL Master Chief." Pro. The men she'd seen in uniform weren't swaggering around with their guns. They were clearly on some mission with a purpose. They might not be pros, yet, but they were going there with a purpose. And "Jenkins", if that was his real name, well he was a guy who had walked onto an island with over thirty armed terrorists holding it, walked off it having killed every one and survived the resulting nuclear blast. Pro.
She suddenly let out a mental breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She was dealing with professionals. Experts. Since she'd gotten out of the military, and most of the time in the Marines, she'd had so little opportunity to deal with really expert professionals she hadn't realized how much she'd missed it. And this harum-scarum hiring procedure had scared something deep in her soul, because it didn't seem professional. But the whole movement had been greased. She and Tammie had moved from one prepared position to the other. She wasn't even sure what the visa entry requirements were for Georgia; there had been a polite man at the airport who had whisked them past customs and into a car, driven by a polite and professional English-speaking driver that had the look of "distinguished persons protection" all over him. That driver had brought them to the bird which was flown by guys who, while not at her and Tammie's level, were good, competent, bird drivers.
It also said something about their being hired. If that was the caliber of people that "Jenkins", the "Kildar", surrounded himself with, then he obviously considered them in the same league. That was actually a bit daunting, but she wouldn't be a pilot if she really was challenged by it. She knew she was a fucking pro. And so was Tammie. It would be nice to work with competent people again.
The dieing part would suck, admittedly, but she'd just have to make sure she didn't.
"Now that we are settled," Anastasia said, "I will tell you a bedtime story, yes? It is the story of how the Kildar came to be the Kildar."
"I'd assumed he was knighted or something," Tammie said, smiling at the small joke.
"No, he simply bought the farm," Anastasia said, smiling in turn. "The idiom has been explained to me, yes? It is a euphemism for dieing. What happened was that he got lost. Very simple, no? And he found the Valley of the Keldara. He was looking at possibly being caught here all winter; the snows are very bad and the roads...not so good. So he inquired about some place to stay. There were no rooms for let so it was suggested that he consider buying the farm of the Keldara. That was a large item, but he did so. I have never asked him why, but he bought the farm."
"Which is?" Tammie asked. "I mean, how big is the farm?"
"The entire valley," Anastasia answered, taking a sip of tea. "It is a very large farm."
"I can actually guess where he got the money," Kacey said, sarcastically. "It turns out we've met before. When he set off a nuke in the Caribbean."
"I have heard something of this," Anastasia said. "He is...quite extensively scarred. He does not flaunt them, you understand. But I sometimes ask 'Where is this from?' Sometimes he will tell me something. 'That is from my Caribbean vacation. Fortunately the hair grew back.' I later pick up that he was shot and a nuclear weapon was detonated. Others...he does not answer. Or he says 'Here and there.' Yes, he has made his money from 'killing people and breaking things.' Sometimes he finds someone that needs killing, something that needs breaking, and then he informs the appropriate government that their problem has been erased. And they pay him money for solving their problems. Sometimes governments tell him about a problem. And when he solves it for them, they pay him money. They do not tell him, 'There is a man named Boris. He lives on such and such a street.' Unless this Boris is such a bad man that he is worth millions of dollars and he is somewhere they cannot reach. What is the reach of the United States, yes? What is the reach of Russia? But the Kildar can reach where they cannot."
"I get the picture," Tammie said. "Freelance James Bond."
"Including the women, yes?" Anastasia said and then really smiled. It turned out that she had dimples, the perfect bitch. "He has a hareem, yes. But he could have a hareem anywhere, I think. He is very much all man, but not stupid in bed. Very not stupid. I will explain about the hareem in a bit, but I must add that recently, due to some other things I will not talk about without his specific permission, he had to find somewhere for a fairly large number of...call them 'fallen women.' He did so, a school in Argentina, and paid for them to go there and for their education. Since he had this school available he asked the girls who were in the hareem if they wished to leave. Two did, one who was younger than he was willing to broach and another who... well she did not have any interest in sex at all. I then, at the Kildar's insistence, pressed the other girls for why they wanted to stay. And they were definite about wanting to stay. All of them said that they liked it here and 'why should I go to some school where I will be forced to hide cucumbers from the kitchen when I have the Kildar?'"
"Gotcha," Tammie said, chuckling.
"I tell you this not to...pander for the Kildar, you understand?" Anastasia said, for the first time hurriedly. "But so that you can feel more comfortable with the situation. The Kildar is... How was it said: Neither fish nor fowl nor red meat. He is in a condition, a situation, for which there is no American custom or rule. He has to find his own middle ground in everything. I think, had things not happened the way they did, he would have just used local prostitutes for his needs. But..."
"He saved my life," Martya said, quietly. "Perhaps I would not have died, but my life would have been gone. For that I owe him everything. But I would leave but for one thing: In one more year I can also have the Kildar. For that I would give much. Shana was barely thirteen, too long for her to wait. And she told me that she was scheming of ways to get back when her time was up."
"Martya was part of a group of girls from the local farms and villages," Anastasia said. "She and the others had been sold to, or in one case kidnapped by, the Chechens. They Chechens made the mistake of also stealing a Keldara girl. The Kildar killed them for their mistake. But he then had seven girls with no place to go. Their families did not want them back. So they had no where else to go. The Kildar was unable to find a school for them at the time so he brought them into his household as concubines. They are not whores, they serve only the Kildar. And in more ways than sex and fetching and carrying, but that is too complex a subject for today. Know that they are all volunteers and while your society considers them young, in this society they would mostly be already married. The fact that they were not was what caused them to be as the saying goes 'sent to town.'"
"That had to be tough," Tammie said, looking at Martya.
Kacey thought that either was Tammie being brain dead or the understatement of the year.
"It was," Martya admitted with what Kacey thought was remarkable calm. "But things turned out very well. I have learned enough of American attitudes and lives to understand that you may not think that. Know that, for me, this is a very high honor. I am from not far from here, I have even seen my parents and forgive them for what they did. I understood it at the time and now I understand some of the cultural and economic underpinnings, yes? But while I am not Keldara, the Keldara influence a wider area than they knew. The Kildar was a legend, like your King Arthur, yes? 'Things would be better if the Kildar was here. The crops would grow better, the sun brighter, the winter shorter, all the children would be more respectful of their elders.' And now the Kildar is returned and things are better. The money he brings in helps, but so does the hope. Everyone sees how things are going for the Keldara and hope for similar changes in their own lives. People are much more reluctant to sell their daughters so that they have enough money to survive the winter. There is more money everywhere. The Keldara are gone so often that many times they have to hire laborers to take their place. The Kildar treats women as special, even though he has a hareem. Much more special than they had been in this society. So other men wonder if they should treat their women better. He 'leads by example' even when he knows it not. Things are better. And I am one of his women. That makes my status, in this society, much higher than if I had married any of the potential men around my farm. Much higher than my mother's. My family, who sold me, now have a higher status than they could even dream. Because their daughter is one of the women of the Kildar."
"I think that should adequately cover the issue of the hareem," Anastasia said, smiling again and showing those damned dimples.
"I'm... bemused," Tammie said. "But, yeah, I think it covers it. With one teensy-tiny question on redirect. Martya, you said that you only had to wait a year to... I guess be 'broached' as Anastasia put it, by the Kildar. How old are you?"
"The Kildar put the 'cut-off' at sixteen," Anastasia answered for her. "Martya is fifteen. She only looks a bit younger because she tries so very very hard."
"And I love to tease him," Martya added, grinning. "I like to bend over so he can see down my shirt, quite innocently, of course. I want him to want me so badly that I get him as a birthday present, like a new pair of earrings. Unfortunately, I never needed braces, damnit."
"I won't even ask about that," Kacey said. "Okay, so he bought the farm and shot up some terrorists and got a harem. Where do the Keldara come in?"
"The Keldara have been around...for a very long time," Anastasia said. "The Kildar believes that they first came to the valley as guards for the caravanserai during the Byzantine period. They show signs, cultural hold-overs, that indicate that they were part of a group called the Varangian Guard."
"Holy shit," Tammie gasped. "You're serious?"
"Don't get the reference," Kacey said. "Who were the Farenghi or whatever?"
"Varangians," Tammie said, chuckling. "Although the root of both names... Oh never mind. The thing is they were Vikings that were guards of the Byzantine Emperors, an elite force. But that was fifteen hundred years ago or so. I can't believe there's any remnant."
"The Kildar believes that this is the case, nonetheless," Anastasia said. "There are old songs that have been partially translated that indicate that this is so. But all records have, of course, been lost over the millennia. They have been the tenant farmers of the valley from before the records we've found from the Ottoman period. They also, however, supplied fighters to the Ottomans including for the local area and the caravanserai. The Ottoman Empire was, of course, made up entirely of 'foreigners' but in the case of the caravanserai it has always, in our studies, had a foreigner as the commander. Under the Ottomans they came from all over the far flung empire and even from non-Ottoman Europe. Under the Tsars they were almost invariably European adventurers, mercenaries that worked for the Tsars. And the holder of the caravanserai has been called 'The Kildar' from at least the time of the Ottomans. It is probably held as a motif by the Keldara and picked up over time. The Keldara were not entirely Norse at least according to the songs. They appear to be a mixture of Norse and some Celts from Ireland or Scotland."
"Now even I recognize that as an odd mix," Kacey said.
"But mixed they are," Anastasia replied. "And they have managed to hold on to a warrior tradition even under various empires. Now, of course, the Kildar is an American, the masters of the current world empire, yes? An elite warrior of high training, currently for hire, very much in tradition. He is their perfect Kildar, their Arthur returned to bring the Keldara back to their glory. They don't just follow him, they worship him as if he was one of their odd old gods, for they are only very superficially Christian. I am surprised there are not secret shrines to the Kildar," she added, chuckling.
"Well, that's got to be kind of heady," Kacey said, a tad bitterly. "I mean he's got women throwing themselves at him and his 'retainers' worshipping him. Sucks to be him, right?"
"I will let you make up your mind about that as time goes by," Anastasia said, tilting her head to one side and regarding the pilot calmly. "I will try to give you a hint as to what 'sucks to be him' as you put it. One of your presidents, I was told, had a plaque on his desk that said: 'The buck stops here.'"
"Harry Truman," Tammie replied, nodding. "Your point?"
"When you were in the Marines, you were given orders to go here and do this," Anastasia said. "And the people giving you orders were given orders all the way up to the president. You simply followed those orders; you did not live with the responsibility of their effects. With the Kildar, where does the buck stop?"
"Oh," Tammie said.
"He is very attached to the Keldara and he is a man who cares about not only his people but, in a way, the whole world," Anastasia said, gently. "And even the slightest mistake could destroy all he has built either through violence or politics. Consider that burden upon your own shoulders then look around. Does a hareem and a nice house compensate for that?"
"Lasko, a moment of your time," Mike said, his head ducked through the door of the armory.
Lasko Ferani was the oldest member of the Mountain Tigers. One of the Keldara's designated "hunters" before the arrival of the Kildar. Now, he was still a hunter, but of men, the acknowledged leader of the Keldara team snipers.
Medium height and whip-cord thin Mike was never sure how old he was. At a guess about 40 but he looked about 70 from years of hard out-doors work. Lasko was no runner as had been proven several times but he could go all day long with a ruck on his back and had that maximal sniper requirement: he could stay incredibly still for literally days on end waiting for a shot.
Mike had introduced him to the world of computers after the Albanian mission and given him a credit card to order gear. Snipers, due to the nature of their mission, used highly irregular gear compared to regular infantry. Lasko had learned just enough written English to read the posts on sniper boards and begin exploring the world of gear then started ordering. Some of the stuff he discarded after testing it but Mike didn't mind and had made that clear. He wanted the Keldara snipers professionally outfitted with gear that really worked. And the final determinant of what did and did not work was Lasko.
But Lasko's approach to webboards was the strangest Mike had ever seen. One time Mike had walked past when Lasko was on-line and just had to pause. He'd seen him three times that day and each time Lasko was just sitting in front of the computer, not doing a damned thing. Just...sitting, one hand on the mouse, the other on is thigh, perfectly still.
"Okay, Lasko, what are you doing?"
"Waiting for someone to post," Lasko had answered, coldly.
Mike had visited sniper boards like Sniper.com before and noticed that there were very few "regular" posters, most of them pretty clearly not operational snipers. The regulars were always posting and chatting and debating about techniques or equipment or what their dog had eaten that was really disgusting.
But then you'd see the occasional really bizarre post. It would go something like:
Afghan Sniper: Eagle 415.
AirborneSnipe115: Good.
SFSnipe22: Strap weak.
And so on.
Lasko finally made it all clear and Mike had a sudden mental image of serious operational snipers, all over the world, sitting there waiting for the first guy to make a move. When snipers faced another sniper, the first one to move was the dead man. He could see it clearly now: Dozens, hundreds, of hard faces waiting for the guy who made the first mistake.
Snipers were natural lurkers. That was Lasko in a nutshell.
"Aircraft's coming in at 2230 day after tomorrow," Mike said when they'd stepped outside. He handed Lasko a slip of paper with coordinates on it. "Six LZs. That's where we're inserting. The pilot is the Chief of Staff's son-in-law. Now you know."
"I've got it," Lasko said and nodded.
"Recon only," Mike pointed out.
"Taken care of, Kildar."
That was what he liked about Lasko. Tell him he was going to go sit in place for a week, looking at a hopefully empty field and he was positively happy. Not quite as happy as a field full of targets and a full magazine, but close.
"Colonel, this is an advisory on an upcoming mission."
Lieutenant Colonel Peyton Randolph, commander 1st Battalion 75th Infantry (Ranger), hated video-conferencing and wished the geeks that invented it had been still-born. Why not just use a simple telephone? It wasn't like anybody looked you in the eye. They were always looking down at the monitor!
"Yes, sir," he said, sitting up for the call from the SOCOM weenie. He'd been told he was getting a call from some Pentagon SOCOM bureaucrat and to just "do what you're told." Instead of staring at the stupid monitor, though, he looked right at the camera set on top.
"Your Bravo company is going to be going over to the country of Georgia to train with some mountain infantry over there," the colonel said. "Because Bravo Company is jump-short they'll jump insert but the jump will be purely administrative; the DZ will be in a secured area. The catch is that they're going to be using third country transport due to current transportation shortages. The good news is that they're going to be able to add an Antonov to their jump sheets and we'll see if we can arrange Ukrainian jump wings as a bonus."
"You're shitting me," Randolph said, chuckling. "Maybe I ought to strap-hang."
"Well, if you do you'll have to find your own way back or stay in-country for a couple of weeks," Pierson sighed. "Air Force is really tasked out. The Bravo company commander will be given further orders but those are code-word classified. The mission may entail engagements but it is not believed that the risks on the operation will be high."
"I just hope we're not helping the Georgians beat up on the Ossetians," the commander said. "That's pretty much an internal matter, Colonel."
"The area they are going to has some threat from the Chechens but is outside the Ossetian area," the Pentagon weenie replied. "And the orders are from higher so who cares? Ours but to do or die and all that. This is only an advisory. But please recall your personnel at this time; we're getting on short time for this."
"Will do," Lt. Colonel Randolph said and finally looked at the monitor. To his surprise the Pentagon weenie was looking at him out of it.
"Tell them good luck and good hunting," Colonel Pierson replied. Then the monitor went dead.
Kacey put down the -1 for the Czech Aeroframe Corporation Hind-J "aerial ambulance" and rubbed her eyes. -1s were the manual for an aircraft discussing not only design and engineering but flying characteristics. They were the pilot's Bible and she and Tamara had been doing their best, with a lot of assistance, to practically memorize them.
That Kildar character hadn't been joking about "cramming." The Czech instructors were being paid to shove as much knowledge of the Hind-J into them in as short a time as humanly possible. And her head was about to explode.
The J variant was significantly different than the D variant they'd flown lo these many years ago. It had an additional super-charger on each engine for high-altitude operations, an oxygen system, pressurized flight and crew compartment and various other bells and whistles. It also had replaced a lot of parts with composites, reducing its base weight a good bit. But what was seriously different were the engines, modified Bells built by the Czechs on contract that were 30% more powerful than the originals while being a tad lighter and smaller. That was good, in general, since the Hind-D was a bit of a pig in the air. Essentially, it was an entirely new aircraft as capable as or more capable than the newer Russian M-35.
But that also meant the aircraft had different flight characteristics. The ground training portion of the transition was about over. Since the one thing the Czechs did not seem to have was a good simulator for the craft they were going to be taking their first "familiarization" flights tomorrow. And she didn't want her eyes bleary for that.
But she had one thing to do before she went to bed.
The Kildar had, as promised, supplied them with a satellite phone. It was a desk-top model, sort of bulky but capable of not just telephone connection but video and a limited internet pipe. For that matter, there was a whole set of controls that had something to do with a scrambler. Where the "Kildar" had gotten military grade scramblers she wasn't going to ask, but given their mission it wasn't too weird.
She didn't need any of that, though, all she needed was the phone.
"Calling Chief D'Allaird finally?" Tammie asked, setting down her own -1.
"About that time," Kacey said, dialing the number she'd finally managed to find in her address book. "Hopefully he hasn't already left for work."
"Hopefully he's awake," Tammie pointed out.
Kacey listened to the phone ring then pick up.
"837-4159. How may I help you sir or ma'am?"
Damn. Good to see some things hadn't changed.
"Mr. Timothy D'Allaird? This is Air Force Bureau of Personnel. This is to inform you that you've been selected for a recall tour to points in the AOR. Further information will be arriving by mail at your home of record. Are you still resident at..."
"Kacey, is that you?" the voice said. "God, damn, girl you almost gave me a heart-attack!"
"Hi, Chief," Kacey said, grinning. "How they hangin?"
"Still one below the other," D'Allaird said. "To what do I owe the honor of a call from Miss Snot-nose?"
"Oh, all sorts of reasons," Kacey said. "So, how's the wife?"
"Divorced these last two years," D'Allaird said. "Which is why I'm working about sixty hours of overtime a week. You'll understand if I need to get ready for work. I'm with that comedian guy; next time I think about getting married I'll just buy a house for some woman I can't stand."
"Why aren't you contracting?" Kacey said, quizzically.
"I got really tired of the sandbox," D'Allaird said. "Tired enough I'm willing to work lots of hours to avoid it. I keep asking..."
"Business call, honestly," Kacey finally admitted. "I know someone who needs a contractor. Aircraft engineer. Not in the sandbox. But I'll also be up-front that whoever takes the job has to be Hind qualified and aware that it may involve getting their ass shot off. The flip side is that the money is good and so are the conditions."
"Where?" D'Allaird asked.
"You did hear the part about getting your ass shot off, right?" Kacey asked.
"And let me guess who's flying the bird: the Bobsie Twins."
"The same," Kacey admitted.
"Well, now I got to go," D'Allaird admitted. "If for no other reason than to keep you two out of trouble. I mean, does this place have a brig?"
"Hey, we weren't going to go to the brig over that," Kacey said.
"Yes we were," Tammie replied, not looking up from her manual.
"The most was going to happen was off flying status for a while," Kacey protested.
"Tammie doesn't think so," D'Allaird said. "And I keep asking..."
"The country of Georgia," Kacey replied. "Out in the boonies but nice facilities. A general contractor. I have the feeling it's a good idea to keep a bag packed. I'm not sure of the pay for you, but they're paying us great and we said we had to have a chief, a good one. We actually need two. We may be flying solos. And it's Hind Js."
"The new Czech bird," D'Allaird said with a whistle. "Sweet. I've been reading up on the specs. I'm in. I've been wanting to get my hands on one of those. Screw these damned Lynx and Rangers, I'm sick to death of Lynx and Rangers."
"Hope you've got a passport," Kacey said. "I'll have somebody contact you about travel arrangements. And keep an eye out for another body."
"Male or female?" D'Allaird asked.
"Makes no diff," Kacey said. "The guy who's hiring us, a Mr. Jenkins also called 'The Kildar', doesn't seem to care. But who ever it is had better be open-minded. The arrangements are kind of...odd."
"Better and better," D'Allaird said. "I'm tired as hell of same old. I'll be waiting for the call."
"See you soon, chief," Kacey said, cutting the connection.
"Another lamb to the slaughter," Tammie said. "This thing is either sweet as hell or the Czechs let their marketing department write the -1."
"Marketing departments always write the -1s," Kacey said. "Tomorrow we just get to find out if it's an honest marketing department."
"Power up, softly, softly..."
Kacey didn't know if the Czechs had intentionally supplied one cute as hell instructor pilot or not, but Marek Kalenda was hot. Older than she usually liked, probably pushing a very in-shape fifty, but still hot. Nice voice, too. Resonant. Of course, it would help if she paid attention to flying.
"Good, hold it," Marek said. "Feel her. Nice isn't she?"
"I'm only at 23% power," Kacey replied. "This thing is, if anything, over muscled."
"There is no such thing as too much power in a helicopter," Marek said. "I was asked when they were looking at the new Bells if, perhaps, that was not too much power for the Hind. No, I told them. What is that American show, the man is always saying 'More power!'?"
"Home Improvement," Kacey said with an unseen grin. The Hind, unlike Hueys and Hawks, was a tandem rig. The pilot sat back, the co or gunner sat forward. Currently, Marek was forward. "Tim Allen."
"Yes, More Power," Marek agreed. "That was also a command. Bring her out of ground hover if you please. Slowly."
Kacey poured on more power without disturbing any of the other controls. She, of course, had to tap the rear-rotor controls to keep the aircraft straight, but otherwise she kept it "as is" with the exception of power. The helicopter went straight up with only a slight side-to-side yaw as she got the feel for the rear rotor.
"Very nice," Kacey said. "I'm at forty percent. And out of ground effect, unless I'm much mistaken."
"Yes, but of course we are empty," Marek pointed out. "At height, with a full load? You will be pushing the red-line. But I will tell you something that is not in the -1, yes? I have force tested this bird and engines. The red-line on the engines is conservative. You have about twenty percent more power when you are red. But you must yank the engines after the mission, yes?"
"Twenty percent's a lot of power," Kacey said. "Why'd you do that?"
"Because we have some customers who, shall we say, are not as professional as you," Marek said with a sigh. "If some son of an Arab sheik goes down we like to be able to point out that he was not supposed to redline the aircraft's engine continually. Better still if he has the smidgeon of sense to only touch the redline and still survive. At absolute full power the engines will eventually fail. But for an emergency...the power is there."
"Good to know," Kacey said.
"Now that we have taken this time for you to feel the bird and prove you can talk at the same time, you may push forward slightly on the stick. Your bird, ma'am."
"My bird," Kacey replied, pushing forward on the stick and increasing power to the engines unconsciously. She started to grin as the bird slid forward like it was on greased rails and lifted into the air. The mass of the Hind had always made it fly like a pig and they usually didn't hover for shit. Now, with the overpowered engines, it was like driving a really nice sports car, one of the ones that hugged the road like a limpet. Smooth didn't begin to describe it. "Oh. My. God."
"I thought you would like this, yes," Marek said with obvious satisfaction in his voice. "We at Czech Airframes like satisfied customers. Satisfied customers are repeat customers."
"Oh, I'm satisfied," Kacey said. "This bird can fly."