Unto The Breach

by John Ringo

  Engines up in that "over redline" zone that Marek had sworn was there, and bottom just about brushing the rocks of the pass, the Hind made it over the highest point of their flight.

  The rocks had been more guessed at than seen. The front was clearing but that just meant that the clouds were choking the pass, making visibility in the area something in the order of arm's length. She'd done the entire upper pass on pure instruments, trying very hard not to look out the windows so she wouldn't get vertigo.

  Despite the fact that they'd passed the toughest flying, and it was a stone bitch with the winds whipping through the pass, Kacey kept the bird redlined as she descended. Just around the corner was the exit of the pass. And the bunkers.

  She was trying to claw for any altitude she could get but the fucking Hind was being a total pig between the thin air and the overload. As the altitude dropped they slid out of the clouds but she'd just as well get back up into them. However, the bird was only in the air due to "ground effect" and even though the God-damned things were only fifty feet overhead, the damned Hind was just not going to go any higher.

  "Gretchen," Kacey said over the intercom. "We're coming up on the bunkers. There are going to be two out the port, the left, side. Orient your fire there."

  She'd made sure the Gatling was on that side for a reason. She'd considered not taking it, and the ammunition, which was even heavier, but suppressing some of the fire was going to be better than flying through cold.

  "Make sure you hit them, girl," Kacey added. She banked gently to the side, using the rotor to turn as much as anything. Just keeping the damned bird in the air was about all she could do and they weren't going much faster than a horse. This was truly gonna suck.

  "There," Baakr Al-Rus said, looking out the slit of the bunker. "There is the helicopter we have been hearing."

  "Why is it going so slow?" Hanan ed-Din asked.

  "I don't know," Baakr said, pulling back the charging bar on the 12.7mm machine gun. "But it's not going to fly much further."

  Gretchen had gotten oxygen masks on the worst of the casualties, all the masks she had, and replaced the blood packs on two. The floor of the Hind was now awash in blood, deep enough that it was lapping up on her boots. The Russian and Varlam were sitting in it, which was worse.

  Now, though, she had other things to think about.

  She pressed the button that cycled the first round into the Gatling gun and took it off safe. The 7.62 gun was electrically driven with eight barrels that would fire an amazing four thousand rounds per minute. She had never fired one, but it was supposed to be much like the machine guns she had trained on. Just much more powerful.

  She also had never fired from a moving helicopter, but Chief D'Allaird had told her "just lead them a little." He'd chuckled when he said it for some reason.

  She would have to do her best.

  However, although she should be seeing the bunkers, she couldn't pick them out. They were down there somewhere but camouflaged.

  "Ma'am," she said, nervously. "I don't see . . ."

  * * *

  Baakr led the helicopter, slightly, aiming for the area where the engine must be. When he was pretty sure he had a good sight he pressed the butterfly trigger of the machine gun.

  The rounds missed to the rear, sparking off the tail. He continued to fire, twisting forward . . .

  "Never mind!" Gretchen shouted as first one then the other bunker opened fire. She depressed the trigger of the minigun and was startled to see what looked like a stream of fire come out of it. The sound was like nothing she had ever heard in her life, like one of the chainsaws the Kildar had bought, but infinitely louder.

  The worst part, though, was that she was missing. The rounds were striking forward of the bunkers and she twisted her body sideways, bringing them around . . .

  "Prophet's Ghost!" Baakr swore as the bullets, what seemed more like a laser, swept across the front of the bunker. All of them had been high, chewing the sandbags of the top rather than striking through the narrow firing window, but he ducked nonetheless.

  "Maybe they were going slow so they could hit us better," Hanan said from the floor of the bunker beside him.

  "We took some dings," Kacey said. "I felt the strikes."

  "Dings, hell!" Tammy shouted. "I've got a hole in my right window!"

  "Gretchen, how's things back there?"

  Gretchen stopped firing as soon as she couldn't twist the minigun any more to the rear.

  "I'm fine," Gretchen said, keying her throat mike and turning away from the window. "I think . . ." She stopped and sobbed. "Oh, Father of All."

  The stray 12.7 round had traveled upwards at over eight hundred meters per second, cresting the top of the armored door on the side of the helicopter and striking Viktor Mahona from underneath, passing up through his lower abdomen and then bouncing off the armored top of the squad bay to ricochet, unnoticed, out the troop door next to Gretchen.

  The effect upon hitting Viktor's recumbent body had been something like a small grenade exploding in his midsection. The top of the troop bay was splashed with red that dripped on the other casualties, and pieces, mostly intestines, of her brother's body were scattered across the bay. Virtually his entire body from his lower rib cage to his hips was missing.

  The straps, across his legs and chest, had kept those parts in place. And Viktor still had that happy, goofy, grin on his face she knew so well. He'd been hit too fast, and hard, to even grimace.

  "We took one casualty," Gretchen said, trying not to let her voice break. "Otherwise we're fine." She reached up and plucked at something dangling in her view. It was green and dripping and otherwise she couldn't begin to place it. She just knew it was from her brother's body. She suddenly realized that her back was sodden with blood. She laid the dripping thing carefully on the stretcher. "We're fine."

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Haza Saghedi raised himself out of the stream, hands up.

  He had managed to kill several of the Russians before he realized they were not, in fact, the enemy. He'd heard the different tone of the firing to the rear and swept around to the side, shooting at least one of the camouflage-clad figures that was sweeping across the convoy of mujahideen.

  However, he was, perhaps, the only survivor. He had hidden under bushes as the pig infidels had swept the area. With long experience of surviving under every circumstance he wasn't about to let these pigs get him. He had vengeance to enact.

  The approaching group, though, was probably Chechens, mujahideen as he was. They weren't very good, their sweep technique was awful and they looked jumpy. But that just made it that much more important than he attract their attention from as far away as possible.

  Despite the fact that he was in clothing acceptable to the prophet and had his hands up, the idiots fired at him. So he dropped back down and waited.

  "Who is there!" a young voice called.

  "I am Haza Saghedi Al-Rusht, Al-Kemar, Al-Abdullah, Sword of the Prophet, Lion of Kandahar and warlord of the Pasht and if you shoot at me again I will take that weapon from you and beat you as your mother apparently never did!"

  "Haza Saghedi Khan," Commander Bukara said, nodding in respect. "Your name is far known. Can you possibly explain this debacle?"

  "We were hit by a pincer movement just as the meet started," Haza said, wiping at his arm. One of the shots from either the Russians or the other group had hit him a glancing blow on his forearm. It would become only one of many scars. "I have no idea who they were. It was not the camouflage of the Spetznaz unless they use something very different here. It looked something like the new American, but still not that."

  "Keldara," Bukara said, holding up the patch. "Georgians from over the mountains. They have a new warlord, an American. I was told a meeting was going on, but also told by some very senior people to stay out of the way."

  "Perhaps that was a mistake," Saghedi admitted. "Several mistakes were made. I think the people I had on security were not lookin
g the right way. But that is to be forgotten. Those Keldara pigs have captured a senior member of the Movement. They must be stopped."

  "I have already lost many men just getting here," Bukara said, frowning. "They are running away. Let them go. We can deal with them in our own time."

  Haza tried not to snarl at what he saw as cowardice. He suspected mentioning his opinion would get him nowhere, what was more. He had dealt with many similar warlords in many lands. But he also knew they all had the same weakness . . .

  "Besides capturing Sheik Al-Kariya, these Keldara captured the money we had brought to this meeting." Haza tried not to gulp at what he was about to do. Facing American Delta Force would be smarter. "It was sixty million euros. If you destroy them, you can have half, to support your great jihad against the Russians."

  "As I said," Bukara replied, immediately. "We must stop these Keldara from escaping. But they will not get far. The way they are trying to take out is blocked."

  "Do you have a map?" Saghedi asked. "Show me."

  "Here is the road," Bukara said, tracing it on the map. "This is the furthest point of Georgian control, in the pass. Commander Sadim has a blocking force already in place, over two hundred fedayeen, in bunkers and with heavy weapons." He pointed to the spot and shrugged. "There is a gorge there. The Keldara will not be able to go around before we reach them."

  "Sadim is here?" Haza said, surprised.

  "I only recently got word he was coming to this sector," Bukara said, stone faced. "But, yes, his advanced units are already at the border crossing and the rest of his units are close behind. He may yet cut them off."

  "They might also anticipate it," Saghedi pointed out, looking around the map. "They will get off the road . . . here," he said, pointing to where a small stream crossed it. "Destroy the vehicles. Perhaps booby-trap them. Then they will either move to flank your positions or towards this pass."

  "Guerrmo," Bukara said, frowning. "We have a small force there. Really just a few bunkers to stop the Georgians from sending patrols through there. They are oriented to the south. They will be able to take those easily. When this happened Commander Suliman sent some of his men down into the hills in case they headed that way. But only a few patrols; the most they can do is sting them."

  "Then we have to block them," Saghedi said. "Do you have any guides that really know these hills? I need them and . . . a hundred men if you can spare them. I hate to ask but they must be many of your best. In shape, capable of running in these hills and able to really shoot. We will take only light ammunition and water and go to . . . this point." He pointed to a hilltop at the north entrance of the pass. "They will have to pass this point. We will also take shovels, yes?"

  "Can you beat them there?"

  "I can," Haza said, straightening up. "Can your men keep up is the question? And you must contact Commander Sadim, now. Tell him to try to cut them off sooner. But get him moving."

  "I see," Bukara said, nodding as he listened on the satellite phone. "Yes, I will do that."

  He sighed as he hung up. Sadim was not going to like this.

  "They want you to call Sadim directly," Sayeed said, shaking his head. "Don't they?"

  "They do," Bukara replied, trying not to curse. "And they aren't going to send me any of his codes; even they are not so stupid." He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  "This is Commander Bukara," Bukara said, wincing. "I must talk to your commander."

  "Sadim."

  Gregor Sadim's white mustache was twitching furiously, a sure sign that he was agitated, and his aides politely turned away.

  The entire march had been, from an electronic perspective, perfect. Although they might have been picked up by satellites, although there might have been a rumor of their passing, they had only used codes. No unit designators. And all of it highly encrypted.

  The offensive out of the Pankisi was designed to catch the Russians off-guard, at a time when they were retreating to winter quarters. Although the Russians were, proverbially, good winter fighters, they had gotten used to the Chechens pulling back over winter. With luck the offensive, led by the Sadim Brigade, would catch them off-guard and roll them back.

  That was probably blown now based on one damned phone-call.

  "This is Commander Bukara," the man on the phone said. "And let me start by saying that High Command ordered me to contact you in this way. We have a situation."

  Sadim was sixty-two and had attained the rank of major in the Red Army before retiring. Despite a membership from an early age in the Communist Party, he had, his whole life, been a believing Muslim. With the fall of the Soviet Union and the rise of the jihad he had left his country home and joined the jihad, one of the first trained officers to do so. Since then he had built his reputation, and unit, into one of the finest the mujahideen had. Disciplined, experienced and well armed, it was the Chechen's crack force, which was why it had been moved to this sector.

  But he was well trained, and personally disciplined, so he controlled his fury.

  "What is the situation?" he asked.

  "Oh . . . damn," Greznya said as the intercept popped up. The satellite call had been open-circuit and the voices were distinct even if both of them hadn't identified themselves. And she recognized the name.

  "Colonel Nielson?"

  Vanner's BFT started buzzing, frantically, and he paused to draw it out.

  The Keldara were retreating at a trot but he was keeping up just fine. He'd never let himself get out of condition after getting out of the Marines and had worked on it harder since joining the Kildar. The girls were doing fine as well, especially since dropping their rucks.

  In fact, the way things were going they should get to the pass by dawn and be out of here.

  He pulled up the BFT, looked at the data and blanched.

  They'd better clear the pass by dawn.

  "Kildar!" he said, running up the hill. "Kildar! You need to see this."

  "Command, this is Dragar Five."

  The commander of the light reconnaissance vehicle looked at the cluster of cars and trucks then at where the roadbed had been beaten down.

  "Dragar Five, Command."

  "Command, the Keldara force has left the road at point nine-two-one," the LRV commander said. "Force size unknown. Path indicates a generally southerly route. Terrain is unsuited to pursuit."

  "Four thousand," Mike said, his jaw working. "Fuck me. Fuck us."

  "It's worse than that, sir," Vanner said, quietly. "Sadim's their varsity. Former Soviet officer, very professional one, school trained at Frunze which was their equivalent of the War College. His unit is considered their best field-combat unit. Lots of heavy weapons, tanks, the works. The girls started picking up signals a couple of days ago but up until just now we didn't know who it was. Or the size of the force. They were apparently moving over here to push this sector against the Russians. Maybe against us but the Russians are more likely. But now . . ."

  "He's going to be on our ass," Mike said. "Well, we just have to run faster. Send a message to the Teams; we're trading stealth for speed. If we get hit by an ambush, counterassault and screen through. Fortunately, except for the bunkers the pass should be clear . . ."

  Of the hundred that had started, barely fifty were behind Haza as he reached the top of the hill.

  The area was high. It reminded him of his beloved Afghanistan, now under the boot of the Allah-Be-Damned Americans. The last few kilometers had been through low brush, covered in snow melting in the rain. And it was high. He could tell by the thin air, the cold clear wind of the mountains he knew and loved.

  The rain wasn't like Afghanistan, though, still spraying in his face and the wind was rising. It was going to be a cold, wet, night. But they had beaten these pig Keldara to the Pass. And he intended that they not pass.

  "Get up you sons of pigs!" he cursed, kicking the nearest Chechen, who had slumped to the ground as soon as he reached the top of the hill. "We have digging to do. Those Keldara you so f
ear will be here soon and we will give them a hot greeting."

  Mike cursed as firing broke out to his front. Initially, most of the fire was from AK-type weapons, the familiar "back, back, back" of the relatively slow-firing AK. The response, however, was almost immediate as the higher, faster cycling, SAWs and M4s of the Keldara responded to what was clearly an ambush.

  Team Sawn was in the lead, with the other five teams following. The area was still woodland but the underbrush, in most areas, was thick. He knew that the Chechens were going to know the trails and easy ways better than the Keldara, making them faster moving, but all they could do was bull their way forward, hoping for the best.