by John Ringo
Now it was on to tougher processes.
"Bring your arms in front of your face, carefully," Mike said. "Now, check your direction and distance."
At least Mike had managed to get top-line electronic equipment. Each of the team was outfitted with a GPS based navigation system. Punch in a GPS coordinate and it would give them current altitude and a direction and distance to the target.
Julia slowly brought her arms in front of her face and then glanced at the GPS.
"That way," Julia said, gesturing to her right with her chin. "I'm at ten thousand AGL." She referred to Above Ground Level. Height above sea level doesn't matter to a parachutist; the only thing that matters is height above what you're going to smack into.
"I'll give the distance as two kilometers," Mike said. "Okay, slowly rotate in that direction. Rotate a bit, check position, rotate a bit, check position. Carefully. Don't worry if you overshoot, just rotate back."
Julia followed the directions, occasionally bobbling in the air and sliding to the side but always getting back in position. It was hard work, fighting the blast stream the whole time while trying to keep in position three-dimensionally. But finally she was lined up.
"Do a ground check," Mike said. "Can you see the ground?"
"You said the weather report said clear," Julia replied. "I can see the ground."
"Do you think you have the DZ in sight?"
"I have the DZ," Julia said. "I think so. It's right there," she added, pointing to a mark Mike had made on the wall.
"Could be the wrong DZ," Mike pointed out. "Wouldn't be the first time. But you don't have a lot of margin for error; most of the area is vertical. It's the only potential landing spot you've got if you don't want to be kissing a cliff."
"It's the right DZ," Julia replied, grinning. "I recognize it from the satellite shots."
"Good," Mike replied. "Check your teammates, now. Where are they?"
"Most of them are below me," Julia said, looking around. "Even Olga; she's been putting on weight."
"Have not!" Olga yelled.
"Okay, slide over so you're clustered, but don't get too close. You don't want their airstream interfering with yours. Do a ground check. You're off course to the left. What's happening?"
"Wind shear," Julia said. "I correct."
"Check your GPS," Mike said. "Your distance is now one hundred meters to the DZ. You are at four thousand AGL."
"How did I get there so quickly?" Julia said, confused.
"You tell me," Mike replied, raising an eyebrow.
"The wind," Julia said after a moment. "It's pushing me across the DZ."
"Three thousand AGL," Mike yelled. "You're going to be popping any second. What do you do?"
Julia's mouth opened and closed for a moment and then she shrugged.
"I don't know!"
"Out of exercise," Mike said, waving her to the side. The Keldara girl slid sideways in the airstream until she was at the edge of the tank and then slid off into Mike's arms.
"It wasn't really your call to make," Mike admitted. "But . . . dropping is strange. You think you have all the time in the world and then all of a sudden you're out of time to make decisions. Vanner, you're team is overshooting the drop zone. Enough that you're not going to be able to paraglide back to it. What do you do?"
"Rotate the formation into the wind," Vanner said, quickly. "Go into a delta-track and head as much into it as possible. It increases our rate of drop but increases our horizontal velocity. I trade height for distance."
"Good enough answer," Mike replied. "And that is the answer to Julia's question as well: You follow your team leader. That's why he should be lined up at the bottom of the stick. He is responsible for ensuring that you all get close enough to the DZ that you can all make it. Even if you think he's wrong on his approach, you follow your team leader.
"What probably happens is that you miss the drop zone," Mike admitted. "If the winds are that high, that they push you that fast during the drop phase, you're going to be all over the map in the paraglide phase. Where you're dropping, most of you are probably gonna kiss a cliff or slam into a mountainside. In which case, Vanner, you're going to have four or more out of your team with broken bones or worse. Who takes over if Vanner is killed?"
"I do," Julia said.
"Right, then Olga. And if both of them are out?"
"I take over," Jeseph admitted. "But I'm not as up on the commo end."
"Set up the commo, report in and then do what you can to hold on until I can get someone in to replace and support you," Mike replied. "We will get somebody in there, I promise. But you have to be ready for worst case. Worst case is you disappear into a black hole from my side. Worst case for you as well, but second worst is serious injuries in multiple on the drop. Keep an eye on your height and distance . . ."
Mike paused as the door to the simulator opened and Nielson stuck his head in the door.
"Kildar, got something, can't wait."
"Okay," Mike said. "Crap. Vanner, take over. Just work on positions and air-feel. I'll be back . . ." He looked over at Nielson and raised an eyebrow.
"Not soon," Nielson said, frowning.
"What you got?" Mike asked as soon as he was out of the simulator and the ensuing racket was somewhat quieter.
"We've got a problem with the helo transport," Nielson said, his upper lip twitching angrily. He probably didn't even realize he had that tick, but Mike knew when he was really REALLY pissed and the retired colonel was definitely pissed. People dying pissed.
"The Georgian government is balking at letting us use that heavy lift company we used in Albania," Nielson said. "Guess why."
"No guesses," Mike said with a sigh. "They're Russians."
"Bingo. I just got off the phone with General Umarov. They're, barely, willing to let us use them to lift us part way in. But the group can not be used inside the Pankisi military zone. They can neither be used to extract us nor for dust-off of wounded. No entry. Period."
"What the fuck do they want us to do?" Mike snapped. "Walk out? With our wounded? We are going to take casualties on this one."
"I, as calmly as I could, asked the general the same question," Nielson said, his lip really going now. "And he suggested that he speak with the Kildar."
"Actually said it that way?" Mike asked, trying not to grin.
"Yep," Nielson replied.
"Okay," Mike said, shrugging. "I guess I go put on my Kildar hat."
"General Umarov," Mike said, leaning back in his chair. "How good to speak with you again."
"And you Kildar," Umarov replied, his voice a bit taut. "I'm sorry I had to disturb your training schedule: I understand it is rigorous."
"More so, lately," Mike said with a sigh. "I think we need to talk but I'd prefer not over the phone. However, time is tight. Is there any way you could free up a bird so I'm not on the road four hours in each direction? And, of course, some of your time which is also precious."
"Of course, Kildar," Umarov said. "I'll have it dispatched immediately."
"I'll be ready," Mike said. "We have an LZ set up, now. Down by the Keldara houses. I'll be there."
Mike opened up his closet and contemplated. He'd never had so many clothes in his life. Not only had he, perforce, gotten suits, variously graded depending on who he was meeting with, Anastasia had been shopping for "informal" wear for him. He contemplated the array, reached for his second-best suit, then his best suit, then reached all the way over to the side and pulled out a set of digi-cam.
This wasn't his field wear, though. This was the set of "dress" digi-cam he'd set up more or less on a whim. Modern "developing country" militaries had started to treat camouflage field uniforms as if they were dress uniforms. This probably came from the habit American generals had of almost always appearing in field uniforms. An American general, though, would only wear a couple of his qualification badges, name and branch tags and a shoulder patch on a plain, if well-pressed, digi-cam or BDU uniform.
<
br /> Filtered through the medium of culture in developing countries, though, and you ended up with something different. The worst had to be "Syrian Commandoes" who had a purple camouflage uniform that would make a peacock go "OH MY GOD!" And, of course, it had to be bedecked in medals otherwise nobody would realize you were a general, right?
Mike had realized at some point he was going to have to tread a fine line. While there were times he was going to have to wear a cammie uniform for more or less "official" reasons, as a SEAL he had a problem. When SEALs wore field uniforms they might have a nametag. Otherwise they tended to be pretty bare. For one thing, everybody on the team knew who you were and what you'd done so you didn't have to cover the damned uniform in qualification badges and geegaws. You were a SEAL, who cared if you'd gone to another school; BUDS was all that mattered. And you didn't have to wear some stupid subdued SEAL badge. You were on the team. Ergo, you'd passed BUDS. Point, set, match.
But if he turned up in a set of sterile cammies, that would send the wrong message. It all came down to politics, something he'd hoped never to have to play. But in his current situation, it was a daily grind.
So he'd set up a set of "dress" cammies, most of it stolen lock-stock-and-barrel from the U.S. Army.
On the right and left shoulders were the snarling tiger face that was the Keldara patch, the left shoulder because he was, by God, a member and the right because he had, by God, been in combat ops with them. Over the left one was his Ranger badge from that extended version of hell: a fraction as bad as Hell Week but nine times as long. Under it was a U.S. flag because he was, by God, still a U.S. citizen. He'd found a subdued SEAL badge and that was on top of his qualification badges. Below that was his HALO badge flanked by Pathfinder. He could put on airborne wings if he wanted, master jumper given the number of times he'd jump-mastered drops.
Figuring out which to put on the Velcro patches had been hard. He'd sat down when he was contemplating the uniform and tried to figure out how many schools he'd gone to, on the side, that would qualify for badges on an Army uniform. In the end he realized that he could basically cover the damned thing. Sometimes he put on the Marine Sniper badge instead of Pathfinder, sometimes he switched both out for Sapper or for SCUBA, having cross-trained in all of them. Hell might as well put on French Commando school, which was a joke so bad it should be run by Cub Scouts, or Special Boat Squadron, which was one kick-your-ass motherfucker of a school that should be outlawed under international treaty.
SEAL instructors were supposed to be "broadly and comprehensively trained," said so right in the documentation. And their schools budget was huge, comparable to an entire Army division. In every department of the government budgets were the same: Use it or lose it. So the SEALs, especially the instructors, tended to spend two-thirds of their time training and the other third . . . burning off budget. It was amazing how many courses you could pack in in a sixteen-year career that had covered most of the time the U.S. was at relative peace.
The toughest part had been figuring out the branch tape and nametag. In the end, the branch tape, where it would say "U.S. Army" or "U.S. Navy" or whatever, simply read "Mountain Tigers" in Georgian. The nametag simply read: Kildar.
He looked at the suits, looked at the dress cammies and tossed the latter on the bed. Sometimes you just had to dress for success. Politics. What the fuck had he done to earn politics?
Mike got out of the Expedition and was surrounded by a smaller than normal contingent of children. From the looks of it most of the older ones were up in the hills picking tiger berries.
It was the time of year that the "secret ingredient" in Keldara beer reached full ripeness. Some of the shrubs had been planted to harvest for the brewery but they hadn't matured enough to provide more than a pittance. There was less than a week when they were ripe and for the Keldara the picking was an all-hands evolution. With the preparations for the mission, they had to be hard pressed to have enough bodies. From the looks of things the kids, down to six or so, had been sent up into the hills.
"Dimi," he said to one of the few of the younger children he recognized. "I need you to find someone to drive the truck back. Can you do that?"
"Yes, Kildar," the boy said, tucking the sweet in his cheek and dashing off.
Mike had about finished passing out the candy when he heard an indrawn breath and looked up into Gretchen's face.
"Ah, Gretchen . . ." Mike said, clearing his throat. "I don't suppose you know how to drive an Expedition?"
"Yes, Kildar, I do," Gretchen said. She was carrying a baby and looked positively beatific despite the thoroughly pissed expression on her face. "But there is only one adult here for each Family to watch the children."
"I don't think all the girls up at the castle are fully . . ." Mike stopped and thought about it. "Yes, they are. Damnit. We need more Keldara," he added with a grin.
"Here they are," Gretchen said, gesturing to the children. "Pick the one to drive the car."
"Pass," Mike said. "I'll pick it up when I get back." He paused and frowned. "I hate to be . . . How you doing?"
"I am fine, Kildar," Gretchen said. "Except for having twenty brats to keep an eye on."
"How come you got stuck with the duty?" Mike asked.
"Some of the teams are training in the same area as the berry picking," Gretchen said.
Mike had to process that for a second then shook his head.
"And if I was going to be doing anything with my little spare time it would be checking on the teams," Mike said. "Not coming down to the houses where I might run into you? And if I'd picked anyone but one of the little kids to go find a driver . . . They'd have found anyone but you, right?"
"Did I say that?" Gretchen said, relenting. "It is . . . good to see you."
"Same here," Mike said, flexing his jaw. "Care to let me in on any of the Mysteries surrounding this? I take it there has been . . . talk."
"Much," Gretchen said. "And, of course, I'm the last to be informed of any of it. Well . . ."
"Except for me," Mike said. "What have you heard?"
"Let me see . . ." Gretchen said, tapping her finger on her lips. "The Kildar is honorable and will not violate the contract between myself and Kiril. The Kildar is human and therefore can only be expected to violate it. I should be sent away, so as to prevent the offense. Kiril should be sent away, there is a group called the . . . Legion Etran . . ."
"The Foreign Legion," Mike said, translating it into Keldara. "Over my dead body."
"And then I would be Kildaran," Gretchen said, shrugging.
"Anybody ask you what you want?" Mike asked. "I know nobody has asked me."
"It is not the Keldara way," Gretchen said, shaking her head. "The Keldara's fates are chosen by the elders, not by themselves. Our spouses are chosen, our lots in life. I was picked for neither the intelligence teams nor the mortars. I am one of the few women of my generation who is not contributing, directly, to the teams."
"Why?" Mike asked, frowning. "You're not exactly . . . dumb."
"Thank you so much for the compliment!" Gretchen snapped.
"That wasn't what I meant and you know it," Mike said. "Why weren't you . . . You are, in fact, quite bright. You'd make a good contribution to the intel section. What am I missing?"
"I am . . ." She paused and frowned. "The Mother of a Family is not necessarily married to the Father. There are some in the Keldara who are spotted for . . . other needs. Stella . . . Stella and Lydia, yes, I could see them being Mothers. But it is less likely with Shariya, who is promised to Yosif . . ."
"Shariya is a mortar girl," Mike said, frowning. "One of the ammo bearers . . . She's . . ."
"Sweet," Gretchen said. "Also very simple. Yosif, on the other hand, is very smart and capable. He is the man most likely to be the Devlich Father when his time comes but . . ."
"Shariya wouldn't make a good Mother," Mike said. "So . . . you're getting married to Kiril who is a Devlich so you transfer to that Family . . ."
<
br /> "And I train as a Mother," Gretchen said, shrugging. "Instead of, you know, something fun or exciting. And I get to take care of the babies."
"Except that is so that you wouldn't meet me," Mike said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I appear to have really fucked up your existence."
"And have I had no effect on yours?" Gretchen asked.
"If you hadn't, would any of this be going on?" Mike replied at the sound of rotors in the distance. "Spread the word, quietly. The Kildar is going to be a very good man. He can look you in the face and walk away. He can watch your children grow. He admires Kiril and hopes the best for both of you. Nobody should be sent away. Except these children because there is a helicopter about to land on them."