Unto The Breach

by John Ringo

  No, it continued on, riding the strong winds to the battle. The tiger disappeared over the ridge. In a moment, she was alone again.

  She shook herself back to the present and leaned outwards. The bunkers were just coming into view.

  "Welcome to the land of the tigers," she screamed. "Father of All hear my prayer! Let me slay this day!"

  "I am going to fucking kill that thing this time," Baakr said, pointing at the helicopter.

  "It's going faster this time," Hanan noted, holding the belt. "Lead it."

  "I am leading it you pig eater," Baakr replied, as he opened fire. He was crouched down, but he just couldn't seem to get the fire high enough. "Help me! Lift this thing up!"

  * * *

  Gretchen held down the trigger of the minigun, walking the rounds into the nearest bunker. They were both firing but she ignored that. She just wanted to bring some servants to the Hall.

  This time she managed to walk the rounds into the firing slit of the north bunker and let out a hoot as the machine gun stopped firing.

  "Yes! I have slain this—"

  Gretchen hadn't realized she'd left her intercom on but Kacey wasn't about to interfere with the girl's moment. But when the scream of joy cut off she hit her mike switch.

  "Gretchen?" Kacey shouted. The damned Hinds weren't open to the troop compartment so she couldn't even look back to see if the girl was okay. "GRETCHEN!?"

  Oh, fuck.

  "Oh, fuck."

  Two groups operated Predators in the United States government, the United States Air Force and the CIA. And USAF Predators were not armed. The Air Force held the position that if anything was going to fly and be armed, it damned well better have a pilot in the cockpit and not just a bunch of wires.

  The Predator system was, in essence, a model airplane on steroids. Capable of cruising for up to twenty-four hours in its most up-to-date version, Predators were launched from a remote location (usually within five hundred miles of a target area) then cruised automatically to the AO. Once there, a pilot, who through the wonders of satellite technology could be sitting anywhere in the world, took over and controlled their actions on-site. With standard visual, thermal imagery, and Synthetic Aperture Radar (SAR) available, a Predator could see just about anything, anywhere. Whereas satellites had limited time over a target, swooping across the sky on their continuous orbits, a Predator could park and allow the snoopy to really get a look at things.

  And, best of all, those who were not just snoopy but violent as well could hang missiles on them and, voila! Suddenly you had an eye in the sky with a punch attached.

  The Army was making a bid to get some armed Predators but the AF was using every bit of political muscle to prevent it. Going all the way back to the Key West Agreement in 1947, the Air Force had done everything it possibly could to prevent the Army from having anything with a weapon on it in the air. They'd failed with helicopters but they were standing firm on anything with a "fixed wing." Predators were fixed-wing aircraft and, therefore, the Army might be permitted some that weren't armed, but armed Preds were right the fuck out.

  The CIA stood outside that particularly asinine turf battle. The Air Force had occasionally complained about various armed CIA aircraft and the CIA had invariably answered "what aircraft?"

  So the CIA had Predators. And they were, by God, armed. What's the point, otherwise? And they used them in various ways, mostly removing high-value terrorists that, for other reasons, were hard to reach.

  They really didn't give a damn where they sent their Predators, or the Hellfire missiles they mounted, because if anyone said anything about missiles, or the occasional crashed Predator, they just said: "What missiles? What Predators? We have no knowledge of any such aircraft or missiles."

  The pilot of the CIA Predator was a former Air Force captain who had made something of a career in the Air Force flying Predators. The problem was, if you made it known you liked Predators and thought they were the future of air combat, your days in the Air Force were numbered.

  After an Officer Evaluation Report that, in subtle ways, indicated that he might as well hang up his flight suit, the captain had reluctantly left the Air Force.

  But before he could ever hit the exit door a nice man in a suit had offered him a job.

  Flying Predators.

  Armed Predators.

  Gosh, the captain had thought, wonder who he works for? Because everybody knows that nobody has armed Predators.

  So these days he flew armed Predators for about twice the pay he made as a captain. And the great part about it was, he never had to leave the Northern Virginia area. The Predator could be controlled, via satellite, from anywhere in the world. Oh, the launch teams had to get closer. This one was, in fact, based in eastern Georgia. But he was a pilot. He could do the job from his bedroom.

  No more sleeping in nasty barracks in some Third World shithole. No more bad chow—the commissary in this building was, in fact, first-rate. And his commute to work was about twenty minutes.

  This was the shit.

  But some days were better than others.

  This mission had some very high priorities. Predator video was routinely pumped to the White House. Sometimes the President watched, sometimes he didn't. But unless it was a U.S. ground force in action, he rarely got involved. Even then, the most they might get was an occasional minor retask to look at something in particular. This president, thank God, wasn't Johnson. Despite having a better ability to control things from the safety of the White House, he stayed hands-off.

  Mostly.

  This seemed to be an exception to the rule. He'd been told that this mission was a direct tasking. The fucking Director had called three times, asking when they could get some good video.

  Video, though, had been the least of the problems. Flying a Predator was always an exercise in mind over instinct. You sure as hell couldn't "feel" the plane. All you could do was watch the instruments and the video and hope like hell you didn't crash.

  And the last few hours of flying had dropped his hope level pretty low. Technically, the Predator was an "all-weather" aircraft, at least according to his new employers. It had GPS and night vision (night was considered a "weather" condition). It had instruments to figure out if it was upside down or not. Ergo, it was "all-weather."

  But last night, Georgia time, had been anything but realistic flying weather. The Preds had been socked in all night. And flying them back, over the mountains, was a nightmare. Generally you just told them where to go and they went. But the conditions had been so bad he'd had to manual them the whole way back, the most pulse-raising ride he'd had since his last F-16 checkride.

  Even now, with the weather clearing and the sun coming up, he was sweating bullets. The winds were hell. The Predator was neither overpowered nor particularly aerodynamic so at times it seemed when he turned into the wind he was going backwards. Flying with the wind was worse since he lost almost all control. Crosswinds had him flying at a slant. Updrafts and downdrafts were all over the place. Conditions just sucked.

  But for six sweating hours he'd kept the damned thing on station. Just in time to spot this through a break in the clouds.

  "Control, you might want to look at the Pred take," he said. "We have a situation on the ground."

  "Get them off!" D'Allaird shouted. "Move!"

  The Keldara women were already unloading the stretchers, the ripped Keldara men stifling screams at the rough handling. There was no way they were going to scream in pain in the presence of their own people.

  As Gregor was loaded on a stretcher, Kacey scrambled out of her seat.

  "Chief?" she yelled, running to the rear of the bird.

  "Stop," D'Allaird said, holding up his hand. "Just get back in your seat, Kacey."

  "Fuck that," Kacey said, pushing by as Tammy came up behind her.

  Gretchen was lying against the far door. She had been hit on the upper chest. The round had cut through her armor as if it weren't there and blasted her
chest into ruin. Most of the girl was still held in place by the surviving armor but her head slumped to the side, connected only by a few strands of tissue.

  Kacey turned around and threw up, puking up everything in her stomach and then some.

  "Oh . . . fuck," Tammy said. "When we couldn't get her on the intercom we . . . hoped . . ."

  "Ain't much hope there," the chief said, climbing on the bird and picking up the ravaged and remarkably light body. He had long experience of bodies ripped by everything from crashes to gunfire. And it always amazed him how much of the weight of the body was in blood. Gretchen was pretty much fully bled out.

  "Not Gretchen!" Mother Silva screamed. She tried to compose herself but she just couldn't. She ran to her daughter and cradled the broken body to her breast. "Not Gretchen. Please!"

  "Kari," Mother Mahona said. "You will not do this. We have to clear the helicopter. We go on. We continue the . . . the mission."

  "Oh, gods, Julia," Mother Silva said. "First Viktor and now Gretchen!"

  "And Sion and Ama were not alive," Mother Mahona said, pulling the woman away. "We are the Keldara. Our place is in battle. They rest in the Halls. We will join them at the end of all things. They shall fight the final battle in our names and bring us honor as they honor us this day. But you must come away."

  Kacey didn't know what the women were talking about, but she kind of figured the one crying was Gretchen's mom. As they carried the little body off she turned to D'Allaird.

  "Chief, I'm done taking fire and not being able to do anything about it," Kacey snarled.

  D'Allaird, watching the two women carry Gretchen over to the line of bodies by the hangar, nodded.

  "Got just what you need, boss," he said, gesturing to the hangar. "She's tanked and armed. And it's got the 'special' package on it."

  "I'm taking it straight to those fuckers in Guerrmo," Kacey snapped, heading for the hangar.

  "Fuck yeah," Tammy said, starting to follow her to the bird.

  "Alone," Kacey said, holding out a hand. "Chief, load up this bird. The Keldara are getting hammered out there. Tammy, head back as soon as the bird is loaded. Do the drop, do the dust-off. But I'm going this one alone."

  "Kacey, the front position is designed for a gunner," Tammy protested. "Why do you get all the fun?"

  "We've got wounded to pull out and ammo to deliver," Kacey said. "Both birds, Captain. Chief, get Valkyrie One in the air. Fast. In the meantime, I'm going to go deliver a message to the Chechens."

  The wounded had been cross-loaded to the Blackhawk, which was already in the air. Most of the Keldara in the area, therefore, stopped what they were doing as Tammy and D'Allaird started tugging back the doors to the hangar. Everyone, of course, knew that the other Hind had been armed, and painted. But this was the first time that most of them had seen it.

  As the two Americans pushed the Hind into view the Keldara started clapping and hollering. About half the women present ran forward to help push.

  D'Allaird had been a busy man. Not only were the pylons of the Hind now loaded with two Gatling guns and two 57mm rocket launchers, but the front of the bird had been painted in a snarling dragon head. To either side, tusks on the flaming dragon, were two more fixed Gatling guns for a total of four of the brutal weapons. Kacey already had the engines warming and as soon as the tail was clear of the hangar bay she started up the rotors.

  "Tiger Base, this is Helo Two, designation Dragon One," Kacey said, plugging in the route she planned to follow on the terrain-avoidance system. "Mission change. Combat op to clear defenses along the Guerrmo Pass route."

  There was a pause then Nielson's voice came back over the radio.

  "Keldara Two: Confirm. Good hunting, Dragon One."

  "I'm going to bring them the word of God, Tiger Base," Kacey replied. "These fuckers are going to face the flame."

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  "If we don't get the go word, I swear to God I'm going to make a boo-boo and initiate on my own," J.P. said. "The Hind got seriously dinged on that last flight."

  "I know, sir," First Sergeant Kwan replied. "But until we get the okay . . ."

  "I do not fucking care," Guerrin said. "D.C. is playing fucking political games while the Keldara are getting slaughtered over there."

  It was great weather for Rangers and ducks. The rain was pouring down, the wind was howling and it was cold as hell. Black, too. The night was like being inside the gullet of a snake. For a few minutes, there had been some clearing and he got a glimpse of dawnlight. Now it was black again. If they got the order to move he could take out those bunkers in no more than thirty minutes. He had the plan in place. All he needed was the go order.

  The distant firing, while muted by the distance and the mountains, was clear. Just the fact that they could hear it was amazing; it meant there was one fuck of a lot of firing going on. What was happening on the other side of the pass wasn't a firefight, it was a fucking battle. According to their latest intel update the Chechens were throwing everyone they had in the area, and even drawing back forces that had been in contact with the Russians, in a bid to destroy the Keldara.

  "Sir, if we move, your career is toast," Kwan pointed out. "And so is mine for not stopping you. We're also out-numbered and out-gunned. So please don't go running right into the fucking bunkers, okay?"

  "I won't, First Sergeant," J.P. replied. "But we are going to have to do . . ." He paused and cocked his head. "Okay, who in the fuck is playing their iPod too loud?"

  "I dunno," Kwan said. "I hear it, too . . ." The music was Spanish flamenco guitar, carried on the wind. He wasn't sure what direction it was coming from. Then he realized, just as the tune changed, that it was getting closer. "That's not an . . ."

  "Holy fuck," Guerrin said as the tune changed to screaming heavy metal guitar. And it was getting louder. Much much louder.

  "Sir!" Serris yelled. "What is that?"

  "Music, Serris," Guerrin replied, sarcastically.

  "I know that, sir," Serris said. "Where's it coming from!" The last was screamed as the guitars and drums muted for a singer entered screaming something about "riding to the fight."

  "That's a . . ." Kwan started to yell as finally, overwhelmed by the screaming guitars, the "whop-whop" of helicopter blades could be heard.

  The Hind was nearly invisible in the blackness of the night but it was easy enough to follow as the deafening music pealed across the valley. And it was low, the Rangers were pelted by branches thrown from the trees in its rotor wash as it banked up the ridgeline and crested with its belly brushing the treetops.

  Guerrin ducked unnecessarily and then started laughing.

  "I think that Miss Kacey got tired of being shot at," Guerrin yelled. "This I gotta see!"

  Kacey keyed the music as she entered the final valley before the pass. The Rangers were occupying the upper portion of the valley and she intended to cross their position as a final checkpoint. That position, at the least, was secure.

  She reached down and cranked the volume all the way up. The speakers were special designs, flush-mounted, and enormously powerful. The thunder of the drums rattled her teeth but Islamics tended to hate Western music. Great. Let them hate it as she sent the fuckers to Allah.

  She banked up and to the side as the terrain warning system screamed at her she was too low. Too fucking bad. Low was good. She had at least six inches' clearance, what more did the Czech piece of shit want?

  The positions of the bunkers were keyed in on her firing system and as soon as they came in sight the system D'Allaird had installed karated them in her heads-up display.

  "Time to face the flame, motherfuckers."

  "Holy fuck," Serris whispered.

  The Hind had seemed to clip the ridge but as it crossed over them it dropped to skim the scrub between the ridge and the pass entrance. And spotlights on the front came on showing not only the paint job but the heavy ordnance on the bird. It was a deliberate taunt to the gunners in the bunkers, practically
asking them to open fire.

  The Hind dropped down to practically ground level and flew straight down through the kill zone of the three main bunkers as tracers started clawing towards it through the night. Most seemed to be missing but some were sparking off the front of the bird.

  The driver of the Hind, probably Captain Bathlick as the CO had said, didn't seem to give a shit that she was taking fire. She flew hey-diddle-diddle straight up the middle—actually slowing down as the gunners got the range—until the singer screamed something about "through the fire and flames." Then the Hind seemed to explode.

  Rockets began spewing out of both pods as the Gatling guns opened fire, sending a quadruple line of tracers that looked like nothing so much as a laser into first one then another bunker.