by John Ringo
BAEN BOOKS by JOHN RINGO
PALADIN OF SHADOWS:
Ghost • Kildar • Choosers of the Slain • Unto the Breach •
A Deeper Blue • Tiger by the Tail (with Ryan Sear)
TROY RISING:
Live Free or Die • Citadel • The Hot Gate
LEGACY OF THE ALDENATA:
A Hymn Before Battle • Gust Front • When the Devil Dances • Hell’s Faire • The Hero (with Michael Z. Williamson) • Cally’s War (with Julie Cochrane) • Watch on the Rhine (with Tom Kratman) • Sister Time (with Julie Cochrane) • Yellow Eyes (with Tom Kratman) • Honor of the Clan (with Julie Cochrane) • Eye of the Storm
COUNCIL WARS:
There Will Be Dragons • Emerald Sea •
Against the Tide • East of the Sun, West of the Moon
INTO THE LOOKING GLASS:
Into the Looking Glass • Vorpal Blade (with Travis S. Taylor) • Manxome Foe (with Travis S. Taylor) • Claws that Catch (with Travis S. Taylor)
EMPIRE OF MAN:
March to the Sea (with David Weber) • March to the Stars (with David Weber) • March Upcountry (with David Weber) • We Few (with David Weber)
SPECIAL CIRCUMSTANCES:
Princess of Wands • Queen of Wands
STANDALONE TITLES:
The Last Centurion
Citizens (ed. with Brian M. Thomsen)
TIGER BY THE TAIL
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by John Ringo and Bill Fawcett & Associates
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN: 978-1-4516-3856-1
Cover art by Kurt Miller
First printing, January 2013
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Pages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com)
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To every man and woman in the U.S. Armed Forces.
Standing tall in the face of adversity,
Serving with commitment, courage, and honor.
America owes each one of you
a debt it can never fully repay.
And, as always:
For Captain Tamara Long, USAF
Born: 12 May 1979
Died: 23 March 2003, Afghanistan
You fly with the angels now.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Bill Fawcett, for giving me the shot in the first place, and to John and Toni for believing him. And a big thanks to my wife K. L. H., who put up with my many late nights in the basement office.
CHAPTER ONE
On a moonless, tropical night, Vanel Kulcyanov sat motionless on the deck of a battered, thirty-five-foot fishing trawler, doing the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life—waiting.
If not for what he was about to do, he would have been mesmerized by the endless South China Sea around him. Until five days ago, he had never been more than ten miles from home. But the valley of the Keldara in Georgia, in the Caucasus Mountains of Eastern Europe, was thousands of miles away. Now he was on the other side of the world, where palm trees grew everywhere, rain fell every day, and to even think about moving was to sweat.
The eighteen-year-old thought his training had been hard. He thought the endless PT, weapons training, live-fire exercises had been hard. He thought the particular nightmare of specialized underwater operations training had been very, very hard. But all that was nothing compared to right now, awaiting the order to begin tonight’s mission. The American song is right, he thought. Waiting really is the hardest part.
Vanel was entering real combat for the first time tonight, and the anticipation was rattling his normally calm nerves. It wasn’t that he was afraid—well, a small part of him was, for only an utter fool or madman did not fear battle. But he had made his peace with it, and whatever fear was in him now resided in a far-off corner of his mind.
An even greater fear was spurring him on now—the fear of not measuring up to his people’s expectations. The blood of countless Keldara generations flowed through his veins, stretching back to his people’s Varangian roots. Over the centuries, that had been blended with the very best warriors the Keldara could find to lead them. The idea of not carrying their proud warrior culture into the twenty-first century was inconceivable, and Vanel was going to make sure that he did not fail the rest of his team, his family, or the Kildar.
Unlike many of the Keldara, who weren’t comfortable around large bodies of water, Vanel felt as home in or on it as he did on dry land. The qualifications needed to be accepted into Yosif’s team were among the highest of all the Keldara units, and again he felt a swell of pride at being accepted into the elite of the elite.
He stared out over the glass-smooth waters at their target, a small cluster of lights five hundred meters away. He itched to be there already. To be doing what he’d been trained to do, what he had been born to do—his part to guarantee that his team’s role in the op would be executed flawlessly, so that the next stage could be achieved. But they had not received the go order yet. So, Vanel and the rest of his team sat. And they waited.
The problem was that the only thing to do while waiting was to think. Vanel could go over the plan again, but he already knew it like the back of his hand. Every part, every task that the men beside him would execute to reach and take their objective was burned into his brain. And once that had been committed to memory, all that was left was to think about the many things that could go wrong.
To prevent that, he checked his gear one last time. Weapons, first and always—the sleek, matte-black HK416C rifle slung across his chest, the .40 caliber Sig Sauer P229 with integral silencer on his right hip, and his Gerber Mark II double-edged combat knife in a horizontal belt sheath at the small of his back.
The compact HK416C was practically brand-new—Vanel had only received it three weeks ago. He’d fired about two thousand rounds through it and trained enough to fieldstrip, clean, and reassemble it blindfolded before the trip. The Keldara version of a SEAL team had been using the HK MP5A2, but the Kildar hadn’t been happy with the 9mm’s range and knockdown power. After evaluating the variant 5.56mm carbine rifles available, he’d grudgingly settled on the 416C as their replacement instead of the M4A1. It had several advantages over the Colt carbine, including a more durable barrel, a rotatable butt plate on the retractable stock, an ergonomic handgrip on the forestock, and a folding front sight.
The two most important differences between his new rifle and the MP5A2 were the improved range and penetration of the 5.56mm round. Along with the best rifle, Mike had gone with the best ammunition he could find. Every team member carried Mk 262 bullets with a 77-grain Sierra MatchKing round. The bullets were manufactured by Black Hills Ammunition, and designed for long-range engagements of up to seven hundred meters. While it would be unlikely that the swim-ops team would engage an enemy at that range, it was definitely better to have the option and not need it than the reverse. The bullet also demonstrated consistent improved yaw characteristics at up to three hundred meters, increasing the possibility of target takedown.
All this came in a German-designed and built fire-selective assault carbine that could be shortened to just over twenty-two inches long. The screw-on suppressor at the end of the barrel added another eight inches. Last
but not least, it could be fired without completely clearing the barrel of water—which the team would most likely end up doing at some point. The Kildar wasn’t thrilled about using two different ammunitions for their primary and secondary weapons, but as he had also said more than once, if any member had to draw their pistol in combat, they were already in deep shit.
Next was equipment. First, Vanel checked his waterproofed radio and transceiver. Then came the gray and black Evolution closed-circuit rebreather system with its Vision electronics package to maximize breathing mix and scrubber efficiency. Other equipment included his fins, full-face mask, including the MUM-14 submersible night vision monocular, depth gauge, bulletproof vest, weight belt, and buoyancy vest. Everything was in order and positioned for maximum accessibility, no rattle, no clank. Optimized to ensure that the mission would go smoothly and by the numbers. But all of the specialized gear wouldn’t have mattered. If the Kildar had ordered him to strip, put his knife in his teeth, and swim to their target naked, Vanel would have dived overboard in a second.
Of course, that was assuming that the mission would actually begin sometime—Vanel took a deep breath and began running over the specs of the target vessel in his head. Noticing his team leader, Yosif Devlich, watching him, Vanel nodded curtly.
“Sir?”
“How are you doing, Vanel?”
“I am ready, Leader.” He rubbed his chin, which was just beginning to sprout a few hairs. While he had the same white-blond hair and clear blue eyes like the rest of his siblings, Vanel had not inherited the typical massive Kulcyanov build. He was a few centimeters shorter and although well-muscled, he was also much leaner than his brothers. But the All Father had seen fit to bless him with seemingly endless stamina—he could run or swim for hours without tiring. “I would very much like for the mission to start.”
“Good, good. Soon enough,” Yosif said with a nod.
“Leader?”
“Yes?”
Vanel hesitated, hoping the others wouldn’t tease him for what he was about to say.
“About our call sign—”
“Thank the All Father—I thought I would have to be the first one to ask,” Edvin Kulcyanov, Yosif’s second-in-command, said.
“Oh, All Father,” Yosif answered with a sigh, then shook his head.
“I understand it is from some TV show, but . . .” Vanel continued tentatively.
“I asked Martya the same question when we received the new call sign. I still don’t get it because I haven’t seen the show,” Yosif replied.
“Yes, thank you, Leader—It’s just . . .”
“We’re named after a whore . . .” Edvin said.
He was interrupted by the radio.
“Firefly to Team Inara, report.”
“A whore . . .” Edvin repeated, shaking his head ruefully.
“Inara One,” Yosif replied, clearly trying not to sigh. “Go . . . I think all the good names were taken.”
“Even Oleg’s team is named after a girl,” Devlich said. “Jayne. A girl’s name, yes? Inara Two, go.”
“Vil?” Dima Mahona said. “Zoe is a girl’s name, yes? Inara Three, go.”
“And why Washing and Book or whatever?” Devlich said. “These make no sense!”
“Inara Four, ready,” Vanel said.
“I am looking this up,” Dima said, pulling out his combat pad. “There’s an app for that . . .”
“You are not looking this up,” Yosif said. “We are in the middle of a mission.”
“And the mission name? Eh? I mean, Operation Goat-Fucker was both a tribute to Father Ferani and about capturing a haji goat-fucker. That I could understand. But . . .”
The last member of the team checked in, then Vanel heard the order he’d been waiting for all his life.
“Team Inara, commence Operation Joss-Whedon-Is-A-God.”
“Affirmative,” Yosif replied with another sigh. The Kildar had been insufferable ever since finding some failed American TV show. He kept promising to “hunt down some Fox exec and show him the meaning of pain.”
Yosif signaled the first man to slip into the water. The next man followed after a five-second delay to let the first one clear the insertion area.
When his time came, Vanel felt his mask to ensure the seal was tight all around and his oxygen mix was flowing. He checked his rebreather computer to ensure that all systems were green and checked his fins to ensure they wouldn’t catch or slip. Then he slid over the gunwale into the blood-warm waters of the ocean.
He sank down, achieving neutral buoyancy at thirty feet below the surface. As his sweat was washed away by the ocean water, Vanel saw the other members of his team through the glowing green of the night vision monocular. The view was a little disorienting, but he adjusted as best as he could.
When the team was assembled, Yosif led them on their one-klick swim to the target, compensating for the ocean currents to insure that they reached their target on time.
A suitable warm-up for tonight, Vanel thought. His blood sang in his veins as he kicked forward, matching his teammates’ pace perfectly as they headed out into the tropical night.
* * *
“Team Yosif is away. More New Meat heading into the grinder.” Bullet-headed former SEAL Master Chief Charles Adams watched the tramp freighter the Keldara team was heading for through infrared binoculars.
“Is that concern I hear in your voice, Ass-boy?” Mike Harmon, Adams’ boss, another retired SEAL, leader of the Keldara Mountain Tigers Special Operations Group, didn’t lower his infrared binoculars either. Shorter than Adams by a few inches, he had short brown hair, direct brown eyes, and a broad-shouldered, solid physique. “After Florida, we agreed that Yosif’s team could use some real field training, and I can’t think of any place better than here.”
“Here” was off Pulau Mangkai, an island near Malaysia in the Anambas Archipelago. It was near the infamous Strait of Malacca, which separated the Malay Peninsula from Sumatra. The strait had been one of the world’s busiest shipping passages since the seventh century, when the Srivijaya Empire, based at Palembang, Sumatra, expanded its influence to Java and the Malay Peninsula. It controlled the strait for the next seven centuries, benefiting from highly profitable trade with Chinese, Indian, and Arab merchants.
When Srivijaya declined in the mid-thirteenth century, the Malacca Sultanate rose to power, aided by taking control of the strait. It was vanquished by the Portugese nobleman and naval tactician Afonso de Albuquerque in 1511. Portugal ruled the area for a strife-filled one hundred and thirty years, until the Dutch conquered Malacca in 1641. The Anglo-Dutch Treaty of 1824 saw Malacca become a vassal of the British Empire. This lasted until 1957, when Malacca joined other Malay states to form Malaya and together with Sarawak, Sabah and Singapore, formed the nation of Malaysia in 1963.
Throughout it all, the strait saw ships carrying everything from glassware, camphor, cotton goods and textiles, ivory, sandalwood, perfumes and gemstones back in the day to oil, coffee, cheap Chinese toys and expensive electronics today. And all the older stuff as well.
When pirate activity surged early in the twenty-first century, the Malaysian, Indonesian, and Singaporean navies stepped up their patrols of the strait, cutting hijacking in half over the last few years. The pirates didn’t stop working, they just moved their operations elsewhere. Like off Mangkai Island. All of this made them the perfect training targets for Yosif’s underwater operations team.
“Hell, no,” Adams said. “Every man among them can chew thunder and shit lightning. They will take the objective and reduce it to a bag of smashed asshole if so ordered. I am still a bit puzzled, however, why you didn’t rate Vanel higher after my recommendation.”
Mike and Adams were “team buddies,” a bond far far stronger than family, from their SEAL days. After a short stint on the teams Mike had switched to being an instructor for most of his SEAL career. When he did go back to the teams there had been an “issue” that saw him out on civvie street
with sixteen years of training to be the deadliest human being on earth and not many other skills. Adams, on the other hand, had taken the usual route of promotion through the teams, eventually rising to master chief. They’d reconnected a few years later, when Adams and his SEAL team had gone into Syria to rescue Mike. Mike had gotten seriously wounded while executing a one-man holding action against an entire commando battalion to rescue forty-nine kidnapped American women.
When Mike had settled in the valley of the Keldara a few years later, he’d called up Adams—by then retired and looking to escape four ex-wives—to help train the local “militia” in small arms combat and tactics. Adams had come over, loved the place almost as much as Mike did—the landscape, women and beer were all spectacular—and had been living there ever since. He had Mike’s back every second, but that didn’t mean he was afraid to question “The Kildar’s” orders when he felt it was appropriate.
“It’s not for lack of talent. The kid swims like he’s got gills instead of lungs, you put him through BUDS yourself, and with a bit more practice, he might be almost be as sneaky as me someday.”
“So where’s that ‘but’ I’m waiting for?”
“Well, I don’t call you Ass-boy for nothing. Vanel will earn his stripes soon enough. I instructed Yosif to put him on point tonight.”
“Works,” Adams grunted.
“Once he gets through this, we’ll know where he goes from there. And you know the best way to get blooded—”
“—is to get bloody. Hoo-yeh.”
“Hoo-yah,” Mike responded. There was an accent difference between east and west coast SEAL team battle-cries. “Hoo-yeh” or “hoo-yay” was east coast, the more laid back “cooler” “hoo-yah” was west coast.
