by John Ringo
“What about the men?” Thomas asked, frowning. “If you’re talking about tenant farmers, the men aren’t going to have much income either.”
“Ah, well,” Mike said, quirking up one cheek. “There’s a brochure about the Mountain Tiger Militia in there, too.”
“I read it,” Thomas said, his brow furrowing. “I thought it was a joke, all that about defending the valley from Chechens and stuff.”
“Not at all,” Mike replied. “The men get paid as part of the militia. Some of the women, too. Actually, what you’re looking at is mostly a militia team. The girls that are chatting up the customers are intelligence specialists. Most of them speak two to three languages and are experts in electronic intercept or intelligence analysis. The men are militia members, at least as well trained as American Rangers and all of them with combat experience. They lost a member just a few days ago.”
“And they’re selling beer?” Thomas asked, tilting his head to the side.
“And they’re selling beer,” Mike agreed. “So that they can get some income into the valley that’s not dependent upon the Kildar. That being me.”
“And if they get so successful they’re independent of the Kildar?” Thomas asked.
“Then I’ll still have a very nice house in a very nice valley,” Mike said, grinning. “And part ownership in a very nice brewery.”
“So what do you do, Mr. Jenkins?” Thomas asked. “Where’d your money come from? And how’d you end up in Georgia?”
“Well, if I told you that I’d have to kill you,” Mike said, then laughed. “Seriously, I was a SEAL, then I started a company that made classified communications widgets. That was before 9/11 and I made money but not world class. Then, after 9/11, the widgets got very important and I got bought out by a major defense contractor. After that I didn’t have much to do. I didn’t want to start another company so I travelled. While I was travelling I literally got lost and ended up in Brigadoon, so to speak. And here we are.”
“Starting up a brewery isn’t cheap,” Thomas said. “You made that much money selling to the defense contractor?”
“Close enough,” Mike said, shrugging. “Most of the stuff I’ve done, including the widgets, has been classified. I was sort of serious that I couldn’t explain where all the money came from. But the brewery had some help from the IMF as a matching grant. And the barley is, more or less, free. Ditto the hops and the other ingredients. We’ll have to buy some extra stuff but not much. And the labor is cheap to set up. If we can get a fair price for the beer, we’ll make money. The Keldara will make money. It will take me a while to recoup my investment, maybe more time than a lot of investors would like. But I’m in it for the long haul and it’s mostly for the Keldara.”
“You like them,” Thomas said, gesturing with his chin at one of the girls who was chatting with two guys, both of whom had the expression of pole-axed oxen.
“They’re damned good people,” Mike said, thoughtfully. “Damned good.”
“And the girls are pretty, too,” Thomas said, grinning. “Where’d you get the model on the poster?” he asked, gesturing into the brewery. In pride of place over the bar was a poster-sized pic of Katrina. She had a bottle of beer that was foaming over and her lips were pursed to sip off the excess. The caption was “Are You Tiger Enough?” Mike was pretty sure that when that got back to the elders, and got explained to a few of them, he was in for a very tough conversation.
“Katrina Makanee,” Mike said, grinning. “She’s Vanda’s… cousin or something. I took the picture.”
“You’re kidding,” Thomas said, his eyes wide. “I figured you had it shopped out.”
“Nope,” Mike said, still smiling. “I took all the pics in the brochures and the posters.” The pic of the girls lined up with their bottles had been made into a banner that fronted the entire display.
“You’re a man of many talents, Mr. Jenkins,” Thomas said. “My partners and I would like to meet with you and your manager this evening.”
“Up to Gurum,” Mike said, wondering what was happening out at Nellis and when he’d be called out there. “He’ll set up the schedule. I may not be available; I have some other business going on here in town.”
“Well, I hope we’re able to meet,” Thomas said, heaving himself to his feet. “It was a pleasure to meet you.” Thomas paused and looked at the booth, shaking his head. “They really have to fight terrorists?”
“We had an attack by a short battalion, about two hundred, a month ago,” Mike said, gesturing with his chin. “The guy heaving a barrel was one of the snipers. The girl chatting with that guy in the blue shirt was on a mortar. The redhead serving beer was handling the communications. So… yes.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I say we can use that,” Thomas said, thoughtfully. “Beer drinkers tend to be patriotic. ‘Buy Keldara beer and you’re helping kill terrorists.’ ”
“And various other bastards,” Mike said, thinking of the most recent mission.
“Kildar,” Daria said, walking over. “There is a call from the suite. You have a call there.”
Which was where the secure phone had been installed. Game time.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Mike said, nodding at Thomas. “I hope to meet you later.”
“Good luck in your other business,” Thomas said, nodding in farewell then turning to Daria with a smile.
* * *
“Jenkins,” Mike said, leaning back in the seat.
“Mike, there’s a jet waiting for you at the airport,” Pierson said. “We need you out there by three.”
“Can do,” Mike said, sighing. “Why three?”
“You’ll see,” Pierson said, cutting the connection.
Chapter Thirty-One
Nellis Air Force Base was one of the most secure bases in the United States. Plunked in the middle of thousands of miles of just about nothing, the base was called “Dreamland” since it was the center for testing the most advanced concept aircraft in the world. It was from Dreamland that the entire stealth series of aircraft had been envisioned, designed and produced.
So when Mike landed, he wasn’t expecting a tour and he didn’t get one.
The G-V jet, with window shades covered, rolled to a stop inside a hangar before the door opened and a polite but definite Air Force SP led him across the hangar, down a windowless corridor and up to a security station by an elevator.
“Mr. Jenkins, your badge,” the SP sergeant manning the desk said, nodding. “Please place your hand on the scanner and your eye up to the cup.”
Mike hadn’t used a retinal scanner before but it was pretty straightforward.
“You don’t have a retinal scan,” Mike pointed out as a badge with his picture on it was handed across the desk.
“We do now,” the SP sergeant said. “And your fingerprints. We normally match them, but we didn’t have a comparison set.”
“Don’t let them get out,” Mike said, frowning. “Where?”
“The elevator,” the SP said, waving. “Wait for it, swipe your badge through the reader. It will take you to your floor. Have a nice day, sir.”
Mike got on the elevator unaccompanied and swiped his card. There wasn’t even a readout so he had no idea how many floors he was descending but it was pretty far.
“Deep here,” Pierson said, greeting him with a smile when the elevator door opened.
“And cold, too,” Mike added; the air conditioning had to be set to about sixty.
“It’s for the computers,” Pierson said, waving him into the government-green corridor directly in front of the elevator, which was at junction. There were doors down all the corridors, but they all had electronic locks on them. It looked like something from a nightmare and Mike wondered how many of the workers down here had cracked over the years. “I’m told there are more Crays in this facility than any single facility in the world.”
“I thought NSA had a lock on them,” Mike said, frowning.
“And do you
really think they’re in D.C.?”
* * *
“You guys look like you’ve been working hard,” Mike said when he entered the conference room. Vanner, Carlson-Smith and Greznya were sitting at the table just about surrounded by paper.
“We have,” Vanner said, crossly. “I thought thirty-six hour days had ended when I got out of the Corps.”
“If you’ve actually been going that long, you need to crap out,” Mike said seriously. “Judgement really starts slipping after thirty or so.”
“We’re about done here,” Vanner said, shrugging. “There are seven Brits in the files, twenty-three Americans of various political grades and the rest are other lads. We’ve broken them down by country and created a special DVD for each country indexed to the files along with a… prospectus of their actions in Rozaje.”
“The big winner numerically appears to be the Nips,” Carlson-Smith said. “No real surprise. But the prime minister is going to be very surprised what his under minister for external security has been getting up to.”
“That’s the guy who more or less runs the JDF, right?” Mike asked, shaking his head. “Okay, if our people are willing to cut you loose, we’ll borrow a secure vault and fly you out to Vegas for a short R and R. Pierson?”
“They need to wait a bit,” the colonel said, frowning. “And I’d suggest a shower and a shave. We’re having some VIP visitors in about a half an hour.”
“Christ,” Vanner said, standing up and stretching his back. “We don’t exactly have a brief set up.”
“Just get cleaned up, Patrick,” Mike said. “And you too, Grenzya. Your clothes are here, right?”
“And your plane,” Pierson pointed out. “And its pilots.”
“I’ll need to keep it here until this stuff is ready to go,” Mike said, shrugging. “Can do?”
“Can do,” Pierson said. “Where’s the index?”
“Here,” Vanner said, sliding it across the table to him. “Tabulated by country, then by name. Each of them has a short synopsis of who they are in the real world and what they did at Rozaje. There’s a pack of DVDs, too…”
“I’ve got it,” Mike said, sitting down. “Colonel, could you find someone to scrounge up the showers and whatnot for these three?”
“There’s a security issue with the Brit data,” Carlson-Smith said, uneasily.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mike said, opening up the thick file folder. “Ah, England, let’s start there…”
“Mr. Carlson-Smith, if you’ll come with me,” Pierson said, smiling. “He does that to get on your nerves, you know,” he added as they entered the corridor.
“And it works,” the MI-6 agent admitted. “I could wish we’d never let that stuff leave jolly old England.”
“The DVDs are in Albania,” Vanner pointed out.
“So you’ve said,” Carlson-Smith replied. “Repeatedly. And how are we going to get our hands on those I’d like to know. Lunari’s a place angels fear to tread.”
“We won’t send angels,” Pierson said, opening up one of the doors with his passcard. “Gentlemen, showers and clean clothes await. Miss, if you’ll accompany me. By the way, the door locks when I close it. Just hit the buzzer when you’re ready to head back. You have about twenty-three minutes.”
* * *
Mike looked up as a man in a suit stepped through the door unannounced.
“Who the hell are you?” Mike asked, then stopped and nodded as the President followed the secret service agent into the room. “I must be getting tired, Mr. President.”
“I can understand that, Mike,” the President said, walking over to shake his hand. “I was told some of your intel people, and a Brit, were going to be here.”
“They’ve been on straight ops for the last couple of days, Mr. President,” Mike replied as the President was followed in the room by the national security advisor, the secretary of Defense and a man Mike didn’t recognize.
“Step outside,” the President said to the three secret service agents that had come in the room. “You’re not in on this one.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” the lead agent said, nodding to the other two.
“I thought they were supposed to argue about that sort of thing,” Mike said, smiling and standing up. “And I’m at the head of the table.”
“Sit, Mike,” the President said, collapsing in one of the seats. “We have an hour to do this. I’m on my way to California for a meeting with the governor and to look over the latest damage from an earthquake. Which was fortuitous since it meant I could clear my schedule for this meeting.” He looked up as Colonel Pierson came in trailed by Vanner, Carlson-Smith and Greznya.
“Mr. President,” Mike said, waving at the three. “MI-6 Agent John Carlson-Smith, Patrick Vanner, formerly of the U.S. Marines and NSA, and Greznya Kulcyanov of the Keldara.”
“A pleasure to meet you all,” the President said, standing up to shake their hands. “Mr. Carlson-Smith, I want to assure you that I’ve spoken with the Prime Minister and he and I are in agreement on the way to implementize this situation.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” the MI-6 agent said uneasily.
“I’m John Parais,” the unnamed man said, extending a hand. “undersecretary of defense for intelligence gathering and analysis. As soon as we’re done here, we’ll get you on a secure line to Lord Arnold so he can clear up any questions.”
“Yes, sir,” the MI-6 agent said, apparently relieved that there was another professional in the room.
“I’m also going to remain here with a small team,” Parais continued. “Not to look at the data, though. We’ve got some additional intel on Lunari.”
“And it’s Lunari that we need to talk about,” the secretary of defense said.
“Indeed,” the President agreed. “Don, you take it.”
“We need those DVDs,” the secretary of defense said, leaning forward. “And it’s been agreed that, yes, Mike, you’ll be the one to secure them. That does remove various problems while effectively dumping them on your shoulders. But the President has managed to convince the prime minister that you have broad enough shoulders.”
“Thanks,” Mike said dryly.
“But we do need the DVDs or… how we would prefer to handle this simply won’t work,” the NSA said.
“Agreed,” Mike said. “And I suppose sending in Delta…”
“Has been discussed and ruled out,” the President said. “We need someone who is highly deniable. Admittedly, there has been—”
“Enough contact that I’m sliding out of that realm,” Mike said with a chuckle. “But I’m the best thing you’ve got.”
“That’s it in a nutshell,” the secretary said. “The same goes for the various other black ops groups. When you hit Lunari, there are probably going to be too many traces left behind to totally deny which group did it. Bodies among other things. I’m sure you’d prefer to pull out all of your dead—”
“We try,” Mike said, remembering the Viking funeral.
“But you might not be able to,” the secretary continued. “Ditto on Delta or ANV or ILS. Yes, they’ll go in sterile, but.”
“But,” Mike said. “The problem being that I’m sure I can’t take the bordello with one team and I’m not sure I could do it with the whole Keldara. And if I call in the Families, it leaves us uncovered at home. Bad things can happen when that happens.”
“Which is why a Special Forces team will arrive in Georgia the day after tomorrow to train in-country militias,” the national security advisor said, smiling. “Three teams, actually, with a company of Rangers in augmentation. Do you think that will be enough?”
“Yes,” Mike said. “But they’d better be carefully briefed on Keldara culture.”
“Your Colonel Nielson will remain in place as a liaison,” the secretary said. “He’s being temporarily reactivated so he’ll outrank the team commander. Effectively, he’ll be in command.”
“Oh,” Mike said. “So much for d
eniability.”
“It’s still there,” the NSA said. “Thin but there. We do this sort of thing all the time with various groups. The Keldara are well liked by the Georgian government.”
“How much do they know about this?” Mike asked.
“Not much,” the NSA said. “And the less the better.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t want them trying to get their hands on the booty,” Mike said, shrugging. “Not that they would. Trust me, the room that this is going in will be wired to destroy everything. And the Keldara will trigger it even if I’m dead.”
“Works for me,” the President said. “But you’re going to have to get the DVDs from Lunari. And we’re going to need the American data.”
“Vanner?” Mike asked.
“I have it here,” Vanner said. “Once we had the basic database set up, it was easy enough to pull out the Americans. Greznya?”
“Here, sir,” the Keldara girl said, pulling a folder out and carrying it over to the President.
“What about Grantham?” the President asked. “We got a brief description from Colonel Pierson, but…”
“Here, sir,” Vanner said, turning to his computer and then stopping. “This is…”
“Just run it, Marine,” the President said. “I understand what we are dealing with.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Vanner said, bringing up the image on the plasma screen over Mike’s head and explaining why it couldn’t be Senator Grantham murdering the girl.
“John?” the President asked, turning to Parais.
“I’d like confirmation from my own analysts,” Parais said, frowning. “But I’m not going to ask for it. But with the original, I will do my own confirmation. Pending that, I have to agree with Mr. Vanner. That is not Senator Grantham.”