by John Ringo
"Oh," Kacey said in a small voice, her eyes wide. Shit, she's potentially the boss' wife! "I so have to learn not to ask questions. Case of suits in the corner. Grab a spare helmet. We'll fit those later. Somehow I'm sure you can figure out the zipper."
* * *
"I'm still not natural with this bird," Kacey said, banking the Hind down the narrow valley. "How's our clearance?"
"Good," Tammie said, watching the ground avoidance radar. Technically, with the design of the Czech Hind, the pilot could do it all. And Kacey was risking glances at the instruments. But with her current comfort level it made more sense for Tammie to act as, effectively, a navigator while Kacey concentrated on not plowing the bird into the ground. "I think this is as low as we should go for now, but you're good. LZ is marked in about another klick up the valley. There's a ridge in the way you're going to have to negotiate."
"See it," Kacey said. The problem with the night vision goggles, though, was that they had virtually no depth perception. "Distance?"
"Six hundred meters, three hundred, start climb."
"I'm good," Kacey said, increasing power and touching the collective upwards. The helicopter lurched, not the smooth lift she was trying for but she was missing the ground and that was the important thing. She crested the ridge much higher than she would have liked but she could dial in her technique when she knew the bird a little better.
The LZ was clearly marked, fortunately, with what looked like cyalumes laid out in a Y formation indicating wind. She banked left then back to the right and settled towards the ground. The touchdown was smooth, if slow. Slow was still good in her opinion.
"Tell the ladies to start a dumpin'," she said, breathing in relief.
* * *
Mike walked over to the Hind cockpit and waved in a friendly manner.
"Glad to see you ladies," Mike said with a grin as pilots opened their canopies. "And you said you couldn't fly one of these things. O Ye of little faith!"
"This is very damned hairy, sir," Kacey replied, evenly. "This is high skill flying, sir. I've got the skill but I don't have the time in the bird to feel really comfortable with it."
"Well, I'm comfortable with your skill, captain," Mike said. "You're good or you wouldn't be here. You'll get comfortable. You know this mission wasn't precisely necessary, right?"
"No, sir," Tammie said, confused. "You needed the supplies, didn't you?"
"Sure, but only because we light loaded for the first movement," Mike said. "The main purpose to this mission is because the next one is tougher. You needed the experience and the Keldara have never operated like this with helos. They've flown in them but never been resupplied by them. I wanted both groups to get comfortable so when the shit hit the fan neither they nor you would freak. Tomorrow's mission is way more important. And if you have to supply us on the other side of the mountains, well that's going to be hairy as shit. So get confident. Fast."
"Got it, sir," Kacey said.
"Looks like time for me to odie," Mike said. "I'll see you in a few days. Keep the faith."
"Yes, sir," Tammie replied as Mike backed out past the supplies. "Is it just me or is that guy, like, charismatic as hell?"
"I've got sixty hours in this bird, as of this mission," Kacey said. "And I'm flying a night, tactical, NOE. You think I'd do that for just anybody?"
"So when are you going to nail him?" Tammie asked.
"I probably won't get the chance," Kacey replied. "Damnit. You know the blonde we got as load?"
"Yeah," Tammie said.
"Girlfriend."
"What?" Tammie snapped. "Doesn't he have enough women?"
"Long story..."
* * *
"Hello, Viktor," Gretchen said as she lifted the first box out of the door of the helicopter. The pilot had not stopped the rotors so there was very much dust but that was why she had been given goggles.
"Gretchen?" Viktor said, surprised. He took the box of rations, though, and tossed it to the next man in line. "What are you doing here?"
"Somebody had to unload the helicopters, yes?" Gretchen said, tossing him another box. "The new crew chief said we may be trained as crewmen. We are privates, now. The pilots are women, why not?"
"What does Father Makanee think of this?" Viktor asked, grinning.
"He sulks, what else?" Gretchen said, grinning back. "Women are for cooking and making babies and beer. Not for flying around in helicopters. Much less in combat. Father Kulcyanov has blessed us, though, and our mission. We are soldiers now."
"Are you going to be in combat?" Viktor asked, worried.
"The crewman mans the machine-gun," Gretchen said, gesturing to the door gun. "You tell me."
"Hopefully not," Viktor replied. "I'd hate to be at your funeral. I would hate to have to deal with... Does the Kildar know about this?"
"I don't know," Gretchen said, shrugging. "But I think he likes strong women, yes? So this is good. As to funerals, I think I would hate to be at yours, brother. So I agree to take care and you do so as well."
"I'll try, sis," Viktor replied.
* * *
"Damn."
Dr. Arensky looked at the rip in his shirt and shook his head.
"I wish they'd given us a hammer. There are nails sticking out all over. That's the fourth rip I've gotten in my clothes!"
"For a scientist, you sure are clumsy," Gregor chuckled from the corner.
Arensky had taken to walking up and down the small room whenever he wasn't puttering with his cultures or cooking. Both he and Gregor were putting on weight from the latter and he'd decided to fight it by pacing. Gregor hadn't argued or complained unless he neared the room's sole door. Unfortunately, there were several nails sticking out of the roughly constructed wall. And he'd managed to find all of them.
"Is there any way you could get me a needle and thread?" Arensky asked, fingering the tear.
"I'll see what I can do," Gregor said with a shrug. "Don't tell me you can sew as well?"
"Who else was going to fix our clothes?" Arensky asked. "Oh, Marina learned eventually. But I didn't get paid enough to buy clothes just because a collar was worn out or a sleeve ripped. This shirt is nearly ten years old, it's been mended, even rebuilt, many times. I suppose you can't even call it the same shirt anymore."
"You are a wonder, doc," Gregor said, his eyes still closed. "I'll get you the needle. I need my socks darned."
Chapter Twenty-Five
"Fuenf minuten!" the loadmaster yelled, holding up five fingers.
So much for "an English speaking crew", Captain Guerrin thought. The pilots spoke English, but the only language he and the Ukrainian loadmaster had in common was German. Guerrin had spent several tours in Germany in the course of his career and picked up the language readily. He should have concentrated on Ukrainian.
The good news was that the military attaché, who did speak Ukrainian and had been a Hercy pilot upon a time, was along as a passenger. He'd smoothed things out quite a bit and been really helpful with figuring out the slightly different configuration on this bird.
The AN-70s were brand new aircraft, the first new aircraft produced by Ukraine since the dissolution of the Soviet Union. So new the two the Rangers were using were the first the Ukrainians, themselves, had been able to afford.
The original design process had started back in the '80s, intended by the Soviet military as a replacement for the by then venerable fleet of AN-12 Cubs. With the breakup of the Soviet Union and the accompanying economic disruptions production of the first prototype was halted then started then halted several times. Finally, in 1995 a prototype was completed and entered testing. Unfortunately, on one of it's first tests it collided with its chase plane and crashed, killing all seven of its crew.
However, the AN-70 was "the plane that wouldn't die." Antonov produced another prototype in 1997 and continued testing with the first production planes coming off the lines, finally, in 1999.
Produced primarily for short-range, high-capa
city hauling in underdeveloped countries the AN-70 was a turbo-prop, short-take-off-and-landing bird similar in many respects to the C-130 if considerably larger with a maximum payload of 130,000 kilograms or 100 jumpers vs. 20,000 kg or 64 jumpers. It also had one of the most advanced designs of any cargo aircraft in the world with significant use of composites as well as a very high end avionics suite.
Compared to even the newest generation of Hercules', it was a thoroughbred next to a cart horse. Among other things, it flew more like a fighter than a "trash-hauler."
There was also a shit-load of room for the jumpers. They had a hundred and thirty jumpers with them. They could have, would have, cut a few if all they had were a couple of C-130s. As it was, if the mission hadn't been so high level classified, they could have taken twenty or thirty "strap-hangers" and still rattled around like peas in a pod.
"STAND UP!" he shouted at the nearest jumper, flashing the same five fingers.
All through the aircraft the Rangers started struggling to their feet. Given that they had a rucksack over a hundred pounds in weight on their knees and a parachute on their back, it wasn't the easiest maneuver in the world. On the other hand, they'd all done it dozens of times so they were up pretty quick.
"HOOK UP!" Guerrin shouted to the lead jumper, making a hooking sign in the air, then did so himself, albeit to the inboard cable.
Four cables ran down the interior of the aircraft, two about a foot from the skin, the "outboard" cables, and two about a foot apart running down the middle, the "inboard" cables. Jumpers hooked to the outboard cables, jumpmasters to the inboard.
Guerrin secured the cotter pin through his static line cable connector and then caught the eye of the lead jumper.
"CHECK STATIC LINE!" A sign of yanking on the static line.
Check to make sure you're hooked up, check that the opening was "outboard" so just in case it jumped open, against all reason, you'd still have your chute pull out of the bag. Check the pin, check to make sure the line wasn't around anything. If the static line got under your arm, for example, you would suddenly have a piece of nylon rope cutting into your bicep under pressure and screaming by at over a hundred miles per hour. In any airborne unit you saw the guys with "static line arm."
Getting it around your neck was worse. You didn't see them much after the jump. Maybe at the memorial service.
"CHECK EQUIPMENT!" A pound on the chest like Tarzan.
He and the assistant jumpmaster checked each other cursorily. Honestly, it was all Pentagon safety bullshit. You're jumping it, you'd better have checked it. But you had to make the show.
"SOUND OFF FOR EQUIPMENT CHECK!" Lean forward with hand to ear.
The cry was repeated then from the front of the bird the troops sounded off, coming down in a string. Each would yell "Okay" in the ear of the jumper in front of them and give him a slap on the ass. The slap was necessary because it was loud as hell inside a bird with the door open. The last one, the lead jumper, Specialist Serris, leaned forward and gave him an "Okay" sign and a big grin.
"ALL OTAY DUMPMATTAH!"
Christ, he'd told that joke once. Guerrin was prior service. He'd done time in the Rangers as an enlisted then gotten out and gone civvie. It was only after 9/11 that he'd come back in, riding an OCS ticket, a few contacts and some luck into a Ranger commander slot.
But "back in the day" as they said, Eddie Murphy was still on Saturday Night Live and doing his Buckwheat routine. Thus the "accent." They did it all the time on jumps, just for shits and giggles.
He'd told a squad that just fucking once. So much for "opening up to the troops."
"DOOR CHECK!" he shouted at the Ukrainian load master, pointing at the door. The hell if he could remember the German for that.
The loadmaster opened the door and the captain stepped to the opening. He took a good footing then grabbed the door edges and began his check. There were a lot of ways for a static line jump to fuck up and airborne and Ranger units had managed all of them at one point or another. One of the real killers was having a rough or sharp spot on the door edge. On the leading edge, it meant a cut hand, no big deal. On the trailing edge, though, it could mean a cut static line. And then, well, you had your reserve but bottomline you were fucked. Pull your reserve, dump your gear and hope like hell you didn't hit too hard.
Modern "steerable" parachutes were designed to drop a standard-weight jumper at nine feet per second. The problem being that even nine feet per second was damned fast when it was you hitting the ground. About ten percent of the jumpers in any drop, even in training, got injured on impact with the cold, hard earth.
Reserve chutes dropped you at a "standard" seventeen feet per second.
He'd hit with a reserve once. It wasn't something he wanted to experience again. So he checked hell out of the door.
But the Ukrainians, thank God, knew what they were doing. The molding around the door was as fresh as right out of the factory. Well, okay, it was darned near fresh from the factory. There wasn't anything wrong with the door.
Door checked he leaned out and looked forward. There were still mountains in the way but he'd seen the approach maps; they were going to be looking at mountains right up until the jump. No problem. The Ranger motto is "The Whole World Is A Drop Zone." The area they were going into was actually much better than their usual training drops. The stone walls were going to be interesting, but that's why they had steerable chutes.
He could see an opening in the mountains, though. Probably their valley. Which meant they were close. He ducked back in and looked at the jumpmaster who held up two fingers.
"ZWEI MINUTEN!"
"TWO MINUTES!"
"WHOOF! WHOOF! WHOOF!..."
Guerrin shook his head again and leaned back out. The troops had also picked up that he was a UGA graduate. So it naturally became "Bravo Bulldogs." On a level he should be proud, it was a sign the troops thought well of him. But at moments like this it was a pain.
He could see the valley now. They were high. The birds were going to have to drop like a stone to get them down to anything jumpable. For that matter he noticed the air was pretty damned thin; it was a bit hard to breath.
He popped back in and looked at Serris, hoping he could get this across.
"HANG ON," he yelled, suiting words to actions by grabbing a stanchion by the door. "WE'RE DROPPING!" He made a motion with his hand pointed down, like an aircraft in a dive.
Serris looked blank for a moment then nodded, grabbing at one of the folded up seats with the hand not holding a static line and shouting to the guy behind him.
"Dreizig seconds!" the loadmaster shouted.
"THIRTY SECONDS!" Guerrin screamed. "HOLD THE FUCK ON!"
Whether the word got back or not, Guerrin saw virtually everyone grabbing something just before the nose of the bird tipped over. And it was a dive, a hard one.
"HOOOOOOOO-WAAAAAAAH!"
The bird rang with the cry and Guerrin had to grin, even with what felt like his entire last month's meals coming up in his throat. He could feel his feet half leaving the ground. The pilots were really having fun, that was for sure. Oh, hell, face it, they were all having fun. Even if this was an admin drop it felt like combat, coming in in a "friendly nation's" bird, nose down and screaming at the DZ. It felt fucking hot.
