Unto the Breach

Chapter Fifteen

“General Umarov, good to see you again,” Mike said as he was ushered into the general’s office by an aide. He hadn’t had to wait which he took as a sign. A sign of what, he wasn’t too sure.

“And you, Kildar,” the general said, walking around his desk to shake Mike’s hand. He gestured for Mike to take a seat, ordered coffee and did everything but check to see if Mike needed a blow-job from the secretary.

It was going to be bad.

“How are Galiko and the kids?” Mike asked. Mrs. Umarov had passed away before Mike arrived in-country. Galiko was their sole child. She was married to a major in the Georgian National Guard and they had two children that the general doted upon.

“All are well,” Umarov replied, nodding. “I will send them your regards.”

“Please do,” Mike said, taking a sip of coffee. He’d actually become a pretty big tea drinker but since he was American it was assumed he’d prefer coffee. It wasn’t bad, by Georgian standards. “General, we need helicopters to get this plan to work.”

“In that you and I agree,” Umarov replied with a sigh. “But there are… problems.”

“Politics,” Mike said. “Is it that they are Russian? I don’t, off the top of my head, know of a group besides Birusk Flying Services that can, and will, pick up a company of infantry and take them anywhere close to where they might be shot at. And Birusk is not Russian government, any more than I am US government.”

“And again, you and I agree,” Umarov said, shaking his head. “Others do not.”

“What others?” Mike asked, blanching. “General, this is no insult to your armed forces but we have to keep this information very confidential!”

“That is not a problem,” the general said, making a placating gesture. “It is, as you would say ‘very tightly held’. But the president and the defense minister had to be told of what was going on, you know that, yes?”

“Of course,” Mike said, nodding. “I cannot disagree at… Oh, crap. The defense minister?”

Vakhtang Gelovani was a strong Georgian nationalist who had risen to the rank of major in the Red Army before the fall of the Soviet Union. Of course, that had been over a twenty-five year period. Ethnic Russians had controlled the upper ranks of the Red Army even under Stalin, who was a Georgian. Anyone non-Rusk rising above colonel was exceedingly rare. He clearly felt that he should have been a general and it was rumored that for that reason he hated and despised all things Russian.

From Mike’s perspective, the reason he’d never made general was that Gelovani would barely tie his own shoes. The man was a classic case of “active/stupid” if Mike had ever seen one, a micro-manager who had a strong tendency to choose exactly the wrong course of action and enforce it on subordinates. And then, as often as not, blame them for the failure.

The fact that he was frequently bruted as a possible successor to the current president, who while not great was head and shoulders over Gelovani, was good reason to contemplate the stupidity of settling down in Georgia. And Mike had heard quite a few rumors about clashes between Gelovani and Umarov. Given that Umarov wasn’t an idiot, Mike didn’t find that surprising.

“I will neither confirm nor deny that the defense minister has raised objections,” Umarov said, grimacing. “I will however say that the president has also stated his objections.”

Which meant that the president did not want to give Gelovani an excuse to paint him as in the pocket of the Russians. Even over a black op. Of course, Gelovani would not care that it was a black op if he went babbling about it to some group of faithful or supporters.

Taking Gelovani out was looking better and better.

Mike lowered his face and rubbed his forehead for a moment then looked up.

“Okay, then can I have Georgian helicopter support? You’ve got a couple of Hips and those Blackhawks from the US. I don’t know if we can make it in one lift, but… ”

“No,” Umarov said with a shake of the head. “And that is my objection, solely. We have very few helicopters. Not only are most of them busy, most of the time, but the loss of even one, and there is a good chance of losing one on this operation, would be… very bad. Unlike the US military, we could not hide the fact that we’d lost one or where we’d lost one. Given that, it would be apparent that we’d lost it to the Chechens or at least in operations against them. Call it ‘face’ if you will, but with everything that is going on in this country, making it truly apparent that we cannot control actions in that area would be very bad, politically. Let me ask: Would you prefer that Gelovani replace me with one of his hand-picked cronies?”

“No,” Mike said, grimacing.

“If we lost a helicopter in this operation, I would grade that as ‘likely,’ ” Umarov said, placidly. “Also, the loss would be a capital loss to my military, both in the loss of the helicopter and the pilots. We would have to send our very best pilots, yes? And we have very few who are of the caliber you would need. I would be, in your American phrase, eating my seed corn if I lost them. We guard them very preciously, the helicopters and the pilots. I cannot justify using them in an operation with this great a risk factor.”

“So that gets me back to square one,” Mike argued. “I have to have helicopter support. If I don’t use it, I’d have to have already left to do the whole thing on foot. I need birds to get me in striking distance. And I really need dust-off. We’re going to take casualties. I’ll walk out if I absolutely have to, carrying the damned items if I must, but I’m not going to do this mission if I have to pack my wounded out on litters. Not.”

“I have argued the same,” Umarov said, holding up a hand to forestall an angry rebuttal. “I have also managed a small, not large enough, compromise. You may use the Russian company to fly to your drop-off point. I got that concession because I pointed out, as you did, that you could not do the mission in time without having already started your ‘hump’, yes? But they cannot enter the Pansiki military controlled zone, absolutely not. That is from the president. And they must enter on a controlled route, pick up your forces, drop them off and then leave.”

“So no pick up and no dust off,” Mike said, angrily. He took a deep breath and then thought, hard. “What if… Look, I need dust-off and I need some helo support in the background. Among other things, both the US and the Russians are very interested in retrieving Dr. Arensky, alive.”

“So I was informed,” Umarov said, nodding. “But, frankly, I had not put together that he, and his daugther, would have to walk out. Not a very pleasant trip.”

“We’re planning on something on the order of Hannibal’s March across the Alps,” Mike pointed out, sourly. “No, not a pleasant trip. High elevation, low temperatures, nasty terrain. It’s going to be hard enough on the Keldara. I can’t imagine getting an out-of-shape scientist and his daughter through it. But I’m really worried about getting casualties out of there. I need a helo. And I have an idea.”

“Go ahead,” Umarov said, nodding.

“What if they weren’t Russian and they weren’t temporary hires?” Mike asked, putting a plan together just ahead of his words. “I’ve been saying that I need a helicopter, and some pilots, for quite some time now. So… I get a helicopter and some pilots. Possibly two helicopters and some pilots. And they are my support.”

“I presume you’re talking about American or European,” Umarov said, carefully. “Can you get them? On short notice? And that will be willing to do this mission? I could see a pilot that was willing to fly back and forth to Tblisi, yes? But to fly on this mission?”

“I don’t know,” Mike replied, honestly. “But I can try. If I can get them, can I use them?”

“I am not sure what you mean,” Umarov said, lightly. “You wish to get a helicopter for transportation, yes? They will not be armed, this is a simple business transaction, a bit of paperwork. I’m sure it would entirely escape my notice, I’m not sure why you even bring it up.”

“Gotcha,” Mike said, nodding. “Well, then, I think that’s settled. And I need to make some very fast phone calls.”

“Don’t let me slow you down,” Umarov said, nodding. “But since you mentioned this simple business transaction, I’ll make a few phone-calls, for a friend, and make sure that all the paperwork is… smoothed out.”

“I appreciate it,” Mike said, knowing that the Georgians could be byzantine, and greedy, in processing such paperwork. He’d smooth palms if he had to, it was a standard part of doing business in the region, but the fewer he had to, and the faster they worked, the better. The chief of staff knew just what butts to prod to get them in gear. “I’ll be going, then. Give my regards to Galiko and Captain Kahbolov.”

“I shall,” the general said. “I’ll also note that if I was to send a group of highly qualified pilots, one of them would have to be my son-in-law. But, no, that is not why I declined.”

“Pierson.”

“Bob, it’s Mike,” Mike said, sighing over the secure sat-phone. He could barely hear the colonel over the sound of the rotors from the helicopter but, on the other hand, short of a very capable and sophisticated intercept that could crack US satellite transmissions, he wasn’t going to be overheard. “We have a situation. No, we have an issue. No, we have a mission killer.”

“Helicopters,” Pierson said. “I was going to call you. We already got the word.”

“The Georgians are not going to let me use my Russki friends for anything more than lift into the nearby area. I’m not going to have dust-off, I’m not going to have support and I can’t exactly evac Arensky and his kid through those fucking mountains.”

“They’re also not going to let us do it,” the colonel replied. “That has been discussed. Not at ‘the highest levels’ but at a level high enough that it’s damned firm.”

“I’m not going to stick the fucking Keldara out on a limb over some jackass’ bigotry about Russians,” Mike said, bitterly. “But there’s one slender loophole. I can buy my own god damned bird and hire my own goddamned pilots out of my own goddamned pocket and as long as they’re not Russian I can use them for ‘non-combat’ missions. Including into the Pansiki zone.”

“So you need pilots,” Pierson said. “And birds.”

“I’ll get my own birds,” Mike replied. “The Czechs make a very nice Hind variant that is available off the shelf with a high altitude package. And not only does it cost way less than a Blackhawk, most of the parts are compatible with other Hind variants. But I need pilots. ASAP.”

“We’re not an employment agency, Mike,” Pierson replied with a humorous tone.

“You are if you want me to do this mission,” Mike responded with absolutely no humor in his voice. “I need pilots. I’m up to my ass in alligators and so are all my people. None of us have time to go looking through the want ads. I haven’t slept in three days. I don’t have time to be having this conversation. I need two highly qualified and technically excellent pilots in recent training who can cross-train to a Hind on short notice and are willing to go in harm’s way for a sizeable cash bonus and love of the thrill. I’d prefer no dependents. As Umarov pointed out, the risk of this mission, to everyone including me, is high. That includes the pilots. I need them on a plane within the next two days. Call Anastasia to make the travel arrangements. And I don’t care who you have to know, blow or glow, I need them now or this mission is a scrub. I am totally fucking serious. I will scrub this mission and the president can then consider… other options.”

“Oh,” Pierson said, thoughtfully. “In that case, I’d better start making some calls.”

Kacey flipped through the mail angrily.

“Junk mail, bill, bill, overdue bill… ”

Kacey J. (Jezebel) Bathlick, formerly Captain Kacey J. Bathlick, USMC, was five foot four inches tall and weighed in at a respectable one hundred and thirteen pounds, as of that morning, after her morning run, according to the bathroom scale. With brown hair that reached to just shoulder length and brown eyes, she had generally been described as “solid” in her officer evaluation reports. That is because nobody was going to put “stacked, packed, hot and ready to rock” on paper.

“Face it, Kace, we’re gonna have to find a job.” Tamara opened the refrigerator and removing broccoli, onions and red peppers. “I mean, we’re talking 7/11 time here.”

Tamara Wilson, also formerly Captain, USMC, was not incredibly taller than Kacey standing just a bit over five feet seven inches. However, with noticeably longer legs and torso, she seemed to positively tower over her long time friend. Also with brown hair and eyes her grading officers had often found themselves at a loss to describe her in militarily acceptable terminology. “Erect of carriage” was usually what the reviewers settled upon. That was because, in the case of her male reviewers, they felt that forms covered in drool with incoherent phrases like “Yowhzah!” and “Babe-a-licious!” would not have told the review boards much.

When, as had often happened until recently, the two were sharing a cockpit units sometimes came to blows over who got to fly in the bird.

“I can’t believe we didn’t get hired with Blackwater,” Kacey said, tightly. “They’re screaming for pilots.”

“Male pilots,” Tammie noted, starting to chop up the vegetables. “They do not want to be the first company to have a female civilian killed in action. Wouldn’t look good on CNN.”

“Which means that everyone else who needs pilots in the states should be screaming for women,” Kacey noted. “So why aren’t we getting any calls?”

“It’s only been two months,” Tammie pointed out. “And we really didn’t start hunting until we got back from the islands. Of course, we thought somebody would be banging down our door but… ” She paused at a knock on the apartment’s door. “Okay, now that would be too… ”

Kacey looked through the peephole and turned back to Tammie. “Military. Army. Major.”

“Pro-face,” Tammie said, nodding.

“Yes, major, what can I do for you?” Kacey said as she opened the door.

“Ms. Kacey Bathlick?” the major asked. “Captain Bathlick?”

“Up until a couple of months ago, yes,” Kacey said.

“And is Ms. Wilson present?” the major asked. He was black, medium height and heavy build. Kacey had done an immediate check of his uniform and she suspected that there were some ribbons missing from his dress greens. But there was an SF patch on his right shoulder to counteract the Military District of Washington patch on the left. And he was wearing the “Tower Of Power”, Ranger, SF and Airborne tabs stacked. No CIB but a two year Pentagon service badge. And his highest medal was an Army Commendation Medal. Either this guy was a washed out Green Beret who had been shuffled off to Washington after being found “unfit for combat” or he was deliberately understating his experience and leaving off merit badges. From his look it was probably the latter. Which in the five sided Puzzle Palace was… weird. Everybody wore every possible doo-dad so they could look more military than Napoleon.

“Yes, I am,” Tammie said, walking over while wiping her hands on a towel. “Pleasure to meet you Major Stang. What can we do for you?”

“I was told… ” the major said and then paused. “Could we do this somewhere other than the doorway?”

“Of course,” Kacey said. “Sorry.” Of course, he could be a rapist dressed up like an Army major, but he had all the badges in the right place which would be unusual for a “wannabe.” And between herself and Tammie they could probably handle him, weight lifter or no. Tammie had been studying karate since before she was really walking well. Kacey’s fighting style was a bit more eclectic running in the direction of beating the hell out of people she didn’t like.

She stepped back and then to the side so that she had him flanked as he entered the room. The brief, amused, glance over his shoulder told her that he’d noticed, knew why and found it both tactically correct and funny.

“Take a seat if you’d like,” Tammie said, smiling.

“Nah, I’ll be quick,” the officer said, dipping into his blouse pocket and pulling out a slip of paper. It appeared to be cut out from something, possibly an e-mail. “I was told that you two are looking for a flying job, preferably as a matched set.”

“Yes,” Tammie said, frowning but taking the paper.

“I’m also told that you were very pissed off when the Marines pulled you both out of combat slots,” the major added. “That’s the name of a guy who needs some helo pilots, yesterday. He’s not in the US, though, the country of Georgia. But he doesn’t have the time to come to the States and do an interview. So he’s willing to pay appropriate pilots five grand just to fly out there and interview, as long as they don’t dawdle. The flip side is that while it’s intended to be a permanent gig, he needs them for a mission that… Well that involves a certain amount of risk. The pay, I’m given to understand, will be commensurate.”

“He’s a merc?” Kacey asked. “The US government is death on mercs.”

“Mercenary, security specialist, the US government hires out a lot of stuff these days,” the major said with a shrug. “I have it on very good authority that this is one of the good guys. I will mention that the US government is, effectively, being his hiring and screening agent for this. I’m not here on my own, I’m on government time.”

“That’s odd,” Tammie said.

“Yes, it is,” Stang said. “But I get a lot of odd jobs. I’ll add that while you’re not covered by the UCMJ or USC 18 on this, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t pass on the fact that you were contacted, and in this way. More to be the point, Uncle Sam would appreciate it. I don’t know what’s going on, so don’t ask. All I was told was go tell you two and get your answer on whether you’d go interview.”

“He’s going to pay five grand just to fly out and interview?” Tammie said. “That’s not a signing bonus. That’s just to interview.”

“And your transportation,” Stang said with a nod. “If you say yes to the interview, we’ll have you on a plane headed towards Georgia, and I quote as fast as you can pack end quote.”

“What’s the mission?” Kacey asked, taking the paper from Tammie and glancing at it. All it had on it, though, was a name “Michael Jenkins” and a number. She did recognize that it was a sat-phone number, though.

“I have no idea,” Stang admitted, grinning. “I will say, though, that some very senior and connected people have been running around lately like there’s a monkey gnawing on their neck. And we’re not expecting an IG inspection in simply ages.”

“So who do you… ” Tammie stopped at his expression and grinned. “Classified?”

“Got it in one,” Stang said. “If I told you I’d have to find a place for the bodies.”

“So do we call this guy or what?” Kacey asked.

“Got a cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“Call him on the way to Washington National?”

“You look all in, Master Chief,” Mike said, sitting down to breakfast in the kitchen. The coffee was already on the table and Mother Griffina was frying up the eggs. Life was good. Some sleep would be nice.

“So do you,” Adams said. “When’s the last time you slept. Never mind. I gotta use Shota for entry. Every single other position is tasked. And they all require more sense than blowing a door then taking five god damned steps! The way I got it set up, all he has to do is this simple task. The guy has at least learned to shoot, and what to shoot and what not to. But he can’t seem to get the concept that just because there are bad guys in the room, he still has to take five steps to clear the door.”

“Sucks to be you,” Mike said, taking a sip of coffee. “Try teaching HALO to a bunch of newbies in a week. Not to mention all the other prep for this damned mission. On the other hand, it’s going pretty good. First real jump today.”

“You know you don’t have to be busting your ass as hard as you are,” Adams said. “Nielson can handle some of it.”

“I have reasons to stay busy,” Mike pointed out.

“Being all bleary before a mission isn’t good for anybody, boss,” Adams pointed out. “Or are you talking about your latest slash?”

“You’re so eloquent about these things,” Mike said.

“Nielson is eloquent about these things,” Adams said. “I’m from the Teams, remember? The list starts: My wife, sure… ”

“My toothbrush, maybe, my knife, never,” Mike finished. “And you’ve been through how many of those wives?”

“Enough that I’m glad to be out of the States,” Adams admitted. “They can get my pension but they can’t touch what I’m making over here.”

“Then let me just suggest that you’re out of your league, Master Chief,” Mike said with a sigh. “Except, maybe, on one question: Think I should talk to Kiril about this?”

“No,” Adams said. “I already did.”

“Thanks,” Mike said.

“I told him you weren’t nearly the cockhound everybody made you out to be. Hell, you hardly knew where to put it. There was no way that Gretchen was going to go for a guy as bad in the sack as you are.”

“Let me repeat my thanks,” Mike said, chuckling.

“He was really weird about it,” Adams said, frowning. “Resigned, maybe. He just said that his fate would be decided. What’s this I hear about him being sent off?”

“Isn’t happening,” Mike said. “They’re talking about sending him off to the Legion and me hooking up with Gretchen. I’m putting my Kildar boot on that. He marries Gretchen.”

“Ain’t like you’re short on pussy,” Adams admitted.

“Eloquence, thy name is Ass-boy,” Mike said. “But, to reiterate, pussy is not the issue. However, changing the subject, we may have helo pilots.”

“That would be great,” Adams said, nodding. “We’re seriously fucked without pilots. I mean the bad kind of fucked. Not the fucking Gretchen kind of fucked.”

“Pierson said that quote some candidates end quote are on the way,” Mike said, shaking his head at Adams’ aside. He knew the approach, it was the specialty of the Teams. Call it “tough love.” As in “go cry in somebody else’s beer.” On the other hand, Adams didn’t actually have to deal with the management of the Keldara’s morale. “So, so far the rest of us are on track. Sucks to be you, though,” he added with a grin.

“You want this girl alive or not?” Adams grumped.

“Be nice,” Mike said, taking another sip. “That’s why I detailed you to it. But the most important thing is getting the package. And that means getting eyeballs on the target and into commo with Katya.”

“She in place, yet?” Adams asked.

“Should be.”