by John Ringo
He'd pulled out a large pad with a plasma screen and now cycled it on. The screen was about the size of a sheet of letter-size paper and had a map of the area. On it the friendly units were designated by blue icons and enemies were marked with red. Where either were off the screen their direction and distance was marked with karats pointed to the sides. Mike took the pad, scrolled out for a look around and shook his head. Red icons were popping up all over the map. Most of them were already showing movement symbols towards their position. The main threat, though, was the Chechen battalion approaching from the north. However, the defenses to the south showed heavy weapons capability and dug in defenses. Then he noted the symbol at the opening of the Guerrmo Pass.
And none of that covered units that signal intercept hadn't picked up. Some units could have been contacted and told to move but didn't respond. The girls might have missed an intercept.
Mike hadn't planned on the destruction of the smallpox taking so long and he'd always known the mission was on a knife edge. Currently, the situation was headed towards true military FUBAR. Fucked up beyond all recognition.
"How very good," Mike said. "We still in contact with higher?"
"Affirmative," Vanner replied. "There's a Predator up, not that it can see or do anything. But we're looking at clearing in about six hours. I got a note that there was a satellite pass but I don't have that, yet."
"I'd like to be out of here in six hours," Mike pointed out.
"Unlikely, sir," Vanner pointed out. "The blocking force is heavy weapons heavy. We'd be trying to fight our way past bunkers blocking the road. And, sir, we have very limited heavy weapons, no air support . . ."
"I'm aware of the issues, Vanner," Mike said. "Okay, what's our secondary?"
"Guerrmo Pass," Vanner said. "We take the road up about five klicks then unass and head up through the hills. Unfortunately, we have recent reports from the Rangers that the Chechens also have a heavy weapons position, three bunkers ID'd, in the pass. On the backside, admittedly, oriented to prevent entry from the Georgian side. But there are forces there."
"Saw that," Mike said as sporadic firing started to the north. "Cross that pass when we come to it. Dr. Arensky?"
"Just done," Arensky replied. "Preparing to come out. I would suggest that you set two more sets of environment suits outside the tent. We will exit and change into those. Then we will torch the entire assembly, after breaking the flasks through the tent fabric. Padrek and I will remain in the suits for a few days as quarantine in case we have not been as successful in containment as I have hoped."
"Sucks to be you," Mike muttered. "Works. We've got cans of diesel and thermite grenades on the ground outside the tent. We'll just back off, shall we?"
"Please."
"Right, Vanner, call in the dogs. By the time they get here, it'll be time to run."
* * *
"Hold your fire," Adams said.
The Chechens had apparently sent out vehicles as fast as they could find them. Given that Adams had stolen most of their dedicated trucks, the lead group was one Toyota pickup, the mujahideen vehicle of choice, and a motley collection of Ladas, Paykans and various other small sedans. The Toyota was in the lead and one of the mujahideen in the bed had a light machine gun across the top of the truck.
That would have been a bright move if the driver had actually seen the first tree in time.
The Toyota slammed on its brakes but it was far too close to do anything other than cause it to slew sideways. Before it could start to roll from the turn, the right front wheel hit the poplar in the road. The vehicle launched upwards and over, doing a flip in the air before landing amongst the larger trees that made up the bulk of the roadblock.
"Now open fire," Adams said as the mujahideen who had been standing up holding the machine gun slammed across one of the trees with an audible "crack" as his back broke. It really didn't matter since his head hit another log at the same time, splashing brains and blood across the road in a spray.
The teams had loaded fairly light for this mission so most of the machine-gun teams, who usually carried NATO 7.62 M240s, were armed with M249 Squad Automatic Weapons which fired the lighter 5.56 round.
That didn't help the Chechens much. Before they could even begin to bail out of their vehicles the four teams opened up with a withering storm of gunfire, stitching the vehicles with rounds. The rifle Keldara fired in controlled three-round bursts, aiming for the shadows of men in the vehicles, the rounds cracking through windscreens and doors. The SAWs sounded very much like chainsaws, ripping off five-round bursts that stitched the vehicles with small, neat, lines of bullet holes.
Two of the Chechens made it out into that hail of lead, trying to reach the cover of the nearby stream, but they didn't even make it three steps before falling into the road. The movement had attracted several of the Keldara's fire and the two did a dance as the dozens of rounds stitched them.
"Check fire," Adams said over the team circuit. "Snipers. If you see anyone moving, finish them off."
"Master Chief. Vanner. Kildar says pull in the dogs."
"Belay that," Adams said. "Everyone get to the trucks. We're out of here. Oleg, arm the claymores. Sawn, drop a marker."
"Slow down," Commander Bukara said as the first vehicle came in sight. "Stop! Everyone out!"
Mikhail Ashenov had been a lieutenant in the Red Army when the Soviet Union broke up. But though he had a Russianized name, he had been raised a devoted Muslim. The Prophet had decreed it permissible, indeed recommended, that the faithful lie to the unbelievers. And under Communism, being an Islamic made it impossible to have a decent life. So the Ashenov family had worshipped in secret and held true to the ideal that, some day, Chechnya would return to the umah.
But even with the breakup of the Soviet Union, the fucking Russians had held tight to Chechnya. Chechnya with its oil fields and mines. Chechnya with its forests and powerful rivers supplying hydroelectric power.
Mikhail Ashenov had been one of the first recruits of the burgeoning Chechen resistance. At first distrusted, he had rapidly proven to be a decent fighter, combining the methods of the guerrilla with his professional training. For the last ten years he had gathered more and more fighters to him until he was a notable "battalion" commander with five hundred trained mujahideen under his command.
Make that about four hundred and seventy, now.
The Chechens had been fighting the Russians for a long time so they knew the drill well. The fighters piled out of the vehicles fast, some of them moving up the sides of the road and others fading into the trees.
"Damn them," Bukara said, walking forward. He'd hoped to catch this team before they faded away and were picked up by their helicopters. He assumed that it must be Spetznaz. As he walked up the line of stitched vehicles, bodies tumbled out on the ground he shook his head. He had gathered together as many men as he had vehicles for and thrown them ahead, hoping to pin the Spetznaz before they could escape. This was the result.
"They were slaughtered." Sayeed was his long-term driver and bodyguard. But Bukara could hear the tone in his voice. It was a very unhappy tone.
A Chechen "commander" could only command as long as he had the respect of his men. Although there was discipline in the army—any army had to have laws—fighters could desert to other commanders. The quickest way to become an ex battalion commander was to lose his men's trust and respect. And having a slaughter like this on his books was a way to lose that respect fast. This was a disaster.
Suddenly there was a massive crash from the front and he dove behind one of the vehicles as the air seemed to fill with bees.
"Directional mines," Sayeed said.
"Fuckers," Bukara replied. The blast had come from up by the trees that blocked the road. The fucking Spetznaz had assumed whoever came next would start to clear the trees. And they'd laid in mines to make that more dangerous. If the whole blockade was laced with explosives this could take hours to clear.
"Commander!" on
e of the fighters called, holding something up in his hand. It looked like a piece of cloth.
Bukara strode forward as men gathered around the wounded, pulling them back to the motley collection of vehicles he'd managed to gather in Gamasoara.
The fighter was holding what looked like some sort of patch. Bukara took it and shown his flashlight on it.
"Blood of the Prophet."
Bukara had fought his former Russian masters for over ten years. They came in several forms, the half-trained conscripts that were so easy to kill it was almost a crime, the better trained "elite" units that some of the divisions now sported and, worst of all, the Spetznaz, those cold-eyed killers who slaughtered and then faded into the night and shadows. But though the Russians were powerful, they were not feared. Hated, yes, but not feared.
This enemy, though. They had been interfering with convoys for quite some time now and the one concerted effort to destroy them had been a disaster; the battalion of two hundred sent against them had been utterly destroyed. And the word that they got from several sources was that it had been by less than thirty of the pagans.
But their reputation went back further than that. The Chechens had sparred with them for generations and of all groups in Georgia they were the most feared. Ancient and powerful fighters, wielders of broad axes which could cleave a man to the waist. Warriors and reavers who masked as simple farmers. Pagans that hid their faith and played at being Christians. Drinkers of blood in secret rites under the mountains, they were rumored to sacrifice their captives to their black gods.
Now they had a new lord, a mercenary from distant lands as had always been the case. And fucking American spec ops of all things. Americans were feared among the mujahideen as perhaps the greatest threat to the umah since the Byzantines. And their spec ops, from what Bukara had heard, made the Spetznaz seem like child conscripts.
It had been long since the Tigers crossed the mountains, bringing fire and axe to Chechen villages, but mothers still used them to strike fear into the hearts of children. "Be a good boy or the Tigers will take you and eat your heart."
The scrap of fabric in his hand told the whole story.
The Keldara were back.
Chapter Thirty-Four
"There's another one," Greznya said, holding up her hand. She tapped a control and the electronic feed was automatically shunted to a computer program Vanner had "borrowed" from the National Security Agency. The computer chuckled over the intercept and then spat out a prediction. "Borana's Brigade. Approximate numbers nine hundred. Heavy weapons, 12.7 on trucks and 81 millimeter mortars. RPGs as usual. They're about seven hours away but rolling out now."
"That makes well over nineteen distinct units heading for the Area of Operations," Lydia Kulcyanov said, looking over her shoulder at Colonel Nielson. She looked about six months pregnant. Given that she had been married to Oleg for only four months, that made the child almost certainly the Kildar's. Not that anyone was going to note that or even care. But it would be nice to get her husband back so she could have one with him. With nineteen Chechen units, each of unknown numbers, closing on the hundred and twenty or so Keldara, it was looking more and more like Oleg was going to come home in a body bag. If at all.
The colonel just nodded and gestured with his chin.
"Update the board," he said.
* * *
Kacey watched her dials as they came into the green and took a deep breath.
The back had been rigged for litters. Four of them. There were more casualties than that but she could loft a couple more bodies. If they used the Guerrmo Pass on the way back. Outgoing, with just herself, Tammy, Gretchen, some ammo and heavy weapons and the litters they would be fine.
She'd seriously considered asking the Rangers for one of their medics. The Ranger medics were 18 Deltas, trained at the Special Forces Medic School at Fort Sam Houston. Like Special Forces medics they were trained to do anything but "open the cranial cavity." All of them were EMT-qualified and could keep somebody alive just about as well as a first-class emergency room. But they were under the same stupid damned orders as the rest of their company. They could not cross the mountains under any circumstances. Washington was playing political games while people were dying.
So were the Georgians, for that matter. But they were in support. Captain Kahbolov had turned up with three Blackhawks, each with handpicked medics in the back. All Kacey had to do was get the wounded Keldara back to the base. Then the Georgians would take over, flying the wounded back to Tbilisi Military Hospital.
Six casualties to evac. And the Russian scientist. And "Katya," whom she'd never met but heard enough about. There was no way they were getting them all in one lift. Too much weight.
No. Fuck that. She'd seen that the Hind had more lift than even the Czech engineers were willing to admit. They'd pack them in like sardines if necessary.
Just pray the wounded survived the trip.
Especially given that, that loaded, she was going to have to fly right through the fire of the bunkers in the pass.
She pulled up on the collective and lifted off into the howling storm.
For once, weather was the least of her worries.
* * *
"Drop everything but ammo and water," Mike said over the throat mike.
Sawn was driving the Toyota pickup and Mike wished they'd changed places. But he couldn't run the op and drive at the same time, the reason that the military assigned drivers to officers.
Fuck, he really was brass.
"When we hit the stopping point, we are going to run not walk, to the LZ."
He was in commo with the team leaders and depended on them to pass the word to their teams. That was what the chain of command was all about.
"Strip to bare necessities," Mike continued. "Anybody who can't run goes on a stretcher. Detail teams to replace as we move. All the casualties go out as soon as we hit the LZ. Oleg, you're in charge of keeping Dr. Arensky and Katya with us. If either one can't make the time, dump somebody's ruck and piggyback them. Our one mission is to get to the other side of the mountains as fast as humanly possible. Get moving."
He switched frequencies without thought.
"Vanner."
"Kildar?"
"Tell your girls to drop all their gear," Mike said. "They only carry LCE and their weapons. They have to keep up."
"Got it."
"Padrek."
"Kildar?" The reply was muffled.
"Drop all your gear except weapon and LCE. Cross-load your spare ammo. You're going out on the bird if there's room. You're going to sweat your ass off in that suit and drinking through the mask is a bitch. If you start to get too overheated, hell, I don't know what we're gonna do. Put you on one of the stretchers or something. Keep hydrated as best you can."
"Yes, Kildar."
"We'll extract you as fast as we can."
Three of the Toyota pickups, loaded to the brim with Keldara from Team Yosif, were in the lead. Mike hoped the Chechens hadn't gotten an ambush team in ahead of them—he couldn't afford more casualties—but if they had the three pickups would hopefully spring it.
The entire group, using every functional vehicle, was barrel-assing down the road towards the Georgian lines. There was no way to fight their way through, the girls had confirmed that a group of over two hundred had crossed a mountain and were now in blocking positions—but that was also the way to the Guerrmo Pass.
The mountains thinned at that point. Whereas they had had to cross nearly a hundred klicks of nasty assed alpine terrain on the way in, at the Guerrmo the distance from their current valley to "safety" was barely thirty kilometers. He could run that in a few hours on the flat. But this was going to be going up increasingly steep ridgelines stretching up well above the woodline and into the snowline. The Keldara could make it, assuming more Chechens didn't cut them off. But the females both hadn't been in as much training as the fighters and . . . Well, there was a reason that men and women competed in different leagues i
n the Olympics. The Keldara were, at this point, damned near Olympic-quality athletes. They could carry their rucks at a dog trot all God damned day even straight up a slope. He'd worked hard to get them to that level of condition for precisely this reason.
The girls could maybe maintain a jog for three hours. Uphill, less. Even if they'd been in the same condition, they couldn't have hung with the boys carrying the same gear. As long as they were with the group the Keldara simply couldn't run as fast. And right now, the only thing that they could do, should do, was run like hell.