by John Ringo
"The lips are all wrong, though."
"Yes, they are."
"The team liaison is dead. Vanner is critical. Adams is shot up."
Nielson spun in place again, arms still crossed.
"How?" Mike asked, hoarsely.
"A trap," Nielson replied. "One meant to catch you."
Mike stood up very slowly and walked to the painting. He touched the shoulder of the girl, lightly, then turned.
"Call Chief D'Allaird. You know the Dragon?"
"Yeah, I know the Dragon."
"Paint it black."
Chapter Four
"The good news is that if it's coming in on anything other than a freighter, we've got some time."
Admiral Ryan had to admit that was true. The storm wasn't a tropical storm or hurricane, those came later in the year. But it was a late winter cold front that had damned near the same effects. The wind howled, the rain poured, lightning flashed and there were small boat advisories all up and down the coast.
"Some good news for a change," Ryan said, leaning against the wall of the room.
If only that damned SEAL had told them! They would have cross-checked Sabat's movements and figured out it couldn't be him. If they'd picked up the data these Keldara characters had, it would have been an obvious ruse.
On the other hand, he'd looked at the data they were given and knew it wasn't all on their shoulders. Sabat was clearly shown on everyone else's data as being in Yemen. The Keldara weren't given the full update. Which had been pointed out to him, in very small words, by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. He wasn't sure why DC thought these guys walked on water, but. . .
Then there was the third point. The guy posing as Sabat had waltzed straight through ever system designed to detect people just like him. And the Keldara had turned him up in less than three hours. Turned him up while their chief was in a meeting and snatched the supposed terrorist, successfully, despite being attacked from behind in a planned assault.
The Keldara hadn't fucked up, he had. As the Chairman was also good enough to point out. He'd chosen to give them the filtered database. But was he just supposed to hand over everything to these damned people?
"Sir, can I ask something?" the DEA rep asked.
"Sure."
"Why are you standing here?"
"I was told to expect a high-level delegate," the admiral said. "I was told that he'd be arriving by this door. And flying in."
"No planes," the DEA rep continued, looking out the door of the terminal. "The big guys can barely get out of Miami-Dade. No helos. Not for a couple of days."
The words had barely gotten out of his mouth when the sound of rotors could be heard through the storm.
"What the fuck is that?"
There was music, too. A slow beat and a man singing.
"Warren Zevon I believe," the admiral said, shaking his head as a black Hind dropped out of the storm. "The Envoy."
The Hind didn't bother with the marked helo-pad, instead dropping by the terminal with bare clearance for the rotors. As a piece of driving on a clear day it would have been impressive. With the storm it was amazing.
As a fork of lightning rippled the horizon, the door of the bird slid open and a man in casual clothes, slacks, polo shirt, nice shoes, got out in the driving rain. If he noticed that it was pouring it was not apparent. He was medium height with a heavy build and brown hair that flowed onto his forehead in the storm. He strode through the downpour, not bothering to duck the rotors, straight up to the door.
"You Ryan?" the man said.
"Admiral Ryan, yes," the admiral said, straightening up. "And you are?"
"You can call me the Kildar," the man said, turning to the DEA rep, his head tracking like a turret. "Who are you?"
"Bob Johnson," the DEA rep said, sticking out his hand. "What kind of a name is Kildar?"
"The kind that will cut your fucking hand off if you don't pull it back," Mike said, tracking back to the admiral. "I read the report on this clusterfuck on the bird over. If you fuck with me I will have you chipping paint the next morning. In Diego Garcia. Are we clear?"
"Clear," the admiral said, his jaw flexing.
"You are going to open Harmony and every other base you've got, fully," Mike continued. "But my top intel guy is in a coma in the hospital so I need an intel spec familiar with your systems and DEA's and FBI's and every other fucking acronym. I need her by tomorrow. Somebody who is not PC and doesn't give a fuck what happens to terrorists. Tell her to take a plane to Nassau, send her data to me, pic, name the whole deal. This time don't leave anything out. I'll take over from there."
"Her?" Ryan asked, raising his eyebrows.
"All my intel people but one are women," Mike said. "The one is in the hospital. I'm not going to explain to some cockhound know-it-all to sit the fuck down. Her. Tomorrow. In Nassau." He spun on his heel and headed back out into the storm.
"Where are you going?" the DEA rep asked, sharply. "The command center is here."
"I'm going where you dick-brains can't fuck my op up," Mike said, pausing but not turning around. "Your job from here on out is to give me intel. I'll take it from there."
* * *
Mike walked in the hospital room and shook his head.
"You grow 'em up, you let 'em wear shoes. . ."
"Hey, Boss," Adams said, wincing. "I'm good. Get these canker merchants to let me go." He was wheezing as he said it.
"You've got GSWs to the upper chest," Mike pointed out. "That's not something you just up and walk away from. Not even you, Master Chief."
"You see Vanner?" Adams said, looking away.
"Yeah," Mike said. "Still in ICU. Doc says he's probably going to make it. But he's unconscious, still. Not a coma they tell me, just sleeping. I told the Doc I could wake him up if he wanted me to. They didn't think it was very funny. But I need him back at work."
"I can work," Adams said, flexing his jaw. "If you still want me."
"I was stressed," Mike said, walking over and sitting on the bed. "I'd like to have you back. You okay with coming back?"
"I'm good," the Master Chief said, looking away. "Sorry about what I said."
"Not an issue," Mike replied. "I'd heard the cry-baby line before, by the way. From the team chief. Right before I told him to shove it up his ass. But I've had a long time to think about it, too. . ."
"I was wrong to say it," Adams said. "Whatever you are, you're not a crybaby."
"Wrong," Mike said. "From his perspective, from yours, I am. Want to hear the rest?"
"This crybaby time?" Adams said. "Because I could cry a fucking bucket. I really fucked up."
"No, you didn't," Mike said. "I did. I sent you out on something that I knew was over your head. That's my fuck-up, Chuck. And that's what this is about. You got your thinking cap on, Master Chief?"
"Go," Adams said.
"What's a crybaby?" Mike asked. "I never shed a tear on the teams. Never whined. Never quit. But there was something different about me. I didn't fit in. It came across to the team chief as soft and in a way it is. You're always asking how come I can make the girls happy. That's part of it, too. You starting to get a feeling, here?"
"When you were talking about stalking," Adams said, nodding. "Something about feeling the other guy."
"It's called empathy," Mike said. "But it's more than that. It's a. . . feel for a situation. I don't know if the alarm bells would have gone off on that op or not, but they have from time to time. You remember how I was so heavy on ammo for the raid on the last op?"
"Too much for what we were doing," Adams said, nodding. "Especially since we had to hump it all in."
"I knew that it was going to go to hell," Mike said. "Not how bad, but I knew it was going to go to hell. It's a sense, not just when things are right in front of me but broader. It's one of the reasons I can command well, too. I can sense the needs of the guys, sometimes before they even know they're there. But having that sense. . . it makes me soft. Soft like an M&M
. Crunchy on the outside with a softy candy inside. Not much breaks that shell, but. . ."
"When it breaks," Adams said.
"Yep," Mike said, standing up and heading to the door. "One difference. When it breaks, then reforms, well there's a good side and a bad side. Good side is, there ain't much crybaby there, now. Bad side. . . there ain't much of anything at all."
* * *
Lt. Britney Harder watched, fascinated, as the Lynx helo dropped towards the broad deck of the yacht.
The entire transfer had been interesting. First she'd received a call to report to the SOCOM commander. Not his office, the General. There she'd been handed tickets and told to wear civilian clothes. She was going to Nassau and that was all the General either knew or was going to tell her.
At first she'd been pissed. There was a major op going down right next door in Miami. She'd only caught pieces of it, it wasn't in her compartment, but it was big. Sooner or later she was going to get in. And she knew the op involved fucking muj. Britney seriously wanted a piece of anything that hurt Islamic terrorists. She had scores to settle.
But she hadn't been drawn in and, honestly, she probably wouldn't. She'd drawn the South American shop, the Narc Shop as they put it. There was a low probability that she'd have a chance to do anything about the fucking muj. So flying to the Bahamas wasn't all bad.
When she'd arrived at the airport, though, she hadn't known where to go. When a man walked up and looked her up and down she'd assumed he was just more obvious than normal.
Britney Harder was 5' 5" tall with long, curly, blonde hair, a deeply cleft chin and a gorgeous if underendowed figure. She also had an issue with guys just examining her at close range. She'd gotten over having issues with guys, period, but she still didn't care for jerks who couldn't keep their eyes in their heads.
"Can I help you?" she'd snapped.
"Lt. Harder?" the man had said. Accent. Balkans or Russian. Slavic derivation, anyway.
"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 onto 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, 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 white-caps 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 coversheet. 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.
"Lt. 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."
"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 blonde 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."