Unto the Breach

Chapter Thirty-Five

Haza Saghedi raised himself out of the stream, hands up.

He had managed to kill several of the Russians before he realized they were not, in fact, the enemy. He’d heard the different tone of the firing to the rear and swept around to the side, shooting at least one of the camouflage clad figures that was sweeping across the convoy of mujaheddin.

However, he was, perhaps, the only survivor. He had hidden under bushes as the pig infidels had swept the area. With long experience of surviving under every circumstance he wasn’t about to let these pigs get him. He had vengeance to enact.

The approaching group, though, was probably Chechens, mujaheddin as he was. They weren’t very good, their sweep technique was awful and they looked jumpy. But that just made it that much more important than he attract their attention from as far away as possible.

Despite the fact that he was in clothing acceptable to the prophet and had his hands up, the idiots fired at him. So he dropped back down and waited.

“Who is there!” a young voice called.

“I am Haza Saghedi Al-Rusht, Al-Kemar, Al-Abdullah, Sword of the Prophet, Lion of Kandahar and warlord of the Pasht and if you shoot at me again I will take that weapon from you and beat you as your mother apparently never did!”

“Haza Saghedi Khan,” Commander Bukara said, nodding in respect. “Your name is far known. Can you possibly explain this debacle?”

“We were hit by a pincer movement just as the meet started,” Haza said, wiping at his arm. One of the shots from either the Russians or the other group had hit him a glancing blow on his forearm. It would become only one of many scars. “I have no idea who they were. It was not the camouflage of the Spetznaz unless they use something very different here. It looked something like the new American, but still not that.”

“Keldara,” Bukara said, holding up the patch. “Georgians from over the mountains. They have a new warlord, an American. I was told a meeting was going on, but also told by some very senior people to stay out of the way.”

“Perhaps that was a mistake,” Saghedi admitted. “Several mistakes were made. I think the people I had on security were not looking the right way. But that is to be forgotten. Those Keldara pigs have captured a senior member of the Movement. They must be stopped.”

“I have already lost many men just getting here,” Bukara said, frowning. “They are running away. Let them go. We can deal with them in our own time.”

Haza tried not to snarl at what he saw as cowardice. He suspected mentioning his opinion would get him nowhere, what was more. He had dealt with many similar warlords in many lands. But he also knew they all had the same weakness…

“Besides capturing Sheik Al-Kaziri, these Keldara captured the money we had brought to this meeting.” Haza tried not to gulp at what he was about to do. Facing American Delta force would be smarter. “It was sixty million euros. If you destroy them, you can have half, to support your great jihad against the Russians.”

“As I said,” Bukara replied, immediately. “We must stop these Keldara from escaping. But they will not get far. The way they are trying to take out is blocked.”

“Do you have a map?” Saghedi asked. “Show me.”

“Here is the road,” Bukara said, tracing it on the map. “This is the furthest point of Georgian control, in the pass. Commander Sadim has a blocking force already in place, over two hundred fedayeen, in bunkers and with heavy weapons.” He pointed to the spot and shrugged. “There is a gorge there. The Keldara will not be able to go around before we reach them.”

“Sadim is here?” Haza said, surprised.

“I only recently got word he was coming to this sector,” Bukara said, stone faced. “But, yes, his advanced units are already at the border crossing and the rest of his units are close behind. He may yet cut them off.”

“They might also anticipate it,” Saghedi pointed out, looking around the map. “They will get off the road… here,” he said, pointing to where a small stream crossed it. “Destroy the vehicles. Perhaps boobytrap them. Then they will either move to flank your positions or towards this pass.”

“Guerrmo,” Bukara said, frowning. “We have a small force there. Really just a few bunkers to stop the Georgians from sending patrols through there. They are oriented to the south. They will be able to take those easily. When this happened Commander Suliman sent some of his men down into the hills in case they headed that way. But only a few patrols; the most they can do is sting them.”

“Then we have to block them,” Saghedi said. “Do you have any guides that really know these hills? I need them and… a hundred men if you can spare them. I hate to ask but they must be many of your best. In shape, capable of running in these hills and able to really shoot. We will take only light ammunition and water and go to… this point.” He pointed to a hilltop at the north entrance of the pass. “They will have to pass this point. We will also take shovels, yes?”

“Can you beat them there?”

“ I can,” Raza said, straightening up. “Can your men keep up is the question? And you must contact Commander Sadim, now. Tell him to try to cut them off sooner. But get him moving.”

“I see,” Bukara said, nodding as he listened on the satellite phone. “Yes, I will do that.”

He sighed as he hung up. Sadim was not going to like this.

“They want you to call Sadim directly,” Sayeed said, shaking his head. “Don’t they?”

“They do,” Bukara replied, trying not to curse. “And they aren’t going to send me any of his codes; even they are not so stupid.” He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“This is Commander Bukara,” Bukara said, wincing. “I must talk to your commander.”

“Sadim.”

Gregor Sadim’s white mustache was twitching furiously, a sure sign that he was agitated, and his aides politely turned away.

The entire march had been, from an electronic perspective, perfect. Although they might have been picked up by satellites, although there might have been a rumor of their passing, they had only used codes. No unit designators. And all of it highly encrypted.

The offensive out of the Pansiki was designed to catch the Russians off-guard, at a time when they were retreating to winter quarters. Although the Russians were, proverbially, good winter fighters, they had gotten used to the Chechens pulling back over winter. With luck the offensive, led by the Sadim Brigade, would catch them off-guard and roll them back.

That was probably blown now based on one damned phone-call.

“This is Commander Bukara,” the man on the phone said. “And let me start by saying that High Command ordered me to contact you in this way. We have a situation.”

Sadim was sixty-two and had attained the rank of major in the Red Army before retiring. Despite a membership from an early age in the Communist Party, he had, his whole life, been a believing Muslim. With the fall of the Soviet Union and the rise of the jihad he had left his country home and joined the jihad, one of the first trained officer to do so. Since then he had built his reputation, and unit, into one of the finest the mujaheddin had. Disciplined, experienced and well armed, it was the Chechen’s crack force which was why it had been moved to this sector.

But he was well trained, and personally disciplined, so he controlled his fury.

“What is the situation?” he asked.

“Oh… damn,” Greznya said as the intercept popped up. The satellite call had been open circuit and the voices were distinct even if both of them hadn’t identified themselves. And she recognized the name.

“Colonel Nielson?”

Vanner’s C2 started buzzing, frantically, and he paused to draw it out.

The Keldara were retreating at a trot but he was keeping up just fine. He’d never let himself get out of condition after getting out of the Marines and had worked on it harder since joining the Kildar. The girls were doing fine as well, especially since dropping their rucks.

In fact, the way things were going they should get to the pass by dawn and be out of here.

He pulled up the C2, looked at the data and blanched.

They’d better clear the pass by dawn.

“Kildar!” he said, running up the hill. “Kildar! You need to see this.”

“Command, this is Dragar Five.”

The commander of the light reconnaissance vehicle looked at the cluster of cars and trucks then at where the roadbed had been beaten down.

“Dragar Five, Command.”

“Command, the Keldara force has left the road at point nine-two-one,” the LRV commander said. “Force size unknown. Path indicates a generally southerly route. Terrain is unsuited to pursuit.”

“Four thousand,” Mike said, his jaw working. “Fuck me. Fuck us.”

“It’s worse than that, sir,” Vanner said, quietly. “Sadim’s their varsity. Former Soviet officer, very professional one, school trained at Frunze which was their equivalent of the War College. His unit is considered their best field combat unit. Lots of heavy weapons, tanks, the works. The girls started picking up signals a couple of days ago but up until just now we didn’t know who it was. Or the size of the force. They were apparently moving over here to push this sector against the Russians. Maybe against us but the Russians are more likely. But now… ”

“He’s going to be on our ass,” Mike said. “Well, we just have to run faster. Send a message to the Teams; we’re trading stealth for speed. If we get hit by an ambush, counterassault and screen through. Fortunately, except for the bunkers the pass should be clear… ”

Of the hundred that had started, barely fifty were behind Raza as he reached the top of the hill.

The area was high. It reminded him of his beloved Afghanistan, now under the boot of the Allah-Be-Damned Americans. The last few kilometers had been through low brush, covered in snow melting in the rain. And it was high. He could tell by the thin air, the cold clear of the mountains he knew and loved.

The rain wasn’t like Afghanistan, though, still spraying in his face and the wind was rising. It was going to be a cold, wet, night. But they had beaten these pig Keldara to the Pass. And he intended that they not pass.

“Get up you sons of pigs!” he cursed, kicking the nearest Chechen who had slumped to the ground as soon as he reached the top of the hill. “We have digging to do. Those Keldara you so fear will be here soon and we will give them a hot greeting.”

Mike cursed as firing broke out to his front. Initially, most of the fire was from AK type weapons, the familiar “back, back, back” if the relatively slow firing AK. The response, however, was almost immediate as the higher, faster cycling, SAWs and SPRs of the Keldara responded to what was clearly an ambush.

Team Sawn was in the lead with the other five teams following. The area was still woodland but the underbrush, in most areas, was thick. He knew that the Chechens were going to know the trails and easy ways better than the Keldara, making them faster moving, but all they could do was bull their way forward, hoping for the best.

“I don’t know where they came from,” Vanner panted behind them. “Nothing on the intercepts.”

“Just because it isn’t on the map, doesn’t mean it isn’t going to be there,” Mike pointed out.

The Keldara hadn’t even stopped moving. Their orders were to bull through light opposition and Oleg’s team had, apparently, already switched to point without orders. So Mike’s command team soon reached the ambush site.

The majority of Team Sawn were coming back down the hill, most of them carrying weapons which were being tossed on a pile. Others carried bodies. Those, too, were dropped with the weapons.

“Ten,” Sawn said as Mike walked by. “They tried to run when we counter attacked. None got far.”

“I take it none tried to surrender?” Mike asked.

“I wasn’t asking,” Sawn replied. The pile of weapons and bodies was apparently complete and he tossed a thermite grenade on it. The white light definitely gave away their position but it also sent a message; this is what happens when you face the Keldara. For once, the smell of burning pork didn’t give Mike a sick stomach.

Other members of the same team were putting bandages on the wounded while there was already one bodybag zipped shut. One of the wounded, Stephan Ferani, one of the MG team assistant gunners, was pretty bad. The rounds had ripped in from the side through the arm-hole of his armor and he was bleeding like a pig. He was still conscious, though.

Mike stopped and took the Keldara’s uninjured hand.

“Hey, Stephan,” he said, grinning. “What are you doing laying out?”

“Just catching… a quick… rest, Kildar,” Stephan replied, the words spotting bright blood on his face; the rounds must have hit the lungs.

“Well, the good news is somebody else gets to carry you back,” Mike said. “Riding along like a king. Kildar Stephan, yes?”

“Yes, Kildar,” Stephan said, grimacing.

“Hang in there, buddy,” Mike said, getting up. “We’ve got another evac site up ahead. You get to ride in style.”

Mike trotted to get back to his place in line, Vanner tagging along right behind him.

“Think he’ll make it?” Vanner asked when they were past the ambush site.

“Not a chance in hell,” Mike said. “What’s the status on the birds?”

“They’re back at base,” Vanner said.

“At least they made it.”

When the door slid back, a wave of blood splashed to the graveled heli-pad.

“Varlam and those three to the other choppers,” Gretchen said, detaching the defibrillator. “Then give me a hand with this one,” she said, gesturing at Viktor’s stetcher.

All the available men and women of the Keldara were gathered at the landing pad. Which meant that both Mother Makanee and Mother Silva, their mother by birth, were present as Gretchen and three other girls lifted Viktor from the helicopter.

Father Jusev, the Orthodox priest from Allerso walked over as Gretchen was unloading. She wasn’t surprised, Jusev was a good man and… understanding. The Keldara turned up on Sunday for church, tithed of their food and handiworks and he ignored the fact that in the dark of night they performed other ceremonies.

What she was very surprised to see was Father Kulcyanov in his full vestments. A tiger skin was flung over his shoulders, pinned at the neck with a silver brooch in the form of an axe. In his right hand he carried a large battleaxe and in his left a bunch of dried mistletoe. She had only seen him dressed that way at the “secret” rites of the Keldara. She couldn’t believe he was so dressed in front of Father Jusev.

“He was hit coming back from the mission,” Gretchen said as Mother Makanee and Silva walked to the stretcher. Mother Silva was crying, quietly, but Mother Makanee’s face was smooth and oddly serene.

“May the Lord Bless and keep this soul,” Father Jusev said, sprinkling the body with holy water. He recited a prayer in Greek then looked at the body bag. “Who?”

“Sion,” Gretchen replied. “He was hit in the battle.”

As the Blackhawks lifted off, filling the air with dust, Father Kulcyanov bent on arthritic knees and took one of Viktor’s flaccid hands, wrapping it around the hilt of the battleaxe.

“From these Fallen Lands you leave,” Father Kulcyanov recited. “Into the Halls of Feasting you go. Raised up on wings of the Valkyr to battle and sing until the day of fire, the final battle, when you ride by the side of the Father of All and Frey. You have faced the fire and been unburnt, you have faced the Reaver and been unafraid. Clean of body, clean of soul, pure of heart. True Keldar. True Son of Battle.”

As he spoke he brushed the boy’s body with the golden mistletoe.

“Let the Mothers bear him up and prepare him,” the old man said, using the hilt of the axe to help him to his feet. “Raise him up like the Vakyrie though your son is gone. Know, though, that he lives ever in the Halls and that in the days to come you shall see him again, pure and glorious, a warrior born and eternal.”

Gretchen bowed her head, trying not to shed tears in front of the Priest of the Father of All. She knew her brother was in the Halls of Feasting and was probably looking down at her in pity. But she was going to miss him. Did miss him already, terribly.

She’d known Father Kulcyanov her whole life but she’d never really seen him as he was now. This was the High Priest in truth, not serving over a rite of spring but sending the souls of warriors to fill the hosts of the Father of All.

And about that she had one small doubt.

“Father,” she said, touching his arm as he was going to perform the rites for Sion.

“Yes, my daughter,” Father Kulcyanov said.

“Father, I have been given a rank,” Gretchen said, biting her lip. “But… I am afraid. Not of battle, but… Women of the Keldara have never been spoken of as warriors.”

“And you fear the Cold Lands if you fall in battle?” Father Kulcyanov said, nodding. “Fear not, Daughter. You are a warrior as much as any of these fallen. Does not your weapon even now smoke? Do the technicians not rearm it? Are those bullets I see being fed? Did you not engage in battle on this day?”

“Yes, Father,” Gretchen said then shook her head. “But I don’t think I hit anything. I wasn’t used to the weapon.”

“It is the battle, not the ability, that matters,” Father Kulcyanov replied. “But next time, send some enemies to the Halls to be your servants. However, you are missing something. You have never been through the rites. And I think now is too short a time to perform them. But the center of the rites is simply this.” He reached into his shirt and pulled an old and tarnished silver cross on a chain from around his neck. The cross was odd in that it had only a very small upward extension and broad arms. It looked, in fact, very much like the axe he still carried in his hand. He undid the clasp one handed and then handed it to the girl. “There. Now you carry the sign of the Father of All. And the Valkyries shall not miss you if you fall.”

“Who are you?” D’Allaird asked as a man in a rubber chemical suit climbed off the bird.

“Dr. Arensky,” the man said, muffled by the mask. It was in English, though. “I need somewhere to wait out of the way.”

“Well, why don’t you start by taking that shit off?” D’Allaird said with a chuckle.

“Because I don’t know if I’m infected,” Arensky said. “And I don’t want to be contagious. Is there somewhere I could, perhaps, set up as a quarantine area?”

“I so don’t want to know what you might be ‘infected’ by,” D’Allaird said, backing up. “But I’ll figure something out. In the meantime, why don’t you just go over by the hangar and as soon as I get this bird out of here I’ll figure something out.”

“Thank you,” Dr. Arensky said. “Hopefully I’m just being cautious. We’ll know in a couple of days.”

“Great,” D’Allaird said. “See ya!” He continued to walk to the bird, shaking his head.

“Oh, it’s worse than it looks,” Kacey said, climbing out of the cockpit. “I had to redline the engines coming over the pass.”

“The other bird is partially ripped down, being refitted,” D’Allaird pointed out. “I hope like hell the damned engines hold. This is our only bird right now.”

“The left supercharger was giving me an overheat light,” Kacey said, shrugging. “Check that out if you can. Pull it if possible. But we need to get back.”

“You’re already being fueled,” Tim replied. He’d briefed some of the Keldara girls on it and they were already dragging over the fuel line, watched by one of the Czech technicians. “Any of those dings do more than kill people?”

“One went right through my fucking window,” Tammie said, pointing.

“I meant anything important,” D’Allaird pointed out with a grin.

“Fuck you, chief,” Tammie said, shaking her head. “And for your information, it bounced, so the answer is ‘probably.’ I don’t know where it ended up.”

“I dunno,” Kacey said. “Why don’t you figure that out while I go have a case of the shakes. That was one hairy fucking mission. I seriously need a drink.”

“You don’t drink,” D’Allaird pointed out.

“That’s what I mean.”