by John Ringo
"Wonder what he found out?" Mike asked.
"I dunno," the colonel said with a grimace. "He's . . . pretty close to the vest."
"Go figure."
"I checked him out, though, as well," Nielson continued. "As well as I could. As I said, maybe somewhere in Langley there's a file that has his real name on it. But he's a known player under 'Jay.' Very well known."
"That could be bad," Mike said with a frown.
"If he ever used the same name twice, except with higher, it might be," Nielson admitted. "But the guys I contacted that knew him, or knew of him . . . Well, among other things, I couldn't get a fixed description. He was, variously, blonde to black hair, every eye color you could name, pudgy to skinny as a rail, no chin, big chin . . . You get the picture. And these are people who have met him in person. Ever heard about the CIA switching around the men's rooms and women's rooms sign in the KGB headquarters?"
"No, but it sounds like a pretty good laugh," Mike said, smiling.
"Yeah, well, he had a piece of that," the colonel said, shaking his head. "In the intel community, he's what spec ops would think of as a Son-Tay Raider."
The Son-Tay raid was one of the most magnificent failures in history. It was a large-scale raid, very late in the Vietnam War, intended to recapture a large number of prisoners of war from the North Vietnamese. It had been meticulously planned, expertly personneled and perfectly performed. The only problem being that when the raiders reached the objective, the prisoners had already been moved. They, nonetheless, slaughtered the guards with precision and "stacked them up like cord-wood."
Son-Tay Raiders were legends in the spec-ops community. The failure had been at a much higher pay grade than anyone on the op. They had performed a difficult mission flawlessly.
"That good," Mike said. "Okay, if the mountain's not going to come to Mohammed . . ."
"He said he can meet anywhere in the D.C. area with at least a day's notice," Nielson said, raising an eyebrow.
"Get ahold of him," Mike replied. "Arrange a meet."
"Will do," Nielson said, standing up. "If that is all, Kildar? I have a previously scheduled meeting with Flopsy."
"Get out of here, you old goat," Mike replied with a grin. "But keep me updated."
"Will do."
"Captain Hardesty," Mike said, walking up to the door of the Gulfstream.
"Mr. Jenkins," the pilot said. "I swore the last trip was going to be the last, you know."
Mike regularly chartered with Chatham Aviation, a small but select group out of England. And about half the time there were . . . issues. The first time he'd flown with Hardesty, a former RAF Tornado pilot, he had had to change names, twice, turned up with quite a bit of blood on him at one point and casually instructed the pilot, during a trip to Paris, France, that he might want to "deploy the plane a bit away from Paris, probably southeast given the winds . . ." a day before it was revealed a nuclear weapon had almost gone off in the city.
But the last trip had really beat all. That time "Mr. Jenkins" had requested a "somewhat larger jet . . . about enough to handle a company of infantry . . ." and had turned up with forty heavily armed retainers and a string of what could only be described as "ladies of the evening" in tow. The armaments, ranging from pistols to rocket launchers, had been casually but rapidly stowed in the cargo compartment and the group boarded somewhat hastily. As if, for example, they were being chased. And on takeoff Hardesty had been pretty sure he'd caught a tracer flying by his windscreen. He'd seen a few in his time. But whoever was, possibly, shooting was pretty bad because they'd managed to miss an entire 737.
However, things had gone from bad to worse during a petrol stop in England. The English government had grounded his aircraft pending "inspection," an inspection he was not looking forward to given the contents of the cargo hold, then several very senior members of the British government had boarded. Whatever was going on, however, had been resolved and they eventually got on their way. He'd sweated American customs but, as it turned out, the "inspection" on arrival in the U.S. had been less than cursory. Given that he had a hold full of weapons and ammunition, what was a clearly a tactical team, a bunch of hookers and none of them had proper visas . . . Obviously the BCIS was slipping.
The experience had not been the happiest of his life. And he was not interested in a repeat.
That being said, generally flying businessmen around was . . . unsatisfying. Oh, it paid well enough, but it was a bit like being an aerial bus driver. Not quite like flying a Tornado balls to the wall down a Balkans valley filled with flak.
Flying "Mr. Jenkins" around was rarely boring. Bit too exciting at times, but rarely boring.
"No issues this time," Mike said, grinning and slipping by him to board the aircraft. "Cross my heart. Just a quick trip to D.C. then back."
"And Miss Rakovich," Hardesty said, not deigning to comment. "Beautiful as always."
"I did not think you'd remember me," Anastasia said, dimpling prettily and nodding as she boarded. Her only previous flight had been on either this Gulfstream or one identical to it, with Hardesty piloting.
"I could never forget a lady so beautiful in both face and spirit," Hardesty replied. "If we're all loaded?" he continued, checking where the Keldara had been putting the bags in what he referred to as the "boot."
"Think so," Mike replied. "Only two rocket launchers and hardly any explosives at all this time."
"You are pleased to jest," the pilot said. "I've got a flightplan filed for D.C. Winds may be against us over the Atlantic but otherwise smooth. Flight time of about twenty hours, mind."
"Works," Mike said. "I'm gonna flake out most of the trip."
"And Miss Rakovich," Hardesty added. "I will endeavor for a smooth takeoff and climb-out."
"Thank you," Anastasia said, buckling herself in. She had rarely flown and did not enjoy the experience. Especially any "unexpected" movement.
"Off we go again," Mike said, taking her hand as the engines started.
"At least this time I've got some idea what is going on," Anastasia said. "And are we going to 'play' again?" she continued, coyly.
"Oh, a bit more than the last time," Mike said, smiling but not looking at her. "Definitely. I'm not sure a blow job counts for the Mile-High Club. I want my stamp."
Anastasia continued to hold his hand as the plane taxied to the runway and then took off, at which point her hand clamped like a vise. True to his word, Hardesty was taking it smooth and easy. A Gulfstream, as lightly loaded as this one, could point darned near straight up and Hardesty loved to fly at the edge of the envelope. But he also was both professional and considerate. If Mike, who apparently didn't care, was the only one on board they'd have taken off like a fighter climbing out of a bombing run. With Miss Rakovich on board, he took it easy.
Anastasia, nonetheless, kept her eyes tightly closed and hand clamped until they were at altitude and flying smoothly. Then she took a breath, opened her eyes and released her death grip.
"You really don't have to travel with me, if you hate it that much," Mike said.
"I want to," Anastasia said, shrugging. "I want to see. But I fear as well. I won't say I'll get over it but I'm not willing to let the fear stop me."
"Oorah," Mike said, quietly, smiling at her. "Take not counsel of your fears."
"Yes," Anastasia said. "And on that score . . . I want to talk to you about . . . Gretchen."
"Oh, Christ," Mike said. "I thought the harem manager wasn't supposed to get jealous."
"I am not jealous," Anastasia said, evenly. "But . . . You're acting different. I can tell something happened. Beyond the slight . . . issues that occurred in the middle of your encounter. I have noticed. I'm not sure how many others."
"It was the chocolate mousse that gave it away, wasn't it," Mike said. "I'd never waste chocolate mousse unless I really cared, right?"
"How badly are you affected?" Anastasia said, refusing to take the bait.
"Oh . . . pretty badly,"
Mike admitted. "Pretty damned badly. Pretty fucking badly. Pretty much head over heels in love with one of my team members' fiancée."
"I was afraid of that," Anastasia said. "How are you going to handle that?"
"Not much choice, really," Mike said. "I just go on. Kiril and Gretchen get married. They have one of my kids. I try very hard not to treat her, him or it any differently than any three other Keldara. I just . . . try to forget."
"You won't," Anastasia said. "There are other . . . ways."
"Sure," Mike said. "I could ask the Fathers to dissolve the bonding. I could throw my Kildar weight around and have her. No question. Then I'd stomp all over their damned culture and piss off a bunch of men with guns, one in particular. Kiril is as smitten by her as I am, you know. I, frankly, don't know where Gretchen stands."
"I didn't have time to investigate that myself," Anastasia said. "I suppose we'll find out when we get back. There is . . . another way. David and Bathsheba, yes?"
King David was best known for creating the first rule of gunfights, "always bring a gun," by defeating Goliath with a range weapon while poor Goliath was armed only with an over-large knife. But he was very nearly as famous for falling in love, more like lust, with one of his soldiers' wives, Bathsheba, then sending said soldier, one Uriah, to the front lines so he'd get offed. While bringing a gun to a gunfight was the sort of thing Mike would always do if he could, the latter . . .
"Fuck that," Mike said, blanching. "No fucking way. I'd rather piss the Keldara off honestly than dishonestly. They'd see right through that. No, I need to just keep keeping on. I'll get over it."
"Seeing Gretchen day after day, year by year?" Anastasia asked.
"Hey, she'll get old," Mike said, smiling with only his mouth, his eyes closed and his jaw flexed. "Probably gain weight. Tits will sag. I'll get past it. In time." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Say about a century."
"Yes," Anastasia said, her hand creeping downward. "I'm sure you will. But if it happens at all, I know only one thing to speed it."
Mike tried not to shake his head in chagrin. He truly was in love. Probably for the first time in his life. It was true that that sort of thing could hit like a lightning bolt. But it was, also, apparently true that a stiff prick has no conscience.
Chapter Eight
"Where is my daughter?" Arensky said as the van drew to a stop.
"Nearby." The man who had been "handling" him had not been introduced and had not offered a name. He just told Arensky where to go, or more often simply grunted and pointed. "And if you'd like us to send you some pieces it can be arranged. Or pictures of her being raped by a dozen men. Out. Into the building. Don't look around. Don't make eye contact if anyone is nearby. Just get out and go in the door."
Arensky's face tightened but he did as instructed, picking up the briefcase containing the "samples" and exiting the van. The "building" was shabby, made of roughly dressed stone with a slate roof and small, wooden-shuttered, windows. The interior was dark since the shutters were closed. There was a trickle of light coming in from around the shutters and it took his eyes a moment to adjust. When they did his face tightened even more.
"Ah, Dr. Arensky, come in."
"Sergei," Arensky replied, walking to the table in the center of the room and setting down the case. There was the table with a couple of rickety chairs, two metal beds without mattresses and a gas camping stove. Other than that the room was bare. "Where is my daughter?"
"In a nearby town," Sergei said, calmly. "She is unharmed, guarded by my men, tended to, I might add, by local women. Frightened, but I have assured her that as long as you cooperate she will remain unharmed. And I so assure you. I will arrange for you to talk to her, briefly, very soon. Not in person, you understand. We have, now, to wait. You will wait here. She will wait there. When the transfer is completed she will be moved to where you are going."
"So she can be used against me by your employers," Arensky spat. He started to take off his coat but refrained; the room was colder, it seemed, than the out-of-doors. Much colder than the stuffy van.
"My contractors, yes," the man said.
"Sergei, this is madness," Arensky said, again, with desperate resignation. "What is in there . . ." he added, pointing to the case, "that is death as you cannot possibly imagine. If that gets out, if these Islamic black-asses use it, it is the end of the world. Not only their enemies will die, you will die, everyone you know will die. The fucking world will die."
"Everyone dies," Sergei said, standing up from the chair. "Everyone dies eventually. Societies die. Species die. The weak make way for the fit. If it is mankind's time to die, then die it will. Besides," he added with a grin, "I've been inoculated. And so have all of my men."
"Inoculation doesn't work with this," Arensky said, slumping into one of the chairs. "Nothing does. And it lingers."
"For what I am being paid for this job, I can retire to a remote island staffed entirely by willing women," Sergei replied, shrugging. "I can restart the human race single-handed. Every man's fantasy, yes? Gregor will see to your needs," he added as the morose guard entered the room. "And in time, if you're very good, you can hear that your daughter is well."
"Madness."
Mike had to admit that he was ready to get out of Georgia. He enjoyed the various perks of being "Kildar" but he also missed modern civilization. He'd been "deployed," as he thought of it, for over a year. It was time to get back to the World.
But as he considered the traffic outside the window he had to admit there were more benefits to being in Georgia than he'd remembered. Tbilisi could get some traffic jams, but nothing like D.C. And he was going to have to put up with all that protocol bullshit and probably ritual dick-beating.
The car had been waiting for them at the airport, a discreet government luxury four-door, like a thousand others in the city. A "ride-along" had met them at the exit from security, handled the bags and whisked them to the car.
There wasn't anything they could do about the traffic, though.
"Anastasia, honey," Mike said, looking at his watch. "I'm running on short time. I've got a meeting at the Pentagon in about an hour. Given the traffic . . ."
"Should you go directly there?" Anastasia asked. "I will be fine."
Mike suspected that was true. A person doesn't get dropped off at the White House and then just get left. Somebody would make sure she went where she was supposed to. If she looked as if she was wandering, at the very least the Secret Service was going to step in. But that was the last thing he wanted to happen.
"No, I'm going to the House," Mike said. "I'll make sure you're settled. But I'm going to have to do that as quickly as possible and then scoot."
He knocked on the divider, not knowing quite which control worked it, then leaned over the seats.
"Okay, I need some cards laid down," Mike said. "Secret Service or just drivers?"
"DOD secure transport," the rider said.
Fuck. Mike wasn't sure what that meant.
"I know diddly about your group," Mike said. "But I've got a problem and it's a secure issue . . ."
"Your cover is Mr. Michael Ford," the rider said. "A businessman currently working a start-up business in Georgia and a former fundraiser for President Cliff. Also a personal friend from long back, something about baseball." He reached back and handed Mike a folder. "I was wondering when you were going to ask."
Mike flipped through the documents and nodded.
"Thanks," he said. "My brief on this was lousy."
"You're welcome, Mr. Ford," the rider said. "We're going to be driving you to your next destination. Given the traffic, you're on short time for the meet at the White House. I'll ensure that Miss Rakovich has an escort but I'd suggest that you cut any conversation at the House as short as possible. And for your general comfort level, I'm former CAG, the driver is a Green Beanie and from your utter cluelessness and tan I'd say either SEAL or Recon."
"Glad to finally be back in the warm,"
Mike said, chuckling as the divider went back up.
They rolled up to a side entrance to the White House and the rider got out to open Mike's door.
"Your luggage will be taken care of Mr. Ford," the former Delta said. "You've just got time to shower and change if you need to."
"Love to," Mike said. "Even a Gulfstream gets kinda rank after a twenty-hour flight."
Mike took Anastasia's arm and led her to the door where he was greeted by an aide and two uniformed Secret Service. He did the ritual dump of keys and spare change then walked through the scanner followed by Anastasia. He'd left all his knives and guns behind, much to his chagrin.