by John Ringo
Which gave her an idea.
"Kacey?" Marek said as the helicopter started sliding backwards. "Where are we going?"
"Under the trees," Kacey said. The trees were evergreens; there was some solid concealment to be had. With the gray-green camouflage of the Hind, they would be hard to spot.
"Okay," Marek said. "Your bird."
"And now . . . we wait," Kacey said as she reached the spot she'd been "stuck" in before. She could see the main river, barely, through a small gap in the trees. They were making a hell of a signature but that would be, partially, masked by the trees.
Sure enough, about ten minutes later, Tammy's Hind came sniffing down the river about a hundred feet up. But the trees and the camouflage of the Hind kept them from noticing the bird hidden two hundred meters up the tributary, despite the massive "signature" from their rotors. She'd have thought they'd notice the waving treetops at the very least.
"Very nice," Marek said. "I would have stayed higher."
"They probably did and couldn't see us," Kacey said. "This river was the only place to hide. So we had to be on it, right? Start at one end, go to the other and trap us at that end of the box. Nobody would be stupid enough to come up this tributary."
"If it's stupid and it works . . ."
"It's not stupid," Kacey said, sliding the bird forward.
The other Hind had continued up the river so it was out of sight when she got to the joining. She pivoted to look up-river and then popped up. Sure enough, there they were, just going around the bend to the right.
She dropped down and slid out into the main river, sidling towards the opposite treeline and then popping up again. The Hinds had a rearview but there was a solid blind spot at about four and seven o'clock. Only by craning way over could you see into it. As planned, she was right on Dominick's four o'clock. She pivoted again and flew along side them, keeping more or less parallel, in the four-o'clock position and sidling closer. When she was about a hundred meters away she pivoted again so she was pointed right at them and pushed the bird as hard to the side as it would go so that she had her nose pointed right at them as she came into peripheral vision.
Tammy, scanning left and right, was the first one to see her and she shook her head and said something in the intercom.
"Where in the hell did you come from?" Dominick said over the radio. The disgust was clear in his voice.
"I'm a woman," Kacey replied. "We're tricky. Ask any guy."
* * *
"I still want to know where you went," Dominick said, picking at his fish.
They'd continued down through Ukraine and stopped at a small airport near Yalta on the Black Sea. Tomorrow was the last day of the ferry, a short overwater hop into Russian airspace, one refueling in Russia, hopping down the Black Sea coast and then cut into Georgia near the port of Sokhumi. After that it was free-sailing.
"How's it feel to want?" Kacey said with a grin. "Seriously, I was hiding. If I tell you where I was hiding, it ruins the fun. And it was probably Tammy's fault anyway. She was the one that was supposed to be looking for us."
"Hey!"
"Ah then, I am satisfied," Dominick replied. "As long as my delicate pilot ego isn't damaged."
"You still got your ass kicked by a girl," Marek pointed out.
"Yeah?" Dominick replied. "Then tomorrow I will have you try to find Tammy. See whose ass gets kicked then!"
"Hey, Marek," Kacey said as the pilot opened the door to his room.
The Kildar had paid top billing for the training and hadn't stinted on the travel budget; the pilots didn't have to share. And the small seaside resort they'd found was more than willing to provide lodging; the hotel was practically empty.
"Kacey," Marek replied, raising an eyebrow.
"I was going to say that I wanted to go over something in the dash-ones, but why be coy?" Kacey asked. "Frankly, I'm really hoping you're straight. I didn't see a wedding ring and hard flying always makes me horny."
"No ring, no wife, please come in," Marek said, stepping back. "I am very much 'straight.'–"
"You're a good cook," Gregor grunted, spooning up the stew.
"Thank you," Dr. Arensky said, scraping up the last of his and taking the bowl to the sink.
They had settled into a routine. Arensky cooked and cleaned. Gregor sat in the corner most of the time apparently asleep. But if Arensky went near the door, his eyes flickered open. When Arensky had to have a call of nature Gregor would lead him outside to the nasty, stinking, spider-filled outhouse that provided relief. The house at least had running water and a kitchen sink, but no indoor toilet.
They had been provided with food—cans of potted meat and vegetables as well as some old bread that had seen better days. Coaxing decent meals out of the stuff had been tough.
"Since my wife died, I've done most of the cooking for Marina and I," Arensky continued, slipping the bowl into the sink. He lifted the cloth cover on a bowl by the sink and nodded at the mess within.
"What is that stuff?" Gregor asked. "I looked at it the other day. It's . . . crap."
"It's not 'crap,'–" Arensky replied. "Do you know what makes the alcohol in vodka?"
"No," Gregor admitted.
"Yeast," the microbiologist replied. "A microorganism that excretes alcohol as the same sort of by-product as urea, the stuff that makes the strong ammonia smell, in human urine. So what you're drinking is, in effect, yeast piss."
"Ugh," Gregor said, dropping his own dish in the sink. Arensky also did the washing up. "Thanks so much for pointing that out. I'm never going to look at another bottle of vodka the same again."
"But yeast is only the best known of many microorganisms used in food preparation," Arensky continued. "Cheese is produced from a mold, several strains in fact. It is, basically, spoiled milk. Yogurt is the same. These are similar microorganisms. I'm attempting to capture some of them for . . . piquancy. They can be used as a spice, in other words. The problem, of course, is spotting the right ones without special tools. Fortunately, I am very experienced in doing so. Hopefully, I can get a crop of fistanula going. That will add a dash of tanginess to the next soup."
"That is really weird," Gregor said, chuckling.
"I'm bored," Arensky said. "As your hands are your main purpose in life, my mind is mine. I have nothing to read, no TV to watch, no internet to surf and no experiments to conduct. So I find experiments where I can. This is the sort of thing I did when I was in grammar school. I made my first cheese, from a raw native culture, when I was nine. It's a way to pass the time."
"I guess that makes sense," Gregor said with a shrug. "No harm in a little mold . . ."
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mike leaned on the butt of his M4 and wondered how many hours he had in helicopters. A lot was all he could come up with. Of course, since Master Chief Adams had stayed in the teams longer, he probably had more by an order of magnitude. If either one of them had been flying, they'd both be master aviators. Which made him wonder if maybe he could get some bootleg time after the mission was over.
He was doing it again. Woolgathering. He could focus like a laser during a mission and during planning. But right now, he just wanted to think about something else. When they got the word they were almost at the LZ, his mind would kick automatically into gear. But right now . . . anything but the mission.
He wasn't sure it was a good thing. Probably real commanders thought about what might go wrong, what was supposed to go right, what the actions of each sub-team should be on landing, all the way to the LZ. It seemed like his team commander back when, that was how he thought. Hell, Nielson was probably that way. It was one of many things that Mike was unsure about. Because, basically, he was an NCO that just got caught up in the game. He'd never set out to be an officer or a commander. All he'd ever wanted to be a was a shooter on the teams and, maybe, buck for master chief. Not be a commander. Real commanders probably thought about what Lee should have done at Gettysburg at a time like this or who the weak
link on the team was. All Mike could think was how good a beer would taste about now.
The Russian crewman held up a hand with two fingers extended and Mike was instantly in the game, beer, and doubts, forgotten.
"Game face!" he shouted. "Get it on!"
"FATHER OF ALL!" the Keldara shouted back in unison. In nearly the same unison they jacked a round into their weapons and placed them on safe.
Mike jacked a round then undid his safety harness. Last, he pulled down his balaclava. The LZ was almost certainly cold. Lasko would have called in otherwise. But you never took an LZ as guaranteed to be cold unless it was your home base. And only then if you got the word ahead of time.
He probably shouldn't be the first one off the bird, either. But be damned if he was going to let the Keldara lead. He took the lead in the door as the helicopter flared out and dropped to a soft landing.
As soon as the crewman yanked back the door he was out, running forward about half way to the treeline and then taking a knee, checking his sector. Clear.
He looked back over his shoulder as the last of the Keldara unassed the bird and took a knee. Catching Sawn's eye, he made two gestures with his hand and then turned and took his position in the teams. He wasn't stupid enough to take point.
The point team moved forward at Sawn's gesture and the trailer took a knee right at the edge of the woodline as the primary penetrated. After a moment the trailer stood up and moved in, followed by the rest of the Keldara and Mike.
Once inside the woodline, the point moved forward to the first high ground, cautiously, as the Keldara spread out in a cigar-shaped perimeter. It took about ten minutes for the point to reach a position where they could observe a fair bit of the route ahead and another five for them to ensure there wasn't anybody on the route and move out. As soon as they did, the teams got up and started moving forward to their previous position. When the lead of the team got there he took up the same spot, maintaining observation, as the team took a knee.
That set the pace. The point team would bound forward, find a good observation point and hunker down to check. When they were certain they weren't being observed, they'd move out again, slowly as if in a stalk. It was a slow, tedious, form of movement but very stealthy. And the mission depended entirely on stealth. Since it was the Keldara's normal form of movement, they did it so automatically they'd become damned near perfect.
The woods were deciduous, mostly, and pretty old growth so there wasn't a whole lot of understory. There was enough, though, that the Keldara had to maneuver through it. But they'd gotten used to that, too, and eeled through the brush as quietly as as many deer. Probably more quietly, deer could be noisy animals. The night was clear so at the second stop Mike flipped up his NVGs and let his eyes adjust. Plenty of light to go with Mark One Eyeball.
Mike paused at the third observe point and clicked his radio twice. A brief burst indicated that Lasko had received the communication and was moving out. The sniper team would bound far forward, probing for a good sniping point, one where they could observe both flanks of the teams. Mike would have liked to have another sniper team on their right flank, Lasko probably being on the left. But they'd arrange that after the first stop.
They had fifteen klicks, and a supply drop, to make before dawn. They weren't going to stop to deploy another team. If they did they'd have to hurry. Hurrying was bad.
Worrying was bad, too. He couldn't help but wonder what was happening with the other teams. He was with Sawn and Adams was with Vil. But that left Oleg, Pavel, Padrek and Yosif on their own. He had four other teams out there without "adult leadership." Now that he had time to think about it, he probably should have co-located with Yosif. Yosif was a great guy but if anything his team was the least . . . something. Motivated didn't quite fit it. They just hadn't seemed to find their niche, yet. All the other teams, while being all-around players, had sort of settled into a niche.
Oleg was a bull. Vil was a natural feint and flank guy; his team quite often totally screwed Oleg's in exercises by feint and flank. Sawn was slow, cautious and hated to attack a frontal position.
Padrek was the best Keldara at devices, including ones that exploded. Given his druthers, he'd hit a position with grenades and satchel charges and wait for the opposition to surrender.
Pavel's team actually had some climbers in it. When Mike had realized somebody had to have a totally screwed route, he'd chosen Pavel even over his own or Adams'. Pavel was the kind of guy who always had a spare rope and if he had the choice of going around a cliff or up it, he'd go up. If he'd grown up in a middle-class household in the U.S. he'd be on a climbing wall, or a building side, every weekend. Call his team "mountain ops" to a greater degree than any of the others.
Yosif, though, he didn't seem to have a niche. And he seemed to know it. His team just didn't have the same . . . oomph as the others. Mike should have put himself with Yosif. He realized, now, that he'd come with Sawn because at a level they were the most compatible. Sawn was a ghost.
If any team was going to blow the op, though, it had to be Yosif's. And he couldn't even check on their progress.
It was going to eat him all the way to the rendezvous, damnit!
Adams followed Vil out of the bird and took a knee in the middle of the V the Keldara had formed. As soon as the birds started to lift up he waved the point forward. When they gave the all clear he moved out.
The Keldara were moving well. They'd done this shit a thousand times already so except for the high alpine stuff they were dialed in. If any of the teams had problems in the high up, he'd find out at the rendezvous.
In the meantime, he let his brain go blank and soaked up the night. Thinking at a time like this could get you killed.
"I think this is good," Vanner said, looking at the cluster of boulders.
It had taken them most of the night to descend from their hide to the area of the op. The questions, once there, were: were they close enough to receive Katya and could they remain undetected.
They were practically on top of the town of Gamasoara; they could see it clearly from their position. But they still had about a thousand meters of elevation over it and straight line distance was nearly four thousand meters. Nearly three miles away. If they could find a good hide they should be golden.
And it looked to be a pretty good hide, a cluster of boulders with enough soil around them to dig in.
"Ivar, have a seat," Vanner said, lowering the Keldara to the ground. "And hand me your e-tool."
The entrenching tool was a folding shovel. This one was a German design with a larger, broader, head than the standard American one. But it was still a little folding shovel. Building a hide big enough for all five of them was going to be a stone bitch; Vanner hadn't done any serious digging since boot camp in Parris Island.
"Olga, see if you're getting anything from Katya," Vanner added, checking the time. They weren't going to finish the hide before dawn but they could build something for concealment. "And if you do, give her a tickle and tell her we're here."
For Katya, the burst ping was like a sudden flash of coldness in her brain.
The Amis had wired her for sound and video, literally. In an experimental operation they had installed implants in her head that picked up both whatever she saw and whatever she heard.
She could receive transmissions as well. But a conversation was a bit much given that the Chechens could have intercept capability. So the brief burst, no more than atmospheric static to any but the most sophisticated intercept gear, didn't even have any content. There was no "internal" for anyone to find. It was just the equivalent of "we're here."
Katya's transmission systems were even more advanced than those available to the Keldara, absolutely state-of-the-art in communications. It is said that anything in the commo field is obsolete before it's fielded but the only thing more advanced than the transmitters in Katya's mastoid bone were gleams in scientist's eyes.
Katya didn't know much about communications, but
Vanner had admitted that, except with the gear designed to pick it up, he couldn't detect Katya's stuff even when in the same room. So she had no problem "opening up" the transmission, a mental exercise like moving a muscle that wasn't there.
"So, are you well?" Katya said, crossing her legs and looking steadily at the girl on the bed.
"What do you care?" the girl asked.
"Just checking," Katya replied. "If you die I suspect I will as well."
"I'm fine," the girl said. "I'd guess from your conversation with the Asshole-in-Chief that you, personally, could care less."
"More or less the case," Katya said. "Your exercise period is coming up. Be glad."
"I'd be glad if someone would read to me or something," Marina replied. "Even play some music. Something."