by John Ringo
The American Embassy to the Republic of Georgia looked like half the American embassies in the world. It was an old house, very large and rambling, that had been fortified with solid concrete barriers all around. Getting to the gates required driving through a serpentine series of turns and when they got there, they were surrounded by armed guards. One of the Marines, in dress greens, carrying a clipboard and wearing a side arm, stepped up to the door as Mike rolled down the window.
“Mike Jenkins,” he said, handing the Marine his passport. “I’ve got a meeting with Ambassador Wilson at nine. This is my driver, Vil, a Georgian citizen.”
“Yes, sir, you’re on the list,” the Marine lance corporal said. “If you don’t mind, could you pop the trunk for inspection?”
“Got it,” Mike said, hitting the latch.
In a few minutes the car was passed through. He carefully followed the Marine’s directions to a parking area and slid into a spot designated for Distinguished Visitors.
“You’re going to have to wait at the car,” Mike said as he got out. “It might be a long time. Don’t go wandering. I’ll try to get someone to come out and tell you where the can is and stuff.”
“I’ll be fine,” Vil said, sliding over to the driver’s seat and reclining it. “Very comfortable. Better than working the farm.”
Mike went to the front entrance where another Marine escorted him to a conference room. When he got there, there were two men in suits and one Army colonel in dress greens already present.
“Mr. Jenkins,” a short, pleasant faced man said, stepping over to shake Mike’s hand. “I’m Ambassador Wilson.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ambassador,” Mike said, nodding. “Sorry about how I’m dressed but I didn’t expect to be doing diplomatic work.” He’d dressed in jeans and a safari jacket for the meeting, just about the most formal clothes he had.
“Not a problem. Your reputation precedes you,” the ambassador said, cryptically. “Let me introduce Colonel Mandell and Mr. Steinberg. Colonel Osbruck is the senior military attaché to the embassy and Mr. Steinberg is our intelligence representative.”
“Gentlemen,” Mike said, shaking hands. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“I see the SEALs are on the case,” Colonel Mandell said, smiling. He was a tall, slim officer with cropped hair and a straight back.
“I’m just a common citizen,” Mike replied, shaking his head. “Don’t get all hoo-yah on me.”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Steinberg said with a slight New York accent. He was a tad taller than the ambassador, with dark hair and eyes and a hooked nose. “As the ambassador said, your reputation precedes you.”
“I hope not,” Mike replied, his face hard. “If it does, I’m going to be very pissed at some people in Washington. Define reputation, if you will.”
“We were simply told that at times you’ve done significant service for the United States government,” the ambassador said, placatingly. “Specifics were not mentioned. What was mentioned was that quite often you tend to have an effect that is… how was it put? An effect that is far greater than could be anticipated. We hope that such will be the case here.”
“Mr. Ambassador,” a man said, sticking his head in the room. “The Russians are here and so is Colonel Kortotich and Mr. Svirska.”
“The colonel and I need to go greet them,” the ambassador said. “Mr. Jenkins, if you’ll take the assigned seat we’ll be right back.”
Mike took the seat indicated by Mr. Steinberg as the two left the room and shrugged.
“I think this is ritual dick-beating, am I right?”
“Maybe,” Steinberg said, grabbing his own chair. “But… your reputation precedes you with the Russians. I’m not sure what these Russians know, but Putin, at least, knows about the Paris operation and that you were the primary operator on it. And from what I’ve been told, he has at least told these guys that you’re not just some Joe-Schmoe. I don’t think the ambassador or the colonel knows that and I haven’t been told they have need-to-know. The call from the secretary of state was probably enough for both of them.”
“Interesting,” Mike said. “Especially since the secretary and I are not mutual admirers. He considers me a bit of a loose cannon.”
“You are a loose cannon,” Steinberg said. “But you’re remarkably targeted for a loose cannon. As long as you keep that up, people will think you’re golden. Screw up once, though, and you’ll find yourself out in the cold in a heartbeat.”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” Mike said dryly.
“I was told you were a no-bullshit kind of guy,” Steinberg replied. “I can blow smoke up your ass if you’d prefer.”
Mike just chuckled and stood up as the door opened.
There were four men with the ambassador, one in Georgian uniform, one in Russian uniform and two guys in suits who could have been twins. They didn’t look alike facially, but their expressions, build and suits were identical.
“Ambassador Krepkina, Deputy Secretary Svirska, Colonels Kortotich and Skachko, Mr. Steinberg, the embassy’s intelligence officer and Mr. Jenkins, an American citizen currently resident in Georgia,” Ambassador Wilson said.
“Am pleased to meet you,” the Russian ambassador said, shaking Mike’s hand. “President Putin has good things to say about you as does Colonel Chechnik of the president’s office.”
“How is he?” Mike asked.
“Very well,” the ambassador replied. “He sends his regards and hopes that you can in some way improve the situation.”
“That’s what we’re here to talk about,” Mike said, cautiously.
“Something must be done,” Colonel Kortotich said, darkly.
“Gentlemen, let’s take our seats before we begin arguing, shall we?” Ambassador Wilson said as the Georgian colonel darkened.
“I could do a long preamble,” Wilson said when everyone was seated. “But I won’t. What I’m going to do is let Mr. Steinberg explain why Mr. Jenkins’ plans may, and I stress may have a salient effect on the current situation. Mr. Steinberg?”
“Mike, you got any idea what a functional militia in your area will do to the Chechens?” Steinberg said, standing up and going to a map on the wall.
“No,” Mike admitted. “Let’s get something straight up front. Okay, apparently most of the people in the room know that I’ve got some enemies. Specifically among Islamic terrorists. I settled where I settled because I liked the area and I especially liked the little fort I bought. I’m going to form a militia because the people in the area need some relief from the Chechens, who are apparently running rampant. And because I could use some gun-bunnies around. But I hadn’t planned on crushing the Chechen forces in the area. The Red Army can’t do that in Chechnya and the Georgian army can’t do that in Georgia.”
“The Chechens are not running rampant—” Colonel Skachko said, angrily.
“The hell they aren’t,” Colonel Kortotich snapped back. “You have no control over the eastern—”
“Wait,” Steinberg said, holding up a hand and looking at the Georgian representatives. “Let’s get something straight. We’re here to talk reality. The Chechens use eastern Georgia, and especially the Pankisi Gorge, as a safe base. We know it, the Russians know it, the Chechens know it. That is a fact and all the posturing you can do in the world won’t change it. By the same token, you’re unable, not unwilling unable to change that fact. Georgia doesn’t have the funds or the resources to comb them out or even cut down on their movement. We know it, the Russians know it, the Chechens know it. In Russia’s case, they can’t gain full control of Chechnya, so you guys,” he said, nodding at the Russians, “need to keep in mind that with fewer resources, the Georgians aren’t in a position to do more than you have done. The U.S. has been helpful in training Georgian special operations, but we can’t fund the entire Georgian army; we’ve got too many other irons in the fire and too many political constraints. Also facts. What we’re here to discuss is what Mr. Jenkins can do about
those facts and why, by a stroke of luck or genius, he picked a very good place to do it. Can I continue?”
“Go ahead,” the Russian ambassador said, evenly.
“As I said, the primary Chechen bases are in the Pankisi Gorge,” Steinberg said, pointing to the deep rift in southeast Georgia. “From the Gorge they can move into Chechnya through a series of old smuggler paths. But the Gorge has no industry and damned little in the way of agriculture. So they have to get all their support from elsewhere, notably by moving it through Georgia.”
“We have tried to stop this…” Colonel Skachko said with a sigh.
“How hard?” Colonel Kortotich snapped.
“Gentlemen,” Ambassador Wilson said, sharply.
“You have tried to stop it,” Steinberg admitted. “But you’ve had the same lack of success that the Russians have and for the same reasons. I won’t get into the reasons at the moment—”
“Because when you hit a checkpoint if you pass the guards a few rubles they wave you through,” Mike said, folding his arms. “I think you said something about no bullshit.”
“And you can change this?” Colonel Skachko snapped.
“I don’t know,” Mike admitted. “But it’s going to be interesting the first time one of the Keldara does it. For him.”
“The point is that while there is effective control over Chechen movement, in general, in the Tbilisi valley,” Steinberg continued, calmly, “there is very little control over areas outside the central authority’s region. A great degree of the reason for this is simply lack of forces, rather than low-scale corruption. But the amount of material that has to move, drugs and women out for sale and then guns back using both currency from the sales and external sources of funds—”
“And when are the Americans going to get the Saudis to stop funding these fucking black asses?” Colonel Kortotich asked, angrily.
“After we’ve changed regimes in Iran and Syria,” Mike said. “At a guess. If you want the timetable moved up, you might suggest to your government that when we target a country, they help rather than hinder. Not mentioning any names, Iraq!” he added with a cough, covering his mouth.
“Mr. Jenkins,” the ambassador said, sternly.
“Look,” Mike replied, angrily. “I told everybody and their brother I’m not a fucking diplomat. Maybe I can be of some help. But I’m not going to promise anything and I’m tired of ritual dick-beating. Let Steinberg finish his dog and pony and I’ll get back to doing something. Okay?”
The Russian ambassador held up his hand to stifle the colonel and then nodded at Steinberg. “Please, continue.”
“If you look at this series of valleys leading from the Gorge,” Steinberg said, pointing at the map, “you’ll notice that they funnel towards Alerrso. Mike, did you know that that pass you’re in has been a caravan route since time immemorial?”
“I’m living in a caravanserai,” Mike pointed out, dryly. “It’s fairly obvious.”
“Until the major road was built to Tbilisi, Alerrso was the primary route through Georgia,” Steinberg said. “And it’s, currently, the route of choice for Chechen movement. If you set up a functional militia, that regains control of that area, you’ll be cutting their throats.”
“And they’ll respond,” Mike said, frowning. “I’m going to be six months forming a militia up to the point I think they should be. We’re not going to be doing a lot of interdiction during that time. And I’m only looking at a company of light infantry who are going to be part-time. I’ll choke what I can, when I can, but I’m not going to guarantee to stop everything. And what I’ll be doing, the Russians will never see.” He looked over at the two and shrugged. “I mean, all you’ll be getting is negative data. Some attacks will still come through and every attack that gets through I don’t want you guys blaming on me.”
“You said that we should speak honestly,” the Russian ambassador said after a brief pause. “And so I will speak with ‘no bullshit’ as you said. My government is… I was going to say ‘extremely concerned’ but in honesty they’re more like extremely tired of the Chechens using Georgia as their base.”
“We…” Colonel Skachko said and then stopped as Undersecretary Svirska held up a hand.
“Please continue, Mr. Ambassador,” the undersecretary said, nodding.
“Yes, we all know why,” the ambassador said. “But it does not change the fact. And, yes, my government is considering armed incursion into Georgia, even knowing that it will lead to a border war. Which will simply create chaos and probably make it easier for the Chechens to move. I have argued against this but the decision will not be made at my level. The Americans have argued against this and that is perhaps why it has not yet occurred. But if there is nothing done to stop the Chechens, or at least slow them down, we will be forced by the circumstances to invade. For our own defense. Mr. Jenkins, honestly, what do you think you can do?”
Mike thought about the terrain and looked at the map. He hadn’t been giving any thought to the strategic situation, but he could see Steinberg’s point.
“What about going south to Azerbaijan?” Mike asked.
“There is support through that route as well,” Steinberg admitted. “But they don’t have the markets there for sales. Mostly what we’re concerned about is the trade to Eastern Europe. Weapons are available from Azerbaijan, especially being funneled by the Iranians, but not in the quantity, quality or cost that they can get them in Eastern Europe.”
“It will take months to get the Keldara to the point they can do more than local defense,” Mike said. “But by… say autumn, I’ll have them patrolling. The point to that is to see anything coming before it gets to us. But the effect will probably be to interdict movement through the area. To an extent. I won’t guarantee that we’ll get everything. I need something from both the Russians and the Georgians, though.”
“What do you need?” the undersecretary asked, sighing. “Money, unfortunately, is not available.”
“I’ve got some money,” Mike said. “But the end-user license is being held up somewhere. I need that expedited.”
“Done,” the undersecretary said, nodding. “I will ensure it is done this day.”
“I’m going to be bringing in trainers,” Mike said. “American and possibly Brit. They’re not mercenaries, but they may end up engaged in combat, given the way the Chechens move. If they do, I want it kept very quiet and I don’t want the Georgian government coming down on us.”
“Guaranteed,” Colonel Skachko said. “I will ensure this through my office; I have the authority.”
“From the Russians the main thing that I need is an intel feed,” Mike said, looking at the two. “If you have concerns on something that you suspect or know is moving through my area, tell me. You should be able to get data on my secure link through American sources. If you have an issue, call me. I’ll do what I can to handle it. Okay?”
“Yes,” the ambassador said, nodding.
“I’ve got limited manpower, which is currently untrained,” Mike said, sighing. “And I don’t actually know what they’re going to be capable of. But on my honor, I’ll do my best to cut out Chechen movement through my area of operations. For the reasons we’ve discussed and because I fucking hate Islamic terrorists. I would appreciate it if Russia gave me a year to see what I can do. I know that’s a long time in a war, but it’s going to take at least that long to get a full grip on the area.”
“I will present that to my government,” the ambassador said, nodding.
“I want to make a last thing perfectly clear,” Mike said, frowning. “I am not an agent of the United States government. I never have been. All I am is a retired SEAL. Don’t go hanging CIA or NSA or any other tags on me. I’m a free agent. I’d just intended to make a tiddly little militia. I’ll do what I can to keep two countries from going to war. But I make no guarantees and I’m getting dick all of support. This is all on my dime. Keep that firmly in mind.”
“And you made your
money from a communications company nobody has ever heard of,” Colonel Kortotich said, smiling thinly.
“No,” Mike said, working his jaw, “I made my money from killing people and breaking things. Specifically terrorists and their operations. Your point?”
* * *
He had about a million things to do, but none of them were as urgent as getting a cup of tea from the kitchen and cadging another look at those lovely girls. They were still cleaning the kitchen, even now, and quite frequently on their knees with their lovely butts up in the air.
When he got there, though, the girls were up on their feet. Well, three of them were, while the fourth was sitting at the kitchen table, bent over in pain.
“What’s wrong?” Mike asked.
“Irina has a bellyache,” Mother Griffina said, frowning. “I think it is just gas.”
“It really hurts,” the girl said, her face working in pain.
“Lay her down on the table,” Mike said, looking at the girl’s face. She was sweating and pale.
The two old women helped her onto the table and Mike watched as the girl bent to favor her right side.
“Okay, I’m not doing anything wrong,” Mike said, sliding his hand behind her neck. “Think of me as a doctor. This much I think I know about.” She felt extremely warm but Mike didn’t have a thermometer. Yes, he did, come to think of it.
“One of you,” he said, looking at the girls who were standing around. “In my room there is a large black bag. There are three pouches on the outside. In the top pouch, there is a small purple plastic case. Get it.”
“Stay still,” he said to the Irina, laying his hands on her abdomen. “Does this hurt?” he asked, pressing her near the stomach.
“No,” she said. “Maybe a little.”
“You’ll know when it hurts,” Mike said, putting his hands on her left side and pressing near the kidney. “Does this hurt?”
“No,” Irina said.
“This?” Mike asked, pressing into her right side.
The answer was a cry of pain and the girl arched forward.
