by John Ringo
She was not getting soft. Not.
She touched the match to the paper and it flared briefly, with very little light, then disappeared into bare ash. She rubbed her fingers together, waved the match out and dropped it between her legs.
The scar went into her bra. Right by her heart.
* * *
The point paused at the entrance of the defile and looked in cautiously.
The weather, to most people, would fall into the category of "sucks." The clouds had dropped even more, filling the upland valley with fog mixed with rain, sleet and snow as if it couldn't figure out which way it wanted to go.
To Mike it was perfection. It was damned hard to see fifty feet, much less miles, which meant easier for the teams to stay out of sight.
The terrain wasn't bad, either. The clear uplands had been nervous making from the point of view of being spotted. And this side of the mountains was incredibly drier than just sixty miles away. The lowlands were mostly covered in tight, thorny thickets of scrub. Making their way through the tight-packed and dripping scrub had been a nightmare. Mike had figured about twice their movement rate and, with the sun well up, they were late to their rendezvous. But even that wasn't bad; they'd spotted two Chechen patrols before they themselves were spotted and let them waft right by. Tight scrub was pretty scrub in his view.
Now to find out if anybody else was going to make the show. God only knew when Yosif's team would make it. If any of them did. He'd half convinced himself Yosif couldn't find his way across a paddock, much less over the mountains and through this maze.
The designated rendezvous point was a narrow ravine packed with rhododendron. The stuff was normal in upland areas like this but on this side of the mountains it was only found in narrow clefts like this where there was sufficient water.
The area was large enough to hide all three teams, away from noticeable trails and, of course, good concealment given the nature of the vegetation. The only question was whether the Chechens had thought the same thing.
The majority of the team was on the slope of the larger valley the ravine intersected. There was a small stream running down the ravine, it's waters still free of ice, and a larger one, fed by the glacier they'd crossed, running down the valley. To get to the ravine they'd have to cross the river but that wasn't the problem.
The point team, Ivan Shaynav and Mikhail Ferani, were cautiously observing the entrance from about fifty meters away. They apparently didn't like what they were seeing. Mike, peering through the underbrush in the way, wasn't sure what had them spooked.
Finally, Mikhail slithered forward on his belly to the juncture of the two streams and took up a position by a boulder. Back in his ghillie suit, over the heavy arctic wear they were all still encumbered by, he was hard enough for Mike to see. Probably any Chechen sentry wouldn't have noticed him, yet.
Mike saw him start, though and then look around. Finally, clambering to his feet, Mikhail lifted one hand, middle-finger extended in a rude gesture directed across the river.
A figure in an identical ghillie suit stood up, right at the edge of the open area, and threw back the hood of the suit. Then Yosif Devlich waved and tossed a rope across the stream.
Fucking Yosif had beat them to the rendezvous. Mike couldn't figure out why he'd ever been worried.
* * *
"Do we know the status on the Georgian mission?" the president asked. It was seven o'clock in Washington and about time for him to retire. Especially since he was planning on being up early. "And do we have Predators up?"
"We've got four on standby, Mr. President," the National Security Advisor replied. "Two will take off at midnight and two more just before dawn. All four are CIA UCAVs with Hellfire missiles. Just in case they can be useful. We do not have a status on the teams at this time. We caught a glimpse of what was probably one of them on a satellite pass last night. But the next pass we'd lost them. There has been no special movement noted in the Chechen camps on the last two passes."
"B-2 is on the way," the Secretary of Defense added. "Flying light. Two special munitions."
"Two?" the president asked, curiously.
"There is always a possibility that one will be a dud," the SecDef pointed out. "Probably not, but..."
"I don't want to use even one," the president said.
"Naturally," the SecDef agreed. "But you will if you must."
"If I must," the president replied with a sigh. "Early morning, gentlemen. I want you all to get some sleep tonight."
"And are you going to take your own advice?" the SecDef asked.
"As well as I can."
* * *
"Whatcha got, Lydia?" Nielson asked.
The girl had asked to meet him in the command room and had arrived with a couple of documents and a flash stick. She stuck that in the room's computer and brought up a mapping program that flashed the data on the wall.
Nielson was looking at intercepts. People had been transmitting and each of the transmissions was triangulated. There were probably more than were on the screen, the girls were constantly getting intercepts, but he was looking at quite a few already.
"I'm not sure what I have," Lydia admitted. "It might be butterflies in my stomach from the baby. But we have been picking up a large number of slowly moving intercepts. They break down into two types, medium range radios and satellite phones. We, of course, don't get all the satellite phones, especially at this range, but we are picking up most of the radio transmissions, we think."
She keyed a command and most of the intercepts disappeared. Then, apparently in a time loop, they began reappearing. They seemed to march east to west across the map, staying mostly close to roads through the mountains between Russia and Azerbaijan that were effectively owned by the Chechens.
"What we don't have is internals item one," Lydia continued. "The transmissions are brief, frequency skipping and encrypted. That, in and of itself, is a data item. Whoever is transmitting has good communication security. There are seven satellite phones. There are about nine radios. They only transmit once to twice per day. They are color coded as you can see. We filtered for any that were fixed. Sat Phone 28, though, appears to communicate with Sat Phone 19, one of the ones pegged as Chechen Command, about once per day."
Nielson fiddled with the controls for a moment then shrugged.
"Could you do something for me?" he asked. "Zoom in on one of the radios. Then follow it as it moves. Stop at each of the transmissions. I'll need to see the previous transmission at each point. I'd like to see approximate road distance between each of the transmissions."
He pulled out a pad of paper and watched as the girl expertly massaged the data out of the computer. Given that he'd been using computers for a few years and she had only been introduced to them about six months ago he should have been better than Lydia but there was no question who had the better tech knowledge. So he just watched. At each point he made a note and nodded for her to go on.
He looked at the pad when she was done then shook his head.
"Do it again," he said. "Zoom in close on the terrain on each."
After the third he nodded.
"Stop," he said, pointing at the screen. "River crossing. The previous one was a road junction. The one before that a pass."
"And that means?" Lydia asked.
"Phase points," Nielson replied. "It's a unit calling in as it passes each phase point in what looks very like a route march on foot. They are moving west, how far we can't know. But the Pansiki is the obvious destination. The sat phone communicating to headquarters is going to be the commander of the overall unit. Probably he checks in each day to give overall progress reports. But it's what we don't know that is important."
"Which is?" Lydia asked.
"How big the total unit is and where, exactly, they are going. Send a priority request through to Pierson for a satellite pass on anything they have. And send this package on to Colonel Chechnik along with my analysis. See if the Russians have anything. G
ood job. And, no, it wasn't the pregnancy hormones; I've got the same butterflies."
* * *
Chechnik looked at the communiqué and swore. That was confirmation, not that he really needed it; Dassam had never been wrong.
He still knew the answer, but he typed up a short report and sent it to the priority attention of the President.
Then he sent a reply to the Keldara: The Russian Intelligence Service had no knowledge of a Chechen movement through that region.
In other words, time to lie.
* * *
"You made good time," Mike muttered, stripping off the arctic parka and wiping his face.
Yosif, Sawn and Mike were huddled under a poncho "hooch", a temporary shelter made by stringing the poncho up to the rhododendrons, having a command huddle. Sawn was mostly out of the climbing gear while Mike was still working on his.
"Thank you, Kildar," Yosif replied, grinning slightly. "But I think we had the easier route, yes? Nonetheless, Jitka broke a leg dropping in a small crevasse. I left him and Pavilis behind, as ordered. They should be fine; plenty to eat and fuel and well hidden. We found a cave near the head of the ravine. Our excess gear is cached there. Perhaps we can retrieve it sometime."
"Not until the Georgians or the Russians or somebody combs the Chechens out of these hills," Mike said.
"We spotted two of their patrols since we left the mountains," Sawn noted. All three of them had their voices pitched low, but not whispering. A whisper would carry further. However, one reason Mike had picked the spot was that the stream would tend to cover the inevitable sound of everyone getting out of the damned arctic gear and into something marginally more comfortable. It would also conceal the sound of quiet conversation.
He debated whether to strip out of the long johns, it was still cold as hell, and decided to leave them on. They were going to be here til dark and might as well be marginally comfortable.
"Get Sawn a guide to the cave," Mike continued. "Sawn, cache your gear and then get your guys bedded down. This might be the last rest they get for a while."
"Will do, Kildar," Sawn said, shrugging into his combat fleece.
"No sign of Padrek?" Mike asked.
"Not..." Yosif replied as a light bird call sounded through the trees. "Not until just now..."
* * *
Adams watched as the point team entered the rendezvous point, a rhododendron choked pile of boulders. They hadn't seen hide nor hair of anyone on their way down the mountains. In fact, they hadn't seen sign of anyone in days. It was like the Keldara were the only people in the universe at the moment. Which was just the way he liked it.
The point came back in view for a moment and waved, indicating the area was unoccupied. Which was good in one way and bad in another. It was nearly noon, the sun well up, and he had hoped the other teams had beaten them in.
He moved out with the group, scanning the area for signs of life. So far, so good. He had four hours to see who was going to make the show. Then it was game time.
* * *
Katya led Marina back into the room, ignoring the looks of the men. She'd taken to keeping her head down, her hood pulled up, so that there was less to look at. But the Russian guards hadn't had much in the way of women lately and had been guarding Marina for a couple of weeks. They had to be jacking off on a regular basis.
As always she led the girl to the bed for the evening. This evening though, she slid the blindfold off and held up her finger to her lips.
Marina blinked at the dim light in the room. The flickering kerosene lamp was probably the first light she'd seen in weeks. She looked frightened, too. She had to know that if they were caught there would be punishment. And it was almost time for Kurt's evening check.
Katya gestured for her to take off her clothes and began stripping herself, fast. She'd checked, carefully, to make sure there were no video pickups in the room. As long as they weren't heard they could get away with the switch.
Marina's eyes widened in fear again and Katya paused and shook her head. She gestured to herself then the bed. Then she gestured to Marina and outside. Finally she leaned forward to the girl's ear.
"Pull the hood up. Keep your head down. When you leave, turn right. Down the street three houses is a long building. Almost empty but some beds. Go in there and sit on the bed that has a blanket on it. Someone will come for you. Now strip and take my clothes."
Marina pulled back and looked at her wide-eyed again then started to strip, fast.
The two changed clothes and, at the last moment, Katya applied the fake scar. She didn't know what glue J had used but it still stuck to her chin. She hadn't applied make-up on purpose. For one thing, Marina didn't have any and for another she was afraid the scar wouldn't hold if she did.
When both were changed she got in the bed, put on the blindfold and held her hands up to be shackled.
Marina had been tied up enough but she'd never done it. With some coaching, conducted in gestures, she managed to get the shackles on, tight but not too tight. Then she covered Katya with the blanket and left.
There was a chance that Kurt would notice the deception, but slight. He would expect to see the girl in the bed, as she always was.
Katya lay there, unmoving, as the girl left. There was no outcry so presumably she made it out of the building. Now to see if that blond killer would notice the exchange. If so she put her life expectancy as slightly lower than a snowflake in a fire. But that was the nature of the job. If she wanted safe she should have stayed in the caravanserai.
* * *
Marina kept her head down the whole way to the building. She had been in the town for two weeks and never seen it but she didn't look around. What she did know was the sounds and they were normal. God keep that they stayed normal. This had been a nightmare. All she knew was that the men wanted her father to do something and that he had been cooperating. Given what he did for a living she could imagine what that might be.
She stopped at the door of the building she thought the whore, or the girl who acted the whore, meant. Opening it she saw that it was filled with beds and otherwise nearly empty. One had a blanket on it and she went over and sat down on it.
She wasn't sure what to feel. She wasn't tied up anymore but she also wasn't free. There was no way she could get out of the town on her own. All she could do was hope. But it was more hope than she had had in weeks.
It was a seeming eternity before the door opened and a hugely fat man came in. She recalled that wheezing breath from when the new whore had been brought to the house. He was the girl's pimp. Her pimp, now, for as long as she could pull off the deception.
"You've been sold," the man said, wheezingly. "And the German says that you aren't needed anymore. So come along."
"Yes, sir," Marina said, keeping her head down.
She followed the man out of the building to a nearly deserted café. There were only five men in the room, one a large, powerful looking man with the most evil face she had ever seen.
"This is the girl I told you about," Yaroslav said, settling into an overstressed chair. "She is beautiful, no? Ten thousand euros."
"I can barely see her face and nothing of her body," the man replied. "A thousand."
"It is a cold, wet night and I am tired," Yaroslav said. "Nine thousand or I take her back."
The haggling was brief. They settled at six thousand.
"No profit for me but I finally have these damned women off my hands," Yaroslav sighed, taking the money. "I think it is time to find a better place for business."
"Wherever you go you seem to find women dropped on you," the man said, standing up and taking Marina by the wrist. "If you try to run, bitch, I will pound you into a pulp."
"I won't run," Marina promised. Had she been released from the men holding her only to be sold as a whore? Was that why the girl had changed with her? But, if so, where had that fake scar come from.
* * *
Chapter Thirty
The President walk
ed into the Situation Room carrying a fresh cup of coffee. He settled into his seat and just sat there, eyes closed, head down. Possibly praying, possibly just preparing his mind for the day. Or both. After a moment he looked up at the Air Force major in charge of Predator data.
"What's our status on the Predators?" the president asked.
"We have two...on station, Mr. President," the major said, nervously. "We have one more on the way to the target area."
"I thought we had four?" the president said, calmly.
"One crashed on the way to the target, sir," the major replied with a gulp. "There's a major storm in the area. We don't actually have observation of the target area. The Predators are flying blind. The pilots inform me they're just trying to keep them in the air, much less get a view of the operation."