"If we don't get the go word, I swear to God I'm going to make a boo-boo and initiate on my own," J.P. said. "The Hind got seriously dinged on that last flight."
"I know, sir," First Sergeant Kwan replied. "But until we get the okay..."
"I do not fucking care," Guerrin said. "DC is playing fucking political games while the Keldara are getting slaughtered over there."
It was great weather for Rangers and ducks. The rain was pouring down, the wind was howling and it was cold as hell. Black, too. The night was like being inside the gullet of a snake. For a few minutes it there had been some clearing and he got a glimpse of dawn light. Now it was black again. If they got the order to move he could take out those bunkers in no more than thirty minutes. He had the plan in place. All he needed was the go order.
The distant firing, while muted by the distance and the mountains, was clear. Just the fact that they could hear it was amazing; it meant there was one fuck of a lot of firing going on. What was happening on the other side of the pass wasn't a firefight, it was a fucking battle. According to their latest intel update the Chechens were throwing everyone they had in the area, and even drawing back forces that had been in contact with the Russians, in a bid to destroy the Keldara.
"Sir, if we move, your career is toast," Kwan pointed out. "And so is mine for not stopping you. We're also out-numbered and out-gunned. So please don't go running right into the fucking bunkers, okay?"
"I won't, First Sergeant," J.P. replied. "But we are going to have to do..." He paused and cocked his head. "Okay, who in the fuck is playing their iPod too loud?"
"I dunno," Kwan said. "I hear it, too..." The music was Spanish flamenco guitar, carried on the wind. He wasn't sure what direction it was coming from. Then he realized, just as the tune changed, that it was getting closer. "That's not an..."
"Holy fuck," Guerrin said as the tune changed to screaming heavy metal guitar. And it was getting louder. Much much louder.
"Sir!" Serris yelled. "What is that?"
"Music, Serris," Guerrin replied, sarcastically.
"I know that, sir," Serris said. "Where's it coming from!" the last was screamed as the guitars and drums muted for a singer entered screaming something about "riding to the fight."
"That's a..." Kwan started to yell as finally, overwhelmed by the screaming guitars, the "whop-whop" of helicopter blades could be heard.
The Hind was nearly invisible in the blackness of the night but it was easy enough to follow as the deafening music pealed across the valley. And it was low, the Rangers were pelted by branches thrown from the trees in its rotor wash as it banked up the ridgeline and crested with its belly brushing the treetops.
Guerrin ducked unnecessarily and then started laughing.
"I think that Miss Kacey got tired of being shot at," Guerrin yelled. "This I gotta see!"
Kacey keyed the music as she entered the final valley before the pass. The Rangers were occupying the upper portion of the valley and she intended to cross their position as a final checkpoint. That position, at the least, was secure.
She reached down and cranked the volume all the way up. The speakers were special designs, flush mounted, and enormously powerful. The thunder of the drums rattled her teeth but Islamics tended to hate Western music. Great. Let them hate it as she sent the fuckers to Allah.
She banked up and to the side as the terrain warning system screamed at her she was too low. Too fucking bad. Low was good. She had at least six inches clearance, what more did the Czech piece of shit want?
The positions of the bunkers were keyed in on her firing system and as soon as they came in sight the system D'Allaird had installed karated them in her heads up display.
"Time to face the flame motherfuckers."
"Holy fuck," Serris whispered.
The Hind had seemed to clip the ridge but as it crossed over them it dropped to skim the scrub between the ridge and the pass entrance. And spotlights on the front came on showing not only the paint job but the heavy ordnance on the bird. It was a deliberate taunt to the gunners in the bunkers, practically asking them to open fire.
The Hind dropped down to practically ground level and flew straight down through the kill-zone of the three main bunkers as tracers started clawing towards it through the night. Most seemed to be missing but some were sparking off the front of the bird.
The driver of the Hind, probably Captain Bathlick as the CO had said, didn't seem to give a shit that she was taking fire. She flew hey-diddle-diddle straight up the middle - actually slowing down as the gunners got the range - until the singer screamed something about "through the fire and flames." Then the Hind seemed to explode.
Rockets began spewing out of both pods as the gatling guns opened fire, sending a quadruple line of tracers that looked like nothing so much as a laser into first one then another bunker.
The bunkers were wide spaced but the Hind didn't have any problem with that. It was flying in the most bizarre manner Serris had ever seen. It would slide sideways through the air and engage one bunker then pivot at lightning speed and engage the other, pivot again and engage, pivot, engage, still maintaining an almost straight line up the middle of the defended pass. There wasn't any dilly-dallying with "walking the rounds into the position." The thing was just striking back and forth like a snake.
As the Hind came opposite the interlocking bunkers, all three of which had stopped firing, it pivoted left then one hundred and eighty degrees to the right, flying flat sideways in what looked like an out of control spin, past the second bunker and on to the third. But even though it looked out of control, as each bunker came into its fire cone the rockets and gatling rounds would flash out. It didn't do the maneuver just once but continued through spin after spin, a flaming top in mid-air. The helo looked like a dragon spinning on its axis and flaming in every direction at its enemies. It looked terrifying and glorious, war in all its horror and beauty. And it looked as if it was going to slam into a mountainside at any moment. The pilot had to be puking her guts out and blacking out from G forces.
Once it was past the now smoking bunkers, though, it straightened out perfectly, went to full power, banked up and over in what was nearly a loop-de-loop and came back.
There wasn't any fucking around, now. The bird came in from the rear and top, filling the air with rockets and machine-gun bullets. And whereas before it had been spinning in only two dimensions it now was rotating in mid-air, something he hadn't realized helicopters could do. And still hammering rounds into the bunkers.
It reached the front of the pass again in what looked one hell of a lot like a flip, which just had to be impossible and hovered as the music screamed through the wind and the driving rain. Just...hovered as if waiting for something, as whoever the group doing the music was went through one long ass guitar solo and the Hind balanced against the gale, lights still on, in full view of the smoking and shattered bunkers.
Finally, it got what it had been waiting for as sporadic fire started to pop up through the rain. But the bird waited, hung in the air, still, until it was clear at least two of the machineguns had, somehow, survived the attack. But the survivors had had to claw them out of the rubble of the bunkers to engage their tormentor. They were out in the open now.
Suddenly the Hind pivoted in mid-air and swept back around over Serris' position. It circled up and up into the storm, engine red-lined and rotors screaming until even with the lights on it disappeared into the storm. But the screaming guitar was still booming over the gale.
Then, as the singing started again, it lined up and dropped. Slowly at first then faster and faster it swept down like a bird of prey, like the dragon painted on its smoking brow. It came down like thunder out of the storm, right on top of the machine-gun positions, the only thing still firing the laser-like gatling guns, clawing across both of the guns, tearing the crews apart, ripping into the guns themselves, slaughtering everything and everyone in the area.
The Hind pulled out in a hover, inches off the ground, and spun in place, fast, as the music crescendoed, laying down a flat fire, scouring the ground of not only the survivor gun crews but every stick every rock, smashing apart the very mountainsides in a tide-wave of fury and vengeance until all four of its guns were expended.
Then it stopped.
The music stopped, the lights turned off, the mountains and the rain muted the whop of the blades as the bird clawed its way back into the storm and disappeared. In moments the only sign it had been there were three smoking holes in the mountainside and the shredded remnants of bodies.
"Holy fuck," Serris repeated. "Remind me never to get that lady pissed at me."
Kacey was trying very hard to not throw up. After seeing Gretchen there wasn't much left anyway.
She didn't remember much about the last few minutes. The last thing she really clearly remembered was turning on the music. And she sort of vaguely recalled crossing the Ranger position, way too close to the top of the trees.
She'd apparently expended all her bullets and rockets, used up a fuck load of gas and really stressed the engines; there were warning signs all over her dash. And she sort of recalled something that seemed a hell of a lot like a crash, the world spinning and flame and smoke all around her. But she was still flying.
There was, however, one hell of a lot of lead in her armored windscreen. Quite a bit of it had gotten through, too. D'Allaird was going to be pissed.
She really wished she could remember where she'd picked up all that lead.
"Tiger Base, this is Dragon," she said wearily, watching her fuel state and caution lights carefully and flying well away from the ridges. "Return to base for bullets and gas. Tell the Chief I think this bird is going to require an overhaul as well."
"Roger, Dragon One." The commo person was one of the Keldara girls by the accent. "Info request from Ranger One: What was the Band? Meaning of code unknown."
"Uh..." Kacey frowned. "DragonForce, over."
"Roger, Dragon One. Rangers report target destroyed. Precise words: Fucking vaporized. Tiger Two states: Well done, over."
"Well ain't that some shit," Kacey muttered trying not to grin. The hell if she was going to let anyone know it was a fluke. "Understood. ETA two zero mikes. Dragon One out."
Now if the poor bird would just keep flying.
"Good girl," she murmured. "Good Dragon. Carry me home."
"We're getting ready to load the bird," Chief D'Allaird. "In the Corpse we'd want to take it down for a full rebuild. And you don't have a crewchief."
"Yeah," Tammie said, looking around at the crowd of Keldara. There wasn't, currently, anything much to do. But it seemed like the whole tribe was gathered at the heliport. At least those that were still here, the women, the oldsters and the kids. Hell, most of the younger women seemed to be gone. Maybe they had been told to stay in the houses or something. "I guess I could ask for volunteers. Fuck of a thing to ask when you've just brought back a dead daughter: Who wants to be next?"
She walked over to the group and looked around.
"Uh, does anyone speak English?" she asked.
"I do," one of the older men said. "I am Father Makanee. You need help."
"I hate to ask," Tammie said, stepping closer and dropping her voice, "but... I need another crewchief. To replace...Gretchen. All they need to do is kick out the ammo. Oh, and a couple of other things with the casualties."
"Pick," Father Makanee said, standing up straight. "I will go if you wish. But it should be one of the young ones, yes?" he added with a resigned sigh. "Someone, at least, with better eyesight than I still have. I can barely see you in truth."
"I don't know," Tammie said. "I guess. But, I mean, after Gretchen..."
"You think we fear?" Father Makanee said, his voice lowering and a slight smile playing on his lips. "That the Keldara are afraid of death? Afraid of sacrifice? Very well, I will ask."
He turned from her and backed up so that he faced the whole crowd then said something in a loud voice. He was apparently explaining the situation. He paused and spat out another sentence.
Apparently that was the call for volunteers. Every single hand went up. From kids that could barely walk to one old guy wearing a tiger skin that looked to be about a hundred.
"What the fuck have I gotten myself into?" Tammie asked, quietly. "Are these people insane?"
Apparently she'd spoken loudly enough for Father Makanee to hear. His eyes might not be the greatest but his hearing was apparently fine. He turned around and smiled.
"Yes, Captain Wilson, we are insane," the old man said. "We are the Tigers of the Mountains and we have the insanity of the warrior. Don't you?"
"Point," Tammie said. "Well, pick somebody and get her over to the bird. She needs to get briefed in and we don't have much time."
"Tiger One, Tiger One, this is Tiger Two."
"Go," Mike said. Pavel was back in contact, Oleg was forward and so far things were going... okay. Not great by any stretch, but...okay.
"Good news and bad news. The bunkers in the pass have been cleared. So the birds will be bringing in heavier loads. Bad news...look at your display."
Mike hunkered down and stuck out his hand. Vanner didn't even have to ask, he just slapped it into his palm.
Mike looked at it for a second and shrugged. "What?"
"Try dialing out," Nielson replied, taking a guess.
Mike zoomed out and stopped.
"Fuck."
"My first words as well," Nielson said. "The Predator got a glimpse through the clouds. You want to see the video."
"Yeah," Mike replied.
"Feed Two."
He switched over feeds and watched. The glimpse wasn't long but it was complete.
"Is that downloaded here?" Mike asked.
"Yeah, while we were feeding."
"Vanner," Mike said. "Show me how to replay and zoom."
Vanner took the device and looked at it for a second.
"Where is that?" he asked, frowning.
"Right in the entrance to the pass," Mike said.
"Fuck."
He zoomed in and panned across, holding it where Mike could see.
"Colonel, I get a count of about a hundred," Vanner said. "Looks like medium machine guns and light arms otherwise. A few RPGs."
"That's everybody's analysis," Nielson said. "Kildar? My professional opinion is that if you try to screen past you're going to get your ass shot off; they've got defilading fire from the mountain to the plain. You can try to charge it, but I wouldn't recommend; those are good defenses. You could try slipping out straight up..."
"Not enough time," Mike said, automatically. "We'd get caught completely in the open by the pursuers."
"So far, it looks like his mortars are way behind you," Nielson noted. "It's just medium machine guns and light arms. So far."
"What are you saying?" Mike asked.
"Just a suggestion, but... Sit it out. Do what that guy's done. Take up a good position and lay in. We've got one bird armed, by the way. We can work over those defenses in a little while. Let the Chechens come to you. Get a good position and let them attack. You'll take some casualties. They'll take a lot more. At some point there will be an opening."
"We're going to go bingo on ammo, fast," Mike pointed out.
"Got another load on the way," Nielson said. "Bigger one."
"And that's a shitload of Chechens," Mike added.
"Not really," Nielson said. "Combat multiples, Kildar."
"That's a nice theory," Mike replied. "But you're talking about around a hundred effectives at this point and around four thousand Chechens."
"I didn't say it was going to be easy or pretty," Nielson said. "But they're going to think it's a walk-over. And, when, not if, their mortars get there it's going to get bad."
"That an armed Pred?" Mike asked.
"Yeah. And we've got tasking."
"That's their priority," Mike said. "Find the mortars. Out here."
"You have got to be shitting me," Adams said. "Mike, buddy, we're talking about most of the Chechen army!"
He was still with Team Oleg, currently humping up a hill to set up another defense point.
"I know," Mike said. "Would you rather try to assault some serious defenses?"
"Now that you mention it," Adams said. "Yes! There's a hundred of them. There's a hundred of us. That's one to one. Not twenty or forty to one!"
"They're in fixed positions and have machine guns covering all their approaches," Mike said. "We don't have time to argue about this. We're going to point 487 right now. You guys stay in place and slow them while we get into place and start digging in. It's got some natural defenses on it and there are steep slopes covering our sides. There's effectively, only one lane they can assault on."
"Fine," Adams said, swearing under his breath. "But when we come running, we're going to need some fucking cover."
"Gotcha covered, good buddy," Mike said. "Out here."
Mike grabbed one of the stretchers and continued up the slope. It was a steep motherfucker and the air was thin; the Keldara were barely able to make it at a trot.
The weather was really clearing, now. He could finally see what was going on. Behind him he could see Oleg's team settling in and Padrek's team in contact. Hell, in the clear air and gathering light he could even see the Chechens they were engaging.
"Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, this is Valkyrie."
It was the other pilot, the taller one...Wilson, that was her name.
"Valkyrie, Valkyrie, Tiger One," Mike panted. "LZ point 487. Winds... Oh, fuck, I dunno. South I think? Drop the shit and get ready to dust-off."
"Roger, Tiger. LZ Point 487. Inbound. I see your teams. Why don't you stop the stretchers. I'll drop the stuff at 487 and come back. You're in a good position."
"Got it," Mike said, stopping, holding up a hand and lowering the stretcher to the ground. "Thanks Valkyrie."
"Gotcha covered, Tiger."
Mike watched as the Hind swept in to the hilltop about five hundred meters away. It didn't even stop or really slow down as the ammo boxes were kicked out the door. Then it banked back towards their position.
They were on a hump in the ridgeline headed up to 487 with a clear view in every direction. Also completely in view of the Chechens but about two klicks away. If the Islamics had heavy weapons they were in trouble. They weren't taking any fire, though.
The Hind settled down lightly and Mike walked over to the pilot's cockpit as the wounded were loaded.
"Where's Captain Bathlick?" Mike asked.
"Hogging all the fun," Wilson replied. "The Georgians dropped off their left-over Hind armaments. She used them to take out the bunkers in Guerrmo. And she didn't just take them out, she fucking flattened them. I guess she's RTB for bullets and gas."
"I think I got all that," Mike said. "We're cut off. Watch the opening to the pass."
"Knew about it," Tammie said, tapping an instrument. "We shot it up as we passed. We'll shoot it up again on the way out. I don't want to lose another crewchief."
"D'Allaird?" Mike asked. "We're fucked without him."
"No, sir, one of the Keldara girls," Tammie said, shrugging. She didn't think to mention her name. "Game as hell. Took some with her, I think, but she got hit by one of the 12.7s. Wasn't pretty."
"Damn," Mike said, sighing.
"Anything else?"
"Nope. Just thanks. Hell of a time, huh?"
"Wouldn't be anywhere else," Tammie said then shook her head. "You know, I just was throwing out a line but... I really wouldn't want to be anywhere else. Ain't that some shit? I just had my crewchief blown all over the bird, I've got so many holes I feel like I'm flying a Swiss cheese and I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. I'm insane."
"Captain," Mike said, gently, "why the fuck do you think I hired you?"
"Point," Tammie said. "I gotta go. We're loaded. Once more into the breach and all that."
"Unto," Mike corrected. "Everybody gets that wrong. It goes:
"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage.
"Henry the Fifth. Great play. Unrealistic as hell and bad history but some of the greatest propaganda ever written."
"Damn, sir," Tammie said, her eyes wide. "I hadn't expected to hear Shakespeare quoted in the middle of a battle."
"No better time," Mike said. "And no better writer. Less it's Kipling. Now get out of here before you get your pretty little ass shot off."
"We got another engine?" Kacey asked, as soon as her canopy was popped.
The engine was smoking. Every light on her board that wasn't red was yellow. Her engine temp was running in the red. Her hydraulics were shot. And she had holes all over her window.
"What the fuck did you do to my bird?" D'Allaird shouted.
"I took out the fucking bunkers that killed Gretchen," Kacey said. "Now, we got another engine?"
"You need more than an engine," D'Allaird yelled. "You need your head examined! And a windshield. And a splinter shield. Probably control runs. And from the smell, a new transmission!"
"How long?" Kacey asked, pushing herself out of the seat and stepping out.
"That's it?" D'Allaird yelled. "How long? I ought to strap you up with rigger tape and throw you in the shed! I don't know how long! Next week? There's gotta be somebody around here can ground you!"
"I need it in a couple of hours," Kacey said, walking towards the ready-room. "If you want to use rigger's tape for something, I suggest you start on the holes in the blades."
"I...you... AAARRRGH! I got two Czech mechanics and a bunch of people who are willing and got no damned idea what to do! And you want this busted up piece of what was once one damned nice flying machine when?"
"As soon as possible, chief," Kacey said, spinning on her heel. "There are a hundred of these people's sons and daughters on the other side of those mountains with about a billion fucking Chechens hunting their scalps. They need three things: Ammo, dust-off and close-air support! We cannot do any sort of reasonable dust-off or resupply with the bird loaded for combat. So we need two birds, chief. Two. One for dust-off, one for support. So Get This One Flying, Marine! Or admit that all that shit you spouted about being a fucking miracle worker with birds was so much crap and get the fuck out of my face. Because every second you are flapping your jaw, Gunny, is one more second this fucker is not in the air. Do You Understand Me?"
"Clear, Captain," D'Allaird said, his face hard. "Sorry, sir. I'll get to work on it. I cannot guarantee two hours, sir, but I will do my best."
"Just get it flying, Chief," Kacey said with a sigh. "It don't have to fly great, just fly. Just get me back in the air."