by John Ringo
He also was firing with the scope at nearly maximum horizontal. The rifle pointed upwards and sideways at, apparently, thin air. Insane to even try . . . Oh, well. If he missed nobody was going to notice. Except the Keldara and, in a way, they were the only ones that mattered.
Shifting the rifle, he found the target again and wrapped his arm into the strap, getting a good solid seat. If he thought about the impossibility of the shot for even a second . . . he might not take it at all. So he just took a slight breath and squeeeezed . . .
"Colonel, we need to ensure that there is no discussion of our interaction with this," the President said.
"Yes, Mr. President," Pierson said. He was sweating. He'd never had an op go this far south in his life. The whole fucking world was watching one of the blackest of black ops on satellite TV. Motherfucker! He shook his head as one of the commo lieutenants looked over at him, waving. "President!" he mouthed.
"I KNOW," the guy suddenly screamed. "Tell him to turn off the feed! NOW! Or at least get the First Lady out of the FUCKING ROOM!"
The bullet was a Hornady A-MAX, the round of choice for long-distance shooters. The sharp polymer cap over a more or less hollow center gave it excellent ballistic ability because it could knife through the atmosphere and maintain a solid spin over long distances. And the hollow point, well, that meant the round nearly exploded on contact with a target.
It started off at 854 meters per second and in a perfect spin, courtesy of high-quality manufacture in both the bullet and the rifle. But by the time the 750-grain round reached target it was going barely above the speed of sound and pointed nearly straight downwards. The edges of the sound barrier had caused it to begin "wobbling" and now it was tumbling as well.
It was that angle and wobble that did it as much as anything. The round entered Commander Bukara's chest going at slightly below the speed of sound, falling at a 75-degree angle and very nearly sideways, transmitting in one brief moment 1,804 foot-pounds of energy or nearly six times as much as the most powerful .45 pistol round.
At that point, hydrostatic shock took over.
* * *
The President watched, wide-eyed, as the man on the screen seemed to explode. His torso separated from his abdomen in a spray of blood and intestines. One arm was ripped off, spinning through the air and hitting the Al Jazeera reporter hard enough to knock him off his feet.
He just sat there for a moment, his mouth open, as the view from the camera became one of the ground, sideways, then started shaking and moving as the cameraman, smart man, crawled away. It suddenly terminated, showing an empty chair. From the sounds, the newscaster was throwing up into a wastebasket under the desk.
"Can we let the First Lady back in, now, Mr. President?" the Secret Service agent by the door asked.
"Sure," the President replied.
His wife still had her fork in her hand. When the Service got the word that the First Lady needed to "exit the room" they didn't mess around. This wasn't Hollywood. When the Service got the word to move a principal, they stopped being polite; the principal moved at the highest speed the Detail could run with him or her in their arms. Her feet had not hit the floor.
"What happened?" she asked, angrily.
The President looked at the fork and shook his head.
"Nothing," he said, grabbing at his mouth. "Excuse me!" he muttered, rushing out of the room.
The First Lady looked at one of the younger agents, who was throwing up in a wastebasket, the screen where the anchorman, green-faced, was just straightening up and then at her personal agent.
"I'm glad you picked me up, aren't I?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," the agent responded, stone-faced. He'd still been in the door, looking over his shoulder for the threat, when the guy made the shot and all he could think was "we have got to get that guy on the Detail."
"Vanner, what's the pool on Bukara's replacement?" Mike asked.
"Sadim," Vanner said. "He's the senior Chechen in the sector and most of the survivors are his men. He's not going to be as easy as Bukara, either."
"We'll deal with it," Mike said as his earphone beeped indicating that Nielson was on the other freq. "Go, Tiger Two."
"Kildar, do you think that was wise?" Nielson asked. "Pierson is fucking fuming. The President, along with several million other people around the world, is reported to be puking in the bathroom."
"No," Mike said, coldly. "But it sure was what I call quality television."
Chapter Forty-Four
"Lasko," Adams said over his throat mike. "You there?"
"Go, Tiger Three."
"You are now officially the most famous sniper in the world," Adams said, chuckling. He'd figured out how to get the feed just in time. "You know that was on satellite TV, right?"
"I was unaware," Lasko replied. There was, however, the slightest note of satisfaction in his normally toneless voice.
Lasko had no orders to engage the other targets and wasn't about to throw away a rep that high; another shot like that was not guaranteed. He would need a new screen name, though. 2782Robar sounded about right.
He picked up his meat roll and took a bite, chewing slowly and methodically. His beer was untouched. He wasn't about to have alcohol interfere with his fine motor control.
He continued to peer through the scope, watching the gathering Chechen force.
Come to the slaughter, pigs of Allah.
Serris hated fucking mortars. He hated being fired on by them because the bastards were worse in a way than regular artillery. He'd heard it was because their bursting charge was heavier than similar-sized artillery or something. He'd caught some regular artillery during Iraq and even one time in Afghanistan but mortars were worse. And all the fucking muj had the damned things; Iraq seemed to have more mortars than it had stray dogs. And Iraq had a lot of stray dogs.
But he hated humping the things even more than he hated being under fire from them. He'd cross-trained with the 60 guys and come away with the definite desire to never have to be fucking 11Charlie. Most of the time you couldn't see what you were firing at, you humped the shit around day after day and then most of the time everybody forgot to use you. It just fucking sucked.
But compared to these motherfuckers, 60mm mortars were like carrying around some spare sand in your boot. These fucking 120s . . . the guy who invented these motherfuckers should be shot.
He currently was holding one of the rope handles of the baseplate and not enjoying the experience one fucking bit.
"Jesus, Lane, lift up a bit," Serris snarled. "I'm taking all the weight!"
"It's not my fault I'm short," Lane puffed. "Try bending over or something."
"If I bend over I'm gonna get a hernia," Private Thomson said, his foot slipping out from under him. "Fuck!" the Ranger snarled, trying to hold up his end of the tube.
"Oh, son-of-a-bitch," Sivula said as more of the weight came down on him. "Don't hold yourself up with it, newbie!"
"Would you please quit fucking bitching?" Sergeant Simmons said, shaking his head. He had the bipod over his shoulder but still helped Thomson struggle back to his feet. "Jesus Christ! You're fucking Rangers. You're supposed to eat pain for breakfast. Those fucking girls following us have been carrying those damned ammo boxes for the last fifteen klicks and you're bitching cause you gotta carry a fucking baseplate maybe two? We can't even pass the bunker line! They're going up into the fucking pass. You know, where the motherfucking enemy is? So Would You Please Quit Fucking BITCHING?"
"Well, now that you put it that way," Serris said. "Can I just say one thing?"
"What?!"
"I hate fucking mortars . . ."
"I hate fucking mortars," Adams said, ducking involuntarily as another salvo dropped across the Keldara position.
The Chechen mortar teams had finally gotten into position and they had apparently limitless ammo. Most of it was courtesy of the Russian Army, which had a terrible problem with securing its resupply convoys. How they'd humped a
ll the ammo into position Adams wasn't sure, but they'd probably used mules. However they'd done it, they'd been hitting them for the last fifteen minutes and the Keldara had taken more casualties in that time than in the whole damned pursuit. Oh, most of them were light, just minor shrapnel, but a couple of guys in Padrek's team had had a round land right in their position. Two more body bags to add to the next Valkyrie load.
"They are quite unpleasant," Oleg said. He was pulled up against the side of the position, his head tucked down, but otherwise trying for the "totally imperturbable" look. He said it in English, Scottish-accented English no less, and Adams had to shake his head.
"Now you're sounding like a fucking Brit," Adams growled. "I never should have let McKenzie teach you guys. You're going to start talking about 'a spot of bother' and 'a dog's breakfast' next."
"Actually I was thinking more along the lines of 'a bit of a tiff.' As in 'well, this is a bit of a tiff, what?'–"
"Oh Christ." Adams keyed the video feed on his BFT pad and shook his head again. "They're getting in position for another assault." He keyed his throat mike. "Yo, Ass-Boy . . ."
* * *
Kacey didn't have to look up, turn her head or otherwise move to fix D'Allaird with a stare when he opened the door. She'd been sitting in the hard wooden chair, the only seat in the "ready room" for the last two and a half hours with her arms crossed looking at the door.
"Your bird is repaired, ma'am."
The chief was just about covered in grease and hydraulic fluid. Forget being on his coveralls, being on his face, arms and hands; it was matted into his hair.
Kacey picked up her helmet off the floor and walked to the door, her face cold.
"I figure you've got the lift for a couple of gunner positions," D'Allaird said as they walked to the hangar. His face and tone were just as hard and cold. The two Czech contract mechanics were just walking out, clearly discussing in Czech just how soon they could get out of this fucking place. They, too, were covered in oil and hydraulic fluids. "So I mounted the last two Gatlings. The bird is armed and fueled. There are some yellow lights but nothing is critical. I won't certify it once you're in combat, though."
"Understood," Kacey said as she walked over to the Hind. She stopped and blinked, though, at the sight of the gunners. "What did you do, dig up the morgue?"
Father Ferani had, indeed, spent most of his time in the Great War safely behind the lines, much to his chagrin. But only "most." He had also been a member of the groups that ran weapons and supplies into Stalingrad during the siege. Those had been floated down on barges, often under direct and indirect fire from the Germans. It was not distinguished service but he'd had quite a few shots fired at him in anger. His biggest disappointment was that he rarely got to fire back.
When the call had gone out for people to man the guns on the attack bird, everyone had again volunteered. But this time, the Fathers interceded. Their argument went something like this. All of the young people were committed to the battle. Those of the middle age must stay to keep the farm going and, in extremis, defend it if all the others fell. And the job was not strenuous; all that the person need do was hold onto the gun and fire. Even the old women could do that. The elders were more than capable, thank you.
Everyone knew it was a lie. With the exception of Father Kulcyanov, none of the current crop of elders had ever had the opportunity to earn their Death Guard. Grapa Makanee, who had died two years before, was, except for Father Kulcyanov, the last survivor of the line combatants of the Great War. The Fathers wanted one chance, damnit, to earn their Death Guard.
So the rest of the Keldara humored them. Not only because, excepting only the Kildar, they were the final word in discipline amongst a disciplined people but because the way things were going, everyone was going to get the chance to earn a Death Guard. Had not Mother Lenka gathered all the young women to go to the battle? What was next, the Mothers?
Father Kulcyanov had excused himself. While he would have enjoyed one last whiff of cordite, he had a Death Guard, a big one that had been waiting many decades to be his servants in the Halls. And he knew that, with his heart, it was possible he would not survive even if he was not shot.
Then there was the matter of which Fathers got to go. None except Father Kulcyanov had been willing to relinquish the honor. Father Makanee had suggested arm wrestling. Father Ferani had countered with a hand-axe free-for-all, the traditional way of settling things that no one could agree upon in the Keldara.
Father Kulcyanov had forced them to draw straws. Father Ferani had been pissed. He'd been slowly developing the desire over decades to bury an axe in Father Devlich.
Father Ferani smiled at the young woman and gestured for her to get in the aircraft.
"Are fighters," he said in painfully bad English. "You pilot. Fly. Fight. Kill. We guard sides."
* * *
"Gunny," Kacey whispered, "I think that zombie just said something."
"Kacey, everybody else is committed," D'Allaird whispered back. "I found out when I was working on the bird that all the young women have gone up to the pass. All there is left is oldsters and kids. And this guy's apparently got some combat experience."
Another oldster, this one somewhat younger, leaned out the door next to the first and looked at her fiercely.
"Are going?" the man barked. "Battle waits!"
The first oldster looked at him contemptuously and spat something in a firm and angry tone. In a second the two were bitching away at each other in what Kacey figured was Georgian. They sounded like a couple of quarreling old women.
"The really old one is Father Ferani," D'Allaird said as Kacey climbed into the cockpit. "He was in the Russian Army in WWII. The other guy is Father Devlich. They're the bosses of two of the Six Families. So they're sort of muckety-mucks."
"Great," Kacey said. "Not only do I have a couple of corpses riding shotgun, they're boss corpses. Thanks, Tim."
"I was sort of busy fixing the bird, ma'am," D'Allaird replied.
"And you did one hell of a job, Chief," Kacey said. She sat up in her seat and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Thanks."
D'Allaird looked shocked, raising one hand to his cheek.
"Captain Bathlick!" he said after a moment.
"What?" she asked as she hit the engine start button. "You see an Equal Opportunity Office around here? Hell, if there was they'd probably be happy as hell. We've got equality of race, sex and age down pat. Black engineer, female pilot and two zombies manning the minis. Let's roll this puppy out, Chief. Like the man said, battle is awaitin'."
As before people swarmed forward at D'Allaird's raised hand and pushed the Hind into the open. It wasn't nearly as spiffy as the last time; the bird was covered in holes that were patched with hundred-mile-an-hour tape, and all the hydraulic fluid hadn't been cleaned off. But, as D'Allaird had promised, while there were some yellow lights, none of it was critical. She wasn't going to need the FLIR for this mission.
But she wasn't going right away. Another oldster, the guy wearing the tiger skin, walked up to the front of the bird as it was rolled onto the pad. He had that axe and mistletoe in his hands and he waved both over the nose of the bird, chanting something Kacey couldn't hear.
She wasn't particularly into mystic mumbo-jumbo but it seemed important to the Keldara so she waited. But then he stepped back and straightened into a position of attention and raised the axe in front of his nose just like a rifle salute.
Kacey looked at him for a second and then remembered who the guy was. This was the guy who'd picked up a "Hero's medal" for taking out four Tigers with a fucking rocket launcher. And been in Stalingrad, which deserved a medal all in itself. She was being saluted by the equivalent of a Medal of Honor winner.
Kacey slowly raised her hand and gave him the crispiest salute she'd ever rendered, warrior to warrior, the way it was supposed to fucking be. She wasn't saluting some guy who'd been promoted for honorable service as an ass-kisser in the Pentagon and she wasn't
being saluted for being a flying truck driver. She was being saluted as a warrior by one fucking warrior par excellence: a pro.
She dropped the salute, fast, and hit the key to engage the props.
Time to go to fucking war.
The Pred pilot knew he should have turned over control before now. His supervisor had asked, twice, if he wanted to turn over the bird. But he'd been flying this mission through the whole last phase and he wasn't about to walk away now. He had a mission. Find those fucking mortars.