by John Ringo
Medium height and whip-cord thin Mike was never sure how old he was. At a guess about 40 but he looked about 70 from years of hard out-doors work. Lasko was no runner as had been proven several times but he could go all day long with a ruck on his back and had that maximal sniper requirement: he could stay incredibly still for literally days on end waiting for a shot.
Mike had introduced him to the world of computers after the Albanian mission and given him a credit card to order gear. Snipers, due to the nature of their mission, used highly irregular gear compared to regular infantry. Lasko had learned just enough written English to read the posts on sniper boards and begin exploring the world of gear then started ordering. Some of the stuff he discarded after testing it but Mike didn't mind and had made that clear. He wanted the Keldara snipers professionally outfitted with gear that really worked. And the final determinant of what did and did not work was Lasko.
But Lasko's approach to webboards was the strangest Mike had ever seen. One time Mike had walked past when Lasko was on-line and just had to pause. He'd seen him three times that day and each time Lasko was just sitting in front of the computer, not doing a damned thing. Just...sitting, one hand on the mouse, the other on is thigh, perfectly still.
"Okay, Lasko, what are you doing?"
"Waiting for someone to post," Lasko had answered, coldly.
Mike had visited sniper boards like Sniper.com before and noticed that there were very few "regular" posters, most of them pretty clearly not operational snipers. The regulars were always posting and chatting and debating about techniques or equipment or what their dog had eaten that was really disgusting.
But then you'd see the occasional really bizarre post. It would go something like:
Afghan Sniper: Eagle 415.
AirborneSnipe115: Good.
SFSnipe22: Strap weak.
And so on.
Lasko finally made it all clear and Mike had a sudden mental image of serious operational snipers, all over the world, sitting there waiting for the first guy to make a move. When snipers faced another sniper, the first one to move was the dead man. He could see it clearly now: Dozens, hundreds, of hard faces waiting for the guy who made the first mistake.
Snipers were natural lurkers. That was Lasko in a nutshell.
"Aircraft's coming in at 2230 day after tomorrow," Mike said when they'd stepped outside. He handed Lasko a slip of paper with coordinates on it. "Six LZs. That's where we're inserting. The pilot is the Chief of Staff's son-in-law. Now you know."
"I've got it," Lasko said and nodded.
"Recon only," Mike pointed out.
"Taken care of, Kildar."
That was what he liked about Lasko. Tell him he was going to go sit in place for a week, looking at a hopefully empty field and he was positively happy. Not quite as happy as a field full of targets and a full magazine, but close.
* * *
"Colonel, this is an advisory on an upcoming mission."
Lieutenant Colonel Peyton Randolph, commander 1st Battalion 75th Infantry (Ranger), hated video-conferencing and wished the geeks that invented it had been still-born. Why not just use a simple telephone? It wasn't like anybody looked you in the eye. They were always looking down at the monitor!
"Yes, sir," he said, sitting up for the call from the SOCOM weenie. He'd been told he was getting a call from some Pentagon SOCOM bureaucrat and to just "do what you're told." Instead of staring at the stupid monitor, though, he looked right at the camera set on top.
"Your Bravo company is going to be going over to the country of Georgia to train with some mountain infantry over there," the colonel said. "Because Bravo Company is jump-short they'll jump insert but the jump will be purely administrative; the DZ will be in a secured area. The catch is that they're going to be using third country transport due to current transportation shortages. The good news is that they're going to be able to add an Antonov to their jump sheets and we'll see if we can arrange Ukrainian jump wings as a bonus."
"You're shitting me," Randolph said, chuckling. "Maybe I ought to strap-hang."
"Well, if you do you'll have to find your own way back or stay in-country for a couple of weeks," Pierson sighed. "Air Force is really tasked out. The Bravo company commander will be given further orders but those are code-word classified. The mission may entail engagements but it is not believed that the risks on the operation will be high."
"I just hope we're not helping the Georgians beat up on the Ossetians," the commander said. "That's pretty much an internal matter, Colonel."
"The area they are going to has some threat from the Chechens but is outside the Ossetian area," the Pentagon weenie replied. "And the orders are from higher so who cares? Ours but to do or die and all that. This is only an advisory. But please recall your personnel at this time; we're getting on short time for this."
"Will do," Lt. Colonel Randolph said and finally looked at the monitor. To his surprise the Pentagon weenie was looking at him out of it.
"Tell them good luck and good hunting," Colonel Pierson replied. Then the monitor went dead.
* * *
Kacey put down the -1 for the Czech Aeroframe Corporation Hind-J "aerial ambulance" and rubbed her eyes. -1s were the manual for an aircraft discussing not only design and engineering but flying characteristics. They were the pilot's Bible and she and Tamara had been doing their best, with a lot of assistance, to practically memorize them.
That Kildar character hadn't been joking about "cramming." The Czech instructors were being paid to shove as much knowledge of the Hind-J into them in as short a time as humanly possible. And her head was about to explode.
The J variant was significantly different than the D variant they'd flown lo these many years ago. It had an additional super-charger on each engine for high-altitude operations, an oxygen system, pressurized flight and crew compartment and various other bells and whistles. It also had replaced a lot of parts with composites, reducing its base weight a good bit. But what was seriously different were the engines, modified Bells built by the Czechs on contract that were 30% more powerful than the originals while being a tad lighter and smaller. That was good, in general, since the Hind-D was a bit of a pig in the air. Essentially, it was an entirely new aircraft as capable as or more capable than the newer Russian M-35.
But that also meant the aircraft had different flight characteristics. The ground training portion of the transition was about over. Since the one thing the Czechs did not seem to have was a good simulator for the craft they were going to be taking their first "familiarization" flights tomorrow. And she didn't want her eyes bleary for that.
But she had one thing to do before she went to bed.
The Kildar had, as promised, supplied them with a satellite phone. It was a desk-top model, sort of bulky but capable of not just telephone connection but video and a limited internet pipe. For that matter, there was a whole set of controls that had something to do with a scrambler. Where the "Kildar" had gotten military grade scramblers she wasn't going to ask, but given their mission it wasn't too weird.
She didn't need any of that, though, all she needed was the phone.
"Calling Chief D'Allaird finally?" Tammie asked, setting down her own -1.
"About that time," Kacey said, dialing the number she'd finally managed to find in her address book. "Hopefully he hasn't already left for work."
"Hopefully he's awake," Tammie pointed out.
Kacey listened to the phone ring then pick up.
"837-4159. How may I help you sir or ma'am?"
Damn. Good to see some things hadn't changed.
"Mr. Timothy D'Allaird? This is Air Force Bureau of Personnel. This is to inform you that you've been selected for a recall tour to points in the AOR. Further information will be arriving by mail at your home of record. Are you still resident at..."
"Kacey, is that you?" the voice said. "God, damn, girl you almost gave me a heart-attack!"
"Hi, Chief," Kacey said, grinning. "How
they hangin?"
"Still one below the other," D'Allaird said. "To what do I owe the honor of a call from Miss Snot-nose?"
"Oh, all sorts of reasons," Kacey said. "So, how's the wife?"
"Divorced these last two years," D'Allaird said. "Which is why I'm working about sixty hours of overtime a week. You'll understand if I need to get ready for work. I'm with that comedian guy; next time I think about getting married I'll just buy a house for some woman I can't stand."
"Why aren't you contracting?" Kacey said, quizzically.
"I got really tired of the sandbox," D'Allaird said. "Tired enough I'm willing to work lots of hours to avoid it. I keep asking..."
"Business call, honestly," Kacey finally admitted. "I know someone who needs a contractor. Aircraft engineer. Not in the sandbox. But I'll also be up-front that whoever takes the job has to be Hind qualified and aware that it may involve getting their ass shot off. The flip side is that the money is good and so are the conditions."
"Where?" D'Allaird asked.
"You did hear the part about getting your ass shot off, right?" Kacey asked.
"And let me guess who's flying the bird: the Bobsie Twins."
"The same," Kacey admitted.
"Well, now I got to go," D'Allaird admitted. "If for no other reason than to keep you two out of trouble. I mean, does this place have a brig?"
"Hey, we weren't going to go to the brig over that," Kacey said.
"Yes we were," Tammie replied, not looking up from her manual.
"The most was going to happen was off flying status for a while," Kacey protested.
"Tammie doesn't think so," D'Allaird said. "And I keep asking..."
"The country of Georgia," Kacey replied. "Out in the boonies but nice facilities. A general contractor. I have the feeling it's a good idea to keep a bag packed. I'm not sure of the pay for you, but they're paying us great and we said we had to have a chief, a good one. We actually need two. We may be flying solos. And it's Hind Js."
"The new Czech bird," D'Allaird said with a whistle. "Sweet. I've been reading up on the specs. I'm in. I've been wanting to get my hands on one of those. Screw these damned Lynx and Rangers, I'm sick to death of Lynx and Rangers."
"Hope you've got a passport," Kacey said. "I'll have somebody contact you about travel arrangements. And keep an eye out for another body."
"Male or female?" D'Allaird asked.
"Makes no diff," Kacey said. "The guy who's hiring us, a Mr. Jenkins also called 'The Kildar', doesn't seem to care. But who ever it is had better be open-minded. The arrangements are kind of...odd."
"Better and better," D'Allaird said. "I'm tired as hell of same old. I'll be waiting for the call."
"See you soon, chief," Kacey said, cutting the connection.
"Another lamb to the slaughter," Tammie said. "This thing is either sweet as hell or the Czechs let their marketing department write the -1."
"Marketing departments always write the -1s," Kacey said. "Tomorrow we just get to find out if it's an honest marketing department."
* * *
"Power up, softly, softly..."
Kacey didn't know if the Czechs had intentionally supplied one cute as hell instructor pilot or not, but Marek Kalenda was hot. Older than she usually liked, probably pushing a very in-shape fifty, but still hot. Nice voice, too. Resonant. Of course, it would help if she paid attention to flying.
"Good, hold it," Marek said. "Feel her. Nice isn't she?"
"I'm only at 23% power," Kacey replied. "This thing is, if anything, over muscled."
"There is no such thing as too much power in a helicopter," Marek said. "I was asked when they were looking at the new Bells if, perhaps, that was not too much power for the Hind. No, I told them. What is that American show, the man is always saying 'More power!'?"
"Home Improvement," Kacey said with an unseen grin. The Hind, unlike Hueys and Hawks, was a tandem rig. The pilot sat back, the co or gunner sat forward. Currently, Marek was forward. "Tim Allen."
"Yes, More Power," Marek agreed. "That was also a command. Bring her out of ground hover if you please. Slowly."
Kacey poured on more power without disturbing any of the other controls. She, of course, had to tap the rear-rotor controls to keep the aircraft straight, but otherwise she kept it "as is" with the exception of power. The helicopter went straight up with only a slight side-to-side yaw as she got the feel for the rear rotor.
"Very nice," Kacey said. "I'm at forty percent. And out of ground effect, unless I'm much mistaken."
"Yes, but of course we are empty," Marek pointed out. "At height, with a full load? You will be pushing the red-line. But I will tell you something that is not in the -1, yes? I have force tested this bird and engines. The red-line on the engines is conservative. You have about twenty percent more power when you are red. But you must yank the engines after the mission, yes?"
"Twenty percent's a lot of power," Kacey said. "Why'd you do that?"
"Because we have some customers who, shall we say, are not as professional as you," Marek said with a sigh. "If some son of an Arab sheik goes down we like to be able to point out that he was not supposed to redline the aircraft's engine continually. Better still if he has the smidgeon of sense to only touch the redline and still survive. At absolute full power the engines will eventually fail. But for an emergency...the power is there."
"Good to know," Kacey said.
"Now that we have taken this time for you to feel the bird and prove you can talk at the same time, you may push forward slightly on the stick. Your bird, ma'am."
"My bird," Kacey replied, pushing forward on the stick and increasing power to the engines unconsciously. She started to grin as the bird slid forward like it was on greased rails and lifted into the air. The mass of the Hind had always made it fly like a pig and they usually didn't hover for shit. Now, with the overpowered engines, it was like driving a really nice sports car, one of the ones that hugged the road like a limpet. Smooth didn't begin to describe it. "Oh. My. God."
"I thought you would like this, yes," Marek said with obvious satisfaction in his voice. "We at Czech Airframes like satisfied customers. Satisfied customers are repeat customers."
"Oh, I'm satisfied," Kacey said. "This bird can fly."
Chapter Nineteen
"USAF Flight 1157," Second Lt. Kevin Ferlazzo said when the "incoming satellite call" light started blinking on his console.
USAF Flight 1157 was a MC-130 Special Operations (Electronic) aircraft from the 47th Squadron out of Moody Air Force Base in Valdosta, Georgia. 1157, crew of five, was currently on a compassionate mission delivering relief supplies to Azerbaijan, motoring along on cruise control over the nation of Ukraine, which from 30,000 feet looked a lot like Kansas. A recent earthquake had left dozens of mountain villages in Azerbaijan devastated and cut off with winter on-coming. About half of the cargo consisted of cattle feed donated by the American Cattleman's Association. The rest was general relief supplies including MRE style "relief meals", tents, blankets and clothing.
Lt. Ferlazzo, the flight engineer of the aircraft (and as he thought of it "designated receptionist"), hadn't planned on becoming a relief worker when he'd graduated from the United States Air Force Academy and wondered about the efficiency of using a top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art, special operations, electronics warfare aircraft that cost $8000 per hour to run to deliver hay-bales. However, nobody but nobody asked a second lieutenant what he thought except his mother.
