Unto The Breach

by John Ringo

  The trees in the region had already begun to shift to upland coniferous, primarily firs, instead of the deciduous growth found down in the valley. The understory was thigh-high heather, tough, wiry and prickly as hell.

  Lasko ignored the tugging of the heather and the bits scratching at his face as he brought up the thermal imagery sight with geologic speed. Lasko was capable of moving faster. He'd proven that several times. But he much preferred moving at about the speed of growing grass.

  A long, careful, scan with the thermal imagery scope showed nothing hostile in or around the LZ. The LZ was away from the major routes the Chechens used and well away from the few farms in the region so there was no particular reason anybody would be there. Unless the Chechens were staking out good LZs on the off-chance the Keldara were going to start flying in.

  So far, it didn't look that way.

  Lasko looked over his shoulder at Sion and made an oval motion with his hand, indicating that this was where they were going to construct the hide. Then he started, ever so slowly, removing branches of heather. Removing vegetation was an art more than a science; for the sniper it resembled a form of bonsai. The vegetation had to appear as if it had naturally broken away or grown into that form. It could be tied down with small bits of vegetation colored string, broken away at the base or even propped up by another plant. Anything that looked natural. In the three cases where he simply had to break a branch off, he removed it right at the "trunk" and then wiped dirt onto the broken spot. Nothing could give the indication that someone or something had been ripping up vegetation.

  As he did this, Sion had started on the hide. Since they were going to be there for a few days, this would be a full "bunker" hide position, a small underground shelter. Very small, about the size of a two man tent. Whereas any infantryman in the world, given that the enemy was nowhere around, would have stood up and begun stuffing the shovel in the dirt and tossing earth around, Sion was slowly and painfully learning to be a sniper at the very core. He was still stomach down, his German entrenching tool only half extended, lifting up shovelfuls of dirt and carefully placing them on a tarp.

  By morning the two would be tucked away in a hide that didn't have much more signature than a rabbit hole. They would spend the rest of the time, until the flight arrived, living there. They would eat, sleep, pee and crap in the hole. Fortunately, the Keldara had provided them with American MREs so they wouldn't be doing much of the latter. Nothing jammed you up like MREs especially if, as Lasko had done, you left behind all the fruity stuff.

  "Ivan Ivanovich!" Mike said, shaking the hand of the man descending from the Kiowa helicopter. The Kiowa was a new addition to the Georgia's expanding aircraft fleet.

  "Kildar." Ivan Ivanovich "Son of Ivan" Markovsky was a former Russian army helo pilot who had turned one beat-up Hip transport into an international heavy lift company over the course of ten or so years. Mostly the company supported oil production around the world—Ivan's motto was "no job too remote"—with some paid assistance for disaster relief and other missions where people were willing to pay through the nose to move a large volume of heavy cargo somewhere that roads didn't reach. His most famous job was lifting an entire mammoth out of the frozen tundra of Siberia and transporting it nearly a thousand miles to the nearest railhead.

  However, those operations more or less "paid the bills." Markovsky's other operations, those that most certainly did not make the press, were where he made his real money. Markovsky was honest about being the purest of mercenaries. He didn't care if he was carrying American black ops or Al Qaeda. The only group he would not support was the Chechens and that was probably because his pilots, almost all Russian, would balk.

  He also was very closemouthed. Mike had never tried to pump him but others had. If he talked to Al Qaeda nobody had ever been able to find out. He seemed to be an "honest" mercenary in that way. Mike was never sure whether to admire him for that or not, but he was more than willing to use him for it. And because Markovsky had proven that he was one of those mercenaries that recognized that "loss is part of the job." In Albania Markovsky had lost an entire helo, and crew, and had two more shot up. He'd just taken his pay and agreed that it was bad luck. Admittedly, the loss costs on the contract had been huge but Mike had gladly paid them; the pilots on every portion of the op had been as good and brave as any he'd ever seen.

  "I understand that there are political issues with this op?" Markovsky said, as they walked to the house. The pilot had come down on the caravanserai's helo pad, which was on Mike's old firing range, just beyond the harem garden.

  "The Georgians won't let me use you for the whole op," Mike said. "Only for the insertion period. And you have to fly a narrow route to and from. Sorry."

  "Given the way that Vladimir has been pushing all the CIS countries, it is not surprising," Markovsky said. "I am starting to run into such problems elsewhere. It's a pain but what can one do?"

  Mike led him to the office and then turned on the projector on his computer. The projector flashed the map of the insertion area up on a whitewashed portion of the wall.

  "Six teams, six LZs," Mike said. "One Hip per LZ. You got them?"

  "I may have to substitute two Panthers for one of them," Markovsky said, musingly. "Depends on if one of my Hips gets out of the shop first. But I have the lift."

  "Insertion will be night and full tactical," Mike said. "The Georgians require that you either enter through a narrow corridor and pick us up here then do the op or go to Tbilisi Military, tank there, then do the op. Your choice."

  "I'd prefer to tank at Tbilisi military," Markovsky said. "If we have to tank in Russia we'll be all the way over in Krasnodar. I'd have to bring tanks for the turn. And I don't want to FAARP here, if possible."

  "Actually, by then we'll have the beginnings of a helo-port here," Mike said. "I'm bringing in two of my own choppers to support the op. Czech Hinds. I can get the fuel here for sure. What about aborts?"

  "That was why I wasn't sure about all the Hips," Markovsky admitted. "I'll bring a spare but if one of them goes down, then it will be the Panthers. If you're going to have actual ground support, I'll tank here."

  "That works," Mike said, grinning. "I won't even charge you for the fuel."

  "Why, thank you," Markovsky replied.

  "Keep the coordinates of the LZs close until the op," Mike said, sliding over a file. It contained details about the LZs as well as maps. He deliberately didn't mention the reconnaissance teams. He trusted Markovsky but trust only went so far. "Please get with Nielson on details of refuel, support and payment. Usual terms?"

  "That's fine," Markovsky said, looking at the contents of the folder then closing it and standing up. "I'd ask why you're only flying a few miles, but . . ."

  "Training mission," Mike said. "Just getting the troops acquainted with air ops."

  "Which is why you are using me and not the Georgians, yes?" Markovsky said, smiling slightly. "Have a good training mission."

  "Well, I'll say it will be good training," Mike said. He'd checked the long-range weather forecast. It was going to be very good training.

  Vanner unplugged consul hose from his AIROX VII connector and switched to the bail-out bottle on his gear, waving to the team to switch at the same time.

  The pre-breathe had been a pain in the ass. A necessary one but a pain all the same. They had to stay continually on the supplied oxygen or they'd get the bends when they started breathing much thinner air all of a sudden. The O2 flushed the nitrogen out of their system but it wasn't the most fun in the world. From as high as they were jumping they had to stay on it for an hour, minimum.

  Because the oxygen was at lower than normal air pressure, he'd had a feeling the whole time like he wasn't getting enough air. It was a claustrophobic, strangling sensation that had bugged the hell out of him.

  Worse, in a way, was the sweat that formed inside the mask. It tickled like hell and he desperately wanted to pull the mask away and wipe at it. But if he d
id that, everybody would have to start the pre-breathe all over again. One gulp of "real" air reset the whole thing.

  "Pain in the ass" didn't begin to cover it but now it was showtime.

  The load master stood in front of him and reached down to her waist, miming pulling something forward. All the cute had disappeared behind the oxygen mask, helmet and heavy clothes.

  Vanner, for the third time, checked to make sure that the chute was "armed" and the safety pin had been removed from the AAD. In the event that a jumper was knocked out, either by the O2 failing or from some impact, the Airborne Arming Device would automatically open their chutes at seven hundred feet above ground level.

  Now, in the case of the team, that was adjusted to 700 AGL above their planned DZ or right at thirteen thousand feet. If the jumper was unconscious he or she probably wasn't going to hit anywhere near the DZ. And almost everything around the DZ was higher than the drop zone meaning that they were probably still going to splat into the ground at a high rate of speed. It also, mostly, was vertical. He'd pointed this out to the team and also pointed out that not passing out, for any reason, nor failing to track to the DZ nor failing to pull their chutes on time were all very good things.

  Frankly, Vanner had on the ascent come to the conclusion that the Kildar—he barely could think of him as "Mike Jenkins" anymore—was insane. The Kildar, whoever he really was, whatever he'd done before he turned up in Georgia, was clearly highly trained in HALO. He had, after all, trained them and done it in record time. Which means he had to know what a shot-in-the-dark insanity it was to send five totally green HALO jumpers and drop them into some of the worst conditions ever created by man for airborne operations: alpine mountains with a drop zone the size of a postage stamp. Just fitting all five of them onto it was going to be interesting.

  Vanner tried to show none of that as he lurched to his feet and waved to the other four.

  The lurch was necessitated by their gear. Besides their clothing, bulky and heavy enough, they were all wearing combat harnesses, their chutes, helmets and oxygen masks and last, but most certainly not least, their rucksacks, which were slung forward and down, making it nearly impossible to walk. The long, and heavily packed, rucksacks dropped very nearly to the ground in the case of the two women. They simply had to be helped by Jeseph and Ivar as the fivesome shuffled towards the ramp.

  Currently the ramp was still up and that was just fine by Vanner. It had, however, been cracked to depressurize the cabin and the sound of the rushing wind filled the interior of the aircraft, making verbal communication, already difficult with the oxygen masks, impossible.

  Which, of course, was what hand signals were for.

  Vanner slapped the front of his harness and then gestured for the two pairs to check each other's equipment. He carefully ensured that they followed the memorized checklist then had Olga check his. As well as any of them could tell, everything was good to go.

  Equipment checked, they shuffled towards the rear of the bird as the load master, who was suited up in a similar manner but tied off with a safety rope, lowered the ramp.

  This occasioned even more roaring but very little actual wind movement. Vanner had expected the strong circulation they'd experienced during training but the air inside the bird was strangely calm. He could only think it was due to the entire rear of the plane being open instead of just side doors.

  Vanner paused at the edge of the ramp and looked over at the load master. She, in turn, pointed to the red light mounted by the door which was solid. Blinking meant more than five minutes from the drop. Solid meant less than five.

  The load master gestured with her right arm straight out, palm up then bent it and touched the top of the helmet. Thirty seconds. Time to move to the ramp.

  Vanner shuffled forward as Olga grabbed the top of his chute from behind. The entire party then followed, shuffling towards the edge of the ramp but bound together in case one of them slipped.

  The load master had moved to the base of the ramp on the far right and was now on her stomach, looking down and forward. She hit the ramp with a closed fist then raised it. Stand by; the DZ was in sight.

  Green light.

  Vanner stepped forward and then threw himself outwards. Strangely enough, it was easier than it had been in training. Part of that was because it was dark. There was nothing to give perspective; even the clouds below them were far enough away they didn't look like clouds.

  Fear of heights is all perception.

  He took a box-man formation and counted to ten then looked over his shoulder. Everyone was out, with Olga and Julia delta tracking to get in better position. The team was spread out in more or less a V formation. Nobody was trying to hold a solid position, just trying to both keep out of each other's airstream and keep an eye on Vanner.

  Which told him it was time for a position check. He looked at his GPS and banked right, towards the DZ. Another check over his shoulder and everyone had followed the turn, still keeping spread. He went back and got a better fix on their position and the position of the DZ then had to wonder. They had been slightly north. They were still slightly north but closer, in vertical they were barely two hundred meters north. He wasn't positive, but he thought they'd moved about thirty meters in a thousand feet of drop.

  Which meant there was, like, no wind. Which didn't make sense. There was always wind at altitude. Always.

  The clouds below obscured the DZ, which was really gonna suck. He didn't know if they even broke at all; they could go all the way to the ground. They seemed kind of broken though . . . As he thought that, they broke up enough so he could see the DZ. And it was right there, the tiny silver of the stream shining in a brief flash from the moon.

  They were right on top of it, there wasn't any wind. Something was bound to go wrong!

  He took up a creep position, though. They might overshoot just a bit. He looked back and signaled with his thumbs to creep back then checked his position again. The clouds were breaking up a bit more and the DZ was like looking at a darkened sat shot. Everything was there.

  He signaled to stop the creep, checked their position, checked the team—still with him—and then looked around. The cessation of wind finally made sense. To their north there was a wall of clouds. Sometimes in advance of a front, just before it hit, the winds dropped to absolutely nothing, even at altitude. "The calm before the storm."

  Of course, that much "calm" often meant one hell of a storm.

  He looked back and realized that the ground was suddenly rushing at him, seemingly faster than a train. And there were mountains all around, by trick of optical illusion apparently rocketing into the sky. He signaled for the team to spread out, waited one second and then pulled.

  After he felt the canopy open, right on time, he looked up, grabbed the control toggles, did a quick check and then looked around. Five chutes, one, Julia he was pretty sure, just opening. She'd pulled so that she was barely four hundred feet off the ground by the look of it. Damned close. High altitude, low opening indeed. But even as he watched she banked east and then north, lining up for a landing. Banked and lined like she'd been doing it her whole life. She'd barely corrected before she back-filled and her feet touched the ground. He saw one side of the chute flutter away as she popped her riser then she was waddling off to the side, getting out of the way, in no more than two seconds. Olga came in right behind her.

  Damn, he had good people.

  But it looked as if their fearless leader was going to be the last one down.

  "What the fuck, over?" Adams said as his head peeked around the door of Mike's office. "I thought I was working late."

  It was nearly three AM and Mike was sitting in front of his computer peering at it as if it was a snake.

  "Route planning," Mike replied distractedly. He clicked the mouse and then snarled, clicking again. "There's no way that the Keldara can plan their own routes through the mountains. So I'm having to flip between these topo maps Vanner made and the actual satellite
shots to find the best route. Even with planning software it's taking forever. You realize most of the ground we're going to cover has never been explored in known history."

  "Point," Adams said. He used OpsSoft regularly, but the sort of detail Mike was doing was out of his league.

  "I'm doing this on the nights I'm not training or supervising packing," Mike continued, exasperated. "There's just shit in the way of every single insertion route. Cliffs, scree . . . The Keldara hump these mountains but we've never trained them in real mountaineering and I can't expect them to tackle a Class Five slope. I'm not even sure they can do a Class Two. And every time I find what looks like a good route, there's shit in the way that I can see on the satellite views but doesn't show on the topos. Then I gotta back up and find another way. I'm getting about one done a night. I've got three more to go. We've got five days left. Do the math."

  "The math is that the mission commander is going to be totally wiped at the beginning of a tough mission," Adams said.