Unto The Breach

by John Ringo

  "Kildar," Gretchen said then sighed. "Your damned books. Others have read them at this point so we realize that our mysteries are not so mysterious."

  "It is always the Kildar," Mike said, wonderingly. "And the Kildar is always a foreigner; that's part of the definition. A foreign warrior. Probably a good one. A woman's mystery. Heh. I bet any 'Kildars' that didn't measure up didn't last long, yes?"

  "Please," Gretchen said, frowning.

  "God damn," Mike said, grinning. "That prize bull that Father Makanee asked me to import. Out of stock from America. It was expensive as hell but Genadi agreed that it was important. The local stock was too inbred."

  Gretchen was now looking at the floor, her hands clenched in front of her.

  "I'd wondered how come the first three girls I lay with all came up pregnant, apparently by me," Mike said, wonderingly. "It's because they were 'put to stud' when they were at the most likely point to catch. I'm the Keldara's damned prize bull, aren't I? And all the Kildars before me. Age upon age, century upon century, the best soldiers of each generation, adding to the pool . . . You people have been breeding yourselves as warriors for centuries!"

  "And they have to be good-looking," Gretchen said, sighing. "Pure of form and . . . un-ill. That is, they cannot be of bad blood. What is now called genetic illnesses. If they are, the Keldara avoid breeding with them or, if they cannot, the women kill them, usually with poison, or the children are aborted. The Mothers know of ways to do both. I only found out when I was presented with the Rite."

  "Son of a bitch," Mike said, shaking his head. "I just don't know what to say."

  "Nothing," Gretchen said, looking up pleadingly. "Please. You will say nothing. If the Mothers find out that I said as much as I have . . ."

  "Oh, your mysteries are safe with me," Mike said, grinning. "But if I'm to be the local stud stallion, will you squeal like a mare being bred for me?"

  "Oh, Kildar," Gretchen said, laughing in relief. She slid over into his arms and tucked her face into his neck. "I will do that if you wish. But what I'd really like . . . I have been a very bad girl. Could you spank me? But not more, please?"

  "Oh, I think that can be arranged," Mike said, burying his face in her hair. She'd clearly been stressed, he could smell it on her. But she also had put on a perfume, something like apples. It was just begging for a bite. "But now I wonder if my pattern for this thing is a good idea . . ."

  "You mean this?" Gretchen said, sliding off the couch and getting on her knees. She ran her hand across the g-string and started to undo it. "So far, so good. Let's not break tradition."

  His member was fully engorged when she pulled the g-string down. Between the anticipation, the frustration and, hell, the tits, he was about as ready to burst as he'd been in years.

  Anastasia gave good classes but he wondered where Gretchen had been practicing. She ran her tongue down his dick just once then slid her mouth over it and began to fellate him. And, damn, she was good.

  The girl had to have been practicing. You didn't get suction like that naturally; the jaw and mouth muscles weren't normally exercised that way. But she had purely unreal suction and immediately fell into a slow rhythm of up and down stroking, thumb and finger laced around his dick just right, no teeth, just lips, going in time with the mouth, slowly speeding up . . .

  Mike normally had pretty good control but this time he couldn't help it; he came in her mouth so hard some of the cum must have squirted all the way down her throat.

  Gretchen choked, slightly, but kept sucking, getting every drop. Then she pulled back, swallowed and ran her hand, lightly, down under his balls.

  "Is that what you were worried about, Kildar?" she asked, smiling. "Did that take the edge off?"

  "What were we fighting about?" Mike asked. "That was . . . exquisite. You are exquisite."

  Gretchen had brought a refilled glass of champagne over and she took a sip, swished it around her mouth, swallowed and repeated. Then she slid up next to him, still fingering his dick, and tucked back into his shoulder.

  "Tell me the truth," she whispered. "Do you really like me that much?"

  "Ask yourself this question," Mike said. "I know the girls talk. Did any of them get me off that fast?"

  "No," Gretchen admitted in practically a purr. "Can we see if I can get you off as fast other ways?"

  "What about you?" Mike asked, sliding his hand up under the dress and tickling at her nipples.

  "You always worry about us," Gretchen whispered, breathing in his ear, lightly. "Now you know. We are here for us. For ourselves. I need you, now. I need you inside of me. I need you to be in me, filling me and coming in me. I want it inside of me and on me. I want to be fucked, fucked hard. I want you to fuck me and fill me and come on my beautiful breasts. Will you do that for me, Kildar?"

  Mike was usually pretty good about recharge time. But that had been some sort of a record. He was stiff as a board.

  Normally this was the point where he got really graceful and controlled, making sure that the girl with him either came before he did or, better, at the same time. But he was beyond thought at this point.

  He reached up and tore, rather than unbuttoned, the single button that held the dress up and ripped it down, burying his face in those lovely breasts. He dragged the girl off the couch and onto the floor, pushed up the silk skirt, ripped off the lace panties and took her, hard.

  And she was ready, not just moist but actively wet, and tight. God she was tight and hot. And they were perfectly sized. "Bigger is better" only goes so far. Mike wasn't Long Dong Silver but he was "upper average." Some of the Keldara girls had, Lord bless them, been a bit too small for him. Not Gretchen. As the fairytale went: Just right. Just tight enough that he knew he was filling her, fully.

  The hymen ripped without notice by either of them and as he filled her she screamed, not squealing like a mare being covered but shrieking in pleasure and agony and fulfillment. Screamed like a tiger princess being taken by her striped mate.

  Those beautiful long legs came up and wrapped him in yards of silk and flesh as her fingers dug into his buttocks and she pumped against him, rocking with every thrust and shrieking in joy.

  Mike realized, immediately, that she wasn't just having fun, she was coming for all she was worth, one continuous orgasm that had started as soon as he filled her. Making a women really feel was his greatest desire, whether pleasure or pain. And Gretchen was unquestionably feeling, wrapped in an ecstasy of Biblical proportions. He turned his brain off, gloriously, for once in sex, just turned it off and pounded as hard as he could. No coy games, no positions or different strokes, no who pleases who, just lost himself in glorious skin and hair and smell and that exalted rapture of every sense filled to overflowing. . . .

  Chapter Seven

  "Caravanserai Kildar . . . No, I'm sorry, Colonel, the Kildar is unavailable . . . Colonel, sir, I recognize that, but he really is very very unavailable . . . For some time, sir . . . Sir, I absolutely cannot do that, the Kildar's orders are very specific in this regard . . . Yes, sir, as a matter of fact that is the only person that he said could be put through . . ."

  "Caravanserai Kildar . . . Say again? . . . Yes! . . . Yes, sir . . . Immediately, sir. Yes, Colonel Pierson made that plain but . . . I must warn you, sir . . . Yes, sir . . ."

  Mike opened his eyes at the dawn light, looking at the girl, no the woman, by his side. She was lying with her beautiful blonde head on his shoulder an arm and a leg thrown over him possessively.

  Both were naked, their clothes scattered across the entire suite. A pair of chaps dangled from the bar. The lovely dress, somewhat the worse for wear, lay on the floor by the door. A single stocking was across one of the sconces on the wall. A white shoe was at the head of the bed.

  A quart container of chocolate mousse was on the floor of the kitchen in the middle of one hell of a mess. More marks of mousse led a winding trail, via the bar, the couch and the floor in several places to the bathroom.

&nbs
p; Mike was, frankly, afraid to look in the bathroom.

  He could move pretty easily, which was odd. When he lay in one position for very long he tended to stiffen up, badly. Then he looked at the clock and realized he'd been asleep for maybe thirty minutes.

  He licked his pinkie and wiped some chocolate mousse off her cheek, wondering if he should warn Kiril never to give this girl chocolate, then poked her in the side.

  "Hey, you, wake up," Mike said. "The dawn's a-breakin' and birds a-singin' and all that."

  Gretchen's eyes flew open, momentarily confused, then she looked up at him.

  "Let's do it again," she said, rolling over on top of him and rubbing her breasts on his chest. "And again and again and again . . ." she continued, leaning forward to rub them in his face.

  "I . . ." Mike said, only to have whatever he was going to say muffled by a nipple. Oh, hell, he didn't have anything to do today . . .

  The phone rang.

  That should not have happened. The phone did not ring during the Rite of Kardane God damnit! The phone did not just . . .

  It rang again.

  "Shit!" Mike said, rolling over. If the phone did ring . . .

  And it was the God-damned secure phone! It went through the communications section. They knew better than to put anyone through to him unless it was an absolute emergency. For him.

  "What?" he shouted as soon as he had the headphone on. Fuck checking the scrambler, he just didn't care.

  "Mike, it's David," President Cliff said. "I know that I've caught you at a bad time. I apologize. However, when they wouldn't let Colonel Pierson through, I found it important enough to call direct."

  "Yes, sir," Mike said to the President of the United States.

  Fuck. Gretchen was already hunting for her clothes. By rights, the Rite should be over. He was just going to have to saddle up his horse and take her back and never ever . . .

  FUCK!

  "I need you to come to D.C. and see some people," the President continued. "Colonel Pierson will call your staff and arrange the details. If there's time, and opportunity, I'd love to have you over to the House."

  "I look forward to it," Mike said.

  "In fact, why don't you just plan on staying here?" the President said. "Why get a hotel room when you've got friends in town? Pierson will arrange a cover."

  "Yes, sir," Mike said, trying to clear his head. About thirty seconds before he'd had a gorgeous tit in his mouth. "I'll make sure everything is arranged."

  "Great," the President said. "And, again, I'm sorry for having to break in."

  "Not a problem, sir," Mike said, watching the naked seventeen-year-old coming out of the bathroom with an armload of clothes. "No problem at all. Put it out of your mind."

  "I'm going to D.C. for a day or so," Mike said as he polished off the last of his eggs.

  Mike had passed around the word that he'd like most of the staff to be at breakfast for an "informal brief." It wasn't by any stretch the sort of staff the American military would recognize, fitting the conditions rather than making an American "staff" fit them.

  Nielson now had the title of "colonel" back, although it was very unofficial. For that matter, Adams was a "master chief" and Vanner a "sergeant." The Georgian government did not officially recognize anyone's military status except Mike's, and even that was under a very old law that had been "put back on the books." However, both of them had dealt with Georgian officers and NCOs in the last few months and even those carefully briefed on their equivocal status had treated them exactly as they'd have treated NCOs and officers of equivalent rank in the Georgian forces. Actually, with more respect. Over the summer, several Georgian National Guard units had trained with the Keldara and come away with their heads on a platter.

  The Keldara had built a reputation as first-class mountain infantry and if their "command structure" was a little irregular the Georgian military—faced with an ongoing low-level insurgency in Ossetia, and Chechen control of hundreds of miles of Georgian territory—was not going to look a gift horse too closely in the mouth. The Keldara had shut down the Chechens in their sector and held the back door. That was good enough.

  Mike sprung his surprise at breakfast. It was the best time to get everyone together without putting too much emphasis on things.

  "I'd wondered what the call was about," Nielson said. He took a sip of coffee and pursed his lips. "A job?"

  "Looks like," Mike replied. "Something delicate and 'right up my alley.'–"

  "Which means you're gonna get your ass shot off," Adams grunted.

  "More or less exactly what I thought," Mike replied with a grunted laugh. "Stasia, you up for a quick trip to D.C.? I don't think I'll be staying long but you can probably squeeze in some shopping."

  "I don't have a visa," Anastasia temporized.

  "I'll pull some strings." Mike paused and considered her carefully for a moment. "If you don't actually want to go you don't have to. But I promised I'd take you traveling if it came up. This is traveling."

  "I would like to go, Kildar," Anastasia said, swallowing nervously. "But I hope you are around most of the time."

  "Where we'll be staying I'm sure we can find someone suitable to show you around," Mike said, cryptically. "Trust me. You'll enjoy yourself."

  "Thank you," Anastasia said.

  What was being cautiously ignored was what Anastasia, in her rare joking moments, referred to as "every harem girl's friend": agoraphobia. Anastasia had gone from her parents' small farm to a harem. There, with the exception of occasional trips to nearby Samarkand, she had spent over ten years immured in virtual purdah; the walls of the harem had become her world. When she was bartered away to Mike in return for future "favors" he had made clear that, from his point of view, she was a free agent. He had also promised not only to introduce her to visitors—she had been more like a mobile piece of furniture in the meeting he had attended at the sheik's home—but to take her traveling. However, she had a very real fear of the chaos to be found outside of controlled surroundings. Intelligent, balanced, speaking seven languages, she could barely bring herself to go to Alerrso, population 3,000, within sight of the caravanserai, practically owned by Mike. Wandering around the District of Columbia on her own would be unlikely.

  "Thanks," Mike added. "That works. I think we're done until I see what's up. But I've got the feeling they need, or want, more than me. Make sure the teams are up and ready to go."

  "Am I going?" Vanner asked. "I mean on the op?"

  "Don't know until we know what it is," Mike said.

  "Well, if I do," Vanner added. "Can I get a gun this time?"

  "Mike, one more thing," Nielson said after the others had left the table.

  "Yah?" Mike asked, contemplating how much he was not looking forward to this trip.

  "I finally tracked down a humint guy," the colonel said. "Sorry it took so long."

  Mike pulled his mind back from D.C. for a second and considered that. Earlier in the year, as it became obvious that he had to think about more than just the Chechen threat, he'd asked Nielson to start looking around for a "human intelligence"—humint—operator. Right now, other than picking a few things up in the village and using Katya for insertions, they really didn't have a humint side at all. And they needed one. They should have built a network among the Chechens long before this; the fact that they didn't have one had been eating at him. And, frankly, he'd been willing to think "big" on the humint side, depending on money. So far he, personally, had been in ops ranging from the U.S. to Siberia and most places in between. He wasn't sure he could create an "intelligence agency," but he was willing to give it a very serious shot.

  "Go," Mike replied.

  "Well, I thought it would be easy," Nielson said, grimacing. "Did you know that during the Clinton Administration the humint side in the Agency got cut by right on the order of ninety percent?"

  "No," Mike said with a grimace. "But it doesn't surprise me. Al Gore's 'reinventing government.' They cut a bunch
of government employees, but they all seemed to come out of DOD and intel. I swear, every damned day I find another reason to lay 9/11 at Clinton and his ilk's feet."

  "Anyway, with that many people on the street I figured I could find somebody good pretty quick," Nielson said. "Until recently, though, no such luck. Most of them have put up the cloak and dagger and weren't willing to go out in the cold again for any money. And some that were . . . well, let's just say that some of the people that got cut needed to be."

  "Nature of any bureaucracy," Mike replied with a grin. "Let's not get big enough to be called a bureaucracy."

  "But I finally found one guy," Nielson said. "Or, rather, he found me. Only name I've got is Jay. At least, that's the name that anybody knows. First I got sent an encryption code for e-mail then an e-mail out of the blue. He had heard I was looking, is sort of interested and had checked us out before calling."