Choosers of the Slain pos-3

by John Ringo

  “We’re leaving the Semtek, if that’s what you mean,” Mike replied, standing by the females as the girls walked by.

  “Nice joke,” Hardesty said, smiling. Then he looked at Mike’s face. “You were joking, right?”

  “Customs is going to be handled on the far end,” Mike replied. “But we’ll be leaving a good bit of the material on the bird. So figure on a five-day layover in Vegas.”

  “You weren’t joking,” the pilot said, shaking his head as one of the Keldara men went by with his arm in a sling.

  “We’ve gotten drivers to take all the vans to the embassy,” Mike replied. “But while I’m willing to leave my Semtek, I’m not willing to leave all the gear. Or the ammo,” he added as the Keldara men started filing up the stairs with various rather heavy bags that might or might not contain such things as guns and ammunition.

  “There are times that I really wish you’d picked another charter company as your flyers of choice.” Hardesty sighed. “On the other hand, the young ladies are quite charming, are they not?”

  “About half of them are intel specialists,” Mike said. “The others are hookers that have been freed from Albanian gangs. One of which is, apparently, hot on our tail. As soon as the last of our party turns up, you might want to be ready to take off. Fast.”

  “Really, really wish…”

  “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”

  * * *

  “This is most irregular,” the second assistant to the ambassador from Georgia to Croatia moaned as he looked at the pile of blank passports. “Most irregular.”

  “You want irregular?” Chief Adams sighed. “There’s an Albanian hit team on my tail. There’s a plane waiting to fly to the U.S. at the airport. And I’ve got to get from here to there, with these passports, and without getting killed. So just do me a favor and stamp the appropriate spots so I can get the hell out of here before we have a firefight in the embassy, okay?”

  “You are joking, yes?” the official moaned.

  “I am joking, no,” Adams said, picking up the official stamp. “So you want to stamp them or not? Your call. But I’m not leaving without them.”

  * * *

  “Mike, got the documents,” Adams said, leaning over to look out the window of the van. He was currently parked on Georgian territory, but the minute he pulled out he was going to be in Indian Territory. With no backup.

  “Hold one,” Mike said. “Any sign of shooters?”

  “Not so far,” Adams replied.

  “Well, we’ll just have to go for the trailer.”

  * * *

  “IFOR duty desk, Sergeant Simmons speaking, how may I help you, sir or ma’am?”

  Simmons was a reservist from Tennessee with the Fifth Regiment. All in all he’d much rather be back in Murfreesboro watching NASCAR, but duty in Bosnia these days was pretty tame. And the girls were plentiful and downright fine. Cheap too. There was worse duty. He’d already done one tour in the sandbox and that classifed as “much worse.”

  “Sergeant,” a man said in a hoarse whisper. “Thank God I finally got to an American. I’ve got a real problem.”

  “Sir, IFOR is not available to help distressed citizens…” the sergeant replied, sighing. Every time somebody lost a passport or got mugged or rolled or something, they fucking called IFOR. He flipped open his Rolodex looking for the number for the local police.

  “It’s not that,” the man whispered. “I’m running from a group of Albanian terrorists. I’m an Albanian American, okay? My name’s Hamed Dejti. I grew up in San Diego, okay? I was down in Kosovo, I was visiting relatives, okay? I was in a café and I heard some of the men talking about bombing one of the IFOR camps. They had a car and the explosives but they were arguing about who was going to drive it, okay? I guess I left too fast, they must have suspected I heard them. I mean, they were talking about the stupid American that didn’t understand them, okay? I’ve been running from them ever since. I tried to get the border guards to help me…”

  “Sir, are you sure about your information?” Simmons said, hitting the alert button and rolling out the duty guard platoon. This wasn’t a mugging. The voice had a definite American accent and the caller was clearly scared. He just wished he had a tracer circuit.

  “They said they were going to strike one of the American camps,” the man said, more definitely. “They didn’t say which one. But that’s you guys, right?”

  “Where are you right now, sir?”

  “I’m at a payphone on Gajdekova Street,” the man said. “The only ones I know about are in a white Lada, parked a half a block from the Georgian embassy. I’m right across the street. I think they want to kill me, but there are too many guards around. I’ll wait here until somebody gets to me. I can’t even get to the American embassy, they cut me off! Please…”

  “Sir, I’m scrambling the duty platoon right now,” the sergeant said, looking up as the duty officer walked in, scratching at his stomach under his uniform. “We’re on it.”

  * * *

  “Adams.”

  “Cavalry is on the way. As soon as our friends are occupado, boogie. We’re only waiting on you.”

  * * *

  “They’re in the Georgian embassy,” Ctibor said, pointing with his chin.

  Yarov leaned down to mask his face and looked towards the gates of the embassy. It was an old mansion with an iron spike fence around the courtyard and a baroque exterior. The guards didn’t seem to be paying any attention to the white Lada, but he could see the van parked by the side entrance.

  “Well, we’re in place, but that’s only one of them,” Yarov replied. “We need them all.”

  “Why did they go to the embassy?” Ctibor mused.

  “Because they knew we couldn’t get at them, there,” Yarov said. “The rest might have already rendezvoused and this is a throw-away group. We’ll wait one night and if they don’t move…”

  He looked up and shook his head as a group of Humvees, with the one in the lead sporting the blue light of an MP vehicle, raced down the road at high speed. The side of the Humvees were painted with the American flag and a large yellow blazon he didn’t recognize.

  “Fucking IFOR,” Ctibor growled. “Fucking Americans. Why can’t they just go back to their own damned…”

  He paused as the vehicles screeched to a stop and began disgorging troops in full body armor.

  Yarov started to back away from the Lada and stopped as an M-16 was thrust in his face.

  “Up against the wall, dirt bag!” the American private from the Fifth Cavalry screamed, grabbing his arm and turning him around. “Hands above your head.”

  He twisted his head sideways and growled as the white van sedately drove out of the main entrance to the embassy. As it passed the street scene of American trooops rounding up “dangerous terrorists,” whoever was driving tooted their horn in farewell.

  Fucking Americans.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Jenkins,” Mike said, picking up the phone.

  The 757 was configured with a large passenger area in the rear and a small office compartment up front. Mike was currently in the office, discussing the recent mission with Vanner and Adams.

  “This is Captain Hardesty,” the pilot said dryly. “You might want to know that we are now ‘feet wet’ over the Adriatic.”

  “Thanks,” Mike said, chuckling. “Feet wet” was a military term for leaving an area of operations over the water. Dating back to the Vietnam War, it was the traditional call that the unit and aircraft were safe from interference by hostiles. “I’ll be even more happy when we’re feet wet over the Atlantic.”

  “I’ll give you a call,” Hardesty replied. “We will, however, be refueling in England. One hopes that this charter will not cause inconvenient questions to be raised upon landing.”

  “Unlikely,” Mike said, smiling. “I think that even if any questions are being raised, the British government is going to be more than willing to avoid them given some o
f the information we’ve probably acquired.”

  “I’ve got at least one name from the British Foreign Office,” Vanner said, looking at his notes. “I haven’t translated the file, yet.”

  “More than willing,” Mike repeated.

  “I see,” Hardesty replied. “Very well. Flight time to Las Vegas with stops to refuel will be about twenty hours. You might want to get some rest. We’ll also be picking up a change of pilots in England. They’re… briefed.”

  “Good to hear,” Mike said. “Talk later.”

  “So far, we’re not getting real far on the data we picked up in Rozaje,” Vanner said. “The translation is going really slow. But there’s one bright spot. We don’t have their DVDs, but the video was stored on the computer and then the DVDs were burned from it. I’m going to run a file reconstructor on the data and see if we can find any bits from the previous videos. It doesn’t look like they cleaned the computer but the bits are going to be partial.”

  “Tell me what you get,” Mike said, yawning. “Can any of the girls run the program?”

  “Yeah,” Vanner replied. “I’m going to let them work it while I get some shut-eye. But I want to scan the files. The girls have seen just enough of this stuff to know they don’t want to see any more.”

  “Agreed,” Mike said tightly. “Get started on it and then get some rest. We’re going to need you fresh in Vegas.”

  “Will do,” Vanner said, picking up the laptop and leaving the office.

  “If we have to go to Lunari it’s going to be tough,” Adams said after the intel specialist had left. “We don’t have much on it, but what I’ve been able to glean indicates that the town’s a fucking fortress. More than one, since all the gangs have houses there and they don’t trust each other.”

  “We might be able to do something with that,” Mike said, yawning again. “What goes for Vanner, goes for you, too. Get some rest. I’m going to need you alert whenever we get there.”

  “I was planning on it,” Adams said, getting up. “You too.”

  “I will,” Mike replied. “I’m going to watch some news and then rack out.” The couch in the compartment converted to a bed and he was planning on taking the unusual step of using “rank has it’s privileges.”

  “See you in the morning,” Adams said. “Or whenever it’s going to be.”

  * * *

  Mike flipped open his own laptop and scanned the news. The top news story on the Fox site was the search for a missing girl in Kansas. Which meant dick all to him. Next down was the battle over the current Supreme Court nominee. The nominee was stuck in committee, naturally. The liberals were screaming about the nominee’s “non-mainstream” religious views, by which they meant he was a practicing Catholic and had firm views on abortion and other “life” issues. And Grantham was the chairman of the committee, he noted.

  It was assumed he would be voting with the President but he’d hardly been supporting the nominee in the last few days, which was worth fifteen minutes of comment from political and legal experts. The senator, it seemed, had twice missed opportunities to move the nominee out of committee and on to a floor vote.

  France was trying to crack down on Islamic jihadists and having a rough time. The French security forces had been on high alert ever since the previous year when a nuke was set to blow in Paris. However, the French judiciary and various liberal groups were creating roadblock after roadblock against deportation of even the most extremist members of the Islamics.

  The majority of the Islamics were found in southern France and around Paris. And the majority of those were housed in “government housing” neighborhoods composed of block after block of massive apartment buildings. The neighborhoods had become “no-go” zones for the police and in places there had been pitched battles that were nearly the equal of the “insurgency” period in Iraq. It hadn’t, quite, reached the level of civil war, but if it were anywhere but France the news media would be all over it. As it was, the only term that came to mind was “downplayed.” There was one shot in the background of what had to be an RPG being fired at French police, who appeared to be in retreat. It sure as hell didn’t look good and he was glad he was out of it. He might drop a line to the Chatanueuf and see how bad it was.

  And in the tail end of the news was a poll showing that the lead in the presidential polls was Barbara Watson, former first lady, junior senator from Massachusetts and a card carrying bitch from hell. If there was anything she hated more than conservative political positions it was the military. Still deployed all over the world trying to fight the good fight, the military was sure to be gutted, War on Terror or no, if she took office. And the intel groups would be hamstrung.

  Mike wasn’t sure if the news was just particularly bad or if it was just fatigue. But it seemed like everything he had worked for most of his life was going down the tubes. The only good news was that the Georgian government seemed to be stabilizing and even the Ossetians were coming to the table. The way things were going, Georgia was going to be a better place for him to live, all around, than the States.

  Thoroughly depressed, he killed the TV and the lights and lay back, watching the stars through the narrow windows of the plane.

  * * *

  Mike rolled to his feet, disoriented, as the plane began its descent. He rubbed his eyes and looked out the window, still disoriented. According to his watch it was eight AM, but the sun still wasn’t up. Oh, yeah, they were flying with the sun. This was going to get annoying. Jet lag was a bitch.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re beginning our descent to Gatwick Airport in England,” Captain Hardesty intoned. “Please reconfigure your seats and such like for landing. We’ll be refueling and picking up breakfast. I’d appreciate it if the English speakers could translate, since my knowledge of Georgian is sadly lacking. Mr. Jenkins, if you could pick up the phone, please?”

  “Jenkins.”

  “We’ve received an inflight advisory that members of the British government will be visiting with us while we’re in England,” Hardesty said, neutrally.

  “Oh, really?” Mike asked. “I’m going to need to make some phone calls.”

  “Please do,” Hardesty said. “As long as they don’t get my plane impounded and my pilot’s license pulled. I am officially disavowing any suspicion of illicit activities, I might add.”

  “Nice to know,” Mike said, chuckling as he hung up the phone. He dialed a number from memory before checking his watch. It was still the middle of the night in the U.S.

  “Office of Special Operations Liaison, Navy Captain Parker speaking. How may I help you, sir or ma’am?”

  “That’s a mouthful, Captain,” Mike said. “Mike Jenkins. I’m checking in. We’re landing in England and we’re apparently getting a deputation from the Brits. Comments?”

  “Unknown at this time, Mr. Jenkins,” Parker said after a moment. “I’ll need to make some calls.”

  “Please do,” Mike said. He picked up the phone and connected to the rear cabin.

  “Yes, Kildar?”

  “Greznya? I hope you got some sleep.”

  “I got quite a good sleep, thank you, Kildar,” Greznya replied.

  “Are Adams and Vanner functional?”

  “They will be after another cup of coffee,” Greznya said. “And Vanner has something he’s looking at. Would you like them to step up front?”

  “No, I’m going to head back,” Mike said. “See you in a bit.”

  * * *

  The rear of the plane was configured for about twice as many people as there were Keldara so Keldara were sprawled everywhere. Adams was getting them up and the seats reconfigured as Mike stepped through the door.

  “Be with you in a second, Mike,” Adams called.

  There were two flight attendants on the plane and Mike waved one of them over.

  “Is there a way to access the intercom back here?” Mike asked.

  “Right here, sir,” the woman said, picking up a phone and hitting the appro
priate button.

  “Rise and shine, Keldara,” Mike said in the Keldara dialect of Georgian, which he was fairly sure the crew wouldn’t be able to understand. “We’re about to land in England. When we do we’re going to be getting a visit from some representatives of the British government. I’m not sure what they’re going to be asking about, but I suspect it has to do with our visit to Romania and points south. In that case, nobody speaks English at all well and understands it even less. If it comes down to lawyers, guns and money we’ve got all three on our side as well as some very interesting video footage. Enough about that, though.

  “As you all know, we’re headed for the U.S. to attend a convention and try to sell our beer. In addition, I’ll be meeting with members of the U.S. government and will be discussing our recent trip. Hopefully, we’ll be able to trade for some intelligence on our next objective. But that’s for me to worry about. What you are going to be doing is selling beer. Gurum will be running that side of things. I don’t want any caillean stuff to interfere. Gurum has done a good job this far and it’s time for us to backstop him. The girls will be wearing traditional dress, handing out beer and smiling at the customers. The boys will be making sure the customers keep their hands to themselves. Pictures may be taken. In that case, smile for the camera. I don’t know how much of it Adams, Vanner and I will be available for, so you’re mostly going to be on your own.

  “Las Vegas is called Sin City. There are various vices available to the visitor. But I know that the Keldara are far too meek and gentle to engage in such things as fornicating with prostitutes, gambling and drinking.”

  He waited for the expected chuckles to die down and then shook his head.