by John Ringo
“Such men rarely make decent soldiers,” the sheik said, shaking his head again. “What do peasants know?”
“As you say, Sheik,” Mike replied, shrugging.
“You disagree?” the sheik asked.
“The Keldara are an old tribe,” Mike said, picking his words with care. “And they are warrior stock, that is evident in… well a lot of things. And I’m not just handing them guns; right now there are about twenty former American and Brit spec ops troops preparing to train them. For that matter, I’ve poured about two million dollars into equipment. If they can’t outdo the Chechens with that level of training and equipment, well, I’ll go find some Gurkhas to replace them.”
The sheik chuckled at that, leaning back and handing the cigarette holder to the girl.
“You have your own security concerns I think,” the sheik said as the girl replaced his cigarette with a fresh one.
“There are people who would very much like my scalp on their wall,” Mike said, shrugging again. “Thus far they haven’t managed. Generally it’s been the other way around.”
“You are capable?” the sheik asked.
“Competent,” Mike answered.
“Let me interject if I might,” Wangen said. “In American culture, understatement is the norm when you are trying to make a point. To say that you are competent means you are, in fact, very good. Mr. Jenkins is more than competent; he is among the very best in the world at what he does.”
“Among the very best?” the sheik asked, raising an eyebrow.
“There are some CAG that are better,” Mike said, shrugging. “Those guys are freaks of nature.”
“CAG?” the sheik asked, looking at Wangen.
“Delta Force,” Wangen translated.
“And, let me be plain about something,” Mike said. “I occasionally do favors for the American government. Sometimes I do those favors before they know they need them done. But I’m not a general contractor.”
“That is understood,” the sheik said. “Your house is much like this one?”
“Except for entering directly on the garden and the fact that the foyer has a dome, practically identical,” Mike admitted. “I suspect that it’s much the same layout. It’s been rebuilt a couple of times. The last major rebuild appears to be Turkish.”
“And it is well guarded?” the sheik asked.
“At the moment it’s guarded by American and Brit former special operations personnel,” Mike said, smiling. “I think their reputation precedes them. When they are gone, it will be guarded by the Keldara or better. And then, of course, there’s me,” he added, smiling faintly. “We had a recent problem with the Chechens not getting the word that there was a new sheriff in town. They learned the error of their ways.”
“And you had a hand in that?” the sheik asked, interestedly.
“Mostly in stopping their van,” Mike said, shrugging. He looked over at Wangen and raised an eyebrow. He received a nod in return. “It was headed down the valley. Catching it would have been a pain in the… would have been a problem. So I took it down from the caravanserai.”
“How far?” Wangen asked, interested in spite of himself.
“About two klicks when I got the engine block,” Mike said. “The angle was pretty steep.”
“A moving van?” Wangen asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Doing about forty,” Mike said, shrugging. “Barretts are good at light material engagement.” He had to put that in English since it went outside his Russian.
“I didn’t catch that,” the sheik said.
“The gun is good at killing vehicles,” the woman said, quietly. “The Ba-rette.”
“Ah,” the sheik said, nodding. “The American .50 caliber rifle. I have one myself. But… two kilometers?”
“He is, as I mentioned, very good,” Wangen noted.
“Formidable,” the sheik said. “And does this formidable American have ladies to keep him formidable?”
“That was what the van was carrying,” Mike said, shrugging. “Girls who had been picked up from farms to be sent to town as they say. To be whores in other words.” He looked at the woman for a moment, then averted his eyes. “It’s nearly impossible to find their farms and the families would not accept them back anyway.”
“Of course not,” the sheik said, frowning. “Are these the women you intend to make up your hareem?”
“Nothing else to do with them,” Mike said, shrugging. “We hit the impact point of our two cultures. In your culture they are considered damaged goods. In mine they are considered specially protected. I intend to land somewhere in the middle. I considered various things to do with them. The most obvious, from my perspective, is to bring them into my household as concubines.” He’d used English for the word since he hadn’t figured out the right Russian term.
“Keeping teenage girls is not easy,” the sheik said, smiling and handing over his finished cigarette again. “I suggest the stick on regular occasions. It reminds them who owns the home.”
“I will take the suggestion to heart,” Mike said, smiling faintly and taking another sip of coffee syrup. “However, neither Georgian culture nor my own has a background for exactly what I’ve ended up with. There are whore masters, of course, but…”
“Pimps are unworthy to approach a true hareem,” the sheik said, shaking his head. “The hareem is a place of peace and contemplation; pimps would turn it into a place of sex, pure and simple.”
“Well, I’m not going to discount the sex aspect,” Mike said, wrinkling his brow.
“Of course not,” the sheik said. “But the hareem is far more than sex. A hareem that is well run is where the lord goes to regain his sanity from the day of stress. There is much that he can delegate, but the ultimate responsibility lands upon the lord. That is day-to-day stress that, also, is unknown in your society. Very few have that sort of stress laid upon them. For the lord must not talk about his problems to his followers, lest they lose faith in him. He must hold it all in, all upon himself. The hareem is where he goes to escape that. It is only in the hareem that he can discuss his problems, for the women of the hareem are closed from the outside. They do not talk outside the hareem and thus the fears and problems of the lord stay safe. Thus the women of the hareem must be trained in far more than simply sexual arts. They must be trained to soothe and please their master, to remove the stress, not add to it. Thus, we have the problem of teenage girls, who are a problem all of their own.”
“That they are,” Mike said, thinking about Katya and then inserting Katrina in addition.
“You need an assistant,” the sheik said.
“Agreed,” Mike replied, raising an eyebrow. “I seek your wisdom in that.”
“Anastasia?” the sheik said, looking at the woman. “You are over time to leave the hareem.”
“Yes, my lord,” the woman said, nodding and keeping her eyes down.
“This would be a good choice for you, I think,” the sheik said. “You will go with him.”
“Yes, my lord,” the woman said, nodding.
“It is done,” the sheik said, waving his hands. “Go and prepare to leave.”
Mike started to open his mouth and then froze at a small gesture from Wangen. It seemed like a hell of a cold way to get sent out of the only life the girl had known for… probably a decade at least.
“She will be ready to leave shortly,” the sheik said, dismissing the girl with another wave. “Her replacement has already been trained. This is better for her, I think. She is educated, but after living in the hareem it is hard to adjust to the outside. She would probably have found work managing girls for a pimp in some brothel. This is much the better course. She is old, of course, but she will be adequate for some time to come.”
“My thanks,” Mike said, letting out a breath that held much unsaid.
“I may have need to call upon you at some time,” the sheik admitted. “Nothing that the American government would find amiss, I assure you. But I have my
own security concerns, concerns that also concern the American government. Having a man who is… good with his hands, who owes me a favor is useful.”
“A friend in need is a friend in deed,” Mike said, noncommittally. “I take it you have my number.”
“I do,” the sheik said. “And American military scrambler codes.”
Chapter Seventeen
Mike wasn’t sure of the protocol when Anastasia came out the door but he boarded the car, first followed by the girl, then Wangen. Her bags, three, had already been loaded in the trunk so they pulled out with a last wave to the sheik.
“Back to the Hilton, Tom,” Wangen said, letting out a breath as the car cleared the gates. “Drop Mr. Jenkins and his friend off, then to the embassy.”
“Airport,” Mike said, getting out his sat phone. “I have to get back to Georgia. If that’s okay?”
“Fine,” Wangen said. “It’s closer than the Hilton. What about your luggage?”
“I had it sent to the plane,” Mike said. “I’m on a bit of tight schedule.”
“Problems at home?” Wangen asked, curiously.
“A festival,” Mike replied, shrugging. “Then we’re starting training on the militia. They’re starting issue today. Nielson and Adams have that well in hand, but I’d like to be around in case there are problems. And I definitely need to be there for the festival.”
He called Hardesty and made sure they were ready for a late take-off, then leaned back in the seat as the limo bumped over the roads to Samarkand.
“What can we talk about?” Mike asked.
“I dunno,” Wangen said. “How much are you going to be discussing around your new harem manager?”
“Otryad wants to be president,” Anastasia said. “He knows that he’d get American backing if the choice is him or Dulmaa.”
“Probably,” Wangen admitted. He looked at Mike and shrugged. “Dulmaa is… well, he runs as an Islamic fundamentalist, but not as fundamental as, say, the mullahs in Iran. He’s more of a conservative in the local sense. The usual riff about cleaning up the corruption but he’s as deep in the take as anyone. But he’s not a friend of the U.S. He’d be hard pressed to toss us out, but he could make things harder for us. We’d much prefer Otryad over Dulmaa.”
“I’m not going to take out a major presidential candidate,” Mike said, shaking his head. “Ain’t gonna happen. Wouldn’t be prudent.”
“Otryad is not going to ask for help with that,” Anastasia said. “Dulmaa has to live. But he is closely supported by others, including the Dar Al Islami party. Their head is Farhad Bazarhuv, also untouchable. But they are a front for the Islamic radicals. It is those he fears and wants help with.”
“Islamic radicals I do,” Mike said, breathing out. “I take it you’re not going to assign Delta or Army of Northern Virginia on it?” ANV was known by a half a dozen acronyms, all of them false, but it was the blackest of black ops units, existing in a nebulous world somewhere between the military and CIA. Mike had ended up in its hospital, twice, a place where the patients didn’t even have a name, just a number. The personnel for ANV were drawn from the military, but after they left they never returned. Even Deltas came back in when they had too much rank for the relatively small force. ANV operatives just disappeared into the night and fog.
“No way,” Wangen said. “Maybe if we get a sniff on somebody like Rabah Batatu; he’s connected with Al Qaeda or at least a supporter. And he’s probably connected to the Dar Al Islami in some nebulous way. But the radicals that Otryad has a problem with are internal matters to Uzbekistan. They’re not in our sights at the moment. Even for a ‘friend.’ Not even for ANV.”
“Dulmaa will use the radicals to disturb the election,” Anastasia continued. “They will intimidate candidates and attack rallies. There are a few key members, Ju’ad Puntsag comes to mind, who are better off dead. Certainly from Otryad’s point of view.”
“Puntsag we’ve got a sheet on,” Wangen said, nodding. “More of a street thug than a terrorist, but nobody would miss him, not even his mother. But since he’s a street thug and not a terrorist, he’s definitely not in our sights. CAG and ANV is out.”
“Otryad has his own people,” Mike pointed out.
“They are big and can hold guns,” Anastasia said, shrugging. “I don’t know that they are… formidable.”
“Christ, all I wanted was a damned harem manager,” Mike said, sighing. “I take it this didn’t get discussed at the highest levels in a very specific ‘didn’t’ way.”
“Absolutely not,” Wangen said. “I definitely did not get a disk delivered by courier from the NSA discussing the ramifications of you meeting with Otryad.”
“Great,” Mike grumped. “God damn that bitch. If they want to do black ops they have plenty of people available.”
“But it won’t be as black as this,” Wangen pointed out. “The U.S. government has absolute deniability on it. Real deniability. We gave you a ride to meet the guy and an intro. What happens from there is not our deal.”
* * *
When they reached the plane it was already warmed up. With the copilot’s help they got Anastasia’s luggage loaded, and boarded with a last wave to Wangen.
“Have a seat,” Mike said, waving the girl into one of the front seats. “After we take off we can get a bite to eat and chat. I need to make a call, right now.”
“Very well, Mr. Jenkins,” the girl said, nervously. She fumbled with her seatbelt for a moment and then got it closed, cinching it down firmly.
“Call me Mike,” Mike replied. He pulled out his sat phone and called the embassy in Tbilisi.
“Lieutenant Timmons, Duty Officer, U.S. Embassy to the Republic of Georgia, how may I help you sir or ma’am?”
“Hey, LT, this is Mike Jenkins. Is Colonel Osbruck around?”
“No, sir, he’s gone home for the day.”
“Any chance you could call over to the Ministry of Defense and ask if I could borrow a helicopter sometime late tonight. I am really not looking forward to riding back to the caravanserai tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said. “I’ll give them a call for you, sir.”
“My sat phone number should be on the embassy rolodex as much as you guys call me,” Mike said. “Call me back if you can scare something up. Sorry to dump this on you.”
“Boring night, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Glad to have something to do. And it lets me practice my Georgian.”
“Thanks, LT,” Mike said. “Come on out to the house some time, I’ll feed you some real beer. I’ve even gotten some decent steaks laid in.”
“Will do, sir. Thank you.”
“Take care,” Mike said, cutting the connection just as the jet began its rollout. “Ever flown in a corporate jet?” he asked Anastasia.
“No,” the girl said, clutching the arms of the seat.
“They take off at a pretty high angle compared to an airliner,” Mike said. “And they fly higher. You can get a pretty good view from forty grand.”
“Forty grand?” the girl said, uncertainly.
“Forty thousand feet,” Mike said as the jet turned onto the threshold. “Less turbulence up there.”
“We are going up to forty thousand feet?” the girl squeaked nervously.
“Anastasia,” Mike said, gently, “have you ever flown before?”
“No,” she said, panting slightly.
“It’s all right,” Mike replied, sighing as the jet started to roll. “Just lean back in the seat and we’ll be up and level before you know it.” He leaned back into his seat as the jet rocketed forward. Corporate jets were designed for higher acceleration on take-off than jetliners and Hardesty was a former fighter pilot; he liked to squeeze every bit of performance out of the plane. They pushed down the runway at what Mike figured was about three Gs and then the plane pointed up at about a thirty-degree angle.
“Is this normal?” Anastasia said, in a frightened tone.
“When Hardesty is flying,
” Mike said. “Don’t worry, he’s really good. We’ll stay like this for a while and then it will feel like we’re falling for a bit; that’s when he slows the engines down at altitude. Don’t panic at itl it’s perfectly normal.”
“I will not, Mr. Jenkins,” the girl said, struggling to be calm and composed.
“Please call me Mike,” Mike said, hitting the intercom. “Barring that, Kildar. Captain Hardesty?”
“Sir?” the pilot replied, happily.
“As it turns out, Miss Anastasia has never flown before,” Mike said. “So let’s not get into any acrobatics. And give us some warning when you level out.”
“Is she okay?” Hardesty asked.
“She will be,” Mike said. “As long as you tell us when you’re going to level out.”
“Will do, sir,” Hardesty said.
“There,” Mike continued, cutting the connection. “He’ll warn us when we level out.”
“What is this you said,” Anastasia asked. “The term, Kilder?”
“Kildar,” Mike said, sighing. “It’s what the land owner in the valley is called. Sort of like sheik or baron or something. Anyway, if you can’t handle calling me Mike, call me Kildar. Mr. Jenkins… isn’t my real name anyway. And don’t ask what the real one is.”
“I won’t,” Anastasia said, looking over at him.
“Mr. Jenkins,” Captain Hardesty said over the intercom. “Preparing to level out.”
“Not a big deal,” Mike said as the whine from the engines dropped and the plane seemed to drop a bit. He saw the girl’s reaction and reached out a hand. “It’s fine and normal. We’ll be level in a bit.”
The sensation of change stopped after only a moment and Anastasia nodded.
“I had not wanted you to know I hadn’t flown before,” the girl said, unhappily. “I’m sorry I showed my emotions like that. It was unprofessional of me.”
