Unto the Breach

Chapter Twenty

“Jim, the idea when landing is that you’re going slow enough that you can actually stop before the runway does,” Casey said, making his way past the hay-bales towards the rear doors of the fuselage. When he’d been a kid his family would go visit his mom’s parents on their farm in the summer. He’d never expected his aircraft to smell exactly like grandpa’s hay-loft. On the other hand, that hayloft had some really nice associations so it wasn’t all bad.

“Sorry, sir,” Jim said, stone-faced.

“I think Tblisi control just thinks we’re idiots for not asking for two touch-and-gos before we landed,” Casey continued. “I’m really hoping they aren’t thinking the truth, which is that one of us, and I won’t say which of us because I’m kind, is unable to land a C-130 if his life depends on it.”

“Sir, were we planning on two touches?” the load asked as the two officer approached. The load master, Sergeant Lisa Griffitts, was a short, pretty blonde that, to his great chagrin, brought up all sorts of associations with hay-lofts in Casey’s mind. Unfortunately, she was a subordinate and, thus, very much off-limits. Even if there were all these convenient hay-bales stacked in the hold.

“Absolutely,” Casey said, nodding. “Certification stuff.”

“Oh,” Lisa said, nodding. “So it wasn’t that Captain Sanderson couldn’t find the ground?”

“Look! A Doggie!” Sanderson said, pointing out the window.

“Actually, that’s an Alsatian, sir,” the load master said, not turning around to look out the porthole. “And the guy controlling it is part of a security contingent that just surrounded our plane.”

“Really?” Casey said, bending down to look out the porthole.

“Really, sir,” Lisa replied. “And not a mountain goat to be seen.”

Before Casey could reply there was a banging on the troop door.

“I guess we need to see what they want,” Casey said.

Lisa opened the troop door and, at the sight of an American colonel, dropped a step-ladder out.

“Where’s Captain Moore,” the colonel said, swarming up the ladder.

“Captain Richard C. Moore, sir!” Casey said, saluting. He didn’t quite snap to attention but close enough for an Air Force pilot. “Commander Flight 1157.”

“I’m Colonel Mandrell, Military Attache for the Embassy,” the colonel said. “Get your crew down here, Captain. I’ve got a briefing to lay out and this is as secure as we’re going to get in Tblisi Airport. And we’re going to be joined in about five minutes by some other people. They’ll be in on the briefing. Drop your ramp; they’re bring on some gear. About nine hundred pounds plus five personnel. You’re probably going to have to dump some hay.”

“Yes, sir,” Casey said, blinking at the abruptness mostly. “Sergeant Griffiths, if you could… ”

“Done, sir!” Lisa said, practically popping her heels together. “Drop the ramp and alert the goats, sir!”

“Goats?” Mandrell asked.

“Nickname for the crew, sir,” Jim said, quickly.

“I’m so not going to ask,” the colonel muttered.

“Okay, let’s get this done,” Colonel Mandrell said then paused. “Issues, captain?”

Casey was trying not to stare. But the group of “relief workers” was… a little odd. As was their “gear.” Two were big, unsmiling men, clearly locals, who looked more like bandits in a movie than relief workers. Especially the movie part; both were at least as handsome as he was and that pissed him off.

On the other hand, the two ladies with them more than made up for it. Youch! Lisa was hot, Cassie was hot, these two put both of them to shame. They were, clearly, locals also in black skirts and colored tops that looked like they’d come right off a National Geographic cover. But… Oh. My. God. Hot. His brain would have been stuck on hay-bales if it wasn’t for the last person in the group.

The last guy was shorter than the men and damned near shorter than one of the women but stocky and clearly in shape. Erect frame with the look of having recently left the military and Casey would put odds on Marines or something “elite” in the Army. Hair cropped on the side, glasses and… Okay, he had to be an American. Only an American would go around in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts with Birkenstocks. At least in Tblisi. Admittedly, the temperature had come up a little, but, still…

“No, sir!” Casey responded, looking at the “gear” that had been loaded which was a huge fucking mass of black ballistic nylon bags. Some of them had been really heavy and from time to time there was a clink or two of metal on metal while loading. The two big locals had done it with the help of four more that must have been related. The four hadn’t even said goodbye, though, just dumped the stuff on the deck, piled into a couple of SUVs and driven off without a word. In fact, the entire loading had been in silence. “Just thinking about redistribution of the materials, sir!”

“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 ///,” 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 unexperienced 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 Tblisi was a more or less comfortable sixty-five degrees farenheit, 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 Tblisi, 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 Farenheit 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 oggle, 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 put on and 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…’ Jesesph 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.”