by John Ringo
"Oh, well, in that case you definitely want the job," the guy said, fulsomely. "The living conditions are great, the food's excellent, the beer's outstanding and the pay is awesome. What more could you ask?"
"I don't drink," Kacey said. "And a guarantee that we'll survive would be nice."
"Nope, can't do that one," the guy admitted. "Can't guarantee I'll survive. But the missions are worth it and the people are top-notch. If you end up taking the Valkyrie ride you'll be in plenty of bad company. We will guarantee that."
As he said that a side door opened and an absolutely beautiful woman walked into the foyer. Kacey wasn't kinked that way but she knew fucking beautiful when she saw it. Neither she nor Tammy were slouches in the looks department, but this lady put them both to shame. She looked like a supermodel. Blonde, blue eyes, low to mid-twenties, stacked and an absolutely gorgeous face. She was wearing a lot of makeup but so artfully applied it looked almost as if she wasn't wearing any. Blue, probably silk again, pantsuit that looked as if it was a Paris original. And graceful as hell. Probably Russian at a guess, definitely not American. She reminded Kacey of a young duchess character in an old movie. The lady had that look about her, like Zsa Zsa Gabor when she was young.
"Master Chief," the woman said, nodding. "I see you have met our visitors." Her English was impeccable but there was a definite Slavic accent. "I zee you haff met our vizeetors."
"Christ, I hope they're not just visitors," the "master chief" grunted. "We are screwed without pilots."
"We're still considering," Tammy said, much more gently than Kacey. "And we haven't been introduced."
"Ah, this is my fault," the woman replied. "I was supposed to be your tour guide but I expected your meeting to be longer. I am Anastasia Rakovich, the Kildar's administrative manager. This is Master Chief Adams, late of the United States Navy Sea Air and Land commandoes, the Kildar's field tactical manager. Master Chief Adams, Captains Bathlick and Wilson, late of the United States Marine Corps."
"Who's the Kildar?" Tammy said at the same time as Kacey said: "SEALs?" and Adams said: "You're Marines?"
"I am given to understand that they have combat experience with the United States Marine Corps," Anastasia said, answering the master chief first. "The Kildar is Mr. Jenkins. It is his title. I will explain. And, yes, Master Chief Adams is a former SEAL as they say. I understand that 'ex' is looked upon poorly."
"Yeah, we've got experience," Tammy said with a snort. "We pulled your boss out of the drink one time. Or . . . Well, he sort of pulled us . . . It's complicated."
"You're the two that crashed that helo in the Carib," Adams said with a snort. "Oh. Great. I take it all back."
"We took a short-range EMP blast, you moron," Kacey snapped. "What the fuck were we supposed to do without god-damned engines? We were lucky to set it down light enough most of the FAST made it off!"
"I was yanking your chain," Adams said evenly. "Anybody that's willing to fly towards an LZ that has an active nuke on it gets my vote. You guys want a beer?"
"I'd prefer tequila," Tammy said, happily. "But I'll settle for beer."
"This isn't beer you settle for," Adams said. "This is beer you kill for."
"I was going to show them around, first," Anastasia pointed out.
"I'd say take the cook's tour," Adams admitted. "This is a pretty interesting place. And I really need a shower. To answer your unspoken question, Anastasia, no, it is not going well. I think that Shota's mother dropped him on his head as a baby. I asked her, point-blank, if she had and she said she had not. But apparently he had a hard time finding his way out when he was birthed, so maybe it's prenatal."
"You asked a woman if she'd dropped her son on his head?" Tammy asked, amazed.
"Yeah, but you'd have to understand the setup here," Adams said. "It wasn't even a particularly unexpected question. Shota's well known among the Keldara. Big as an ox and just about as dumb. Really good shot with a Carl Gustav, though. I think I need to just switch him out but if I can get him to learn to count as high as five he'll be awesome for door-kicking. I mean, he'd kick down a bank vault. But, God, he's dumb."
"Well, we'll go take the cook's tour," Tammy said, "while you're having a shower. Then I'll get you drunk and pry all your secrets out of you."
"The day a woman can out-drink me I'll turn in my trident," Adams said, chuckling, but then his face cleared. "Except this one bartender at Danny's. But that girl was a fucking pro. I saw her drink a whole platoon under the table one time. That's a professional. Admittedly, one without a functioning liver, but a pro nonetheless. You guys go take the cook's tour, I'm gonna go grab a shower and try to figure out a way to teach Shota to count as high as five. I mean, if they can teach monkeys sign language, I should be able to teach him to count to five for fuck's sake. Maybe a little rhyme or an advertising jingle . . ."
The former SEAL wandered off, muttering.
"Where would you like to start?" Anastasia asked, lightly. "Or are you fatigued from your trip? You could rest. Jet lag is very debilitating."
"I don't, honestly, know what time my body thinks it is," Tammy replied. "This is an interesting place. Ottoman?"
"The caravanserai was extensively renovated by the Ottomans, yes," Anastasia said, walking over to one of the carved buttresses that held up the ceiling of the room. "But the original work is believed to be from the period of the Byzantine Empire. These buttresses have faint markings that are indicative of Byzantine construction. You see here the faint indications of lacework patterning which is a Byzantine motif and the gouged-out portions were probably crosses which the Ottomans, or other Islamics, removed. And much of the lower stonework shows signs very similar to Roman construction, which the Byzantines used extensively for their castellation. The serai was probably rebuilt at least once under the Byzantines. The next clear work is Ottoman but the period between those two holders, probably close to a thousand years, is unclear."
"Oh," Kacey said, looking at the patterns. Lace did seem to fit the bill. She'd have to take the manager's word on that being "indicative of Byzantine construction." She knew about zero about architecture and not much more about the Byzantine Empire. "I've got one question. No, I've got a billion questions. Could you start at the beginning?"
"In the beginning was the Word," Anastasia said, lightly. "But I think you mean something closer in time. Let us sit, this will be somewhat long."
"Good," Tammy said. "I could do with some groundwork here. I'm pretty confused."
"A moment," Anastasia said and disappeared through the door she'd entered by. After a moment she came back out with another young lady who walked off in the opposite direction. This one was really young, fourteen if she was a day and wearing the same "schoolgirl" outfit as the harem girls. Which raised other questions. The earlier girls had been . . . okay, "old enough." Not old enough in the States to be fucking a guy in his thirties, but "old enough" for a developing country, whatever the liberals at home would wish. That one looked as if she should be playing with dolls. "Martya will bring some drinks. I wasn't sure what you'd like so we'll have tea and if that doesn't suit your tastes there are others."
"We can get it ourselves," Tammy protested.
"You could and in some conditions you will," Anastasia said, nodding. "But there are servants in the house for a reason. I will try to inform you, brief you, sufficiently that you can have a firm overview of what you are potentially joining. That will take time. If you are fetching drinks that interferes. When you are entirely free with your time you can choose to fetch or be fetched for. But the servants are there for a reason. The Kildar does not have time to get drinks for himself, cook for himself, do his laundry. His time is much better spent managing the resources of the valley or, as he puts it, 'killing people and breaking things.' This is, among other things, what pays for our surroundings. The girls are in free-study at the moment and, thus, not particularly busy. I asked which of them was least busy and Martya said she was. Given that she is intelligent
and quick at her studies, she could be bored trying to act like she was studying or fetch us a drink. Which is the better use of her time?"
"You just used up more time explaining that than I would have getting myself a Coke," Tammy pointed out as Martya reappeared, accompanied by an older woman, bearing a couple of trays.
"Yes, but it is part of your briefing," Anastasia replied. "I hope you enjoy tea. Since we were taking this time to be acquainted I asked Mother Griffina to prepare tea."
"Tea" turned out to be in the English manner, which mean a hearty snack as well as the drink. There were croissants, scones and various other baked delicacies to accompany. The total covered the table.
"Pour, Martya," Anastasia said, sitting back in her chair.
"Miss Bathlick? Cream or sugar?" Martya said, carefully but clearly.
"Sugar," Kacey said, blinking. She'd been practically dragged to the airport, cleared customs without a visa, thrown into a Blackhawk piloted by a local and now she was having an English tea in an Ottoman caravanserai, complete with harem. It was a bit much to take. "Two lumps."
Martya picked up the lumps with a pair of silver tongs, placed them in the cup then poured tea in, placed a small spoon on the saucer and handed the whole collection to Kacey. The movements had been as smooth as a dance, clearly practiced.
"Miss Wilson? Cream or sugar?"
"Sugar," Tammy answered, smiling. "Two lumps." She paused and then glanced at Kacey before blurting, "And cream!"
Kacey tried not to chuckle. Tammy was the health nut of the two of them, at least in certain ways. Kacey didn't drink and Tammy did, which was one divergence. The other was that it was Tammy who had the big sweet tooth, not to mention things like cream in her coffee and tea. At least in part to make up for it, Tammy was always pushing vitamins and, otherwise, healthy eating.
"Miss Rakovich? Cream or sugar?"
"Both, please," Anastasia said. It was clear that Martya knew her preferences, she'd already been reaching for the tongs, but just as clear that you weren't permitted to assume in this particular dance. Kacey suspected that at a later time, Anastasia was going to grade Martya on her performance.
Kacey realized as she watched that Anastasia never wasted a chance. Martya, who was "intelligent and quick at her studies," was being given an opportunity to hear English being used in casual dialogue and practice her social skills. And she and Tammy were being presented by a remarkably calm and well-balanced teenager who was, nonetheless, a member of a fucking harem. Two birds, maybe more, with one stone. Talk about a fucking pro.
Then she really thought about it. Adams was the classic SEAL master chief, a total pro at "killing people and breaking things." They didn't have to "ooh-rah!" about their time in service; they just had to say "I'm a SEAL master chief." Pro. The men she'd seen in uniform weren't swaggering around with their guns. They were clearly on some mission with a purpose. They might not be pros, yet, but they were going there with a purpose. And "Jenkins," if that was his real name, well, he was a guy who had walked onto an island with over thirty armed terrorists holding it, walked off it having killed every one and survived the resulting nuclear blast. Pro.
She suddenly let out a mental breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She was dealing with professionals. Experts. Since she'd gotten out of the military, and most of the time in the Marines, she'd had so little opportunity to deal with really expert professionals she hadn't realized how much she'd missed it. And this harum-scarum hiring procedure had scared something deep in her soul, because it didn't seem professional. But the whole movement had been greased. She and Tammy had moved from one prepared position to the other. She wasn't even sure what the visa entry requirements were for Georgia; there had been a polite man at the airport who had whisked them past customs and into a car, driven by a polite and professional English-speaking driver that had the look of "distinguished persons protection" all over him. That driver had brought them to the bird, which was flown by guys who, while not at her and Tammy's level, were good, competent, bird drivers.
It also said something about their being hired. If that was the caliber of people that "Jenkins," the "Kildar," surrounded himself with, then he obviously considered them in the same league. That was actually a bit daunting, but she wouldn't be a pilot if she really was challenged by it. She knew she was a fucking pro. And so was Tammy. It would be nice to work with competent people again.
The dying part would suck, admittedly, but she'd just have to make sure she didn't.
"Now that we are settled," Anastasia said, "I will tell you a bedtime story, yes? It is the story of how the Kildar came to be the Kildar."
"I'd assumed he was knighted or something," Tammy said, smiling at the small joke.
"No, he simply bought the farm," Anastasia said, smiling in turn. "The idiom has been explained to me, yes? It is a euphemism for dying. What happened was that he got lost. Very simple, no? And he found the Valley of the Keldara. He was looking at possibly being caught here all winter; the snows are very bad and the roads . . . not so good. So he inquired about someplace to stay. There were no rooms for let so it was suggested that he consider buying the farm of the Keldara. That was a large item, but he did so. I have never asked him why, but he bought the farm."
"Which is?" Tammy asked. "I mean, how big is the farm?"
"The entire valley," Anastasia answered, taking a sip of tea. "It is a very large farm."
"I can actually guess where he got the money," Kacey said, sarcastically. "It turns out we've met before. When he set off a nuke in the Caribbean."
"I have heard something of this," Anastasia said. "He is . . . quite extensively scarred. He does not flaunt them, you understand. But I sometimes ask 'Where is this from?' Sometimes he will tell me something. 'That is from my Caribbean vacation. Fortunately the hair grew back.' I later pick up that he was shot and a nuclear weapon was detonated. Others . . . he does not answer. Or he says 'Here and there.' Yes, he has made his money from 'killing people and breaking things.' Sometimes he finds someone that needs killing, something that needs breaking, and then he informs the appropriate government that their problem has been erased. And they pay him money for solving their problems. Sometimes governments tell him about a problem. And when he solves it for them, they pay him money. They do not tell him, 'There is a man named Boris. He lives on such and such a street.' Unless this Boris is such a bad man that he is worth millions of dollars and he is somewhere they cannot reach. What is the reach of the United States, yes? What is the reach of Russia? But the Kildar can reach where they cannot."
"I get the picture," Tammy said. "Freelance James Bond."
"Including the women, yes?" Anastasia said and then really smiled. It turned out that she had dimples, the perfect bitch. "He has a hareem, yes. But he could have a hareem anywhere, I think. He is very much all man, but not stupid in bed. Very not stupid. I will explain about the hareem in a bit, but I must add that recently, due to some other things I will not talk about without his specific permission, he had to find somewhere for a fairly large number of . . . call them 'fallen women.' He did so, a school in Paraguay, and paid for them to go there and for their education. Since he had this school available he asked the girls who were in the hareem if they wished to leave. Two did, one who was younger than he was willing to broach and another who . . . well, she did not have any interest in sex at all. I then, at the Kildar's insistence, pressed the other girls for why they wanted to stay. And they were definite about wanting to stay. All of them said that they liked it here and 'why should I go to some school where I will be forced to hide cucumbers from the kitchen when I have the Kildar?'–"
"Gotcha," Tammy said, chuckling.
"I tell you this not to . . . pander for the Kildar, you understand?" Anastasia said, for the first time hurriedly. "But so that you can feel more comfortable with the situation. The Kildar is . . . How was it said: Neither fish nor fowl nor red meat. He is in a condition, a situation, for which there is no American c
ustom or rule. He has to find his own middle ground in everything. I think, had things not happened the way they did, he would have just used local prostitutes for his needs. But . . ."
"He saved my life," Martya said, quietly. "Perhaps I would not have died, but my life would have been gone. For that I owe him everything. But I would leave but for one thing: In one more year I can also have the Kildar. For that I would give much. Shana was barely thirteen, too long for her to wait. And she told me that she was scheming of ways to get back when her time was up."
"Martya was part of a group of girls from the local farms and villages," Anastasia said. "She and the others had been sold to, or in one case kidnapped by, the Chechens. The Chechens made the mistake of also stealing a Keldara girl. The Kildar killed them for their mistake. But he then had seven girls with no place to go. Their families did not want them back. So they had nowhere else to go. The Kildar was unable to find a school for them at the time so he brought them into his household as concubines. They are not whores, they serve only the Kildar. And in more ways than sex and fetching and carrying, but that is too complex a subject for today. Know that they are all volunteers and while your society considers them young, in this society they would mostly be already married. The fact that they were not was what caused them to be as the saying goes 'sent to town.'–"