Unto The Breach

by John Ringo

  The bunkers were wide-spaced but the Hind didn't have any problem with that. It was flying in the most bizarre manner Serris had ever seen. It would slide sideways through the air and engage one bunker then pivot at lightning speed and engage the other, pivot again and engage, pivot, engage, still maintaining an almost straight line up the middle of the defended pass. There wasn't any dilly-dallying with "walking the rounds into the position." The thing was just striking back and forth like a snake.

  As the Hind came opposite the interlocking bunkers, all three of which had stopped firing, it pivoted left then one hundred and eighty degrees to the right, flying flat sideways in what looked like an out-of-control spin, past the second bunker and on to the third. But even though it looked out of control, as each bunker came into its fire cone the rockets and Gatling rounds would flash out. It didn't do the maneuver just once but continued through spin after spin, a flaming top in midair. The helo looked like a dragon spinning on its axis and flaming in every direction at its enemies. It looked terrifying and glorious, war in all its horror and beauty. And it looked as if it was going to slam into a mountainside at any moment. The pilot had to be puking her guts out and blacking out from G forces.

  Once it was past the now smoking bunkers, though, it straightened out perfectly, went to full power, banked up and over in what was nearly a loop-de-loop and came back.

  There wasn't any fucking around, now. The bird came in from the rear and top, filling the air with rockets and machine-gun bullets. And whereas before it had been spinning in only two dimensions it now was rotating in midair, something he hadn't realized helicopters could do. And still hammering rounds into the bunkers.

  It reached the front of the pass again in what looked one hell of a lot like a flip, which just had to be impossible, and hovered as the music screamed through the wind and the driving rain. Just . . . hovered as if waiting for something, as whoever the group doing the music was went through one long-ass guitar solo and the Hind balanced against the gale, lights still on, in full view of the smoking and shattered bunkers.

  Finally, it got what it had been waiting for as sporadic fire started to pop up through the rain. But the bird waited, hung in the air, still, until it was clear at least two of the machine guns had, somehow, survived the attack. But the survivors had had to claw them out of the rubble of the bunkers to engage their tormentor. They were out in the open now.

  Suddenly the Hind pivoted in midair and swept back around over Serris' position. It circled up and up into the storm, engine redlined and rotors screaming until even with the lights on it disappeared into the storm. But the screaming guitar was still booming over the gale.

  Then, as the singing started again, it lined up and dropped. Slowly at first then faster and faster it swept down like a bird of prey, like the dragon painted on its smoking brow. It came down like thunder out of the storm, right on top of the machine-gun positions, the only thing still firing the laser-like Gatling guns, clawing across both of the guns, tearing the crews apart, ripping into the guns themselves, slaughtering everything and everyone in the area.

  The Hind pulled out in a hover, inches off the ground, and spun in place, fast as the music crescendoed, laying down a flat fire, scouring the ground of not only the survivor gun crews but every stick every rock, smashing apart the very mountainsides in a tide-wave of fury and vengeance until all four of its guns were expended.

  Then it stopped.

  The music stopped, the lights turned off, the mountains and the rain muted the whop of the blades as the bird clawed its way back into the storm and disappeared. In moments the only sign it had been there was three smoking holes in the mountainside and the shredded remnants of bodies.

  "Holy fuck," Serris repeated. "Remind me never to get that lady pissed at me."

  Kacey was trying very hard to not throw up. After seeing Gretchen there wasn't much left anyway.

  She didn't remember much about the last few minutes. The last thing she really clearly remembered was turning on the music. And she sort of vaguely recalled crossing the Ranger position, way too close to the top of the trees.

  She'd apparently expended all her bullets and rockets, used up a fuckload of gas and really stressed the engines; there were warning signs all over her dash. And she sort of recalled something that seemed a hell of a lot like a crash, the world spinning and flame and smoke all around her. But she was still flying.

  There was, however, one hell of a lot of lead in her armored windscreen. Quite a bit of it had gotten through, too. D'Allaird was going to be pissed.

  She really wished she could remember where she'd picked up all that lead.

  "Tiger Base, this is Dragon," she said wearily, watching her fuel state and caution lights carefully and flying well away from the ridges. "Return to base for bullets and gas. Tell the chief I think this bird is going to require an overhaul as well."

  "Roger, Dragon One." The commo person was one of the Keldara girls by the accent. "Info request from Ranger One: What was the band? Meaning of code unknown."

  "Uh . . ." Kacey frowned. "DragonForce, over."

  "Roger, Dragon One. Rangers report target destroyed. Precise words: Fucking vaporized. Tiger Two states: Well done, over."

  "Well ain't that some shit," Kacey muttered trying not to grin. The hell if she was going to let anyone know it was a fluke. "Understood. ETA two zero mikes. Dragon One out."

  Now if the poor bird would just keep flying.

  "Good girl," she murmured. "Good Dragon. Carry me home."

  * * *

  "We're getting ready to load the bird," Chief D'Allaird said. "In the Corps we'd want to take it down for a full rebuild. And you don't have a crew-chief."

  "Yeah," Tammy said, looking around at the crowd of Keldara. There wasn't, currently, anything much to do. But it seemed like the whole tribe was gathered at the heliport. At least those that were still here, the women, the oldsters and the kids. Hell, most of the younger women seemed to be gone. Maybe they had been told to stay in the houses or something. "I guess I could ask for volunteers. Fuck of a thing to ask when you've just brought back a dead daughter: Who wants to be next?"

  She walked over to the group and looked around.

  "Uh, does anyone speak English?" she asked.

  "I do," one of the older men said. "I am Father Makanee. You need help."

  "I hate to ask," Tammy said, stepping closer and dropping her voice, "but . . . I need another crew-chief. To replace . . . Gretchen. All they need to do is kick out the ammo. Oh, and a couple of other things with the casualties."

  "Pick," Father Makanee said, standing up straight. "I will go if you wish. But it should be one of the young ones, yes?" he added with a resigned sigh. "Someone, at least, with better eyesight than I still have. I can barely see you in truth."

  "I don't know," Tammy said. "I guess. But, I mean, after Gretchen . . ."

  "You think we fear?" Father Makanee said, his voice lowering and a slight smile playing on his lips. "That the Keldara are afraid of death? Afraid of sacrifice? Very well, I will ask."

  He turned from her and backed up so that he faced the whole crowd then said something in a loud voice. He was apparently explaining the situation. He paused and spat out another sentence.

  Apparently that was the call for volunteers. Every single hand went up. From kids that could barely walk to one old guy wearing a tiger skin who looked to be about a hundred.

  "What the fuck have I gotten myself into?" Tammy asked, quietly. "Are these people insane?"

  Apparently she'd spoken loudly enough for Father Makanee to hear. His eyes might not be the greatest but his hearing was apparently fine. He turned around and smiled.

  "Yes, Captain Wilson, we are insane," the old man said. "We are the Tigers of the Mountains and we have the insanity of the warrior. Don't you?"

  "Point," Tammy said. "Well, pick somebody and get her over to the bird. She needs to get briefed in and we don't have much time."

  "Tiger One,
Tiger One, this is Tiger Two."

  "Go," Mike said. Pavel was back in contact, Oleg was forward and so far things were going . . . okay. Not great by any stretch, but . . . okay.

  "Good news and bad news. The bunkers in the pass have been cleared. So the birds will be bringing in heavier loads. Bad news . . . look at your display."

  Mike hunkered down and stuck out his hand. Vanner didn't even have to ask, he just slapped it into his palm.

  Mike looked at it for a second and shrugged. "What?"

  "Try dialing out," Nielson replied, taking a guess.

  Mike zoomed out and stopped.

  "Fuck."

  "My first words as well," Nielson said. "The Predator got a glimpse through the clouds. You want to see the video."

  "Yeah," Mike replied.

  "Feed Two."

  He switched over feeds and watched. The glimpse wasn't long but it was complete.

  "Is that downloaded here?" Mike asked.

  "Yeah, while we were feeding."

  "Vanner," Mike said. "Show me how to replay and zoom."

  Vanner took the device and looked at it for a second.

  "Where is that?" he asked, frowning.

  "Right in the entrance to the pass," Mike said.

  "Fuck."

  He zoomed in and panned across, holding it where Mike could see.

  "Colonel, I get a count of about a hundred," Vanner said. "Looks like medium machine guns and light arms otherwise. A few RPGs."

  "That's everybody's analysis," Nielson said. "Kildar? My professional opinion is that if you try to screen past you're going to get your ass shot off; they've got defilading fire from the mountain to the plain. You can try to charge it, but I wouldn't recommend; those are good defenses. You could try slipping out straight up . . ."

  "Not enough time," Mike said, automatically. "We'd get caught completely in the open by the pursuers."

  "So far, it looks like his mortars are way behind you," Nielson noted. "It's just medium machine guns and light arms. So far."

  "What are you saying?" Mike asked.

  "Just a suggestion, but . . . Sit it out. Do what that guy's done. Take up a good position and lay in. We've got one bird armed, by the way. We can work over those defenses in a little while. Let the Chechens come to you. Get a good position and let them attack. You'll take some casualties. They'll take a lot more. At some point there will be an opening."

  "We're going to go bingo on ammo, fast," Mike pointed out.

  "Got another load on the way," Nielson said. "Bigger one."

  "And that's a shitload of Chechens," Mike added.

  "Not really," Nielson said. "Combat multiples, Kildar."

  "That's a nice theory," Mike replied. "But you're talking about around a hundred effectives at this point and around four thousand Chechens."

  "I didn't say it was going to be easy or pretty," Nielson said. "But they're going to think it's a walk-over. And, when, not if, their mortars get there it's going to get bad."

  "That an armed Pred?" Mike asked.

  "Yeah. And we've got tasking."

  "That's their priority," Mike said. "Find the mortars. Out here."

  "You have got to be shitting me," Adams said. "Mike, buddy, we're talking about most of the Chechen army!"

  He was still with Team Oleg, currently humping up a hill to set up another defense point.

  "I know," Mike said. "Would you rather try to assault some serious defenses?"

  "Now that you mention it," Adams said. "Yes! There's a hundred of them. There's a hundred of us. That's one to one. Not twenty or forty to one!"

  "They're in fixed positions and have machine guns covering all their approaches," Mike said. "We don't have time to argue about this. We're going to point 487 right now. You guys stay in place and slow them while we get into place and start digging in. It's got some natural defenses on it and there are steep slopes covering our sides. There's effectively only one lane they can assault on."

  "Fine," Adams said, swearing under his breath. "But when we come running, we're going to need some fucking cover."

  "Gotcha covered, good buddy," Mike said. "Out here."

  Mike grabbed one of the stretchers and continued up the slope. It was a steep motherfucker and the air was thin; the Keldara were barely able to make it at a trot.

  The weather was really clearing, now. He could finally see what was going on. Behind him he could see Oleg's team settling in and Padrek's team in contact. Hell, in the clear air and gathering light he could even see the Chechens they were engaging.

  "Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, this is Valkyrie."

  It was the other pilot, the taller one . . . Wilson, that was her name.

  "Valkyrie, Valkyrie, Tiger One," Mike panted. "LZ point 487. Winds . . . Oh, fuck, I dunno. South I think? Drop the shit and get ready to dust-off."

  "Roger, Tiger. LZ Point 487. Inbound. I see your teams. Why don't you stop the stretchers. I'll drop the stuff at 487 and come back. You're in a good position."

  "Got it," Mike said, stopping, holding up a hand and lowering the stretcher to the ground. "Thanks Valkyrie."

  "Gotcha covered, Tiger."

  Mike watched as the Hind swept in to the hilltop about five hundred meters away. It didn't even stop or really slow down as the ammo boxes were kicked out the door. Then it banked back towards their position.

  They were on a hump in the ridgeline headed up to 487 with a clear view in every direction. Also completely in view of the Chechens but about two klicks away. If the Islamics had heavy weapons they were in trouble. They weren't taking any fire, though.

  The Hind settled down lightly and Mike walked over to the pilot's cockpit as the wounded were loaded.

  "Where's Captain Bathlick?" Mike asked.

  "Hogging all the fun," Wilson replied. "The Georgians dropped off their left-over Hind armaments. She used them to take out the bunkers in Guerrmo. And she didn't just take them out, she fucking flattened them. I guess she's RTB for bullets and gas."

  "I think I got all that," Mike said. "We're cut off. Watch the opening to the pass."

  "Knew about it," Tammy said, tapping an instrument. "We shot it up as we passed. We'll shoot it up again on the way out. I don't want to lose another crew-chief."

  "D'Allaird?" Mike asked. "We're fucked without him."

  "No, sir, one of the Keldara girls," Tammy said, shrugging. She didn't think to mention her name. "Game as hell. Took some with her, I think, but she got hit by one of the 12.7s. Wasn't pretty."

  "Damn," Mike said, sighing.

  "Anything else?"

  "Nope. Just thanks. Hell of a time, huh?"

  "Wouldn't be anywhere else," Tammy said then shook her head. "You know, I just was throwing out a line but . . . I really wouldn't want to be anywhere else. Ain't that some shit? I just had my crew-chief blown all over the bird, I've got so many holes I feel like I'm flying a Swiss cheese and I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. I'm insane."

  "Captain," Mike said, gently, "why the fuck do you think I hired you?"

  "Point," Tammy said. "I gotta go. We're loaded. Once more into the breach and all that."

  "Unto," Mike corrected. "Everybody gets that wrong. It goes:

  Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;

  Or close the wall up with our English dead.

  In peace there's nothing so becomes a man

  As modest stillness and humility:

  But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

  Then imitate the action of the tiger;

  Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,

  Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage.

  "Henry the Fifth.

  Great play. Unrealistic as hell and bad history but some of the greatest propaganda ever written."

  "Damn, sir," Tammy said, her eyes wide. "I hadn't expected to hear Shakespeare quoted in the middle of a battle."

  "No better time," Mike said. "And no better writer. 'Less it's Kipling. Now get out of here
before you get your pretty little ass shot off."

  "We got another engine?" Kacey asked, as soon as her canopy was popped.

  The engine was smoking. Every light on her board that wasn't red was yellow. Her engine temp was running in the red. Her hydraulics were shot. And she had holes all over her window.

  "What the fuck did you do to my bird?" D'Allaird shouted.