by John Ringo
* * *
"Minuet?" the president said, as soon as Mike cut his connection. "You have a clue what he is talking about I'd guess."
"I think the Russians let a biological out of their labs," Minuet said, thoughtfully. "An infectious one and deadly. That is his point about not using a standard weapon. As standard weapon would have the possibility of breaking containment and spreading the biological. A nuke will sterilize the area."
"That's what the Russians don't want us to know," the Secretary of Defense said, angrily. "I can see why. Those stupid bastards."
"And if Mike wants to keep his relations with the Russians we can't let them know that we even guess," Minuet pointed out. "However, we don't know that that is actually what is going on."
"Explain," the president said.
"It is probably accurate," Minuet pointed out. "But it is what Colonel Chechnik knows or has been told and then what he has chosen to tell Mike. Probably he was told we're looking at some sort of infectious biological. Mike, from his SEAL training, is well versed in biologicals. If it were, say, anthrax, he would not react this way. However, he is also a well known personality within a small group. The Russians may have anticipated his reaction and told him it is a nasty bio weapon so that he would, in turn, scream to us for help. They may be simply interested in ensuring that Dr. Arensky is taken out of play. A nuke would certainly do that."
"For now, I am giving provisional authority," the president said, tightly. "But when this mission goes down, I want all three of us up and alert. I am going to have to make moment to moment decisions on release. Ensure that all the communications are in place for that."
* * *
"Shota, I want you to listen to me carefully this time," Adams said, trying not to sigh.
Shota was probably the biggest Keldara there was and just about the most massive guy Adams had ever known. He was even bigger than Russell, the former Ranger who had been a trainer up until he went back to the World. Shota was over two meters in his stocking feet, broad as a fucking house and most of it slabs of heavy muscle. The guy had shoulders that, literally, filled a door. Unfortunately, while not all big guys were dumb, Shota typified the stereotype. At least Russell had had two brain cells to rub together. Not more than two, mind you, he was a Ranger, after all. But two. Shota would be a perfect point guy for entry if Adams could ever teach him to count as high as five.
"It's really really easy," Adams said, slowly. "You go through the door and take five steps. Not four, not six. Definitely not one. Understand? Five. Count them with me. One...Two..."
"One...two...three...f..." Shota said, his brow creasing.
"Okay, try it this way," Adams said, turning him parallel to the wall of the shoot house. "Walk with me. One...two...three...four...five steps."
Shota nodded and looked around. "I stop here? Room's over there."
"NO, you'll be in the room," Adams said. "Just do the steps again. One...two...three...four...five! Got it, do it again... One...two..."
Adams had him take five steps, his weapon forward, over and over again. Then he had him trot it. Finally, he was pretty sure the big ox had got it.
"Okay, now we're going into doctorate territory," Adams said. "You point your shotgun at the lock of the door. When I give you the word, you blow the lock off. Then you kick the door open. When it's open, then you take your five steps, got it?"
"No," Shota admitted.
"Follow my actions," Adams said, pointing his M4 down as if at a doorknob. "Follow me." He ran through the sequence seven times with the massive Keldara following his moves. He'd ensured Shota's weapon was unloaded before they started so he even had him dry fire.
"When you get to the end of your five steps, then you look for valid targets. What's a valid target?" They'd drilled this one mercilessly in training, so Shota got it right off.
"He got a weapon in his hand," Shota said. "You shoot the guys with the weapon."
"In your sector," Adams added.
"In my sector," Shota said. "I do my sector. Oleg, him do his sector."
"What don't we shoot?" Adams asked.
"We don't shoot no girls," Shota said, carefully but fast enough it was clear he understood. "Less them got weapons. We don't shoot no kids, even if them got weapons. We don't shoot no men not got weapons."
"By George, I think you've got it," Adams said. "Okay, troops, let's load 'em up and try this! Through that door at a run!"
* * *
"The Keldara are a fascinating people," Jay said.
He and Katya were parked on a wall watching the small Keldara village. Both were dressed in local clothes and to a casual observer blended in. Jay was not a casual observer. As Katya reached a hand up to fiddle with her top he held up his hands with index fingers crossed.
"You're dead," Jay said. "You are a Keldara woman. You have worn those clothes your whole life. There is no reason to fiddle with them. Very few women will adjust anything in public unless they are very uncomfortable with the clothing. Street whores will, I'll give you that. And if you're at a formal dress dinner with a large number of women unaccustomed to formal dress, you must fiddle from time to time. And walk badly in heels. Very important. Walking badly in heels, if you normally don't, is a very difficult skill to learn. But you are not playing the part of a street whore or a female more accustomed to jeans than gowns. So you're dead."
"Yes, but I can play the part of a street whore," Katya said, bitterly. "I have that down to an art."
"As the Kildar has the bluff warrior down to an art," Jay sighed. "Because he lives it. But you cannot play a Keldara woman, yet, nor the slightly different version you'll find in Chechnya. And you must. This is the first part you must learn if you want to survive this mission."
"Why?" Katya asked. "I go in, find the target, do what I can to prevent her being taken out and then we extract with the strike team."
"And if anything goes wrong?" Jay asked. "The strike team gets intercepted? The mission is blown? Your cover is blown? What then? You're out in the cold, honey. And they're looking for a blonde whore."
"Lots of blonde whores," Katya pointed out.
"Then you know it all?" Jay asked, carefully.
"No, I do not, o master," Katya replied. "Enlighten me o font of wisdom."
"Sarcasm I can take," Jay said. "Mulishness I can't. You are out in the cold. The enemy is looking for a street whore. You cannot, yet, become a man in an instant. Who do you become?"
"One of the local women," Katya replied. "They speak Georgian and Russian."
"Can you mimic the accent?" Jay asked.
"Oh, yeah, sir, that I can," Katya said in a provincial southern Russian.
"But you are not them," Jay said. "You are not a teenage girl, frightened of these problem men all around. Probably raised Eastern Orthodox but surrounded by Muslims who consider her not much more than a whore because she doesn't wear a burkha. At least her head will be covered. Flinching and skulking to get to market and back to the farm without being beaten or robbed or raped. Born on a farm, hardly seeing a town her whole life. Not even knowing what sex or rape really is most likely unless her father or uncle has broached her on a long winter night. Just that she can't have either one happen or she'll end up as...a street whore. You were born in a city, weren't you?"
"Yes," Katya said. "How did you know?"
"Ask me again in two or three years," Jay replied watching with interest as several of the Elders of the tribe gathered outside one of the houses. "But you won't have to. Orphanage. First sexual experience there when you were...ten? The guy who ran the orphanage, the 'orphan master.' Somewhere in Siberia. Not Novy Birsk but close. Killed someone in the orphanage. Made it look like an accident. Probably not even someone who had hurt you, just someone you knew you could kill and get away with it. Tossed out at thirteen or possibly just sold straight to your first pimp. Shuffled south and east towards the Balkans. Left here because the whoremaster in town couldn't find anyone stupid enough to buy you, no m
atter how pretty. Picked up by the Kildar as a necessity and he made a virtue out of it by using you as a spy. But he's just another user to you, isn't he?"
"How?" Katya said, softly.
"Again, ask me in about ten years," Jay said as the Elders filed into the house. "But if you've been my pupil for that long, and you won't be, you won't need to ask. I doubt you'll stay for more than a year more. If, when, you go out on your own, if you keep studying in about twenty years you will know. If I can get you to even mimic a Keldara in six months, really mimic, so I can find no flaw, cut six years off that time. Either one. But I'm not sure you'll ever be good enough. You're missing one very vital component for being a really good spy."
"What?" Katya asked, confused.
"Empathy." Jay said, looking at the house then up at the caravanserai. "Very important to a spy. Empathy gives you the ability to read below the surface. So see not only what is there but what is hidden."
* * *
"There is no way to hide it," Mother Mahona said. "She is smitten."
"As is the Kildar," Father Ferani said. Ferani was the oldest of the Fathers, somewhere in his seventies, shriveled by age but very hard. "Which is a pity."
"I have always felt that this Kildar was...not good," Father Devlich said. Tall and broad as Ferani was short he had dark red hair and a face lined by frowns. "He is not true Kildar."
"He has proven his worth again and again as a provider and as a warrior," Mother Makanee snapped. "The Kildar must, by rights, have both strength and the Soul of Battle. The Soul, though..."
"Makes them vulnerable," Father Kulcyanov wheezed. Though younger than Ferani he had led, if anything, a harder life and it showed. With lips and fingertips blue from congestive heart failure, everyone wondered how many more winters the old warrior would last. "I saw it in many of the best of my commanders. But it is what makes them the best. Without the Soul they are brainless bulls, unfit to lead a squad much less the Keldara. As much as we need the strength and spirit that the Kildars bring, the Soul has always been the hardest to find. This is a True Kildar. Whether he can manage to survive his trials, though, that is another question."
"He is weak," Ferani argued. "This...infatuation proves it."
"What of Kiril in all this?" Mother Devlich asked.
"If need be, Kiril will be sent forth," Father Kulcyanov said. "But I do not believe this Kildar will force that necessity. He has honor, this one. Strength, fierceness, honor and the Soul. It is a rare combination."
"A weak combination," Father Ferani said. "You will see. Every man has his weakness."
"Just because you have them, does not mean the Kildar does," Father Devlich said. "Some of us can keep our hands off other men's wives."
"Baaaaa," Father Ferani replied.
"Do not start that again," Mother Kulcyanov snapped. "Either of you. We must wait and see. If it is necessary, Kiril will be sent forth. We will speak to Colonel Nielson and ensure that he is sent to a proper place for a trained warrior. This is Tradition."
"Agreed," Father Devlich said, nodding. "Kiril is young. He will survive and even prosper. And a Keldara as Kildaran..."
"Oh, yes, leave it to me to break it to Katrina," Mother Ferani said, shaking her head.
"Katrina will be the least of our worries," Mother Lenka said. She was not usually included in such Councils. She knew why she was here for this one. "If you send Kiril forth and present Gretchen to this Kildar, he will probably send you all forth. Bide your time. The final toss is yet to be played in this game."
* * *
"Okay, I've briefed you on this," Mike shouted over the roar from the freefall simulator. "Now I'll show you."
The vertical wind-tunnel was a fairly massive structure. Mike had had one hell of a time getting one in any sort of short timeframe; they usually were built in place over a couple of months. As it was it had taken three precious days, and damned near a half a million dollars, to get it to the valley of the Keldara. And that didn't include the Georgian military heavy lift chopper that brought it from the airport.
Designed to be loaded on a trailer, the system was hardly state-of-the-art. The enormous sound generated by the older style trainers had become an issue in all developed countries so they were going relatively cheap. If you could call two hundred thousand dollars cheap.
But it was the one that Mike could get, in a hurry, cash on the barrel, no questions asked. So it was what he had to work with.
The system consisted of a catwalk that led to a wide platform. The catwalk and platform were supported twenty feet in the air. Under the platform was a heavy duty fan, a wind generator. Around the platform, which was heavily padded, was a steel cage in case the "flyer" got lifted to high or off to the side. In the middle of the platform area was a ten foot hole through which the wind entered.
The whole thing, fortunately, had fit in an Russian Antonov heavy lift aircraft. Mike had had to rent time on the private aircraft for the lift, which was hardly cheap. But with the generator he could speed up the training of the insertion team to the point that they'd be marginally qualified for one hairy damned mission in time.
Besides Vanner, he'd chosen Julia Makanee and Olga Shaynav, two of his best radio operators. To backstop them there were two Keldara "hitters" from Team Sawn. The five were his charges for the next week. He had exactly seven days to get them not only HALO qualified but comfortable with the idea. The standard military course was five weeks, not one. And on any conceivable mission that the US military would send green HALO jumpers on, they'd be accompanied by trained and experienced personnel. In this case, the entire team would be green jumpers.
Given that a few people always balked at actually jumping out of a perfectly good airplane, that was going to be interesting. He'd considered picking a few stand-bys, just in case one of the group was absolutely unwilling to actually jump or couldn't handle the training. But he really didn't have anyone to spare.
He'd used the three days to advantage, giving classes in freefall maneuvers, having everyone practice body positions while lying on their stomachs and going over the theory of freefall, steerable parachutes and HALO. The classes had run from early morning until he could tell everyone but Vanner's brains were cooking.
Now it was time to start working on freefall techniques. He wanted all seven to be comfortable with that before their first jumps; he just didn't have the time for tandem training.
Everyone was wearing jump coveralls, which were easier to train in. The coveralls were loose but Mike had to admit that Oleg and Julia still looked hot. Mike looked around at the group, grinned and then jumped into the rushing wind.
The enormous force of the wind picked him up out of his leap and lofted him up to about head-height. He hung there in a box man position, arms and legs spread, then used his fingers to carefully spin in place, without moving out of the wind. He was pretty rusty—his last freefall was more than two years ago—but the moves were coming back pretty quick.
"What's this position, Largo?" Mike shouted.
"Box man, Kildar!" the shooter replied.
"Exactly, full box man," Mike said. "Now, if I pull my arms and legs in..." he said, matching actions with words, "I sink. That will mean you fall faster. Olga! Why would you want to do that?"
"I'm lighter than the men," the girl shouted back. "I might have to speed up to maintain formation!"
"Right!" Mike yelled then assumed another position, the quickly snapped out of it as he started to fly out of the windstream. "What was that position, Jeseph?"
"Delta!" Jeseph shouted back. "Useful for dropping fast and short, fast, maneuvers."
"Got it!" Mike yelled then got back in the box man position, but with his hands out of position. Suddenly he started moving away from them, slowly. "Julia! What's happening? What's happening?!" he shouted as if panicked.
