by John Ringo
“It turns out that he wasn’t available for what we needed. But he has something that the Kildar will like very much.”
He refused to say anything more on the subject, even when pressed. Vanner just shrugged and joined Greznya on the aft deck, which had been reconfigured into the helipad. A few minutes later, the Eurocopter came into sight and passed over the fantail, looping around to approach from the aft for a gentle landing. Kacey Bathlick, the pilot, powered down the rotors, and the three female and one male passengers disembarked.
“Jace! Over here!” Vanner trotted out to meet his buddy, clapping his back in a hug. “How was the flight over?”
“Man, Singapore Air’s got nothing on these women!” Jace nodded at the three girls, each of whom smiled and nodded shyly back as Grezyna herded them inside. “You have got to tell me what you’re working on.”
“All in good time, buddy. First, why don’t you give me a hand?” Vanner walked back to the passenger compartment. “Grab a case or two—let’s get these babies on ice.”
Jace set his duty bag on top of two cases, picked them up, and carried them inside, trying not to gawk at the luxury yacht around him. The Big Fish was decked out in teak and white leather everywhere he looked. At least, everywhere that wasn’t taken up by unsmiling, solid, oddly good-looking men every few yards.
“Hand those off to Vanel and Edvin—thanks, guys,” Vanner said. “Come with me into the conference room, and we can catch up a bit. Greznya, please let the Kildar know our guest has arrived.”
Jace couldn’t help watching the young woman’s lush curves and pert backside as she strolled away, and let out a low whistle.
“Careful—that’s my wife you’re ogling,” Vanner said with a huge smile.
“No shit? Jesus H. Christ, congratulations, man! When did you get hitched?”
“That . . . is a very long story, most of which you don’t have the need-to-know,” Vanner said with a slight grimace. “This situation is . . . decidedly odd. But most things involving the Kildar are.”
“That’s the second time I’ve heard that name. Patrick, what in the hell’s going on here? Since when do you work for a Bond villain?”
Vanner led him into a plush room that had a long, oval table in the center, surrounded by several leather swivel chairs, each with an executive stationary set in front of them. A sweating bucket of beers on ice sat on the table.
“Drink first, answers second.”
Jace grabbed one of the bottles—it was another Mountain Tiger. He frowned at the wax seal on top, then grabbed a letter opener and carved the wax off. Uncorking it, he took a drink and almost gasped as the golden liquid hit his tongue.
“Goddamn, that’s good!”
Vanner nodded from his seat at the end of the table.
“It should be. That’s the real deal—the best-of-the-best Mountain Tiger beer, straight from the valley of the Keldara, in the Caucasus Mountains.”
“Okay, let’s see . . . Kildar, Keldara . . . wait a minute. I have heard of these guys. Are you working with those kick-ass fighters from Georgia? Something about pretty much putting paid to the last of the big Chechen militias? What are they looking for, an in-depth tour of Southeast Asia?”
Vanner leaned forward and opened a bottle of Mountain Tiger for himself.
“Close. Here’s what I can tell you . . .”
* * *
Ten minutes later, Jace leaned back in his chair, drained his bottle, and set it on the table.
“Okay, let me see if I’ve got this straight. Sometime during the Byzantine Empire, a group of marauding Celts, for lack of a better term, was captured by the Byzantines and turned into the personal guards of the emperor. They were sent to what is now Georgia, to manage a remote tax post, and settled in this particular valley. The Empire falls, as they all eventually do, but no one tells the Varangians, who stay where they are and become farmers. They keep their customs and religion alive, and one of those involves the Kildar, a foreigner who’s their landlord-slash-warlord. These warrior/farmers have since been living in that particular valley for the past fifteen-odd centuries, until your Mr. Jenkins came along and starts rapidly bringing them into the twenty-first. Now he’s got roughly a company of ‘security specialists’ under his command, and, shall we say, helps out certain interested foreign powers when asked nicely. The women are gorgeous, the men are handsome, they’re all hardcore, and they brew a helluva beer. That about sum it up?”
“Look, I know how it all sounds—I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t seen some of the stonework in the caravanserai. Well, that, and heard the lyrics of their songs during their festivals. They’re the real deal all right, and the Kildar . . . Well, it’s the best job I’ve ever had, and that includes working for Uncle Sam.”
“It all sounds way too crazy to believe.” Jace nodded at the empty bottle. “However, I’ve only had one of these, and you’ve never been a good liar. Therefore, I can only assume that when the impossible is removed, whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth.”
“You got it, Sherlock. So, you interested?”
“Uhm, beer, girls and killing bad people? Hell, yes. Assuming I pass muster with your—Kildar, is it?”
“Right.”
Just then the door opened, and Vanner and Jace both stood up as an unassuming-looking man entered. He was fit, but fairly average-looking, standing about five-foot-ten, with brown hair and brown eyes. His demeanor, however, was that of a man who knew what he wanted, and would do whatever it took to get it done. Jace respected the type, as they were vastly preferable to the other kinds of commanding officers he’d encountered during his tours—mostly either REMF limp-dicks or ass-kissers; or ROAD pussies just marking time ’til they were back in the world.
“Mike Jenkins, this is Jace Morgan,” Vanner said.
Jace held out his hand, which Mike took in a firm grip.
“A pleasure, Mr. Morgan. Patrick’s been telling me a lot about you.”
“I hope I can live up to the hype. Seriously, it’s good to be here, and thank you for the opportunity, sir.”
“Have a seat.” Mike watched Jace as he sat. “Not fond of the high-and-tight, huh?”
Jace swept his straight black hair back off his forehead. “It was the only thing I didn’t love about the Corps. Besides, why advertise my former profession that openly?”
“Point. I trust Patrick’s been filling you in on some of the details of our operation.”
“Only what I need to know at the moment, sir. I assume more details will be forthcoming if we come to an agreement.”
“Correct. What do you think about the duty we’d like to hire you for?”
“Just to make sure I understand the mission parameters, you’re looking for a guide to the general region, someone fluent in the languages, customs, tribes, politics, and everything else. I’ve spent time in just about every country in the region, ranging as far south as Australia and far north as Mongolia. I’m fluent in Mandarin, Cantonese, Burmese, Hmong, Japanese, Thai, Malay, and Vietnamese. I’m passable in Samoan, Lao, Wu, Min, Montagnard, and Tagalog. Area dialects will be catch-as-you-can, since even tribes living next to each other may have almost completely different pronunciations. Don’t even get me started on real village dialects. Most of them are completely different languages. Those . . . nobody knows all of those.”
Mike raised an eyebrow. “And I thought Vanner was a polyglot.”
“It’s a gift. And I’m half-Indonesian, thanks to my mother.”
“Works.” Mike’s jaw worked as he consulted his iPad. “Your personnel file looks great—Marine Corps Expeditionary Medal, Navy and Marine Corps Commendation Medal, expert across the board shooter. Four tours with Fourth Force Reconnaissance Company out of Okinawa before the unit was deactivated, mainly in Southeast Asia.”
“Yes sir, both white and black ops.”
“Very good, as we have been known to pop a few caps when the need arises. With Vanner’s recommendat
ion on top of that, I’d say you’re perfectly suited for the opening. The offer is twenty-five thousand dollars, plus expenses, and tax-free, for approximately two weeks’ work. Bear in mind that we keep very odd hours, so you’ll probably spend most of that time on duty. What do you say?”
“On board, sir.”
“Then welcome aboard, both figuratively and literally,” Mike said, holding out his hand. “Vanner may have mentioned that from time to time I’ve had the opportunity to do certain favors for the U.S. Government. The details of any previous ones are unimportant, but you’ve probably seen YouTube videos on us.”
“Yes, sir, particularly the op near Russia. I’m looking forward to meeting the members of your team. Those are some kick-ass SOBs.”
A peculiar expression crossed Mike’s face, but it was gone in an instant.
“Good. We’re doing another favor for Uncle Sam right now, babysitting a package as it heads to its final destination. The contents are specialized computer boards, which is all you need to know at the moment. We have about two days before we make Hong Kong—have to swing by Ho Chih Minh City to offload the helicopter. I suggest that you use that time to get familiar with our people and draw your weapons and gear. Vanner will fill you in on any other questions you may have.”
“Of course, sir, but I doubt all of that will take two days. What can I get started on in the meantime?” Jace asked.
“If you’re that eager, why don’t you review the in-country briefings that are going to be distributed to the Keldara for their details and accuracy? You can coordinate with Patrick and the girls on those as well. Also, what do you know about the black markets in the region?” Mike asked.
“I’m most current on Singapore and China in general, particularly Hong Kong, but I know people who know people. Tell me what you’re looking for, and I’ll see what I can find out.”
“We’re supposed to be meeting with an ‘Arun Than’ in Hong Kong. I’d really like to know everything about him before we reach port,” Mike replied.
“Understood. I’m on it.”
“Good, I look forward to the briefing. Patrick, when you see Adams, send him my way and tell him the position’s been filled.”
“I will, but he’ll probably find you first. Said his guy wasn’t available, but he had something else you’d want to know about. If we see him, I’ll boot him in your direction.”
“All righty.” Mike stood up and nodded at both of them. “Time to go talk like a pirate. Or at least to one.”
Jace and Vanner both stood as well. Once the Kildar had left the room, Jace turned to Vanner.
“Hey, did I put a foot in it by mentioning Russia? I mean, that footage that made the Internet was almost as unbelievable as your story about the Keldara.”
“That op was a hard one,” Vanner said with a shrug. “We lost a lot of good people on it. Don’t worry about it—you couldn’t have known.”
“Acknowledged. Either way, I have the feeling that life is going to get a lot more interesting.”
“You don’t know the half of it. So what’s up with you? Not happy transferring back to First CivDiv?”
“Yes and no. It’s the old saying all over again: when you’re in the shit, all you want to do is complete the mission and get out, and when you’re out, all you think about is when can you go back in.”
“Spoken like a true leatherneck. Come on, let’s head below and get your 782 gear,” Vanner said.
“It’ll be good to get my hands on an MEU again. Maybe you guys even have a Kimber model for me. Think we’ll be needing anything heavier?”
“Hard to say at the moment. You prefer an M4?”
“You know I can use it, but I prefer a shotgun with a mixed load for anything in the bush. Benelli’s fine, or a Mossberg or Remington if that’s not available.”
“Let’s go see what we got. On the way, I can tell you the bad news about most of the girls . . .”
* * *
Vanel was walking down to the impromptu mess hall that had been set up for the Keldara, intending to get his meal and eat up on the main deck. Along the way, he passed Vanner talking to a tall man with jet-black, shoulder-length hair and dark blue eyes.
“And here’s one of them now. Vanel Kulcyanov, this is Jace Morgan. Jace will be working with us while we’re in the region.”
Vanel shook the taller man’s hand.
“Is pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“You too, Vanel.” The two men continued on their way, and Vanel continued on his. His next surprise, however, almost took his breath away—literally.
“Hello, Vanel,” a soft voice said on his right as he entered the mess hall.
“Xatia?” Vanel stared the small girl for a few seconds before closing his gaping mouth. “What are you doing here?”
“Sergeant Vanner requested more intel girls to come here. When volunteers were asked for, I said yes.”
“Oh . . . of course.” Vanel tried to get himself under control. He’d known other girls were inbound, but not why, although he should have put two and two together. He certainly hadn’t expected Xatia to be one of them.
“Is something wrong?” the girl’s lush lips compressed in the cutest pout he’d ever seen. “You do not seem happy to see me.”
“No! I mean, no—I am, uh, very pleased that you are here. It is, um, very good to see you . . .” Aware that he was babbling, Vanel jerked his head toward the mess hall. “I am going to get something to eat. Would—would you care to join me?”
“I cannot, Gretznya is going over current operations with us—oh no, I should have already been there! Do not worry, I won’t tell anyone you were the reason why I was late!” Before he could reply, the short, shapely girl turned and ran down the hall, leaving a dumbfounded Vanel staring after her.
“That is quite all right! You could tell anyone you wanted . . .” His words trailed off, and Vanel felt a blush heat his cheeks. He glanced around, hoping no one had seen him just make a complete fool of himself. His heart pounded, and blood rushed through his ears. The feeling was as just as intense as combat, but for a completely different reason.
Vanel had had a crush on Xatia Mahona ever since he had first laid eyes on her, when she was five and he was six. From that moment on, he hadn’t looked at another girl. They had grown up together, and for the past year he had been working up his nerve to begin the request for her betrothal. Two things stood in his way; first, he had wanted to pass his first test of combat. The farming he knew like the back of his hand, but he had wanted to face and conquer the test of blood.
The second one was much more difficult; facing Xatia’s parents, particularly Mother Mahona. With any luck, his parents would talk to hers, and he wouldn’t even have to be present. That was how it had been done for generations, and who was he to mess around with tradition?
Shaking his head, Vanel walked into the mess hall to find two other members of his team, Yosif and Marko, sitting before full plates. While the Keldara families often ate together, the Kildar had mandated that while on operations, especially ones with a flexible timetable, food should be available at all times for team members. And the chef that had come with the Big Fish was very adaptable. Although many of the Keldara were open to trying new foods, they also appreciated a taste of home—even if it wasn’t anything close to what their own Mothers could cook up.
“Glad to see you could leave your cover long enough to join us, new fish,” Marko teased. Yosif’s and his encounter with the shack wall was already fodder among the teams, with them already suffering a good amount of ribbing.
Vanel simply shrugged as he joined them.
“Was not our fault reinforcements were too slow to help us to finish the sweep. We simply made ourselves comfortable while waiting for you.”
Marko snorted, while Yosif smiled at the comeback.
“Have you heard the news?” the team leader asked.
Having just taken a large bite of his golubtsy, or stuffed cabbage roll, Vanel shoo
k his head.
“We are to stay in this area for at least ten days, maybe even a fortnight.” Yosif looked around to make sure no one else was listening. “I even heard from Daria that we are heading to Hong Kong.”
“Where’s that?” Vanel asked.
“Former British colony city that was ‘given’ back to China in 1997. Check the e-mail on your tablet, it’s all in the summary the girls worked up. Also, there is a new officer on board—”
“Yes, a Jace Morgan,” Vanel said. “I was introduced to him in the hallway by Sergeant Vanner.” He tried not to look too pleased by the surprised expressions on his teammates’ faces. Instead, he took another bite of the cabbage roll. Not even close to Mother’s, he thought.
“You met him?”
Vanel swallowed his food and nodded.
“I am sure the sergeant was simply being polite.”
“Anyway, you are supposed to please review the data and let me know if you have questions. You can also follow up on your iPad if you wish.”
“Of course.” The other two kept talking, but Vanel’s mind was whirling with the possibilities. Ten to fourteen days more on boat . . . with Xatia!
A broad smile spread across his face as he took another bite of the cabbage roll, suddenly not minding its taste in the least.
* * *
Wiping blood from his fingers with a towel, Mike handed the wet cloth to Dmitri as he left Yeung Tony’s room, his blood boiling.
Usually interrogations were pretty easy. Since the subject only had to live long enough to give up the necessary information, there were no restraints on how far Mike could go to extract said information. The Albanians and Russians had been pushovers—a couple of shots to a knee or elbow with a sledgehammer or pistol, and they cracked like walnuts.
But Yeung Tony was proving to be another story. Unfortunately, Mike did need him alive for now, since it would be impossible to set up a meeting with Arun Than by himself. Without Tony to vouch for him, they’d get nowhere. Unfortunately, the Malay also seemed to have figured that out, and was being as difficult as possible without getting himself killed.
Mike had been working on the pirate for the last hour, trying to make him more cooperative, but after a soldering iron applied to several areas, improvised tooth extraction, and several other persuasion techniques, the fuckhead was still resisting. He’d given up everything—except how to contact Than.
