by John Ringo
"Yes."
"Come."
He'd led her out to the Lynx, opened the door politely, then climbed in behind.
The pilots were females, Americans from what she'd caught of the accent, and they were good. The cold front that had pushed through Florida was breaking up over the southern Bahamas but Nassau still caught a piece of it. The skies were gray and the wind was whipping but if either pilot cared it wasn't apparent.
The ride had been rough but Britney kept her light breakfast. She'd once been one of those kids who could throw up in a second if it meant avoiding school. And it helped during her brief bulimic period in high school. But once upon a time she'd seen some things, done some things, that made throwing up thereafter pretty much pointless.
The pilots again showed how good they were by putting the Lynx down on the deck of the moored yacht in what could be called a gale as if it was perfect calm.
"Out," the man said, opening the door.
She was only carrying two bags and as she unassed the bird a man came over and took the larger one.
"It will be in your room," the man said. He was wearing a pair of white pants, a black belt and a tight shirt with a tiger embroidered on the upper left chest. Good looking, too. Damned good looking. So was the guy who'd picked her up for that matter.
"Thank you," Britney said, holding on to her purse and backpack.
"This way," her escort said, waving to a door, hatch, whatever, in the side of the yacht.
The yacht was big enough that it had a hangar for the helo. But men weren't rolling it in; they were tying it down instead. Given the conditions she was surprised. Maybe it was going somewhere soon. Maybe there was already something in the hangar. Data item.
The interior corridor was paneled in light wood with tasteful paintings gracing it and the floor covered in plush carpeting. Given that the yacht looked to be about a hundred and fifty feet long, it had to run . . . whooo. High. She wasn't sure what she'd stepped into but it was gonna be strange.
The man led her down a rather confusing maze to a door and then knocked lightly.
A voice inside said something in what sounded like Russian. Not Russian, but the word was similar, a simple: "Come."
The room was huge, two levels and with a massive glass window that looked out over Nassau harbor. The view was mostly of whitecaps but it was still pretty.
A man was seated at a desk, his feet up, reading glasses perched on his nose, reading a document with a TS cover sheet. If he cared that he was doing that in front of a plate glass window it wasn't apparent but it made Britney's skin crawl.
The guy was medium height, pretty muscular build. He worked out. Brown hair. The face . . . was vaguely familiar. She could swear she'd met him somewhere.
Mike gestured with his chin for Vil to leave and looked at the girl, taking off his much-hated reading glasses.
"Lieutenant Harder?" he asked. "Good to meet you. You can call me . . ."
"Ghost . . ." the girl said, her face frozen. "Oh my God . . . GHOST?"
"Jesus Christ," Mike snapped, his feet hitting the ground. "Lock it up, Lieutenant! Where in the fuck did you . . ." Mike froze himself, his eyes flying wide. "Bambi?"
"Oh. My. God," Bambi said, walking over to him. She came around the desk and touched his face. "Ghost. You're alive."
"Yeah," Mike said, grinning ruefully. "I'm alive."
"I see you spent the reward money well," Britney said, perching on the edge of the desk.
"Oh, that wouldn't cover this baby for more than a few weeks," Mike said. "I've . . . Well, that mission was sort of start-up capital. My God. Miss Liberal of the Month joined the Army?"
"What's that line about a conservative is a liberal who's been raped?" Britney said, shrugging. "Yeah. I joined the Army. I wanted in Delta. I heard they had a few women. I was told it was invitation only and if I wanted in I needed to just work my butt off. People would hear. If I was good enough . . ."
"Fuckers should have taken you in a walk," Mike said. "You've got balls the size of the Statue of Liberty. I never properly expressed that. Sorry. It was only you and Babe and Thumper that volunteered. Even Amy was drafted."
"She's in the Corps," Britney said. "Amy that is. And you expressed it well enough. Towards the end."
"Yeah," Mike said. "I sort of . . . caught up with a few of the girls. You know, after. But . . ."
"They didn't talk," Britney said, nodding. "Good. OPSEC is important. I changed schools. Too many memories," she added, her eyes dark.
"Memories," Mike said, frowning and looking at the wall where there was a painting covered with a cloth. "Yeah. I got those."
"I bet," Britney said, touching his face again. "Ghost. Damn. I never . . ."
"Keep the name down," Mike said. "My current name is Michael Jenkins. You can call me Kildar."
Chapter Five
"That's a hell of a story."
Britney was sipping a glass of white wine after turning down the offer of a beer. Mike was working on a glass of tea.
"And most of it pretty highly classified," Britney added.
"Oh, hell, you know the big part," Mike said. "And I left a few details out."
"Including what I'm doing here," Britney said. "What you're doing here."
"You're here because my field second and my intel chief got shot up in an ambush aimed at me," Mike replied. "So I needed somebody familiar with the intel flow we're getting."
"Why weren't you there?" Britney asked, frowning. "I'd have expected you to go right in charging."
"I might have," Mike admitted. "But I had decided to . . . sit this one out."
"Again, not what I'd expect," Britney said. "Not from Mr. 'No, you can't be Flower.' "
"I'd forgotten that," Mike said, a nostalgic smile on his face. "Good times."
"Says you," Britney said, shuddering. "I still have nightmares about being put on that table. Why?"
"You don't give up, do you?"
"And who taught me that?"
"Long story."
"You just told me a long story," the intel specialist said. "And clearly some of the details you left out were important."
"Not anymore," Mike stated, flatly. "I'll introduce you to my intel chief, well, assistant chief. She's female, speaks excellent English. I'll get you briefed in on the mission, then you can get to work trying to find some nuggets."
"And if I do?" Britney asked.
"Then I get to do my job."
Britney's new guide was a pretty, no beautiful, brunette, tall and leggy but with a nice bust. Also slightly pregnant. That was obvious because she was wearing tight blue shorts and a tight, sleeveless T-shirt with a tiger logo on the back and "Mountain Tigers" on the front. Above the logo, just under the collar, was the name "Stella." In one of the corridors the two were confronted by a massive blond guy dressed pretty much the same way. Handsome as hell. Hell, everyone she'd seen was physical perfection. This guy wasn't quite perfect in that he was missing one leg from above the knee down. He was wearing shorts so it was pretty obvious. He'd apparently been walking the corridor for exercise and stood to the side as the two came down the passageway.
Britney could feel his eyes on her as they passed. The guy was a fucking mountain. It was nervous making. She wasn't sure if he was checking her out but she felt more like he was judging her. On what she wasn't sure.
"Who was that?" she whispered when they'd turned the corner.
"Oleg," the girl replied in accented English. "Team commander."
"Still?" Britney asked. "With the leg?"
"It is a very good prosthetic," the girl said. "German. It has some sort of spring in the knee. He says that it makes him run better than before. He intends to be in full form by the time we have a mission."
"How'd he lose it?"
"Last mission. It was very bad. A mortar landed near his position. His leg was . . . What is right English word? Mangled? Yes, I think mangled is right. Had to cut it off so he could keep fighting."
> "Keep fighting?" Britney asked, incredulous.
"He was team commander," the girl said, pausing and looking at Britney quizzically. "He had to lead, yes? Could not lead with the pain of the leg. So Dmitri cut it off for him. They were in fighting positions, he didn't have to walk, run. Only fight and lead, yes? So . . . cut it off. Now he has new leg."
"Go Oleg," Britney muttered. And she'd thought Delta was hardcore. No wonder Gho . . . Mike fit right in.
The intel room was in the bowels of the ship and Britney could smell it had been freshly painted. From the look, it was in copper shield paint. Expensive but nearly as good as a full Faraday cage for a shield room.
The room was filled with computers and women. Like her guide, they were all very good looking and dressed in the same uniform. The effect was sort of overwhelming. Britney was used to being the prettiest girl in an intel shop. This was hell.
"This is the new liaison," the girl said in English.
One of the girls said something in that other language. Britney got enough to catch "last longer." It was close enough to Russian. Maybe Georgian, Mike had said that he lived in Georgia and that these were his . . . retainers. Strange term to use for your troops.
"I'm Greznya," one of the girls said, coming over and shaking her hand. "Welcome to Chaos Central."
"It always is," Britney said.
"I'm Stella, by the way," her guide said, then said something to Greznya. Something about the Kildar, meaning Mike.
"Interesting," Greznya said, looking her up and down curiously. "She looks like a Kildar girl, yes?"
"If you mean one of his former girlfriends," Britney said in Russian. "I'm not."
"You knew him, though," Greznya said, still in Russian. "Before."
"Yes," Harder replied. "And that is about all I can say on the subject."
"Come, sit," Greznya said, showing her to a chair. "Would you care for some tea?"
"An in-brief would be preferred," the lieutenant said. "Gh . . . The Kildar didn't even tell me what the mission is."
"I won't ask what the other name was," Greznya said, politely. "But before I brief you in, I must tell you something."
"I stepped through a looking glass and this is all a dream?" Britney said, taking a cup of tea from one of the girls.
"No, Alice," Greznya replied. "It is something about the Kildar. He has recently lost someone. Someone important to him."
"Is that why he was going to sit out this mission?" Britney asked.
"Yes," the Keldara replied. "And then Adams, who has known him for many years, and Sergeant Vanner who, I think, is something like a son to him, they were both very injured. He feels much guilt for this. And for the other, too. You know the thing Nietzsche said about the abyss?"
"Yes," Britney replied. She was having a hard time with disjunction. Yesterday she'd been perusing reports on Colombian drug smugglers. This afternoon she was sipping tea in an intel shop in the bowels of a multimillion dollar yacht and discussing Nietzsche.
"The Kildar exists on the edge of the abyss," Greznya said. "But for as long as he has looked at it, has dabbled at its edges and stuck his foot in, he has never entered the abyss. Or at least not that he could not swim out. Now he is in the abyss. He is being sucked down by it. He is drowning in it. If he becomes the abyss, well . . . We have had Kildars who ate their meals surrounded by dead bodies, for the pleasure of the company. We will, as you say, adapt and overcome. But I'm not sure the world will."
"What does this have to do with me?" Britney asked.
"If you can draw him back from the abyss," Greznya said, "that would be a very good thing. For us, yes, but for many other people. You remind him of . . . good times, I think."
"I don't," Britney said, setting down her cup, then reconsidering. That was exactly what Mike had said: "Good times." What kind of a crazy man considered holding off a battalion of commandoes and getting shot very near to death as "Good times."
The sort that wouldn't stop until he tracked fifty girls down and freed them. The sort that had kicked her ass into overdrive when she thought she was about packed in. And she could tell what Greznya meant. The man upstairs had been more alive dying than he was now. She'd held his hand, then, dragged his heavy-ass body to cover, listened to him whisper that damned song. "This is my sacrifice . . ." he had muttered, almost joyous. Much more alive, then, with blood pouring out of him in scarlet rivers and still giving her instructions, his breath sucking in and out through holes in his lungs.
"I'll see what I can do," Britney said. "But I only met him once and that at . . . a very bad time in my life. But I owe him . . . everything. I'll see what I can do."
"Good," Greznya said, patting her thigh. "Good. And now, we will brief you in, yes? And you can try to help us with this idiotic database you Americans use."
"God, not another harem girl."
Britney looked up at the two women entering the salon and frowned. The two were dissimilar in looks except for being brunette. The shorter one was stocky, with almost a power-lifter's look and had a gleam in her eye that spelled trouble with a capital T. The taller was more slender as well, not exactly willowy but lighter looking. She also had a milder expression. They were wearing flightsuits and carrying helmets. Ergo they were probably the pilots of the helo.
"I'm not a harem girl. Whatever that means."
"Dummy, that's the intel puke we picked up," the taller one said. "Sorry, term of art," she continued, walking over to Britney and holding out her hand. "Captain Tamara Wilson, late of the U.S. Marines. Currently . . . well . . . They put the handle Valkyrie on me. I usually handle dust-off and supply."
"Lieutenant Britney Harder," Britney said, standing up and closing the cover on the folder.
"How much harder?" the shorter one said. "Captain Kacey Bathlick."
"Do you?" Britney asked, smiling thinly. She'd put up with her last name all her life, after all. The jokes never made sense until she lost her virginity, but she'd heard them long before.
"Point for point," Wilson said, grinning. "You turn up anything, yet?"
"On what?" Britney asked.
"Ah, I think we need to do some more briefing," Bathlick said, pulling out a water and sitting down across from her. "This is the way the Keldara manage information. They don't talk to anybody outside the team. Inside the team, there are zero secrets. So do they have a line on the VX, yet?"
"No," Britney said. "Nada. Zip. Diddly. And since I'm a professional 'intel puke' I have to point out that while they may not talk, this room is not what I'd call secure. But thanks for asking. Now I've got a question."
"Shoot," Wilson said, sitting down with a diet coke in her hand.
"What's eating Mike?"
"You're on first name basis already?" Bathlick asked. "I called him Kildar for a couple of weeks before I remembered he'd told me his name."
"We've met before," Britney said. "Where is . . . not an item of discussion. Even in a secure room. Ever."
"Okay," Wilson said, nodding. "Interesting. But to answer your question . . . Jeeze, where to start."
"The Rite," Kacey said, taking a gulp of water. "Which is one fucked up thing in my opinion. And I'm all for people screwing."
"What right?" Britney asked. "A right to what?"
"Rite, R-I-T-E as in religion," Wilson replied. "The Keldara have some really weird customs—"
"Really weird," Bathlick interjected. "Really really weird. Like having parties on top of their graveyards . . ."
"It's a very ancient and . . . unusual culture," Tamara said, shooting a glance at her friend. "Do you know what the right of droit du seigneur is?"
"The . . ." Britney paused then her eyes widened. "Oh. Not really?"
"Really," Tamara continued. "The Keldara, though, have sort of made it their own. The girls who are getting married get . . . presented to the Kildar, first. Keep in mind that they are getting married to his team members. He then gifts them with a dowry which, I understand, was the reason they first ga
ve for it. Mike wasn't really thrilled with the idea. Okay, virgins, sure, great. But not the fiancées of his team members."
"I got it," Britney said, unconvinced. "But he just couldn't help himself, right?"
"The pressure all came from the Keldara," Bathlick said flatly. "Tell her the rest."
"For the Keldara it's a breeding program," Tamara continued. "The Kildars have always been warriors for centuries. If they weren't, apparently they were . . . taken care of. Quietly. So they've been breeding for warriors for generations."