Unto The Breach

by John Ringo

  "That had to be tough," Tammy said, looking at Martya.

  Kacey thought that was either Tammy 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 harem. 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," Tammy 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 'cutoff' 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."

  "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 holdovers, that indicate that they were part of a group called the Varangian Guard."

  "Holy shit," Tammy gasped. "You're serious?"

  "Don't get the reference," Kacey said. "Who were the Ferengi or whatever?"

  "Varangians," Tammy 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," Tammy 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," Tammy 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.

  He was medium height and whip-cord thin, and Mike was never sure how old he was. At a guess about forty, but he looked about seventy from years of hard outdoor 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, owing 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 online 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 his 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 t
hem 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 a sniper 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 with 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 stillborn. 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," Lieutenant 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 dash-one for the Czech Aeroframe Corporation Hind-J "aerial ambulance" and rubbed her eyes. Dash-ones 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 metal 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 thirty percent 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 or more capable than the Russian Mi-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 desktop 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?" Tammy asked, setting down her own dash-one.

  "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," Tammy 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 Bobbsey 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," Tammy replied, not looking up from her man
ual.

  "The most was going to happen was off flying status for a while," Kacey protested.

  "Tammy 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."