Unto The Breach

by John Ringo

The assistant, Sergeant First Class José J. Clavell, the Third Platoon platoon sergeant, just nodded and looked back out the door.

  Last jumper on Guerrin's side and he had . . . a little room. Looking over his shoulder Clavell was . . . gone.

  "Tchuss!" he shouted at the Ukrainian load master as he threw himself out the door, red light and all. The reason for the red light was clear since the bird lurched upwards just as he was clearing it.

  He'd just started to count and then felt the one hardest separation he'd ever felt in his life. The ascending bird had practically ripped his chute cover off. He felt the chute open, though, and looking up he had a good canopy. Whew!

  Looking down, though . . .

  "Fuck," he muttered. Drop altitude was supposed to have been eight hundred feet, above ground level. And it probably had been. But going out late he'd ended up exiting over a damned at-least-two-hundred-foot ridge, covered in trees. This was really gonna suck . . .

  First Sergeant Kwan hit the ground like a sack of shit, as always. He could instruct on a proper PLF, parachute landing fall, and had as a Black Hat in the Jump School in Benning. But he always hit like a sack of shit himself and so far, so good. He'd sustained injuries in jumps but only in cases where a good PLF wouldn't have mattered worth a damn. Like that one time he hit a fence post covered in barbed wire. That had really sucked.

  This time, though, he could tell it was a good hit. Nice spot. Plowed field. Recently cut. Comfy.

  He popped a riser, hit the quick release on his harness, got his LBE untangled, and rolled to his feet, scanning the area. No yells for medic, which was a very good sign. He was usually about the last guy down in a drop. If nobody was screaming for a medic it meant no major injuries.

  He started to gather his chute and then paused as, through a break in one of the stone fences, he saw a cluster of locals headed his way. Women locals by the skirts and blouses, carrying sacks just about the size to pack a chute in.

  He stood up and began bundling the chute as the women spread out, one or two towards each jumper. None of them were armed, so he didn't see a security situation. He wasn't sure about swarming Rangers with . . . damn, they were good-looking! women just after a jump, though.

  "His" gal had reached him by the time he had the chute bundled, though, so there was no stopping it now.

  "We take," the lady said in heavily accented English. "Clean, pack, give back. You go. Duty." She pointed towards a cluster of houses to the south. That was the designated assembly area.

  "Okay," Kwan said, dubiously. "Take care of it. That's U.S. Government property."

  "Clean, pack, give back," the gal repeated, grinning. "You go. Duty. Beer."

  "Yeah," the first sergeant said, suddenly alarmed. "I'd better get going." They had better not be serving his Rangers beer already.

  Guerrin swung back and forth, kicking his feet like a kid on a swing and working out the pain in his left arm. He'd taken a hell of a bang coming down through the branches of this . . . oak, by the look of it. But the canopy had caught on the upper part of the tree, leaving him dangling about twenty feet off the ground. There was a procedure to get down but, given that the ground was covered in scrub and rocks, he was already banged up and this was a training jump, he was planning on staying here till somebody came by with a ladder.

  He looked up, though, at the sound of an unusual helicopter engine approaching. He couldn't see much through the trees but it sounded . . . Well, it wasn't a Huey and it wasn't a Blackhawk. Not a Eurocopter or a Kiowa, either, he knew those. Sounded big, though . . .

  He looked up, though, as it came to a hover overhead, battering him with rotor wash. A fucking Hind? Guerrin had never been around for the Cold War days but things like Hinds still gave him the willies. They were the image of the Soviet war machine that was going to crush the U.S. Army given half a chance. Having one hovering overhead wasn't pleasing making. Neither was the way it was causing the branches above him to sway.

  A guy was already sliding out of it on a harness connected to a cable, though, dropping towards him. So much for a ladder, apparently. He'd never been extracted out of trees by a chopper before. Something new every day.

  He ducked his head against the wind and only lifted it as he felt more than heard a body come crashing through the branches overhead.

  "Captain Guerrin I presume!" the helmeted crewman shouted. Guerrin couldn't see much past the helmet, visor and boom mike but the guy was clearly American by the accent. "Care for a ride?"

  "Sure!" Guerrin shouted back. "How we going to do this?"

  "Not a problem," the guy yelled. "Done it plenty of times!"

  The guy said something into the mike then clambered around behind him. Guerrin felt something click onto his harness; then they both lifted for a bit. They paused again and Guerrin realized the maneuver had been intended to take the pressure off his risers. If they'd popped the connections to the canopy while he was dangling they'd have flown upwards under pressure and who knows what would have happened. Flying risers were no joke. With the pressure he reached up and disconnected one just as the guy on his back disconnected the other.

  He felt another lift and ducked his head as they crashed up through the canopy.

  "Don't sweat it, Captain, done this plenty of times!" the guy repeated.

  "Who the hell pulls Rangers out of trees with a helicopter?" Guerrin shouted back.

  "Who said anything about Rangers?" the crewman yelled. "I usually pull pilots out of trees!"

  "You're a para-jumper?" Guerrin yelled.

  "Well, actually, not in the last ten years! But it's like riding a bicycle . . . !"

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  "First Sergeant . . . Kwan?"

  Most of the company had assembled on a flat open area near the houses of the locals. It was a flat spot slightly lower than the area where the houses were with a short bluff separating it from another open area directly in front of the houses.

  Quite a few of the locals, ranging from some oldsters that looked on their last legs down to the usual gaggle of kids that swarmed around any American military unit, had come out of their houses to look over the new arrivals. And quite a few of them were damn fine-looking women. Most of the company had been around enough, the average was four trips to the sandbox, that they weren't gawking, much, except at the girls.

  Kwan had at first worried about the gathering, not just because Rangers and women went together like iron and magnets, but because in the sandbox a gathering like that read "riot" or a car bomb taking out a bunch of locals. But these folks didn't seem hostile or worried. They didn't seem exactly friendly, either. They seemed to be more curious and even judging than anything else. Quiet. Even the kids were making quiet comments to each other, taking the serious tone they were getting from their elders. One of the oldsters, a big blond guy that was one of those who looked on his last legs, was standing at parade rest and observing them like a general on a reviewing stand. It was nervous making.

  Kwan turned to the guy in unfamiliar digi-cam and paused. His nametag read "Nielson" but he was wearing some foreign rank the NCO didn't recognize. He didn't even know if the guy was an officer or a civilian advisor or what. But he had an air of authority and on the basis that a salute never hurt the first sergeant saluted.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Pleasure," Nielson said, returning the salute. "Colonel Nielson, late of the U.S. Army, currently operations officer of this little lash-up. Where's Captain Guerrin?"

  "I don't know, sir," Kwan said. "We were just discussing that. He chose to JM the drop, sir. Sergeant Clavell said the CO told him to decide if he could go in the last stick and it looked good. But he came down fucking close to the treeline. He doesn't know if the CO went out or not or what."

  "Oh, he's gone from the bird," the colonel said. "The Ukrainians confirmed all jumpers gone before they flew home."

  "So the CO . . ."

  "One jumper, at least, went down on that ridge," the local said, gesturing to the
north. "He's probably in the trees. I've already sent a recovery team. Where's the XO?"

  "Here, sir," Lieutenant Robert Imus replied.

  "I'll need to hold most of this until your CO gets here," Nielson said. "But I'll give you the quick version. The locals are called the Keldara. They are superb mountain fighters with a tradition that goes back . . . well, very very far. I noticed your first sergeant giving the tall man the gimlet eye. First Sergeant, are you familiar with the term the Soviet Hero's Medal?"

  "No, sir," Kwan said. "Not really."

  "It was a general medal given by the Soviets, sir," Imus said. "It ranged in grade from something like the Legion of Merit up to the Medal of Honor."

  "Yes, well that gentleman earned a Hero medal in WWII," Nielson continued. "Several, actually. They passed them out for everything from building more widgets to personally strangling Hitler with your bare hands. Because we have become close, he permitted me to read the citation for his highest one. He took out four German Tiger tanks with a fucking captured German rocket launcher, by himself, on foot."

  "Holy shit," Kwan blurted.

  "I tell you this because while Father Kulcyanov is unusual, he is not abnormal among the Keldara. They are a race of fighters, of warriors, par excellence. They also have been recently introduced to Western-style tactics and training by a group of people at least your equal as fighters and in many cases your superiors. Some Rangers were among their trainers but also former Deltas, SEALs and SAS. So the Keldara know 'good.' But you are one of the first American units they have gotten the opportunity to observe. So the Keldara are going to be judging you, every minute of every day, on everything from your tactics to your professional deportment. Until your CO gets here, ensuring that you hold up the high standards of the United States military is up to you, Lieutenant, and will always be up to you, First Sergeant. The Keldara asked if they could come out and serve beer, which is to them something like the inevitable green tea in the sandbox. I suggested they hold off. I have never seen a Ranger act with anything like professional decorum around a keg of beer. And I say that as a tabber myself."

  "Yes, sir," Kwan said. "Thank you, sir."

  "Have your men rest until the Bobbsey Twins recover your CO," Nielson said. "Then we'll settle you into quarters and get started on briefings."

  "Sir, one question," the XO interjected. "I don't see any young males. Where are they?"

  "In the mountains, Lieutenant," Nielson replied. "And that is all you are permitted to know. I'll be briefing your CO further."

  "Are we going to be aggressing against them, sir?" Kwan asked.

  "First Sergeant, for a senior NCO of a company in the United States Army you have remarkably poor hearing," Nielson replied, tightly. "I said, that is all you are permitted to know. So put a fucking cork in it, Top."

  Kwan raised his eyebrows but shut the fuck up. His questions about whether the "colonel" was a PX Ranger were answered. No.

  Guerrin flexed his knees as the Hind dropped him lightly to the ground, looking around at the company. The PJ guy undid the connection to his harness and then the Hind lifted up and away.

  As soon as the rotor wash had settled he popped the quick release on his parachute harness and headed over to the cluster of senior NCOs and officers. One of the group, however, was unfamiliar.

  "Colonel Nielson?" Guerrin said as he approached.

  "The same," Nielson replied. "Tree landings suck, do they not? I had a friend in the unit who preferred them but I always thought he was high when he jumped, anyway. I've been giving your first sergeant and XO a brief précis of the local conditions. I'll catch you up later. The problem, at the moment, is figuring out quartering. There are . . . issues. May I make a suggestion?"

  "Yes, sir," Guerrin replied. "I was told that you'd brief me in on our mission, so I'll take it as more than a suggestion."

  "This is, however, a suggestion," Nielson said. "There are decisions to be made so having the troops pick out their bunks would be unwise at this time. Troops so grumble when they are moved and moved again. We do, however, have a very nice live-fire range and even a CQB facility. There is daylight to be had. I would suggest that you have your senior NCOs take the troops over to the range while we, that is yourself, myself, your first sergeant, XO and such others as you deem fit, figure out quartering. That way they're not sitting about. Idle hands and all that. When we figure out the quartering, then I can brief you in on the secure aspects of this mission while your people actually get them settled."

  "Sounds good, sir," Guerrin said.

  "It should," Nielson replied. "I've both had time to think about it and been at this game for a while. I will meet you in the middle house over there," he added, pointing to one of the local houses, "when you're ready. I'll have one of the Keldara join you with keys to the ammo bunker. I know you've brought your own, but it's a lovely day to be shooting."

  "Gentlemen," Nielson said, nodding at the Ranger officers and one NCO. "I have asked Father Kulcyanov to sit in as a courtesy. Father Kulcyanov speaks and understands very little English. This is, however, his house and he is the senior, if not oldest, Keldara father."

  Guerrin had wondered at the inclusion of the old man and come to much the same conclusion. Kwan had also given him an apparently verbatim report on what he'd been told by Nielson. So he took a chance.

  "I understand, sir," Guerrin said. "Does Father Kulcyanov understand Deutsch?"

  "Bisschen," the old man said, nodding. "Kennen sie irhen Feind."

  "Danke schoen . . . Fuer Seinem Haus verwenden."

  "Soldaten sind immer wilkommt zum Senke des Keldaren, aber nicht zum seinem Frauen. Seien gewarnt."

  "Ja Mein Herr," Guerrin said with a chuckle. "Verstandet!"

  "Sir?" Kwan asked, confused.

  "He said that soldiers are always welcome here," Imus translated, chuckling. "But keep your hands off our women."

  "Yes, sir," Kwan said.

  "Not 'sir,'–" the old man said, making what was either a wet cough or an equally wet laugh. "I work."

  "So now that we're acquainted," Nielson said when the chuckles had died down. "Here's the quartering issue. We have two useable sets of quarters, the barracks and the caravanserai up on the ridge. We can quarter all of your people under roofs and in beds. Barely. That's the good news. The bad news is that the barracks are open bay with the exception of two rooms per barracks that are private; you can handle that. But they are only big enough for two platoons. The other bad news is that the caravanserai is the personal home of the local landowner and warlord. He's an American, Mike Jenkins, who is currently out of town. It is also the quarters for his harem. And I mean that in every possible sense of the word. I will now entertain questions."

  "Girls," J.P. said, wincing.

  "Eleven of them . . . actually, make that about thirteen," Nielson replied. "Four of them are straightforward hookers who can be available to your personnel at your discretion. They're underutilized at the moment because most of the male residents are out of town. Then there's the harem manager, Anastasia, who is a former harem girl of a sheik in Uzbekistan and now runs Mike's. Whatever Mike may think, she considers herself monogamous to Mike. Daria, who is the operations executive assistant and bookkeeper. One hot blonde, as is Anastasia, who is unattached but equally unlikely to have a casual fling with any of you.

  "Then there are five ladies who are Mike's exclusive, highly exclusive, harem. I don't have access so neither do you. One of them is, in fact, a virgin who is waiting anxiously to be popped. Looking forward to it more than he, unless I'm much mistaken.

  "So, gentlemen, this is the problem. You can put all your troops in the barracks and all your senior NCOs, officers and such, up at the caravanserai, creating a huge impression of favoritism but reducing some potential problems, or you can quarter some of your youngsters with a bunch of incredibly fuckable little ladies, most of whom are equally incredibly off-limits. Oh, last problem, most of the rooms that are available are in the hare
m quarters. At the very least we're looking at senior NCOs quartered with seven nubile but off-limits young ladies and four very available hookers. Questions, comments, concerns?"

  "Harem?" the XO said.

  "Virgins?" the first sergeant added.

  "Kildar?" J.P. asked.

  "Harem," Nielson said. "Another thing to brief your personnel on is not running off at the mouth about conditions in this valley. While a large number of extremely senior people are aware of Mr. Jenkins' harem, it's not something for casual discussion down on River Street. If it becomes a subject of casual discussion the leaker will be punished under the full weight of the UCMJ. Guaran-fucking-teed. Yes, virgins. Their history is complicated and not germane to the discussion. Kildar is the local term for Mr. Jenkins' position. The history is not germane, either. Having said that, it's an ancient term for the noble who commands the Keldara. They are a very feudal tribe with traditions that date back to the Byzantine Empire. I'll discuss it at length if we ever have time. It's quite fascinating.