Unto the Breach

Chapter Fourty-Three

“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 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 was 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. I mean, 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 spared 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 all 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 load 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 C2 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 hours 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 in 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 loft 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 interjected. 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-weapons 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 seeemed 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 one 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.

He’d been given a vague area to look and he was looking. But the area was chock-a-block with rock formations and mortars, honestly, were pretty hard to spot during the day when they were firing. At night it was different, they put up one hell of a visual signature. But they didn’t give off a lot of smoke when they fired. The biggest daytime signature was the dust from the baseplates when they slammed into the ground.

Finally, he caught a flash out of the side of the camera view and slewed the camera towards the flash. At first he wasn’t sure he’d found them but then they fired again, throwing up those puffs of dust and, this time, he caught the slight smoke signature.

“Mortars spotted,” he said. “I’ve got clearance to engage?”

“Roger,” his supervisor said, walking over. “Two more birds inbound in about ten minutes. I’ve got Tommy and Hank ready to rock on them. You about ready to take a break and let this one cruise back?” The supervisor bent down and peered at the screen, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“In a second,” he said, lasing the target. There were three mortars and he’d been told there were more around somewhere. There, they weren’t in one battery but they’d been clustered. There was a trail in the area and that was probably the reason. Three batteries of three mortars apiece. Looked to be the standard Russian 120s. And glory be…

“Stupid,” the supervisor said, pointing at the screen. “They’ve got their ready ammunition stacked between the guns.

“I noticed,” the pilot said, banking the Predator around to line on the positions. It wasn’t strictly necessary, but it increased the ease of engagement. “Four rounds, three positions. Two piles of ready ammo and three guns per. How d’you want me to do this? One round to each position and one to finish off the wounded at one?”

“Wait,” the supervisor said. “That’s how I want you to handle it. Three positions, three birds.”

“Yeah,” the Pred pilot said. “I hope the guys who are taking fire can wait.”

“Well, I hear they’re in more trouble than mortars… ”

“Good evening, Prime Minister… ”

President Cliff, unlike his predecessor, was an “early to bed, early to rise” person. He liked a definite schedule and minimum possible interruptions in it.

However, he was more than aware that sometimes a president had to adjust such things. Such as when an international crisis of epic proportions, if very very quiet, was underway.

The problem was the files Mike had picked up in Albania. They contained blackmail information that could damage every major government in the world. Even when it was information that damaged an opponent, it was so inflammable that it was bound to blow back on the groups in power.

Since none of the governments had trusted the others with the information, Mike, as the easiest to erase if need-be, had been chosen as the guardian.

And now the guardian was on international TV, apparently about to be wiped out by a superior force.

“I am happy that you were willing to take my call,” the Prime Minister said. “It is very late for you, is it not?”

The Japanese never ever came to the point!

“Sometimes it is necessary to adjust your schedule,” President Cliff replied. He could play the indirect game when he had to.

“Some issues do take precedence over personal comfort,” the Prime Minister of Japan said. “I was, in fact, awakened from a quite pleasant dream by a senior aide when a particular name was noticed on television.”

“I have had a very busy day,” President Cliff replied. “But I have been watching some television this evening.”

“I note a name, one I had not expected to see on CNN.”

“As have I. Were you awake for his most remarkable… display? I was having supper.”

“You have my sympathies,” the Prime Minister replied. “I have seen the replay. He is… formidable. However, there is the issue of certain materials… ”

“The materials are secure,” President Cliff said, trying not to sigh in relief that it had only taken this long to get to the point. They must be really exercised. “This issue has had my attention for some days now. Perhaps I should have ensured you were informed but it was a private matter, some aspects of which have, unfortunately, become public. However, for many reasons but not least the security of certain materials I dispatched a Ranger company to secure the area. They are unaware of that portion of their mission but are under definite orders to ensure the security of the facility in question. I am also privvy to certain details regarding close security and termination of the materials in the event of unauthorized access. I will ensure that you are given sufficient information to ensure your own peace of mind on that score tomorrow.”

“I was, in fact, aware of the presence of your infantry unit,” the Prime Minister said. “However, my advisors tell me that they are unsure of its ability to secure the materials in the event of attack by the forces in the area. And while we are equally aware of the ‘tripwire’ aspect of even a small American force being in place… These are, after all, fedayeen and all the response in the world will not save the situation if they capture the materials.”

The President looked around the Situation Room and rolled his eyes. The God damned Japanese were telling him that a company of Rangers wasn’t enough! God damn them!

He had one of two choices, tell them to fuck off or play their game. But the point was… Was a company of Rangers enough? Colonel Pierson’s talk about war theory was all well and good but the operative word was theory.

“I apologize for this, Prime Minister, but could you hold for just a moment?” the president said.

“Of course,” the Prime Minister said, politely.

The President of the United States put the Prime Minister of Japan, who was up in the middle of the damned night, on hold, and looked around the room.

“How fast can we get some B-52s on station?” the president asked. “In Georgia. The Japanese don’t think that a company of Rangers can ensure the security of the Keldara.”

“What do the Japanese care about… ” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs started to say.

“Not now,” the Secretary of Defense snapped. “You’re not in that compartment. They do. Leave it at that. How long?”

“We don’t have any in Germany right now… ” the Chairman replied. “England. Whooo… Nine hours? If we scramble them right now. If they can get off fast; they’re not on pad alert… ”

“B-1s,” the Secretary of State said. “Qatar. Tankers out of Iraq and Turkey, afterburner as far as they can on fuel. This morning’s report had three mission capable.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the chairman said, shaking his head. So how in the hell did she keep up with all the changes she was making in her own department and read, apparently, his entire morning readiness report? “That’s the answer, Mr. President. Four hours or so after they lift off.”

“Start loading them with JDAMs,” the president said. “Or whatever they should carry to support the Rangers in the event the Chechens enter the area.” He picked up the phone and hit the release key. “Mr. Prime Minister, I apologize for keeping you on hold so long. We are dispatching aircraft at this time. They can be in the area before the Chechens can approach the facility. I will also call the President of Georgia and reensure ///sic/// that he is aware that I consider the Valley of the Keldara to be a place worthy of defense. It might be useful if your government… ”

“Said similar things?” the Prime Minister finished for him. “We will consider that with serious intent. Thank you for relieving me of this burden, Mr. President. Perhaps I can return to pleasant dreams. My best to your lovely wife. I hope she was not too discommoded by the images on the television.”

“She was snatched out of the room just in time,” the president said. “And I wish you pleasant dreams, Prime Minister.”

“I’ve sent the orders to prepare the B-1s, Mr. President,” the CJCS said. “I’ll know in about thirty minutes how long it will take for them to get to the mission area.”

“We’ve got calls from the Brits, the Germans, the French, the Russians… ” the Secretary of State said, ticking them off on her manicured fingers.

“If it’s a Prime Minister I’ll talk to them if I have to,” the president said. “Otherwise, field it lower. But that’s the party line. The area is secure, there are Rangers guarding it, we’ve got bombers on the way in case that’s not enough and maybe they should suggest to the Georgians that they do some of their own damned jobs. It wouldn’t kill them to push a battalion up into that pass!”

“I agree, Mr. President,” the Secretary of State replied, looking over at her aide who was scribbling notes. “Get that to the people authorized to discuss this issue.”

“That’s not many people outside this room,” the SecDef pointed out. “Us, Pierson, who else?”

“Not me,” the Chairman said, chuckling. He’d been watching the TV with half an eye during the discussion and now tried not to swear. “What the fu… Sorry, sir.” The news had tuned back to “Special Bulletin: Battle for Chechnya” but this was a room preparing for a news conference.

“I’ve heard the word before,” the president said, turning the sound up.

“… the Minister of Defense for the country of Georgia,” the announcer was saying, “on the subject of the battle going on in Guerrmo Pass where an elite group of Georgian mountain infantry have been trapped and are about to be overrun by Chechen freedom-fighters… ”

“Why doesn’t the guy just get a job with Al-Jazeera?” the Secretary of Defense said.

“Doesn’t want to get hit by a .50 cal?” the Chairman asked, rhetorically.

“Thank you so much for bringing that up, General,” the president said, turning slightly green.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Minister for Defense, Vakhtang Gelovani,” the Georgian spokesperson said, backing away from the podium.

Gelovani was a short, broad man who fit his suit like a stuffed sausage. He was also sweating under all the camera lights and whoever had done his makeup had given him racoon eyes and lip gloss that was too bright.

“I wish to read a brief statement,” Gelovani said in thickly accented English. “Then I will take questions.

“The current battle is taking place on territory which is internationally recognized as belonging to the country of Georgia. The Chechen terrorists who use this area are criminals who are to be dealt with as criminals should. The local militia currently operating in the area were on a mission without the support of the Georgian government when they were detected. At this time, the Georgian government has no plans to come to their aid. That concludes my statement. I will now take questions.”

“The bastard is hanging them out to dry!” the Chairman snapped.

“So are we,” the president pointed out. “Otherwise those B-1s would have another mission.”

“Minister Gelovani, are you saying that this is a rogue operation?” The reporter was a Brit, probably print since he was taking notes on a laptop.

Gelovani leaned down for his aide to whisper in his ear and then straightened.

“No. The militia were authorized to operate in this region but were not specifically ordered to do so. The regular Georgian military was planning on a major offensive in the area this spring, after the passes were clear. By stirring up the nest they may have compromised this offensive.”

“Oh my God,” the Chairman said, shaking his head. “Is he nuts? You don’t give away stuff like that on TV!”

“He wasn’t planning it, anyway,” the Secretary of State said. “We’d know if he was. I think he just made it up on the fly.”

“Minister, the group currently fighting, these are the militia called the Keldara, yes?” The reporter was probably Russian from the accent and obviously had been doing his homework.

“That is correct,” Gelovani answered, starting to point to another reporter.

“Minister!” the Russian shouted. “On redirect. The Keldara, they are called the Tigers of the Mountains, yes? Is it true that they have an American commander? Is this an American operation?”

“NO!” Gelovani shouted, slamming his fist into the podium. “The commander of the Keldara is an American, yes. That is legal under an old law that is currently under review and will probably be changed. But this is not an American operation! We are not backside kissers of the Americans!”

“Hey, Minister!” one of the reporters shouted and caught his attention. “These Kaldara people, are they the guys who make the beer?” The reporter had a pad of paper in his hand and a look that was somehow “former military.” Since that was really unusual for the mainstream media, he was probably an independent, a stringer, blogger or both.

“Oh my God,” the Secretary of Defense said, shaking his head as the Defense Minister bent over for another conversation with his aide. “This is getting into Twilight Zone. When is this guy going to just shut up and call it a day?”

“Yes,” Gelovani answered. “The Keldara do make beer… ”

“The Mountain Tiger stuff?” the reporter asked the clearly confused minister. “They’re distributing it in the States and there was a little AP item on it where they said that part of the proceeds went to supporting the war on terror. Buddy of mine said it’s pretty popular around military bases… Is that the same stuff?”

The minister bent down again and then came up, clearly trying to make sense of how things had gone so wrong.

“I think so,” Gelovani replied. “I wasn’t aware they sold their beer. But they are called the Tigers of the Mountains and they make beer. It is probably the same.” He carefully picked his questioner this time.

“Minister Gelovani, you say that you are not sending any forces in support?” The reporter was European, probably German. “Then you are going to allow your own force to be overrun?”

“The Keldara are not members of Georgia’s National Guard,” Gelovani stated, emphatically.

“But you they are from Georgia, ja?” the reporter pressed. “So you are going to let the Chechens kill a hundred of your people. Why?”

“They are not my people!” Gelovani shouted, pounding the podium. “They are Keldara! They live in Georgia but they are not Georgians! They have no business being in this country!”

“So are they immigrants? Are they Turks?” the reporter asked as other reporters jumped to their feet and started yelling their own questions. There was nothing a roomful of reporters love more than a senior minister who is clearly bleeding and just begging to be finished off. All of them had questions that were perfect to do that.

“Who are the Keldara?”

“Who is this American that is leading them? Do you feel it takes an American to fight the Chechens?”

“Do you think they are going to win? Is that why you’re not sending forces, because they can win where ‘Georgian’ troops cannot?”

“Minister Gelovani, is it true to say that you’re prejudiced against the Keldara?!”

“Minister, are you afraid to commit your troops to a battle with the Chechens?!”

“Do you think that you can ever recapture the Pansiki Gorge?!”

“Minister, is this a political move against General Umarov, the Chief of Staff? You’re reported to be considering a run for the presidency; are the Keldara part of your opposition?! Are you trying to deliberately kill them off?”

“Would you say that the Keldara are trying to do your job for you?”

“NO FURTHER QUESTIONS!” Gelovani screamed, storming off the dais. There was not a side exit to the room so the cameras followed him in full retreat, at one point having to push a female reporter out of his way. The girl, who had been shouting questions while not actually looking at him, went over backwards with a scream of fear and landed on the lap of one of the male Russian TV reporters.

“Minuet,” the President said, tears streaming down his face from laughing. He paused to catch his breath. “Minuet. Call the President of Georgia and ask him if he’d like any help from the American military. Of course, if he feels that that is backside-kissing.”

“Yes, sir,” the Secretary of State said, but she wasn’t laughing. “But there was one important question asked in all of that.”

“What?” the president asked, wiping at his eyes.

“Who are the Keldara?”

Nielson had his head in his hands when Lydia touched his shoulder. He was trying to figure out if Mike had seen the casualty reports. Anger could be worse than fear in a commander. Given Lasko’s sniper shot, it had to have been Lasko, he probably had.

“General Umarov.”

Nielson picked up the phone without lifting his head and hit the flashing button.

“Colonel Nielson.”

“The Zhoda Battalion is drawing weapons and ammunition at this time,” Umarov said. “Some of them are coming by truck to the Valley. Others are going to be carried to the pass by helicopter. But it will take a while to get them organized and ready. They will not be to the pass before nightfall. Sorry.”

“Not a problem,” Nielson said, still holding his head in one hand. “They won’t get there in time to do anything but pick up bodies, but I appreciate the gesture.”

“I’m sorry it took this,” Umarov replied. “I almost feel sorry for the Defense Minister. Almost. But there was a reason that he was so off balance. Would you mind telling me why the President has been fielding calls from Japan, China, Russia, India, Italy, France, Germany and Great Britain, not to mention a call from your own Secretary of State, about their interest in ensuring the Chechens do not capture the Valley of the Keldara? They’ve all been quite polite about their calls but equally… intense.”

“I dunno. They like our beer?”

Nielson heard the phone hit the desk and Umarov frankly snickering in the background. After a few moments the Chief of Staff apparently got himself under control.

“Thank you,” Umarov said. “I needed that. Now would you like to answer the question?”

“Yeah. But I’m not going to. If you want to know the answer, ask the Germans, Russians, French, Indians, Japanese, Italians, Brits and Americans. If you can find anyone in any of the governments who can answer the question. Don’t bother asking the people who expressed polite interest. They’re just going to be obeying confusing orders. You might want to ask the Prime Minister, President or what have you, personally. They’re about the only people that will know the answer for sure.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, sir. Oh. I’ll put it this way, and don’t take this as a threat. But if this valley looks to fall to any group or government, including yours, you’re liable to find every major country on earth invading Georgia in force. Nobody will know why, it will probably be a scrambling clusterfuck, pardon my language, and liable to trigger World War Three. But I thought you should know. Between friends.”

“Does this have anything to do with your current mission?” Umarov asked.

“No comment,” Nielson said. “Which actually means ‘no comment.’ Don’t draw anything from it.”

“Okay,” Umarov said, sourly. “Anything we can supply right away?”

“Not unless you have a bomber in your pocket.”

“We’re quite low on aircraft. And given the conditions I don’t see any of mine being of use to you at the moment. You really don’t want the former Defense Minister’s hand-picked fighter pilots dropping bombs anywhere near your people. Did my gifts help?”

“Very much,” Nielson said. “Thank you. And might I suggest that you stop by for dinner some time. We can talk about… old times.”

“I’ll do that,” Umarov said. “You have a battle to run and I have people to scream at. And many to fire.” The last was said with satisfaction.

“I guess this was a pretty good outcome,” Nielson said, hanging up the phone. “But I’d rather have one damned girl alive. I’d rather have all of them out of that valley of death.”