by John Ringo
"Love to," Mike said. "But if you could hold off and get a couple of the girls in here for a bit, I'd appreciate it. Company."
"Of course, Kildar," the girl said, smiling. "We love company."
"Nice," Chatham said, whistling. "She looked—"
"Young," Mike said. "Just about seventeen, she thinks. I hope that doesn't shock you, Gloria."
"In fact, I am unsurprised," Gloria said with a wry smile. "Sorry."
"The story of why I have a harem of teenaged girls, some of whom are too young for even me to bed, is a long one," Mike said, stepping behind the bar. "And it will be shorter for some Mountain Tiger. Who's not on call?"
Chapter Thirteen
They'd never made it to the beach. Mike had ended up trading war stories, those he could, with Thomas Chatham. Britney had turned up and sat in on that one, occasionally passing on a story she'd picked up that wasn't classified. Daria, Anastasia and Gloria were in a colloquy in the corner, laughing rather frequently. The rest of the harem had swarmed into the room as soon as they heard there were visitors, the poor dears just didn't get out much, and were now surrounding the other three pilots, who were looking poleaxed.
Mike looked up as Oleg stumped into the room. He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt but he still smelled like cordite.
"Kildar," the team leader said in Keldara. "We've set up the shoot facility and we're knocking off for the rest of the day. Mother Savina asks when you want dinner and where?"
"In here," Mike said. "Ask her if buffet will work. Grab a shower and come join us along with the other team leaders. Ask Greznya as well and tell her if they've got the time a couple of the other girls. Oh, and the pilots."
"Yes, Kildar," Oleg said.
"Hey, Oleg," Mike said, looking over the side of the bar and pulling out a bottle from a bucket of ice. "Have a Mother Lenka special. You look like you could use it."
"Thank you, Kildar," Oleg said, grinning and breaking the seal on the bottle. "Miller Time, yes?"
"For some," Mike replied.
Vil looked at the things laid out in the steamer, his expression extremely unsure.
"They're lobster tails," Randy said, picking up two and putting them on his plate. "Grab a couple. I'll show you how to eat them."
The party was in full swing as Vil settled on the couch. One of the Kildar's girls was talking to one of the pilots, her butt slid over to one side and he had to crowd the arm of the couch to avoid it. It reminded him that it had been a long time since he had "been with" Stella. Days, in fact, since he'd even seen her. His wife was carrying the Kildar's child. He knew that and did not mind, quite the opposite. But it had been . . . too many days since they last were . . . together. The smoothly rounded butt, covered in the barest of bikinis, reminded him rather forcefully of that fact.
"Hot butter," Randy said, setting a bowl on the coffee table. "You crack the underside and pull the meat out."
Vil watched dubiously, then followed suit, aware that it couldn't be any worse than combat rations. But when he tried the lobster, butter dripping down his chin, he found that it was really rather good. Very good. And after a full day of hard driving he realized he was ravenous.
Before he knew it the lobster tails, as well as the red potatoes he did recognize and the asparagus he'd at least seen before, were gone.
"Let me," the girl said; she'd sat up shortly before and now took the plate from him. She was one of the Kildar's younger girls, unbroached.
"Thank you . . . Martya," Vil said.
"Anything in particular?"
"More lobster if there's any left," Vil replied.
"Is that girl as young as I think?" Randy asked as the little brunette walked towards the buffet.
"Yes," Vil said. "Fifteen, I think."
"And these girls are . . . the Kildar's harem?"
"She is not yet . . ." Vil said then paused. "She is still virgin. The others . . . are not. For your culture they are young. For mine . . . Greznya," he said, gesturing to the intel chief who was talking with Gloria Chatham, "she is what you call 'old maid.' "
"She doesn't even look twenty," Randy said.
"Just turned," Vil replied. "She has much trouble with getting married. She was to be promised to a boy, Brone. He is killed in fall. We have dowry system, you know this?"
"Yes," Randy said, frowning. "I know what a dowry is, but, really?"
"Really," Vil said, shrugging. "It is our way. Anyway, when her match is killed, dowry is spent on another girl. Not enough dowry for her. And not many men she can marry. There are more women Keldara than men. No one knows why but is happen every generation, yes? She was . . . Greznya has always been good on farm. She learns numbers and writing very well. She works hard. Normally, she would have been . . . She would have left. But she stayed. Then the Kildar came. Needed people to help with . . . many things. She works for Kildar."
"Is she part of the harem?" Randy asked, confused.
"No," Vil said, chuckling. "Good that you ask me that question and not her. Not sure I can say what she does for Kildar."
"Got it," Randy said, shrugging. "Hey, I'm just the instructor."
Martya came over and sat down with two plates heaped with lobster tails.
"What are these?" she asked.
"Lobster," Randy said nervously. The girl should have been playing with dolls, not in a harem.
But he showed her how to eat lobster and that was okay.
"You are the man who is teaching the boats, yes?" Martya said, licking some butter off her fingers.
Okay, maybe not so okay.
"Yeah," Randy said, clearing his throat when it came out as a croak. "Yeah. I'm uh, teaching the guys how to drive."
"Can I ride in boat?" Martya asked. "They look very fun."
Randy had heard the question plenty of times, including from girls as young as this one. And he'd taken a few out, including quite a few that were significantly . . . okay, not much older. Because there was very little that could get a girl going as much as taking a ride in a boat that went very fast.
"Uhm, maybe later," he said. "We're doing an exercise tonight."
"Okay," Martya said, picking up the plates. "I hold you to that. You have to give me ride."
"Oh, I'd love to give you a ride," Randy muttered. "In about . . . three years. And assuming your Kildar doesn't mind."
"That one," Vil said, grinning, "the Kildar would mind. But that brunette over there . . ." he added, pointing . . .
"That brunette what?" Stella said, leaning over the back of the chair and blowing in his ear.
Vil leaned into his wife's head for a moment and just breathed.
"Can you believe it?" she asked, sliding over the couch and taking Martya's place. "We have a bedroom all to ourselves!"
"Really?" Vil said, grinning.
"Really," Stella replied. "Oh, the room is small and the bed smaller, but I don't think that will be an issue."
"Sorry, Randy," Vil said, looking at the instructor. "My wife, Stella. Stella, Randy Holterman."
"You're the man who's trying to kill my husband, yes?" Stella asked. She'd stretched across the length of the remaining couch, her feet up on the top, resting most of her weight on Vil.
"Trying to keep him alive," Randy said. "Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Mahona."
"Mother Stella soon," Stella said, smiling and patting her tummy. "But not Mother Mahona for many years I think."
"Our clan names are complicated," Vil said, shrugging. "Mrs. Mahona is sort of correct and . . . sort of not."
"I'm figuring that out," Randy said. "I'm glad you guys are okay with first names."
Martya came back and pouted, looking at her seat.
"You can sit on Randy's lap," Vil said, gesturing.
"Okay," the fifteen-year-old said, plopping down and wiggling to get comfortable. Or for some reason.
"Oh, thanks so much, Vil," Randy said, grimacing.
"As I was saying," Vil continued, "about Illya . . ."
"W
hat were you saying about Mopsy?" Martya asked, her eyes narrowing.
"I was just saying that if Randy was interested in a . . . companion for the evening," Vil said, grinning. "As he's assuredly going to need one after you're done with him, minx."
"Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail," Martya said, giggling. "I didn't understand it until I read the story."
"Shhhh," Stella said, her finger to her lips. "We don't speak of Cottontail."
"So how is she?" Vil asked.
"Getting screwed and beaten as usual," Stella said, sighing. "Doing very well, in other words."
"Jeeze," Mike said. "Greznya, Stella and Irina are here. Who's holding down the shop?"
"Olga," Daria said, leaning past him and pulling out another beer. "Greznya is going to go relieve her in a bit."
"What's the word on Vanner and Adams?" Mike asked.
"Vanner is out of ICU and under observation," Daria said. "He's doing fine but still unconscious. Adams is ready to be released."
"That's your first run, then," Mike said, looking at Thomas. "Take . . . Daria and part of Oleg's team over to Miami and pick up my wayward second in command."
"He get arrested by the shore patrol?" Thomas asked, grinning.
"No, actually," Mike said. "He got shot up by either some Colombians or terrorists who were aiming for me."
"Shit," Chatham said. "Sorry."
"Not a problem," Mike said.
"That's something that Greznya wants to talk to you about," Britney interjected.
Mike looked at Chatham, then shrugged.
"Go."
"The answer is Colombians."
"Now that's damned interesting," Mike said. "Dash my eyes if it's not."
"You're hanging out with Brits too much," Britney said, rolling her eyes. "And there's more. Florida State Patrol pulled over two Colombian mules. Regular drug stop. But, lo and behold, what did they find?"
"A blue barrel?" Mike asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No," Britney said. "But close. Heroin. Very high quality. Damned near pure. And the mules were known associates of your friend."
"Oh, that explains so much," Mike said, looking at the far wall.
"Not to me," Chatham said, taking a sip of beer.
"No, it wouldn't," Mike said, still looking into the distance. "And, sorry, it must remain a mystery. Thomas, are any of your pilots current in, oh, something along the lines of the Beaver?"
"The amphib or land version?" Thomas said, winking. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Know Beavers well, wet or dry."
"Daria, dear?" Mike said.
"Find a Beaver for rent," she said. "Somewhere in South Florida or the Bahamas. Can it wait until after the party?"
"Assuredly," Mike said, watching Vil and Randy get up to leave. "And we'll have to keep the party running long into the night, apparently."
"Can I ask one thing?" Daria asked.
"Sure."
"What is a Beaver?"
She seemed rather pissed when both the men snorted in unison.
* * *
"See the buoy?" Randy yelled.
"Yes," Vil shouted back. But he had to admit that seeing it was only half the problem.
Night vision goggles are wonderful things but they have one serious flaw; they give the user virtually no depth perception.
The trick to getting some idea of range is called "pointing." Effectively, the NVG user moves his or her head from side to side, getting a slight angle on the scene with each "point." The problem being that while that is hard to do in, say, a low-flying helicopter, it's much harder in a fast-moving boat. The motion of the boat throws the head around to such an extent that it's nearly impossible for the brain to process the images. Vil knew the technique; he'd sometimes practiced it in combat training on land. But he was finding it hard to manage even though there were virtually no waves.
He had to guess the point to make the turn and very nearly crashed into the buoy, swerving only at the last minute. And this wasn't even full speed.
"Don't worry about it," Randy yelled. "I don't know many FAST drivers that can manage real high speed at night. Not in tight quarters. It's more art than science. Swing it around and try again . . . ."
Two hours later the group of boats was gathered by the rock circuit.
"Okay," Randy said, calling across to the group. They'd turned their navigation lights off, which was a huge no-no, but they had to have time for their eyes to dark adapt. "We are not going to take this at high speeds. You're going to find it hard enough to do at low speeds. You'll each do it twice, low speed first then slightly faster. Vil?"
"Okay," Vil said, glaring at the view. Almost none of the clues that showed where rocks were by day were apparent at night. In the fuzzy image of the goggles he could barely see the ripples on the water's surface. But he engaged the power and started forward. Suddenly he realized the rock that had nearly gotten him the first time, the one that had been on the left side, was right in front of him. He was sure it was the same rock. He turned right, nearly clipping the rock, then back to the left only to have another one confront him. He couldn't see far enough ahead to figure out a route. He slowed down more, picking his way through the rocks.
"You're way off course is the problem," Randy said, pointing to the compass. "You're supposed to be going north. You're headed west."
"Shit," Vil said, spinning to the right, dodging a rock and then seeing what looked like open water ahead of him. Suddenly he felt a scrape on the bottom and the boat lurched to a stop.
"You're aground," Randy said. "That flat patch of water was a shoal."
"Father of All, this is impossible," Vil said, pulling off the NVGs. The green light from the goggles had partially blinded him but he rapidly got his night sight back. There was a quarter moon and it actually gave him better vision, for this, than the NVGs. "I can see better this way."
"Tonight," Randy said. "But not if there's no moon, which is the best time to do an op in one of these. And not if it's overcast. NVGs are the only way, then."
"Fine," Vil said, putting the goggles back on and settling them. "Try to back off?"
"Yep," Randy said. "Then do a pivot turn right. That will get you out of this mess. There's some deep water right behind you and to your right. Take that back south, pivot left when you see more open water that way and start over."
"Yes, sir," Vil said. It was going to be a long night.
Mike sat under the quarter moon, his feet dangling off the end of the dock, and watched the play of the light on the water. He was a little drunk, which bothered him. He remembered his recent drunk way too well. But he was on a mission. Getting drunk and maudlin would not be a good thing.
It was hard to avoid the latter, though, given the former. He'd always been a pretty maudlin drunk. And he couldn't help but think how much Gretchen would have enjoyed this. Of course, like most of the Keldara women she would probably still be back in Georgia. Well, Stella was here, but . . . Oh, crap. No, never mind. Yeah, Stella was not going to be door gunning. She was here for intel, not as a crew-chief. No dust-off Hind. That might be a problem. No, they could use Dragon. He belched.
His thoughts were disjointed. Flashing golden hair and pale skin. A Hind firing a Gatling gun right at him. Blue eyes clear as the stars. Tracers smoking in his chest. A ravaged body. He lay back and looked up at the sky. What did it matter? One little death. VX that could kill thousands. To the stars, what was the difference? We were all less than fleas on the back of a dog.
He closed his eyes and set the beer bottle down. To have just one day . . .
Vil was exhausted. It had been one long damned day.
So he was taking his time making his way into the harbor. He didn't want to ding the boat any more than he already had. He'd made it through the course the second time, faster, without getting actively lost and off-course. But right now he was wondering if he could find the dock.
So he was somewhat surprised when a figure sat up on said dock. He clutched at his chest, rea
ching for a weapon that wasn't there, then recognized the Kildar in his NVGs.
"Oh . . . crap," he muttered. "Why the hell did they leave him alone?"
"What?" Randy said, leaning down.
"The Kildar . . . is not well," Vil said. "I'll explain later."
Mike sat up and gasped shaking his head to clear the nightmare. He'd been dancing with Gretchen, slow dancing, but she'd suddenly only been a torso. Still talking, still smiling, her guts hanging down and she was so heavy . . . Stella and Vil danced by, elegantly, two rotting corpses, the whole room was filling with a heavy green fog and he was trying to get them out of the caravanserai but it was a ship, a merchant freighter, filling with VX . . . the Keldara dropping around him and he was the only one that survived, always the only one . . .