by John Ringo
"Yes, Kildar," Gretchen said, frowning slightly.
"I don't think we talked, did we?" Mike asked as the helo descended.
"I don't think so," Gretchen shouted. "But I wish we could . . ."
Chapter Fifteen
"General Umarov, good to see you again," Mike said as he was ushered into the general's office by an aide. He hadn't had to wait, which he took as a sign. A sign of what, he wasn't too sure.
"And you, Kildar," the general said, walking around his desk to shake Mike's hand. He gestured for Mike to take a seat, ordered coffee and did everything but check to see if Mike needed a blow job from the secretary.
It was going to be bad.
"How are Galiko and the kids?" Mike asked. Mrs. Umarov had passed away before Mike arrived in-country. Galiko was their sole child. She was married to a captain in the Georgian National Guard and they had two children that the general doted upon.
"All are well," Umarov replied, nodding. "I will send them your regards."
"Please do," Mike said, taking a sip of coffee. He'd actually become a pretty big tea drinker but since he was American it was assumed he'd prefer coffee. It wasn't bad, by Georgian standards. "General, we need helicopters to get this plan to work."
"In that you and I agree," Umarov replied with a sigh. "But there are . . . problems."
"Politics," Mike said. "Is it that they are Russian? I don't, off the top of my head, know of a group besides Birusk Flying Services that can, and will, pick up a company of infantry and take them anywhere close to where they might be shot at. And Birusk is not Russian government, any more than I am U.S. government."
"And again, you and I agree," Umarov said, shaking his head. "Others do not."
"What others?" Mike asked, blanching. "General, this is no insult to your armed forces but we have to keep this information very confidential!"
"That is not a problem," the general said, making a placating gesture. "It is, as you would say 'very tightly held.' But the president and the defense minister had to be told of what was going on, you know that, yes?"
"Of course," Mike said, nodding. "I cannot disagree at . . . Oh, crap. The defense minister?"
Vakhtang Gelovani was a strong Georgian nationalist who had risen to the rank of major in the Red Army before the fall of the Soviet Union. Of course, that had been over a twenty-five-year period. Ethnic Russians had controlled the upper ranks of the Red Army even under Stalin, who was a Georgian. Anyone non-Rusk rising above colonel was exceedingly rare. He clearly felt that he should have been a general and it was rumored that for that reason he hated and despised all things Russian.
From Mike's perspective, the reason he'd never made general was that Gelovani would barely tie his own shoes. The man was a classic case of "active/stupid" if Mike had ever seen one, a micro-manager who had a strong tendency to choose exactly the wrong course of action and enforce it on subordinates. And then, as often as not, blame them for the failure.
The fact that he was frequently bruited as a possible successor to the current president, who while not great was head and shoulders over Gelovani, was good reason to contemplate the stupidity of settling down in Georgia. And Mike had heard quite a few rumors about clashes between Gelovani and Umarov. Given that Umarov wasn't an idiot, Mike didn't find that surprising.
"I will neither confirm nor deny that the defense minister has raised objections," Umarov said, grimacing. "I will however say that the president has also stated his objections."
Which meant that the president did not want to give Gelovani an excuse to paint him as in the pocket of the Russians. Even over a black op. Of course, Gelovani would not care that it was a black op if he went babbling about it to some group of faithful or supporters.
Taking Gelovani out was looking better and better.
Mike lowered his face and rubbed his forehead for a moment then looked up.
"Okay, then can I have Georgian helicopter support? You've got a couple of Hips and those Blackhawks from the U.S. I don't know if we can make it in one lift, but . . ."
"No," Umarov said with a shake of the head. "And that is my objection, solely. We have very few helicopters. Not only are most of them busy, most of the time, but the loss of even one, and there is a good chance of losing one on this operation, would be . . . very bad. Unlike the U.S. military, we could not hide the fact that we'd lost one or where we'd lost one. Given that, it would be apparent that we'd lost it to the Chechens or at least in operations against them. Call it 'face' if you will, but with everything that is going on in this country, making it truly apparent that we cannot control actions in that area would be very bad, politically. Let me ask: Would you prefer that Gelovani replace me with one of his hand-picked cronies?"
"No," Mike said, grimacing.
"If we lost a helicopter in this operation, I would grade that as 'likely,'–" Umarov said placidly. "Also, the loss would be a capital loss to my military, both in the loss of the helicopter and the pilots. We would have to send our very best pilots, yes? And we have very few who are of the caliber you would need. I would be, in your American phrase, eating my seed corn if I lost them. We guard them very preciously, the helicopters and the pilots. I cannot justify using them in an operation with this great a risk factor."
"So that gets me back to square one," Mike argued. "I have to have helicopter support. If I don't use it, I'd have to have already left to do the whole thing on foot. I need birds to get me in striking distance. And I really need dust-off. We're going to take casualties. I'll walk out if I absolutely have to, carrying the damned items if I must, but I'm not going to do this mission if I have to pack my wounded out on litters. Not."
"I have argued the same," Umarov said, holding up a hand to forestall an angry rebuttal. "I have also managed a small, not large enough, compromise. You may use the Russian company to fly to your drop-off point. I got that concession because I pointed out, as you did, that you could not do the mission in time without having already started your 'hump,' yes? But they cannot enter the Pankisi military controlled zone, absolutely not. That is from the president. And they must enter on a controlled route, pick up your forces, drop them off and then leave."
"So no pick-up and no dust-off," Mike said, angrily. He took a deep breath and then thought, hard. "What if . . . Look, I need dust-off and I need some helo support in the background. Among other things, both the U.S. and the Russians are very interested in retrieving Dr. Arensky, alive."
"So I was informed," Umarov said, nodding. "But, frankly, I had not put together that he, and his daughter, would have to walk out. Not a very pleasant trip."
"We're planning on something on the order of Hannibal's March across the Alps," Mike pointed out, sourly. "No, not a pleasant trip. High elevation, low temperatures, nasty terrain. It's going to be hard enough on the Keldara. I can't imagine getting an out-of-shape scientist and his daughter through it. But I'm really worried about getting casualties out of there. I need a helo. And I have an idea."
"Go ahead," Umarov said, nodding.
"What if they weren't Russian and they weren't temporary hires?" Mike asked, putting a plan together just ahead of his words. "I've been saying that I need a helicopter, and some pilots, for quite some time now. So . . . I get a helicopter and some pilots. Possibly two helicopters and some pilots. And they are my support."
"I presume you're talking about American or European," Umarov said carefully. "Can you get them? On short notice? And that will be willing to do this mission? I could see a pilot that was willing to fly back and forth to Tbilisi, yes? But to fly on this mission?"
"I don't know," Mike replied honestly. "But I can try. If I can get them, can I use them?"
"I am not sure what you mean," Umarov said lightly. "You wish to get a helicopter for transportation, yes? They will not be armed, this is a simple business transaction, a bit of paperwork. I'm sure it would entirely escape my notice, I'm not sure why you even bring it up."
"Gotcha," Mike said, nodding.
"Well, then, I think that's settled. And I need to make some very fast phone calls."
"Don't let me slow you down," Umarov said, nodding. "But since you mentioned this simple business transaction, I'll make a few phone calls, for a friend, and make sure that all the paperwork is . . . smoothed out."
"I appreciate it," Mike said, knowing that the Georgians could be byzantine, and greedy, in processing such paperwork. He'd grease palms if he had to, it was a standard part of doing business in the region, but the fewer he had to, and the faster they worked, the better. The chief of staff knew just what butts to prod to get them in gear. "I'll be going, then. Give my regards to Galiko and Captain Kahbolov."
"I shall," the general said. "I'll also note that if I was to send a group of highly qualified pilots, one of them would have to be my son-in-law. But, no, that is not why I declined."
"Pierson."
"Bob, it's Mike," Mike said, sighing over the secure sat phone. He could barely hear the colonel over the sound of the rotors from the helicopter but, on the other hand, short of a very capable and sophisticated intercept that could crack U.S. satellite transmissions, he wasn't going to be overheard. "We have a situation. No, we have an issue. No, we have a mission killer."
"Helicopters," Pierson said. "I was going to call you. We already got the word."
"The Georgians are not going to let me use my Russki friends for anything more than lift into the nearby area. I'm not going to have dust-off, I'm not going to have support and I can't exactly evac Arensky and his kid through those fucking mountains."
"They're also not going to let us do it," the colonel replied. "That has been discussed. Not at 'the highest levels' but at a level high enough that it's damned firm."
"I'm not going to stick the fucking Keldara out on a limb over some jackass' bigotry about Russians," Mike said, bitterly. "But there's one slender loophole. I can buy my own god-damned bird and hire my own god-damned pilots out of my own god-damned pocket and as long as they're not Russian I can use them for 'non-combat' missions. Including into the Pankisi zone."
"So you need pilots," Pierson said. "And birds."
"I'll get my own birds," Mike replied. "The Czechs make a very nice Hind variant that is available off the shelf with a high-altitude package. And not only does it cost way less than a Blackhawk, most of the parts are compatible with other Hind variants. But I need pilots. ASAP."
"We're not an employment agency, Mike," Pierson replied with a humorous tone.
"You are if you want me to do this mission," Mike responded with absolutely no humor in his voice. "I need pilots. I'm up to my ass in alligators and so are all my people. None of us have time to go looking through the want ads. I haven't slept in three days. I don't have time to be having this conversation. I need two highly qualified and technically excellent pilots in recent training who can cross-train to a Hind on short notice and are willing to go in harm's way for a sizable cash bonus and love of the thrill. I'd prefer no dependents. As Umarov pointed out, the risk of this mission, to everyone including me, is high. That includes the pilots. I need them on a plane within the next two days. Call Anastasia to make the travel arrangements. And I don't care who you have to know, blow or glow, I need them now or this mission is a scrub. I am totally fucking serious. I will scrub this mission and the President can then consider . . . other options."
"Oh," Pierson said, thoughtfully. "In that case, I'd better start making some calls."
Kacey flipped through the mail angrily.
"Junk mail, bill, bill, overdue bill . . ."
Kacey J. (Jezebel) Bathlick, formerly Captain Kacey J. Bathlick, USMC, was five foot four inches tall and weighed in at a respectable one hundred and thirteen pounds, as of that morning, after her morning run, according to the bathroom scale. With brown hair that reached to just shoulder length and brown eyes, she had generally been described as "solid" in her officer evaluation reports. That is because nobody was going to put "stacked, packed, hot and ready to rock" on paper.
"Face it, Kace, we're gonna have to find a job." Tamara opened the refrigerator and removed broccoli, onions and red peppers. "I mean, we're talking 7-Eleven time here."
Tamara Wilson, also formerly Captain, USMC, was not incredibly taller than Kacey, standing just a bit over five feet seven inches. However, with noticeably longer legs and torso, she seemed to positively tower over her longtime friend. She also had brown hair and eyes and her grading officers had often found themselves at a loss to describe her in militarily acceptable terminology. "Erect of carriage" was usually what the reviewers settled upon. That was because, in the case of her male reviewers, they felt that forms covered in drool with incoherent phrases like "Yowhzah!" and "Babe-a-licious!" would not have told the review boards much.
When, as had often happened until recently, the two were sharing a cockpit, units sometimes came to blows over who got to fly in the bird.
"I can't believe we didn't get hired with Blackwater," Kacey said, tightly. "They're screaming for pilots."
"Male pilots," Tammy noted, starting to chop up the vegetables. "They do not want to be the first company to have a female civilian killed in action. Wouldn't look good on CNN."
"Which means that everyone else who needs pilots in the States should be screaming for women," Kacey noted. "So why aren't we getting any calls?"
"It's only been two months," Tammy pointed out. "And we really didn't start hunting until we got back from the islands. Of course, we thought somebody would be banging down our door but . . ." She paused at a knock on the apartment's door. "Okay, now that would be too . . ."
Kacey looked through the peephole and turned back to Tammy. "Military. Army. Major."
"Pro-face," Tammy said, nodding.
"Yes, Major, what can I do for you?" Kacey said as she opened the door.
"Ms. Kacey Bathlick?" the major asked. "Captain Bathlick?"
"Up until a couple of months ago, yes," Kacey said.
"And is Ms. Wilson present?" the major asked. He was black, medium height and heavy build. Kacey had done an immediate check of his uniform and she suspected that there were some ribbons missing from his dress greens. But there was an SF patch on his right shoulder to counteract the Military District of Washington patch on the left. And he was wearing the "Tower Of Power": Ranger, SF and Airborne tabs stacked. No CIB but a two-year Pentagon service badge. And his highest medal was an Army Commendation Medal. Either this guy was a washed-out Green Beret who had been shuffled off to Washington after being found "unfit for combat" or he was deliberately understating his experience and leaving off merit badges. From his look it was probably the latter. Which in the five-sided Puzzle Palace was . . . weird. Everybody wore every possible doodad so they could look more military than Napoleon.
"Yes, I am," Tammy said, walking over while wiping her hands on a towel. "Pleasure to meet you Major Stang. What can we do for you?"
"I was told . . ." the major said and then paused. "Could we do this somewhere other than the doorway?"
"Of course," Kacey said. "Sorry." Of course, he could be a rapist dressed up like an Army major, but he had all the badges in the right place, which would be unusual for a "wannabe." And between herself and Tammy they could probably handle him, weight lifter or no. Tammy had been studying karate since before she was really walking well. Kacey's fighting style was a bit more eclectic, running in the direction of beating the hell out of people she didn't like.
She stepped back and then to the side so that she had him flanked as he entered the room. The brief, amused, glance over his shoulder told her that he'd noticed, knew why and found it both tactically correct and funny.
"Take a seat if you'd like," Tammy said, smiling.
"Nah, I'll be quick," the officer said, dipping into his blouse pocket and pulling out a slip of paper. It appeared to be cut out from something, possibly an e-mail. "I was told that you two are looking for a flying job, preferably as a matched set."
"Yes," Tammy said, frowning but t
aking the paper.
"I'm also told that you were very pissed off when the Marines pulled you both out of combat slots," the major added. "That's the name of a guy who needs some helo pilots, yesterday. He's not in the U.S., though, the country of Georgia. But he doesn't have the time to come to the States and do an interview. So he's willing to pay appropriate pilots five grand just to fly out there and interview, as long as they don't dawdle. The flip side is that while it's intended to be a permanent gig, he needs them for a mission that . . . well, that involves a certain amount of risk. The pay, I'm given to understand, will be commensurate."
"He's a merc?" Kacey asked. "The U.S. government is death on mercs."
"Mercenary, security specialist, the U.S. government hires out a lot of stuff these days," the major said with a shrug. "I have it on very good authority that this is one of the good guys. I will mention that the U.S. government is, effectively, being his hiring and screening agent for this. I'm not here on my own, I'm on government time."
