by John Ringo
"Bit more complicated than that," the colonel replied with a sinister smile. "Let me get your basic mission orders out of the way then I'm gone. Before I begin, you're all TS cleared so I won't do the spiel. But this mission is classified Code Word Ribbon Blade. Ribbon Blade is a sub-classification under Ultra Blue. I personally hate the new classification system but that that means it that you cannot discuss any actions under Ribbon Blade with anyone who asks you up to and including the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The term Ultra Blue itself is classified Confidential and Ultra Blue information can only be declassified by the President of the United States or persons so tasked to declassify Ultra Blue information. Are you clear on this? Let me make it very clear. This is not a mission you can bitch about in the O Club. It is not a mission you can tell your squadron commander about or the wing commander or even the Chief of Staff of the Air Force even if directly asked. Even with other persons that you know are cleared under Ribbon Blade. The only person you can discuss this mission with are the President or his designated representatives. I'm going to give you some specific information then I'm going to leave. All further information will come from this gentleman," Mandrell concluded, pointing at the guy in the Hawaiian shirt. "Are we all clear on this? Load master? Are you clear?"
"Yes, sir," Lisa replied, swallowing. "Top Secret, sir. Don't talk about it."
"Try not to think about it," Mandrell said. "Lieutenant Ferl... How do you pronounce your name, Lieutenant?"
"Fur-Laz-zo, sir," Ferz replied. "I understand, sir."
"Captain Phillips?" he asked Cass.
"Understood and comply, sir," Cass replied.
"Pilots? Is this clear?"
"Yes, sir," Jim replied.
"Absolutely, sir," Casey said. "Do we ask names?"
"Go ahead," Mandrell said. "But here's the mission. These people are not going to Azerbaijan. You will take off with them then proceed through normal HALO depressurization procedures. Vanner here," he said, gesturing at the guy in the Hawaiian shirt, "will give you the insertion point. You will calculate the drop point and altitude and so drop them. Then you go to Azerbaijan and your regular mission. Is this clear?"
"They're a HALO team," Casey said. It was not a question, more a statement of unbelief.
"If it makes you feel any better," "Vanner" said, "we're not all that sure of the answer to that question."
"I'm done," Mandrell said. He shook "Vanner's" hand and then the other members of the team. "Good luck."
"Thank you, sir," Vanner said. The two men just nodded but the females both said: "Thank you" in clear if accented English. Delightfully accented.
"I'm gone," Mandrell said, stepping to the troop door and opening it without help. "Captain, get this done."
"Will do, sir," Casey replied. "Sergeant Griffitts, close the door."
"Yes, sir," Lisa replied.
"I'm Pat Vanner," Vanner said when the door was closed, shaking Casey's hand. "Former Marine, former other things, presently what my boss calls an 'International Security Specialist.' The ladies are Sergeants Julia Makanee and Olga Shaynav and the men are Corporal Jeseph Mahona and Private Ivan Ferani of the Keldara Mountain Militia. Julia and Olga speak English. Jeseph and Ivan sort of understand some but they don't talk much anyway." He pulled a piece of paper out of his breast pocket and looked around. "Who's the nav?"
"I am," Cassie said, taking the paper. It had a set of coordinates on it.
"That's where we'd like to land," Vanner said with a grin. "It's at twelve thousand feet above sea-level, mind you. Captain," he continued, looking at Casey, "we'd like to get partially rigged before you take off. Then, of course, we'll have to depressurize. There's nothing in your materials that's going to have trouble with that, is there?"
"No," Casey said. "I'll have the load-master rig the oxygen."
"Okay, I guess we're good," Vanner said. "Is there anything?"
"No, sir," Casey replied, bemusedly. All this hay...
"Sergeant, actually, Captain," the "security specialist" said. "Then I guess we're good. Is there anywhere the ladies can get into their uniforms?"
* * *
As the aircraft crew started to disperse and the Keldara started getting the gear out of the bags, Vanner let out an entirely mental sigh. There was nothing that could take apart a small team like this like lack of confidence in their boss, that being him. He thought he'd handled that little interplay professionally, but he desperately had wanted to go "Look, Captain, Colonel, we've never done a HALO jump for real before. You probably know a lot more about it than we do. HELP!!!"
Which wouldn't have been good on any number of levels. Tempting but not good. It was all about psychology. In part, he thought, through the help of the Kildar he had maintained the illusion throughout training that, while he was as inexperienced as any of the rest of the team, HALO and, hell, the whole damned mission, was no big deal. "Sure, we'll get it done. Yawn."
Which wasn't what he felt at all. First of all, he was afraid of heights. He'd never realized, though, what "afraid of heights" meant until that first time in the door of the plane. Looking out the window of an airplane at 30,000 feet was one thing. Standing in the open door of one was another. He'd played off being totally frozen, but he knew the Kildar knew it. And he was fully aware of the synergistic effect of stress. One stressor was minor, two stressors weren't just cumulative, though, they multiplied each other. Add enough stressors and you hit a break point in anyone. The only question was how many stressors it took. And right now he was dealing with a crap load. Including wondering where his break point was.
At that thought he gave a small smile and shook his head. Talk about over-analyzing.
"Something humorous, sergeant?" Julia asked.
"If you have the right sense of humor, everything is funny," Vanner said, grinning. "And the current situation is hilarious. Get with that blonde girl that was down here. She's the equivalent of a sergeant, not an officer. She'll know where the bathroom is. You can change in there."
"Where are you going to change?" Olga asked. She and Julia had gotten out their uniforms, standard Keldara "sterile" digicam and were starting to pull out the various bits of clothing and gear that were necessary to survive riding in an unpressurized, unheated, plane for several hours as they depressurized.
"Right here," Vanner said, starting to unbutton his shirt. "So you'd better get going."
"Is a question permitted?" Julia asked, holding up a hand.
"Always," Vanner replied.
"If we were American women doing this mission, where would we change?"
"Woosh! Good question," Vanner said. "Depends on the situation. If there were base facilities and stuff then in private. But there are plenty of times when women and men have to get undressed around each other in the field. Especially if they're in a hurry."
"It is as I thought," Julia said, undoing the ties of her blouse and stripping it over here head. "We are in a hurry, yes? So let's 'get it on.'"
"Julia Makanee!" Jeseph snapped as Vanner's mouth dropped. Of course the latter was unnoticed by anyone, including Julia who was fixedly concentrated on her task.
"Shut up, Jeseph Ferani," Julia replied, reaching for the ties of her skirt. "First of all, I outrank you. Second, we don't have time for your complaints. Now start getting undressed. We have an insertion to make."
Vanner's brain kicked in just enough for him to want to point out that both "get it on" and "insertion" had dual meanings but paused and started taking off his clothes.
"Move, Jeseph, Ivan, the lady's right: we don't have the time to play nice," Vanner said. "But just one thing: What happens on the mission..."
"Stays on the mission," Olga said, starting to take off her own clothes. "Unless it's really funny and doesn't violate OPSEC. It's not like we talk about you lying with that Slovak whore in Romania, Jeseph."
"Hey!"
"I am hereby classifying all aspects of this mission that have cultural complications TS Codeword material," Vanner
said, pulling out his "snivel" gear.
The "snivel" gear, in reality high-altitude climbing gear, was a necessity not an option. Due to the altitude they were going to have to jump from, they would first have to ascend slowly to prevent decompression sickness, the "bends" more famous in SCUBA diving. And while the day presently at Tbilisi was a more or less comfortable sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit, by the time they got to fourteen thousand feet, much less the twenty-three thousand they were jumping from, it was going to be below freezing.
"Would that codeword be 'Peaking Fly'?" Olga asked with a slight giggle, opening up her own bag.
The reason for the heavy gear they were changing into was two-fold. First they were going to be jumping from way up high where it got very fucking cold. But HALO gear wasn't normally as heavy as what they would wear. The fact was that very few teams dropped into 14,000 foot mountains in the beginning of winter. And while it was sixty-five today in Tbilisi, that was a fluke. There was a nasty front on the way in, arriving early in the evening and continuing into the night. They would be jumping just before it reached their AO and almost immediately in one of the first snow-storms of the year in the high mountains. Between the temperatures on the jump and the predicted temps in their insertion area, well below zero Fahrenheit by midnight, they had to dress for success.
"I guess I should have briefed you guys on this sort of thing," Vanner said, apparently ignoring the comment and continuing to "get it on." "One of the little cultural things to it is that nobody comments. Nobody. The guys don't ogle, the women don't giggle, they don't trade barbs about relative physical merits. Not at the time. Later, maybe, they might make some passing comment. But at the time you act as if it's no big deal. Don't take that as a slap, by the way, it's just information. Now, teams that have spent a lot of time together and 'seen' each other a lot, and there's a lot of trust, that's different. Then they joke. But not without the understanding and trust."
While he'd been talking, Vanner and the rest had been "getting it on." First came thin, slippery, polypropylene socks. The polypropylene would wick moisture away and, by adhering to the feet and not slipping, prevent or reduce blistering. Next were light polypropylene long-johns and long-sleeved top made by Spyder gear, rolled down over the socks. Next were Smartwool socks and a polypropylene mid-layer top tucked into Keldara field pants. Then the "farmer-john" insulated bib, boots, Keldara field blouse, body armor and over the whole thing an insulated down parka. Each had a balaclava, presently pulled down, and would don a helmet on the way up. If their face got too cold, there was an additional "gator", a circular neck warmer, that could be pulled up over their mouth and nose. Heavy gloves would later be slipped on over the blouse sleeves but under their parkas.
"Got it," Julia said, standing up. She was the first one dressed and had gone from one very svelte hottie to something that looked like the Michelin Man. "But if what happens on the mission stays on the mission..."
"There will be times," Vanner noted, unzipping his jacket and opening up his body armor to get some circulation. "Spring festival. The elders and kids have gone to bed. People are talking about their part of a mission. 'Oleg, you were over on Vasho Street so you didn't see when Jeseph really screwed up...' Jeseph will say something like 'At least my nipples are the right color...' Everyone will go 'Oooo, zinger!' And then everyone who needs to know and can understand will know. If they've got questions about under what conditions Jeseph saw your nipples, they'll ask, quietly. Or they'll already have heard. You keep it low-key or it doesn't work at all. Feel free to pass that on, by the way."
"Julia, sorry," Jeseph said, zipping up his boots.
"Not a problem," Julia replied. "What's that term the Kildar uses?"
"Culture shock?" Olga asked, tucking in her t-shirt.
"I was thinking more of cultural conditioning," Julia said with a grin. "But 'shock' works. Sergeant Vanner, are we close enough a team for a little joking?"
"Maybe," Vanner said.
"In that case, Jeseph's hung like a bull," Olga said, grinning. "Ivan's not bad, either."
Chapter Twenty-One
Lasko eased forward through the screen of low bushes with all the speed and daring of a snail.
The ridgeline overlooked LZ 1, the Kildar's LZ, which was a small upland clearing, probably the result of a recently silted up pond, at about 3000 meters above sea-level and some 40 miles from the valley of the Keldara.
The trees in the region had already begun to shift to upland coniferous, primarily firs, instead of the deciduous growth found down in the Valley. The understory was thigh-high heather, tough, wiry and prickly as hell.
Lasko ignored the tugging of the heather and the bits scratching at his face as he brought up the thermal imagery sight with geologic speed. Lasko was capable of moving faster. He'd proven that several times. But he much preferred moving at about the speed of growing grass.
A long, careful, scan with the thermal imagery scope showed nothing hostile in or around the LZ. The LZ was away from the major routes the Chechens used and well away from the few farms in the region so there was no particular reason anybody would be there. Unless the Chechens were staking out good LZs on the off-chance the Keldara were going to start flying in.
So far, it didn't look that way.
Lasko looked over is shoulder at Sion and made an oval motion with his hand, indicating that this was where they were going to construct the hide. Then he started, ever so slowly, removing branches of heather. Removing vegetation was an art more than a science, for the sniper it resembled a form of bonsai. The vegetation had to appear as if it had naturally broken away or grown into that form. It could be tied down with small bits of vegetation colored string, broken away at the base or even propped up by another plant. Anything that looked natural. In the three cases where he simply had to break a branch off, he removed it right at the "trunk" and then wiped dirt onto the broken spot. Nothing could give the indication that someone or something had been ripping up vegetation.
As he did this, Sion had started on the hide. Since they were going to be there for a few days, this would be a full "bunker" hide position, a small underground shelter. Very small, about the size of a two man tent. Whereas any infantryman in the world, given that the enemy was no-where around, would have stood up and begun stuffing the shovel in the dirt and tossing earth around, Sion was slowly and painfully learning to be a sniper at the very core. He was still stomach down, his German entrenching tool only half extended, lifting up shovelfuls of dirt and carefully placing them on a tarp.
By morning the two would be tucked away in a hide that didn't have much more signature than a rabbit hole. They would spend the rest of the time, until the flight arrived, living there. They would eat, sleep, pee and crap in the hole. Fortunately, the Keldara had provided them with American MREs so they wouldn't be doing much of the latter. Nothing jammed you up like MREs especially if, as Lasko had done, you left behind all the fruity stuff.
* * *
"Ivan Ivanovich!" Mike said, shaking the hand of the man descending from the Kiowa helicopter. The Kiowa was a new addition to the Georgia's expanding air-craft fleet.
"Kildar." Ivan Ivanovich "Son of Ivan" Markovsky was a former Russian helo pilot who had turned one beat up Hip transport into an international heavy lift company over the course of ten or so years. Mostly the company supported oil production around the world—Ivan's motto was "no job too remote"—with some paid assistance for disaster relief and other missions where people were willing to pay through the nose to move a large volume of heavy cargo somewhere that roads didn't reach. His most famous job was lifting an entire mammoth out of the frozen tundra of Siberia and transporting it nearly a thousand miles to the nearest railhead.
However, those operations more or less "paid the bills." Markovsky's other operations, those that most certainly did not make the press, was where he made his real money. Markovsky was honest about being the purest of mercenaries. He didn't care if he was carrying American bl
ack ops or Al Qaeda. The only group he would not support was the Chechens and that was probably because his pilots, almost all Russian, would balk.