Unto The Breach

by John Ringo

  "That is up to other people," the captain sighed. "But they are very good. He will be fine."

  "Fuck me," Vanner muttered.

  "Did I just see what I think I saw?" Julia said, quietly. "Is that Katya in the bed now?"

  "Roger," Vanner said. Shit, he was going to have to broadcast.

  "Marina has been extracted, replaced by Katya," Vanner typed into the BFT system. "Repeat, primary hostage is extracted. New extractee is Cottontail."

  He set the recording to hold then hit the send button on the transmitter. It was a risk but the most anyone was going to get was a brief electronic squeal.

  This was precisely the worst time to get an update from Vanner but Adams held up his hand for a pause when he felt the vibration against his thigh. He pulled the device out and held it up to his eyes, cupped to see the data.

  He paused, assimilating the information then tried very hard not to swear. What the fuck was that girl playing at?

  Whatever. He'd get Katya and then figure out where the other bitch went. Why could women never stick to a plan?

  The Keldara used equipment that, while not identical to U.S., was better than most units had, and was fully compatible with U.S. equipment. So as soon as Adams got the news, so did the President.

  "Whatever does that mean?" the President asked, puzzled.

  "Cottontail is the code name for one of Mr. Jenkins' agents," the secretary of state said, with only a glance at her notes. "She was inserted in advance to localize and protect Dr. Arensky's daughter. I've seen pictures of both and there is some superficial similarity. Apparently she chose to take the daughter's place and somehow managed to smuggle her out of the building."

  "Mr. President," the Air Force major said, looking at his laptop. "We just got a communiqué from Russian intel. They report successfully extracting Marina Arensky out of Gamasoara. She is currently well away from the area of operations and, in fact, in Russian territory. In the event that there are any problems, a Spetznaz team is on standby for a hard extraction. But they indicate that they think they can extract her without issues."

  "So the Kildar's agent took her place, somehow got her to Russian intel and they're pulling her out?" the President mused. "Brave girl. We ought to do something for her. Even if we got Arensky and the 'materials,' whatever they really are, if the Chechens still had his daughter it would be a big problem, right?"

  "Yes, sir," the secretary of defense said. "That's why the double mission."

  "Yeah, we need to do something for that girl," the President said. "That's a really selfless thing to do. Get her and Mike up to Camp David you think?"

  "I'll look into it," the secretary of state said smoothly, shooting an unnoticed glance at the secretary of defense.

  "And, yes, I know she's probably one of his hookers," the President said, trying not to smile. "But I'll make sure nobody mentions it."

  "Actually, sir," the SecDef said. "The problem is that . . . Cottontail is also the girl we . . . upgraded to be a professional assassin. The Secret Service is going to . . . be somewhat less than enthused."

  "I'll try not to let her kill me."

  "And I'll try not to gibber," the SecState said with a sigh. She had seen Katya's full dossier. The thought of her having tea with the First Lady at Camp David . . . boggled. Then she had to smile. The image was just too funny.

  Mike smiled in a driving rain: it was, as they say, "Great weather for SEALs and ducks." So far, so good.

  The visibility absolutely sucked, of course. So the effectiveness of the snipers was going to be cut damned near to zero. But that cut two ways; he had been pretty sure that the Russians, at least, were going to be in overwatch with snipers. When they took the meeting down the snipers had been his biggest worry. With the rain and wind, that worry had been cut in half.

  But the rain and wind, which if anything was increasing, would mask their movement to the target. Which, unless he was completely lost, was just over the hill.

  Before moving out from the assembly area he'd sent a coded burst, just an alpha code, indicating that they were prepared for the mission and moving to final phase. He had received, in reply, three bursts. Vanner's team was in contact with higher and Katya, Adams' team was in position and prepared to move out and supports, such as they were, were in place. As soon as they'd performed the raid he planned to break radio silence and get an update from Nielson. However, his BFT indicated there was an armed Predator somewhere up above the muck. Which meant the boss was watching. They'd better get their shit straight on this one or they were likely to get a nuclear enema.

  He slithered through the thorny scrub covering the hilltop and slid down a short ways on his stomach, not noticing the spicy scent of crushed vegetation, until he could get a glimpse of the target. The designated meet, assuming NSA had its shit together, was an intersection of two barely gravelled roads in a valley about half the size of the Keldara's.

  The valley was a branch off of the Pankisi Gorge, a massive valley with sharp walls clawing up to the mountains on either side. Gouged thousands of years before by the very glaciers the teams had crossed, the Gorge was the center of Chechen resistance to the Russian forces holding the lowlands. Most of it resided in what was technically Georgia but all of it was controlled by the Chechens. The Keldara would raid and run, but they weren't planning on taking on the entire Chechen force. If Mike could avoid any contact, he would.

  The Gorge had another strategic utility to the Chechens besides being hard as hell to assault; it was very near the border of three countries and the intersection was one of two major joining points between the three. One of the roads led to southern Chechnya and Azerbaijan through areas almost entirely owned by the Chechens. The main branch south led to government-held Georgia. If everything went well that was their egress route; ten miles or so down the road a Georgian mountain battalion was supposed to be holding the door open. The northern branch led to the frontlines of the war between the Chechens and the Russians. That was not an option given that there were about four thousand Chechen and foreign mujahideen holding those lines. That was, however, the direction of Adams' objective.

  Steep hills on all sides were similarly covered in thorn scrub. He crawled cautiously to his left and found the narrow gully that he'd seen in the satellite photos. According to the photos it continued downhill, bending slightly left then back to the right, and opened up down on the flats about a hundred yards from the rendezvous. It should serve to mask the movement and assembly of Sawn's team until they were close enough to strike. That was the north fork of the pincer. They'd probably be hitting the Russians. On the south there was a solid hill that would mask Padrek's team as it approached the fedayeen coming to the rendezvous. Yosif's team was being split on security north and south as well as putting in blocking teams on the south road. Pavel's team was in reserve in the event things went completely south. If somebody took off to the north, they'd have to deal with Adams' teams.

  Mike crawled back up the hill and then waved the teams forward. The snipers took up positions on the ridgeline, fiddling with the brush to get a better view and more camouflage.

  As they did, Mike gestured for the four team leaders to rally on him.

  "Okay, mission time," he said. "We planned this out with you guys in charge, Sawn in lead. Here's why. I'm going to take position right by the meet point. I'll initiate from there. The teams are going to be too far out to ensure the package is secure. My job is to secure the package. Your job is to keep me alive and make sure it stays that way."

  "Kildar . . ." Padrek protested.

  "As soon as I move, you move," Mike said, shaking his head. "This is my thing. All I've got to do is stay alive for fifteen seconds or so. I'm very good at that. You be good at getting my ass out."

  "Yes, Kildar," Sawn sighed. "As you will it."

  "The Father of All will be with us this day," Mike said. "Now move out. And when it starts, you'd better come a runnin' like hell."

  She hadn't realized that
Kurt spent the whole night in the room.

  However, he apparently didn't talk to Marina. She had heard the door open, footsteps and then a hand checking her shackles. Then a scrape as he sat down in the same padded chair Marina used. After that . . . Nothing. She couldn't even hear him breathing over the sound of the rain and wind.

  After a bit, though, there was sound from outside the door and a knock.

  "Come." She heard the quiet cocking of a pistol. Then wheezing. Fucking Yaroslav.

  "Has the girl been satisfactory?" Yaroslav wheezed. It must have been hell for him to just keep standing.

  "Fine," Kurt replied. "What do you want?"

  "I have a buyer. I wish to sell her on."

  "That's fine," Kurt said. "Do you want your money?"

  "I think we're paid up," Yaroslav said, nervously.

  "I think we're a bit behind."

  "If I get out of this room alive, I'll be happy for the experience."

  "Very funny, fat man. You can go. The girl has never mentioned her name. You don't know it. And soon it won't matter. You may leave."

  "Good night, then."

  From the sound of the footsteps, and the slight bump at the door, Yaroslav backed out of the room.

  As the door closed Katya heard the gun decock and a slight giggle.

  Fucking insane. And she was trapped in the same room with him.

  God damnit, Master Chief, where the fuck are you?

  Hardly anything was moving in the town. Not surprising given the weather. The exterior guards on the target building were still out, but they were blinded by the rain and the light from the forward windows.

  Just as Adams thought that, the door of the target building opened and one fucking obese motherfucker waddled out and across the street. He was out of sight quickly. Adams tentatively ID'd him as the pimp that Katya had been bought by, based on the description from Vanner. He wasn't sure what he was doing in the building at this time of night, but it didn't really matter. If he'd still been in the building when they hit it, he was a target. Everyone in the building was a target except the detainee.

  Adams looked over his shoulder and gestured for the Keldara to take up pre-attack positions. Then he glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes. Good time.

  Now to wait in the pouring rain. It was a fine night for killin'.

  Mike slid down the hill cautiously, watching for signs of enemy snipers on this ridge and hoping his camo was holding. The Russians would have access to thermal imagery for sure and the Chechens might. So he was wrapped up like a mummy to avoid thermal signature, long johns, fleece and Gore-Tex top and bottom, hands in thick gloves, coldweather mask over his face, balaclava and fleece-lined hood up with the hood drawn tight. They'd tested the outfit and while he still gave off a heat image it was muted and weak, a gray ghost rather than a blazing white beacon. However, even with the cold and lashing rain, all the gear meant he was hot as hell. At this point his gear was so soaked he couldn't tell where the rain left off and the sweat started.

  There was a click in his headphones and he froze. Slowly he reached down and pulled up his data pad, shielding it so the glow from the plasma fusion screen wouldn't be visible beyond his position.

  Three points on the far ridge were now highlighted with the icon of snipers. Their "team" was unknown but they were overlooking the rendezvous.

  Mike enjoyed sniping and hated snipers. For all he knew, the snipers had already spotted him and would wait until he was in position, or the meet was already going on, before they fired. That's what he would do. Let the target think he'd succeeded and then fuck him at the last moment.

  He clicked on the icons and upgraded their priority to first engagement then slowly slid the pad away. Gear stowed, he started his stalk again. He was just going to have to depend on the night, rain and coverage to avoid the snipers. He shunted all doubts aside and slid onward, belly down. But he kept as much concealment between him and the three snipers as possible . . .

  He wondered, briefly, how the rest of the mission was going and then put it out of his mind. He had good subordinates. They all knew their jobs. He could, had to, depend on them.

  They were good. He was good. Time to odie.

  Vladimir Yaroslav waddled to the small room he had been renting and quickly stripped off his clothes. As he pulled off his watch he gave it a brief glance and then dropped it on the bed. He was on very short time.

  The fat suit unzipped in seven places and was off in less than a minute. Finally. It was one of the worst disguises he had ever affected, but very effective. Nobody noticed anything but the fat. Getting the smell of rotting flesh from obesity necrosis had been tough but he'd finally found just the right mixture of scents.

  Pulling off the mask, J stretched, his own self, whoever that was, for three seconds. Then he started getting his next mission face on.

  Islamic clothes went on, then a false beard, the prophet being big on beards. The old wig came off and a new one, long, black, lanky, went on. Shoes with the backs pushed down. A different, cheaper, watch. A scar on one cheek. A small silver ring inscribed with the symbol of a crescent moon. But mostly it was the attitude. He was suddenly a person from an Islamic society. Maybe a fighter. Maybe the scar was from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Many men in the region were scarred who had never held a gun.

  A packet of perfectly forged papers went into a pocket, money bag around his neck and out the door he went.

  Down the street a Lada, virtually identical to every other Lada in the former Soviet Union, was parked on a side street. A Chechen gentleman had purchased it for cash five days before and it had been sitting ever since. A couple of street urchins had been paid by a different man, a Russian, to ensure that it wasn't stripped to the frame.

  Hadit Temiz climbed behind the wheel and with a brief prayer to Allah that the infernal machine would start turned the key. The Allah-cursed vehicle came to life and he pulled out into the wind and rain.

  At the main road he turned right, south, and headed to his next business appointment, secured two weeks before, in Azerbaijan. He'd have to remember to take the unmarked left fork in the valley ahead.

  He tried to put out of his mind that as he went through the intersection he was going to have guns pointed at him from every side. Hadit Temiz did not know that.

  In moments the Lada carrying Hadit, a Turkmen vendor of sundry cheap plastic knickknacks a selection of which were in the trunk, disappeared into the rain and darkness leaving nothing behind of Vladimir Yaroslav but a fat suit lying on the floor like the shed skin of a snake.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Mike stayed still in his hide as an out of tune Lada puttered to the south. From the sound of it, it took the fork headed for Azerbaijan.

  But that wasn't what he was listening for. That was the sound of multiple engines coming from the north.

  He'd found a nice little hide, a dug out portion to the streambank which was relatively flat and just about covered in bushes. First, he'd slowly laid out a heavy ghillie blanket then slithered under it, snuggling into the comforting mud of the bank. Once under that, he'd divested himself of some of his encumbering gear; the blanket was thick and lined with mylar to keep from letting loose any heat.

  Once prepared, he settled in to wait. When the vehicles—they sounded like small trucks or SUVs—pulled to a stop, he still waited. He could hear the group deploying, quietly and professionally. They dropped into the streambed and walked down it, within a foot of his position at one point, without noticing that the pile of junk along the side of the stream was something other than a pile of junk. The night was still awfully dark and he'd have been hard to see in daylight much less under NVGs.

  The fedayeen were, as normal, late. When he heard the second group of vehicles he pressed the transmitter and started the countdown.

  The next was art rather than science. The other group of vehicles approached. Their lights would be on. Even if they were tactical lights they would partially blind
the Russians. And as the Islamics deployed the Russians, even though they each had a sector they were supposed to be watching, were going to be casting quick glances over their shoulder . . .

  Now.

  He stood up and casually walked up out of the streambed, fiddling with his zipper as he did.

  Over all the rest of his gear he had a Russian military-issue poncho. The weapon he'd chosen for the op was a BIZON submachine gun. The weapon was a favorite of Russian special operations groups, firing a 7.62x25 bullet from an integrally silenced barrel. Heavier and less accurate than the silenced M4, it was still a pretty good weapon.

  As he'd guessed, the former Spetznaz were armed with a motley collection of personal weapons. He spotted two BIZONs before he was even up on the flat.