by John Ringo
"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 whoever 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," Tammy said. "This thing is either sweet as hell or the Czechs let their marketing department write the dash-ones."
"Marketing departments always write the dash-ones," 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 twenty-three percent 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 redline. But I will tell you something that is not in the dash-one, yes? I have force tested this bird and engines. The redline 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 smidgen 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."
Chapter Nineteen
"USAF Flight 1157," Second Lieutenant Kevin Ferlazzo said when the "incoming satellite call" light started blinking on his console.
USAF Flight 1157 was a MC-130 Special Operations (Electronic) aircraft from the 47th Squadron out of Moody Air Force Base in Valdosta, Georgia. Flight 1157, crew of five, was currently on a compassionate mission delivering relief supplies to Azerbaijan, motoring along on cruise control over the nation of Ukraine, which from thirty thousand feet looked a lot like Kansas. A recent earthquake had left dozens of mountain villages in Azerbaijan devastated and cut off with winter oncoming. About half of the cargo consisted of cattle feed donated by the American Cattleman's Association. The rest was general relief supplies including MRE-style "relief meals," tents, blankets and clothing.
Lieutenant Ferlazzo, the flight engineer of the aircraft (and as he thought of it "designated receptionist"), hadn't planned on becoming a relief worker when he'd graduated from the United States Air Force Academy and he wondered about the efficiency of using a top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art, special-operations, electronics-warfare aircraft that cost $8,000 per hour to run to deliver hay bales. However, nobody but nobody asked a second lieutenant what he thought except his mother.
"1157, this is Four-Seven Actual. Put the 1157 Actual on. Then get off."
"Roger, sir," Lieutenant Ferlazzo said, hitting the hold button and switching to intercom. "Pilot, Four-Seven Actual wants you." He didn't ask the pilot if he wanted to take the call. Unless you're in the bird's pisser or a declared emergency, if the squadron commander calls you say "Yes, sir!" and pick up the horn.
Captain Richard C. "Casey" Moore sat up out of his half doze and looked at the co quizzically. "Okay, what did you do now?"
Casey Moore was twenty-six, brown of hair and eye, just below medium height with "an erect carriage and firm demeanor." Said so right on his Officer Evaluation Reports. That's because his various squadron commanders hadn't wanted to say "who is a wise-ass that likes to tease parajumpers until an incident occurs." Among other things, he was one hell of a C-130 driver and it wasn't like anybody ever got hurt.
Without waiting for an answer he hit the accept button. "1157 Actual."
"1157 Actual, Squadron Actual," the squadron commander replied. "Divert Tbilisi Military Airfield for refueling and pickup of quote Friendly Nation relief workers end quote. Coordinate with military attaché, United States Embassy, Georgia, Colonel Randolph Mandrell. Transport of relief workers classified Top Secret Ribbon Blade. Obtain vocal orders Colonel Mandrell re Operation Ribbon Blade. Colonel Mandrell has full operational control 1157 in re Ribbon Blade. Do you copy?"
Casey blinked for a just a second and then stared at the windshield as if looking for divine aid.
"Four-Seven Actual, 1157. Copy divert Tbilisi Military Airfield, contact Georgian mil attaché, Colonel Mandrell re pickup of Friendly Nation quote aid workers end quote. Pick up classified Ribbon Blade. Operational details via mil attaché. Mil attaché has operational control. Verification code, over?" He easily recognized the squadron commander's voice and the orders were coming over an encrypted satellite link. But he also knew that if he didn't verify, Four-Seven Actual, who was a real prick, would jump his ass.
"Verification, code Four-Delta-Five-Niner."
"Ferz," Casey said, hitting the hold button. "I need a verification on order changes, Four-Delta-Five-Niner."
"Yeah, confirm," Ferlazzo said after a moment. "It's an updated code."
"Four-Seven Actual, 1157. Verification confirmed. Diverting to Tbilisi at this time."
"Roger, out."
"We're going where?" the co-pilot asked. Captain Jim Sanderson was a regular co-pilot for Casey but not because Casey trusted his driving. Quite the opposite. In fact, he sometimes suspected that Casey dragged him around the world on one weird-assed mission after another purely to take his monthly pay at poker.
&n
bsp; And in that he would be right. He also was a great pawn to use in Casey's ongoing low-level war with the entire para-jumper corps. When Casey knew they were hunting a hostage, say because somebody had casually walked off with one of their damned gnomes, he could usually arrange for the co to be in the "wrong place at the wrong time" to get picked off by the PJs. Hell, better than giving up his nav.
The 47th was a "multi-mission" squadron. They had a variety of transport aircraft ranging from Beavers to C-17s with multiple variants and a group of pilots that were just as eclectic. Most of the pilots were cross-trained in special-operations missions; however the squadron, since it wasn't a dedicated special-ops squadron, tended to do mostly grunt hauling work. But, because it wasn't listed as a primary trash-hauler squadron they weren't first on the list for that, either. In fact, in the increasingly overtasked cargo aircraft field, it was the one squadron that had a relatively low operational tempo. That meant that the pilots could get more training on more different missions than most of the overtasked squadrons. Even the spec-ops squadrons had a hard time digging up HALO drop qualified crews; the 47th had seven including Flight 1157.
"Tbilisi," the navigator said. Captain Cassandra "Cassie" Phillips could have been Casey's sister. Five foot five, brown of hair and eye, there was even a slight facial resemblance. But features that were handsome on Casey came out as beautiful on Cassie. "Capital of the country of Georgia. It's not far off our flight path anyway. If we hadn't tanked in Kiev we'd have had to land there and tank. Come to heading one-three-zero. Tbilisi Military Control is on frequency 1957. Notation says that it's closed to unauthorized birds, though and 'limited English.'–"
"Oh, joy," Casey said. "Co, freq."
"Roger," Jim said, leaning forward to switch the radios.
"Just another day in paradise," Casey said, taking the plane off of auto-pilot and banking slightly to the left. "Oh, somebody ought to tell the load master we're picking up some passengers."
"They can sit on the hay bales," Cassie said.
"How's the company?" Captain Jean-Paul "J.P." Guerrin asked the first sergeant as he came into the CP.
"Pissed," First Sergeant Michael Kwan replied, shrugging. Kwan was a short-coupled Chinese-American with eighteen years and a bit in uniform. He'd started off in the 82nd Airborne, transferring to the Ranger Batts when he was a staff sergeant. He'd spent the next fourteen years doing the "Ranger Thang" all over the world. Nobody but his very very close friends dared use his early nickname, "Gook," to his face. "They'll get over it. But they're getting pretty damned sick of the sandbox. They'd been looking forward to some time on River Street."
"Aren't we all," the CO said. "The good news, what I have so far, is that we're not going to the sandbox. We're going to Georgia, the country just to avoid confusion, and doing some training with a local mountain infantry group. That's all I have right now, but feel free to spread it around. Mountain ops, about like New York this time of year. Pack snivel gear even if we're not going to use it. There is a threat in the area; the Chechens move around in the same mountains. Current plan is an airborne op into a secured DZ that's where we'll be basing. I'm told there are basing facilities."
"So it's a training op?" Kwan asked. "Rumor was that we were dropping hot." Carrying live rounds instead of training ammunition.
"We are," Guerrin said with a grimace. "Good training. Either somebody wants to see if we can really do it or the Chechen threat is worse than anticipated. I'll do an op order this evening at 1730. Birds will be at the airfield at 0430, civilian. We're flying to Ukraine."
"And then?" Kwan asked.
"That's apparently still being debated by higher," J.P. replied. "We're going to Georgia. How is still up in the air. So an all-nighter and a long flight with who knows what at the end."
"We can sleep when we're dead," Kwan said, grinning. To be a Ranger for twelve years you had to positively enjoy misery and Kwan was a legend on that score.
"Tbilisi Military Air Field this is USAF Flight 1157, C-130, requesting clearance and approach." Casey switched to intercom and looked over at the co. "Now to see if they speak English."
"Better than that landing in Indonesia," Sanderson said, shuddering. "He was damned positive he spoke Eeengeesh."
"USAF Flight 1157, Tbilisi Military Air Field Control." The voice was accented but fully understandable. "We have you are cleared to land Tbilisi Military Airfield Runway Zero-Niner. Turn to heading Zero-Five-Five and descend to Angels Eight, descent ratio one five meters per second. Conditions overcast at Angels Three to Angels Seventeen. Visibility below Angels Three seven kilometers. Civilian jet aircraft your vicinity at Angels Five, heading one-two-seven, five kilometers, direction zero-five-five. Note all pertinent flight advisories."
"Cass?" Casey said, taking the bird off autopilot
"They're bringing us in from the east," Cassie said, looking at the flight advisory bulletins. "Not only is there a note about potentially hostile activity in that general direction, you're going to have to come in over some mountains then drop it down hard. You wanna look?"
"Co has the bird," Casey said. "Maintain bank to zero-five-five, descent ratio fifteen meters per second."
"I have the bird," the co said, taking the controls.
"The security area is way off to one side," Casey said after a second and a slight lurch from the plane. "The descent over the mountains is pretty steep but nothing much. Nasty approach, though. But that's it, thanks, Cass."
"You got it," Cassie said, taking the chart back.
"Commander has the bird," Casey said then glanced at the instruments.
"You have the bird," Jim said, leaning back and crossing his arms.
"Fifteen meters ratio," Casey said after a second, sighing and reducing the bank. "One five, Jim. Definitely not three zero."
"Understood, sir," Jim said, his face blank. "Sorry, sir."
"Not as sorry as you would have been," Casey said with a sigh. "Look at the LIDAR."
Jim took his eyes off the glide ratio indicator and looked at the terrain tracking infrared laser system then blanched. A quick glance out the window revealed, even through the heavy clouds, a mountainside flashing by.
"Use caution when approaching the edges of the air," Casey said, pompously. "And how can these be defined, Jim?"
"Ground, water or outer space," Jim said, hangdog.
"Because it is very difficult to fly a plane in all three. Even harder to fly through mountains, Jim. You would have been very disliked by what remained of the crew."
"Commander, this is the load master," a female voice said somewhat nervously over the intercom.
"Go," Casey said, grinning.
"Sir, did we nearly just hit a mountain? Because I can see some out the window. And they're . . . kinda close, sir."
"Not at all," Casey replied, his eyes glued on his instruments. "We were just looking for mountain goats. Wait! There's one, out the right side!"
"Really? Where?" the girl asked happily.
"Man, she's easy," Casey muttered. "Ooooh, sparkly!"
Lasko stepped out of the door of the helicopter and took a knee as Sion Kulcyanov stepped out next to him. Both paused and scanned the nearby woodline through their NVGs as the blacked-out chopper lifted into the air. The helo turned out to be piloted not by the chief of staff's son-in-law, who was instead the co-pilot, but by the commander of Georgia's helo squadron. The crew-chief was one of the seniormost NCOs in the Georgian National Guard.
General Umarov was taking as few chances as possible on this mission being blown owing to leaks.
Lasko didn't let that worry him; that was the Kildar's problem. His was making sure that the landing hadn't been observed and finding a good spot to overlook the actual LZ, which was about ten kilometers away.
"Clear right," Sion whispered.
"Clear left," Lasko said, switching to thermal for a second view. There was a distant rumble of an aircraft in the distance but otherwise the night was silent. "Deer at ten o'c
lock. Bedding. Right."
"Moving," Sion said, standing up and heading for the woodline.
They had all of tonight and tomorrow to reach the LZ and get a good overlook point. Which was about how slow Lasko liked to move. Sitting perfectly still was better, but ten kilometers in a day or so was close enough.
Chapter Twenty
"Jim, the idea when landing is that you're going slow enough that you can actually stop before the runway does," Casey said, making his way past the hay bales towards the rear doors of the fuselage. When he'd been a kid his family would go visit his mom's parents on their farm in the summer. He'd never expected his aircraft to smell exactly like Grandpa's hayloft. On the other hand, that hayloft had some really nice associations, so it wasn't all bad.
