by John Ringo
He'd done slack rappels enough times to recognize the signs. The primary slipknot had released. Whether it was the cold working on the ropes to make them more slippery or what, the slipknots were coming undone. If all three let go, he was going to fall three hundred feet onto solid ice covered in about an inch of snow.
The term was "splat."
As his feet touched the face he bounded instantly outward and threw his right arm out to the side, removing all pressure on the rope and falling, effectively, in freefall, the rope screaming through both hands with the smell of burning leather.
The fall, however, wasn't quite freefall: the friction of the rope running over the figure-eight prevented that. So in keeping with simple Newtonian physics, Mike was pulled back to the face in a long, slow swing. The arc of pendulum was very long, but inexorable. Thus about two hundred feet over the ice he had to slow, again, for a bound. As he did he felt the shock of the second knot giving way.
This time he pushed off, hard, and let loose of the rope almost instantly. He'd never really stopped at the bound and was falling fast enough it wasn't much different from a freefall jump. He wasn't sure whether he should do a parachute landing fall at the bottom or not. However, doing it with the ruck on his back was pretty much out.
He had one more, probably shaky, knot between him and splatsville. He had about two hundred pounds of gear wearing him down and nasty ice right underneath. And he was falling at about terminal velocity. Oh, and he was inexorably swinging in towards the face.
On the other hand, he had to admit that this was the sort of thing he fucking lived for. Adrenaline was pumping, the time seemed to slow and endorphins were riding high in anticipation of sudden and incredible pain. A degree of skill and one hell of a lot of luck were the only things between life a very messy death. Forget sex, forget gambling, this was life on the blade. The only moments better than this was the kill after a long stalk or being in the center of a fuckload of enemies, a larger number than a buttload and just shy of a shitload, with several full magazines and a mild amount of cover.
Time had slowed and he expertly judged the distances involved. The arc of pendulum had opened out a lot on the last bound and he anticipated that, even with breaking, he shouldn't slam into the wall. He was going to have to brake, though, and that was where the luck came in. The variable was how long the last knot was going to last. Based on the previous two the answer was "not very fucking long, if at all."
He had two choices, brake slow and hope the knot held under the lighter, longer, pressure or brake hard. Hard was shorter time on the knot but more "pull."
In an instant he made the decision. Hard. Hell, he'd passed the point of "slow" anyway.
Fifty feet over the ground, and smokin', literally, he pulled the rope in and pressed it, hard, against his side and back.
Instantly he started to slow from a full freefall to something survivable. With luck. But he was still going pretty fast, maybe seven feet per second, when he felt the knot pop free with a shock.
The next moment his feet hit the ice and he rolled back onto his ruck. His kidneys did not enjoy that moment but he was alive to feel the pain. Pain was good.
"Nice," Sawn said from the belay as the rope started to fall all over Mike. "That was the most perfect rappel I've ever seen, Kildar. You didn't even have to undo the ropes."
Mike, from his position on his back, realized with a feeling of horror that Sawn truly believed it had all been planned.
"Yeah, well, that's why I went last," Mike said, as nonchalantly as he could under the circumstances. "When you've been doing this as long as I have you pick up a few tricks."
"You know," Kacey said, watching as the gun system was uncrated by a couple of the older Keldara men, "I think it's cool that the Georgians just gave us all this shit, but I just realized, I have no fucking clue how to use it."
Unloading had gone fast; it turned out the Kildar had, among other equipment, a field mobile forklift. All the crates had been pulled off and the gear stacked inside the hangar. The ammo had been carted off to the ammo bunkers.
"There is that," Tammy admitted. "I've never driven a gun-ship."
"Got a partial answer to that," D'Allaird said. "Problem being, we are on incredibly short time. You know the mission goes down tonight, right? You're going to have to be ready to fly."
"And I'd love to be able to fly hot," Kacey said. "But I don't even know where the damned buttons are for this shit. Much less how to shoot with it."
"Like I said, got a partial answer for that," D'Allaird repeated. "Would you ladies care to accompany me up to my room?"
"Chief," Tammy said, "I didn't know you cared!"
"Oh, I've always cared, honeybunch, but that's not what I meant," D'Allaird said. He'd scrounged one of the Keldara trucks and he now gestured to it. "I do think a trip to the caravanserai is in order, though."
"That's a very interesting place," Specialist Andrew Sivula said, gesturing with his chin up to the castle on the hill as an SUV approached the front gates. "We're not quartered up there, which is too bad. I'd love to take a look around."
"The home of the Kildar," Jessia Mahona replied, smiling. "I suppose it is interesting, but it has been there my whole life, you know? It just is. The Kildar, he is interesting. He has brought many changes. I never thought I would be allowed to handle weapons, much less my beauty."
Sivula had to admit that the 120 was pretty. With a tube nearly six feet long and nearly six inches across, the thing could throw a mortar round, set for proximity, instantaneous or delay detonation, 7200 meters. And it was pretty clear that the mortar team, all women, maintained it meticulously. The tube looked as if it had just come from the factory, but looking down the bore it was clear it had been fired. A lot.
However, pretty as the mortar was, it paled next to the mortar team leader. The girl was fucking awesome. Tall, about five foot ten and stacked, with pretty brown eyes and curly brown hair. Sivula was pretty sure he was in love. Her English wasn't bad, either. He knew he was in lust, but he was pretty sure it was love, too. He knew there was a hands-off policy, but he wondered who you approached about an honest offer of fucking marriage.
They weren't alone in the bunker, though. Four of the seven "man" female crew were performing maintenance on the tube while three more were showing the Bravo mortar team the ammo bunker while his AG tried to chat up one of the girls doing maintenance.
"I haven't played with 120s since I was in mortar school," the Ranger said in reply. It was that or "ubba, ubba, ubba." "We carry 60s. But I know the tune and I can dance a few steps."
"What?" Jessia asked, confused.
"Sorry, not a reference you'd get," Sivula replied. "I sort of know how to gun one. What I don't get is what you use for poles."
Normally, mortars were aimed using poles that looked a bit like surveyor's stakes and were drawn from the same background. The poles, technically called "aiming stakes," were about five feet long and, generally, red and white striped. Two would be put in, aligned so that when the mortar was at a central "rest" position the rear pole was occluded by the front in the sight. When a call for fire came in the angle was dialed in on the sight, then the mortar was slewed right or left in the direction it needed to point. By keeping aligned on the poles the mortar could be vectored to its direction of fire.
This mortar, though, was dug way into the ground. The bunker was one of the best he'd ever seen, deep with sandbag walls and a metal "splinter" cover that could be drawn across the top. There were three tunnels running off of it, one to a separate ammo bunker, the other two to the mortar battery command center and a personnel shelter, respectively. The personnel shelter, for that matter, connected to the next bunker in line.
Jessia was in charge of the 2 gun of the battery, the central gun that was used not only for calls for fire but for aligning all three batteries. That was generally a position given only to the best crew and Sivula had to wonder just how good she was.
"You don't
need them with these," Jessia said, pointing to the wall of the bunker at some lines drawn on plywood boards. They were numbered in some code he hadn't been able to figure out. "The green one is the primary east aiming line. Lay the sight on the left side of that and you can slew through half the circle. The blue one is primary west."
"And the red ones?" Sivula asked, looking through the sight. Sure enough, it was laid on the left side of the green line.
"Those are presets," Jessia replied. "They refer to specific spots that are probable avenues of approach. If something is detected at one of those points, all we have to do is swing the mortar to it, adjust the elevation and fire. Like this . . ."
She snapped something in Georgian and the girls doing maintenance dropped what they were doing, literally dropped everything, while the girls who had been in the ammo bunker piled out. Four of them took hold of the legs of the bipod and lifted the heavy mortar into the air. Another, presumably the AG, caught a tossed round from one of the girls in the bunker and shifted with the mortar.
The team rapidly slewed the mortar and then Jessia fiddled for a second, not much longer, and called out again in Georgian.
One of the girls in the bunker hit a button and a loud siren started to sound. The girls who had slewed the gun stuck fingers in their ears as Jessia backed off the gun and the assistant gunner lifted the round over the opening of the tube.
"Holy shit," Andy snapped, sticking fingers in his ears and ducking to the side. "FIRE IN THE HOLE!"
A mortar does not "crump" at short range, it cracks, it slams, it explodes. It is like a rifle shot but infinitely louder, compressing the lungs for a moment and causing the head to ring even through earplugs or stuffed in fingers. Especially in the confined space of a mortar pit.
The team was already moving the mortar back into place and in another few seconds, fast enough, easily, to pass Mortar Square at Benning, the gun was back in action on its original azimuth.
"We just fired one round at a trail in the mountains, one that the Chechens often use. Our accuracy is generally within ten meters with first round. The round impacted well away from your patrols." Jessia smiled at him prettily. "Wouldn't want anyone injured."
"Lady, you are fucking crazy," Andy said, grinning. "I am going to get in so much trouble for asking this, but are you married or engaged?"
Jessia suddenly stopped smiling and her face set. Andrew knew he'd fucked up. Bad. He was going to get fucking killed by Top.
"Actually, no," Jessia replied. "I'm a widow."
It was Andrew's turn to freeze and blink.
"How old are you?" Andy asked.
"Nineteen," Jessia said. "My husband was killed . . . He was killed in battle. I . . . We don't talk about all the battles our men participate in but he was killed earlier this year. They didn't, couldn't bring his body home, though." She paused and shrugged. "He is in the Halls but . . . The women of the Keldara rarely remarry. There are too many girls to marry off as it is."
"So, you're just going to go to your grave without even the chance of getting another husband?" Andy said. "That sucks."
"I had my time," Jessia replied. "Endar was a good man and a fine warrior. As are you, Sergeant Sivula," she added, smiling.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck . . . Andrew knew when the fickle finger of fate had fucked again. This was definitely love.
"You brought an Xbox?" Tammy said. "You love Halo that much?"
The chief's room was much better outfitted than either hers or Kacey's. Among other things it had a full stereo system, a plasma-screen TV and the game console. On a small desk there was a high-end laptop.
"I don't play Halo that much these days," D'Allaird said, slipping a disk into the console. "I found another addiction. And it turned out there were already a couple around."
It took a moment for the game to boot up, then he fiddled with the menu. Finally, they were looking at a very familiar view.
"It's a Hind combat simulator," D'Allaird said. "I ran across it a couple of months ago. Face facts, most engineers are guys who couldn't get into pilot training. This is the closest I get."
"Holy shit," Kacey said, sitting down in the floor chair in front of the TV. "But it's one of those controller things."
"Ah, no," D'Allaird said, pulling out a set of controls and sliding them over. "I've got two. You can split-screen and both pl—train at the same time. You can even work on coordination."
"These are pretty accurate," Tammy said, sitting down in an adjoining chair. "Why two chairs?"
"Oh, I've been playing with Colonel Nielson," D'Allaird admitted. "He's pretty good at Medal of Honor . . ."
"Gun position, left," Tammy yelled. "Fuck, I'm taking fire!"
"Got it," Kacey replied then paused. "Okay, actually I missed it, coming around."
"I've got a hot engine light! See ya! I'm down."
"I got the gun position, at least," Kacey said. "Try to land near the friendlies."
"There aren't any friendlies here," Tammy pointed out. "I'm going back to last checkpoint. I see you, coming in on your seven o'clock, low."
"There's another position on the other side of the ridge," Kacey said calmly, pulling back on the stick and then leaning sideways with another yank. "Scissor left."
"Got it."
"Directly south of that other position, one hundred yards. They're engaging me . . ."
"Got it. Smoked."
"Good," Kacey said. "You take lead, I'll take your right. I got dinged on that one . . ."
"Okay, wingman. You get the chicken."
"Hey!"
"I wonder if everybody on this op is having this much fun?"
"Probably not . . ."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Katya sighed and lay down on the bed in her clothes, wrapping the thin blanket around herself and luxuriating in the aloneness. Soon the mission would be done and she could go back to her room in the caravanserai. She realized she had started to think of it as home and blanched. She lived "in the cold" as Jay would put it. There was nowhere in her world that was warm. She refused to allow the possibility.
But the thought of the walls of the caravanserai around her, the Keldara patrolling the mountains, the Kildar with his guns and his training, the lock on the door.
Crap. She was getting soft.
She stuck her hand under the thin, lice-infested pillow, felt her fingers touch paper and froze. She rolled over, pulling the blanket up more and slid the slip of paper out in one natural motion. Even if there was a video bug in the room it was unlikely anyone would see the motion. Unfortunately, there was no way she could read it in this light. She considered that for a moment then stuck it in her bra and got up.
The outhouse was cold as hell but there wasn't anyone around on a rainy and nasty night like this. Once inside, fearful of the results from the stench of the place, she struck a match and read the brief note.
"Switch for Marina tomorrow night."
Stuck to the paper was a small bit of plastic. Peeling it off she saw that it was a fake scar, identical to the one on Marina's chin. Fucking identical down to the slight hook at the base.
The note was signed simply: J.
"Oh. My. Fucking. God."
She realized there was no way she was going to be able to figure out which of the people in town the spy master was posing as. But just having him nearby gave her that warm feeling again. It was that, as much as the fact that he was here, that had caused the exclamation.
She was not getting soft. Not.
She touched the match to the paper and it flared briefly, with very little light, then disappeared into bare ash. She rubbed her fingers together, waved the match out and dropped it between her legs.
The scar went into her bra. Right by her heart.
The point paused at the entrance of the defile and looked in cautiously.
The weather, to most people, would fall into the category of "sucks." The clouds had dropped even more, filling the upland valley with fog mixed with rain, sl
eet and snow as if it couldn't figure out which way it wanted to go.
To Mike it was perfection. It was damned hard to see fifty feet, much less miles, which meant easier for the teams to stay out of sight.
The terrain wasn't bad, either. The clear uplands had been nervous making from the point of view of being spotted. And this side of the mountains was incredibly drier than just sixty miles away. The lowlands were mostly covered in tight, thorny thickets of scrub. Making their way through the tight-packed and dripping scrub had been a nightmare. Mike had figured about twice their movement rate and, with the sun well up, they were late to their rendezvous. But even that wasn't bad; they'd spotted two Chechen patrols before they themselves were spotted and let them waft right by. Tight scrub was pretty scrub in his view.